A Suggestion

I thought it would be nice if you started off with Uncle Podger and Josephine March. Or, even an Oliver Twist. You need one character to make you smile (no matter how old you are) and one character to feel like his/her story was yours in writing.

Growing up, Little Women was where my heart was and Wuthering Heights was the love-story that diverted a child's mind to the exploratory regions of adolescence. Heathcliff was the man my adolescent heart yearned for - one that appealed to a girl's fantasy. Soon, that too gave way to Gone with the Wind. For me, it had always been fashionable to look down upon Mills and Boon romance stories. But, it is Jerome K Jerome that my mind turns to when I need comfort, familiarity and humor on a cold, gray afternoon.

I hope you find some characters for keeps. I know I have. These books transport me effortlessly and swiftly to my school days when the school building looked no less exciting than the first glimpse Darryl had of Malory Towers. To a time when life's simplicity was bound in white starched skirts & pigtails and sucking on honeysuckle stems. When it was all right to move your head to rippling notes played on the piano without knowing it was Fur Elise. It was OK to be who you were. One could find comfort in a sea of white starched skirts and pigtails and occasionally, hardbound library books.

The Recital

Sulochona stared out of the passenger seat window at the rapidly evolving suburban settlement. Yet, one had the feeling that nothing really registered behind those unseeing eyes. A blank stare, a blank canvas. And, that is how it had been for 10 years now. The forehead was smooth except for a crease or two running the breadth of the temples. Dark impressions beside the nose marked spots where spectacles must have schafed against the skin. Sulochona had cocooned herself comfortably inside a sarcophagus - even the slightest movement of her limbs or a change in her facial expression seemed unnatural to an onlooker.


Her head jerked back to the driver as she felt a soft hand on her wrist. The lady in the driver's seat smiled at her encouragingly.


"Do you know where we are going today?"
"Where?" - words dribbled out of the elderly woman's loose lips.
"It's a concert - Indian classical music - by Pt Ajoy Chakraborty. You love his
music, don't you?"
"Do I?" She sighed deeply and ended with a "Maybe."


Rai left her alone. Her nostrils flared - a remnant of her yesteryear temper. She counted silently from 1 to 10 and concentrated on her breathing instead. That, along with the growing traffic as the small Cooper neared the cultural events venue, made her forget quickly the tension in the car. They reached the Convention Arena well ahead of time. Rai found seats for Mrs Gupta before heading outside for snacks.


"Kemon achho, Rai? Shorir bhalo to?"
"Oh, Chitra-di! I am so embarassed - we could not make it to your party last
weekend. You know how it is with Ma."
"I do, beta. But, I worry less for her and more for you. Sulochona has had a
happy life for the most part - and no mother could ask for a better child than
you. But you - have you thought..? I'm sorry - there I go again. Sumit is right -
I am quite the nosy parker of the subdivision!" She placed a warm hand on
Rai's back and gave her a quick hug.


Rai's eyes filled up with uncharacteristic tears. It had been a hard task to give up her aspirations for a high-profile career, a normal life perhaps as most of her friends had now. The entities that came in quick progression - husband, house, mortgage, children. Well, she could check some off that list. Her mother was like a child now - the doctor referred to the shock of Mr Gupta's sudden demise as a trigger. It was not Alzheimer's - Sulochona had taken refuge in her childhood, essentially erasing any reference in her mind to her married life, her only child, her house, her friends - any vestiges of an adult existence.


"Chitra-di...! I should be going now, Ma is by herself - see you in there?"
"Hyan re, take care."


Rai gathered the Kashmiri shawl around herself as she settled down beside her mother. She noticed her mother staring at her intently yet Rai did nothing - she wanted to enjoy this evening and did not want to be drawn into anymore disappointment stemming from Sulochona's condition. Ironic that it had been Sulochona who had introduced her daughter to the layers of classical music.


The program began with "Bhavani Dayani..."based on raag Bhairavi.


Goosebumps stood up on Sulochona's arms as she gripped her right palm with the left. She knew this rendition - every Wednesday evening, the music teacher would insist on starting the class by paying his respects to Goddess Durga. And, the sharp slap of the wooden ruler on Sulochona's right palm, if that was required to get her to "appreciate the nuances of Indian music". Sulochona was terrified all of a sudden, sitting in the cold unfamiliar confines of her hard seat. She turned to the lady on her right - the one who had driven her here. Wanting to tell her, to plead with her - Sulochona wanted to go home.


Her pleading gaze rested on Rai's shawl - the intricacies of Kashmiri embroidery, hues of pomegranate-red and peacock-blue on a buff background. Sulochona's request froze on her lips as her mind registered with a jolt - recognition. She knew this shawl.


Feeling her mother's eyes upon her, Rai turned to Sulochona and kept a reassuring hand on her mother's trembling fingers. Sulochona's doe-like eyes flitted from Rai's shawl to her fingers now - the ring on Rai's finger - a proud old Firoza stone studded with diamonds. Yes, Sulochona knew this ring - it was her mother's. For once, Sulochona's tired eyes lit up with a fire her soul had long banished unknowingly. Her hands clawed at Ria's shawl.


Ria's voice reflected her concern - " Kichu bolbe, Maa? Do you want to say something?"
Sulochona hesitated; her words stumbled over one another in excitement, "Maa, Maa - ami baari jabo."

"Mother - I want to go home!"


NOTE Written on the premise that it is easier to draw people into your world than it is to step outside, especially for someone like Sulochona.

Imagine a tunnel - a corridor - that leads you from one room to the other. Everytime you pass through a room, a door closes behind you. A conveyor belt moves you forward into the next room. You can turn around and start walking in the reverse direction but it won't get you anywhere. So, you jump off the belt and walk to the last door that closed behind you. You knock and you pummel on the door with your fists. You can hear echoes in the hallway. But, the door won't budge an inch.

That's life for you, sweetie.

I remember, Part IV: Cuckoo's Boston

Boston, for me, will always be akin to a spa experience. Except that spas don't smell of old books and their pristine surroundings are not criss-crossed with T lines. Boston never failed to rejuvenate me whenever I visited her familiar streets.

You know how unknowingly you zone into a few qualities in a new lover - ones that remind you of your old one? Boston was an upgraded version of my old love, Calcutta. I never knew how I loved the old dame of the East until I was greeted with mild whiffs of her in Boston nooks and crannies. The frequent Boston visits started with a childhood friend's (lets call her Cuckoo, for reasons best known to her) move to the great city.

The very first visit evokes feelings of sweet pain - I had just gone through my first (and last) break-up and was hoping to get away from it all with a week-long trip to Boston. Cuckoo, at that time, used to share her living space with three other graduate students. One bedroom shared by 4 girls gives rise to very amusing stories. No, not that kind.

Boston Public Gardens, Quincy Market and Cambridge were some of my favourite (yes, the British spelling of the word) spots. Cuckoo loved to walk and did not have a car - which, I am guessing, is a blessing in Boston. Any given day, we would start from nearabout Museum of Fine Arts and traipse all over the city, crossing the Fens, walking by beautiful old residences adorned with bougainvillaea look-alikes. [A picture of lovers in the background and ducks in the fore was to inspire me in later days] At the point where my legs started to feel tired, our eyes were greeted by the Charles river, lined with jogging lanes. We would cross over the bridge into Cambridge - always synonymous with cobble-stoned streets and bookshops. And, of course, how could a Bengali restaurant with "machher jhol bhaat" listed on the menu stuck to its window be any less attractive?

Nov 3, 2010

If you are a Calcuttan, you know how you would (and possibly, still) take pride in the trams, dusty roads, shooting the breeze on dulcet evenings as you filtered the city's creaks and sighs into an experience that can only be romanticised? Calcutta is not a pretty city but we adorn her with the epithet, Tilottama because as Calcuttans, that is what we do - we romanticise. Every nook and cranny of that city strums my heartstrings effortlessly even as I choke on fumes during our annual pilgrimage. And, perhaps that is why I love Boston so. Calcutta's snooty sibling, Boston, entices me with her criss-crossing T lines, museums and sightings of lovers and ducks in the park. She exists because Bostonians exist. In their minds but more importantly, in their hearts.

A sense that envelops you, cocoons you, infuses you with a faint fragrance even when you find yourself friendless on distant Dallas shores.

I remember, Part III: Cherries and the Big Apple

I despised Mike Monahan without ever having met him. He was an American colleague of my father - briefly stationed in Bangalore. He advised my father that for a year at least, I should not travel much outside Buffalo, being 'new' to the country. And, Daddy's girl that I was, I obeyed him and hence obeyed Mike Monahan and therefore, despised him.

Now that this bit has been explained, let me tell you how I loved the beginning of Spring in Buffalo. Imagine being buffeted in by snow - on any given day 2-3 feet easily - clumping through the whiteness in snow boots that, because they needed to be functional, looked like worksman's boots. [Perhaps some graduate student threw them out eventually - I left them in the lab as a gift for my erstwhile labmates] All the snow was to blame for the 30-40 pounds I packed on real fast. It feels so much better now that I can blame snow for my obesity.

The first sight of Spring in Buffalo came in the form of tiny pink cherry blossoms. A single sighting at 8 am would bring a smile to my face. And, when the whole tree burst into bloom, cherry blossoms and Spring brought with them a dear friend to Buffalo. Lets call her Winnie. The Pooh. Okay, just Winnie. I have a picture of her wearing a long flowing black/brown dress patterned with pink flowers - standing beneath a cherry blossom tree. Smiling. Although, she ceased to smile when she entered my room and took to cleaning with vengeance and a broom. On Winnie's insistence (and considerable indignation at being locked up in a closet-like room for 3 consecutive days), we made a day trip to New York City. And, THAT was my first trip outside Buffalo.

I remember, Part II: Food - and how I paid for it in 2001

That December, I moved across Main Street from South campus to Callodine. To share a townhouse with two other graduate students. One from Economics and the other from Engineering. This was a huge rambling townhouse with hardwood floors and a separate bedroom for each of us. Space had been provided in the house for most amenities graduate students need (which is very little to start with anyway) except the bathroom. You would have to exit as soon as you entered the sole bathroom and as we all know, in such cases, the bathroom is to blame for all the problems that crop up amongst roommates :)

At that time, I was of the opinion that hot milk can set most things straight. This, from a purported lactose-intolerant milk-hater. Well....now that I have it in writing, it actually does make sense. Anyhow, the Engineering grad knocks on my door in the dead of the night - her pupils are dilated, sweat beads stand out on her forehead and I don't mind admitting now that I was just a little bit scared by the look in her eyes. She was having problems sleeping in her room - noises or some such. Could she share my room tonight? Sure - out come the hot milk and biscuits and we became steadfast oh-sugar-so-nice roommate buddies UNTIL....the bathroom interfered. You see, any and all of my friends/roommates will vouch for the fact that I am not the tidiest person in the world. I am one of the fast-dying breed of women who do not track down a speck of dust with a feather duster/vacuum cleaner. I clean my room if I have visitors - otherwise, I like the theory of order amidst chaos. And, we all know how that works - or at least, the few of us know. So - diehard OCD clean-freak battled diehard OCD dirt-freak and our friendship withered in the midst. What a pity - oh well. Ho hum.

It was here in this very townhouse that I hosted my first dinner party. To introduce my ex to my friends and to thank my friends for all the care they showered during my post-knee surgery days. [At this point, I should take a step back from Callodine and tell you that my winter break prior to moving into the townhouse was spent living at a friend's apartment - with a knee cast and a miniature refrigerator (it was actually an ice box) circulating cold water around the wound to keep the swelling down. I depended wholly on Sourav to cook for me and actually even entertain me - would you believe this guy and his friend took me to a movie on 25th December? Cast and refrigerator and all; lifting my leg off the road into the car; arranging for enough leg space in the movie theatre? I tell you - this guy was a Godsend. So, everytime I cuss out males in general, I have to make a few mental omissions] I cooked and I sang and we made merry. Lots of merry. Until the semester started and I was told there was no more funding. I worked in the university cafeteria slicing pizza and compiling sandwiches ("Tuna salad? Wheat or white? Mayo or mustard? Lettuce? Banana peppers? Oh come on, you **%%$!@ 18 year-old, buck the f$%& up!") - lapping up the free food and the 6.50$ an hour. This reminds me - you should try toasting an everything bagel, brush it with butter and top it with thinly sliced tomatoes. Absolute heaven.

So, one of these days (now that I have evoked sufficient sympathy from the here-now there-now reader), I hobble back home on crutches (notice 'hobble') to a yellow sticky posted on my bedroom door. The Eco grad has had it with my unkempt ways and thorough disregard for division of chores laid down in the house. Something along the lines of 'Please wipe the kitchen floor TODAY, it is YOUR turn'. So, I get down and wipe the floor. Seeing the unfairness of it all, God smote the Eco grad...well, not quite - she broke her foot descending the stairs to hell (our basement, what else). And, yours truly cooked and shared her food and chatted up the Eco grad. Needless to say, there were no more yellow stickies on my door after that.

(Sanctimonious chuckle in the background) Much more later.