The Bridge of No Return

Does that title evoke fear, anxiety or perhaps humour? Let me take you back to my childhood in Assam. 

The year was 1985. My father was The Superintending Manager of two sister gardens in Kokrajhar district of Assam. A simple, happy estate life as it was, it was also one of the places that imparted the most valuable life lessons to my sister and I in our tender , formative years.

We had no social life barring for a few friends my parents had from the forces. We met them seldom too. There were no plantation clubs around and quite literally we were cocooned within the estate for the larger share of our stay there. 

The rains brought in further isolation and the annual deluge. In fact, it may appear fantastical or fictitious to the present generation of school goers to hear of the many challenges we would undertake on a regular basis to attend school, particularly in the monsoons. We had to wade through a strip of water to get on to the ferry that dropped us to the opposite bank. There, the Police Superintendent’s jeep would be waiting for us. Once inside the vehicle, we could wipe the soft clay off our feet and slip into the school shoes. It drove us through the next leg of the journey until I reached my school, the only English medium school then, in Kokrajhar town. My mother, kid sister and I went through this motion together. 

The dry season meant more trips to the town and Cantonment area. After the unforgiving and prolonged monsoons , we didn’t mind the bumpy, kutcha roads. Those of you familiar with Assam , would know of the ubiquitous ‘dolongs’ (bridges) over the numerous rivers and streams in the state. The tea estates had these dolongs too. And heaven knows how many we’ve crossed on foot. When the floods inundated the roads, the local villagers would nail bamboos together to make these makeshift bridges or dolongs that took a moderate load of pedestrians, cyclists and the occasional motorcyclist. 

We were returning from town one such eventful evening. A rally or blockade , I cannot recollect clearly, made my father take an unusual detour back to the estate. It was peaceful and serene as we drove through the villages , the narrow earthen roads flanked by rice fields and clumps of plantain trees.

All too beautiful and surreal until the jeep halted in front of a dolong; an old rickety bamboo bridge over which even the cyclists exercised caution. It was dusk already and we were possibly midway through our drive back to the garden. The dolong stretched across a deep, dry stream. 

As instructed by my father, my mother, sister and I alighted from the jeep and crossed the dolong on foot . Horror stricken, we watched from the other side as my father started the engine. It fumed, howled and we said our prayers..my mother holding our hands and looking nowhere else but straight at father. She stood, unflinching. 

The wheels rolled slowly onto the dolong until all four where on it .. and the first strip of bamboo snapped and then the second. The gentle murmur and speculation of the few farmers in the fields at a distance, had grown to sharp decibels of ‘O Hari!’ ‘O Ram!’ 

Rattle, crackle, snap! The bamboos went one by one , as my father revved the jeep on full speed across the dolong. That vision could well be out of a Hollywood classic! The jeep forging ahead with the dolong collapsing behind. The feeling of love for family, the fear of losing our father , the fervent prayers - our hearts experienced such a wide range of emotions within that short span of time. As the jeep came to the end of the dolong and the front wheels touched the soil, the dolong had fallen like a pack of cards. The jeep screeched it’s way up , scrambling out of the dolong.

Fortune favours the brave , they say. Indeed, it was a daring feat but we had no time to rejoice. A crowd started building up , sensing trouble, we got onto the jeep, possibly crying tears of joy and my father made his way back to the garden as swiftly as he could. ‘Charlie’, as he is fondly remembered, had crossed the bridge of no return with a new lease of life. 

These are the legends that tea is made of I think; the legendary Jeeps that would fuss to start on normal working days but bail you out of life threatening situations, the indomitable spirit of adventure and courage that a tea planter embodies,  of memsaabs who remain unflinching in the face of danger like tigresses protecting their cubs and the chai ka baby and baba log who can adapt to changing circumstances with ease. 

A Drop of Rain

A drop of rain 

That touches the crown 

To awaken a mind

Deep in slumber.

Charting its way

Through tangled tresses

Is that single drop of rain.

A drop of rain

Falling on eyes

Dry with pain

Seeping in through the lashes

Salt from the eyes cleansed

Now revealed to them

The hidden magic 

Of a single drop of rain.

A drop of rain 

That slides in delicately 

Through parched lips

Parted for prayer

Reviving a soul long dead

Is the magic 

Of a single drop of rain.

A drop of rain 

Caressing calloused feet

Touching tired toes

Tingling the senses

Nerves now alive 

To the magic 

Of a single drop of rain.

A drop of rain 

Hunting it's way

Down to a broken heart 

Hopes rebuilt, desires renewed 

Enchanted, I stand 

In flesh and blood 

Waiting for magic..

For a taste of the rain..

-M.Neog

( Dew drops)

Memories of Christmas

'Christmas!' The thought of it would make us brim with joyous anticipation of goodies, gifts, treats and some very precious bonding with family and friends. The first week of December ushered in preparations, sending out greetings, making a checklist and generally cheerful days leading upto Christmas Day. 

No, I'm not Christian by birth but we grew up with the same giving spirit for sharing and revelry; largely due to plantation life, convent education and our circle of friends. 

I remember with love, the elaborate Christmas parties for the children at these planters clubs. 

Bright poinsettias in containers would line the entrance along with chrysanthemums. A live tree with ornaments would be placed usually at the centre of the hall and a huge snowman would be around somewhere near it. The walls were decorated with wreaths and glossy cut outs of bells, holly and mistletoe , Santa and his reindeer. All the ladies from the neighbouring estates would help out with the decorations, catering and games. 

We had such fun participating in the three legged race, biscuit race, spoon and marble, sack race, pinning the nose and many such fun games. Then we sat at the tables that were set with colourful plates and cups, caps, crackers and treat bags. Oh! How we sisters looked forward to the treat bags. Also, I still remember the jam tarts, cupcakes, sandwiches, sugar cookies, patties, french fries and an endless spread. Everything was home made. 

And then , Ho!Ho!Ho! Santa Claus was driven in to the club , sometimes even in a tractor!

Santa was greeted with much fanfare and we never left his side till he left after handing out our gifts. 

One year, when preparations for the Christmas party were underway, it was decided that my father would dress up as Santa. When everything seemed perfectly in control, the Club Babu called the evening before the party, to convey the disheartening news that a rogue elephant had entered the club premises and ravaged the store and worst of all..it had torn Santa's costume to shreds! There was no time to waste. A speedy visit to the only reliable tailor in town those days whose promise to deliver the costume the very next day, could be the only way to salvage the situation.

True to his word, my father received the costume well before the party and put up a fabulous performance, not withstanding that the unmistakable blue pullover sleeves under the red sleeves almost gave it away. Yet, the fun and laughter the incident brings is constant. 

Christmas was not only about doing up the trees and hanging our socks or leaving a letter for Santa to leave behind gifts, it was also about spending time with family, enjoying sugar cookies and caramel candies with hot chocolate. It meant a lot of baking and feasting and carol singing by the fireside. Also, it was that time of the year when my parents gave away a lot of woollens to our domestic staff. Everyone was happy,loving and cheerful and that is what Christmas does to you. 

Now, in my small apartment, I still put up my trees and invite little children over for treats, games and carols; a continuation of the legacy which I hope my child will keep alive. It was never about the lavishness, it was always about the spirit of joy and giving that Christmas brought to us. 

Each Christmas will evoke those glorious years of a childhood now shrouded by responsibilities.

The Fallen Flower

Often when I tread 

Upon that narrow path 

Of soft, red earth

With trees lush and verdant 

And pretty blooms along the way,

I find the fallen flower 

Fast wilting ,yet smiling 

Forever there to greet me.

Dawn turns to dusk 

Cold, dark nights 

Silent and lonely, 

Leave behind the mist..

Now, under the amber glow 

My feet tread softly again 

On the moist, red earth. 

Trampled and twisted 

Yet smiling, I find 

The fragrant, fallen flower.

Today,I find an army of ants 

On my path's trajectory 

Marching purposefully 

Over the trampled, twisted 

Fragrant, fallen flower

Torn apart now,yet smiling 

Still there to greet me..

My beautiful companion

Of warm, dewy mornings.

The once fragrant flower 

Trampled, torn and crushed 

Has been swept aside

To clear the rot on 

The soft, red earth I tread upon

It's youth swallowed by time. 

But it's fragrance still lingers..

When I walk that 

Narrow , lonely path .

M. Neog

( Dew drops)

Watchman Nicodin

Tea estates are a talent pool for sports , I say it with assertion due to my enriching experience of a life in tea. The young tribal youth are excellent footballers, born runners and supreme archers . 

Inter estate football tournaments were an annual fixture. Friendly matches between the management and workers always helped in fostering better work environment. The girls had their own soccer teams and played as well as the boys. A girl from our bungalow complement was a talented centre forward herself. If only authorities knew where to look for talent. 

Our postings in the estates brought home to us the reality of sheer tribal strength, so also their simplicity. Their courage and loyalty remain distinctive of their character. A veteran tea planter was heard saying , " If they like you, they can cut their heads off for you and if they don't, you can be on the receiving end!" 

Yet, they have a unique sense of humour and the estates abound with instances of such hilarity. 

During one of our postings in a picturesque estate in the Dooars, the deputation of a new watchman in the Manager's bungalow, created a bit of a buzz among our bungalow staff. For starters, we found his name , Nicodin, interesting. So, watchman Nicodin was a tall man in his forties probably. His legs began where his chest ended and his vision was more aerial than anyone else's in the estate. A brick red, fitted pullover, deep brown trousers and worn out black, slightly undersized sandals; this was the ensemble I remember him in. 

Anyway, the reason why Nicodin aroused interest and curiosity among his peers could be attributed to the fact that he was the only man in the estate who could shoot three arrows at time! His skill in archery was put to test and soon, we found the act a source of great entertainment too. Often, acts of imitation ended in embarrassment with one arrow shooting out while the other two failing to escape the bow strings! Thus, Nicodin earned a place of pride for himself. 

I remember how we learnt archery or at least tried to, when the bungalow staff made bows and harmless arrows for us. My sister and I would spend some afternoons practicing archery in our lawns . 

In all these years, I am yet to come across an archer as unique as Watchman Nicodin, the man who shot three arrows at a time, and guarded us while we slept peacefully on our king sized beds .

The Woman

Out there somewhere 

Is a Woman of the world 

Who can have the 

The Devil run for cover

Oh Man! She's a Woman 

If you try to fathom 

The depth of her heart 

You'll only see a blur 

When she loves you 

Just know it's true 

Believe and love her back 

That should suffice 

For a Woman of the world 

Just when you thought 

Your life's calm as the seas

She storms in and 

Holds your heart hostage

She's a bomb shot cocktail 

A Woman in a Man's world.

Passionate and fierce 

She gives it all she has

But can take it all back 

Still think you're in control ?

But you've been jägerbombed!

By a Woman of the world.

Intoxicating and potent

Bitter and sweet 

She's here to survive 

In a world, so cosmetic 

Cause she's a bomb shot cocktail 

Who's jägerbombed your 

Glass of mundanity!

A Woman beyond compare.

M.Neog

( Dew drops)

Merry Mix Ups

I must've been around 10 or 11 years of age then . It was when I was making a delicate transition to adolescence . Fancy clothes and cosmetics began to influence my taste. I preserved my mother's empty perfume bottles in my cupboard and often stared at the pretty bottles, holding them against the light. I had trapped my rainbows in them ..

I waited for a chance to apply my mother's lipsticks; I found the shades so flattering. All this on the sly because I was told that one applied makeup only after stepping into college. I have a confession to make about the kohl pencils though ; the first time I applied it, I had frightened myself ! No matter how carefully I tried to line my eyes, I always looked hideous! 

It was actually in college that started applying kohl and lipstick with my mother's official sanction. My first shade of lipstick was a 'hypnotic rouge' from Lakmé . 

This incident occurred sometime in my pre teens. The washroom was a place where I could spend hours, reading the literature in all the toiletries . With three women in the house, the shelves barely had space for my father's shaving kit. 

Also, my father had a propensity to apply the wrong products on himself. And so it happened one day that when he went in to shower, he took a little longer than usual. Since he responded on being called , there was no panic. 

Almost after an hour , he came out rubbing his scalp in disappointment. He asked us why the shampoo hadn't lathered up at all despite massaging it on his scalp for a good ten minutes . My mother sensed potential tragedy, she went in to check what he had applied. To her utter horror, she discovered that he had picked up the bottle of a hair removing lotion labeled ' Soft and Silky' instead of 'Sunsilk' shampoo; both pink in color and placed on the same shelf !! There was no time to waste after that . There were repeated head washes to remove any residue of the solution from his scalp. 

We looked at him in disbelief. That night, we slept with an unpleasant anticipation . We couldn't visualise him all bald the next morning.. 

On waking up the next day, he only had to look at our expressions to get his answer . He had a close shave , quite literally ! Our cheerful faces provided him relief before he looked into the mirror.