Gulmohur

There is nothing good about summer in Nagpur. The temperature soars to 48/49 degree Celsius and the killer heat waves continue claiming lives. To add to the torture, there are regular power-cuts which mean you are deprived of the comfort of air conditioners or coolers. However, I love one thing about this season: trees of Gulmohur (Delonix regia)  heavily laden with flowers. The beauty of an avenue with Gulmohur trees lining up on both sides of the road is very refreshing. Not only they look lovely to the eye, they provide much needed shadow too. I was discussing this with a friend when she said something that made me wonder how different people’s memories associated with the same thing could be.

For my friend, Gulmohur in full bloom brings back tense memories because “they mean it is exam time”. How true! Though now she is far away from exams and is well settled in life, Gulmohurs bring back scary memories of exam time.

This is the wonder of mnemonics: theory of association.  Or may be it is just example how veritable human perception can be.

Another friend associated Gulmohur with some nice memories too. He said, “They remind me of happy times… there’s a picture in my head where there is a small group of expecting mothers walking the road between rows of Gulmohur trees.” The picture dates back when he was young and lived in a colony of mostly young couples. Many of the ladies were on family way around the same time. Forced to stay indoor in the afternoons of his summer holiday, he spent time looking out the window recording sun’s progress towards the west. He saw the bevy of would-be-moms returning home from work every day; and that’s what left a lasting impression in his mind.

For me, Gulmohurs translate into approach of holidays. Back in Andaman, as the blooms started covering u

p branches of the Gulmohur tree, we’d know the summer vacations have arrived. I remember returning from school with friends through the road covered with gulmohur blossoms and discussing nothing but the progress of packing suitcases for the holidays or who is leaving for mainland by which sailing. (The Andaman administration arranged for special “teachers’ sailings” for all teachers whose hometown was in mainland India.) There would be boasting from whose who were flying to Kolkata or Chennai and pity for those who were not visiting homeland for some reason. (Though their number was pitifully less!)

There is another memory associated with these flowers. That of my father’s. 

Once happily reached in our hometown Burdwan, Baba and I would go for morning walks to his alma mater, the Burdwan University. The campus is huge and beautiful with a green canopy provided by trees. We’d walk through the roads strewn with various shades of red; courtesy red 

earth and flowers of Palash (flame of forest) and Gulmohur. The morning walk was not for health, it was for heart— it strengthened my bonding with Baba. He would narrate anecdotes from his college and university days, lines from Tagore or sometimes we’d sing Tagore’s or Kazi Nazrul Islam’s songs… his deep baritone combining with my immature, soft voice.

The Gulmohur flowers may not be fit for gifting; they may not be made into garlands, but the memories they evoke are fragrant enough to leave a lingering smile on my face.

The photo on right: Burdwan University Campus

Memories triggered by ‘Rubina’

  

The newspapers always carry disturbing news these days. Political elbowing, murders, incest, accidents… But the ongoing Rubina episode made my morning coffee bitter. A tabloid alleging that the star of Slumdog Millionaire Rubina’s father tried to sell her (Read the story) for 200,00 pounds was just a news for me, and I had passed on to the next news item. But now the mayhem that follows is really disturbing.

All her family members, however distant, are laying claim to the assumed sale. There are, of course, denial of charges. The reason why ‘Allegations against Rafique are false’ has been stated as  “Bhala dudh dene wali gai ko koi bechta hai kya? (Does anyone sell a cow that can still be milked?)”  

 

No one is bothered about the little girl torn amidst this tug-of-war who is fast loosing her innocence and her faith on humanity. Each of Rubina’s relative wants to ‘take care’ of her. NGOs has joined the fray, next will be the political parties. The ‘milking’ has begun big time. Presently Rubina means publicity, spotlight, and fame. Later, she would be worth much more.  A friend of mine was stunned at the way Rubina’s family is fighting over her. I am not shocked. I know the type.

Rubina reminds me of another little girl with dreamy eyes much like Rubina’s. Let’s call her Rupa. She had done nothing to be famous, so there are not many people who know about her. She was her parents’ first child and much loved one.  Or at least that it what it seemed like. Like all children, she hated studies. She fared poorly in studies and reached only to fifth standard in 8 years of school. Not that it mattered to her parents. They were not the greatest believer in the power of education. Her mother was happy that she preferred doing household chores over studying. However, it mattered to her uncle, her father’s elder brother who had a daughter some ten years older than Rupa. He urged Rupa’s father to allow him to make Rupa a part of his three-member family. Rupa’s parent had no objection because the ‘good-for-nothing’ girl was fast becoming a liability now that they had a son and Rupa was becoming more interested in frolicking around with her friends. So Rupa went with her uncle and his family to a place roughly a thousand kms away. The little girl had never been happier. Being the youngest in the family, she became centre of attention. Her uncle and aunt were both teachers, and Rupa found out books were not bad after all. Soon she discovered that the fastest and easiest way to become important and grab attentions was studying hard. In two years, Rupa had undergone a makeover. Cared and well-fed, she bloomed into a beautiful girl with curly hair, a very fair complexion and big dreamy eyes. She got under the tutelage of her cousin whom she almost worshipped and they became a team; be it going fishing, trekking or running errands.

Life continued being all rosy for Rupa until during one of her new family’s yearly trip to their hometown. She was in standard eighth, the first girl in her class, lovely, lively and a master in doing household chores as well as handling shopping, paying bills etc. Her parents saw that the ugly duckling has turned into a prized possession. All of a sudden, they felt overwhelming love for their child and refused to part with her. Rupa’s uncle had no option than leaving the girl with her parents. No one bothered to ask Rupa her wish. Her cousin, aunt and uncle left with a heavy heart and a broken family.  Rupa soon got back to the regular grind. But this time it was not easy for the girl as she was so used to doing her will. She was not allowed to go to school because her parents ‘do not have money to waste’ on her. Cleaning and washing no longer appealed to her, neither did standing in long queues to pay bills. She missed her friends, her books, her Didi and above all, the love and care and affection. In her own family, her parents reserved all these for the son in the family. One morning, she woke up, startled by a slap on her face followed by her mother’s curses on her because she did not do the cleaning the previous night. This followed more slaps and blows raining on her. Soon her father joined the beating. Finally, tired, her parents stopped and left with an ultimatum: she was to make the house clean and keep the lunch ready before they were back.

An hour later, a neighbour found Rupa hanging from the ceiling with her dupatta. I’ll never know what crossed her mind that morning. I’ll never know how a girl so strong-willed like her took the extreme step. An week later, I went to her home. Any little sympathy that might have left in me for Rupa’s parents vanished when I heard her bellowing mother, “Oh why did you leave us, my daughter! Who will do the cleaning now?  You were such a good cook…”  It took me all my strength to keep myself from breaking the woman’s neck. I could not believe she was her real mother. But I knew she was… because I am the wretched cousin Rupa so adored. She was my uncle’s daughter. 

I just pray to God to allow Rubina all strength. She's going to need it to fight a battle much bigger than her years.