where thatched roofs crown the painted walls of mud huts
fish of all shape and size ripple in playful swirl in ponds and life happens under the shade of ancient trees lush fields sprout fresh produce, goats and cattle roam free on this land of the red soil. This is Birbhum I came across Villfood Kitchen @villfoodkitchen last year, and turned into an ardent fan of their You tube channel. When our TV is turned on at home heralding the end of a work day, I settle down cradling a cup of tea and wait for the magic to begin. A group of people, from the district of Birbhum, West Bengal, are doing great charity work travelling from village to village in Birbhum, cooking mouthwatering meals for the villagers, at the same time, attempting to revive the lost recipes of Gram Bangla/Bengali village. Sometimes aided by donations from their loyal subscribers. Through these vlogs I see the wetlands abounding in this region, places I have never been to but dream of. I am with them on the banks of a pukur/pond in the shade of a khejur/date tree, throwing stones glazed smooth by rain, into the water. I laugh out loud at their antics when they try to catch fish using a fisherman’s net or just by hand. Sometimes, it’s a mosquito net – like the one I have slept under back home. How innovative. I travel with them on screen as they wander through far-flung fields, watch them dig out vegetables from the ground, pack them in jute bags. The farmer, though busy at his chores, will often stop to help. The four men, who are regulars on this vlog, pay the farmer, balance the bags on head and shoulders and move on. I travel with them as their three wheeler stops at a chosen spot – generally under an ancient banyan tree, or at times in a field beside a pukur/lake. I lean forward to get a better view as they dig a hole in the sand or brown earth in the open placing three bricks to make three points, light a fire with twigs and wood they brought with them; then, the cooking process begins in enormous pots to feed the entire village of about 200 people. I feel myself relaxing visibly by watching the children at play – some climbing trees, others drawing on the dusty ground with a twig, and some singing in the sweet treble that only children possess. Nearby, goats and cattle graze. The air is filled with birdsong. The sky, as big as the hearts of these four men, is the canopy above. “Return you to your dwelling places…” Kahlil Gibran’s immortal lines from A Tear and a Smile resonate in my mind. You see, Birbhum is where my ancestors had settled, I was told. They may have arrived from the far north. I am not sure and daily regret not having asked my father who passed away when I was still in school. Every day I watch these vlogs and mentally return to Hazaribagh, because the scenes are so reminiscent of my place of birth. I chose these pictures of Hazaribagh and surrounding areas I had taken one year, as an accompaniment to my piece. I encourage you to watch Villfood Kitchen and Village Cooking blog on YouTube.
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A sudden burst of mental sunshine on a gloomy sunless day… That rush of fuzzy warmth when the voice you are waiting for, calls… When someone mentions the name, you are too shy to say… Your heart beats so loud you are afraid you might faint… That feeling, hard to describe, is here to stay… Eternal, as the earth’s splendour, is this Song of Love. Happy Valentine’s Day! by: Purabi Sinha Das I had drawn this picture long time ago for my husband when we weren't married. He had kept all my drawings I used to send him as greeting cards for Christmas and Birthdays. Writing takes up all of my time now so I have stopped drawing. Fortunately, I can dip into this repository when I want to complement one of my poems with a drawing. To me drawing and poetry are interwoven, each breathing its own life into the other. When nature is left alone, allowed to flourish as she is supposed to, we are given a gift that stays, grows, becomes ever more meaningful with each passing day. When we tinker with nature, the opposite happens. We all know how that is turning out to be in our own lifetime. I was watching a show on television, where a group of designers entered a challenge to produce outfits for different occasions. There were different levels with each challenge becoming more and more outlandish. It was interesting to hear the participants talk among themselves about what was scariest, who was the weakest link, and how to win. Winning was the goal. I understand all about journeying towards the goal of winning. But what struck me was how the judges reacted to the designers’ outfits. On the one hand insisting participants be creative, then flipping back to emphasize current trends in clothing. Creative, as I understand, is the ability to create from one’s own imagination. One participant, a multi-talented designer on his own merit, found himself eliminated in the final round because he insisted on remaining true to himself. His designs spoke of him, they were uniquely his. When we remain true to self, we must work harder. It takes courage, but is also supremely satisfying. I find trees to be the best teachers. I don’t know the name of the trees below, but they take my breath away every time I see the pictures. We are used to trees with symmetrical branches, or whose branches shoot upwards. But these two speak to me – maybe because they are so out of the box. The necklace, made from banana leaves, is from Costa Rica. I was drawn to it the minute I saw the necklace. It is now, one of many such unique pieces of jewellery I have collected during my travels, each piece a testament to someone’s creativity. To be truly authentic to our own creative self is a steep climb but well worth the effort. When a book has a map, family tree, and glossary – I am truly appreciative. I understand the amount of time and energy the author has invested in putting them together. In October 2022, I watched a YouTube presentation by Philippa Gregory, at The Honourable Society of Lincoln’s Inn in London, where she spoke about this book. I love anything to do with history – any country will do – and listening to the author explain how in 1685 there was a threat of renewed civil war against the Stuart kings, background of Dawnlands, her latest book, piqued my interest. It was Christmas 2022. Among the many gifts under our Christmas tree, there was Dawnlands. A gift from my son. I held the book in my hands, turned it over, ran my fingers over the beautifully designed cover, and opened it - to find two maps and a family tree. If not for the Family Tree, I would have been at a complete loss to understand the relationship between the characters of Dawnlands, having never read the first two books in this trilogy. My novel Moonlight – The Journey Begins (https://www.amazon.ca/Moonlight-Journey-Purabi-Sinha-Das/dp/1039103162/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1628814640&sr=1-1) has a glossary of the Bengali words in the book with their meaning in English. I had done this on purpose. Recently my book was picked up by a Book Club. I was invited to one of the meetings. It was a lively discussion with many questions about my writing process, whether I was writing a sequel, and best of all - how helpful the glossary had been. Connecting with my readers is a beautiful experience because then I get to know their insights, as well as, expectations. What they loved, vs, what they liked. What they want to read more of. This way I can continue to hone my craft for I must always remember – I write for my readers; not just for myself. We celebrated Valentine's Day ahead of time.
Does it matter? I don’t think so. An opportunity came up and we travelled to Niagara Falls on the first day of February. The day was sunny, without a pesky wind to ruffle your hair or send chills down the spine; I had given myself permission to take the day off. I do love what I do, that is - write, but even I need to get away from my desk sometimes. My excitement knew no bounds at the prospect of seeing Niagara Falls in the middle of winter. Gazing out of the window, I was suddenly reminded of my first visit to this iconic wonder of the world. That was in the month of September, the time between summer and autumn when hot days are followed by cool nights. A beautiful time of year in Canada. I had arrived in this country the previous month. That was a long, long time ago. This time, however, we were travelling during the period when cold days are followed by even colder nights; a frozen earth bears brown trees, snowdrifts all over the countryside, and the scenery heartachingly beautiful. We dined at the famous Skylon Tower’s revolving dining room in Niagara Falls. The slow rotation of the room is unique; from a height of 775 feet, we took in the spectacular views of the Falls and river from every possible angle you can think of. To be able to relax in the elegant and peaceful atmosphere while enjoying a delicious meal, was special. And, then the pianist began to play the piano. I couldn’t have asked for more. The Winter Festival of Lights, Canada's largest free outdoor light festival presented by Niagara Falls Tourism is yet another bonus during this time. Festival theme this year is "energy" along an 8-km route where you get to walk (bundle up) or drive taking in spectacular displays at the Queen Victoria Park, Table Rock Centre, Dufferin Islands, Floral Showhouse and Niagara Parks Power Station. Pictures I take will never do justice to this breathtaking display, I concluded, quietly slipping my phone camera back into my pocket. Aashi, I say gathering my purse and other paraphernalia, and unbuckling the seat belt clamber out of the car. I wave, mouth aashi, once more at the departing vehicle, thankful of the ride on this snowy, winter afternoon. I am meeting a friend for lunch at the mall.
In the Bengali tradition we are taught, from an early age, never to say goodbye. We say instead, aashi. Although technically, aashi means coming. So then, why say coming when we are actually about to leave? Is it because we hope to meet again, and have trained our minds to think it. But then what about saying goodbye to a stranger? Someone I met, chatted with, will never see again. In that case, I will say bhalo thakben/ keep well, as I take my leave. Here’s another interesting aspect about Bengali culture. The word aashi is also used when answering a call. That is, when someone calls me, I respond by saying aashi, wherever I am at that moment, and appear before the person. We are taught never to respond to a call by saying kee/what? Instead, aashi is the norm. In this context, aashi has a sense of urgency, a willingness to pause and pay attention to another. In this photo, on a visit to my place of birth in October 2018, I am taking leave silently – whispering aashi to ancient trees lining the road. How was I to know that would be my last visit to India? The pandemic swooped down, and I haven’t had a chance to return. Hope you liked this tiny peek into the Bengali culture and traditions. Do share yours. Albert Camus wrote – “In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer…”
Somewhat how I feel in these days of deep winter, snow lying heavy on the ground muffling noise, and when the sun shines it’s dazzlingly bright. Some days are dark, dismal, steely grey clouds forming a pewter bowl where the sky is, and those days we need to dig deep within to find that summer so intrinsically a part of us. The snow-laden tree in picture one is from the park when we had the first snowfall. It was pretty, poignantly so. Even with its bent branches, it radiated an aura of beauty. And, that is how we see trees. No matter how worn, bent, worm laden, they still appear beautiful. How much more beautiful then, the same trees would appear to the human eye if clothed in the brilliance of summer colours? Trees are beautiful, no matter the season. How readily we admire beauty in nature. Yet, do not recognize the beauty of the human spirit ever present no matter the season of life. We chatted about my latest book TWENTY TWO FOR 22 - a collection of short stories, poetry, and magical travel vignettes. Among the many questions Benji Cole asked, one that really stood out was about the name of the book. I have been asked many times about it - here's the link
youtu.be/HmI-4p-vYMU I was woken this morning, not by birdsong, but by a light that suffused the entire bedroom in a surreal glow. Piercing through the curtain at the window, this glow had danced in to settle on my closed lids, urging me to open my eyes. At first, I thought I had overslept but a quick check told me it was just 3 a.m. I walked to the window, lifted the curtain, to stand in fascinated awe drinking in the beauty of a landscape that only the first snowfall can bring. The first pure joy of the season where the spirit meets the mind to acknowledge this is happiness.
Later, instead of focusing on a brisk walk, I meandered over to the park, my faithful companion during the winter months. The morning walk turned into more meditation, than a walk, as my gaze swept across the familiar fields, playground, and benches, stopping only at the edge of the woods bordering the park. I recognize the role of this, and the other places I walk, in my creative make-up; I respect them. Every so often I will pause, listen to the silence of a hush-filled dawn as this one, feel its breath upon my face. This is the earth, who, even in the throes of winter, is alive and in her aliveness is what we call life. I remember well those days taking public transport to work, the air of camaraderie among fellow travellers. Even loaded down under the weight of winter outerwear, it did not take away from the mutual delight of witnessing the first snowfall of the season. Take a pause, wherever you are look around you. Make each minute count. They are tiny but packed with immense possibilities. Stay safe and well, my friends. Purabi Sinha Das Settling comfortably on the cushioned seat of the bus, I lean my forehead on the cool glass of the window. It’s been an exhausting and exciting day.
The free day trip to Playa del Carmen offered by the resort caught us by surprise. We accepted and hopped on the bus. Mexico, made up of thirty-one states, stands in the southern part of North America and most of the country borders the Pacific Ocean to the south. Besides the U.S., it shares a border with Guatemala and Brazil in Central America. We are staying in Playa del Carmen, a resort city along the Caribbean Sea in the state of Quintana Roo. I learn playa means beach in Spanish. And Quintana Roo is one of three Mexican states that make up the Yucatan peninsula and is the most popular state to visit. I know Mexico is famous for gold and silver but the spectacular display at the Hacienda Matises & Co. of artisanal talent blew me away. She, of the golden tiara on jet-black tresses; he of the powerful silver encased body of a God, shaped their passion into fantastical shapes that glowed and glittered forever. Even the sun and moon, and the stars, I am certain, bow in obeisance. My eyes stayed glued on the artisans working behind glass windows bringing a delicate balance between precision and beauty. Think artist and mathematician rolled into one. Then a short ride brought us to the iconic 5th. Ave. the happening place where it’s de rigueur for tourists to congregate. I didn’t stop to shop, instead continued to walk weaving my way through throngs of tourists, eyeing the vast array of visual delight displayed in stalls and store fronts along the avenue which seemed to go on forever. The Spanish tongue, with a smattering of English sprinkled in between, danced in the air adding an extra sparkle to the leaves of trees that must have stood there for a very long time, welcoming guests from the far corners of the globe. Oh, what a wonderful world! Our bus is slowing down. I have been dozing and open my eyes to look out the window. There is traffic; the sun is setting. I shut my eyes and return to my reflections. *** In a clearing in the jungle, there, before my bemused eyes, is a sort of meeting place of men, women, children all intent on the task at hand. They don’t even look up when I stop to stare. Although I am an alien in their world, no one questions me. They are friendly and caring, holding an arm when I stumble, or, gesture for me to sit down. When I show signs of flagging strength, I am given a tumbler wreathed with moisture from the afternoon heat. It is filled with juice from the hibiscus flower. My thirst is quenched. Again, when hunger pangs make me double up in pain, I am given a drink made from rice and vanilla, and sprinkled with cinnamon. A clay plate is proffered, I grasp it in my eager hands, and devour the cactus salad with gusto. Yet, no words. Only silent kindness. Fortified, I resume my perambulations. Statues of gods abound here. Chaac, the Mayan deity for rain; Ixcjel, Moon deity; Itzmana – ruler of heaven, day, and night. He teaches humans the science of medicine, numbers, the calendar and writing. Hun Hunahpu – maize god. For the Mayans, maize is not just a crop. It represents who they are. Such beauty, I muse, touching a brilliant orange hibiscus. Immediately, a red blur spreads before my eyes. Through this blood-soaked mist, scenes of such violence unfold that I fall down fighting to close my eyes which remain open. The beautiful jungle of moments before has grown dark and suffocating, the trees bent with twisted arms, grimacing in pain. The people who had tended me have vanished without trace. I raise my aching head, a dreadful premonition grabbing at my throat, and I understand. The Europeans have arrived. *** There is movement around me. People are shifting and mumbling, saying goodbye to new friends, discussing dinner which will be served in a few minutes. I stand up with the rest of the tourists, settle my backpack on one shoulder, clamber down the steps, and find myself walking towards the beach. I am not hungry for the people I met earlier in the jungle, fed me. Music from the resort reverberates in the night air lifting some of the heaviness from my spirit. Although I had promised myself not to scroll the internet I do so now to learn there was a mass burning of Mayan literature around 1562 resulting in the loss of information about the Mayan gods. However, incredibly amazing ruins in the Yucatan bear evidence of the density of population and how important agriculture was for the Mayans. All dating back to at least two thousand years. In many ways the indigenous civilization of the Mayans was more advanced than their Spanish conquerors. I am gratified to learn that 50 indigenous languages are spoken still including Maya in the Yucatan; Huastec in northern Veracruz; Nahua, Tarascan, Totonac, Otomi, and Mazahua mainly on the Mesa Central; Zapotec, Mixtec, and Mazatec in Oaxaca; and Tzeltal and Tzotzil in Chiapas. I gather my wandering thoughts, pick up my backpack and turn towards the lights of the resort. “The most regretful people on earth,” the poet Mary Oliver said, “are those who felt the call to creative work, who felt their own creative power restive and uprising, and gave to it neither power nor time.” Mary Oliver is one of my favourite poets whose words always resonate for me. I am hoping you will understand my crazy and weird compulsion while writing a piece, to swerve into another world, where imagination mixes with reality. Do come along – I would love your company. |
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