Debarth's Den

Again that dazzle, the glare which can kill, As the sun pops its head above the green hill; And I wonder, how long has it been, Since a morning I had seen, Which lulled me back to sleep, When I saw her kindly light seep Quietly into my arbor, with a step soft and shy From a benign sun cruising a cool, azure sky; When my heart would leap and say, What a roseate morning! what a beautiful day! I remember the sweet October days When the mellow light, of the sun's gentle rays Lit up the land; and its plants and trees Swayed in the cadence of the fragrant breeze; When the autumnal air lured us out of doors, And the birds into gardens, the cattle to the moors But what ails dear October this year, That the light is blinding and sticky the air; That mornings greet awakened eyes With flaming windows and fervid skies; That flowers droop, and wan are the leaves, And the birds gasp for air hiding in the eaves; That an irate sun at the summit of its power, With withering glares makes the worl

It took 32 years for television to cast its first spell on the indian audience after it came into existence, 23 years before it held Shillogites in rapture, when a Low Power Transmitter was installed in the premises of Shillong Radio station near P&T office (courtesy Asiad '82). Something akin to that gleeful exhilaration which filled our hearts during those incipient moments of dalliance with a medium of entertainment till then heard of, but yet not seen, tends to rise again in me when I recall those heady days of the past. But it took a while before those black and white pictures with their dreamy bluish tinge, filling the bulging TV screen, with a pleasing accompaniment of a hollow bass emanating from the speakers, afforded us the luxury of uninterrupted entertainment. I clearly remember that thrilling Sunday evening, when for the first time I experienced what I considered virtually impossible at that time - the charm of watching a movie in a draw

It must have been sometime in the late seventies, when I was in Class V or VI. Our family and another collaborated to spend some Sundays together peacefully picnicking in the pristine environs of a compound of which very little was known to the world (or so it seemed). It was a large precinct about midway up the upper Shillong road, past the army cantonment, hidden from public view by being set off the main road, and approachable by a narrow track camouflaged by wild vegetation. Moving upon that little driveway, we came suddenly upon a large and imposing wrought iron gate of a bygone design, which clanked and jangled ominously as the keeper, who was expecting our party, opened it for us. Driving into the compound over a broad path, we are stopped by the mourning and silent figure of a defunct fountainhead, looking exceedingly gloomy, as if remembering the days when from its spout issued forth a sparkling fountain of water. The keeper led us to the government official who w

I am baffled why, of a sudden, I remembered that chaotic day in the year 1976, when Sanjay Gandhi's abrupt decision to implement his quixotic scheme of population control set the cat amongst the pigeons in Shillong. I now recall those scenes of mothers of little children rushing out of their homes, some with their hair still wet and unbrushed, and others with attires in disarray, to rescue their children from the  approaching clutches of the supposed agents of government instructed to carry out that unholy commission. I walked to school nevertheless, more excited than scared, owing more to ignorance than bravery, and finding all our friends in the assembly talking about nothing else. I still smile to myself when I think of the grim countenances and sombre mood amongst the students, and a question "what would happen if they catch us?" put to one of our Khasi friends receiving the instant and asseverative reply "la yup" (death) 😄😄

It was sometime in the year 1969, when my consciousness of worldliness and its various hues and moods and shapes had just begun to take form. It was of a pleasant afternoon that my mother, yet to get over the bewilderment and novelty of her new surroundings, where marriage transported her just a few years ago from small town Golaghat and the flatlands of Assam, was dandling my baby brother in her arms while walking coolly down the steep slope from Laban Shiv Mandir to Red Cross. Deuta, my father, was leading me alongside, myself a toddler then, clasping his big forefinger with my little hand, when he noticed an Ambassador car behind us, backing up with good speed with mother right in its path. A great deal of shouting from father finally caught the attention of the driver, and the car came to a halt a few inches before it could topple my mother, along with my baby brother, flat on the street. Father was rightly offended, and confronted the driver with some choice Anglo-Saxo

Looking out of my apartment window into the busy street below, I see Guwahati preparing itself for Durga Puja. Although the thought itself doesn't evoke anything like the euphoria it once used to, it certainly brings back haunting memories of a time and place which entranced us in its festive moods like no time, no place could, or ever can. Every festival in Shillong came and went like the notes of a crescendo, increasing the palpitations of the heart as they approached, reached a climax during the events and slowly faded from the mind after they ended. MAGH BIHU/SANKRANTI The first festival of the year which we would wake up to from our cozy slumber in the dead of the Shillong winter. The freezing chill couldn't dampen the flavor of merriment and excitement that filled the air from the day before the festivities, when we would go to the markets to buy "khori" (wood) and sweet potatoes. I and my brother would go scouting excitedly o