“Get your hands dirty completely, the seeds need to feel your love” said Papa. He was frowning at my daintiness. We were planting Dahlias. Life was a rosy dreamworld for a few snatched moments in our garden. My mother was away.
Papa wanted me to get elbow deep in good honest compost to ensure the bulbs were laid in fertile soil. I had other ideas. I was going to use a trowel to just skim the surface and dump the seeds. Mud be damned. We were at total gardening stalemate. I did not fancy all the dirt getting into my hands and especially into my new rings. Papa wanted me to “respect Mother Earth”. I told him I preferred Father Earth. “Mothers were earthworm infested and they were barren”, I said. “Stop playing with your rings, and think about the Dahlias!” impatience seeping into his usual good humour now.
The little rings were a recent acquisition. My maternal grandmother had lovingly commissioned delicate rings for my fingers. An emerald ring, and a Burmese pigeon blood ruby. Set in gold. They were beautiful, and far too ornate for a young child. For a stubborn child who only craved to be loved, the rings came as a distracting substitute. For a few months they were my universe. I was mesmerized by their sparkle. I would wear them every day, but carefully take them out before going to school. I was taking great care of my little possessions. They were mine. They came in a box lined with deep green velvet. The sheer luxury of it went to my head.
I did not want to get my hands dirty, and I was not going to be a gardener without finery. The rings were to stay on, the seeds would have to suffer. I was not going to give in.
Papa saw I was not budging so he got his own hands dirty. In went those big fat sausage fingers. Lovingly digging into the dirt. Creating a deep hollow for the waiting bulb. Covering it with fresh earth and compost. Sprinkling water and the final tap to tuck them into the fold.
I watched this ritual with knitted brows. Why wouldn’t he just follow my lead and use the trowel. Papa was a poor gardening student of mine I declared in a huff. He chuckled and nodded his head.
We went inside and I washed my hands with an almighty great fuss. I got an old toothbrush and scrubbed my precious rings clean. I then sought out Papa and washed his hands. I told him about the germs while he patted my face. I then decided to wash all his rings. He had several.
Bengali folk and their superstitious foppery. Emerald worn to please one God, Pearl to woo another, Sapphire to mitigate xyz etc. This hocus pocus runs a strong thread throughout Asia. Astrologers and Jewellers run a thriving business based on fear and hope. In the countries I have visited the prevalence of benign and malign rings runs high. Everyone has atleast one ring which they swear by. The rings become mute companions to dastardly deeds. Heavens forbid you lose your rings. The astrologer will charge you thrice as much to sanctify and recommend replacements.
My grandmother had tried in vain to get me hooked into this madness. For a few months I did wear them hoping my life would change. Sadly my mother was not swayed by the protective glow of no less than five divine rocks. My beliefs however did change. I found a big weathered copy of “Rocks and Minerals” in the library. I was fascinated by the photographs and the exotic names (Lapis Lazuli in particular). There were chemical compositions and geographical locations for each stone, including a hazy photograph of rock samples from the Moon! There was no mention of wrathful gods appeased by Diamonds etc. Hah. All bunkum.
However the above discovery took place a few months after the great Dahlia planting ceremony. Let us rewind back to that moment where I having become as clean as a vestal virgin, now pounced upon Papa’s hands with a burning desire to clean his rings with my now rather worn old toothbrush and a bar of slippery Liril.
Papa tried to talk me out of it at first. He asked me to draw the Dahlias as he hoped they would bloom. Nopes. Not working.
“Give me your rings. I will toothbrush them. Then I will boil them to kill all the germs”. I was getting ready to conduct the full sanitization. My rings were sparkly and were spared the boiling option.
Papa must have been quite worried by now. He scooped me out of the bathroom, past the kitchen, sat me down on the little cane sofa and started telling me about “happy dust”. Apparently rings are only as powerful as the happy dust they accumulate. Hah! No wonder mine were not working. Off I went to gather happy dust. All thoughts of disinfecting by Lirilisation abandoned. For a few weeks I would pour all kinds of sediment on my rings to see if their magical properties were enhanced. Not much came of it. Ultimately I gave them up. They went back into the green velvet box and dropped out of my existence for many years.
That little snippet from my life had lay forgotten till today. Like an old leaf swept in by the storm, trapped under the carpet. It lay preserved. The flesh of the days and turbulent years dropped off leaving behind a latticework skeleton of a memory preserved.
I have long abandoned my precious rings. Though they continue to accompany me. I left India in 2000 under dark clouds. I had to wrestle and take whatever little was given to me other than my books. I wanted to start a new life. Papa was no more, and there was nothing left to love. I was seeking refuge in England. An aborted legal challenge saw me acquire a pitiful amount of said family jewels. I was being cast aside, and I was only going to get stale crusts. One of the crusts were those rings from my childhood.
I never really open my box of treasures. I do not wear the damn things. They are there merely as a reminder of another life. I have to carry them with me until such time that I cannot. There are some delicate pieces. Papa had me design my own wedding jewellery, it has never been worn. He was going to put them on and get me ready on my wedding day. Life had other plans. The wedding and the brief marriage were stained with tears.
Time sweeps all such minor tragedies under its great scythe. Life carries on. Seasons change. Sometimes old things come out of the woodwork, and momentarily trap us in their memory.
What of today then? Today with great ferocity I was spring cleaning the spare bedroom. Tidying up my scattered lives. I came across many items that just needed to be put away, put into place, folded, cut up, smoothed out and emptied. I saw lots of old photographs. Each accosted me with a memory. I saw the photo of us taken on that rickety cane sofa. Taken on the very same day. Papa smoking a cigarette as his reward for working hard in the garden. I put the photographs away, and saw some old jewellery boxes.
I found Papa’s ring in the midst of chaos. It is perhaps one of the few actual pieces of him that I have. He gave it to me about a month or so before he died. He said nothing, just left it in an envelope for me. In the wrapping up of preciouness the ring was kept safe in an enamelled box, together with other items. I recognized the box and opened it with fluttering heart. There it was. Delicate silver filigree choked up with his carefully acquired “happy dust”.
I found myself collecting my tears for a very long time before I shut my box of terrors and locked them away again. Not to be opened for many years. Another small insignificant snippet. Perhaps in another decade or two I shall look back, read these very words and wait for the tears to come back.
The Empress Journals 