Dusky Memories of Dusk

Dusk has a fascinating name in Hindi. It is called Godhuli [Go is the cow, Dhuli is dust]. In our village, this confluence of day and night is called the Awadhi equivalent of its Hindi name. There is a very interesting phenomenon behind the naming of this time; I remember this phenomenon from when I was a kid. Every year in summer vacations, I would go to my Mama's home. His house is at the edge of the village on the side of a road that connects the village to farming fields and meadows. As the sun descended in the sky and outside became bearable, many kids would gather around the house and play one of the multitudes of games we used to play those days. On many such days, in the middle of our game, we would have to flee because some cattle from the herds returning to the village from meadows would decide to leave their own group and try to join ours or maybe in an attempt to grab a mouthful of some vegetable grown in a nearby farm. After all, herds passed through the roads air would become dusty. The scent of the dust permeated the whole environment. By this time sun had almost sat, and darkness seemingly descended through those dust clouds. Those dust clouds were inseparable from other natural phenomena, like morning, evening, or sunrise. Thus, the name given to dusk is very appropriately based on the dust mixed in the air by cows returning home after grazing. I don't remember when was the last time I saw that thing last. It's been a while since I last visited my Mama's house in the summer. In my tiny village, only one man takes his cattle to graze, which are few and do not create a dusty dusk.

Speaking of dusks at my home, they used to be slightly different but with their own hues and fragrances. Different seasons have cast a distinct imprint on the memory. Still, long summer days have more weight in memories than winter. By the time the sun's ferocity decreased. The red glow of its descent beamed through trees around houses in the village; I would have taken some rest after coming from school and doing some homework. On some such evening, kids from the neighborhood would gather to play games. But as the light started fading, every kid would be needed at their homes. Kids ignored their calling mother, but they knew after a point they had to go. For me, it was my grandfather who called me. He would stand near livestock and call me to bring matchsticks or fire from home. Then we would create a smoldering fire to produce smoke to keep mosquitoes away.

I intuitively conceived, rightly or wrongly, that smoke produced by neem leaves would prove fatal to mosquitoes and eradicate them. In contrast, smoke from other stuff would drive them away for some time, so I would collect some neem leaves, throw them in a smoldering heap of grasses, and use a hand fan to make the smoke denser. All houses in the neighborhood similarly made smoke. Rising smoke would slowly disperse in the air driving away mosquitoes. Having good riddance from mosquitoes, buffaloes would start eating their fodder even more fondly.

Now, I would sit on the cot laid near the neem tree. The sky would be full of birds returning to their homes. Every bird would be flying east to west in various spectacular formations. There would be the return of crows, and then cranes would go, and the many small birds whose names I don't know would fly past. Also, most would not just wash away silently but go chirping and singing. Sometimes I would hear a loud shrill sound of sarus cranes. They always lived in pairs, and only a few lived around the village. One wouldn't see these big birds daily as they were countably few. They didn't fly very high in the sky, and one could hear air rush through their flapping wings when they passed overhead. They returned home later than the other birds, as if no one awaited them. Flying with their big red beaks, they seemed to embody the dusk. Their red beaks were like the setting sun, and their dusky white wings and body resembled the evening. As they passed, darkness would cover the earth as if they were flying, spreading a sheet over the skies.

Also, there were many more birds around, more familiar to us. These were small birds like sparrows that didn't go far to collect their food, and our homes would suffice to sustain them. They would eat from ripe crops heaped in the yard or pick food from the husk. There were enough guava, papaya trees, and many more that these little birds would be happy to stay close to their homes. Speaking of their homes, our home was their home. They would make their nests in bamboo holes used in thatch roofs. Others would build theirs in small holes in walls. And a lot more lived on dense trees near and inside our homes. In the daytime, we tried our best to catch these little birds to pet, failing every time, but when they slept in their nests and were most vulnerable, we would not even try to see them. It was almost a sacrilege to disturb trees, birds, or animals at night when they were sleeping. Peacocks used to come to our homes to get their hands on some paddy or wheat kept in the sun for drying, but they were the first to leave the village and go on high trees to sleep. Never saw a peacock wandering on the ground late evening.

Kerosene lanterns would be lit and kept at the entrance of homes before night pervaded the world. From afar, any village would look like a collection of these dimly burning lanterns. Within two hours of the arrival of night, the village went to sleep. The following day people would wake up when the first birds chirped.

Birds have become far fewer in number, even in my village. By city standards, they are too many but fewer than they used to be. Skies are mostly empty in the daytime, and birds returning home in miraculous formations are less frequent and rarely seen. Loud and shrill sarus cranes have become lonelier as if they are the last two people surviving an apocalypse. Their piercing calls appear to be a cry for help. People have made cement roofs, and thatches and straws are gone. Sparrows don't gather around at lunch to get some food from leftovers of people. Lanterns are gone (for good), and there are LEDs. Perhaps birds couldn't learn to sleep in LED lights. Some years later, I suppose, people would fail to imagine why Dusk is called Godhuli.

~ Anurag

[Images were taken from the Internet. Copyrights of used photos lie with respective owners.]