Chronicles of a small town. Chapter Three. Spice it Up!

Dashami was an oxymoron. It was the saddest day of the year when the week-long jubilation abruptly came to an end but for young boys it was also the happiest day as on this afternoon their guardians went easy on them, overlooking their wayward gazes or naughty things they indulged in, like smoking cigarettes, chasing weed or gulping down few pegs of rum. That year in September, I turned fourteen and in case you had missed it, I`d like you to take note; fourteen is the watershed year in the life of a boy when he moults out of his baby-skin, and this was so remarkably true for me because that year, I, along with Gautam and Khokan broke into the elite circle of big boys who went to the river bank for the immersion ceremony.

It was an unsaid rule that boys who were granted permission to board the truck that carried the idol of Durga for immersion should have consumed some form of poison on Dashami afternoon. All, except few uncles, who were past their heyday, got stoned by late afternoon, before the lorry came. We had one senior called Bhanuda, who specialised in spiking up cigarettes with marijuana. It was a tedious process of emptying the tobacco and replacing it with crushed marijuana leaves, but Bhanuda did it effortlessly without dropping a smidgen even without looking at it.

That year, when we received the green signal, it was too late. We had a little meeting among ourselves, but it seemed an impossible task to arrange a bottle of booze for us because the booze-shop remained closed on Dashami. What a waste! I thought in my hind sight. I could visualise the long queue in front of the grilled facade of the booze-shop on Dashami afternoon; people hurriedly collecting their poison and the shop surpassing all its past record. How they could be so foolish, I thought.

So, left with no option but to beg, we snooped around the probable hideouts where the older boys were priming themselves for the occasion to take pity on us and share a swig or two, but were shooed away like street dogs. We caught a glimpse of the grand session going on through half closed window like hungry beggars; the old bustards drew long swigs of rum mixed with Campa cola and smoked spiked cigarettes as well. Lastly, feeling lost and looking haggard, we flocked at the music room where Bhanuda sat with his friends smoking roaches. A weird smell filled up the air of the tent and Bhanuda looked fully primed up. Looking at our upset faces he gave us a mysterious smile. Then nodding his head as if he recommended our promotion, he said,

“So, you guys got permission this time?”

“Yes.” I said.

“So, any special preparation from your side for Dashami?



“No, nothing.” We mourned together as if to reinforce our urgent need for some poison.

“Sit down.” He said, “Let me do something for you.”

We looked at each other and having satisfied that we would have something at least, huddled on an empty bench. Bhanuda, in a swift hand, emptied two Charminars and stuffed them with a mixture from his stock.

None of us had begun smoking yet, but having been presented the roach by Bhanuda himself, that was perceived a rare privilege, we took few drags each ignoring the nasty cough it induced as if unless we went high on grass we would be thrown out of the Noah`s ark.

After few puffs, my head began to spin and my friends` faces appeared funny, distorted. I began to laugh; soon Gautam and Khokan joined me. Three of us began laughing like crazy, splitting sides and after a while I forgot why I was laughing in the first place. My jaw remained unclasped in a perpetual laughing posture despite my effort to close it. A weird feeling struck me for a moment, and I realised my muscles were working on their own and there was some serious fault in the nerves connecting the brain to my end organs. I saw Bhanuda watching his new protégés with the satisfying smile like that of the devil watching the peasants being successfully corrupted. He gave us three strips of red cloth to tie on our forehead like bandana, to complete our look of Dashami reveller.

We came out laughing and sat on the ledge of the empty veranda of Uncle Jose.

“Why are two of you laughing?” I asked Gautam.

“I don`t know.” Gautam said in between the bouts of uncontrollable laugh.

I tried to assess Khokan`s level of intoxication. But he closed his eyes and clenched his mouth shut to escape estimation. The veterans watched us amused; one of them advised to stuff ourselves with some sweets. Later, I came to know that sweets made people laugh more.

In the meantime the lorry arrived and we hoisted the earthen idols on the back of the truck. The idols were too heavy to lift, ( I seriously thought about advocating to reduce the size of idols!) and all three of us, zonked and charged, huffed and puffed along with uncles and the labourers to hoist the deities on. I heard somebody commenting about the absence of the young brigade, but I was pretty sure that he was aware of the special preparation going on at different hideouts, forgetting it just at that moment.

Three of us, like possessed, ran around and did everything we were told to do. I heard ramblings of junior boys, pointing at us, jeering something out of jealousy because now we were counted among the privileged. Sitting on the edge of the wooden covers of the truck that were bolted back, I tried to look at the assembled crowd consisting of girls and older women from our neighbourhood with few bystanders and guests visiting their relatives. Most of them were busy showing their last respect to departing mother goddess by touching their joined palms to their forehead in great obeisance; a few made shrill sounds twisting their tongue as the driver revved on the gas.

Soon the truck began roll out of the triangular field, and the young brigade, so long busy in preparation came out of their respective hideouts with red bandana tied across as if it were the trade mark of our neighbourhood. They boarded the moving truck like hopping monkeys one by one.

Somebody worked up a small fire in an earthen incensory with dry coconut husks and threw a handful of frankincense into it. Grey reverent smoke rose, the drummer and his assistant began playing, and the hopped up boys shouted slogan in slurred voice, “glory to the goddess Durga! When again? Next year!” We joined the chorus as well and watched the truck negotiating bends and intersections. Few lucky boys sat on the rooftop of the cabin, the most coveted spot if you ask me, which would take few more years for us to reach, and yelled in unison when the truck passed below a stooping tree. They had a small cross-like weapon made of bamboo that they used to push up low bugs that might snap the crown of the goddess.

After some time, when the truck entered another neighbourhood, closer to our school, made famous by some pretty chicks who lived there, I found a dozen of boys jumped off the truck and formed a dancing vanguard. The music became louder and wilder rising to a crescendo and I watched in surprise that hundreds of people had thronged over on both sides of the road, mostly women, watching the funny theatrics. I tried to spot a familiar face in the crowd, but to my horror, I found everybody had two faces, almost similar, with some blurring of the features. I was sure rest of the boys were no better, given the royal priming they had.

I asked Gautam. He said presently he held his eyes closed for fear of getting knocked off. He said he was feeling hungry.

We crossed the railway hospital, our school, and the RPF barracks comparatively faster because not many spectators were there, but our tableau came to a halt at the railway crossing as the gate was down for some train to pass. We saw a staff sticking his head out of the window of the east cabin watching the signal at a distance. A couple of trucks stopped behind us, as well as some taxis, people craning their neck to have a glimpse of the departing mother goddess.

At the four-point crossing we got off the crawling truck. By now our procession had reached the bazaar. All the shops were closed except the sweet shops and the paan shops. All three sweet shops had extended their counter outdoors, stacking jalebi and amriti on brass plates. We pulled our pocket money and bought two platefuls. While we gorged on hot crisp jalebis, Bhanuda sent us one more spiked cigarette through a messenger.

“Our tableau will wait at the four point intersection for ten minutes. Quickly finish your eating and come back.” The messenger warned us.

When we joined back, a small crowd was dancing to the beats of drum and the drummer himself was cavorting playing his drum slung in his shoulder and his accomplice, a scrawny little boy kept the rhythm beating the brass disc with a wooden gavel and walked by his side. Bhanuda sheepishly asked, “Want to dance?” Though I wasn’t sure what kind of dance was possible when your legs didn’t listen to your commands; for the sake of pleasing the devil, we joined the party.

There were some boys who, while dancing wildly, held a lighted torch in their hand and sprayed a mouthful of some liquid into the flame making the fire rise up in the air that looked scary. It seemed as if we were part of a legion, going to plunder a city that we had held under seize. I smelled of kerosene in the air and wondered what these boys had consumed to shut their mind off from the danger of kerosene poisoning!

Later when we reached the river bank, we saw at least a dozen of lorries had unloaded their idols and the frenzied volunteers were dancing like mad on the soft mud made mucky by throwing water on it. We saw the crowd standing on the bank beyond the cordoned area. There were many search lights strung across make-shift bamboo poles that had twin loudspeakers fastened at the top bellowing police orders. The entire area was lit up like carnival and temporary stalls sold tea, sweets and petty playing items. Police roamed around guiding the trucks to unload at specified spot and once the immersion was done hurried them to go back.

When our turn came all of us got off from the truck and the idol was lowered from the truck to the ground for a final round of aarti. Boys in red bandanas, stoned by an array of intoxicants began dancing to the tune of the drum again.

Three of us decided to climb the roof of the truck`s cabin instead of dancing. By then the effect of marijuana had almost drained away. We were in desperate need of some poison again, but we had nothing. I felt my mind was clear now and I was able to focus without seeing doubles. In the anonymity of dark, for the trucks were parked at the periphery of the lighted area, we were able to scrutinize the spectators, especially the girls who were watching the animated dance moves of the boys. Gautam, sitting cross-legged next to me suddenly whispered something to my ear. I saw he was holding a half-pint bottle of XXX rum that still had one third of its content inside. It was quite possible that the older boys, who had been sitting here and were brandishing the cutlass of Durga in the air, had bought it for the occasion. They must have forgotten about it after gulping down mouthfuls of neat alcohol that had provided them with instant kicks and in all likelihood wouldn’t come back given their ominous dance moves. Only a couple of them was still upright, on their feet, but rest of them, half a dozen at least, lay sprawled on the ground zonked out and dozed off.

Before I could suggest anything, Gautam unscrewed the lid and took a swig. I followed him and soon Khokan followed the suit. The liquid burnt our throat as if we had swallowed some kind of acid, and felt like suffocated. But we had a bottle to finish! At last when the bottle was finished we were too squeamish to climb down. So, we decided not to risk our lives and slept like puppies on the top of the cabin spiced up, spiked up!

When we got up from the slumber, we found the truck had returned to our pandal and the priest was throwing the incanted water to the devotees. I heard somebody calling my name in the crowd when she couldn’t find me. Craning my neck I saw my mother was looking for me. I shoved my sleeping friends to get up and climbed down.