Naba Barsho greetings to all Megher Khata Readers

'Bihu' By Juthika Bezboruah

Bihu

Bihu or Bohag Bihu is the most important festival of the people of Assam. It is a festival that transcends all religious and class barriers bringing people together in a free and uninhabited manner. The Assamese observe not one but three Bihus.

The word Bihu is derived from the Dimasa kachari language. The tribe Dimasa kachari lived in Assam since ancient time.

Assam being a land of composite culture reflects a chain of festivals of different tribes throughout the year. Bihu is the most important festivals of Assam, celebrated with fun and abundance by all Assamese people irrespective of caste, creed, religion, faith and belief. The breathtaking hills and valleys of Assam come alive with the sound of Bihu thrice a year. viz. Bohag Bihu or Rongali Bihu in April, Magh Bihu or Bhogali Bihu in January and Kati Bihu or Kongali Bihu in October/ November.

The Bihu festival signifies a celebration of farming, especially paddy. For example, Rongali Bihu marks the beginning of sowing of seeds, the Kati Bihu marks the completion of sowing and transplantation of the saplings and finally Magh Bihu marks the advent of the harvest period.

Bohag Bihu, is celebrated in mid-April, the Magh Bihu, held in mid-January, and the Kati Bihu is celebrated in mid-October. The three are connected with the spring, winter and autumn seasons respectively.

Bihu is the biggest festival of the people of the Assam region. This is truly a regional festival, which brings a sense of solidarity and unity among the people of the Assam region. It comes thrice a year and marks the changes in the seasons.

Rongali Bihu

Rongali Bihu is celebrated by most of the races that inhabit in Assam in their own colors and names. It is the most popular Bihu that celebrates the onset of the Assamese New Year (around April 15) and the coming of spring. Parallels of Bihu among the other races and tribes of Assam are Baisagu for Bodo Kacharis, Baikhu for Rabhas, Ali- Ai -Ligang for Misings, Bohhaggio Bishu for Deoris. Contemporaries of Magh Bihu are Nara-siga Bihu of Miring, Pushy Par. or Tushu Puja of tea tribe of Assam. Other community festivals of Assam are Rongker of Karbis, Rajini Gabra and Harni Gabra of Dimasa tribe.

It's a time of merriment and feasting and continues, in general, for seven days. The first day of the Bihu is called Goru Bihu or Cow Bihu, where the cows are washed and worshipped, which falls on the last day of the previous year, usually on April 14. This is followed by Manuh (human) Bihu on April 15, the New Year Day. This is the day of getting cleaned up, wearing new cloths and celebrating and getting ready for the New Year with fresh vigor.

Goru Bihu

The Goru Bihu or cattle worship rites are observed on the last day of the year. The rationale behind the worshipping of cows is very simple. They are the greatest assets of a farmer because not only do they produce milk but also help plough fields, transport men, crop and so on.
The cattle are washed, smeared with ground turmeric and other pastes, struck with sprigs of dighalati and makhiyati and endeared to be healthy and productive. A hearty meal of gourd and brinjal is fed to the cows, while singing the assamese traditional song (lao kha, bengena kha, bosore bosore barhi ja/ maar xoru, baper xoru, toi hobi bor bor goru) which means eat gourd, eat brinjal, grow from year to year/your mother is small, your father is small, but you be a large one).

Manuh Bihu

The New Year day, the day after the Goru Bihu, is called the Manuh Bihu. With gifts of Bihuwan (a gamosa), which is traditional Assamese piece of cloth, are gifted to elders a mark of respect. Children are also given new clothes, and Husori singing begins on this day, and people visit their relatives and friend. Village elders move from household to households singing carols, also in the style of Bihu geets, called Husoris. Different Bihu pandals also organize cultural functions, which goes on for four-five days.

'A Brighter Song' by Victor Ghoshe

A Brighter Song

My soul is a Guitar; I wish ‘good enough’ were my words
Together we would compose the best of the chords,
the meter and the feel, the rhythm and rhyme…
perfect would be the match – the wind and the chime.

My soul would play…the words throughout the day,
like an author busy writing a romantic play.

All would hear music, as my soul would strike a string….
but it’d be a love song for you, that’s what the breeze would bring.

What is a guitar, without a player…!
It's like a soul, which has no desire,
It would sit alone in the dark…
it would wait for someone to come and light a spark.

let’s light up our souls for a brighter day
come, let us play….
lets play the sweetest chords,
let us make a song with the brightest words.

Victor Kalyan Ghoshe
New Delhi
10-4-12

Anjali- an offering above self by Sam Mukherjee

Anjali- an offering above self

Just as the ogre desperately wants to be beautiful and wanted, so does the mentally ill pine for acceptance by family and friends when they recover. Ravi was a recluse languishing in a government mental hospital for 10 years before he recovered completely and was ready to return home. But on 15th August 2001 - the day before he was to be released, he killed himself. A prisoner of fear of rejection by friends and family, he could not cope with the thought. The day after he died, Ratnaboli Ray and Chaitali Chakraborty, the life-blood of Anjali (the organisation which assisted his recovery) were chatting excitedly on their way to work. Ravi’s successful recovery and his subsequent release would be a sweet victory for them and for Anjali. But when they reached the hospital, the news of Ravi’s death came to them with paralyzing violence and their hopes of organizing a cheerful farewell party for him numbed.

This is just one of the many incidents that tend to subvert the nothing short of heroic efforts that Ratnaboli Ray and her organisation make to revive lives of the mentally challenged in Kolkata (formerly Calcutta) and from all parts of India. Says Ray, “In India, mental health is one of the most neglected sectors with only 50 hospitals and 5000 trained nurses and psychiatrists to accommodate 75,000 patients while an estimated 20 million require active mental health care.” The overcrowding cannot escape the eye. The mentally ill are abandoned in institutions with little or no hope of reintegration back into their communities. Anjali is working to change all that.


Sumita Bandopadhyay (left) holding drama session in
a government hospital for the mentally challenged



Since July 2001, Anjali has been able to successfully reintegrate 22 patients and is working to ensure improvements in the existing anomalous system. Says Ray (also a working committee member of the Forum for Mental Health in West Bengal), “We campaign extensively to increase awareness among family members, community leaders, panchayats (village councils) and local youth clubs. Hundreds of people have participated in helping reintegration of mentally ill patients."

But what makes Anjali truly unique? Says Chakraborty, (Project Manager) “We offer a really comprehensive rehabilitation package, try to work in partnership with the government and adopt cost-effective approaches.” Life skills training, cognitive and creative therapy, recreation and relaxation therapy, occupational and psychotherapy, economic empowerment, organizing shelter and contact with the real world, form Anjali’s rehabilitation package.

Anjali’s approach is non-clinical, as it is supplementary to the treatment that patients are already undergoing. They learn block printing and incense making and sewing, more to keep themselves gainfully occupied rather than for outright commercial purpose. Anjali’s goals are not unrealistic. They understand that it’ll be a near impossible task for the patients to compete individually with big manufacturers and sell their products once they recover. Thus, the products they manufacture are informally marketed at local gift shops, to community groups and through friends.

The obstacles are too many. Ujjal Samanta, an M.A. student of Social Work at Vidyasagar University in Kolkata is involved in a field-placement project with Anjali. He recalled a number of home visits where he was not even allowed into the patients’ homes by their families to deliver news of their recovery. Most families do not want them back even when they recover completely. Some are willing to pay for homes where they can remain indefinitely instead of returning home. It takes enormous amount of patience and belief in the cause to keep on persuading these families till they agree to accept them back into the household.

At times, family members of the mentally ill continue to state incorrect addresses to the hospitals so that they cannot be traced. In these cases, it becomes even more difficult to trace them, let alone convince them to take back the patients who have recovered. “But when they recover, they guide us to the right address and their families are tracked down. Then the job of persuading them begins all over again. These people are harder to handle. But in the end, due to our relentless efforts, they always give in,” says Chakraborty.

Paucity of funds is another acute problem that exists. Says Ray, “ Every dollar helps the patients in so many ways. Many may feel that small contributions are not welcome. That’s not at all correct. I always tell them that even if one contributes only one dollar, that too will assist in making someone’s life better.”

There are 11 therapists administering Anjali’s rehabilitation and reinstating programs. “Counselors, human rights activists, trained psychiatrists, therapists, social workers and members of the community groups all work in unison to train hospital staff and authorities in contemporary methods of quality mental health care,” says Ray, just back from lecturing at Harvard University on Human Rights and Health.

In India, the majority of the population cannot afford quality mental health care from the private sector and have to rely on government health care. Anjali is working on a formal model to be implemented in government hospitals all over the country. Anjali’s integrative approach and training programs help hospital staff to independently continue the rehabilitation and reinstating initiative.

In an interview with BBC Radio in London on August 5, 2002, Ray mentioned the problem of stigmatization and ostracism associated with mental illness. Anjali, which literally means “offering” is all about healing and instead of shunning the patients, looking at their lives as a whole world of infinite possibilities and rehumanising them.

Theatre works in a positive way to help them take charge of their thought-process. On a visit to a government hospital, I saw Sumita Bandopadhyay conducting a drama session that assists patients to actively participate instead of passive reception. Her patience and the will to achieve the extraordinary were evident from the way she extracted youthful enthusiasm and myriad emotions from the mobile, rubbery faces of her students.

Ray’s contemporaries saw her efforts of creating and sustaining Anjali as nothing more than a quixotic indulgence which they were sure would not last. That has changed. This 5 feet, decisive, will-do, driven woman sends a ripple of hope every time she walks into the hospitals for the mentally challenged. Patients’ faces light up at the sight of her and they swarm around her the way moonlets encircle a planet. Standing witness, I realized that it is distressing when people lose money and fame but a lot more harrowing can be losing something more precious. And that is, time.

A surprise visit to Mohan’s home in Kankurgachi in Kolkata revealed that he has, in fact, completely recovered. His family rejoices with him. His kleptomania, another recurrent problem, is a malaise of the past. In his new avatar, Mohan handles his employer’s money everyday without pocketing a single cent.

The sun has come up. The ogre has a new face. And as he revels in his newfound identity, he wonders if the night was just a bad dream.

Names of the patients have been changed to protect their identities.

To assist Anjali you can contact:

Ratnaboli Ray

# A-302, Benubon,
93/2 Kankulia Road,
Kolkata-700029,
India.
Phone: + 91-33-24402241 / 2440-0449

Article Courtesy:
www.southasianoutlook.com

Recipe of the month - Easter Buns by Victor Ghoshe

Easter Bun Recipe (they are also called the ‘Empty Tomb Buns’)
After these have been baked, discover that there is an “Empty Tomb” in the center of each bun, along with some sweetness at the bottom – yum!!!

Ingredients
prepared yeast dough recipe or frozen crescent rolls Melted butter Large marshmallows Cinnamon White Sugar

Method
Mix cinnamon and sugar in a bowl. Roll a marshmallow in melted butter and then in the cinnamon-sugar mixture. Enclose sugared marshmallow in a small amount of dough, sealing together well. After placing on cookie sheets, let the buns rise until almost doubled in size. Then bake for 10-12 minutes in a 350-375° F oven. Immediately remove buns from trays, especially if any of the sugary mixture has seeped out of any buns.

Notes
Prepared buns may be placed seam-side down on the tray for a smooth bun look.
or:
seam-side up for a slightly rougher look like that of a rock. Seam-side up also helps to prevent more seepage of the sugary mixture.
Plain marshmallows (without melted butter and the cinnamon-sugar mixture) may also be placed in the dough. Without butter, the dough is easier to seal.

Symbolism connected to the Recipe
• Marshmallow - body of Jesus
• Butter and cinnamon-sugar mixture – the oil and spices Jesus’ body was anointed with
• Dough – the tomb
• Cavity in bun – the empty tomb

Smile of the Month

Diaspora of life by Babita Arora Singh

Diaspora of life

The chill in the air persisted. Spring was here but the bloom of the flowers shrunk with the cool wind restricting their beauty. The people around were overdressed for this part of the year. As I walked by I overheard murmurings of how dangerous the retreating winter could be. The flash of the sunshine in the afternoons was only a mirage to give you a feel good factor and perhaps make you fall into the trap of the spring that had yet not arrived.
The biting chill hit me on my face as I tried to draw the curtains and close the window. I felt the warm tears trickle down my face. I was trying to reconcile whether it was the events of the day or the cool weather that were forcing down the water down my cheeks. I took a long breath and tried to recall the picture that had stunned me as I had walked in the office this morning.
The office boy had left the news paper on my table along with the cup of tea. As a daily routine I flipped through the pages reading between the lines the usual stuff of corruption and crime of my country. The obituary page was never of any interest to me sending a chill down my spine of the reality we all shall confront one day of our near and dear ones and ourselves too. As I put down the news paper and finished my cup of tea the shiver in my hands let the cup slip and the left over tea spilled into the news paper. I tried cleaning the paper when the familiar face in one of the photographs caught my attention. I tried to have a closer look at the picture and then read the name in the obituary. The name was of my best friend in college and the photograph also resembled her. My moist eyes read the obituary again and again reading the names of her parents and her husband in the column below.
My mind was racing, I was trying to comprehend to try and put the sequence of events together, the last time I met her, did she have any health problem or was she not happy with her family life? There were so many things that were flashing my mind and the fact that I had lost my best friend at the age of 32 with no clue as to what had gone wrong and now how helpless I feel . I walked like a zombie to the wash room and cried my heart out, first letting this reality seep in me that I had lost my best companion. I howled like a baby.
Taking a deep breath I walked back to my desk, wiping my tears and avoiding the curious look that surrounded me from my colleagues. I tried to search her phone no. I had not been in touch with her since the last ten years, ever since she had got married to Manish. With a faint smile I remembered Manish her husband and the way I had been crazy about him in college.
I closed my eyes to stop the flow of tears and to combat the questioning looks from the onlookers from my strange behavior. The office boy came to pick up the empty cup of tea and the newspaper when I held the paper tightly in my hands and with a heavy voice told him that I need this page. He stared at me strangely and my puffed red eyes perhaps indicated that something was wrong. I packed my bags and requested for a leave from my boss.

As I walked back to my house there were pictures of emotions hammering me and I was trying to recollect all the times I had spent with my friend Leena before Manish arrived in our lives and a sense of bitterness crossing our relationships.
Leena and my self met on the first day of our college. We had an instant liking for each other and were friends instantly. We bunked classes, chatted about everything under the sun, sat in the canteen for hours, shared notes with each other and went for movies, shopping and holidays together. In college we were almost inseparable sharing with each other all the smallest happenings of our lives. As all relationships have a sour point at some stage in our lives, the coming of Manish in the scene wobbled our lives. We both loved his style of dressing, his witty jokes, his smile and I guess everything about him. There was no hiding the truth between us that we were both falling for his magical charm.
Manish gave the two of us equal attention initially and gradually we were both becoming possessive about him. He soon made a preference and decided that it was Leena who actually rang the bells of his heart. I was devastated when I sensed that I was losing both of them as they seemed to be getting involved into each other. I was jealous but choice less, they both meant a lot to me. There was nothing much I could do except rejoice in their fondness for each other. Leena knew heart of hearts that she had hurt me but she was too much in love to sense anything else.
College term was over and I moved for my masters in a different college not keeping in touch with the two of them any longer and here I meet her again after ten years, on a page of a newspaper as a past that can never be reached again.
The pace of my walk slowed down as the canvas of my life and the gaps just flashed back so clearly. I knew that they both had been married, they had sent me a card and invited me but I had made an excuse and did not go. Meanwhile, my parents too had found a good match for me and I consented because I too did not want to be left behind in the race of relationships. The cauldron of jealousy had been broken with Leena’s death and I felt so shallow and heartbroken.
I reached home, took out the old contact numbers I had and thankfully found Manish’s number. My heart sank. I could not think of how to begin my conversation with him as the phone bell rang. He picked up the phone and as he heard my voice he paused for a while and then poured the sad melodrama that ended with Leena’s death.
Stolidly, I listened unable to react to what was being spoken from the other end. His words did not sound so convincing and my gut feeling was giving away a different tuning. Manish talked about Leena as a wonderful wife who took care of her family initially but had soon fallen into depression after she could not conceive a baby and ended up her life swallowing a handful of sleeping pills. My friend Leena was not weak, she was a fighter and what Manish said did not go down with her personality. On one side I mourned the death of my friend and on the other side I wanted to know what had gone wrong with her. I was restless and I wanted to meet her parents more than I wanted to meet Manish.

Leena had always crowned me as a suspicious queen who doubted everyone. Sometimes I used to tell her that Manish was too smooth a talker and she was being carried away with his slimy ways. She thought I was jealous and I too felt that maybe it was the streak of jealousy that was making me see things with a different perspective. Heart of hearts how I had wished now that I was wrong and all the discomfort I was feeling with the way her husband had described the sequence of events that led to her death to be actually right.
I called my husband and told him that I needed to go urgently to a friend’s place who had a sudden demise and would be back late in the evening. Manish’s house was on the other end of the city, I was wishing I would meet Leena’s parents there too. After reaching his place a sense of shock hit me as I saw my dear friend’s photo on the wall graced with flowers. She looked so radiant and alive in the picture and I wanted to ask her, how could you take away your own life? We had always talked about that we have one life and we should make the best of it whatever the circumstances be.
At the end of the room I saw Manish talking to the visitors, receiving their condolences and intermittently wiping the occasional tears from his eyes. He looked almost the same and the stubble on his face made him look tired and the tragedy had worn him down. I had no words to greet him with and I quietly sat amongst the other ladies trying to spot Leena’s mother. I could see an old lady wailing inconsolably and I knew this was the aunt whose food I had relished and spent several nights in her house with her loving daughter. I rushed to hug her and tear my heart out.
The dusk was setting in and gradually people started leaving and Leena’s mother seemed to take control of herself. With my questioning look I asked aunty “what went wrong?” aunty looked at me and said that “It’s all over now. Leena made a wrong choice in life. She had been suffering for the last ten years. Now she can rest in peace.” Oh! My God, I said to myself. I was right Manish was not the right man for her. He had duped her with his charms and my gut feeling was right she did not commit suicide, it was a forced murder.
The heaviness in my limbs increased as I got up to leave. I saw the picture of Leena once again and said to myself why do I feel so helpless. I wanted to shake Manish and ask him what did you do to my live wire Leena? On the other hand, in this tragic ambience I did not want to be a spoil sport and sound absurd. I cursed myself for not keeping in touch with her for the last ten years. I got up to leave, said goodbye to Manish staring him in the eye, like a fish who had just been removed from the water. There were hundreds of questions that daunted my mind but I had no clue how to put them.
The night seemed endless as I lay on my bed just shifting sides to make myself a little comfortable. Tears were no answer to the situation I was in. I felt strangled where I seem to be in no position to crawl out a truth and the futility of it hit me even harder. The walled garlanded picture stared hard at me.
Next morning I was up again getting ready to leave for my office, confronting a failed friend in the mirror. The morning breeze was still chilly and I covered myself not to fall prey to this deceptive weather. I walked into the office perplexed by my behavior yesterday, feeling lost and empty, missing something precious and unable to walk with that stiffness as I always did.
I sat on my seat and as the newspaper was placed on my table, the obituary page was not flipped this time but I read each one of them, silently praying for their souls to rest in peace. One of the souls strengthened me and I called up Leena’s mother and said “Aunty, Leena has not gone, we shall fight together”. The next day a case was filed against Mr. Manish Khurana on account of suspicion against the suicide by his wife.
_______________________________________________________________



Babita Arora Singh

Babita did her schooling from Mussoorie,
graduation and post graduation from the Delhi University.
She lives in Gurgaon, Haryana, India with her husband and daughter.

Writer Speak: I am a homemaker, who enjoys reading, cooking, spending time with my family and writing. Simplicity is my forte and I believe that all complex problems have a very simple solution.