A short story I wrote nearly two decades ago, Anna, I Miss You, was based on a real
person named Etilda. Etilda was an elderly Khasi lady who taught at St Joseph’s
School, Shillong. When I met her first in the monsoon of 1986, she was in her
late 40s or early 50s. I had just joined St Joseph’s as a young teacher. St Jo,
as they called it affectionately, was a culture shock for me. I was a total
alien there initially with everyone else being a Khasi with the exception of
one Punjabi Muslim lady and a Garo young man.
“Bam kwai,” Etilda approached
me with a neatly folded betel leaf. “Have kwai” is the meaning of what she said
in Khasi language. Kwai is betel leaf with a little lime smeared on it plus a
chip of arecanut. It plays a dominant role in Khasi culture. By the way, Khasis
are the major tribe in Shillong. Their language is Khasi too. Etilda made sure
that I learnt a Khasi word or two almost every day. She also taught me to chew
kwai.
When a Khasi dies, they say that the
dead person has gone to eat kwai with God. “You can’t be a Khasi without eating
kwai,” Etilda chided me mockingly when I refused her offering at first. She had
a way of integrating aliens into her fold. I took such a quick liking to her
that I learnt the Khasi words she taught me and learnt to chew kwai too. And
learnt quite a bit more from Etilda. About life as the story cited above shows.
Khasis love music. For that matter,
most of the tribal people of the Northeast have music in their blood. At least
a guitar would be found in every house in the Northeast. Music came to them
naturally. Looking back at it now, I think that it was a sign of the natural
goodness that their cultures carried. I failed to understand that in those
days. In spite of Etilda.
Etilda was a dance. She could dance
anywhere. She could celebrate anything with a spontaneous dance. She didn’t
hesitate to drag me into a dance with her. “Like this,” she would say showing
me some movements of the hands and legs. I was like a statue being dragged
around by a personification of spontaneity.
I was brought up in a culture that
erected formidable barriers between genders. Men were not supposed to touch
women, not even one’s sisters or daughters. Etilda taught me that pollination
belongs to plants and that humans have a lot of other options in relationships.
“I’m your Shillong mommy,” she said
to me. She did treat me like her son though her own sons were younger than me.
But our friendship didn’t last long. Such is destiny.
“Shaphang, shaphang…” The
school’s young singers were practising a song one day in the staffroom. It was
a Khasi song. I sat mesmerised by the mellifluousness of the song. I didn’t
understand a word of what they were singing. But I loved to listen to it. Khasi
songs in general are really very sweet to listen to even if you don’t
understand any line of it. The music is an ecstasy.
“Aage, aage…” Etilda began to
translate the lines for me. She didn’t realise that my knowledge of Hindi
wasn’t any better than my knowledge of Khasi. I suggested her to translate it
into English. “No,” she said, “not possible. The rhythm won’t match. Toward,
toward… See, there’s no music in it.”
Etilda was music.
When some good news arrived the
school one day, Etilda celebrated it in her usual way. She got up from her seat
in the staffroom during the lunchbreak, pulled out a few other teachers too
from their seats, and started dancing. “Shaphang, shaphang…”
The dance ended as if the world came
to a standstill. Everyone rushed. It took me a while to realise that Etilda had
collapsed during the dance.
Etilda never got up after that.
Something had snapped in her backbone. Some orthopaedic disorder had been
afflicting her and she had ignored it. When I met her next at her home, she was
totally bedridden, paralysed from waist down.
“Mr Banerji is not here to give you
tea,” she said with her usual smile. I wished I could smile in return. The
dancer who could set my heart aflame with an exotic cadence wouldn’t get up on
her own feet anymore.
Mr Banerji was her husband. She
always referred to him that way: Mister Banerji. He was of Bangladeshi origin.
Shillong had an unfair share of Bangladeshi refugees/migrants and their
descendants in those days.
“I miss beef,” Etilda told me as she
spread lime on a betel leaf for me. She had not given up the habit of chewing
kwai. A spittoon stood by her bed. Mr Banerji wouldn’t cook beef. “Why don’t
you bring me some cooked beef next time?” Beef was a staple food of the Khasis.
I agreed though I wasn’t sure whether
she would be able to eat the spicy beef of Kerala cuisine. I was already too
familiar with the bland Khasi cuisine since I ate my lunch from a Khasi
restaurant every day. “I can eat spicy food,” she said reading my mind.
But there was no next time. Etilda
didn’t wait for my next visit. She went to eat kwai with her God. One of the
nagging regrets of my life was this particular negligence of mine. I should
have fulfilled her wish the same day or the next at the most. Some errors can
never be rectified.
Dear Reader, this is not a story. Etilda was as real as I was in late 1980s. I will tell you more about those days and Shillong of the time in the coming posts.
Etilda is second from left in sitting row I'm second from left in the back row |
PS. I'm participating in #BlogchatterA2Z
This is so sad. Some people really have the grace to lighten up an entire room. May she rest in peace.
ReplyDeleteShe must be entertaining God, if there's such a world, with her childlike spontaneity.
DeleteSuch a painful story with your skilled narration. I can feel, how you blame yourself for not fulfilling her last wish. But it happens, Sir. You might be too young also. Wish for her pleasant stay with God.
ReplyDeleteYes, I had my own limitations... And, as you say, these things happen... Beyond our control.
DeleteSometimes that's how it goes. They're here one day, gone the next. And in our youth, we don't realize how little time some have left. She left you with some good memories.
ReplyDeleteWith a lot good memories, in fact. And time... Now as an aging person, I realise how little time one has on this planet.
DeleteTomichan is Literature
ReplyDeleteWow, that's a huge compliment. A quantum leap from the post.
Delete