Tura and Me

My Dad was posted in Tura when I was six. And that is where my serious schooling started. I was admitted to my fifth school and first KV. For those of you who are wondering where Tura is, its in Meghalaya, one of the seven sisters of our North East. A snug valley at the foothills of Tura hills, right under Tura Peak, this town is one of those quieter hilly destinations that we crave sometimes. Don’t go there looking for a Shillong, or an Itanagar. And comparing it with those places would be unfair. I spent three years of my life there. And it was a beautiful place to call home for those three years.

My school there was like the place, sleepy and simple. Not bothered much with studies or discipline, we had fun most days. But I owe a big part of my life to that school. That is where I learnt to write. I had written tons in my previous school as part of handwriting practice but Tura is where I learnt the logic behind writing, the connection between words and ideas. Was there some kind of magic in those West Garo Hills? I would like to believe so.

My Dad’s office cum residence quarters was located on top of a small hill. It was a cute Assam type cottage, complete with a leaking ceiling in the many rain-storms. After a wet night, if the sun dared to venture out, you could encounter a variety of snakes basking around. You really had to look where you stepped. The path that wound from the narrow main road to our quarter was the bumpiest free ride ever. Needless to say, my Dad’s Jeep would always reach home in leaps and bounds.

Still, the entire place was so picturesque, like straight out of a movie. Mornings were fresh and dewy, afternoons were lazy and drunk, evenings had a breeze blowing with the right amount of speed to call them romantic, and nights were silent and spooky. Won’t you call that inspiring now? And that’s when I started writing. I wrote a notebook full of crappy stories, which are still lying around some place, and decided that I wanted to be a writer when I grew up.

This was also the school where I learnt Hindi, and got jeered at for my accent. And this is where I woke up to the politics that some cunning kids play. I learnt that people always side with the popular kids, that jealousy can break seemingly close ties between best friends and it could be dangerous to gossip. Apart from that, I remember that our school didn’t have a canteen, but hawkers greeted us at the exit gates, after we were let out. Ice lollies, masala tamarind pastes, dalmot, all heralded us with open arms. The ice lollies were nothing but sweetened ice in various colours and the only ice cream available in Tura. Yes, believe it or not, I have spent three years of my life without ice cream! I remember every time we went to Guwahati, which is around two hundred kms away, I would gorge on a choco bar, as our driver marveled at the eight bucks we paid for it. (Yeah, back then it was eight bucks for a Kwality choco bar.)

Another surprise for me there was girl power! The Garo society is matrilocal as well as matrilineal. That means you inherit a mother’s property not a father’s. And the groom stays with the bride’s family. How cool is that? We came to know many men there who were house-husbands, while their wives were the primary bread earners. I of course decided that no matter where I was when I was of marriageable age, I will come back to marry a Garo boy. That meant I would take him along with me to wherever I was staying, and I never had to leave my parents. (As a child, this was my second ploy to keep myself with my parents, the first being, trying to marry my Dad!!)

A place called Arhai Mile (Arhai meaning two and half) was the most happening place in an otherwise dormant town. That is where most of the shops were. People thronged it on weekends for vegetables, fruits, poultry and fish. Needless to say, everything was always fresh and sold with a warm gusto in Garo, the primary language spoken there. Apart from that, I had some Hajong and Koch friends too.

In and around Tura were many rivulets and valleys, some of which, we were fortunate to explore. I remember a picnic party that went from school. We just walked to the spot. The entire place was so untouched back then, you could just sit near the road and have a picnic! We also got to see our border with Bangladesh. I remember being surprised at it looking absolutely similar to my own country!

I never went back to Tura, looking for my groom, who would release me from the tradition of leaving my parents’ home, but searching on the internet, I find that Tura has changed a lot. Along with the rest of our country it too has grown. But in my mind’s eye I will always be sitting there on a hillock, blowing bubbles, writing stories or licking masala tamarind!