Dole premer dolon-chnapa hridoy akashey, dole dole
Dol-phaguner chander aloy, shudhaye makha shey, dole
dole
The cool of the
March night was slowly closing up on us. The moon was silver and full and
bright. So bright that we could almost see the other side of Kopai. Faint beats
of the madol came floating in from across the shallow shaal-bon.
“Oi dike Snaotal graam”, Chandana Mashi said pointing backwards. I
wanted to imagine what the place would be like at night… Santhal men treating
themselves to generous helpings of mohua and hnariya and
exotic santhal women, in their turmeric yellow saris dancing to slow beats of madol
as if in a drunken languor. But no matter how much I peered from this side of
the shaal-bon, nothing could be seen. Except of course, the ochre
lights of bulbs shining like fireflies amidst the distant darkness.
It was all quiet
and empty on this side of Kopai. The six of us huddled close together for
warmth and safety. It was hard to believe that the scorch of the morning had
turned chilly even two hours before midnight. Maybe it felt colder because it
was so empty and silent. During the Basanta Utsab we couldn’t see the
program or listen to the songs well simply because of a certain frenzied,
tasteless crowd that are found in any festival, anywhere. They shouted, made
sexual jokes, and started playing with abir as soon as the probhat
pheri got over. I was happy that my sari came out of the near-stampede
situation, untorn. “Era je ki korte ashey! Nijera thik kore dekhbe na… jara
dekhte chay, tader-o thik kore dekhte debe na!” Debjani Mashi muttered in
disgust. Her mother was around 60 and had a really tough time coming out alive
from all the hullaballoo. Even Bhalo Mashi had gotten scared. Has extremely
unstable nerves, my Bhalo Mashi. The uncontrollable mob scared her to no
extent. Although the crowd subsided somewhat right after the probhat pheri,
I could sense that Bhalo Mashi still felt nervous and uncomfortable. She was
sweating profusely despite all the soothing songs and her purplish umbrella.
But now, she
seemed perfectly calm. Calm and confident. She even recited Obhishar.
I sang a few folk songs and Debjani Mashi joined in. I was expecting that she
would again burst into spontaneous dance rapture anytime, like she did in the aamro-kunjo
during Basanta Utsab. But no. The moonlight of Birbhum humbled us down. All of
us had grown still and uninterrupting to the natural flow of the moonlit
solitude. Debjani Mashi’s mother Diya, went on singing one song after the
other. Her voice bore the slight tremor of age, but her spirit soared into the
cloudless sky. Chandana Mashi sat mesmerized on the grass, staring at the
reflection of the moon in Kopai and listening to both the songs and the
incessant natural music of crickets flying along the intoxicating breeze of
spring. In fact, we were all captivated by the magic of the night. Even Titli,
Debjani Mashi’s little daughter, exclaimed in wonder, “Dyakho! Oi dik tao
puro dyakha jachhe!”
We sat there for
quite a long time. The breeze played with our hair. Little mosquitoes played
with our skin. The strong aroma of kamini flowers played with our
olfactory lobes. The moon played with our passion. The entire enchantment of
the night played with our senses.
But finally we
came back to ourselves. We felt hungry and cold. We realized the clock-ly time.
We felt exhausted and sleepy and began to long for rest. So we got up and
strolled back to the Travera parked near the Kopai bridge. The car started to
move, but none of us spoke, sang or yawned. It felt as if each of us had left
her essence behind— six ethereal shadows haunting the grassland on the bank of
the Kopai river on a full-moon night.
The thought,
without doubt, was poetry. But I could guess that all we had actually left
behind in the magic are just six different sized butt-prints on the grass.
