The Niece Tales

The Niece has always liked stories. She likes her books, is the kind who has to be read to every night. Of late she likes to hear oral stories, she is quite over books as she once informed me (not exactly those words but something similar). Others seem more adept at keeping up with her appetite but I have to work with the few incidents that take place when I meet her. The last story dates back to January of this year so my output has been meagre but here it is.

GOOD FERRY, BAD FERRY

Dee and her Dada hurried to the station to meet Anu Periamma and Shibu Mama. It was a bright, sunny day and Dee was off to the Sydney Opera House to see her very first play, it was Charlie & Lola too! They just got there in time for the train was already at the station and they hurried in before the guards closed the door. Everyone said, Dee look outside the window and see the stations passing by but she was far too excited to sit still! And then they were at Town Hall station and Dada said Dee you will have to walk a long distance to the Opera House. And Dee said, I am a big girl, I can walk. And so she did!

It was a hot day. But her Mum had given Dee a cap and she put it on. And it stayed firmly on.

They were a little late and Charlie & Lola was about to start and they hurried to their seats. And then Dee forgot about everything else except Charlie & Lola till the ogre came. Everyone thought Dee would be scared and indeed she looked a little pale. But the ogre turned out to be nice after all and Dee told herself, you silly billy you needn’t be scared of the ogre.

And then the play got over and they all walked out into the bright sunshine and everyone asked, Dee were you scared of the ogre? And she said of course not!

But now there was a breeze and Dee was having a hard time keeping her cap down. And then there was a sudden gust and the cap flew from her head. Oh no, cried Dee, my cap’s flying away! Dada ran and tried to catch it but the cap just flew by and next you know it was on a ferry called Trixiebelle. Everyone – Dee, Dada, Anu Periamma, Shibu Mama – ran to catch the ferry and get back the cap. But Trixiebelle was a bad ferry, she loved to make trouble! And with a toot she pulled out of the harbour. And with her went Dee’s cap.

Just then Dee spotted another ferry, Pixiebelle and said, Pixiebelle will you help me? And Pixiebelle, being a gentle and good ferry, said of course. So on hopped Dee, Dada, Anu Periamma and Shibu Mama and Pixiebelle then pulled out of the harbour too with a toot to give chase. But as fast as Pixiebelle was, Trixiebelle was even faster. Soon poor Pixiebelle got tired and Dee lost sight of Trixiebelle. And with it went her cap!

Pixiebelle then pulled into one of the coves. She was sad she couldn’t help but Dee said, never mind, Pixiebelle and thank you for helping us. Pixiebelle said if they walked a bit, they might find Trixiebelle in another cove. So Dee had to walk again in the hot sun, this time without a cap! After they had walked a while, Dee suddenly spotted Trixibelle. There she is, she yelled and ran towards the ferry with everyone else following her. Trixibelle tried to pull away and escape but this time the Captain had her firmly in hand. Dee then went up to the Captain and said my cap is on this ferry and I want it back. The Captain said, I have seen no cap on this ferry but come in and search. At this Trixiebelle protested but the Captain said, shush and she went quiet. Then everyone – Dee, Dada, Anu Periamma and Shibu Mama – looked high and low but could not find the cap! Then Dee sat down and thought a bit. She then looked carefully under the seats on top of the ferry and sure enough Trixiebelle had hidden it away carefully under a seat. There’s my cap, yelled Dee and everyone said my you are a clever girl for having found it. And Trixiebelle sulked but no one paid her any attention except the captain who gave her a good scolding.

A little distance away was the zoo. Should we go there? said Anu Periamma. No, said Dee, we will go there another day and see the giraffes! And that is another story!

_*_

In its retelling, I often forget details but the Niece is always on hand to correct any deviations. I wish I could illustrate it for her and make a hand made book but for this I have to rely on my brother and cousin :-)

A beginning was made with the picture accompanying this story which is done by my brother and illustrates the niece and the ogre.

Dahanu-A Town by the Sea*

The guide books said there was nothing to see in Dahanu and they were right.

Why did we go there? The hoped for Easter weekend break had dwindled down to a day’s outing so we decided to chance Dahanu hoping to spot a few chikoo orchards and the odd Parsi mansion and with a bit of luck even Warli settlements. Instead the road out set the tone for the day, with NH-8 passing through uninspired landscape. The jumble of traffic on it was not helped by what seemed to be various overpasses under construction.  Every now and then a township (Welcome to Vegas!) claimed to provide serene, green landscapes that were nowhere in sight.

Turning off from NH-8 was a relief but arriving in Dahanu in the mid-afternoon heat, we knew the town wasn’t promising. Most tourists come for the beach; along it are the kind of guest houses that are populated by mid-level government functionaries and small businessmen enjoying a break. The waters around here are slightly muddy and the beach has a few indifferent attractions.

But being there also made me think a bit about authenticity. Now and then the papers in Australia talk about country towns despoiled by the tourist trade and of course they mean towns that have visibly lost their actual life and instead are reduced to presenting a gaudy front for visitors complete with cute cafes that offer familiar food, knick-knacks and the like. Dahanu is poised somewhere in between, a bit like a second rate tourist town but also still the kind of town that once constituted the “native place” that one visited for long summer holidays. The kind of holidays spent with relatives where little was done except eat and while away the hours and perhaps once in a while visit the bazaar for the odd meal or cinema visit.  In fact a few of the houses with their "thinnais" reminded me of a long forgotten visit to Kumbakonam. Sort of from a time when you weren't necessarily in search of the picturesque and new experiences.  Though the odd spot in the place was charming.

Though we didn't do anything much apart from hastily buying a few chikoos from the market as evidence of the visit, it turned out that the natives were friendly enough - like bailing our car out of a tiny lane. And on a hot day, the town had its own version of the public water fountains found in cities for passers by.

Around Mumbai there were a lot of quirky stores that trade in Indian kitsch, it's sort of the Indian hipster version of converting/appropriating working class fare into "cool" products.  At least some of that kitsch lies in small towns like Dahanu that are innocent of the ironic.  Perhaps the shops and products were on my mind when I took these photographs. Though the gola syrups brought with them nostalgia - I used to have these at school in my unsupervised childhood but the adult me wasn't brave enough to try one at the beach.

 

Leaving Dahanu, we decided to take the inner road and it proved to be far better than the highway.  Along the way lay villages and small towns. Some villages looked dirt poor, others were prosperous as announced by large, garishly coloured houses and two wheelers.  There were unlovely small towns that looked right out of English, August.  And everywhere the promise of residential development projects. Some parts like the Ghats beyond Palghar were so beautiful that the thought of this made one feel anarchic,  you wanted to shout "a pox on all this development!"

At one point my brother asked "Do you think the lives of these people will ever change?". And I had no answer. 

Returning to Mumbai, a traffic jam consumed most of the evening hours and almost wiped away the day out.  It had been a haphazard kind of day, had we stayed for a few days and motored around a bit perhaps we would have seen more - though even as I write it I feel dilettantish.  But perhaps not every visit need be fun or a revelation.

* The title of this post is taken from the website for the place - it does have tourist pretensions after all!

PS: While googling Dahanu, I found a novel had been written about the place. Who knew the place had been immortalised in fiction?

A Poem

Its quite awhile since I posted a poem.

And though of all of us my grandmother is the most sad, so sad that when she looks down at her feet resignedly - as she often does - every pore of her seems aflame with sadness, it is also summer in her garden.  The gardenia, which she is partial to, is in full bloom. The mangoes have been plucked and a small amount of honey was brought down for the first time in my memory from the mango tree outside her house.

It seems a good time as any for a bit of Neruda.

Ode to Sadness

Sadness, scarab

with seven crippled feet,

spiderweb egg,

scramble-brained rat,

bitch's skeleton:

No entry here.

Don't come in.

Go away.

Go back

south with your umbrella,

go back

north with your serpent's teeth.

A poet lives here.

No sadness may

cross this threshold.

Through these windows

comes the breath of the world,

fresh red roses,

flags embroidered with

the victories of the people.

No.

No entry.

Flap

your bat's wings,

I will trample the feathers

that fall from your mantle,

I will sweep the bits and pieces

of your carcass to

the four corners of the wind,

I will wring your neck,

I will stitch your eyelids shut,

I will sew your shroud,

sadness, and bury your rodent bones

beneath the springtime of an apple tree.