A whiff of nostalgia brings Sohna Punjab to California
“Care for a drive, ma?” my son said. “Yes! If it’s through Sohna Punjab,” I respond laughing. I like to describe the rural area around Sacramento, the capital of California, as Sohna (Beautiful) Punjab.
The weather in this area is like spring in Punjab. The vegetation is similar, too. The only difference is that the area is cleaner than my state. The roads are broader, smoother and less crowded. There are no potholes or bumps as repairs are unbelievably quick. Traffic control is superb. The fear of the ticket (fine), alert traffic police and CCTV surveillance don’t let roadies get rowdy.
Honking is considered offensive here. It’s a welcome sight to see queues of pedestrians waiting patiently near traffic signals on the roadside for their turn to cross the road. Even where there are no traffic signals, those walking are given the right of way. Many a pleasant situation arises when drivers stop and wave smilingly, signalling walkers to cross the road. It reminds one of the Lakhnawi culture of ‘Pehle aap (After you)’. For those of us from countries where pedestrians enjoy no respect and are scared away by speeding vehicles, this is an unbelievable sight.
The drive from Sacramento to Yuba City is something to experience. Sitting beside my son driving on roads winding through lush fields remind me of Punjab. I get nostalgic and for a fleeting moment, the desire to be home crosses the mind. The sight of fields full of yellow mustard flowers, impel me to tell my son to park the car on the roadside. Getting down, I take a deep breath and the sweet scent of the flowers surrounded by humming bees brings back memories of six decades ago.
I find myself in a tiny village named Dhollowal in the Doaba region of Punjab with my grandmother. She is plucking stems of mustard for making ‘Sarson da saag’. Taking each stem from her, I run to deposit it on a piece of homespun khadi cloth spread nearby. When the pile is big enough, she makes a bundle of the greens and puts it on my head to carry home. She holds my hand in one of hers to save me from slipping over the uneven narrow path in the fields and with the other, she supports the ‘pand (bundle)’ to stop it from slipping down my little head. Back home, the bundle of greens is spread on a big ‘manja (cot made of wood and cotton strings)’ to be cleaned.
I wonder how Ma ji would have reacted if I told her about Sohna Punjab and the sarson de khet (fields of mustard) thousands of miles away from our small village in the heart of Punjab.
THE SWEET SCENT OF THE BRIGHT YELLOW FLOWERS SURROUNDED BY HUMMING BEES BRINGS BACK MEMORIES OF SIX DECADES AGO. I FIND MYSELF IN A TINY VILLAGE NAMED DHOLLOWAL IN DOABA