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MEMORIES OF THE MISTY HILLS Shyamali Sinha |
A¡L¡nc£u¡ 1m¡ ¯hn¡M, 1410 |
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[As I was waiting for some poems, stories and paintings from Shyamali for the next issue of 'Akashdiya', I received the sad news. She was found hanging from the railing of the office staircase. All those whys.....all those wishes - if only we got some hints and if only we could save her, somehow..... My best friend Shyamali has slipped away from my life. I will not ever be able to touch her smile, I will not ever be able to share her tears. I will just have the fragrance of her sweet-peas, her jacaranda strewn paths and her blue clouds...... -Kalyani Rama ] Even now, twelve years after I’ve moved out of Shillong, its still the place I mean when I say home. Even now, in my dreams, the setting, the background, is always Shillong. My childhood Shillong, a small valley-town, surrounded by the blue-green Khasi hills and low, fluffy white clouds all around. The town developed by the British, almost 200 years ago, as a summer capital. It is now the capital of a state named Meghalaya or “Abode of the Clouds” – the name given by Rabindranath Tagore. The state of course, came into existence only in 1972. To tourists, Shillong is popularly referred to as “The Scotland of the East”. I’ve never been to Scotland, but I remember, in class VIII, when we were being taught Macbeth, and there were constant references to the Scottish weather, our English teacher would tell us, “This shouldn’t be difficult for you to understand – its exactly like Shillong weather”. The weather of course, has changed a lot, along with other things. That Shillong of my childhood no longer exists now – as any tourist who has recently been there will tell you. Now its overcrowded; ugly cement buildings jutting out at weird angles cover the balding hills ; only a few patches of green remain ; an area tensed with militant activities, perpetual bandhs and curfews. But that’s not the Shillong I remember. When I’d walk to school, almost near the Cathedral, there used to be a small grove of jacaranda and eucalyptus trees – the small path on the red earth used to be strewn with jacaranda, so much so, it looked like a mauve carpet somedays. And we used to wear the bell-shaped flowers on our fingers, and pretend we were fashionable ladies with long, mauve painted nails. And the fresh smell of eucalyptus all around….
MAUVE JACARANDA Somedays, the clouds would be so low, we had to walk through them – its an ethereal feeling, walking through clouds. Sometimes, I’d try to gather a fistful in my hands – but its like trying to catch moonshine – you can see and feel it, but can’t hold onto it. Sometimes, the cloud and fog would hide the hills in the distance, and it would seem like the world had ended just a few feet from where I was standing, and I would fall into empty space if I walked too far ahead.
ABODE OF THE CLOUDS On rainy days, I’d love to hear the raindrops make music on our sloping red tin roof as I’d slowly fall asleep. The sweet gurgle of the tiny stream near our house would turn to angry roars as it swelled to three times its size in one stormy night. I’d love to bathe my feet in the mini-waterfalls created on each cement step as I jumped over them on my way to school. We never missed school on rainy days – there were way too many of them. On the days my mother would get the floors waxed, and my sister and I used to wear socks and skate over the waxed wooden floors in glee. At night, after we’d been put to bed and the lights were put out, I’d sit awake by the window and smell the night through the glass – and watch the headlights of a lone car glowing like a pair of fireflies, zigzagging across the hills. Sometimes, I’d sit on the back steps of our house, and watch for hours the shapes of the clouds, or the different tree shapes on the hills opposite. We had plums, pears and a pine tree in our backyard. We didn’t have an orange tree – the lone one we had was buried in a particularly bad landslide that left our house dangling on one side over a sheer 20 foot drop – I still remember the terror on my parents faces that day. In March, our school would reopen after three months of winter vacation, and I remember loving the smell of my new books, all neatly covered in brown paper. Springtime – with trees laden with pink and white plum and pear blossoms. Gardens brimming with sweet-pea creepers trying to dance a duet with lace white curtains swaying in the breeze. Clusters of forget-me-nots and rose bushes, dahlias and snap-dragons, poppies, daisies and carnations – almost every red or green roofed house had one such beautiful garden in front. November reminds me of yellow – white and yellow chrysanthemums – truckloads would be gathered for All Souls Day – yet the gardens would remain magically full of them. Also, it was the time we’d have our annual play in school. Everybody would take part, even if just as part of the choir, or dressed up as a tree, of course, wearing lipstick and red rouge circles on cheeks. With Mrs. Roy’s beautiful paintings forming the stage backdrop. It was also the time of annual picnics, after the final exams of course. Once we went to Umiam – or the Barapani lake, as it is better known, on the Guwahati Shillong highway. (Its one of the few things that tourists nowadays can also enjoy) The lake suddenly comes to view as one is driving on the highway, amongst pine trees, and surrounded by blue hills on all sides – with the sunlight sparking on its waters. The Umiam river (its more a stream, actually) looks deceptively small. The water barely covering the ankles, but its icy cold, with a current so strong, it sweeps people off if positioned carelessly. We’d sit on the boulders, and watch the froth on the stones – Mrs. Roy could paint these so beautifully - if only I could too……. In winter, it used to be cold and dreary- no snow though. Our pear and plum trees would be bare, and rather sad-looking. Sometimes, in the mornings, the hills opposite would be wearing a white frost blanket, and like a lady gently taking off her white shawl, it would disappear as soon as the sun shone bright. Afternoons, we’d sit outside with the sun on our backs, and have oranges after lunch. At night, we’d light charcoal chulas with small sticks of pine, and sit around it to warm our hands and feet. It was a calm, quiet, peaceful life, very much in harmony with nature, and I miss it very much in the hustle-bustle of city-life. Nowadays, whenever I visit Shillong, I notice that the hills are balder, there are more roads, more houses, more vehicles, more people and more tension. Maybe that’s change, maybe that’s progress, but as the car travels over the hills, the zig zag road behind me looks like lines cut into the hills - grey lines on the red earth against a green/brown backdrop – and it seems as if a giant knife has cut into the hills, and they are bleeding silently, crying for a world lost to the insatiable greed of mankind.
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