Mahanadi

If only I knew I was marrying a baby!
She taunts me, laughing as she jumps in
the front seat of her father’s Honda Activa,
signalling me to hop behind.

I don’t know how to ride a two-wheeler.
I have been busy studying, watching
superhero cinema, playing gigs with my band,
fending off my inevitable male pattern baldness —
a gift from my father’s side.

I have managed to retain my apical pride all the way
into my third decade, beating Papa’s and Baba’s genes
so far, but have missed out on knowing how it feels
to be sitting in the driver’s seat of a motorcycle —
the mundane thrill of a rush of air
coursing through the vegetation on the head
is an adventure to me.

This morning in Cuttack is no different as I sit on
the back seat, feeling second-hand wind kissing
the Mahanadi and in turn rustling my hair that have
long outstayed their welcome.

She parks at a petrol pump and senses instantly my
unease at stopping in a remote spot amidst
rough-looking men. She puts me at ease,
saying there’s nothing to worry, for this is Odisha,
her home turf, where they have a festival to worship 
menstruating women, and where most men are dark only in skin.

We resume with a full tank, the riverside road stretching
forever with the Mahanadi, like the Mahanadi.
The trees are the deepest shade of green, appearing
almost fake, as if painted twice over.

We stop for coconut water. The nariyal waala cracks open
sunroofs in two coconuts in less than half a dozen strikes,
puts in straws, and we’re good to go.

I follow her up a small flight of stairs onto a river view point
peppered with shy married couples and brazen unmarried ones.

As I gaze in awe at the sprawling blue waters
(blue to the point of disbelief)
and try in vain to hide my hair in a bandana
from the damp river wind, she recounts simpler days
from her childhood, of how on Sunday mornings her father
would take her to buy freshly handpicked fish and prawns
from the riverside, and how their pampered cow named Cow
would run the entire household.

The choicest dairy products,
milk for the fish in the pond to grow fat on,
manure from cow dung,
cow dung cakes for cooking fuel,
biogas to power the home and the vehicles, and more.
Maybe this is why they call an animal
Mother, not for some mythic magic tale.

I listen intently, growing content at how she relishes
the tales featuring fish and crabs and prawns
and her grandma’s cooking pot.
I am a vegetarian, yet I do not flinch at her graphic description.
We have an understanding.
She’ll never ask me to eat meat; I’ll never keep her
from her native food preference.

Fearing that her tales must have made me suffer,
she drives us to a vegetarian tiffin point by the river.
The pot-bellied shop owner is amused at my broken Odia
and asks her if I am not from around here.
She tells him I’m from Bihar and he is delighted,
recounting his time as a soldier stationed in my home state
as he quickly unloads on our plate another serving
of hot spicy ghughuni despite our protests.

The bill comes to 25 rupees, nothing compared to what
I am used to spending on a decent breakfast in the north.
I almost feel bad for the ex-soldier who sells food this good 
this cheap, and am instantly overcome with shame at
having allowed the patronising thought to creep in.

She is about to hit ignition when she is distracted by 
a cow mooing beside her and a dog tugging at her feet.
She descends as if to greet and reunite with a long-forgotten memory.

The dog gobbles a dozen idlis, the cow four times that much.
We ride back home on the dreamy Mahanadi road,
she transported to her history, I smiling ear to ear
at having spent way more than what I usually do on breakfast.

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