Fragrance of Love

"It is better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all!"

-Alfred Lord Tennyson

Have you ever thought of the properties of love? I mean, by what measures, one can identify a love? Is it a touchable thing? Does it smell? If it smells, does it stink or smells good? Does love have a shape? If so, is it in the same heart shape, depicted in Valentine’s Day greetings cards? Don’t worry! I am not trying to start my post with a regular and often practiced cliché! What I am trying to convey is that I know at least one property of love. Yes! I know the smell of love. Or at least to me, love has a fragrance, and more accurately, love has the smell of Epiphyllum Oxypetalum.

 

Now, what is this complicated thing? Well...Epiphyllum Oxypetalum is the Botanical name of a flower, popularly known as Nishagandhi (Nisha gandhi – The one that emits fragrance in night). But, let me tell you one thing first! After finding a Nishagandhi flower, smelling it would not give you the fragrance of love. Because, when I discovered the smell of love, I did not know a Nishagandhi flower. I actually mistook another flower with strong fragrance for Nishagandhi flower. So, the smell of love is the smell of a flower which was mistaken by me for Nishagandhi flower! Now clear?

The story behind the discovery of the smell of love is of a few years old. It is connected fully with the girl in My First Love (What? You haven't read it yet? First go and read it and come back!). She used to sing during some occasions in college. All the time I used to sit in the first row in the college auditorium with my friend (the naughty friend in Pretty Littima’s Profession, we reunited in college after that adventurous seventh standard) listening to her voice and watching her movements. Her occasional glances darted at me had made me happy.

Somebody brought to the class a bunch of sweet and strong smelling flowers. Actually it was not of the shape of a flower. It almost looked like a small leaf with a light green shade. I liked its fragrance at once as my teenage days were fully perfumed with love. (No, of course I was not a lover! But love was there in my heart.) I asked the flower’s name to the boy who brought it to the class. He expressed his ignorance about the name of the flower, but someone invented a name, ‘Nishagandhi’. I liked that name, and at once I fixed its name in my mind as Nishagandhi. Only later, I came to know that there was another flower by that name.

Well, on that day, when the girl was singing in the auditorium and I was watching her sitting in the front row, my shirt’s pocket was full of the sweet smelling flowers. The aroma of this flower was so strong that the singing girl’s appearance and the flowers’ fragrance blended together resulting in the formation of a specific image in my mind. Her songs lasted for some minutes and she repeatedly sang the songs in equal intervals. All the time, the flowers were also emitting its strong scent creating in me some passionate and nostalgic effect.

Days had passed and when I was in a sorrowful condition regarding my love interest (those who read My First Love can understand the reason of my sorrow), the flowers with its strong fragrance made me sickened with love and grief. In one such occasion, I went to the isolated auditorium with a pocketful of the ‘Nishagandhi’ flowers. Standing at the front row, I imagined the old days in which she sang standing at the podium and I listened to her song experiencing the smell of the flowers. Standing straight and closing my eyes, I took out some flowers from my pocket to smell them and to check whether the so called ‘time travelling’ was possible. Well, you please don’t doubt me! I had actually tried it.

After so many years, when I matured, when I understood love as an emotion and a basic need, when I forgot the girl almost, when I became more practical, when I learned to laugh at my old silliness, when I stopped assessing others with my virtually perfect intelligence and when I lost all my teenage love mannerisms, what still gives me the fragrance of love is the Nishagandhi flowers.

It is a very long time now since I saw a Nishagandhi flower. Now I can’t recollect the smell of it. But, I hope that the next time when I smell it I could sense the emotion of the same love with its genuine innocence and happiness which are common to the teenage days. Perhaps, this feeling might be the single thing that forces me to believe that love is divine – the fragrance of love!

Catching a Copybook Crook

The celebrated sixth standard again. This time it was the English class. And the thick moustached English teacher with his punishment stick in hand was very much obstinate about our regular submission of neatly written copy books on his table before he reaches the class on the second period of all working days. Since he was a fear factor of the students, everyone was keen on not disobeying his demands and if someone fails to bring the updated copybook, even the next classes would go silent hearing the fearful swishing sounds of his flexible stick immediately followed by the moaning sounds of our fellow mates.

This was just like another day. After the first period, the English teacher came to our class and after asking some questions from the last day lessons, he took a new chapter. He first gave us an outline of the story and after telling us to read the entire lesson silently, he started to check the copybooks one by one.

After checking all the available books, he said, “Has everybody submitted the copybooks today?”

A unanimous uproar from the students denoting affirmation was the reply. But the teacher felt that not all the present students had submitted the copybooks. He asked again to confirm the reply. But, what he got was the same answer.

Without trusting the students he asked the class monitor to count the copybooks on his table. He found that there was a difference of five between the number of the copybooks and the number of the present students.

The English teacher became furious. He asked us angrily raising his voice to stand up those who had not brought their copybooks. First, there rose a head, a back bencher, and then three more students followed him in the confession process. He asked all the four to come forward and stand at the corner of the class.

He asked again, “who is the fifth one, come...come...don’t try to fool me!”

But, no one moved.

The teacher did not give up. He asked the monitor to read out loudly the name on each copybook. “When the monitor calls your name, come forward and join with those who are at the corner of the class,” he said to the class.

That verification process was on. The class monitor began to call the names of the students reading the name-slip on each copybook. Students one by one began to walk to the front side of the class to join the corner. The number of students sitting on the benches was shrinking and the number of the students standing at the corner was growing accordingly.

Finally there remained only less than ten students on the benches and it became nine...eight...seven...etc so soon.

When the monitor called out the spectacled one’s name, there were remaining only four more students on the benches and I was one.

When the monitor read the next name, I decided to surrender as there were no means of escape remaining.

I picked up my bag and pretended as searching it. And I said, “What a surprise, I think I have not brought my copybook!”

“Tom! You!” that was actually a scream from the monitor.

Everybody in the class shared the broken pieces of the monitor’s scream.

The English teacher wondered, “I never guessed it would have ended like this”

He picked up the stick and asked me to extend my palm, I obeyed. Usually, the punishment for these sorts of ‘crimes’ was one beating. I got two.

Not for not submitting the copybook and not for the teacher had some grudge for me, but for not becoming truthful.

Did you guess the suspense?

Pretty Littima’s Profession

There lived a prostitute in front of our school, where I studied from fifth to tenth standards. Her name was Littima, and she was referred to by the people as ‘Pretty Littima’, (well, of course the name given here is false in order to protect the concerned person’s privacy). I don’t know exactly, whether she was a prostitute, except the fact that her name itself was enough to create a funny vulgar sense among the students. Perhaps, as I think, she could be a prostitute in her earlier days, and perhaps she might have left that profession due to the compulsion from the religious people around.

Pretty Littima had cows and we used to see her taking the cows for grazing during our class times. She lived in a small house in a perished condition with her children. Well, about her children! She had at least three children, of which the younger one was a boy, who was one year elder to me, with whom all the boys including us were in good friendship. Elder to him was a girl, a pretty fair one with a beauty spot (a mole) on the right part of her jaw (or left?), where it adjoins with the cheek. I remember, once or twice, this girl attended the Sunday Schools (religious classes for Christian children held on every Sunday) in my class, (though she was elder to me by many years) perhaps motivated by the compulsion from the church authorities and religious people around. On such occasions, she used to sit in the class silent without talking to anyone and even looking at anyone. One day, our teacher asked her a question from the text book and she was not able to answer it. I don’t need to mention that these children were also studying in our school for their regular classes and were getting proper education.

I already have said that I was not sure about Pretty Littima’s profession. One day at my house, I happened to hear my mother mentioning her name in an offensive tone.  It was something regarding Pretty Littima’s attempt to assume the leadership of some local problem. I could not suppress my curiosity regarding Littima’s profession and I asked my mother, “mother, what is Pretty Littima’s profession?”

Mother neglected my question without giving me a proper answer. With a hilarious tone, she replied with another question, “who knows?’

When I was in my seventh standard, we have got a new class mate. He was a brilliant and smart one, let us call him X. Since I was his best friend, he asked me one day, “I happened to hear about the woman residing close to our school. Do you know anything about the profession of Pretty Littima?”

Acting smart, I shared my knowledge with him, “I think she is a prostitute!”

“Is that so?” he became more curious.

One day during lunch time, after doing usual naughty as well as smart things, X went to the front side of Pretty Littima’s house. Standing at the door step, he asked loudly,

“Pretty Littima…what about fixing a deal? Can I do ‘it’ with you?” A question from a seventh standard student!

I was not present there at that time. Someone informed me (yeah, the one who appeared in the end portion of ‘Problems of Having a Fictional name’) about the mischief played by X and that how an infuriated Pretty Littima treated him by calling all the names she knew and by chasing him with a broom stick in her hand. After that, Littima’s son came to our class to find X. We said him that we didn’t know where X was. He searched everywhere, but X was not to be seen anywhere for that day.

Hearing my account of Pretty Littima, what do you think was her profession?

(Mrs. Warren’s Profession is a drama written by George Bernard Pshaw, in which the protagonist is a prostitute. The similarity between both titles is purely a coincidental one – Tomz)

Encounter with Policemen

(Reminiscences of North India trip)

I had told you a few of my experiences of my North India trip conducted two years ago and I think you are already familiar with my experiences with cycle-rickshaws and a quite lengthy account of meeting a cute girl in the Kalka-New Delhi train (of which the latter had received and still is receiving with some humiliating criticisms). In this post, I want to tell you my three experiences with Delhi police in which I had direct contact with them only once. In other occasions, either my fellow traveler or a harmless passerby was having an encounter with them.

During my shooting trip on a car with my fellow traveler and driver, we quite occasionally happened to be amidst traffic blocks, especially at the junctions and at the junctures were the roads having a U-turn. This time, it was pretty good traffic block, which evidently had created by the hurrying cars and other private vehicles. Two policemen with some queer looking batons in hand were trying to manage the traffic in vain. Suddenly, there came a poor rickshaw driver with his rickshaw, who accidentally had rushed to the front of the traffic hullabaloo. The next moment, an angered policeman jumped to his front side and without wasting the opportunity lashed him at his back using his thick baton. We saw the poor rickshaw driver fleeing with his cycle to rescue himself from a second possible attack from the policeman by powerfully pedaling the cycle.

While traveling through the hearts of the cities in North India, our driver friend kept on telling us about the importance of wearing seat belts to escape from the penalties charged by traffic police. But, one time, the driver himself had forgotten to wear the seat belt and consequently a policeman stopped our vehicle by waving his hand. However, with tactics of our driver somehow we escaped without paying any fine.

Third time! ah...it was a quite funny one and it was me who was in the incident. Among many places that we were assigned to shoot from my office was a particular open place in Delhi city. I don’t remember the name of the place now, I believe it was some Bagh (Karol Bagh...eh?...no?). There was a small office to which we entered and saw a girl there, to whom we asked about the formalities of shooting the places. It was a dark, tall and fat man who answered our queries. I admit that I don’t know much Hindi and so I could not understand his reply fully. But, from his answer, I could grab that some kind of permission is required if I would want to shoot the places.

I asked him again in my broken Hindi, ‘kiska permission chahiye? (Whose permission is that you want?)

He looked all of us one by one and replied what he told earlier. But this time also, I could understood the same thing only, ‘some kind of permission is required’

I became irritated and repeated my same query, this time with a raised voice, “Kiska Permission Chahiye?”

He was irritated and replied the same thing, but this time also what I understood was the same thing.

An infuriated me raised my voice again and with that emphasized voice I asked him, “KISKA PERMISSION CHAHIYE AAPNE?” (I am not sure whether that ‘ne’ in the end was necessary!)

He was really irritated and looked all of us one by one and with a much…much…much louder voice he replied,

“HM KA PERMISSION CHAHIYE.., HM..HM…HM…” Now I remembered, all the time he was telling me that he wanted the permission from the HM.

Our driver friend understood what he really meant. He whispered in my ears, “please don’t ask him more. He is a POLICE MAN without uniform. What he required is the permission from HM, which means the HOME MINISTER!”

With an expression of disbelief, I looked at my driver friend and I changed my look to see the infuriated eyes of the police man. Then without saying any words, I escaped from the office to the outside with a stooped face.

After coming outside, all of us three could not control our laughter. We just walked towards our car parked at the opposite side of the road.