Rains and Memories

 

La Nature, mon Bonheur

( Nature, My Happiness)

At sixty-two, I sometimes feel like one of those old deodar trees in the hills—weathered by storms, yet still quietly alive with memories and the will to grow.

Nature, in my thoughts, is not merely scenery. It is almost a living character. Having been born in the hills, I have always felt a deep connection with it. At the tender age of twelve, I wandered through the forest near my paternal grandparents’ house, holding my grandmother’s hand as we went to collect small twigs of dried wood to light the fire in the mud chulha, the earthen stove traditionally used in village homes.

I have always believed that the hills have moods, forests have their silences, and even rain carries memories. Growing up in a small village in Himachal Pradesh taught me to observe patiently—the changing colours of the sky, the fragrance of pine after rain, and the quietness of a small railway station. Nature has always given me perspective. It reminds me that life does not need to be rushed in order to be meaningful.

Even now, at this age, when I sit in my balcony with a cup of tea and feel that I am experiencing a little piece of heaven when heavy rain falls outside—provided, of course, that all my family members are safe at home. Yet, during such moments, my thoughts often wander to the stray animals who must face the rain without shelter or food. Then I remind myself that nature, in its own mysterious way, has given every living creature instincts and abilities to survive. Nature is perhaps the greatest teacher of all, teaching us adaptation, endurance, and survival.

I have created a small balcony garden where I grow herbs, flowers, and other plants. Over time, it has become a tiny ecosystem of its own. Often birds  come  to my balcony, build  nests, and lay eggs . I regularly keep bird feed and water on the balcony, and the lively chatter of birds at dawn has become the most luxurious alarm clock I could ever possess.

Sometimes I feel that I have recreated a little fragment of the forest in my balcony. Perhaps I would never have thought of doing such a thing had I not experienced life in a small village nestled among dark green forests and hills.

During such quiet moments, my thoughts often travel back to the heavy monsoons of my childhood, when I was a student at Swami Vivekananda High School in Mumbai—the then Bombay. The image of rain that lives in my childhood memories still fills me with a strange thrill, even today.

I remember coming home from school drenched in rain, jumping through flowing water, and sometimes even soaking my shoes in the muddy streams that ran along the roads. My brother would be ready with paper boats, and together we would set them afloat, watching them drift a little distance before running after them to retrieve them.

These were among the simple joys of childhood.

Both of us would be scolded for getting wet, only to repeat the same mischief a few days later. And then there are memories that belong not only to the eyes but also to the senses—the aroma and taste of the hot, crispy fries my mother prepared on rainy days, after we woke from our afternoon siesta and waited for my father to return home.

I have always had a peculiar fascination with rain in all its moods and colors: rain falling upon the black asphalt of city roads; rain on dusty, unpaved paths; torrential downpours and gentle drizzles; rain shimmering in the sunshine; rain over rivers and the sea; trains travelling through sheets of rain; and the tiny bubbles rising from the earth as raindrops came pouring down.

But it was not only the rain that fascinated me.

The gathering clouds, their restless swirling, and the countless shapes they formed after the rain had passed always held a special attraction for me. I could spend hours watching them, allowing my imagination to travel wherever they led.

These childhood enchantments remained with me through many phases of my life. Yet now, sometimes, I feel that the magic is no longer quite the same.

I wonder whether age has quietly taken something away, or whether it was simply the ways of the world. Whatever it was that stole a little of that enchantment from me, I know that it took something immensely precious—something that once made every rainy day feel like a small miracle.

Perhaps this, too, is part of growing older.

With age, we realize that time is not infinite. We begin to understand that our energy cannot be devoted to everything and everyone. We become more selective about what deserves our attention, our emotions, and our time.

And perhaps this is where nature continues to teach me.

William Wordsworth saw in nature the power to “chasten and subdue.” Nature, for him, was not simply beautiful scenery. It possessed a moral and spiritual force. It had the ability to humble us, calm us, and lead us towards deeper reflection, moderating our wild emotions and quietening our pride.

In William Wordsworth's famous poem, “Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey” he is  reflecting on how his relationship with Nature has changed as he matured from a reckless young boy into a thoughtful adult.

"...For I have learned

To look on nature, not as in the hour

Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes

The still, sad music of humanity

Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power

To chasten and subdue."

I understand this more now than I perhaps did when I was young. Nature has not taken away all my childhood enchantment. Perhaps it has merely changed its form.

The little girl who once jumped into rainwater, chased paper boats, and watched clouds change their shapes is still somewhere within me. But now, with her aching bones, she sits quietly on a balcony, surrounded by plants and birds, holding a cup of tea, watching the rain—and understanding a little more about life.

Like the old deodar tree, I may have been weathered by storms.

But I am still alive with memories.

And perhaps, even now, I am still growing.

- Pankaj Mala Bhattacharya

Poetry: The Lost Child

 

 

The Lost Child

 

I read your thoughts upon your face,

Your life's tale told with quiet grace.

You forged yourself in many folds,

A shield against friends, well-wishers, and foes.

 Yet no one knows

The warm heart that beats

Beneath the armour that conceals it.

 I too did not know,

Until the day

It melted through your eyes.

Then I discovered

A heart that was

Like a lovely little wandering child,

Who brings home, at evening mild,

The thorns and flowers of all the wild.

And from your whole life,

This much I know is true:

Your flowers and your thorns,

You bring them all with you.

-Pankaj Mala Bhattacharya

 

 

Poetry : Bound by Time

 

Bound by Time

 

“I am bound by time,” they say.

Have they ever seen me

sitting at night,

in a room without a fan,

studying till midnight,

sweating profusely

through the hot summer months?

And when, at last,

I put away my books

and lay down on the floor

in another room,

where my entire family slept

beneath the old ceiling fan

whirling miles above me,

I would imagine

what it must feel like

to lie on a bed

with cool air flowing over me.

And I decided—

someday, I would.

So I began making timetables,

drawing up schedules,

planning every hour,

telling myself:

Study hard.

Work hard.

Achieve success.

Get good results.

Get a job.

And I kept making schedules.

Then I entered

the vast world of college.

There were no tuitions.

My subjects were tough.

Nobody in my family

had ever ventured through them.

I knew only one thing—

Work.

Work hard.

And work harder.

That is how I grew.

I planned.

I studied.

And I kept making schedules.

again and again.

I walked long distances

to save money on transport.

I treated myself

to a ten-paise ice cream

while my friends enjoyed

delicious one-rupee

milky chocolate bars.

I watched them,

but I remained focused.

I worked.

I planned.

And I kept making schedules.

newer and firmer

dividing my days

into carefully measured hours.

Even the time

I spent with friends

after school, after college,

was allotted—

not because

I did not want to be with them,

but because I feared

the misery of losing time.

Every hour had its place.

Every moment had a purpose.

Every dream demanded its share.

And now they tell me—

“I am bound by time.”

Perhaps I am.

But they do not know

how I learned to live by it,

how I stretched every minute

until it carried me

a little closer

to the life I had once imagined

beneath that old ceiling fan.

They see the clock.

I remember the girl

who watched it

and refused to let

her dreams

run out of time.

- Pankaj Mala Bhattacharya

GSI Field Diaries :In the Lap of the Brahmaputra

 In the Lap of the Brahmaputra

( My thanks are  due to  my  Ph.D Guide and Senior  colleague in GSI , Dr. J.R.Kayal professor emeritus, Kolkata, for    providing valuable insights  while writing this article .  This write up  is based on experiences of the GSI team at Northest  Region of India , a highly Earthquake  prone zone in India )

Having finished our seismological work in Shillong, we made our way down to the Assam Valley along a winding mountain road. There was a nip in the air, a touch of winter. From Guwahati, our jeep sped along Highway 31 towards western Dhubri. The broad road, surrounded by greenery, passed through a vast valley dotted with hills, rivers and dense Sal forests. The journey through the hills was especially beautiful.

At around eight at night, we reached the Dhubri Circuit House. Its beautiful flower garden and decorative illumination made it look like a magnificent royal palace. The Circuit Houses of the north-eastern region were well maintained and equipped with all necessary facilities.

I woke early the next morning. As I opened the window, I saw the sun rising from the Brahmaputra as though wearing a radiant crown. The previous night, I had gone to sleep with the river beside me. During the monsoon, the Brahmaputra can be terrifying; but on that winter morning, it appeared vast, serene and majestic. In the distance, the Garo Hills of Meghalaya rose beneath a veil of clouds, solemn and meditative.

I was completely absorbed in nature when my subordinate called out, “Please get ready. We can go out for a little while today.” Our staff had arrived almost two days earlier by air and had set up a camp in an open field near the Circuit House. Four folding tables, comfortable chairs and breakfast had been arranged under the warm winter sunshine. After breakfast, we were ready to cross the Brahmaputra and begin our observations of the earthquake aftershocks.

We reached Dhubri Ghat, just beside the Circuit House, hired a small motorised boat and set off across the glittering waters. For nearly four years, I had been carrying out research in this region. I had often seen the Brahmaputra from the air and travelled along the highway beside it. I had always felt its presence strongly and imagined it as something vast, powerful and frightening.

Soon we found ourselves in the middle of the river. Salmara Ghat, on the opposite bank to the south of Dhubri, was nearly two hours away. The boat did not always move in a straight line; at times it travelled eastward, westward or southward.

Countless sandbanks stretched across the river. The newly formed chars were dazzlingly white, like vast plateaus of sand. On some of the higher ones stood small settlements with thatched huts. As we crossed them, a large steamer approached from Salmara, carrying jeeps, cars, lorries, cattle and goods across the river. Office-goers, fishermen, boatmen and labourers all moved across the broad waters.

The boatman, whose weathered face bore an intelligent expression, told us about the settlements on the chars. During the monsoon, many of them are submerged or washed away. The Brahmaputra is both their protector and their destroyer.Standing on the boat and looking in every direction, I felt as though we were crossing a vast ocean. The white sails of the boats looked like paintings. I was reminded of the famous Bengali song *O Nadire Ekti Katha*, sung and composed by Hemanta Kumar Mukherjee, a poetic dialogue with an endless river. Sailing across the immense Brahmaputra was an incomparable experience. Touching its cool, clear, light-green water with our feet gave us a strange feeling of purity.

After travelling nearly twenty miles by water, we reached the shore. Porters helped us unload our luggage, and company vehicles took us further. We travelled nearly eighty kilometres along dusty roads beside the Brahmaputra. Shops, government offices and small houses lined the way. Our destination was a small brick house near the riverbank, surrounded by tin-roofed cottages. We carefully observed the houses, the people and their daily lives.

In Dakshin-Nalaram, part of the Mananlal-Bangla region, most residents were poor farmers, fishermen and labourers. After finishing our work, we stopped at a tea shop. The shopkeeper’s wife warmly served us sweets and tea. Curious villagers gathered around and asked where we had come from. They told us how floods had changed the landscape and how the river had gradually shifted closer to their homes. Their stories revealed both the immense power of nature and the resilience of the people who lived beside the Brahmaputra.

On our way back, we again halted at the Dhubri Circuit House. That night, the river’s ebb and flow seemed endless. People gathered outside, talking about the tides and the mysteries of the river. Under the moonlight, the blue waters shimmered, whispering of nature’s eternal rhythm.

The more I saw of the Brahmaputra, the more amazed I became. Flowing through the heart of Assam and carrying the waters of countless Himalayan tributaries, it stretched vast and majestic from east to west. We spent our days beside this immense and mysterious river and returned with countless memories and a deep affection for it.

At times, the Brahmaputra seemed as terrifying as a demon; yet its vastness and boundless waves filled me with joy and a sense of purity. By the time we left, I realised that, without even knowing it, **I had fallen in love with the Brahmaputra.**

-Pankaj Mala Bhattacharya

Poetry: Acceptance

 

Acceptance

 

Last cloudy night,

I lay down to sleep,

But my thoughts ran deep.

The clouds shared my pain,

Yet nature sang in rain.

The unspoken questions,

Callous, pseudo-suggestions,

Battled within my mind.

Answers would I ever  find?

Should I rebel?

Should I compel?

No, life is not a battlefield

Where one forces the other to yield.

Life is a pilgrimage, they say,

Accepting roses—and the thorns it  brings along the way.

Forgiveness is not a license to surrender;

It is a great strength, not weakness.

This insight wiped away my tears,

Calming all my baseless fears.

With the advent of dawn,

And another sleepless night gone,

I relished the warmth of the sun,

And found the courage to embrace myself again.

 - Pankaj Mala Bhattacharya