skipping stones

Now I realize that it is mostly longing. A neverland of sorts, is orissa. Except that here it is as much a land to escape into as a place that will never be mine. Insofar as to comprehend is to see things as a factor of opposites I identify in orissa all that is not the case with cal, which is the queen of hearts. But for orissa these are charms that I am talking about. So yes between the city and my roots it is a complement rather than a duality that works to confound me in a happy perplexity.
The wiles of Calcutta are well known. Orissa as I am still discovering is a different proposition altogether. Here there is an unmistakable pride that mixes with every slightest bit of amazement at humanity and all that is wrought thereof. For of course all that men do is complex and wonderful in design; in orissa I heard of god as the cosmic purveyor, the merest tossing of whose locks revealed him as endless. In the scorched landscape the rain is warm in my eyes. In orissa I go blind, and carried away if I might add with some modesty. Because the credit for that does not belong to me. But all the same devotional music. Would you believe it, from the capital of Bengal and from its capital also and of all folks the devout to sweep me off my feet.
And then I went to the beach for more of that. Puri beach, the tide coming in, the lifeguards going out, the tourists on the waterline and me, loincloth out of control, plundering the waves. Spontaneity is an attribute of the tortoise even if speed is not.
The sea breeze hits the spire and makes the flag blow with a dazzling fierceness. It is as if the lord’s chariot would now turn left into the avenue, his big courtyard, and come charging on. We enter the temple.
Here we jostle with the gods, the gods with garlands in their hands, gods with palms folded, gods with the trademark sticks at the entrances, but really wherever them gods please, touching the gods filing past to hold out a dime for the gods. We got into a scuffle with a god who was facilitating the rituals of another god and a drunk god who was he claimed, backing down instantly, temple police. But the gods altogether were smiling on us and for as little as five rupees a friendly god accepted our offering on behalf of the lord of them all.
King of puri provided lunch, against payment and much in excess but gratefully shared.
Like India, orissa too lives in its villages and the passengers would halt in one such, where it all began, at least where one half of it all began. The hamlet which provided the two sons of my great grandfather on the distaff side with brides for each of them both of whom belonged to the same family. Indeed were blood sisters. Danapara then, the name of the gram. The harvesting is over, winnowings on. The standfan whirrs at full speed and the grain dropped into the windstream is separated form the chaff. The grain is easily dehusked in fact and in small quantities is a good munchy, timepass.
Also shrooms. Oriya for mushrooms – sattu; oriya for shrooms – no balls to ask. Actually far too decent to do so. Presented more than two kilos for dinners sake in goodwill. Ah! How lovely it is here, the flower of youth speaks up. The wilted flower of youth says whats the use. It means nothing. But in that moment sounded profound. We were fooled in the villages. The feeling is mutual.
The klaxon that had been sounding got louder. The noise coming from the stadium. Bleed blue. Neelachal. And then you go ahead and win the World Cup. Inexhaustible is also the faith which is self-depleting.