The Green House

 

I had fled the city and come home…home to the little green house just across the tiny path that separated our home from the forest. This homecoming happened many times, when in “vacant or in pensive mood” I would go back down the path lined with marigold bushes, see in my mind’s eye the flowering bougainvillea bush, stop to admire the fir trees that had grown with my sons and now stood like sentinels at the tiny yard. The seven sisters would be arguing amongst themselves as they flew around the garden and the lapwing could be heard saying ‘did you do it? Did you do it?’  

The daydream would break with the neighbourly Suresh saying “Namaste Bhabi”, some chai (tea) for you” and hold out a steaming mug. Many times, of course, this would be a dream, and I would wake to my tiny bedroom amid the city bustle. This time, however, I had escaped to come home to the Green House at Bhauwala in a tiny village in rural Dehradun in the state of Uttarakhand. But this story isn’t about my home, it’s about homes as they used to be. When Bhauwala was a tiny hamlet in the 1900s. 

Standing in front of the desolate yard, now overgrown with weeds, looking at the remains of Bisht ji’s cowshed…it all came back to me…old Bisht ji, pottering about in the garden, peering over the fence to speak to passersby. And Raju …

 

Flashback

 

‘Vroom-vroom’, the noise of the big red bike broke the stillness of the afternoon in Bhauwala in the days when scooters were a rarity. One either walked to the roadhead over a kilometer away to take the bus to Dehradun city or hitched a ride on a tractor-trailer or truck that brought construction material or goods to Bhauwala. But families made do with what was available in the tiny local market – it was only on festivals and occasions like marriages or celebrations that they could be prevailed upon to visit the noisy, dusty city. Things have changed now; what I am about to tell you happened many years ago. And it happened to Raju Bisht– the young man who proudly rode a big red bike up and down Bhauwala. 

Raju worked near Dehradun. That set him apart from all the others in the village who seldom went to the city.  He was a strapping young man, with bulging biceps and a crew-cut. He merely looked threatening, he was a very warm-hearted fellow and people would stop and ask him to run errands for them. On market days his bike was laden with household goods which he had bought for various people who couldn’t make it to the shops. His immediate neighbour, across the tiny yard, was Shanno-Dadi (grandmother). The old widow was very fond of the quiet, strapping lad. “Here Shanno-Dadi ji. I got you a nice big pan to cook vegetables in. No, no it didn’t cost me much. Next week I will get your water pot repaired. It leaks so much that I have a bath every time I carry it to the chashma (stream) to fill it!” Having divested himself of his heaviest load, Raju drove his bike to the cluster of white-washed buildings that peeked out of the mango grove at the far end of the village. 

“Eh Jaggu-bhai (brother), bundle of first class beedis for you. Bhabiji (sister-in-law) won’t give me the money for this, so you give me two rupees.” “What! Of course, I am not cheating you, ok, I will ask your wife for the money”. Off went Raju on his red bike, after pocketing the money. His next stop was at a small cottage at the edge of the forest. An elderly man beckoned to him, looking around furtively. Raju nodded and gestured towards the big carrier on his bike. A pint bottle was hastily transferred to a shopping bag the old man held out. “Now then Gangadhar-chacha (uncle) don’t sing too loudly this evening and don’t ask me to get you another bottle before the next market day”. He winked and money exchanged hands. “Bless you, my son” said Gangadhar-chacha. Thus, did Raju collect goodwill from all village homes.

The family had another specialty in the village. And that was anointing the dead and preparing the body for the last rites. Bishtji ji (affectionately called chacha or uncle by youngsters) was the first to be informed about a death in the village, after the doctor, of course. The family were very generous, helpful, and popular mainly because of this service they extended to everyone in the village – rich or poor, whether they were Garhwalis, Nepalis, Kumaunis or migrants from any other state. If Raju was around, father and son would arrive together. Or Bisht ji would arrive and after a few words of sympathy to the family would enlist the support of younger people. Within the hour, the body would be bathed. If the family couldn’t afford new clothes, Bisht ji would arrange for some. It was rumored that he kept several pairs of kurta-pajamas (loose pants and a long shirt) for just such a contingency. Then he would organize the last journey to Haridwar in a rather ramshackle bus kept just for this purpose. 

By then Raju would’ve arrived on the scene, dressed in white kurta-pajama with a striped towel draped like a scarf around his neck, carrying a steaming kettle of tea. While two young men served tea to the mourners, Raju would enlist the others and carry the body on a make-shift bier made of bamboo and straw and hoist it on to the roof of the bus. He would then whisper to his father and Bishtji would very courteously tell the mourners that the bus would be ready to depart for Haridwar in an hour. Those who wanted to go to Haridwar should assemble by then. This was another village tradition, the last journey from Bhauwala to Haridwar, from a known destination to the great unknown – which served as an affordable pilgrimage of sorts for community members. 

Bishtji’s wife, in the meantime, would be busy with funerary accoutrements – sending Raju off to get the priest, some incense, clarified butter and other necessary items for the last journey from home. Raju would return with the priest perched behind him, both laden with ‘puja’ (prayer) items and various small bottles – water from the Ganga was essential for prayers and for purification and it was Raju’s responsibility to fill these at Haridwar and give every family that had requested one a bottle. In short, the entire family would be there until the rites were completed. Working quietly and in unison. Those were the days when home was much more of a public space than it is now. Doors were closed only at night and neighbours traipsed in and out, your welfare and your grief and of course your celebrations were shared. Quarrels sparked and peace was negotiated and in Raju’s case, his home became as lonely as the burning ghat. It happened after Bishtji passed away in his sleep… 

For once Raju did not organize the funeral. The villagers, grateful for all that Bisht ji had done for them, organized the last rites and the final journey. Months passed after Bisht ji’s death; the villagers noticed that Raju still never came to help at a bereavement.  They assumed that he would come around – he probably missed his dad – as they all did. In the meantime, his band of friends helped organize last rites. It was not the same though, without Bisht ji and Raju, the villagers said. But what could they do about it? 

There was one ritual that Raju never missed, although this was conducted in total silence, after his father’s passing – and that was sharing a lota (a round metal pot) of sweet, milky tea after he had helped Shanno Dadi milk her cow. In the summer, Shanno dadi would come to the tiny byre outside her ramshackle hut and watch him. But in the winter that followed Bisht ji’s passing Shanno spent most evenings dozing in front of the small stove where she cooked her solitary meals. That year, a cold wind blew into the valley, carrying with it the cold from the snow-laden mountains of the mighty Himalayas. Shanno Dadi had attacks of breathlessness, which turned into a sharp cough. Hot milk laced with turmeric and other local medicines didn’t help and Shanno had no faith in the local doctor with his fancy pills and potions. Raju sat outside Shanno Dadi’s hut looking desolate, while his mother nursed the old lady. Occasionally she would call his name and Raju crouched low over the sick woman’s rickety rope bed to catch what she mumbled. 

When finally, the neighbours insisted, the local doctor was called. Shanno Dadi was on the brink, pneumonia had set in, and she had to be removed to hospital immediately.  Gangadhar chacha’s nephew was visiting and his minivan took Shanno Dadi to hospital, in Dehradun city.   That same van brought her body back – Shanno Dadi, never made it past the first kilometre away from the home she had come to know as her own since she came as a child bride. 

“Raju”, said his mother when he had brought Shanno-Dadi’s cow into their byre “I will prepare Dadi for her journey to Haridwar. You go and get the priest”. Raju shook his head obstinately. His mother knew better than to waste her time trying to persuade her son. Her shoulders drooped as she asked Gangadhar-chacha to supervise the village men and went inside to brew a kettle of tea. 

Shanno had no relatives, so the villagers decided to cremate her by the river outside the village. After the small procession had left, Raju sat all by himself outside Shanno-Dadi’s hut, on the same cot that he had seen her last, gazing at the forest. This side of the village was empty of people, the village dogs lay quietly and even the cow chewed her cud in silence. It was almost dark, and a light evening mist enveloped the surrounding countryside. Raju felt his eyelids closing as he dozed off – when suddenly he was jerked awake by a crackling sound and an orange glow seemed to envelope just one part of the forest. Winter wasn’t the time for forest fires, he thought, half-asleep. Then he rubbed his eyes and walked over to the edge of the forest to reassure himself. What he saw caused Raju to gasp fearfully. 

For between the trees, he could see Shanno Dadi’s funeral pyre. . .But that was impossible! The burning ghat was on the far side of the forest, by the side of the river! It couldn’t possibly be seen from his home. As he gazed in surprise and horror, he seemed to hear a thin wheezy voice saying something that sounded like “you promised, you promised”. Then Raju remembered… whenever Shanno-dadi fell ill, she would make Raju promise that when she died, Raju would light her funeral pyre. This sacred rite is usually performed by a close family member. Since he was Dadi’s adoptive son, he should’ve accompanied her on her last journey. 

Raju’s horror turned into guilt and shame. Whatever had come over him? How had he forgotten his promise? What could he do now? There was no time to lose. He hurried over to his mother’s alcove here the gods were worshipped morning and evening, lit one of the small earthenware lamps that were kept there. He carried the lamp across the yard to Shanno’s tiny hut and put the lamp gently down by the small images of the gods that she had worshipped. He also lit some incense, his eyes damp with tears of remorse. 

“It was so strange”, his friends told him upon their return from the burning ghat. “Shanno-Dadi’s funeral pyre just wouldn’t light. The wood was dry, everything was fine. We were wondering what to do, when suddenly the pyre lit up. One of the matches we had used must have ignited, finally!”. Raju nodded. He took the urn bearing Shanno-dadi’s remains and walked over to her hut. Tonight, he would keep vigil and early tomorrow morning he would take the ashes and immerse them in the Ganga at Haridwar. He would keep his promise to Shanno-dadi.

 

Adieu

 

Very little remains of the homes in Bhauwala – cement structures have replaced mud houses with thatched roofs. The town has medical facilities, many villagers’ own cars and mini-vans. Iron gates shut out neighbours, but when death comes, as it inevitably does to every home, every so often, the tradition Bisht ji started, and Raju followed is maintained. Doors are thrown open; the person leaves his or her home to begin the final journey with dignity. Thapa the half-Nepali night watchman who cycles through the narrow path late at night between the village and the jungle to the factory where he works, swears that he sees shadowy figures in the forest that disappear when he shines his torch. The night owl hoots in the trees outside what used to be Shanno Dadi’s home. City folk like me switch on the bright lights inside the home and shut out the sounds of Bhauwala at nighttime. 

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1. A holy city in Uttarakhand, preferred by Hindu’s for post-death rituals. It is quite close to Dehradun.

2. Another sacred post-death ritual among Hindus.