E - Wicks

January 25, 2004


Since morning everything seems to be going wrong ? had to
take a cold water bath ? electricity failure. Rang the local electric
sub station, the overseer in charge said, 'Madam, a major breakdown, it
will take a couple of hours to restore the supply. Please bear with
us', and put down the receiver before I could put in more questions ?
poor fellow, torturous task responding to so many queries.



Problem, problem, problem!!! ? I found the stock of wicks in
the puja room exhausted. It is a habitual practice to light a lamp in
the puja room every morning and evening. I felt a bit nervous, why
everything is going wrong. In one corner of the mind I felt the day
will bring me trouble.


The present is related to the past. Time and again my memory
takes a dip into the past. The wicks remind me of those days, happy
ones, such sweet memories. There are so many things to remember of
childhood. Ma made her stock of wicks at home from fine muslin, cut
into thin strips, rolled into wicks which draw up the inflammable
liquid into flame. Cotton was used to roll into wicks, but not the ones
processed and packed and available in the market. The brass lamp stood
on the artistically designed brass stand, the wick burnt in pure ghee
to light the room with its flame.


A cotton plant in our garden, some may raise eyebrows and
others may utter, 'Strange!' The truth is: a plant, taken root in the
square sized space, where, the guava tree was the sole occupant and had
stood there for many years. The guavas came all through the year in
abundance. Dozens of guavas stood in the form of jam, in labeled
bottles, in the storeroom cupboard. Ma was responsible for all this
hard work. After years of solitary life this tree got a company in this
little plant. No one had planted it, maybe it was the work of some bird
dropping, and the seed got a place to germinate and grow under the
green leafy spread of the guava tree. No one disturbed the plant and it
grew into a healthy one. The healthy one drew attention of my mother
after taking shape and a gardener of the nearby park was called in to
decipher the species of this plant. The gardener confirmed it to be a
cotton plant and said, "not grow tall, need very little space, and
endow with some cotton". Mother was happy with this addition in her
green-fold.


This healthy one did not receive care and was never nurtured
but drew strength from the cow dung manure, growing so close to the
cow-shed. After some time, began to feed us with its produce. The plant
looked all white when the cotton popped out of its hiding place to be
plucked. I still remember, we sisters plucked cotton and filled the
basket, and it went straight to the puja room. The plant supplied a
year's stock and mother spent time to roll up the wicks. Traditional
way of rolling wicks, place some cotton on the lower leg, damp that
part of the leg and roll the cotton, and there comes the wick of about
four inches long. We enjoyed making wicks but got fed up after rolling
up a few. Mother's task was the hardest; she had to pile up her stock
without much help.


Just opposite our school gate stood the tall silk-cotton tree
with wide spreading branches. The cotton from this tree is different
from the one that mother used for rolling wicks. The leaves of this
tree were large, bright green, remained on the tree for the greater
part of the year and considered one of the best shade trees of our
country. In the winter months of January and February, the bright red
flowers came up in large numbers. The tree looked beautiful, leafless
but blooming like a mass of bright colour. To add to the beauty and
attractiveness of the tree, many bright birds frequented it in search
of nectar from the flowers; the lively chatter of the mynahs
accompanied by the bass of the crows and the twittering of the sparrows
and other small birds made up a grand symphony of nature. Once the
flowers fell to the ground, most of the school girls collected these
flowers and took it home. I still have a petal or two hiding safely
among the pages of some school book. The silky cotton blew all over the
place once it broke its bondage from the fruit. Silky and light it
played with the wind and followed the wind direction. Till now I
haven't seen another red silk-cotton tree. This tree can also be found
in the wild. The cotton is soft and silky, used for stuffing pillows,
gives it a spongy touch.


The tall red silk cotton tree and the short cotton plant
remind me of Gulliver's Travel; Gulliver in the land of the Lilliputs
and Gulliver in Brobdingnag. I can think of this red silk cotton tall
tree as the giant of Brobdingnag and the cotton plant as the Lilliput
The inhabitants of Brobdingnag as tall as an ordinary spire steeple,
took ten yards at every stride and a voice many degrees louder than a
speaking trumpet. They looked like monsters and Gulliver a lilliput
before them. It had been so different in the land of the Lilliputs. The
common size of the natives some what under six inches high, so there is
an exact proportion in all other animals, as well as plants and trees:
the tallest horses and oxen between four and five inches in height, the
sheep about an inch and a half, the geese as big as a sparrow. The
arrows they attacked him with, like needles. Gulliver's travel to the
different lands sounds so magical. I enjoyed this book as a
child.


My father always had a relative theory to support the
religious practices.


When I started writing this journal, I had said about
trouble. But it turned out to be a good day. There are some property
matters to be dealt with. If I have to enter into a legal battle it
will take years for the civil court to pronounce the judgment. It is a
matter of a huge sum that will come to me. Want an amicable settlement.
It is not easy when the amount is very big. Have to deal
tactfully.


I begin in the present, lunge into the past. Wanderer mind is
responsible ? thoughts like to travel far and wide, what's the harm to
link the past, present and the future and feel happy at least for
sometime in this fast moving world.


I like to keep writing my journals. Years later, with my
waning age I will enjoy all that I have written. I can sit back and
read about the beautiful days of the past.