Author: Dr Sumedha

“It is your last chance, I hope you understand that”, Papa’s voice was deceptively soft. I was no stranger to the implications. The angrier he got, the softer his voice grew, and the more it cut me to the quick.  Truth be told, it was a ‘Wake Up Sid’ moment for me. I was famed for vacillating between this and that, being here or there, doing something or nothing, but hardly ever making my mind. Back in unblemished childhood, I had driven Mom dotty by never being sure about what I wanted to eat. Thus, there was little chance that I would have firmly decided on my career path.

To be perfectly honest, Papa had put up with my meandering ways with considerable fortitude, an unlikely trait in a typical middle-class Indian parent. Most of my friends’ parents had been obsessively plotting the career trajectories meant to launch their respective offspring into the firmament from the day they had been born. I had escaped all this so far, but now, my streak of good-luck had finally run out. Three solid years of scraping through a management bachelors, much of which had been spent in searching for the elusive ‘hit single’ which was meant to be my glorious entry into the world of music would have worn anyone’s patience thin.

Papa had never been as madly ambitious as I was. Perhaps, he could not afford to be. Having lost his own father to the Indo-China war of 1962, at the tender age of two, much of his childhood had been spent being at the mercy of his paternal uncles. While Dadi had been fiercely protective, there was something sapping about survival on a war-widow’s pension, accompanied by constant taunts and jibes from much of her family. Dadaji had fought on a single war front and been rewarded by medals, albeit posthumously. Dadi still soldiered on, fighting her battle of the two fronts with not much to show for it. Thanks to the small pharmacy which Papa had set up in Hajratganj, we had come through the pandemic relatively unscathed. But even my hopelessly optimistic eyes could no longer house the dream of Papa’s store turning into the Poonawala headquarters overnight and making a mint by selling the Covishield vaccine to a grateful populace.

And thus, I was given an ultimatum, to find something I really wanted to do and to begin doing it pronto, or joining Papa at the store and begin learning the ropes. This trip to the Monpa stronghold in Tawang, in a final search for musical inspiration was to either make me or break me. I was following Dadaji’s footsteps, but there was little chance that I would return covered in glory. Ignominy was more my forte.

The day before I was to leave for Guwahati, I was taken aback to see Dadi lurking furtively by my door. “Did you want something, Dadi?” “Haan, beta. I wanted to give you this”. ‘This’ turned out to be a small bundle, which smelt of moldy muslin, mothballs and memories. It had two gold guineas, a letter of commendation from Dadaji’s commanding officer and a telegram from the army headquarters about Lieutenant S.S. Pant missing in action, presumed dead while battling the Chinese in the Lumla sector of NEFA. “Some things from the past to help you in the future”, she smiled tremulously. “I never knew whether he was captured or killed….my…my…my Shiva.” The fact that she had dared voice Dadaji’s name aloud was enough to stun me into silence. Lieutenant S.S.Pant, Shiv Shankar Pant, who now stared down at us from the large garlanded portrait on the wall of the drawing room. Who had been snatched away when he was only twenty- five.  Whose fate was relatively ambiguous even sixty years later. Whose widow had never been granted permanent closure of an old wound and whose son had grown up craving this very permanence instead of dreams at the end of a mythical rainbow. Yes, S.S.Pant’s destiny cast a shadow far longer and darker than evident at first glance.

“I know Ravi has given you a fortnight to get back, but beta, stay a little longer if necessary. Find out about what happened to your Dadaji. These gold coins should help you tide over things”, again the watery smile. “I will explain things to Ravi and hold the fort for you.” Her confidence in my seemingly Feluda like sleuthing abilities were definitely misplaced. But I could only think of what the extended time meant for me. I could stay longer and work on my music, perhaps even visit Shillong. I was no longer Manish Kumar Pant, but Rahul of Chennai Express fame, singing “Goa is on, Goa is on”, only Goa had been replaced by Tawang in my case.

It was thus in a happy haze of anticipation and filled with good intentions that I arrived in Tenga, on my way to Tawang, hoping to make short work of Dadi’s task for me. My mind was already thrumming with all the tunes that I had overheard on the way……

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I woke up and stretched as the early rays of the sun fell directly on my face. I had lost count of the number of times I had told Ma to keep the curtain in my room pulled over the window. But she continued on her merry way, to make sure that I awoke at the crack of dawn. That east-facing window was the bane of my mornings. I doubted whether there was any other twenty-five -year- old in the whole of Tenga who awoke at four thirty every morning. I had to be different. It had always been this way, ever since I was a child. Keshav, my younger brother had been the conventional one. Following Ma and Baba’s instructions to the letter, always the ‘good boy’, the one who could do no wrong, now a respectable forest officer, working day and night in the wilds of our untamed forests.

Ma blamed my name for every unconventional thing I did. She blamed my name for my nomadic ways, for my love of music and for my unpredictability. She blamed it for everything that went wrong in my life, from my being caught by forest officials while catching Mahaseer in the Kameng river, for my being caught with a joint in my hand by the principal of my junior college before being booted out for good and of course for my ‘risky’ job of driving tourists all around the north-east. Baba listened placidly to her tirades, finally muttering “Thank Shiva, we did not name him Bhairav. He would have murdered someone every day to fulfill his role as destroyer”, when she ran out of breath. Yes, life for me was like the twisting mountain roads which drove me as mush as I drove them: arduous, but full of adventure.

Exploring the unknown was the only way I could tame my restless spirit. Now that Keshav was a forest officer, I had given up my more reckless ways like fishing in prohibited waters or taking photographs where they were banned for fear of my misdeeds catching up with him. But despite being the chalk to his cheese, we were very close to each other. It had always been an unspoken pact between us to have each other’s backs at all times, to stick up for each other and to keep each other’s secrets even on pain of death. We knew everything about each other: liquor and cigarette stashes, crushes and girlfriends, several misdeeds, secret ambitions, hopes and dreams.

Lost in my thoughts, I almost forgot that I had to pick up a new guest and drive him first to Lumla and then Tawang. Cursing under my breath, I noticed that it was almost 6 am. He must have been cooling his heels in Tenga Haat for at least half an hour now. A glance at my mobile showed that there had been no missed calls. Had he forgotten, or had I? I hastily pulled out the details I had been given by the agency. Manish Kumar Pant, twenty- two years old. Hmmm…it would be interesting to ferry around someone so close to me in age. Or would he be a typical loud and proud plainsman? Disparaging of everything? Calling us ‘Chinky’ or ‘Chili Chicken’? Asking us when we would be helping the Chinese take over India? I hoped not. I had already been chastised for a few verbal duels and a close-to-a fist fight with a couple of such specimens. If I had not been such a good driver, the agency said, I would have been out in the blink of an eye. As it was, I was on my last chance.

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“Stupid sleepy driver!”, I had forgotten the number of times I had cursed under my breath which was freezing in the bitter winds blowing down the hill. A native of Lucknow, I was no stranger to cold. We approached near-freezing temperatures many times in the harsh winters of the North Indian plains, but this mountain wind was something else. It whistled its mournful moan like a ghost about to possess you and then it did creep into your very bones, chilling not just your marrow, but also your soul. As I stamped my feet on the narrow path in front of the Tenga Haat war memorial, I felt as if I would never be warm again. Maybe this was Dadaji’s idea of a joke. Or maybe he was messing with my Rahul-like plans of not expending much time on finding out what had really happened to him and utilizing all my resources on my music instead. If this was the kind of place that he had had to stay with next to nothing to keep him warm, he had every right to be cranky with me as I assumed he was trying to be. In his shoes, I would have gladly pushed anyone over the nearest hill just to get at his jacket to keep me warm.

When I had begun to believe that my breath would finally escape my body in a frozen chunk of ice, I saw the dim headlights of a beat-up Innova wavering towards me in the semi-gloom. The car shuddered toa stop and a tall, lanky figure clad in thick jeans and a leather jacket jumped out and rushed over to me. “Good morning”, said the young man who appeared to be a few years older. His leathery, weather- beaten face was wreathed in smiles and his eyes twinkled with mischief. Despite being quite disgruntled, I couldn’t help being warmed by his obvious charm and my grimace thawed into the ghost of a smile. “I am unforgivably late, but I overslept. I am sure you must have done it yourself sometimes, Sir”, I was taken aback at his obvious command over English. He thrust out his driver’s license and the letter from the travel agency by way of further introduction. Shiva Tamang said both. He was my long- lost driver and guide and as he hurried my semi-frozen carcass into the car and poured out a cup of sweet chai from a small flask kept in the drink holder, I could not sulk anymore.

By the time I finally fully returned to the land of the living, Tenga Haat was just a collection of lights fighting a losing battle against the rising sun. My spirits gradually rose with each twist of the road which carried us higher and higher into the Eastern Himalayas. The music system in the car warbled incessantly as Shiva tried to find the perfect combination which could be soothing enough to uplift my flagging spirits. Although the conversation was decidedly stilted at first, I decided that it would be idiotic to stay uptight and aloof if Shiva was to be my friend, philosopher and guide through this previously unexplored terrain. My management course had tried to teach me sales and marketing well and after listening to Papa’s shop-floor patter, I was a confident enough conversationalist who could even coax a few words out of a statue. People liked to talk about one thing in particular: themselves and Shiva was no exception. Soon, we were chattering away like old friends. The bleak mist of the morning had fallen away before the rising sun after all.

When Shiva heard that I was here to hunt chiefly for music among other things, he was overjoyed. “Music hamara bhi favorite hai, Sir”, he said. “Tum kya sunte ho?”, I asked. In reply, Arijit Singh’s warbling was replaced by the earthy tune of a Nepali folk song. The words were alien, but then, music transcended language. I could feel the emotions of the song through the plaintive tune which spoke of love and longing, but also of loss. I could picture Dadi singing it when Dadaji was posted far away. Lost in my thoughts, I allowed myself to drift for some time, until colorful bunting and a blindingly white tower announced the presence of the Nyukmadong War memorial.

I wandered around the memorial, heart full of pride, but empty at the same time. Lieutenant S.S.Pant, the name ‘led all the rest’ as far as Garhwal Rifles was concerned, but even the JCO who led us around the place explaining much of the Bomdila battle in great detail was unable to throw much light on the actual fate of the small company of soldiers who had set out for patrolling, had sent back messages until possible only to disappear suddenly in the thick forests which ringed the region, never to be seen again. That they had been led by Shiv Shankar Pant was known, but they were missing presumed dead as with too many soldiers in this part of the world in 1962.

As we moved on, I was more consumed by the thought of meeting a few Monpa artists than the fate of the soldiers. Perhaps Dadi would be disappointed once again.

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Tawang monastery loomed over us as Shiva drove us to the small homestay which would be ‘home’ for the next couple of weeks or perhaps longer if I could get my way. I had been canny enough to avail a ‘gold loan’ against Dadi’s gold guineas back home in Lucknow just before I left. It had been with many qualms that I had looked for a small jeweler in a slightly seedy part of town, where I could be confident that no one would recognize ‘Pantji ka beta’ and had ended up having to accept slightly less than what I would have got for them at a more reputed place. But who cared?  I had the means to live as I wanted to and that was all that mattered. Befitting my grandiose plans, I had spoken to the travel agency and hired Shiva ‘exclusively’ for the next fortnight, paying well above the expected rates. I had quickly discovered that I could have no better comrade-in-arms for the many escapades which I had planned, all of which included going local: befriending the pretty girls, getting drunk on the local beer and of course, dancing clumsily to the many local tunes. The progress from Sir and Shiva Ji to Manish- Shiva Bhai-Bhai had been gradual but steady. The only dark cloud was that we were near Chinese territory and we both knew how Hindi-Chini Bhai-Bhai had ended.

Before I knew it, a week had flown past and though I had added a few new brews to my almost encyclopedic knowledge of different beers and a few more pretty girls to my list of ‘conquests’, I was no closer to finding the tune for my ‘hit single’ than I was to finding out what had happened to Dadaji. Days were spent ‘sight-seeing’, which meant visiting the monastery, the Bumla Pass, the Tawang war memorial and several other touristy spots. The nights…the nights were different. Visiting local settlements and taverns, sitting under a sky filled with so many stars that I felt capable of reaching out and picking a few, the glow of the beedi dangling from Shiva’s mouth or mine, moths fluttering around our heads and walking for miles through the darkened streets, playing hide and seek with shadows.

Each new day dawned early enough to bring several promises, but each night also came earlier and earlier, accompanied by incessant and increasingly frantic phone calls from home, which I tried to avoid because I couldn’t face either Papa or Dadi. Too many hopes and great expectations seemed ready to crush my fragile dreams. About ten days later, I realized with a shock that even Dadi’s supplies were running low and I only had the resources to stay for precisely eight more days. Now, another emotion added itself to the vortex: despair, for time knew to travel only in one direction, forward and at a single pace, which was too fast for me.

If Shiva noticed the gradual bleakness of my mood, he didn’t say much. But I knew he felt for me. His way of dealing with difficult stuff was to think up wilder and wilder capers to take my mind off things and that is what he did. We were to go hiking near the Jang waterfall and then catch Mahseer in the river if we could escape the eagle eyes of the guards, one of whom happened to be Keshav. But all that was happening tomorrow. Tonight, our haunt was the tiny hamlet of Shyo, situated in the thick pine forests which ringed Tawang. Moonlight on our heads, moonshine in our glasses and pretty girls to sing some more Monpa songs. It was enough to make Papa and Dadi fade into the background for the time being.

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As Manish and I trekked through the thick undergrowth, heads pounding almost in unison with the mother of all hangovers, I wondered what he was thinking. For once, I had seen the serious side of him. For the past two days, he had haunted the Tawang War Memorial and spoken to every army man who would listen to him. He had even managed to unearth an old photo of his grandfather after haranguing the officer at the headquarters, but everything seemed to have now reached a dead end. A closed file was a closed file and it looked as if Manish would bid goodbye to our part of the world with just an old photograph as keepsake. No amount of Monpa music could rouse him from the rut he seemed to be stuck in. What surprised me was his remarkable tenacity for authenticity. “The tune has to appeal to the heart, Shiva Bhai”, he said “I am not so shallow as to market remixes as my own”. “Or lie to Dadi”, he added in such a quiet undertone that I thought I must have imagined it. Well, his idyll would be over soon and we would both return to our humdrum lives. He to the shop and me to the road.

Just as I was about to call him to the water’s edge, we heard it simultaneously, a flute and a drum, echoing out from the end of a dark little path which lost itself in the bushes. Manish seemed to be in a trance as he started walking down it. I tried valiantly to pull him back, the woods watching us with a million eyes. Left with no choice but to follow him even though commonsense told me to take to my heels, I crept forward. Now, Hindi words seemed to be accompanying the haunting music and Manish was drawn to them like a filing to a magnet.

I caught the gist of the song which seemed to talk of walking many roads at once but the need to pick the one which led to what you wanted the most.  A dilapidated hut loomed out of the trees suddenly, its windows glowing like the glaring eyes of an evil monster. The door was open. We caught a glimpse of two ancient bent figures, one with a flute at his bloodless ghoulish lips and another playing a drum with withered fingers which looked like curved talons, while singing in a raspy yet strangely tuneful voice. I grabbed Manish just as he was about to climb the rickety steps to the crumbling verandah. “Pagal ho gaye kya, Manish Bhai? Jante bhi hai, ye insaan hai ki bhoot?”, my voice sounded as dry as sandpaper, thanks to a throat parched by fear.

He blinked. Looking more like himself and less like sleep-walker, he stopped, if only to glare at me. “I have heard that song sometime in my childhood”, he whispered angrily. I dragged him away with a strength born of utter desperation. If anything happened to him, it would not just be my last chance with the agency, but with the police as well. “Let us scout around first. Let me call Keshav. He was going to be patrolling in the vicinity. He will have some back up”. Luckily, he listened and we backed further away. As was expected, there was no signal in this neck of the woods and I adamantly retreated further and further until I found one. “Near the waterfall Bhai? Don’t worry, I am near chota tila. Don’t explore until I reach you”, never had Keshav sounded so grownup or so reassuring or so authoritative.

Sure enough, he turned up half an hour or so later, by which time the music had died away leaving us in a silence which was more eerie than the sound. “Thank God you did not venture into the hut”, he said no sooner he saw us. “Budhe Baba ka jhopda we call it, up at the ranger station. The two old men who live there seem harmless enough, but they have been known to attack strangers who barge in suddenly. Recently, an American barely escaped after one of them decided to take a pot-shot at him with an ancient .303 rifle. They have been living there for as long as anyone remembers.”

A rustling made me turn towards where Manish had been standing only a moment before. He was now making a dash towards the hut like a man possessed. Keshav and I hurtled after him but, he had covered too much distance for us to bridge the gap. As we watched in wordless horror, he dived headfirst into the hut and sitting down with the two silent ghostly figures, began singing as if he had been accompanying them all his life.

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                                       SIX MONTHS LATER

As the band tuned up to play my hit single for the jawans, I could not help glancing at the Tawang War Memorial rearing its majestic head in the distance. Any Rahulesque and rebellious tendencies which both Shiva and I had harbored had been laid to rest because we were offered another chance not just at music, but at building the lives we loved. Shiva appeared totally at ease with the guitar and as his raspy voice rang out with the familiar story of many roads, I could not help recalling the path through the forest which we had walked together. Which had led me to two ancient villagers who had been with Lieutenant S.S Pant through thick and thin, until he had fallen to Chinese bullets not far from where they now chose to live, keeping his memory alive in that most ancient of all languages, his music…

While seeking one, I had found two Shivas, one in the past and one in the present…..

Nivedita looked out of the window. As twilight engulfed the city, lights had started winking in several windows. The western sky looked like a smudged palette of warm colors gradually giving way to cool ones. Orange giving way to pink which gradually deepened to blue and purple. Back home, Mom would have taken a look at the sky and gone foraging for plump mackerel in the fish market the next day. “A good month for the mackerel, when the sky is painted like this. That’s what my aunts always told me”, she had repeated this to Nivedita so many times, that Nivedita could not stop muttering this mantra involuntarily whenever she saw this panorama. Of course, this had been back home in Goa. Delhi was too far away and too far inland to boast of anything but well- preserved sea-food. Here, fresh sea-food meant something kept on a slab of ice for two days, not hauled to market from the docks in twenty minutes.

The blue and purple were rapidly replacing the pink and orange now. Just like the frenetic Delhi way of life had replaced her laid back ways. Nivedita could hardly recognize herself these days. The face with its wheatish complexion, large dark eyes, snub nose and black curls was familiar enough, but the attitude was unrecognizable. She had grown tougher. A brash new persona had replaced the diffident one. A person who thought nothing of voicing her opinions, irrespective of whom they offended. But most importantly, never backing down from a challenge, the bigger and more impossible seeming, the better.

This hour and this month were kind to the city, she mused, as more and more lights winked on. It was that time when early winter approached on noiseless paws, the time of the golden fall which existed in the much- romanticized world of cinema and foggily happy memory. It was too early for the stubble burning and the wheezing and the reports of ‘fog over Delhi delays flights to all corners of the known world’. The city was decked up like a new bride. The ‘season’ had begun. Cultural, festive, and literary activities of all sorts, coupled with exhibitions of all kinds, food fairs and of course the annual fashion shows. When one was pursuing a Masters in Design at NIFT, one had to keep abreast of all such fashion launches and lunches.

 Normally, Nivedita’s thoughts calmed down with the deepening twilight. Unlike some who were inspired by the dawn, she was inspired by dusk, which she somehow related to homecoming. But today, they refused to be lulled. They were as jumbled as the colorful skeins of silk which she kept in a large basket in her room. Distilling the essence of the lights, the colors of the sky, her Goan home, and traditional weaves, they gave rise to a new pattern, mostly blue and grey like her mood, but shot through with cheerful yellow, like hope and happiness had turned up hand-in-hand with gloom and were clamoring to be let in. She shook her head in dismay. She liked everything to be neat and orderly, like threads on a loom, where warp and weft gave rise to a definite pattern. A jumbled abstract and you never knew what would emerge. She finally acknowledged the real reason behind her confusion and accompanying unhappiness. An email had just arrived from her aunt requesting (actually commanding) her to design a one- of- a- kind outfit for her cousin Nandini’s convocation in December.

She grabbed her sketch book and drew a few swift lines in charcoal, imagining Nandini, of the svelte, tall build, dusky complexion and long hair. An inward giggle surfaced at what the serious fogies at the convocation would think if the apparel was too avantgarde. Maybe, they would finally get a life by first goggling at the outfit and then talking about it for days. But the designs did not deign to flow. Her inability to refuse her aunt’s request point blank made her head pound in frustration. Self-loathing and the attendant negativity make for powerful dampers to creativity.  

An hour later, she was still at her desk, her eyebrows knit in frustration. Although the color scheme was right, she could not visualize the right effect on any fabric. She nearly slammed her laptop shut, but caught herself in time. The last time she had done that, the laptop seemingly possessed of a cranky will of its own, not unlike hers, had called it a day and she’d nearly wrecked her project. This was not going to be easy.

She had had a prodigious memory for colors and weaves ever since she was a child. She was happiest twirling around in silks, whenever she could get a hold of the sarees from her mother’s or aunt’s cupboards. The visits to the temple of the family deity had been special not because she was particularly pious, but these visits meant that she could feast her eyes on the sarees and jewelry which always adorned the idol of the Goddess. Photography was strictly forbidden in the temple, but she been unable to help herself on a couple of occasions and had taken the forbidden photos, thanks to the ubiquitous cell phone. Her uncle had been particularly unhappy because he had had a lot of explaining and apologizing to do to the head priest, thanks to her flouting the rules with impunity.

As she sat there in the dark, blinking bleary eyed at the screen, she felt herself being sucked into the whirlpool of old memories, from which she had extricated herself with much difficulty when she had finally fled her old life to a new one in where else? New Delhi!  As the pictures of the past swirled before her eyes, she saw herself as a wide-eyed seven- year-old, clapping, as Nandini, her nine- year- old cousin was awarded the general proficiency prize for topping her class for the academic year. For a couple of months after that, the entire household comprising her father, uncle, aunt, grandparents had extolled Nandini’s achievements to anyone who cared or did not care to listen. Her second-place award in art lay neglected in her cupboard. Mom took it out and polished it and smiled encouragingly but, the damage had begun. It was Nivedita’s first remembered encounter with unfavorable comparison.

And from then on, it never stopped. She was exhorted to become ‘just like Nandini Didi’, who soared from one academic achievement to another, which finally culminated in her securing admission in the All- India Institute of Medical Sciences, Rishikesh, having performed splendidly in her medical entrance exams.  Nobody with the exception of her mother stopped to think that Nivedita’s interests lay elsewhere, in the world of art, rather than academics. “Who is she trying to be? Raja Ravi Verma or M. F. Hussain sans the beard?”, the rest of the family scoffed. “Tell her to study well and not waste so much time in drawing, Vishakha. Art is okay as hobby, not as a profession unless she wants to study architecture”, this was her grandmother, who thought that being a professor of mathematics gave her the right to offer her opinion on all things under the sun.

But her family with the exception of her mother failed to realize that their hopes were a crushing burden on little Nivedita, who wanted nothing else other than to design beautiful clothes. Her hands wanted to wield scissors and a sewing machine. Not a scissors and a scalpel. She wanted to stitch intricate patterns on cloth, not on the skin. She cringed whenever her father looked at neat patterns she stitched and declared that she had inherited the ‘nimble fingers of a surgeon’. It was only when her performance in Class Ten had been far less than stellar had the rest of her family reluctantly accepted the fact that she would not follow in Nandini’s footsteps. As the number of articles earmarked for her in the newspaper slowly waned and her views on many topics like politics and music were dismissed, she started to rethink what she meant to them. Black sheep like her were created, not born.

The final straw had been when she announced her desire to apply to the NIFT. “Masterji, who owns the corner shop is a fashion designer too. Old as the hills and still stitches my blouses perfectly”, sniffed her aunt, a smug look on her face which declared that she was indeed blessed to have a daughter, who was a ‘sound person’, unlike her frivolous niece. “Not everyone becomes Abu Jani and Sandeep Khosla. And look at those wretched models of that Sabyasachi. Chee, chee! What is the world coming too”, her uncle pitched in.

Dad’s shoulders slumped in defeat the day her application was accepted. It was a grey rainy day in September four years ago when she boarded the flight which would spirit her away to the land of her dreams, accompanied only by her mother. Her father had unearthed a conference which he just had to attend. The rest of the family had not even bothered to come up with convincing excuses, just heaved a sigh of relief that she, the blot on the family escutcheon was making herself scarce. It very different from the time when Nandini had journeyed to AIIMS, when the atmosphere had been carnival-like. The whole family had happily taken a week’s holiday to see her off and settle her in. The turbulent flight to Delhi was just a reflection of her mood and thoughts. She had decided that visits home would henceforth be very few, far between and very brief. Not to be undertaken unless absolutely necessary.

And that was exactly what she had done. She knew Mom would have liked her to come home more often, but being Mom, she always put Nivedita’s happiness before her own. She journeyed to Delhi to visit Nivedita as often as she could. She was that single strand of silk, flimsy as hope, but strong as courage which kept Nivedita rooted to home. But now, home had come knocking at her doors. The family would be journeying to Rishikesh en masse and they would ‘swing’ by Delhi first. Her life was swinging by its threads again…….

The Pais were an excited lot as the plane banked for the final approach to the New Delhi runway. The briefest of stops here and they would soon be on their way to their real destination: Rishikesh. That magnificent town in the Himalayas, so pure, so serene and so different from where they lived, Panaji. While Rishikesh boasted of the Ganga, Panaji lay on the shores of the sea. One was a haven of cold clear and crisp mountain air while the other was home to balmy sea breezes. One was a temple town. The other, a bustling capital city. None of this mattered to the Pais however. They were only concerned about the thread connecting the two: Nandini of the meritorious achievements, soon to graduate from AIIMS.

“I hope Nivedita has kept the dress ready. I had emailed her ages ago. Is she still as forgetful, Vishakha?”, Shreejaya, asked her co-sister, in an arch tone meant to needle and a smile meant to lacerate as the Innova ferrying all of them to the NIFT from the airport nosed out into the traffic making vain attempts at gathering speed. Vishakha, however possessed of a calm the Himalayas would have been proud of, refused to be riled and rise to the obvious bait. “I am sure she will have remembered, Vahini. She always keeps her promises, even the unpleasant ones”, her tone held just a hint of admonishment for her co-sister’s sarcasm at her daughter’s expense. Vaman, Vishakha’s husband, cleared his throat in an attempt to douse the potential storm which was brewing. “Let us get to the NIFT as quickly as possible. We don’t want to miss the train to Rishikesh”. Madhav, his older brother and Shreejaya’s husband wore a disapproving frown. “If Nivedita had agreed to come to the airport as I had suggested in the first place, we wouldn’t have had to go all the way to NIFT. But she will never listen”. He looked pointedly at a train of reluctant miserable looking mules being herded by a gaunt man in a faded lungi of questionable vintage, who seemed rather free with curses and thwacks from the long staff he carried.

Vishakha flinched. Her brother-in-law would never acknowledge that the mules moved reluctantly because of the thwacks, not because they were mulish. The Innova suddenly surged ahead as the traffic cleared and soon, they were passing through tall gates topped by an even taller board reading “National Institute of Fashion Technology, New Delhi”, leading onto the sylvan environs which Nivedita had called home for the past four years. Madhav, Shreejaya and their parents peered around in surprise. This was the first time that they had visited the Institute where their younger grand-daughter studied. The quirky buildings and the bustle were something which struck them as rather strange. They had never thought of college campuses as fun, exciting places, where students could have a good time in their pursuit of knowledge. Perhaps the strait-laced disciplines and strait-laced times when they had graduated had made them think of college campuses as dour buildings where one only pursued the worship of Saraswati. That learning could and should be made as enjoyable was a possibility which did not occur to them at all.

“This campus looks vast. Will Nivedita be waiting for us?”, Chandrakala, Vishakha’s mother-in-law turned to her with a frown, phrased as a question. “She said she would meet us”, Vishakha mumbled in an undertone, before directing the driver in the direction of the hostel. “We don’t have much time”, Yeshwant, her father-in-law boomed, as she peered around uncertainly, hoping to spot her daughter so that the melodrama could be as brief as possible. Vishakha knew that their train would not leave for another five hours, that they could easily spend some time trying to thaw the block of ice which seemed to have replaced her daughter’s heart. By exploring the campus and getting to know what her artistic daughter truly did. But she also knew the kind of churlish people they were. They disapproved of Nivedita for following her dreams and nothing could convince them that her dreams were worth embracing too.

They had pulled up at the hostel by now and Vishakha alighted uncertainly, fumbling in her bag for her mobile. Nivedita should have been here by now. Or was she taking some perverse joy in keeping them all waiting in a place which they disapproved of? Hurt could harden into strange emotions which could make one behave in a way which was totally out of character. “The person you are trying to reach is out of coverage area”, after listening to this message a couple of times and feeling the waves of heat emanating from the car gradually raising the temperature of the chill Delhi morning, Vishkaha decided to call Manpreet, Nivedita’s ‘roomie and mate’. It had been under Manpreet’s able wing that Nivedita had transformed into the confident Delhiite from the diffident Goan.

“Auntieji, tussi kab aaye? Phone karna tha. Main gate pe aa jati receive karne”, Manpreet materialized at her shoulder before she had dialled the number. “I am so glad to see you, Manpreet. Nivedita kidhar hai? We have just come to pick up the dress she had designed for her cousin’s convocation. We are to travel to Rishikesh today”, Vishakha began her fumbling explanations. She always found the slight disapproval in Manpreet’s direct stare disconcerting, as if Manpreet was privy to the way Nivedita had been slighted at home, as she perhaps was, deserved to be. All boats cast adrift looked for a safe harbour and Manpreet was Nivedita’s.

“Haan, haan, woh sab to theek hai Auntieji. Nivedita has not done much else for the past two weeks. But yesterday, a strange thing happened. Aap chalo aur dekho. Nivedita will probably kill me, but I think she deserves it”, Manpreet’s words made no sense to an already bewildered Vishakha. “Is Nivedita alright? Nothing is wrong with her?”, Waman’s worried voice sounded behind her. “Arre nahin Uncleji! Tussi fikar na karo”, Manpreet sounded as reassuring as a twenty-two- year- old with a ton of attitude could sound.

“Then where is she? She was supposed to meet us near the gate”, Madhav and Shreejaya had as usual leapt into the conversation before they looked. “We will be late for our daughter’s convocation. She studies in AIIMS Rishikesh, you know”. Manpreet’s scowl of disapproval did not need deciphering. “So”, it said, “You are the people who tend to make my friend’s life hell”. Without a word, Manpreet turned on her heel and marched of leaving them to trail behind her like a wake, part worried and part disapproving.  Manpreet marched into a low red-brick building, marked ‘Director Office and Exhibition Hall’.

She opened the door quietly and motioning them to be quiet led them to a few seats right next to the door, in the very last row. The centre of the hall was filled with glass cases with various pieces of fabrics, which glistened and shone in the glow of the soft spotlights which rained down like shower of molten gold. Before they could be seated, Manpreet pulled out a few lanyards with attached cards and hastily told them to put them around their necks, so that they would not be accosted and led from the room by a posse of formidable looking security personnel, whom Yeshwant recognised to be members of the special forces. Manpreet seemed to be intently convincing one of them that the Pais were here as spectators and not potential suicide bombers.

Next to one of the glass cases stood Nivedita, in intense conversation with a plump lady in a silk saree with a large red bindi on her forehead. Seated beside Vishakha, Shreejaya drew in her breath sharply as she recognised Anandi Shetye, a minister in the Goan State Government. As Shreejaya’s lip curled in disapproval, she patted Nivedita on the shoulder before moving on to the other exhibits. As she was about to be ushered from the room, by the Director who seemed to be in transports of delight, she paused and beckoned Nivedita forward.

A mike appeared in her hands as if by magic. “It gives me great pleasure to see that a traditional weave from Goa has been tweaked to incorporate designs from one of the holiest temples of our land”, her voice was surprisingly loud for her small rotund shape. “I never thought that the humble Kunbi weave could be embellished by the design of the Bakula and Surangi flowers and incorporated into silk fabric to create a saree of which even the Goddess Shanteri would approve. But, Nivedita Pai seems to have done it. Although the first piece here is promised to her cousin as she tells me, I hope she sends in a second one to the National Textile Expo where I can proudly show it to the world as an example of what modern Goan art can be”.

 A collective sharp intake of breath was the only emotion displayed by various members of the Pai family as many of them realized the folly of comparing a rose to a lotus.  Anandi Shetye continued, “This is the talent I was looking for, which bridges the ancient and the modern. She wins the annual scholarship for best textile design for truly taking a stitch in time…..”.

People often looked at me as if I had lost my mind when I told them that I found Diwali depressing. Those who were kindly inclined decided that I must have suffered a personal tragedy during the festival. I could see the sympathy in their eyes which said “I can understand, you poor child. Such incidents taint even the lights of Diwali”. The reason for my dislike was not as dramatic as they imagined. It was just that I did not care much for the rituals associated with it.

For starters, I was not a morning person. Having to wake up even before the crack of dawn, when I had fallen asleep only about an hour before and taking a bath was a modified form of the water torture for me. I was a savory kind of person and the mounds of sweets which were prepared and which I was made to sample by visiting aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents set my teeth on edge in the worst way possible.

With so many beauty products available in the market, I could not imagine why Mom was fixated on using ubtan, oil and locally made fragrant soap. Mom was quite hard hearted about the ritual bath and turned an absolutely deaf ear to my entreaties. I wailed and pleaded. I begged and cajoled. But she always had the same reply, “At least support the small local industries during the festival. They need to dispel the darkness too!”

I shuddered when I recalled the past Diwali. At seventeen and a half, I thought I was quite grown up and expected Mom to respect my wishes of waking up at my usual time of eight in the morning, festival or no festival. After all, holidays were meant for sleeping in! I had decided that I would use my new jojoba oil infused body lotion and frangipani shower gel. But Mom was quite inflexible. I woke up to find her gently but firmly shaking me at five thirty in the morning. This was the last straw. “I am glad I will not be here next year for this nonsense. The hostel seems far more inviting already”, I said in in as vicious a tone as I could muster. Her eyes held just a smidgen of hurt. “Next year is far away. Now get up. Have a bath like a good girl and put on your new Kurta”, she said as she left the room.

I stamped my foot, cursed the festival, cursed everyone under the sun and finally emerged in a black top, paired with a pair of black jeans studded with diamante` on the seams. I knew she couldn’t do much. It was my way of cocking a snook at her dictatorial ways. It was not a happy time. We bickered over local and branded, traditional and international for all four days of the festival. Both of us stuck to our guns. So much for the festive good cheer and bonhomie!

But that was the past. ‘Be careful what you wish for’, they say and this year I was to spend my Diwali all by myself in the hostel. Having enrolled in The National Law University Jodhpur, I had exactly three days of holidays and heading home, which was more than a thousand kilometers away was out of question. Mom had planned to come visiting, but with an air of false bravado, I expressly forbade her. The convenient excuse of mid term tests was trotted out. If she saw through the blatant lie and felt hurt, she did not let on. “I will send your favorite savories by courier”, she said. “Maybe I can come in November after your tests are over”. I had answered with a non-committal “Let’s see. I will let you know”.

I had already planned my day. I was going to wake up after nine in the morning, have a bath around noon with another new bottle of shower gel from The Body Shop, and not eat a single sweet. I was going to do what I chose. For once, Diwali was going to be an extended holiday with ‘nothing official about it’. I was an adult and meant to spend my time the way I wanted. A shopping spree in the evening was just what the doctor ordered! The Body Shop, Pantaloons and a million other shops beckoned with their latest trendy offerings. I thought about the sleeveless vest top which I had chosen with glee. It would go well with my cuffed pants. Mom would not be able to fix me with her disapproving stare. The only slight concession to tradition was the silver jewelry which I planned to buy in the local market. It would go well with the Gothic look I had going. Since a couple of my friends had recently been victims of online fraud after using their cards in the smaller shops, I had prudently withdrawn cash to pay for my purchases.

As luck would have it, the last lecture was cancelled.  What could be better? I returned to the hostel earlier than usual, wrapped in a happy haze. The door of my room stood slightly ajar. “Of course! Phulwa, the maid must be hard at work”, I thought as I pushed the door open. It was Phulwa all right, but she seemed to be cleaning out the contents of my cupboard rather than the room. My happy haze was instantly replaced by the red one of anger. Stealing! Two days before Diwali! After I had given her the mandatory ‘Bakshish’, before anyone else!

Storming in, I grabbed her by the shoulder. “Phulwa! How dare you?”, I was rendered momentarily speechless by my righteous anger. My carefully saved little hoard fell from her limp fingers. I snatched it up from the floor and decided that this was no time for explanations. I had made up my mind to drag her to the warden and see that she was immediately dismissed. She seemed incapable of speech too. None of the expected dramatic weeping and breast-beating with wailing requests for a pardon. She stood quietly as if turned to stone. Was that a gleam of relief that I saw in her eyes? The lawyer in me suddenly woke up to this strange aspect of a very-open -and -shut case. I shut the door and stared at her.

“Why were you stealing Phulwa? I gave you the Bakshish didn’t I?  Warden Madam might hand you over to the police. Your job is as good as gone.”. “I want to be handed over to the police, Didi”, she said in a low voice. I couldn’t believe my ears. “No one from the hostel is going to apply for bail on your behalf”, I commented acridly. “If I am punished for a year, at least I will get food to eat and a place to sleep, Didi”, she replied. “What do you mean?” I was genuinely curious. After all, Phulwa had never given anyone cause for complaint before. She was a good worker according to my seniors, and had been working in the hostel for the past two years.

“What is the matter? If you think jail is a walk in the park, then you are mistaken!”, I said. “But if I stay outside, I will meet a worse fate”, she replied in the dull voice of a person who was beyond caring.  “Sit down”, I drew up a chair and perched myself on the bed. “Tell me the real reason why you were stealing or pretend stealing or whatever it is that you were doing!”, my curiosity got the better of me. “I won’t let you go until you do”.

“Bapu owns a small store at the outskirts of the city, Didi”, she said. “We make Bandhej products like dupattas, sarees and turbans. Products normally sell well during Diwali, but the trend has been reducing for the past couple of years. Last year, our workshop caught fire. Bapu went to a cooperative credit society for a loan. But he is semiliterate. Once someone found out, they changed something in the documents. We have been paying back every month, Didi. But yesterday, some people came home and threatened us. We have to pay twenty thousand rupees in four days, or else they will take possession of everything, even our house. We have managed to raise fifteen thousand, Didi. I tried talking to all the Didis here, but nobody was ready to buy anything. I came to your room, saw your key lying on the table and before I knew it, I had opened the cupboard and taken out the money. I swear on Bapu’s head, Didi, I only took five thousand rupees.”

I counted the little bundle in my hand. Five thousand rupees. The rest of it was still in my cupboard. I had never felt more conscience-stricken in my life. Here was I, ready to blow up this money and more on some products which I could well do without, while another girl, just a little older than me stood to lose everything for want of so little. I was not ready to light diyas because I wanted fancy fairy lights which would look trendy and cool, and here she was, trying to light a small diya for her father. Someone else, who was much older and wiser had decisively won the global versus local case which had been raging since last Diwali. My arguments did not have a leg to stand on.

Mom received a selfie of me dressed in a Bandhej saree, holding up a diya, while Phulwa fed me a morsel of ghewar, at the crack of dawn on Diwali day. As I scrolled through my photos later and came across the photos of Phulwa beaming in gratitude and Mom, with unabashed pride, I knew that Diwali was always delightful, never depressing. To receive so much love, following the traditions and going local was indeed a very small price to pay.