It would notbe the veerikulen hund baamun or fraskulen hund fambh that would announce thearrival of spring in Malmoh. It would be something else.
Saebtathensky blue shirt. Washed-out mercurial. But incisively creased.
Girls’uniform of the Women’s College. Tailored to taste. Exotically stylish. Or so itseemed to us.
Katij – theswallow trying to sneak into our manzimi pohruk kuth – this room on the middlefloor.
AndChandajigri hund dobb – the puddle. With keenlachi – the tiny tadpoles jostlingto line themselves up in a military formation.
As thepuddle would shrink by the day, tadpoles would gasp for their survival. “Hyo,Rajana”, Billoo, meun yaar – my friend, would tell me, “Yim maran waen – theywill all die now”. He would sigh. I won’t.
But hewon’t, and I would, as I would begin to miss winter and hunt for the last moundof snow, left untouched by the spring sunbeams, on an obscure corner ofKishkaken doss – the compound wall, so strong that it would crumble with oneweak tho’ul – a head kick.
Mom and her yarbalvesse – the riverfront companions would ask for akh – one last sheen thoss – pileto roll over their tongues. They would be the happiest mothers. So contented inlittle that they would appear possessing much.
They wouldrelish it like village elders would relish tamaek dhaama – a drag on tobacco.
Elsewhere,Billoo and I would pick up our masheks – the writing slates for a mohra fasha –smoothening to make them glisten.
Sometimesnot happy with the chamak – the shine, we would give it soot treatment from a lashibudur – the lac stick. We wanted to see the happiness on Masterji’s face thefirst day of the school – The Primary School, Malmoh.
More than aTyndale Biscoe for us.
It was aboveBalkak’s dukaan – the shop, where he sold kappur – the cloth, some noon chai – teaand salt, and also meel chaet – the ink pellets. We normally bought meel chaet,and once I even stole one.
When dadcame to know of it, it became his yaztuk sawaal – the question of honor, and hetendered an apology to him in person. “Shur mahra chu, galti gayes – he is achild and has erred”, he told him. I was overhearing. The next day he gifted meanother meel chaet. “Ratsa gobra – take it son”, he said. I blushed.
It is justin front of Balkak’s dukaan was the stop for Sherabad-Srinagar service. Springwould come to life here – Saebtathen sky blue shirt, girls’ uniform, Botji’sfinely-creased black colored pants and orange shirt. Glamorous black. Ancientstriped.
Plus many ichakdaga sweaters, mostly home than readymade, dazzling in the morning sun – eachcarrying signature skill of a mother or a sister.
Saebtoth wasthe younger brother of dad’s best friend, Kanthji uncle. As he would walktowards Balkak’s dukaan, mom would match her mental clock with his emergence. “Aethha bhajaeyy – it is 8 AM”, she would say.
The hugehouse that we had, had everything except a wall clock. But there was an alarmclock, which we also called time-piece. More often than not it showed theincorrect time.
We wouldadjust needles at the correct one when guests were expected. “Yi chu angrezenhendi waktuk – this belongs to British Raj”, dad would often boast.
“Tamei chuLondnuk time hawaan – that is why it is showing London time”, mom would quip,only to make dad grin.
Dad wouldlook wozul trael hue – like a red apple when angry. “Tscha sa wozlyakh – youturned red”, mom would taunt again. “Adka bhe gochus policesas manz asun,banyas mashter – yes, I should have been a policeman, but became a teacher”, hewould reply, wearing an unwilling smile.
Oops, did Idrift? Sorry. Well.
Sherabad buswould pick up the village tulips from the stop, and if we had a school day, wewould be curious to flaunt our enviable masheks.
If not,Billoo and I would go mushroom picking. Over a time we came to be known asMalmoh’s best mushroom pickers – quiet familiar with mushroom hotspots. Allthree types – hendd, kanpapper, and kanghitch. At times we felt mushrooms knewus as much as we knew them. We talked to them. “Boya, boya, boya”, was our callto them, and they would never let us down.
More wespent time looking for them more would mothers be assured that kitchens wouldwaft with a different odor for lunch.
However,when two expert hunters would return with no catch, the futility would bedifficult to explain.
We wouldcome across something else in the paddy fields, and apple orchards – a sightthat would distract the attention of even the royal hunters.
A boy and agirl secretly sneaked out of their homes – least recognizable distantly andhardly audible – probably murmuring sweet nothings to each other.
Until theautumn, which would reveal more and conceal less, several pairs would etchthemselves on our minds. Each of them would sense our naughtiness when theywould cross our paths. We would turn our eyes away.
But wishedto grow faster.
Billoo, whohad a greater eye for such detail than me, would spot such lovely escapesthrough the corner of his eye. Soon he would abort hunting, and whisper to me:
“Rajana, ba’tur,ba’tur, ba’tur”.
Ba’tur camefrom the village thesaurus for such pairs, though the founder remainedmysteriously unknown.
I would feelshy.
Mushroomswould disappear – probably feeling shy too.