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Deboshree Bhattacharjee narrates how she was ‘lost’ in enjoying the moment in this funny story for our April writing theme, Travel Story.
Deboshree, in her own words: Stories delight me and I tell them often. They lurk everywhere, around us and in hidden crannies. I like to look for them and then set them going. When I am not doing that, I am reading and reviewing books, travelling and studying media.
“This is where the Pandavas would take their morning shower!” The man sounded excited. “Then, they threw stones at the mangoes overhead and sat down for a meal.”
I looked at him sceptically; the trees didn’t look all that old. “What about their morning puja? Isn’t there an old Shiva temple near here somewhere?”
The man looked confused. He picked up the few mangoes that had fallen on the ground and walked away.
Anyway, irrespective of the water’s dubious Mahabharata connection, it sure looked inviting. The colour was a neat, virgin white, accentuated by the blue clouds in the early spring sky. Young, green leaves that had recently sprouted wings, whispered in the light breeze. The huge walls of Bhandardara dam stood majestically, showing off to everyone who watched.
I was with a huge group – the entire set of people at office. We had travelled to Malshej Ghat from Pune and were here on local word. My colleagues ambled around, sifting through the thick vegetation. A few groaned about having had no lunch, considering the hours the bus ride from our resort had taken. They went the Pandavas way; aiming stones at mango groves and arranging makeshift buckets to store the loot. Some others clicked Facebook pictures, their faces lighting up with the anticipation of the number of ‘likes’ they would earn.
I gazed at the water; it was rumbling and growling. Where the dam started, it was misty. The kind of mist that goes around haunted houses and ethereal cathedrals. One step closer and the white water would lash out. I tied my hair in a bun and tightened my shoelaces. The spectacles had been giving trouble and I adjusted them better around my ears. Taking a baby step closer, I looked behind to see people dissolving in the fog. The rumbling and growling grew louder as I looked straight on. One blink of an eyelid and there! The splashes, despite all my preparation, took me by surprise. They metamorphosed into a constant drizzle which went on till I was dripping wet. Standing right there, near the entrance of the dam, I had just had my first ‘waterfall’ shower.
Following suit, several others joined me. Soon we were all enjoying the drizzle, getting wet and dirty and not caring one bit. The breeze turned into a steady wind and our heads full of hair turned fit for birds to nest in. If the Pandavas had indeed lived here, I am sure they loved the water as well. Perhaps, divine beings in varied worldly forms would emerge from its insides. Nothing, after all, like a wet dip in water so animated!
When we finally walked away to dry ourselves, the hunger pangs set in. Almost in answer, a pakora wallah arrived at the scene. He had them all: onions, potatoes, chillies. His barrow had a name too, written with black pen on white paper. B, something. I strained my eyes to make out the word.
“Bhandardara Bhaji, madam. How many plates do you want?” the helpful man enquired, even as I stood shocked in realization.
The white water had taken away my spectacles. Further away in its recesses somewhere, it was probably turning them into mincemeat that very moment.
*Photo credit: Deboshree Bhattacharjee
Deboshree has won a diary/writing pad made of handmade paper courtesy Prishth. Congrats Deboshree!
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Neena was the sole caregiver of Amma and though one would think that Amma was dependent on her, Neena felt otherwise.
Neena inhaled the aroma that emanated from the pan and took a deep breath. The aroma of cumin interspersed with butter transported her back to the modest kitchen in her native village. She could picture her father standing in the kitchen wearing his white crisp kurta as he made delectable concoctions for his only daughter.
Neena grew up in a home where both her parents worked together in tandem to keep the house up and running. She had a blissful childhood in her modest two-room house. The house was small but every nook and cranny gave her memories of a lifetime. Neena’s young heart imagined that her life would follow the same cheerful course. But how wrong she was!
When she was sixteen, the catastrophic clutches of destiny snatched away her parents. They passed away in a road accident and Neena was devastated. Relatives thronged her now gloomy house and soon it was decided that she should be married off.
Being a writer, Nivedita Louis recognises the struggles of a first-time woman writer and helps many articulate their voice with development, content edits as a publisher.
“I usually write during night”, says author Nivedita Louis during our conversation. Chuckling she continues,” It’s easier then to focus solely on writing. Nivedita Louis is a writer, with varied interests and one of the founders of Her Stories, a feminist publishing house, based in Chennai.
In a candid conversation she shared her journey from small-town Tamil Nadu to becoming a history buff, an award-winning author and now a publisher.
Nivedita was born and raised in a small town in Tamil Nadu. It was for schooling that she first arrived in Chennai. Then known as Madras, she recalls being awed by the city. Her love-story with the city, its people and thus began which continues till date. She credits her perseverance and passion to make a difference to her days as a vocational student among the elite sections of Madras.
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