Pot Pouri

It’s a cold December night. Others would argue it’s pleasant but I’d say cold. It’s a little late, most shops have pulled down their shutters. Riding the breeze, piercing the otherwise silent night, most out of place at this late hour is Himmesh Reshamiya, crooning Tera sarafa kaisa hai hum dum . The street ahead is pretty deserted. I can’t see where this music, if you can call it that, comes from. It’s way too loud to be a radio playing somewhere or even to be the music at a bar. There’s probably a party somewhere. But it’s still 3 days to Ring out the old, ring in the new.

I turn a corner and I can see bright lights and a small crowd. But it’s not a party. Goodness gracious me! Blistering barnacles! Heavens above! God’s nightgown! That can’t be true. There is a Santa Claus jiving to Himesh Bhai’s nasal notes!! A shiny banner above screams ‘Merry Christmas’! (And btw it’s almost four days past X’mas) Right above the banner a board proudly announces ‘Radhe sweets’, in Devanagri. Wow! They take secularism, or mixed bag, or khichadi if you may, to another level. A closer look reveals the presence of a perfectly idiotic looking clown on the stage, as well. His face is painted an ugly pale pink with the quintessential red clown’s nose. Some little kids have climbed onto the stage and they are bobbing up and down, without any sense of rhythm or direction whatsoever, while their proud and grinning parents look on and cheer. I don’t know if I’m flabbergasted or amazed or amused or about to crack up.

But there’s something that makes me smile. It’s not Christmas and it’s not New Years. The music isn’t a Christmas carol. The Santa has a white beard, brown skin and black eyebrows. The clown is dancing with the Santa for no apparent rhyme or reason. And the kids are just happy doing their own Brownian motion. Any dream will do. We just need an excuse to celebrate.

As i walk away I hear a Punjabi song blaring from the speakers. As if the pot pourri wasn’t enough of a patchwork already. Jee karda bhai jee karda tainu kol bithawa jee karda. It won’t be a surprise if India invents a girlfriend for Santa next! (Maybe Karina) And maybe Santa and his girl would do a Raas Leela outside Radhe Sweets then. Gujju Khichadi!

Peepul/People

I reach home after a usual day at school. Even before I step out of the car I can sense something unusual. There is a flurry of activity. There are some men, strong muscular ones , in vests and dirty pants, milling around. Servants from our house (first floor of the big bungalow), Chacha's place (ground floor) and Tauji's place (another building in the same compound) are out too, doing no particular work though. When I demand an explanation, the maid tells me that these men have been hired to cut down the big peepul tree in our compound. Holy crap! It had never occurred to my tiny brain that such a big tree could ever be cut down. When you are four ft. eleven inches a tree that huge seems unconquerable, if thats a word. But the powers that be had decided that and that it would be. But, oh ho, that was my favourite hiding place for hide and seek. The trunk was thick enough to hide me completely. I run to Dad to complain. He lays my anxieties to rest. Says, the trunk wont be cut. Everything else will be. He explains that the tree is very old and is becoming hollow. Its branches arch over our terrace garden and the whole compound. They make break and fall. And that would be very dangerous to the building, which happened to be very old too (almost 90 years old. They say it was built when my great grand dad got married.), and to the people. The branches would have to be cut. Perfect, I thought. My hiding place was secure and as for the rest of the tree, it really hadn't been of any use in my life of 9 years.
I become part of the excitement around the activity. People shouting instructions to each other, Dad telling the men that no branches must fall over the building, the men beginning to axe away. Our terrace garden would be the perfect vantage point to view the operations but Bhaiya, who treats me like a kid just because my age is still a single digit number, doesn't let me go there. Says kids may get hurt. I sit at the window and watch. There are so many windows which i can see it through; the dining room ones, the sitting room ones and the glass door of the terrace garden. I watch all day, marveling at the skill of the men.

I reach home after another usual day at school. The compound is so sunny today. Oh! The tree is gone. Hmph! The compound used to be cool and shaded earlier. Anyways, I'm hungry. I go sit at the dining table. My usual seat is opposite the window. Usually, at least five times a meal I'm scolded for staring out of the window absent-mindedly and forgetting the food on my plate. I can't really help it. I get amused by the tiny pieces of the sky peeping from in between the foliage and making different shapes everyday. But the view outside is so weird today. I can see the sky, which is a dull uninteresting blue, actually closer to 'white with a hint of blue'. And some ugly building across the road. Who paints their building dark pink? I wouldn't even eat ice-cream of that colour. And do i live opposite that building? Gross! There is a dusty little ground where boys are learning karate. Can they see inside my house too? I feel so exposed.
The dining room isn't the only one naked. The sitting room and the terrace garden have been stripped too. There is a sense of the vacant in every room along the length of the house. We've lost the peepul, or people? I'm confused. Every room feels less like a room now and more like a balcony overlooking the street. My home was my home. Now, the pink building, the karate boys and the street below are part of our wallpaper. To move out of a home is disturbing but to stay there and have the home move out requires a word not yet assimilated into my lexicon. Maybe by the time I'm in class five like Bhaiya I will know the word but maybe when I'm older, I, like Bhaiya, won't miss the tree enough to tell you this story.