Jo Chaho Ujiyaar: A Triumph of Bhakti… and Reason

Tulsidas reasoning with the mahants

The lights dim, a hush falls over the audience and the distinctive voice of Gulzar comes on the auditorium loudspeakers. Starting with a quotation from anachronistically- in a play about the 16^th century Tulsidas- the great Russian writer Maxim Gorky. “There are very few good things on earth. What is good is to think about doing good things.” Or something to the effect.

When the curtain opens, I am struck by the elegance of the stage design. A large and deep stage split into three parts, the area on the left a hut, mostly Tulsidas’ residence, the section on the right a raised platform under the shade of a tree which alternately serves as a public meeting place in  a village; a chaupal, a dalaan, a worship place even as we discover through the course of the play. And the central portion, steps leading on to a large platform representing alternately Varanasi town or the famed ghats of Varanasi. Clean and dramatic, that set design.

One would have expected Tulsidas to enter early in the play, but all we see in the beginning are villagers and their struggles and vicissitudes in life. This quickly establishes the status of the exploited common villager. Very critical to the development of the idea that was Tulsidas. More about that later. The entry of Tulsidas happens a little later, so well conceived. The stage dark, a glow of golden-yellow spot on Tulsidas standing on the central platform. With the song “Bar dant ki pangati” playing in the background. The young Tulsidas ready to unleash his magic on the world.

What follows are the conflicts he has to face. The mahants of Kashi thunder as to how he could do the blasphemous act of narrating the story of Shri Ram in the commoners’ language! The hidden sub-text is that Tulsidas is taking away their command over the populace by narrating the scriptures not in Sanskrit but in Avadhi, the common village householders’ language. And there is also a sub-sub text to the clash between the Kashi mahants, who are traditionally Shaivites (Shiv Bhakts) with the Vaishnavites, the Ram bhakt followers of Tulsidas.

Multiple intrigues and sub-plots later, the denoument is reached with the arrival of then Delhi emperor’s- Akbar’s- emissary who congratulates Tulsidas for spreading religiosity among the people. He also presents him a boxful of “Ram-Siya” coins which Akbar has specially minted to express his solidarity with Tulsidas’ mission.

What some may miss out on in this intricately woven story is the relationship which Tulsidas shares with the two most influential persons in his life- both women- one his mother and the other his wife. The mother appears on stage only in flashbacks. The relationship between the mother and the son is tender and loving. The background score of “Ram, haun kaun jatan ghar rahihon” when Tulsidas is conversing with his -now deceased- mother is so poignant that can not help but cry. And the beauty is that the roles of the son and the mother are reversed when the scene is being enacted. The son become the mother and vice versa.

Ratna counselling Tulsidas

That Ratna, Tulsidas’ wife, was a strong influence in the poet’s life is very strongly established. In a quirk of fate, the young Ratna is her husband’s soulmate only for a few years. Her demise is fleetingly indicated in a touching scene when Tulsidas is told that she may have drowned while trying to cross the river in a stormy monsoon flood. Ratna was on her way to her maika, to celebrate the saawan month. But even in this relatively short period she has had a telling influence on the course of Tulsidas’ life. Ratna’s ghost appears some thirty years or so later, to reassure the reformer Tulsidas’ that his chosen path in life is correct. The parting of Tulsidas and the ghost of Ratna is very touching. Very inspirational for Tulsidas as she exhorts him to carry on his mission of taking the scriptures, and indeed the Hindu way of life, to the masses. To the grihasth, the common householder.

And all this grand action is highlighted by the most wonderful Tulsi sangeet you would ever hear. Some of the best pieces of Tulsidas have been selected, right from the “title song”, “Ram naam mani deep dharoon…… jo chaahas ujiyaar” from Ramcharitmanas, to stanzas from his other celebrated works like Vinay Patrika, Geetavali, Kavitavali. Tulsi “pads” like “Tu dayalu deen haun”, “Kou udaar jag mahin”. Hanuman chalisa is there of course. And his famous stuti to Shiv, “Namami Shamishaan”. Namami has been composed to a pulsating, nearly war-like beat which I had never heard before. In fact I have even heard a version in a recent film called “Dharm” which is sung as a lullaby! But in the context in which this is used (the confrontation between the mahants and Tulsidas) in the play, it seems to be most apt. . Ditto with Hanuman Chalisa. Very different compared with the various versions I have heard. And many, many more songs. Folk songs, mantras, even an old recorded piece of Kumar Gandharv. And yet another recorded dhrupad of Gundecha brothers.

The songs are sung by none other than the celebrated Pune-based Hindustani classical vocalist Sanjeev Abhyankar, the one who received the national award for the best playback singer for his very first Hindi film song way back in 1998. A voice of someone who is in complete control of the octaves, a voice suffused with supreme devotion. And guess what this great singer told in the press conference! He said that all the credit for the success of this music should go to Anshu (the man behind this project), as it is his passion which shows up in the final music. What humility on part of this great singer!

This music is superbly composed by the music director, Hem Singh, who is little known outside the Lucknow circles. But this gentleman has done a wonderful job. I met him before the play and complemented him on his work. I told him what I felt, “kaljayi kriti”, a work which transcends time.

And the celebrated sound designer, K.J. Singh? I have no competence to judge, or even figure out, what he has done. But I do know that he has put together one of the best musical compositions ever. And this jolly sardar from Mumbai, the guy who too is a national award winner for his sound engineering for Omkaraa a few years ago, was confabulating with the auditorium sound guy till the last minute before the play started. Giving them appropriate suggestions, I suppose. And KJ also took Anshu’s family, and me as a hanger-on, for a late, late dinner that evening. Chatting with Anshu all the while as to what all he needs to do before the next staging.

Tulsidas narrating Ramkatha

And in this thing about great music it would be naive to forget about the performances given by the actors. That the actor who plays Tuslidas, Varun Tamta, has entered the soul of his character is undoubted. The effortless ease with which he straddles the stage playing a 30-year old Tulsidas in act one and then in act two, Tulsidas at 60 years and beyond is enthralling. Tulsidas narrating Ramkatha to the common men in one scene, reasoning with his detractors in the other, a husband in the third and a son in another. The pains and struggles of Tulsidas, and his innate humanness, all reflects so clearly on the actor’s face and movements. The strong counterfoil to Tulsidas is his young wife, Ratna, played by Manisha. A simple village girl with a mind of her own. And an ability to engage someone of the stature of Tulsidas as an equal. Strong, yet loving. The tenderness of the relationship is well brought out by the director.

The director duo of Parijat Nagar and Suresh Lahri have put this large cast together to weave an altogether enthralling story. A story which seems very relevant even today. The story of reason versus religious bigotry. A story of the voice of sanity among the cacophony of maniacal cries.

What about the man behind the show, Anshu Tandon himself? Well, he was seated between his wife and I, and “enjoying” the show. He was hoping I would not notice his tears, as I hoped he would not notice mine. We both kept our hankies ready, but at strategic distances from our respective eyes.

And Mr M Gorky? Well, his words were prophetic. True, there are indeed very few things good on earth. At the risk of sounding dramatic, I must say Jo Chaho Ujiyaar is one such. And Anshu is one guy, who keeps thinking about good things, and sometimes doing some great things.

Take a bow Anshu!

Chalo, Mela dekhein (चलो, मेला देखें)!

One of the most sought after events of the annual calendar was the Ganpati festival, popularly called Ganesh Puja. This was not due to any religious fervour, the attraction being the associated  mela with the Puja. All publicly celebrated Hindu festivals have a carnival-like atmosphere around them. Durga Puja, Saraswati Puja, Vishwakarma puja and Kali Puja, no Puja is complete without the loud film songs on the PA system, the eateries and the toy-wallahs. But the Ganesh Puja mela of Jamshepdur was something else altogether. While virtually each street corner had their Ganesh pujas, the Puja I am talking about is the one which was celebrated in the Kadma area.

To start with, for a kid, the focus of this Ganesh Puja was on the mela and not on the puja. Unlike, say, Durga Puja, where moving from pandal-to-pandal and admiring different versions of Goddess Durga’s statue and the pandal decor. Worship being the focus during Saraswati Puja. Ganesh puja was total mela, total fun.

The fun lay in the multiple “stalls” laid out around the Ganesh Puja pandal. These would start springing up weeks before the D-day. They were the standard ones, but that did not stop us from feverishly anticipating them as the day neared. Little tarpaulin-covered stalls ready to unleash their magic!

Nandan Kanan Kala Bhavan (नंदन कानन कला भवन) was the major attraction in the mela. This was a most wondrous collection of clay statues magically brought to life by ingenious use of electric motors. The statues dealt largely with scriptures and mythology, like Ram’s vanvaas, Sita’s agni-pariksha etc. They would be so constructed that each limb or part of the body could “move” at a pre-determined trajectory, repetitively. For example take this tableux of the treatment meted out to a sinner when he reached hell. There would be this petrified sinner sitting right in the middle with two fiercely mustachioed, bare-torsoed  giants on either side of him. The giants would hold a mean-looking hacksaw with which they would proceed to decapitate their victim. Their movements were programmed to move in unison with the hacksaw going through the pre-slitted throat of the sinner. Rrrrriiippp, they would move left, and then return to their starting point, stopping with a shudder. And Rrrrriiippp again, this time to the right. And so on it went ad infinitum. The thick red “blood” oozing out of the throat was life-like, the burning eyes of the giants enough to scare the daylights away for a kid. We would be petrified and would stay rooted to the tableux, till the exhibitors nudged us along to the next one. Which would probably be an equally blood-curdling one like this one about an alternate punishment for the sinner, getting dunked into a large karahi of boling oil! As I would exit the “Kala Bhavan” I would solemnly resolve to myself not to commit any sin, not even an innocuous lie.

It was time then to go into some light-hearted stuff. The hall of mirrors. This was an array of mirrors of different curvatures placed alongside the walls of the stall. In one mirror you would look very fat, very thin and tall in the other. And then in the third, you could see multiple images of yourself. And a totally contorted image of your body in the fourth. None of the images ever failed to evoke delirious laughter among us kids! I had not studied optics then, and indeed not even physics. So, there was no urge to figure out the curvature of mirrors. Sheer, unadulterated joy of seeing distorted images of your body! And your friends’!!

From mirth and laughter it was time to move on to some real action. The ever scintillating “Maut Ka Kuwan” (मौत का कुआँ). Or the “Well of Death”. Just 25 paise for the show! The well was an overground one, maybe 70-80 feet tall and about 25 feet in diameter, a creeky wooden structure laid out for the mela. The spectators would climb up on the rickety staircase constructed on the outside of the wall and peer into the well below. And- after what seemed like hours-  the motorcycle rider rode in, on the “floor” of the well. The biker would circle all around the periphery of the well and then with a sudden swift movement, clamber onto the wall of the well. Yes, nearly perpendicular to the wall to start with and then navigate his way to the upper part of the wall -totally perpendicular to it. Why did I say “he”? It was often a “she”! Round-and-round the biker would go. The bike would make a raucous sound on its ambulations and the well would shake and rattle resonating the motion of the bike. Adding to the effect the show was having on us, the spectators, clinging to the parapet on the top of the well watching the spectacle below. Sight, sound and vibrations. What a sensory delight! The biker would swoop up at nearly a handshake distance from the spectators leaving all squealing in delight. Biker number one was often joined by another biker, but of the opposite sex. Each dressed in flashy silk shirt/ blouse. The whirr of the silk, the sound of the bike and the rumbling of the well “wall”. The denoument when they scaled up the wall with a ferocious speed nearly within the reach of the spectators whose collective hearts skipped several beats! And then the time to wind down and descend to the safety of terra firma. Boy, that was some experience, each time!

Then there was the next one. The one which allowed kids to behave like “studs” by themselves! The jhoola. The innocuous jhoola was a major one to display one’s “abilities”. It was a wooden four-cradle affair being spun manually by the jhoola-wallah. 4 to a cradle, 16 in total. The jhoola-wallah would initially give a few slow spins to all the “travelers” and check if each one of us was feeling OK. No nausea etc. Sure enough, the tough ones amongst us would say, OK, and rarely, if anyone, demurred. And then began the rapid whirl. Each as exhilarating as the other. Remember there were no electric jhoolas those days. Grunts and shrieks and hands clinging tight to the cart handles. The more adventurous ones amongst us (not me!!) would throw down their ‘kerchiefs down on the ground on the way up and then lean down and pick it up on their way down. There were even competitions among friends as to who would pick-up the most drops of the ‘kerchief! Till the jhoola-wallah slowed down and let all of us off cart-by-cart to accommodate the next batch of the impatient queuing “passengers”!

The mela also had a chidiyaghar (चिडियाघर) a zoo. With some very tired looking tigers, lions and hippos among many others. The biggest attraction for all of us- Jamshedpur had no permanent zoo till then- were the multiple species from the simian family. Those multi-coloured bandars!

What is a mela without toys and food! After the excitement of these shows was over, it was time for some snacks. Golgappas, of course, were the most popular. And the side-dish of ghughni. Some even preferred the tikki and aloo chat. Some of the off-beat ones were Sohan Papdi, khaja (a very Bihari sweet) and . The popular peanuts, or chiniya-badaam as we call them in Jamshedpur, were handy snacks as we strolled around the mela. Then there were cart-loads of ice-cream, Kwality being the most popular brand.

Then there was these toys to be bought. There were the standard mela ones. Like the yo-yo. That water-filled rubber balloon tied to a rubber chord. You would twirl the chord around your fingers and throw the balloon down only to pick it up on its way back. Up, down, up, down. Till the balloon ruptured and sprayed its contents, water, all over the observers. And the damroo. And the modern-day damroo equivalent. The one with no name which I call the rat-tat-tat toy. And the metal tic-tic-tic toy. Looked like a whistle sheared into a half with a lip to press and depress alternately to give its defining “clack-ety” sound. And my favoritest of all- the spring monkey. A plastic monkey slung on a tightly wound spiral chord held securely on a frame. I would go berserk on the spring monkey. Holding the contraption down so that it slithered down. And then overturning the contraption so that the monkey went the other way. And back-and-forth, and forth-and-back. Endless hours of entertainment.

When I went to Jamshedpur for the Durga Puja last year I had resolved to buy a few of these spring monkeys. I found none. Even after a major hunt across several Puja pandals, by the entire family.

And then I realized, that was a bit of my childhood lost, forever! Gone!!

Passion Play

Jo Chaho Ujiyaar!

This is a story of how sheer passion can do something seemingly impossible. Passion backed by a lot of hard work and some luck too. This is the story of how a germ of an idea nurtured over years- dormant but never inactive- is about to bloom very shortly in a manner and style not originally conceived. This is the story of my dear friend, Anshu Tandon’s dream.

Anshu- my engineering college batchmate- and I, go back a long way, 28 years to be precise. He was always known to be a sensitive thinker. Quiet and deeply reflective in nature and given to long bouts of distant silences. And this was packaged in a startling contradictory body, the body of a tough football stopper! Which he was for his football team.  Anshu and I had some common interests, including Hindi literature and dramatics. He was associated with the plays I directed in the campus, he had even acted in two of them. A man with eclectic interests (Renaissance man?), he could discuss any topic under the sun with authority and an original point of view. Talk football, US politics, Hindu caste system, quantum physics, whatever. He even wrote a commentary on one of the Upanishads which he sent to my father and had discussions with him on that. (My father, a scholar, was impressed)

A Lucknowi by birth and residence, Anshu qualified as a chemical engineer and went back to his family business of Lucknow chikan. He, over time, has dabbled in fields as diverse as software (he even bought a software company once) and Islam! His wife once complained to me that he would stay up nights reading Islamic literature and watching “Q TV”. That is Anshu, picking up esoteric ideas, toying with them and then discarding them once he was bored and something new came along. Rarely getting something to fruition. Intellectual curiosity satisfied, he would move on to his next hobby horse. This trait of Anshu’s would bug me no end, but our friendship grew over time and Anshu is one of the rare engineering classmates of mine whom I am in regular touch with.

One day, a few years ago, he called me up and mentioned his new area of interest, Tulsidas. He discussed his obsession about this saint-poet of the 16^th century and discussed with me his view-point on the influence of Tulsidas on the Hindu society of North India. And how, if Tulsidas was not there, Hanuman would not have been as popular known and worshipped as He is now. “Another hobby horse”, I thought to myself, “this too shall pass”. In any case Tulsidas is not something I am awfully informed about though I do listen to CDs of Ramcharitmanas and other works of the poet. And “Hanuman Chalisa” is my regular listening choice. I heard Anshu out.

Another call, a few weeks later.

“Santosh, I want to do a play on Tulsidas”

“Umm… Uhhh..!”

“I am serious!”

“Sure, you must, go ahead”, I indulged him.

“But I do not have a script.”

“That is an issue”, I agreed.

“So why don’t you ask Mr So-and-so to write one for me”.

Mr so-and-so is a renowned expert on the Indian epics and a very popular Hindi novelist. His fictionalized versions of Ramayan and Mahabharat published years ago are still best-sellers. I know him because he was my father’s student in Jamshedpur in his under-graduation days. He is one person I have tremendous respect and regards for. And I stay in regular touch with him. He is the one who helped me out at various points when I was getting my father’s works published.

I sheepishly called him one evening and true to my suspicion he politely refused this request.

Anshu’s dream project did not get derailed. He got a local Lucknow dramatist onto the project. The story and idea were Anshu’s, the dramatist wrote the script. This went on for several months. Once, when I was on a business trip to Lucknow , Anshu invited the dramatist to meet me. Pandey ji, the dramatist, narrated the entire script to me which I patiently listened to. I was no expert on matters-Tulsidas. They- Anshu and Pandey ji- drifted off to some complicated discussions on the nuances of daily life of the rustic folks of the Tulsidas era. Till I donned my manager’s hat and popped the question, “When is this play being staged?”

Ah, they had never thought of that before! Actually staging the play! I gave them a “target” 8 weeks hence. And that was September 2008.

Of course, this “deadline” was not met!

Another one of Anshu’s ideas lost in the “intellectual pursuit” rigmarole, I thought to myself.

Another call one evening:

Anshu:” A play on Tulsidas has to have some songs.”

“Sure”, I agreed.

“In fact a play on Tulsidas without songs is no play at all.”

“Sure”, I could not agree more.

“And Tulsidas deserves nothing but the best.”

“Sure”, I continued like a broken record.

“I have Sanjeev Abhyankar’s voice as Tulsi’s voice in my mind.”

“Ah”, Anshu’s grandiose plans, I thought to myself.

“And some songs from Chhannulal Mishra too, for the Eastern UP touch.” Anshu continued with his wish list.

This guy is again going nuts, I was sure.

A few days later:

“I may get hold of great vocalists, but the sound engineering has to be great.”

“Sure”

“The album has to sound professional, world class!”

“Sure”

“I can’t think of any one better than the guy who does the job for A. R. Rahman.”

My jaws dropped, “Anshu, have you figured out how you will get even the contact phone numbers of Sanjeev A. and Chhannulal M.? Maybe you can locate Mishra ji as he is based in Varanasi, but Sanjeev Abhyankar in Pune?ARR’s sound engineer is a bit too far away”

“No idea, but that’s what I want.”, said Anshu, “And AR Rahman’s man is the man for me!” Anshu’s voice had a finality.

“OK, all the best. Let me know when you get hold of these luminaries.” I was getting more and more sceptical. And irritated by this grand planning. Foolish waste of time, I thought to myself.

A series of calls over the next few weeks.

“Chhannulal ji has agreed to sing for my play.”

“But how did you manage that?”

“Bas aise hi, zara saa, mulaqat ho gayi”

“Aisey hi”, “zara saa”. Anshu’s Lucknow-ese always bugs me no end.

“What “aisey hi”, what “zara saa”?”

I was chatting with Mahantji of Sankatmochan Mandir in Varanasi and Chhannulal ji dropped by. You see, he teaches Mahantji music.”

“Who Mahantji?” I was irked.

“Mishra ji is the Mahant of Sankatmochan Mandir”, Anshu was unruffled.

The penny dropped. The Pandit Veerbhadra Mishra ji. The Mahant of Sankatmochan Mandir, the founder of the world famous “Swachh Ganga Abhiyaan”. And, incidentally, the head of the Civil Engineering department IT-BHU when I was a student there.

“Ah, Mishra ji! That’s a great stroke of luck!” I conceded.

“Bilkul”, Anshu’s voice sounded excited, very unlike Anshu!

A few days later:

“Mishra ji will not sing for my play.”

“Why?”

He thinks it is beneath his dignity to sing for a novice’s play.”

“Oh, then?”

“Never mind, we shall find someone else. And anyway, my star singer is Sanjeev Abhyankar. Sanjeev is my voice of Tulsidas. Vaani Tulsi.” Anshu sounded matter-of-fact.

“Anshu, forget about this project. Maybe you should publish the script in a book form and do away with this idea of staging the play, and the music .”

“Ab dekhengey.”, a typical Anshu response!

“ Santosh, I have just spoken with Sanjeev. He has agreed.”

“Sanjeev, who? I asked.

“Sanjeev, Sanjeev Abhyankar.” Anshu intoned.

It took a while for the penny to drop. The great Sanjeev A.!  I had always been a fan of his.

Then a progression of calls over the following weeks:

“K. J. Singh is on board.”

“Who K. J. Singh?”

Arey, wohi. K.J.

Kaun saa K.J.?

“K.J., woh jo, AR Rahman ka sangeet karta hai.”

Goodness, this was becoming serious now. The KJ Singh whose name you would see on the AR Rahman’s music CDs. Think Rang de Basanti, Guru, Jaane Tu…, Ghajini, etc. He has also done Omkaara for which he got the Filmfare award.

“Naseer ko mail kiya tha, he should reply by tomorrow.”

“Naseer who?”

“Wohi woh, Naseer, Naseeruddin Shah.”

The Shah himself!

“Naseer, why? What for? He does not sing!”

“I know that. He does not sing. But I do need a voice-over to introduce the play. A voice-over from a credible, serious, nationally-known personality.”

Made sense to me, to have a voice-over.

“Naseer ka jawaab nahin aaya.”

“Anshu, forget about him. Anyway, you have two big names. Sanjeev and K.J.”

“No, no! I do need someone special to introduce the play and the CD.”

“All the best.”

“Santosh, Gulzar ko mail kiya hai. His secretary called, asking me for the amount I can pay. I have quoted a price and let us wait and watch. My project is good, maybe he will say yes. But the honorarium could be an issue.”

“Let us keep our fingers crossed.” I tried to sound encouraging. The sum quoted to Gulzar by Anshu was ludicrously low. Man! No Gulzar at this price. The Gulzar sahab!! The multiple award winning poet, film editor, director. Think Koshish, Aandhi, Kinara, Kitaab and Maachis. No way!

“Santosh, price was an issue with Gulzar sahab.” Anshu’s deadpan voice on the phone as I was returning home late in the evening after a long- and difficult- day at work.

“Now Anshu, forget about celebrities like Gulzar and get on with the project.” I snapped back at him.

“Nahin.”

“What nahin?”  I was big-time irritated by now.

“ Money was the issue. Gulzar sahab just spoke with me and said that for this project, he does not want any fee. He will do it gratis!” Anshu was as dead-pan as ever!

“Uh.. uh…” was my incredulous- and downright silly- response.

The next few weeks were in a blur for Anshu. Recording the “scratch” of the album in Lucknow with the locally famous music director Hem Singh. Sending the scratch to Sanjeev A.  in Pune. Travelling to Pune for S. A.’s recording. Then to Mumbai for recording strains of instrumentals to go with the songs. Back to Lucknow to get some more strains done, sitar, shehnai etc. Then again to Mumbai to get this all pieced together by KJ Singh. Lucknow again for some more sounds then back again to Mumbai for recording Gulzar’s voice-over. In between Anshu traveled to Bangalore too. For more mundane stuff like getting his son admitted to a course in Christ College, Bangalore. And he then gave me the first-cut of the album. Complete with Sanjeev Abhyankar’s supple and entrancing vocals., Gulzar’s baritone, and KJ’s wizardry.

“Theek aaya hai, zara sun lo.” Typical understatement from Anshu. In his Lucknow drawl, “theek” and “hai” stretched longer than what is usual.

Suno, I did. For the next 5 hours on my Jamo home theatre system.

My teenaged kids would term this as getting “blown over”. I was blown, big-time blown!

As I confessed earlier, I am a die-hard fan of Sanjeev Abhyankar, specially his bhajans and shlokas. And I have Tulsidas poetry in multiple CDs sung by multiple singers. Right from Kumar Gandharv, to Jagjit Singh to the popular Mukesh’ version of Ramcharitmanas. I even have Tulsidas’ works in my book collection; Geeta Press, Gorakhpur’s imprints of Ramcharitmanas, Vinay Patrika, Geetavali etc.

I had tears rolling down all over my cheeks by the time I was done with the CD. The fusion of Sanjeev Abhyankar’s voice and Tulsidas poetry never sounded this sublime!

PS 1: This was my take on the preparation for this musical project of Anshu’s. And it has dwelt primarily on the musical component. My next piece will be my- a layman’s- view of the album. And the third piece will be on the preparations for the play itself.

PS 2: This Play, called “Jo Chaho Ujiyaar”, is getting premiered on 6^th July 2009 at Kamani Auditorium, Delhi. Those of you who wish to attend this may mail me for invitation cards.

santoshojha@gmail.com

Those Postal Stationeries!

Saumya's tribute to the Indian Postal Service

In this era of emails which have become the primary method of correspondence, how many of us actually sit down and write our letters? Write as in with ink and paper! And if you do, do you use the range of postal stationery which is available? Well, I do not, in fact all my correspondence is done via emails. Emails may make for rapid communication, but they can’t quite capture the romance of letter-writing. Letters capture the personality of the letter-writer, the stationery used, the colours, and of course the hand writing.

This post is not on the romance of letter writing but on the variety of postal stationery from the olden days. Most of these are still used but I can bet that most of us would not have used them in the recent years.

When was the last you wrote or received a postcard? Such a popular means of communication in the old days. A post card which barely has space to accommodate some twenty or thirty words. Some letter-writers had mastered the art of stretching this space to include the contents of an A4 sheet by scribbling all around the corners, often at impossible angles to the main text. Sometimes even spilling over into the address panel. which occupied one-quarter of the total area available. Perhaps they thought that the address panel was a waste of space!

There was an ingenious variant to the post card, the “jawaabi” post card, or return postcard. Twice the size of a normal postcard, folded half-way, each half a postcard. You would write your stuff on one card and leave the other blank except for filling in your own name and address. This was used when you thought the addressee whose reply was sought would be too imperious, or too lazy or too impoverished to source a postcard for a reply.

In my childhood, the postcard would cost 5 paise (or naye paise as it was then called). And this price held for long. My father, a regular letter writer, used to buy bunches of postcards on which he wrote his letters to his friends and students. He uses these cards even now- though not as often- in keeping with his  Gandhian philosophy of frugality.

Next in hierarchy was the inland letter (“antardeshiya patra”) for slightly more detailed correspondence. This blue coloured sheet- the shade of blue varying over the years- had a peculiar contour. It had dotted lines running across telling you where to fold the sheet of paper to form it into a compact “envelope-y” shape for its onward journey. And helpfully it was pre-gummed so just a lick of the tongue and the inland was as secure as a sealed envelope. The gumming would come unstuck pretty often and you would often receive an ‘open” inland. If you were lucky to receive one with the seal intact then a deft maneuver of the forefinger through the folds of the inland would open it up but not before tearing away the edges! And if you slit open the other edge, you got a jigsaw of a letter! Which often happened to letters which you desperately anticipated! (We shall not discuss the nature of these letters in this post!!). The inland costs thrice as much as the postcard, 15 paise!

Then there was this stately cream-colored envelope or “lifafa”. With a neatly embossed Ashoka emblem adorning the top right corner. It was sparingly used, only if some important documents had to be sent. For example sending the horoscope, bio-data and the picture of the prospective bride to the boy’s parents. In some cases, it was even “registered” with an additional postage to ensure safe delivery. And if you really wanted to know that the envelope had reached its destination, you posted it “Registered with AD”; AD standing for “acknowledgement due”. The AD card – filled in with your own address- would be stitched to the envelope. The postman would take the signature of the addressee on the AD card and duly return it to the sender via the postal system. However, since the AD card itself was not registered, you could never be sure of getting it back.

There was one hell of an ingenious way of ensuring a secure arrival. Instead of paying extra to register your mail, you would actually under stamp it. So if a bulging envelope needed 60 paise worth of stamps, you would affix only 50 paise worth. The postman would ensure that this difference was made good, and more, by the addressee who would end up paying the balance 10 paise and another 10 paise as a fine. Of course the addressee had the choice of not accepting it at all. This was called a “bearing” letter in postal terminology. And commonly berang in Hindi-fied English. This Hindi word literally means colourless which I thought was a rather unfortunate word for something so ingenious and, well, colourful.

There was an interesting reverse of the AD business- UCP- Under Certificate of Posting. To be used in cases where the arrival of the letter at the destination was not as important as the confirmation from the originating post office that the letter had indeed been delivered to them for its onward journey. For instance proof that you had submitted your report to the head-office. This facility was cleverly used by the parents of a hostel mate of mine. The son claimed that he wrote regular letters and it was the vagaries of the Indian Postal Service which made the letters disappear mid-way. This guy was actually not writing letters and made up this excuse. The anxious parents finally got a clever idea. This chap was instructed to send all his letters UCP!

Another interesting stationery item sold at the post office was the money order form, money order being the cheapest and easiest way to transfer money. You would buy a long-long form, thick and yellowing with the dull grey bilingual printing barely visible. You would fill up the form and submit the remittance along with the processing charges (commission) to the postal clerk. In course of time, the recipient at the other end would have his own postman calling-in and handing over the cash. Simple! I remember the agonized wait for the postman in the first week of the month desperately awaiting the month’s allowances from home when I was staying in a hostel! Most postmen expected a tip from the recipient of the money order!

The email and internet has slowly taken over these functions. The basic email substituting the postcard and the inland, the lifafa replaced by the “attachment” facility available in all email services, and money transfer possible with just a few clicks.  But, can an email replace the joy (and anxiety) of anticipating the postman on his daily rounds carrying his bagful of goodies?

Chhath Puja

This piece was written a while ago when an issue referred in the piece was current.

My mother, mai as we call her, has now got unwittingly symbolized for me as the victim of the hatred for Biharis spread by some in Maharashtra! Mai does not reside in Mumbai, she has never worked there (though some of her children have), she cannot speak a word of Marathi (she speaks in Bhojpuri, and at best speak broken Hindi) and she is thoroughly apolitical. Mai resides in Jamshedpur (part of erstwhile Bihar, now in Jharkhand) and after much dissuasion from all of her offsprings has stopped performing chhatth puja for the last 5-6 years. She is now in her 79th year. This is the story of mai’s chhatth puja observance meant primarily for those who are not aware of this festival but have heard about it in the recent times for all the wrong reasons.

Chhatth is probably one of the toughest festivals in all of India. It follows Deepawali by 6 days. This festival is observed by married women for the well-being of their husbands and their children. Chhatth word is derived from shashti, the sixth day of the month. Some say “Chhatth“ is the combination of two words (Chhah which means six and Hatth which is the abbreviated version of Hathyoga; Chhah+ Hath = Chhath.)

I can believe that. This is an extreme display of religious fervour of the devout. Let me tell you how “extreme” is extreme.

You have a normal dinner one night and go to sleep. You wake up the next day and you do not even brush your teeth. You do not eat anything, no water even all through the day (this day is called “kharna“). In the evening you cook some food yourself (puri and rasiyao (kheer made with gud- jaggery.) All cooked yourself after a very, very dry day. Then you sleep (or try to) and fast through the next day, again without water. The evening of day two you walk to a river or a pond and pray (offer arghya) to the setting sun. Nothing to eat and drink the whole day. Or night. You sleep and wake up pre-dawn on day 3 and walk back to the body of water and offer arghya to the rising sun. After this pooja (to the rising sun) you break your fast, perhaps with a glass of mosambi juice. Life would then limp back to normalcy in the following days.

Days before the festival preparations would start. There was “daura” (basket) and “soop” (sieve) to be bought.  Copious amounts of fruits to be obtained, the chief among them being an entire bunch of small yellow bananas (”ghawadh” of bananas as the bunch was called). Sticks of sugar-cane. Coconuts in their casings. And lots of other items of pooja requirements. And the separately and freshly ground “atta” (wheat flour) to make the main pooja ofering of “thekua“, kilos and kilos of it. Drenched in ghee. And the largish round red fluffy paper stickers which adorned the doorway to the family pooja room which was the hot-bed of all activities for the chhatth puja.

I still remember mai coughing away over the smoky chulha on the day of the “kharna” as she tried to stoke the chulha in the pooja room cooking her repast of puri and rasiyao. The only people allowed to help are those who are married which, in the days of our childhood, was only Pitaji.

Come the day of the arghya to the setting sun all the pooja samaan and the prasad was piled onto the daura and we would all march in a procession (family, friends and neighbours) to the river nearby. The lead ‘walker’ who was the cynosure of all eyes was the person carrying the daura on his head. This “position” was open each year and several people would vie to do the service. Mai walked a little behind the daura-bearer with an amazingly sprightly walk despite the hours of fasting. Some of us kids would walk with either the sugar-cane sticks or the banana bunch. What sticks to my mind even now, and still manages to bring a lump to my throat was the soulful rendition of the favourite chhatth song: “Kaanchahin baansa key bahangiya, bahangi lachakat jai. Poochha na Suraja Ram ke kanhariya, daura ghaatey pahunchay….” Sung by mai and accompanying women. There was one more which I do not quite remember, “Khetwa key aari, aari…..“. As we neared the river ghat several other groups of women would coalesce and join together for an even more throaty rendition of the song or some other chhath songs. Mai’s voice always sounded the strongest and as mellifluous as ever!

At the ghat the mingled crowds would split into their own groups and occupy their own patches of the sand-bed. This patch  would be zealoulsy marked out by the jetsam and flotsam which we would collect (even as the pooja proceeded for the setting sun) to be able to occupy the same spot for the next morning’s rituals. The evening pooja itself comprised of mai stepping into the water knee-deep with Pitaji helping her to offer the arghya to the setting sun. She would go round-and-round with the multi-decker soops she held on her hands. Time to trudge back home on our wearied feet after these rituals . Mai would show no signs of discomfort, at all.

Tne major concern for all the kids at home and neighbourhood was how to wake up early in the morning for the morning arghya! Parents and elders promised that they would wake us up well in time but we were never sure if they would keep their words. We would lie down on our beds pledging not to sleep lest we miss the morning arghya as we were certain that the elders would ditch us. But sleep we did! And, miraculously, we would wake up just in time  to join the morning procession to the river ghat to offer the morning’s arghya to the rising sun. The daura, sugar-cane, singing etc etc. would resume much before dawn. Back to the ghat for the morning arghya. Occasionally there were small altercations among the younger people from different families disputing the exact location of the previous evening’s spot for their families. But these were solved with some prompt intervention from the elders. The only addition this time was the patakha. Yes, crackers saved from Diwali celebrations from just a week ago would be burst just as the dawn broke. Some images which remains in my mind are the shooting rockets against the dull, dark pre-dawn sky and the hilarious locus of the zameen-chakkar on the sand bank. We were never quite sure where this would land up! Children had a great time while the elders were busy performing the rituals.

After the morning arghya, the fasting for mai ended with Pitaji giving here a glass of juice. And then the trudge back from the ghat back home. Once at home, prasad was placed into several different thalis and dispatched to our neighbours via, us, the kids. Neighbours were nearly all non-Biharis but would eagerly be awaiting the prasad. Life would take some time to come to normalcy for mai. And the wait for the kids began for the next chhatth!

When I read the recent reports attacking chhatth celebrations in Mumbai, I wonder what the politicians are upto! Such a pious festival being turned into a political tamasha? I am sure there are non-Bihari women in Mumbai as well who understand the emotions behind festival.

So, why, I wonder, why?