An Ostrich Feather
By Mamta Narang
I dedicate this book to my mother Asha Narang.
And I inscribe this book to all the flowers of my paintings. They all are charming and beautiful, and wishing to come alive to spread the fragrance.
My special thank you goes to Urvashi Basak for editing this work.
Also, I would like to thanks to Dr. Vinay Bharti, Balmukund Sir and Dr. Ishwar V. Basavaraddi, Director of MDNIY, New Delhi for providing the precious inputs about Yoga.
Preface
Once a person spoke to me, eye-to-eye, “You got to change, you ought to be a real ‘C’, a Big ‘C’ if you want to do business, because business is all about making other people ‘C’ not in becoming a ‘C’ yourself.”
Yes, almost everyone had made me a ‘C’ and I was entitled to become a Big ‘C’. Sorry, I can’t disclose the detailed context, but I can share the two meanings of jargon ‘C’. First, as you must have understood means making the other person a fool and once you have fooled the person successfully, he/she is entitled ‘ made ‘C’ ’. The second meaning is a common Hindi expletive used frequently by Delhi people in the same context as `f**ker'.
His words barged my head. I wondered at my shallow veins and nerves. I left all my unscrambled, non-scribbled and unfinished stories aside, wrote this one which engrails my basic need – Who am I? Why have I taken birth? What should I strive to learn in this one life? And above all see to it -- Am I right or wrong?
I wish to paint a painting which makes even a layman who doesn't have any understanding of art, immensely happy and content. A book is a painting too.
I must confess, I counted words, every now and then, as I wrote, and they say when you serve food you should never count chapattis (bread).
Part I
An Ostrich feather
Dawn was breaking. He was waiting. Birds chirped. More birds chirped. The wait was almost over, he knew. The sound of music – a sure sign of the expected arrival – increased.
Crossing a million miles and traveling at the speed of light, the expectant arrived and navigated through the last object of the border - an old neem tree. Piercing the branches and leaves with all its might - the first rays of the sun reached out and touched the meditating Mr. Arora.
5.00 AM. Sunrays saturated uniformly in New Rajendra Nagar, New Delhi, India.
It was Saturday, a regular morning of May. A few offices open, a few closed. A few schools open, and most of the schools closed for the summer escape. The warmest season was in its prime.
A security guard left to attend nature’s call in the nearby public convenience. His pocket radio was on. It was placed on his seat - an eight-year-old discarded chair whose back was bombed in the center from non-maintenance. Its owner had given up the chair; it was incongruous with the latest trends in interior decoration. Its seat was cushioned with the multiple folds of an old bed-sheet, which carried the remnants of time. His danda (stick), the main and the sole weapon for security in his arsenal, relaxed on the still stable architecture of the chair.
The pocket radio meowed, “Mujhe apni sharn mein le lo ram….”
FMs’ habitually play bhajans(devotional songs) in the morning. At that time, in the entire street, only his radio emitted sound. Crows yapped lowly and slowly, nobody heard them.
A water bucket made out of a reused paint emulsion can, rested adjacent to the chair. One of the boys, who cleaned cars, dipped the duster, wringed out the water and swiftly swiped away the dirt from the unclean bonnet of the Santro - the sixth car; he had to clean seven more. At 8.00 AM sharp, he would rush to a house located three blocks away, to report for duty. He worked as a car driver from 8.00 AM to 8.00 PM. His friends used to say in jest, “Eight to eight! You work between two girls”. [8 was a symbol for a girl.]
A regular chaiwalla (tea vendor) came and distributed tea in disposable plastic cups to eleven of these boys who cleaned cars.
Chacha - the security guard almost made it on time for the teacup. The Chaiwalla had to cover the other blocks in New Rajendra Nagar in the next half hour.
Looking into the side mirror of a car, Chacha spruced up his moustache and combed his hair. Then, he held the danda in one hand, the teacup in another and gradually continued sipping the tea.
“Chacha, change the channel. Why should we listen to bhajan? We are young. Why not young songs for us? ”, one of the boys requested Chacha, preened his hair with the fingers, and flicked his hair flicks while pointing towards the all grey hair of Chacha.
“Who’s asking you to listen?” Chacha replied quickly.
All the young car-cleaners smirked swiftly.
The sweeper smiled from behind the dupatta that concealed her half face, – letting her eyes hop notably onto the talk. The wrapped dupatta covered the mouth and the nose and protected her from the rising dust particles and the mighty germs dancing around. The big danda of the broom swayed swept swiped, swayed swept swiped. The fresh balloons of the dust emerged, rose up, merged with the clouds of the dust, dispersed higher and fell on the ground again, to be a part of new balloons. The broom swayed swept swiped, swayed swept swiped.
Everyone threw the empty teacups with the last two sips still remaining. The tea particles had sedated at the bottom of the cup - the remains of low quality tea granules but the tea was tasty because cardamom and raw ginger had been included in it.
The broom swayed swept swiped, swayed swept swiped. The sweeper’s father had died ten days ago. Her monthly earnings plus her mother’s monthly earning had been going into medical expenses for the last twelve years. She was seventeen now.
Her dupatta hid her big smile when a car cleaner switched on the car-stereo. “Tujhe iski bhabhi bana doon, Aa chalti kya …hai hai … hai hai hai…” the stereo screamed.
“Hahahahaha…” Chacha laughed. In continuation with this excitement, a stray dog barked. A car honked. More stray dogs joined the boogie. Chacha shooed them away with his danda.
A maid scudded and dashed into the Mother Dairy*; probably only boiled vegetables for breakfast– her owner was always dieting but could never reduce weight.
A rickshaw puller halted. A ninety-kilogram lady in her late sixties remained seated on the rickshaw’s seat. The black dye covered the entire length of her hair except the natural grey belt of the jungle - two centimeters above the root of the hair.
She asked the security guard, “Chacha! Where is Asha Gandhi Park?”
Chacha in his early fifties, guided, “Madam go straight, take left, then take left again.”
“I told him the same,” She pointed out, “Now make it fast, I am already late for the Yoga class.” A flimsy blackened body peddled the rickshaw. He cycled hard, and it rolled away.
The sun had risen by 6.10 AM. The lady was late, so was the yoga instructor. Everyone had made his or her seat, a polythene spread, a chaddar/sheet, and a mat, in general. The warm up for the yoga was over. The lady was happy at the concurrence of the arrival timings with the instructor.
“Today Guruji and I are both late”, the lady chirped.
“We have reached for the class together,” Guruji corrected the negativism.
+++++++
A teenaged girl walked fast.
“Good Morning betaji,” Chacha said, saluting her. Cheeringly, she accepted the wish but was in a haste. She climbed the stairs swiftly, and reached her house on the third floor.
She was sweating. The after-jog perspiration had sprinkled on her forehead. Her face gleamed with a smile. “Dad, Look! What I have found?” Her eyes bloomed like the flowers of her latest adventurous finding.
The smell of the sweat diffused into the air ferociously. He stopped reading the newspaper and looked up to glance at the extraordinary, sparkling, long, white feather. Very delicately, she had gripped the extreme end of the shaft. She marched ahead and passed the feather to him.
It was a different feather. Indeed very unique, in not only length, width and appearance but in the austerity of the wing that was embedded with the warmth of fire. It had a spirit – that subsisted and which was alive. Strange vibes pruned along the free feathery strands mounted on the shaft. Generally, in all the birds’ feathers, barbs are glued to one another by tiny barbules. And both sides of the wing were of equal length unlike the usual feathers of the bird.
“Where did you find it?” he asked and twisted the wrist and the wing twisted along.
“I picked it up from the jogging track.”
“Lodi Garden?”
“Nehru Park.”
“Nehru Park? New Rajender Nagar?”
“No Dad, Nehru Park, Chanakyapuri. It has a jogging track.”
“Who all went?”
“My whole group.”
“It’s a different feather.” He brought the attention back to the feather. He preened it.
She sat beside him and added, “It’s similar to a peacock’s feather.”
“Yes, but it’s not a peacock feather.”
“Do white peacocks exist?”
“Yes darling, white peacocks do exist, but this feather doesn’t belong to a white peacock.”
“Then, whose feather is this?”
“This is an ostrich’s feather,” father remarked peering at her.
She laughed aloud; she was astonished. “Dad! An ostrich’s feather in New Delhi!” Her sense of wonder was evident from her voice.
“Yes my darling, in our very own New Delhi!” father replied in a soft voice.
“Dad! How has it reached Delhi?” she questioned in a silky tone.
“How do I know?”
“There are no ostriches in Delhi.”
“Maybe, a fashion designer had brought lots of ostrich feathers from South Africa. While taking the stuff here and there, he might have dropped it near the jogging track. It might have fallen off from the airplane for my daughter. Maybe, it has flown from another planet.”
“Maybe, it has flown from the Delhi zoo”, she said, almost interrupted him. “Maybe, someone around Delhi is breeding ostriches. But who will provide space to an ostrich for running around? Dad, what’s the probability of having an ostrich farm in Delhi?”
“Who has brought an ostrich feather home?”
“Me”
“Then, stop arguing with me.”
“But I want to know how I got it. Imagine this feather having an attached tiny camera which contains the history of its travel, the complete travelogue. In that case, its whereabouts could be traced.”
Father wanted to interrupt her thoughts, but he couldn’t fasten her words. Nevertheless the spirit of the ostrich’s feather dwindled upon his thoughts. His heart creaked to speak. “Let’s assume that it has flown your way from the Delhi zoo. What will you achieve by tracking where it has come from? Look at it! Isn’t it beautiful? Isn’t it a unique gift? Isn’t it precious because it is with you? Why can’t you admire its amiable presence?”
There was a pause. Two humans glanced at each other. Silence thickened.
“Why did you pick it up?” He asked finally.
“I liked it”, she mused, gazed at the scintillating beauty of the white ostrich feather, and realized its charm.
Words were put on hold again.
The hitherto calm wavering feather lines around the shaft suddenly fluttered with naughty laughter and contained themselves from breaking into carefree dance. They tickled each other when she took the feather from her father. She held the shaft tenaciously and preened the white hairs and pleasant warmth tingled her fingertips. The charisma of the white ostrich feather stupefied her.
“Does the travelogue of a feather matter?” Father questioned.
An invisible, magnificent, strong aura grabbed her thoughts. “No Dad”.
Before he could relax momentarily, she wanted to bring back the question of its traceability, “but…”
“Do you know what an ostrich’s feather symbolizes?” he asked.
“No.”
“It’s the symbol of Truth and Judgment. In Egypt, the goddess Ma’at wore an ostrich feather in her hair to symbolize Truth, Power and Order. In her absence, an ostrich’s feather symbolized the truth. A dead person was judged in his afterlife on the basis of the balance provided by the ostrich feather. If the weight of the feather was lighter than the heart of the deceased, the unlucky soul would be eaten by a beast. A light heart was considered pure, and it would be in balance with nature akin to the lightness of an ostrich’s feather.”
“Wow! Dad, it has fallen in the right hands!”
“Of course, it was destined to be found by you; the only honest person in all of New Rajendra Nagar. No, No, entire New Delhi. Way to go my Satyawadi Harishchandra!”
“Dad!….You …! …. Dad...!... Do you want your daughter to lie to you about her friends….boyfriends, movies …outings…. dates…?”
“No, No, No, No, No, No… …” A quick sixer of Nos fell out of the boundary walls of the room.
She sighed, “I will try to get some more information from Google about this feather. Let me see what Wikipedia says.”
“My scholar looks happy,” he relaxed.
“Sort of. I am rather surprised to know that an ostrich’s feather symbolizes the heritage of truth, order and judgment. Maybe… maybe…”
“Say, what do you mean by maybe?”
“I am only presuming that I maybe …that I am lucky to have this.... …because.... I am really feeling happy.”
“Yes, you are a lucky girl of a very fortunate father. And thanks for reminding me to call Mr. Lucky Singh for an important meeting.” He picked up his newspaper again and focused his attention on scrutinizing the economics of words.
The spirit inside the ostrich feather zoomed at the new owner. She was sipping water and gazing at the sun. It was turning very bright. She was ready to play with the sunrays stepping inside the room from the window. Her breath whispered infinite dreams silently. Her curiosity sprawled haphazardly like the growth of floors in the buildings in New Rajender Nagar. One-storeyed and two-storeyed houses are rarely seen. Three, four and five floors, previously without lifts and now with lifts, are mushrooming. Renovation and reconstruction takes place as a routine. Property dealers also stay in New Rajender Nagar with their home-cum-office along with customers and prospects - just like doctors, fashion designers, grocery shop owners and other businesspersons. ‘Self-employed’ is the wrong word; businessman is the right definition.
Hawkers shouted. Cars passed by.
“Sabji le lo, gobhi bis rupay kilo [take vegetables, cauliflower is Rupees twenty per kilogram]”, one hawker tweeted.
“Stop your word war. Breakfast is ready,” Mother shouted from the kitchen, ignoring the joy of silence entering the house. Both father and daughter stood up to abide by her call and headed for the kitchen.
+++++++
Everyone stood up for the last lesson of the daily morning yoga class. They had, first, bent down, stood up, stretched hands towards the sky but tilted away from it. All those who were exercising had formed individual arcs of varying waist flexibility. Together, they laughed aloud and waved their palms at the sky.
Guruji exclaimed, “Once more. Bend, bend as much as possible and be up. Haa haa haa haa, haa haa haa haa, ha ha ha ha ha ha…”
“Haaaa haaaa haaaa haaaa…” Everybody stopped except Mr. Khurana, who had just returned from New York.
”Enough Khurana, hold on to your energy level,” Mr. Batra eased his laughter.