Monday, November 30, 2020

Jamshedpur Diaries

I have just finished reading "Bihar Diaries" by Amit Lodha, a policeman, who writes about the nexus between the the police, politician and criminal and about his success in eliminating criminal gangs in the state. The 90's were tumultuous times for the state and Jamshedpur too bore the brunt of criminalisation. Inspired by "Bihar Diaries", I write about my experiences, after almost half a century, about run-ins with criminals which disturbed our peaceful existence. 


To begin with, newspapers reported incidents of kidnappings and dacoity on a regular basis. One came to learn that Kidnapping served many purposes, from obtaining easy money to a coveted bride or groom of choice, anyone could be snatched at gunpoint. The other profitable haunt of criminals was the train. 


During one such night journey to Patna, as the train slowed down, my mother awoke to a strange sight. The comforter, protecting my sick father, was being pulled out of the window. Had my mother delayed even a moment in raising the alarm, my father would have had to spend a cold sleepless night. It took a whole compartment to pull it back. 


Another favourite of the train pirates was the Bokaro Allepey train, the only train, in those days, travelling to South India. On one such occasion, my grandparents were travelling by themselves to Chennai. The dacoits jumped into the compartment as the train slowed down on the outskirts of an approaching city. They passengers were forced to hand over everything of value - wallets, handbags, purses, money and jewellery, of course, at gun point. My grandfather had already surrendered his purse, still he approached the robber, waiting to disembark. He spoke to him kindly, "Look son," he said kindly, "just give me 10 rupees from my purse. I'm travelling with my old wife. In case my son is late, we can at least have a cup of tea". The robber returned my grandfather's purse. He had made a very good killing. And as quickly they had entered, the robbers vanished into the darkness as soon as the train gathered speed. 


 When the all clear signal sounded, my grandmother finally removed the shawl covering her head . Only then did one realise that she was not merely protecting herself from the cold, she had covered her ears nose and hands, bedecked with diamond jewellery. I was sure that information about the South Indian women's love for jewellery must have reached the ears of gangsters. Sporadic cases of loot were often reported. A Tamilian friend of ours, recently married, was returning late one night from the club. He stopped his scooter to remove the logs blocking his path. They had been waylaid and the terrified new bride handed over the little but expensive jewellery she was wearing. 


We had been hearing of thefts in our area. But nobody took them seriously because we were so used to the safe and comfortable life in the Steel City. Then news trickled in that a family in KD Flats had been robbed. But information was scarce and people were  reluctant to believe such news. And then it happened in my house; I was very young and didn't understand the gravity of the situation but I recall it today with great trepidation. Early one morning, possibly between 2 and 3 am, I woke up to commotion in my house. My parents were dazed, they were in a state of shock and bewilderment. My mother was crying and gently rubbing her red bruised neck, from where her gold chain had been ripped free. She had felt someone standing behind her, cutting the chain and pulling it, she tried to scream- but no sound escaped her lips, her throat had gone dry. The thief jumped over my father and this woke him up. He screamed. 


My parents were asleep in their bedroom, they preferred sleeping on the floor. My sister and I were in the other room, my grandparents were asleep in the third bedroom. Listening to my father's screams, my grandfather switched on the light and rushed out from his room. My father pointed towards the side door screaming, "He went that way". Father and son rushed out and found the grill door wide open. It was a heavy iron door and it had been unlocked. We kept asking and listening again and agin and when the first lights appeared, our neighbours rushed out. Only then in the light of dawn, did we see the bunch of keys lying on the stair case leading to the flat above. My mom was sure that there were at least two of them and then we discovered that they had entered our ground floor house by removing an iron rod from the toilet window.


After entering, they must have used a flash light, gone from room to room and by chance, found the house keys. A wrist watch and some cash was also missing. And we were sure chloroform was used, because we didn't seem to find our bearings for a long time. My grandfather insisted on reporting the matter to the police, against good advice. The policemen came, went around the house and enjoyed a cup of coffee. "Tell us, whom do you suspect? We'll catch the culprits immediately!" This was their refrain and after three visits to the police station, my grandfather gave up hope. We got no help from any quarter, but the robbery in our house was neither the first nor the last carried out by the gang. 


Later, some well meaning friends told us that a young man named Biru (name changed) was involved in that gang. He had somehow managed to befriend my authoritarian grandfather. He used to visit our house often and had won us over with his friendly and helpful ways. Once, he even insisted we attend  his brother's wedding reception. Strange enough Biru never ever visited us after the robbery and this made us suspicious of his involvement. 


Soon after, a particularly violent attack was unleashed in a locality nearby. The victims were again another ordinary Tamilian family like ours. One night, about half a dozen masked men, made their way across the river on a cloudy, starless night, cool, yet heavy and dark. The men were on a mission- they were each assigned a task. A couple of them broke into the corner flat, their target. They had bolted from outside all the outer gates of the surrounding flats, arresting the people inside. So even when the neighbors heard cries for help, all they could do was scream some more or throw down pots from their balcony. 


The masked men broke open the door and confronted the frightened family. The most terrifying one looted the 70,000 Rupees withdrawn from the bank that morning towards construction of their home. Then the retired father and son were  bludgeoned and thrown out of the house. The daughter-in-law hid in the back yard and silently removed all her jewellery and dropped them gently  into the dark coal shed. Misreading the silence, the mother in law emerged from the bathroom and the last of the masked men decamped with whatever jewellery she was wearing . He disappeared into the dark night along with the others, crossing the river and making good their escape. It took a long time for help to arrive and by the time I went to meet them the next morning, the men had been hospitalised in a serious but stable condition. The women were shocked, it was they who narrated the details to the neighbors and policemen.


I'll never forget my visit to Baba Dham, the holy shrine in Deogarh, Bihar. After having sought the blessings of Baba Bholenath, we were on our way back home. It had been a long winding and tedious journey and as soon as we boarded the train from Deogarh, I fell asleep. I woke up suddenly, something seemed amiss. There was an eerie silence broken by screams and shouting in the compartment. I sat upright in the middle berth. A young man kept calling out to me, "Bhabiji, Bhabiji, get down". He was already hiding under the lower berth.  My husband was crouching and so were most of the other passengers. The young man continued screaming, "Bhabiji, you are too brave! Please duck before you are hit".


Only then did I understand the enormity of the situation. I saw two armed guards of the Railway Protection Force and they were pulling down all the shutters and the train was screeching to a halt. We heard gun shots and the policemen were returning fire and a pitched battle was going on. The armed bandits, hiding somewhere in the dark, firing indiscriminately at a moving train. This time, a failed mission. Finally the all clear signal sounded and normalcy returned. 


I remember the case of a dynamic young IPS officer, a doctor by education, posted as city SP, Jamshedpur. He was successful in controlling and decreasing crime rate during the 1990s, when crime was at its peak. This much is fact. But the rest of what I write is all heresay. Much like Lodha, he had been assigned the task of nabbing a dangerous criminal, who was on the run. During one of his official briefing duty, he found the criminal enjoying political hospitality. The policeman resigned immediately, joined private service and then plunged into politics, and was elected Member of Parliament from Jamshedpur Lok Sabha Constituency. 


There are so many childhood memories like these, that you just want to keep going back to, no matter how old you become. When I look back, in spite of it all, everything still seems alright. I would never trade my childhood days for anything else in the world for I realise how lucky I was. I can't even imagine what my life would be like, if I had a different childhood, if I had lived in a different town or met different people! 














Thursday, November 19, 2020

Tree Tales

"Keep a green tree in your heart and perhaps a singing bird will come." 

Chinese Proverb. 


Every time I enter my apartment premises, I get an opportunity to meet my green friends. Rather, the first to greet me is the Lemon tree, near the big black gate. In the beginning, the Lemon tree used to greet me, incognito, because I didn't know who she was. I could barely distinguish between the dark green leaves and the dark green fruit the tree bears. But once they ripened, and acquired yellow hues, they revealed their sweet-sour identity - the Wild Lemon. The thick peels are slightly bitter, the lemon very sour and with the addition of jaggery, the sweet chutney makes a delicious addition to any meal.


The others are old friends, I used to know their cousins in Jamshedpur and Nagpur, where I used to live. Standing next in line is the neem tree, her light green leaves swaying in the breeze. They are very valued for their medicinal properties. The very bitter small white flowers are in great demand during the month of April. They are roasted in clarified butter, ghee, and added to the sweet mango chutney, to usher in the Indian New Year, to remind us of the sweet, sour and bitter moments in the ensuing year. 


The Gooseberry tree in my compound is a young tree, but has already borne fruit. Its small round green gooseberries taste sour, unlike those from my childhood,  where I could devour handfuls during the summer months. No wonder, my Chennai Aunt used to pickle them as they are considered a delicacy. The  Jamun tree,  has just started spreading out her branches, She bore her trademark purple fruit for the the first time this year. The fruit is soft with a delicate peel and it's a tricky business collecting the fruits. The birds do have the first share and sometimes, the path strewn with half eaten fruits is a sight to behold.


And then there are a few strangers who I see daily but haven't been introduced to. I'm yet to learn their names. They are all so different in foliage but green and upright all the same. I turn the corner, to be greeted by the Drumsticks which fruit all round the year. Sometimes they are spindly, sometimes fleshy and waiting to be picked. And the very very Magical Henna, whose green leaves will turn to a deep orange when crushed and applied, to the palms or as a dye on the hair. An Almond tree in the corner promises to grow tall and wide. And  I enjoy seeing all of them from the confines of my balcony, while reading 'Trees and Canopies', the inspiration for my blog.


" The trees encountered on a country stroll

Reveal a lot about that country's soul..." W.H. Auden


Often I take the tree lined Besant Avenue for my evening walks. One day, I saw a young man, up on his bike, trying to reach out to the low lying brown tamarind pods.  As the young man offered the fruit to his girlfriend, I asked her if they were sweet. Her expression told me that they were indeed sour. And as I looked around, I saw the Tamarind tree on both sides of the road. These huge ancient trees with widespread branches lined the street, where bunches of ripe tamarind tried to hide behind the small green leaves.


And I remember my grandfather telling me that Ghosts live on tamarind trees and that's why they were never planted in the yard surrounding the house. But Besant  Avenue is lined with these trees and no wonder, it is one of the most haunted places in Chennai.  The Tamarind tree flowers at almost the same time as the Mango. And looking at the burst of flowers my grandfather would predict the future. He was always happy to see more mango blossoms than the tamarind, for it ensured a prosperous year. We used to live in Jamshedpur then. In spite of it being an industrial town, there were trees of all sizes and all kinds. 


Apartment blocks, as you know are a modern import in the housing scene. When I was growing up in the 60s and 70s, most company homes were called quarters or  cottages or bungalows and they necessarily had a small garden and a smaller backyard. Most gardens had the Guava, the Mango, and the Neem tree. The Champa and Jamun stood in my garden. My lucky friend had 'Ber', the wild berries and the Jackfruit tree. The Wood Apple or 'Bel' was a common sight. The Sitaphal bushes were everywhere but we never got to eat the fruits - the early birds always got them. 



"Let's take our hearts for a walk in the woods and listen to the magic whispers of old trees." Unknown


 A large Pipal tree in front of my house was an easy landmark. It was also the tree the womenfolk circumambulated, praying for their progeny. And there were so many ornamental trees to behold. There was the Jalebi tree and the Palash tree (Flame of the Forest)' the Eucalyptus and Ashoka, and the rare Kadam Tree, The Gulmohar and the Banyan trees. The tree-lined Kadma Sonali Link Road was a walkers paradise, the trees around Domuhani, the Rivers-Meet was a fantastic picnic spot. At the Bhetiya park several Weeping Willows grew beside the ponds. The Jubilee Park, The Dimna Lake and the Dalma Hills were the tree havens of my formative years in Jamshedpur. 


In the school where I worked as a teacher, in Chennai , I saw the Soap Nut tree and often picked up the fallen nuts before the sweeper swept them away. I used to bring them home to show them off to my friends and relatives. In Jamshedpur, they were soaked in water and the soapy solution was used to wash hair and silken and woollen  clothes. Here I laid my eyes for the first time on the huge Raintree. We gathered under it  for morning assembly and minding the children always took precedence to admiring the tree.


 Trees have always fascinated me. Now I have settled down permanently in Chennai and the coconut palms dot my coastal city, but there's not even one in my premises. I could not visit my younger daughter when she lived on Larch Road in London and missed the  wonderful view of those trees. However, I enjoyed spending time under the huge Maple trees, where my older daughter lives on Maple Tree Street in Bethesda. On my first visit, I had carried a picture calendar, with the names and pictures of animals, birds, fruits, flowers and trees of India. My two year old grandson enjoyed guessing their names everyday. And so I was taken aback, when he came running towards me in the garden, carrying something in his tiny hands. "Look, grandma", he said, "I've got a coconut for you". He had picked up a brown Hazel nut that had dropped from the tree above.