Murmur of the Lonely Brook (21 page)

She had always wanted to understand love. Even in her college days, she saw many of her friends suffer and she knew something was wrong. She found them heartbroken whenever they lost someone. She laughed at herself as she recalled at one point she even thought that having a family, working in the fields, cooking food, bearing children, and getting old was what love was all about. And she remembered falling in love and seeking love in that person. All along she was wrong in her search of love in the other individual.

And now she knew she could never find love in someone else. She knew the lines she treasured for so long from the movie were wrong. There was no use searching for love in someone who was born for her. Even if he existed. Love existed in her own self. Inside her. But to comprehend it, to understand it, to awaken it, she needed the other person. Someone who would pull the right strings that made her sing, someone with whom she could share her feelings, her thoughts, her dreams. It was not just someone with whom she could grow old, someone with whom she could share the murmur of the brook.

***

Diwakar sat next to the stream on the boulder. During the last few days, he had been happy, as the whole family was together. And more so for Raju whose innocence touched him. He wished they could all stay together forever.

Nisha sat next to him throwing pebbles in the water. She noticed he was lost in thought. She ran her finger on his back.

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

“Are you sad? I was not with you for the last few days.”

“I missed you but why should I be sad? I saw you happy and cheerful, I saw aaté in high spirits, and I felt good. We all need to be happy, always.”

Diwakar looked at Nisha. His Nisha. And somehow he knew she would always be there for him, with him, next to him, to share his dreams. With the moonshine. With the birdsongs. With the morning dew.

Nisha looked at him. She liked his simple and uncomplicated approach to life. She felt the strong wave of affection and love that touched her. He stood like a tree that not only soothes with its shadow but also sends down the breeze. She knew there was always room for her in the branches. They would hold her in tenderness; protect her from the heat, the rain, the storms. She wanted to treasure it forever.

The last rays of the sun kissed the eastern peaks. A soft breeze came down the valley and formed a wave across the yellow-mustard fields. The pines shivered, the leaves fluttered on the oaks and poplars, a flock of pigeons flapped their wings, the buckwheat fields bowed down, the river flowed in torrents, two wagtails hopped on the banks, the first star peeped out above the peaks in the ultramarine sky, and the only sound that remained was the murmur of the brook.

She took his hand and squeezed. He looked at her. “Let’s go sit next to the fire.”

Chapter 21

Five years later…

Diwakar stacked the buckwheat hay while Nisha strained the husk from the grains. Both felt happy, as the harvest was good. They decided to take a break and join Parvati.

Parvati sat below the tree knitting socks with two lamb kids and her two grandsons, Deepak and Pritam. They both ran toward Diwakar as they saw him coming.

“Aau, please make us a bow,” said Deepak, the younger one.

“Chote papa, please make us some arrows also. Aaya said you know how to make them,” said Pritam.

Diwakar reached the tree and stretched on the grass. The boys sat on both sides and kept nagging him.

“But what will you do with bows and arrows?”

“We will guard the house from leopards,” said Pritam.

Diwakar smiled at them. “I will get some branches tomorrow and teach you how to make them.”

Both clapped in joy and went out in the field. The lambs followed them.

Nisha sat resting her back on the tree. She looked at the boys. As per custom, she gave the first son to the elder brother. While Pravin’s son Pritam was a bundle of mischief, Deepak, his brother’s son, though younger, was not far behind. He followed his brother everywhere and was a partner in crime and destruction. Both kept the household on their toes, except when their Aaya (Parvati) told them stories. Except when their Teté (Shevak) took them out. Both slept with Aaya at night, but every once in a while, they slept with her also.

Both the boys loved her. Their fathers loved her too. Aama and aau loved her. What more could she want of life? The only thing she longed for was a formal marriage ceremony that would seal both the acceptance and unity of her families. And she knew that would happen soon.

Epilogue

The village wore a festive look. The marriage season came after the apples had been harvested. And this was the only marriage in the village that year. A light drizzle passed the valley and the pines stood with beads of water all over them, glistening in the last rays of the October sun. The poplars, oaks, and deodars stood fresh and clean listening to the chatter of the barbets and finches. A flock of pigeons circled high above, flapping their wings, which echoed across the mountains.

The sun went down beyond the western peaks sending out streaks of gold and orange. Some of the colors touched the peaks while others played with little puffs of twilight clouds. By evening, the villagers gathered at the temple. The children played in the courtyard. The elders, dressed in gray and brown jackets, sat on the steps on the eastern side. The women, dressed in green jackets, green topis, and huge silver necklaces, squatted near the main compound in the center. It housed the Devta who was the guardian god of the village. He was brought outside and sat in his throne majestically to oversee the marriage and bless the couple.

The musicians sat with their drums, cymbals, flute, and trumpet on the ground next to the Devta and were dressed in long brown jackets and yellow scarves tied around their waists. In one corner, a big fire was lit where poltu (fried pancakes) and meat was cooked for the guests. Large vessels filled with local apple liquor stood alluringly with the promise of a colorful night.

Parvati, the groom’s mother, sat with a few old women from her family. Her daughter Ria, who came from Chandigarh for the marriage along with her husband Parminder, oversaw the cooking. Shevak, the groom’s father, took care of the bride’s family. He had retired recently and had enough time to brew the best liquor for the marriage. He never drank but made sure his guests drank to their heart’s content.

The moon came out and washed the compound with its soft silver light. Tall wooden torches were lit on all corners. The musicians started playing the drums and the flames danced to the beat. The women stood up, held hands, and formed a circle around the compound. They sang in chorus, primitive songs carried over thousands of years. The men danced in the middle.

Pravin, Diwakar and Nisha, the bride and the grooms, sat near the western wall below the shades. Pravin and Diwakar sat in a white jacket and woolen trousers while Nisha wore a shawl with three borders over a light gray blanket, which her mother-in-law had wrapped around her in keeping with the tradition. They knew that very soon they would also have to join the dance. Earlier, the bride’s parents had blessed them with gold. While Nisha got a necklace and a pair of earrings, both Pravin and Diwkakar got gold-plated watches, which they wore with much pride.

Nisha looked around. Her brother sat next to her and kept on looking at his sister, chatting occasionally. She felt happy to see her parents enjoying the celebration. She saw her mother and cousin’s sisters dancing with the group while her father drank merrily with the elders. She searched for Ria, and saw her in one corner of the compound playing with her two boys, Pritam and Deepak. The elder Pritam was ten years old; the younger Deepak was eight. Both were like two bundles of mischief but she was assured that Ria would be able to manage them. The women came in a queue and adorned the three of them with garlands made of almonds and walnuts.

Soon the cymbals joined the drums, shattering the silence of the valley. The percussion stopped abruptly and someone took the flute and played a primitive song. The tune floated up with the silence of the night and touched the peaks, which cradled the valley and its people.

- THE END -

About the author

Debashis Dey gave up a high-powered career in Media to live among tribal nomads in the Himalayas.

Born in Calcutta, Debashis Dey worked for media and television in Mumbai for twenty years. After chasing the rat race through senior corporate positions, he realized he couldn’t take another day. He sold his apartment and car, gave away his possessions, and moved to the Himalayas to live in a remote village populated by tribal nomads.

He has been writing poetry and short stories since his college days and also contributes to The American Chronicle. This is his first novel. Murmur of the Lonely Brook, reflects his immersion into an ancient culture that continues to follow age-old rituals, customs, and traditions. A major portion of the proceeds from this book will be used to build a health facility for the downtrodden women of the region.

Author’s Website