"O jadu......
yalwlwk........kwlwlwk..........!
Mwnaile....., kormo lwlwk, khaja risa chamathwi....!
Ummm.....Mwchang songdari hatai.... o…!." The Jadukolija, a folk song of the hills and the soul of the dwellers.
I saw a lady who may be in her twenties. I kept staring at her for moments.
The Jadukolija; a soulful play of the words for her mate. How she recites the poetry was a delight in between words. The tone of the flute was bearing the voice in the symmetry of nature. Exchange of words in playful accord with a male counterpart from the big-hill. I looked for the flute player, and he was a boy, maybe the age of 16, who was sitting on the branches of a mango tree. The flute made of bamboo, horizontally placed on his lips, and as he blows, the fingers ran to pick the tune of words.
"O, sir,” she stopped for a moment, " How are you suppose to be here today?"
"Aw, hey, you know me? Today, I'll be visiting the Jhum field of Falajoy," I said, “If I am not mistaken, this must be the direction to reach his jhum field?"
"Down the slope," She said, “And again climb up that hill, you will find them?"
I remembered her when I tap my finger on my head. She is one of the members of the self-help group of thirteen miles.
"Would you like to accompany me, Raima," I said, "I shall walk as the road is slippery."
I folded my trousers up to my knees and hung my side- bag.
"O' sir, wait,” She said, “I'll come along, I'll come. I have no work to do, today. I shall accompany you."
As we walked, I saw rice plants and climbers of musk melon on the slopes. We climbed up the slopes, popping through thick bushy beans. I saw a forest, and the road becomes narrower and muddy. I glance at my mobile phone, no network on the screen. We kept walking.
Raima chanted in a low tone.
"You have gone afar, oh sweetest one, come to me I am your true admirer, come dear one fondle me and make me your own."
I was listening to her; it was pleasant to listen to the Jadhukolija.
"How far will we need to walk?" I asked her.
"We are about to reach, sir," She said.
I look at her, and she was enjoying the walks.
"Will you be my lifelong mate?
O' dear, how long have I been in bewilderment?
Sometimes I owe my -own dearness for you,
O' my love one, this must be a dream,
Where you abide." Raima sang.
Down the stream, we crossed the rocky bed of pebbles. Crabs and edible snails, Raima picked a handful for a soup-curry with fermented fishes.
"I like soup-curry with fermented phuti fishes," I said.
"Oh, sir," She said, "I shall cook for you. Spend the night with us. I shall sing a song for you."
And, suddenly, it started drizzling. We walked faster to the hillside.
*
On the bamboo- beam of the gairing stood a man with a thin mustache and sturdy arms. He greeted me as we trudged up the muddy steps of the slope. Raima pushes me from the back of my shoulder. "Sir, come on, walk." She said as she was breathing heavily.
" I am tired,"
I said, "I want to rest for a minute or two."
Mr. Falajoy was glancing down from his hut and now and then welcoming us with smiles. The white dog was leaping and barking at us. As if he was inquiring, "Who! who!" to us.
"Relax! Buluwa,"Said Falajoy to the white dog, and Buluwa tried to make a guest, but not satisfied with it, it kept on barking at us.
"Buluwa, stop it," Said Raima, and the white dog became quiet. Sniffing her and kissing her feet and then sneezes and licked her.
The garing is a hut, walled with thick bamboo strips and the thatch on the roof, erected on the slope with fine-log, which can be withheld even in the most garrulous rainy season. Behind the wall was a hoisted terrace made of the thick bamboo bars, facing the beauty of the green slopes and trees on the hills. Mostly the sal and teak. Some rice grains and red chilies dried under the sun and banana leaves piled there at one end.
Some mud-pots sets at one corner by the wall and the cold wind was blowing.
Raima was trying to console the dog. And the Buluwa was not satisfied with her.
*
Falajoy took us to his field and it was dark when we return to his garing. His wife Monai was tired too. She prepared a duma, a desi hookah, popularly known as Dhaba. And they smoked. They conversed about the rains and for their children. Six members in a family, no ration cards, no aadhar cards. Falajoy wanted to get his eldest daughter admission to a Bengali medium school at the age of 16. But he needed to make arrangements for her birth certificate. The mohori was residing in Ambassa. And never contacted them after taking Rs. 800 as an advance from him.
"Sir, I heard photo clicking is going on for aadhar card at block office," Falajoy asked.
I nodded, "Take your children next week, let's see what arrangement I can make for them." Falajoy was still smoking the Dhaba and he felt relaxed.
"You can make their birth certificate through our RPS of the panchayat. You'll be needing them attached with the form for aadhar card."
The sound of the birds and the sun went behind the big hill. It became dark.
We heard the sing-song of the small children. And they parted. No electricity, Falajoy lighted his K-oil lamp and his wife Monai prepared a rice beer for us. We drank the rice beer. Raima sang softly and I was listening to her every time she hummed.
The moon beamed down and we were sitting on the veranda of the hut. Cool breeze. After some time we had dinner and they slept after daylong hard work. I was awake, I slide-off and went out to the veranda, Raima accompanied me. I shook my head and wandered around. She pulled me back, holding my wrist. "let's do it!" she said. I saw her dilated eyes. And I felt my heart moving faster. I jerk-off my shoulder but she persisted, held me tight and pulled my ears, and lip-locked on mine. I felt like when I chew a mint. I placed my hand on my chest, it was moving faster than normal. But, for sometimes, I felt happy for my lips were locked with her soft ones. She gropes my right hand and then placed it on her chest. It was amazing, though!
"I can't do it," I stammered, " Hey, I am sorry, Raima."
"Come on, it's okay, sir", She said, “Just relax, you needed it. I won't tell
anyone."
"We won't do, anyway!" I said.
**
It was early morning; Monai went to the east side of the hill to fetch water. The children were gamboling
on the porch. The eldest daughter Milo was cooking Guduk into the Wasung. The maimi rice was cooked.
Falajoy went to the jungle when Monai returned, drenched with sweat and toils. The children ran to her and drank the water. I was thirsty too. And I drank the water with a wasung. Monai sat on the veranda and fanned herself with a hand-woven bamboo fan. And she smoked the Dhaba.
The jungle was cleared and burned for the Jhum cultivation. I saw the slopes were covered with ashes.
“Ashes are good fertilizer?”
“The essential fertilizer for Maimi hangar rice,” Monai said, “We are expecting at least twelve mons from these slopes this year.
