A narrative : I am Born

 

I AM BORN

I was born; a dark complexioned, a dark-skinned, flat-nosed baby girl; something very repulsive (unpleasant) in those days. The people in the hills usually are sharp featured and fair complexioned. Those were the days when girls were crying little beings who demanded constant care. I was born in a little “Obri”, a dim mud-walled room smelling of earth and smoke in the innermost corner of my parental house. All the babies born in my house saw their first light (or life) in this darkest room. It was a mud house with a slate roof. The midwife, they say, died soon after on the dark stony path of hills. She had slipped down the hills into the Khud (Gorge).

A small Puja was performed within the household. I  was named Mallika, a princess. Baba  ( my Paternal Grand Father) wanted a festivity, as I was his first grandchild. I  was the darling of his eyes and he called me Bablu. Dadi ( my paternal Grandmother) , a more practical person warned, “If you celebrate the girl’s ‘Namkaran’ ceremony the Goddesses are pleased and keep on reappearing” as if Goddesses are meant only for worshipping and staying in heaven, not to land on earth.

I  grew up in a small village of Samnoli, situated in the a valley wrapped in mist and pine-covered majestic hills. The village was devoid of electricity for many years. Encounter with chirpy birds and dancing trees around  my  house was part of my daily life. As a child listening to stories by the night lamp was the source of entertainment. The rich wealth of folklore, stories of shepherds and Gujjars echoed through the mountains, transported the little girl to a maiden with an instinctive craftsmanship.

What I  had lived unknowingly as a child, I  later rediscovered in Poetry . These childhood memories found their reflection in the verses of William Wordsworth and John Keats. The little girl from the misty hills stood awestruck before their poetry, discovering in their words the same beauty, wonder, simplicity, and emotional depth that I had once experienced in my own mountain world. The hills of my childhood had silently prepared my soul to understand and cherish the romantic spirit of nature, imagination, and beauty. Thus, the dark little room where my  life began gradually opened into a world illuminated by literature, creativity, and poetic wonders.

-Pankaj Mala  Bhattacharya