SHILLONG: when the gods call - PART I

I am a poor traveller; poor in the sense that I travel less although I wish to enjoy places. This is quite contradictory, isn't it? Yes, and all the thanks to my laziness!

But this time, a few friends sufficient enough to cause the humdrum, made a toast to a plan for a Shillong tour. And I joined in, trying to test my travelling luck one last time.

Luckily, there was no disappointment. The tour proved to be cherishing. The Department of Meghalaya Tourism is well organized and they gave us the best and most comfortable sight-seeing planner. We returned happy. 

The complete tour was broken up into three days of exciting travel. The first day, we were taken to Cherrapunji, the second, to Asia's cleanest village, Mawlynnong, and the third day, we drove around Shillong. Cherrapunji is around 75 kilometres away from Shillong town (w.r.t. Police Bazaar point). Mawlynnong is located at a distance of around 90 kilometres.

We expected rains; so, we had five umbrellas packed in our bags before the journey. The roads housed spots of pleasure: the curvy mountains rubbed with specks of clouds, the valleys that nested little huts and houses, and the roadside tea stalls of bamboo. Everything seemed like a painting on the air. Cherrapunji trip had the following spots: Seven Sisters Waterfalls, Nohkalikai Waterfalls, Bangladesh View Point, Mawsmai Cave, Thangkharang Park and Ramakrishna Mission Ashram. Although each of these was unique in their own way, the most striking were the Nohkalikai Waterfalls and Mawsmai Cave.  

'Nohkalikai' in local tongue means 'jump of Likai'. Likai was a woman who earned by labour. She had a daughter who was more than her life. She had to remarry as she turned widow early. Her second husband could not bear her love for her daughter and was jealous of their bond. He felt Likai's love for her was the reason why she did not pay attention to him. One day, when Likai went out for work, her husband planned a murder, chopped her daughter into pieces and cooked the little one's flesh. Likai, on returning from work, was surprised to learn that her husband had cooked the evening meal. He offered the meal to Likai. Tired, she ate the meal and after dinner she went out to have a taste of betel nuts. As she drew the hand out of the grinder, she found a finger of her daughter. Suddenly, her world turned ugly. She was struck with unimaginable grief, and grew insane. Her heart was too weak to carry the weight of her daughter's death. She could not believe she had eaten her love's dead flesh. She knew not what to do, and as she had already grew insane, she jumped off the waterfalls. So, the waterfalls was named after the 'jump of Likai' to remember a mother and her love for her daughter.

The Mawsmai Cave is a natural cave which has a length of almost 150 metres and can be traversed through. The tourists can have a trip through the rocks amidst the cave. There are a number of narrow paths and so, people with problems of bending and breathing are advised not to take a chance. However, it was an adventurous inside, like Indiana Jones going for the Crystal Skull. There are little bridges to cross watery portions but since it was raining, the bridges were a bit submerged. But nothing seemed a problem. The water trickling from the sides of the rocks presented a true experience of a dream. The Mawsmai Cave is, in fact, a place which must not be missed at all.

The fog played its best, but we did not regret. The fog touched a sweet sense in the photographs we took. The Nohkalikai was a playful place. The fog lifted for only around 2 minutes. The people there commented that even a 2 minute glimpse is luckier; sometimes people return after 6 days of visiting without having a pleasure to watch it. Perhaps, that's how silent Nature participates in games with Her world!

Seven Sisters Waterfalls

Bangladesh View Point

Seven Sisters Waterfalls Eco Park amidst fog

Nohkalikai Waterfalls: India's second largest falls!

At Nohkalikai Waterfalls: fog surrounds the hills!

Roadside on the way to Cherrapunji

Just me!

BURP !!!

[Dedicated to all food-lovers.]

There is a certain misunderstanding in understanding the concept of a joyful dinner! Obviously, you should not measure it by the number of plates you have gobbled up, not because quantity is hypothetically secondary, but because your order may come in a bowl! Oh! Come on! You need not add the number of bowls, not because quantity is too mainstream to weigh joys, but because half of your orders may arrive in plates and half in bowls! Now what? Would you average them? None marries a dull mathematician! You need to be smart enough!

Sometimes, a quarrel over the most insensible subject makes a dinner joyful! Sentiments are the last thing that technology shall eat up. Forget Einstein's technology quote; we haven't yet discovered the tenth dimension! I am still stuck up on how to figure out what a 3D looks like in 2D! Still, there are us who fight over whether the lady at the other table is married or not! The one who gets a smile from the cutest girl at the restaurant gets his favourite drink. And that makes a dinner worth a dinner!

Although selfies/groupfies are the new style remarks these days, believe me, food plays an important part in deciding whether you are smiling in the "..."-fies or not! A dish of chilli prawns if not served with the proper urban superstitions is a waste! Like, a prawn's extended tail should be felt (sometimes seen) to consider it a perfect starter. Otherwise, all general fish fries are same. Chicken in corianders should taste like chicken in corianders. Otherwise, all chicks are same! And there is this plate of butter paneer. The perfect blend of butter and paneer fried to the best limit of brownish look makes it adorable; otherwise even Ramu Kaka makes butter paneer in his eighties!

Maintaining a healthy diet is utmost necessary. In India, most people find themselves in obese-category on the BMI scale. This is due to a phenomenon called eating-beyond-bellysize. Diets are like resolutions- they are kept to be broken. And we are so skilled in employing this. After all, diet should not sadden us. What say? Eating is a gift. And eating beyond bellysize makes a dinner joyful.

Often, company decides the nature of a dinner. Girlfriends or wives mean a dinner like a funeral. Mom means the best dinner we always cherish at home. Seniors go on a 50-50 note; some are over conscious while others don't possess the talent of identifying a fruit! I have kept the last option at last because their presence always means a bombastic dinner! They are sometimes called friends, and sometimes we know them by the same name, 'Oi' or 'Ay'.

Finally, when I am concluding this piece, I shall say: Enjoy your meals. They are important and...Sorry! Excuse me! BURP !!!

NIKITHA HINGAD REVIEWS THE MOUSTACHED POET

[This review appears on goodreads].

I loved the book cover design and also the name of the book. I think it is very unique. I liked the fact that author dedicated the book to poetry lovers.
The poet writes in free style. He follows no fixed pattern like any modern poet. From the poem Rains I noticed he can rhyme well too but he doesn’t force or restricts himself.
He sees poetry even in simple daily occurrences in life. He is a good observer. He writes poems on people and issues which we as a society tend to ignore. And I appreciate this quality in him. After all a true poet sees the unseen.
I found his poetry more like folk tales or regional language poets. If you read Kannada poet, Kuvempu’s English, they are very similar to his poems. . After centuries, if our future generations need to know about our culture and lifestyle, then this piece of literature would help them.
He describes a lot. He has satire poems written about stark realities of life. And also breaking stereotype like Stepmother and C.R.O.W. I liked the conclusion (poet’s words) added after a poem. It seems like the poem is a song and there is narration after. It gives a clear picture on what circumstance the poet has written these lines. It is easy for people who have minimum vocabulary or find it difficult to decipher poem’s true meaning. To be honest, I read some of his poems twice to understand them more deeply. His poems need to be read slowly and leisure.
He expresses so gently about everyday emotions and I think everyone can connect with his poetry unlike what people usually think that poetry is not their cup of tea. He is a poet since eight he says and I see the way he writes. It shows how beautifully he expresses. And it seems like he has been reading poetry along with academics. I like rhythm in the poem Stubborn. The poem My Kite is as if a child has written it.
The Moustached poet: few pots of poems is a good collection of poems giving glimpses of his life and various people around him.

Suggestions: I would prefer the poet divided poems into different segments. And also please write an Author’s note at the end of the book for your kind readers. I suggest the conclusion poet’s words are renamed as author’s note because poet’s word is the poem itself.

PS: I wonder as to why Mr. Goswami doesn’t grow a moustache!

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Had the bird not flown, I would not have known how far the skies existed! Content of poetic literature is difficult to judge for poetry is amorphous! One pair of eyes should bear sufficient viewpoints to generate a judgement of poetry. And this is where, a poet sees a poet. I thank poetess Nikitha Hingad for reviewing my book, The Moustached Poet: a few pots of poems. This review is worth my efforts, and I thank her for the suggestions. For my next book, they shall be followed as said! And regarding my moustache, I am still trying to grow a perfect one! :)   

SILKY

Are threads of silk deceptive?
I am struck by a wand of curiosity!
Deception is an art,
illusions are large-
a shot of poison can
be less lucrative
than a thread of silk
only the cocoon is
what is decisive
or perhaps...
skilfully deceptive!

The night has her own 
spools of silky intentions-
beds are luxury,
minds are stupid;
a handful of spider's web
can roll the world down 
into hopeless apocalypse:
a hand long silky piece
of night wear can be
so tempting, indulging...

Had hearts been silky,
we could have stitched
the voids of threads
but it's unfortunate
no heart is silky,
no silk owns a soul,
because only the nights
know of the coils of silk,
and you must know,
nights are deceptive!

WHERE'S THE GHOST?

The outside was frightening. He never feared a ghost, but he had heard his friends speak of the one black shadow that roamed at the fifth turn of the street beside the pond. Ghosts occupied those who harnessed feeble minds, in whom fears cloud obvious truths, and he very well believed that. He kept on walking. "Ah! The street lamps are never repaired, adding to the fantasy of the horror that rests just in tongues", he thought. He crossed the third turn at the street, and felt more relaxed than ever. Splashes of ripples in the pond often alerted him, but, he knew of the falling twigs of the trees beside the pond. There were fishes too. He was satisfied at how his reasoning was impenetrable. He reached the fifth turn at the street. The width of the street reduced to almost half. He encountered no invisible who became visible to him, and threatened his soul. He tried not to cross the part too quickly: he knew he didn't believe in spirits. He walked steadily, often watching his phone's chat windows and smiling at the messages that kept flowing in. There was a hustle among the bushes. He paid no heed to the jungle alerts. Suddenly, he faced an attack from a being. He fell down. It looked like a man, lean and thin like the midrib of a leaf, and restless. The man crossed the street towards the pond leaving him wounded. And then, he heard his footsteps again in the dark. He rose immediately, and as soon as he felt someone near him, he pushed with his might. There was no sound of a splash in the pond. He was terrified. Ghosts are lighter than air; they carry no weight, and hence there was no sound of a fall. He started running as quickly as he could. Had he been in a different situation as in sports, that run would have been his all-time best. He reached his quarters safely. Tired and weak, he chose to sleep early...with the lights on. The next morning, he woke up early. He could not reason if that incident was real, or was he hallucinating. He kept aside his thoughts and readied himself for the day's work. He started his journey through the same street that had compromised his life the previous night. He reached the fifth turn, and saw around 10 men with fishing nets discussing things. As he neared, he heard one of them," Poor fellow. God has his means of pulling out lives. He died because of the curse that haunted him- his in born dumbness. We could have shouted if we fell, how could he? Pity."

He increased the pace of his walks. How could a sensible man who never believed in ghosts could commit such a tedious error that could be counted as a federal crime? He realized the ghost had rested in him, how suppressed fears clouded the obvious truths in front. He was the ghost that night. No ghost ever resides, it is men who breathe blood into fiction!

Man is a ghost...only if he retires from being a man with a mind!

THE LAST UMBRELLA

She now adorns the museum
of antiques and mammoth bones...
Aah! Those are what museums hold:
leftovers that suddenly grow precious
but she rests silently, frozen perfectly...
Wait! How do you know she's a she?
Her colours suggest her of being girlish
like pink satins are always flooding
the stores even when there's no bonus
wired to a common man's accounts...

She lies behind the glass,
of her kind she's the last-
a treasure is she titled
away from the smoky rains
that once drowned metros
and paddies, blind was mercy.
Her colour has weakened
as she longs for freedom
below the skies,
on the muds
out where air flies
be it a day or a night!

Her steel still shines,
a mistress of life,
respect kisses the glass
of the old but painted museum.
And she glitters in silvery
spine, robust and pretty
and....

Hey! Come again...
How do you know she's a she?
Please explain!

THE SINGING ROTARY

POEM NO. 2 

(As a part of the friendly poetry challenge, nominated by Pijush Kanti Deb​)

Honks of horns,
clothes what worn
conclude priorities,
status and destiny!
Sirens are useless,
death is evident,
jobs aren't permanent
seconds are important!

She played her broken flute
in the rotary's garden;
her brother tried to tune
into what he last sang!
Her friends hit the dhols
the air kissed its freedom;
the rotary seemed true
like stars falling from the blue!
Sick fumes of the city
seriously looms over the rotary,
yet the blinds ceased not playing
their best songs in the rotary!

But, honks of horns
and business measured in clocks
design their deafness
wherein lies tomorrow's deaths!
Life may run in a circle
like pride calmed in shackles;
the cars just have to carry
flesh that shall melt in agony
so, should anyone pay heed
to the city's only singing rotary?