Heaven -- that's how you would term my lovely hometown. Nagpur was every bit what I expected it to be. A rash of sentiment, a meeting of minds, a singing of hearts, a slapping of backs, a splendid shindig... Having quit the city many moons ago to take up employment in Bombay, a journey back was always overwhelming. I prowled about our home, caressing here a book rib, there a picture, taking in the inanimate things which seemed eager to reach out and converse, memories came flooding in. It is easier to shake off a burdensome lover than escape nostalgia... But allow me digress. Even as my eyes wandered lovingly over things I grew up with, I saw the bottle that has long held a pride of place on our refrigerator. It had been gifted to us by one of my father's friends. This time I espied that its detachable head was cracked, and stuck painstakingly together -- obviously, by mother dear. I touched it, running my finger along the fissure. It didn't recoil under my familiar touch, and I grinned as I remembered the story behind it... Resting atop the fridge like a coveted mantelpiece, that amber-coloured bottle holds a sacred significance for my overly god-fearing and pious mother. Its hallowed interior contains the holy water -- Ganga jal. How the holy water came to be collected in a bottle in Nagpur hundreds of miles away from the mighty Ganges has something legal about it. It is directly related to my father's law practice. Dad dear was a conventional lawyer and in wanting to keep in tune with the precepts of his profession was always on the lookout for loopholes in law. For this, he had to enrich his understanding of jurisprudence and we customarily saw him poring over fat tomes bearing dense titles. This is where a travelling, emaciated law-book salesman, who lugged trunks full of legal tomes all the way from Allahabad to Nagpur, came into the picture. A monthly visitor to my father's office and our house, he invariably left my father feeling a lot lighter in the head and the pocket than Dad ever admitted to. A perfect salesman, he would run out of superlatives describing my mother's culinary prowess. Blushing a healthy crimson, she never could see through his unctuous self. Strangely, despite selling law books to legal sharks all over the countryside, he appeared more sincere than he had any right to. It was, perhaps, this quality of his -- if not the praise he heaped on her dishes -- that made her ask him to run a monthly errand for her: that of bringing Ganga jal for her devout pursuits. The bookseller smiled his assent with a chivalrous bow. Thereafter, Mom dear would look forward to her monthly quota of the holy liquid to refill that dark glass bottle. The smooth salesman would religiously bring the blessed water for her, while Dad and I smirked brazenly, amused at the naiveté of the lady of the house. "Do you think he really gets water from the Ganga?" asked Dad incredulously. "He must be filling his bottle at the station or the hotel before passing it off to you as the holy stuff." "And why should he do that? The Lord sees everything. In any case, I don't think he would ever think of doing that, he's not a lawyer," she would retort. The entry of the holy water from the Ganges into our peaceful household triggered off minor squabbles. For Dad and me, however, it was a matter of perennial mirth. The mighty Ganges and the shrewd salesman continued to keep Mom's supply of the sacred stuff from depleting. Meanwhile, Dad and I kept simpering on, albeit furtively. Whether the salesman conned my mother is something we never could confirm due to lack of evidence and the fact that water looked the same irrespective of the measure of holiness it contained. Now that Dad is no more, the visitations of the salesman to our home have become infrequent. Yet, even today he brings the holy water for Mom whenever he is able to make time it. I no longer doubt his honesty. The slanting light from the kitchen window filtering through the amber-coloured bottle lends it a peculiar opacity. The beautifully chiselled, cut-glass figure has been craftily designed to resemble an eagle, complete with a now-cracked, detachable head. And every time it is refilled with Ganga jal, my face can't help but crease into a sardonic smile. For, the bottle originally contained malt whisky. Incidentally, Shishir Bhate prefers plain water to whisky and Ganga jal. Tell us what you think of this diary
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