In the wake of the festivities, the past beckons. In the ‘house of commons’, where I grew up, the pathway from the main gate was esconced by the garage and Ma’s garden, laced by tall trees, fertile, fruit laden and fulsome. My parents, middle class and struggling, had many obligations, amongst them, maintaining properties that had run to seed. Dadi, the matriach, insisted on living by the dictum of ‘ The Good Earth’, and maintained that ‘ a man should build a home, plant a tree and have a son’. My parents having failed with the final commandment, tried to do their best by the other 2.
Pujo, as was standard practice, was ushered in with Mahalaya, mellow yet strident on the ubiquitous radio, 5 sets of new clothes, purse constraints notwithstanding, ‘bhog’ on the rooftop, overflowing with well wishers. Choi and I had grown accustomed to the trend.
The year was 1969, I was 10 years old, when just before the gaeity, a group of monks, treading ‘ the road not taken ‘, had ventured into the metropolis, lost, floundering but unwavering in their faith. The only deterrent was the fact that the leader of the saintly motley, was coughing blood, copiously and needed human intervention. True to form and structure, they asked not, but let their stance be their unspoken words.
Without dilemma, deliberation or distancing, the decision was made. Pujo was to be a celebration of healing, refuge and sanctity in our dilapidated home. The said monks, Tibetan, entered our home, sans ceremony and as per their instructions, made the rooftop their sacred abode for the next fortnight. The whether then was kind, merciful and gentle, the sun shedding light and warmth, both comforting and cosy through the noon hours, and fading into crisp, coolness by dawn and dusk.
Certain decisions altered the Pujo we knew, no new clothes, no pandal hopping, no cultural events, and ALAS, no bhog on our rooftop! Ma, the eternal visionary, took ‘the road not taken ‘, and on Ashtomi, baked a fine fruit and nut Christmas cake, tied it in a gingham checked duster, and clutching our hands in her firm, reassuring clasp, strode off with us to the nearby park. We sat down on a wooden bench under the foliage of the biggest, dustiest tree, and lulled by the whispers of the omnipresent ‘kaash’, she told us the story of ‘The Littlest Angel’. Both Choi and I had heard it several times before, but NEVER with the sensitive understanding of what it meant to stand apart; the molten gold that lies in being different, but with comprehension, grace, and pride.
Dusk was upon us by the time the trio of the preacher and the converted returned to the fold. From a distance, the peeking crescent moon put in relief the silhouettes of the orange clad, shaven headed, cohort of angels, and amidst the ethereal chant of “Om mani padme hum” we trod the path familiar, but knew it was ‘ the road not taken ‘.
2011, and Baba was no more. It was the tail end of the ‘shraadh’, when Choi ran to the gate, welcoming another cohort of angels, chanting the refrain of yore. This time their visit was ordained, planned, decisive. They knew the way as they approached the puja. In unison they chanted their foreign prayer, shook our hands, and as quickly as they had appeared, they were gone in a swirl of orange, saffron, gold, russet, auburn.
Another pujo, another Mahalaya, yet why does my home reverberate with the clear chant of a childhood lost? As I bow in obeisance and hear my voice saying” rupang dehi jayang dehi yasho dehi “, my soul soars in an epiphany, a crescendo that says ‘om mani padme hum’. In this glorious synthesis I know, my parents ‘ bequeathed upon me the legacy of nurturing and cherishing, both, the road taken, but more significantly, ” THE ROAD NOT TAKEN “…
Rupa Chakravarti
