The bucolic pleasures of monsoon

Monoj Kumar Hazarika

(mhazarika11@gmail.com)

Monsoon is inevitable in this tropical part and it creates both magic as well as mayhem. While its inconveniences cause disquiet, it invokes some fond memories in me. With the school summer vacations on, the children were exhibiting excitement, planning their holiday activities made me nostalgic of the bygone summer vacations when we used to pack off to the only destination- our grandparents' place in the rural hinterland. I wistfully remember those wonderful retreats where the glistering monsoon rain also showered gallons of happiness, joy, freshness, and created delightful memories.

During the late 70s and early 80s, the Assam State Transport Corporation (ASTC) buses were the sole mode of transport for the north bank. The 230-km journey along the NH-15 from Guwahati to Jamugurihat in the Sonitpur district was tardy yet fascinating.

Starting from Paltanbazar, once we cross the Saraighat Bridge, the undulating road through the hillocks infused the first whiff of the refreshing bucolic landscape. After Baihata Chariali, the road becomes magical, flanked on either side by lush greenery, glistening tributaries and waterbodies, and the thrilling monsoon clouds wafting in the backdrop of the Himalayan range offer some enchanting scenic beauty. As the bus leaves Mangaldoi, the mind becomes restless for the elevenses at Orang, as it offers the best rosogullas of the region in those days. People savour the special rosogullas with nimki (salty snack) and also pack those in earthen pots for their near and dear ones. Thereafter comes the most beautiful town of Assam. The serenity of this town, ornamented by the iconic Padumpukhuri (lake) can make anybody fall in love with Tezpur. Its mystic beauty instantly expunges any fatigue and rejuvenates the mind and soul.

The unexpected arrival at grandma's place was always greeted with the warmest of hugs and cuddles. Hereafter, the delightful vacation started. There were no planned activities, simply going along with the flow. Our grandma's village is not flood prone, so the monsoon was never worrisome. Rather, it was soul-stirring. With respite from the scorching heat, it also provided freshness and vitality to all - people, plants, animals and birds. In fact, agricultural activity in Assam starts with the advent of monsoon, inducing a surge in enthusiasm. The pelting sound of the raindrops on the tin roof and the gurgling sound of the water flowing through the jharnas (small waterways) felt like music. After a heavy downpour, community fishing with nets was one on my most enjoyable activities. A good catch was a double bonanza. Even on other days, fishing with the hook was never missed.

The memories of the great food and elaborate meals are prodigious. Those days, almost all village households had a somewhat largish farm with seasonal vegetables and fruits. My Mama's (maternal uncle) compound has abundant of vegetation, including a big pond at their backyard. The monsoon delights were mostly local variant fish recipes cooked with the produce of the farm, accounting for its intensely fresh and satisfying flavour. Some special combinations were - pabha (butter catfish) with outenga (elephant apple) and dhekiaxak (fiddlehead fern), Sol (snakehead murrel) with radish, borali (freshwater shark) with mustard seeds and kawoi (climbing perch) with sesame seed paste were utterly delicious. Various other smaller fish variants like puthi (glass barb) and goroi (spotted snakehead) roasted in banana leaf wrapping along with other condiments like stir-fried vegetables or pitika (mashed vegetable/roasted fish with herbs) made the meals delightful and memorable. Poultry wasn't cooked at grandma's place those days, but mutton and pigeon meat cooked with nominal spices on wood fire were simply unmatched. Grandma's affection made it more delectable. Assamese ethnic cuisine is quintessentially more about local herbs and less about spices.

The games of carrom board at the Tiniali corner shop were relaxing and fun as some omnipresent raconteur always entertained and left you in fits of laughter. But, the game of football at the bakori (village grazing ground for cattle) was always a muddy affair with a few leeches sucking some blood out of your feet.

Bereft of television, the radio was dear to all. On somnolent Sunday afternoons, the radio plays were huge hits. The seniors' discussions and debates after the evening aancholik batori (regional news) in the courtyard would be the day's last activity before dinner.

Those month-long bucolic pleasures were enjoyable and soul-enriching. Childhood is that phase of life, free from sorrows and worries, its excitement, reminiscent of times spent splashing through puddles, cosying in grandma's warmth when the odd fox howls during the night, and the repast were unforgettable. Both Grandma and Mama had left for heavenly abode, but, still after so many years those delights remain as cherished memories, which never fade away.