I have been meaning to write to you, to confront your loss and my pain in a manner befitting the person who you were. I toyed with the medium and language of communication and wondered if this should be a letter or a meaningless scrap when it dawned that all the thinking and rationalisation and memory-sorting detracts from the spontaneity. How could that be a tribute to a free, impulsive spirit?
I have never held a kaleidoscope in my hands and have, for the most part, fancied it to be a glass-mirror encrusted, ratchety tube coloured in gaudy strips of mauve and pink. When a little girl puts it to her eye and clicks rapidly from one frame to another, her teeth biting down hard on her lower lip and then her lips parting into a guileless perfect “O” - I think of you…and me…and the frames that keep us together. Some of those frames memories are in stark black and white, some tinted sepia. Only recent ones are in bright Eastman color. The little girl is in pigtails and dungarees. She has a light fever and her cheeks are flushed. Her eyes are bright, too bright perhaps because of the fever or perhaps touched by the flavour of the lives she glimpses briefly. The kaleidoscope is like a time capsule that has taken the most enduring emotions and squeezed them into this tiny physical space - the magic is almost palpable and the effect on the little girl surreal.
Because, no-one really wants to grow up and I am still walking by your side, my hand tiny in your firm grip, feeling warm inside as you regale yourself with stories from your childhood.
Friday, March 02, 2007
Thursday, March 01, 2007
A Series in Remembrance
July 06, 2006
Do you remember the chestnut colored bookcase we had in our house in Calcutta? Some of our storybooks were kept there displayed outside and some more in the cream colored bookcase inside our bedroom. One of those books that I read over and over again (I cannot recall if you bought it for us or someone gifted it to us on a birthday) was called Raggity and the Cloud. It was a Russian book and in the preface, the author speaks of how she started writing the book. This was nothing like Pushkin or Tolstoy or the other somber looking books you bought from Russian bookstalls. This was a colorful book for children with pictures on every other page. It was a story of a young servant-girl and a cloud that talks to her (I know it sounds weird now but at that age, it was completely credible). Anyhow, the author’s daughter used to suffer from chronic earache which would come down to the jaws and completely immobilize her in pain. She talks about how difficult it is to divert the attention of a sick child and how she (the author) started weaving stories to regale her daughter for hours on end. Now, I have an ill parent at home (sometimes, more than ONE ill parent) and I wonder what kind of stories would divert his attention from the pain and weakness. Do you remember the stories and essays I would write as a child and make you read them? You would joke about the familiar storyline – daughters and fathers and morbid endings. So, that certainly won’t cheer you up now. Well then, how about the story of the fox you would tell us at night “So, the fox is walking through the woods and he is walking and walking”. Most of those stories would end with gentle snoring – yours of course! So, I can’t take advantage of that tack either. The other kind of story you would tell us would be about the king, his queen and their three princesses. Now, we all know how that story ends. The king is “indisposed” in his royal bed, the queen is coughing and swallowing pills by the dozen intermittently and the princesses – well, the princesses have given up their fancy gowns for swords and men’s clothes (that’s my version, not yours). The best times the royal family shared were around the glass dinner table laden with roasts and desserts (I can almost hear the youngest princess slurping to glory) swapping funny stories from the expensive royal school or the royal court (which is where the king went to work). But, that story can’t be enjoyable either. Because as soon as I start weaving the tale, you will start asking about the advanced degree the second princess is working towards and the visa application for the third princess and how the eldest princess is faring after her latest fancy illness. [You must realize that visas and PhDs have no place in fairy-tales!] There was one more book written by Nehru titled “Letters from a father to a daughter” which (I am pretty sure) you bought for us and none of us really read it. So, there goes the very last book I could have drawn inspiration from! The only story I know is that of a little heroic boy and how that boy never really grew up. The king would tell us this story and we would always clamor for it again and again although we knew the exact details. How the boy simply adored his mother, wore his father’s shirts even when he was told not to (There is a strange resemblance between the king and the youngest princess here – do you know that the youngest princess was remonstrated on numerous occasions by the eldest one for wearing her clothes?) and how the little boy was slapped only one day by his father because he nodded off to sleep while repeating the first line of a poem. I wonder if the poem went: “One morn, I met an old man in the lane, He was close to my farm”. This boy had an elder brother he absolutely revered and adored (therein lies a very loose analogy between the second and the youngest princess although the youngest might beg to differ!) and after the brother died, the little boy taught even smaller kids, in order to earn money for his family. Some days when he would receive the tuition money, he would reward himself with a mutton cutlet or a kobiraji (here I get confused: I think cutlets are the king’s favorites while the queen likes her kobirajis) from a favorite shop in Calcutta. This was a very quiet kid who gave up his shy demeanor when he opted for a career that required him to talk all day long. Numerous accolades, promotions, recognition, mudslinging, legal brawls and illnesses later, the boy hasn’t really grown up. Some days, he is cranky and most days, he won’t eat “food that is good for him”. I have a message from the princesses for the little boy: “Remember the days when we were forced to eat bitter gourd?” Neither the king nor the queen could even begin to imagine how much of that delectable vegetable was secretly flushed down toilets and tucked beneath golden plates. Now, the little boy has neither of those options open to him since he is being strictly guarded by the queen and her trusty aide, the youngest princess. So, the boy is being gently urged to eat his food or else! By now, I have realized (and you would have too) that I have successfully confused the story of the little boy and the story of the royal family. I am so confused myself that if asked to explain the analogies and allegories, I would probably get very annoyed.
August 30, 2006
Getting away from analogies and returning to reality, I spent a wonderful 10 days with you and Maa this time. The good thing about spending smaller periods of time together is that you want to pack in as much happiness as possible – as a consequence, you end up being more forgiving and work that much harder to overcome trivial differences in opinion (and there’s plenty in the house, full as it is with fire signs). Rinki is settling in well here and you should not worry for her. I bought her books for this semester yesterday and her classes have begun from this week. I will visit her the weekend before her birthday since she might be feeling lonely this year, being away from family. Maa seems to be taking everything in good stead – I don’t mind admitting that I was worried about how well she would handle things after all of us moved away. How could I forget that this lady spent the better part of her life raising three hooligans almost singlehandedly and did a pretty good job of it? Good parenting is phasing out nowadays and we have precious few examples to learn from – we can only hope to be as good and patient and selfless as you have. Trust in us and have faith in God. And, please get well soon and return home to us.
Love
Ruma
Do you remember the chestnut colored bookcase we had in our house in Calcutta? Some of our storybooks were kept there displayed outside and some more in the cream colored bookcase inside our bedroom. One of those books that I read over and over again (I cannot recall if you bought it for us or someone gifted it to us on a birthday) was called Raggity and the Cloud. It was a Russian book and in the preface, the author speaks of how she started writing the book. This was nothing like Pushkin or Tolstoy or the other somber looking books you bought from Russian bookstalls. This was a colorful book for children with pictures on every other page. It was a story of a young servant-girl and a cloud that talks to her (I know it sounds weird now but at that age, it was completely credible). Anyhow, the author’s daughter used to suffer from chronic earache which would come down to the jaws and completely immobilize her in pain. She talks about how difficult it is to divert the attention of a sick child and how she (the author) started weaving stories to regale her daughter for hours on end. Now, I have an ill parent at home (sometimes, more than ONE ill parent) and I wonder what kind of stories would divert his attention from the pain and weakness. Do you remember the stories and essays I would write as a child and make you read them? You would joke about the familiar storyline – daughters and fathers and morbid endings. So, that certainly won’t cheer you up now. Well then, how about the story of the fox you would tell us at night “So, the fox is walking through the woods and he is walking and walking”. Most of those stories would end with gentle snoring – yours of course! So, I can’t take advantage of that tack either. The other kind of story you would tell us would be about the king, his queen and their three princesses. Now, we all know how that story ends. The king is “indisposed” in his royal bed, the queen is coughing and swallowing pills by the dozen intermittently and the princesses – well, the princesses have given up their fancy gowns for swords and men’s clothes (that’s my version, not yours). The best times the royal family shared were around the glass dinner table laden with roasts and desserts (I can almost hear the youngest princess slurping to glory) swapping funny stories from the expensive royal school or the royal court (which is where the king went to work). But, that story can’t be enjoyable either. Because as soon as I start weaving the tale, you will start asking about the advanced degree the second princess is working towards and the visa application for the third princess and how the eldest princess is faring after her latest fancy illness. [You must realize that visas and PhDs have no place in fairy-tales!] There was one more book written by Nehru titled “Letters from a father to a daughter” which (I am pretty sure) you bought for us and none of us really read it. So, there goes the very last book I could have drawn inspiration from! The only story I know is that of a little heroic boy and how that boy never really grew up. The king would tell us this story and we would always clamor for it again and again although we knew the exact details. How the boy simply adored his mother, wore his father’s shirts even when he was told not to (There is a strange resemblance between the king and the youngest princess here – do you know that the youngest princess was remonstrated on numerous occasions by the eldest one for wearing her clothes?) and how the little boy was slapped only one day by his father because he nodded off to sleep while repeating the first line of a poem. I wonder if the poem went: “One morn, I met an old man in the lane, He was close to my farm”. This boy had an elder brother he absolutely revered and adored (therein lies a very loose analogy between the second and the youngest princess although the youngest might beg to differ!) and after the brother died, the little boy taught even smaller kids, in order to earn money for his family. Some days when he would receive the tuition money, he would reward himself with a mutton cutlet or a kobiraji (here I get confused: I think cutlets are the king’s favorites while the queen likes her kobirajis) from a favorite shop in Calcutta. This was a very quiet kid who gave up his shy demeanor when he opted for a career that required him to talk all day long. Numerous accolades, promotions, recognition, mudslinging, legal brawls and illnesses later, the boy hasn’t really grown up. Some days, he is cranky and most days, he won’t eat “food that is good for him”. I have a message from the princesses for the little boy: “Remember the days when we were forced to eat bitter gourd?” Neither the king nor the queen could even begin to imagine how much of that delectable vegetable was secretly flushed down toilets and tucked beneath golden plates. Now, the little boy has neither of those options open to him since he is being strictly guarded by the queen and her trusty aide, the youngest princess. So, the boy is being gently urged to eat his food or else! By now, I have realized (and you would have too) that I have successfully confused the story of the little boy and the story of the royal family. I am so confused myself that if asked to explain the analogies and allegories, I would probably get very annoyed.
August 30, 2006
Getting away from analogies and returning to reality, I spent a wonderful 10 days with you and Maa this time. The good thing about spending smaller periods of time together is that you want to pack in as much happiness as possible – as a consequence, you end up being more forgiving and work that much harder to overcome trivial differences in opinion (and there’s plenty in the house, full as it is with fire signs). Rinki is settling in well here and you should not worry for her. I bought her books for this semester yesterday and her classes have begun from this week. I will visit her the weekend before her birthday since she might be feeling lonely this year, being away from family. Maa seems to be taking everything in good stead – I don’t mind admitting that I was worried about how well she would handle things after all of us moved away. How could I forget that this lady spent the better part of her life raising three hooligans almost singlehandedly and did a pretty good job of it? Good parenting is phasing out nowadays and we have precious few examples to learn from – we can only hope to be as good and patient and selfless as you have. Trust in us and have faith in God. And, please get well soon and return home to us.
Love
Ruma
Sunday, November 19, 2006
It took me four years, one death and a cliched question to confront and yet, strangely at the same time, go easy on myself.
"If you had a year to live and no onligations, no duties whatsoever; what would you do?"
First instinct: "Blahh! I hate these soul-searching Cosmo questions."
"No, I am serious. What would you do?"
Pat came the reply.
"Nrityagram. Living in a Gurukul atmosphere and Odissi."
I could have that, you know. It only scares me when I think what I would do if I did have it. Maybe, I would not want it anymore. So, for now I am happy with this super-amalgamation of my life and its wants in one single unbroken fabric.
"If you had a year to live and no onligations, no duties whatsoever; what would you do?"
First instinct: "Blahh! I hate these soul-searching Cosmo questions."
"No, I am serious. What would you do?"
Pat came the reply.
"Nrityagram. Living in a Gurukul atmosphere and Odissi."
I could have that, you know. It only scares me when I think what I would do if I did have it. Maybe, I would not want it anymore. So, for now I am happy with this super-amalgamation of my life and its wants in one single unbroken fabric.
Monday, November 06, 2006
What Started in 2005 OR Staying at home away from work can be debilitating to an otherwise stable mind
There is a thing or two to be said about losers.
it is not that they are weak or less enabled but that losing once too often breaks the spirit.
and so, then you give up trying at all.
u unlock your shieldand lay down ur swordeven as you do so,
the naked wounds exposed to salt and airhurt one last time.
dead eyes, scabs and drooping shouldershead down the cobbled streets
away from the celebrations
where the townpeople lift the winner
on their shoulders
and the roads run amuck with ale.
There is a thing or two to be said about winners.
it is not that they are superior but thatbelief bolsters the human spirit.
and you know that this fightjust like all the rest,will go your way.
you don your garb
polish the scimitar
and you wince just oncewhen the rusty sword pierces the lapels.
you worry that your image might be tarnished.
you are up on the shouldersof the roaring crowdwho revel,
for you are the hero of the peoplewho cannot fight for themselves
and so for you,
the roads, that could have been soiled by blood,
now run amuck with ale.
it is not that they are weak or less enabled but that losing once too often breaks the spirit.
and so, then you give up trying at all.
u unlock your shieldand lay down ur swordeven as you do so,
the naked wounds exposed to salt and airhurt one last time.
dead eyes, scabs and drooping shouldershead down the cobbled streets
away from the celebrations
where the townpeople lift the winner
on their shoulders
and the roads run amuck with ale.
There is a thing or two to be said about winners.
it is not that they are superior but thatbelief bolsters the human spirit.
and you know that this fightjust like all the rest,will go your way.
you don your garb
polish the scimitar
and you wince just oncewhen the rusty sword pierces the lapels.
you worry that your image might be tarnished.
you are up on the shouldersof the roaring crowdwho revel,
for you are the hero of the peoplewho cannot fight for themselves
and so for you,
the roads, that could have been soiled by blood,
now run amuck with ale.
Monday, August 21, 2006
Aachaar Churi
Shniri beye tortor kore uthhey ashchilo Khokon. Dupurer rodey chhatey maa gul diyeche - tar songe tnetuler aachaar o. Shobetei Dada-r haat aage porey - tobey ek shoptaah dhore dada pishir baari beratey gechhe - ei shuborno shujog ta kichute Khokon mathhey mara jete debe na. Khokoner maa sharata grishmokaal aam, jaam, tnetul, lebu, lonka rodey shukiye shorsher teley moshlaar songe mekhe chhatmoy mota mota knaacher shishite bondho kore rakhen. Paashei maadurer upor papad-o rodey rakha hoy. dui cheler-i maana shei aachar aar papadey haat dewa niye. Chheleder jonno alada kore Chhonda shorsher tel diye topa kuler aachar baniye rekheche. Kintu tate mon bhore naki? Ta chhara, baarite Maa ghumochhe, dada nei, Baba nei - aar dekhe ke?
Chhate ghure berachhe kotogulo paayra aar ekta shaalikh. Ekta shaalikh dekhei Khokon chokh bujey feley...chhatey paa rakhtei erokom baadha porlo? Isshh! Ektu ektu kore chokh khulche aar bukta dhorash kore uthchhe. Aajke abar maar khete hobe? Dada-r jonno ektu opekkha korley jodi....? Oi to! Arekta shaalikh urey eshe bosheche chhater aalsher upor. Ek laafey shesh shniri-ta paar hoye Khokon uthhey porlo chhatey.
Songe songe paayragulo jhotpot kore urey gelo. Khokon o chhutlo tader pichoney dhawa korey.."Hushh, hushh...ja shob bokom bokom, hushh!" Mota knaacher botogulor chaardhaarey ekbaar besh kore ghure nilo Khokon - aage khanikta bhebe nitey hobe karon dhora pore gelei shei botol baatil - egulo je bikrir jonno baniye rekheche Maa. Khub shabdhane ekta botoler matha ghuriye naakta aacharer shishir khub kachhe niye elo - aha, ektur jonno gondhe jeno charidik mo-mo kore othhey. Mone mone bhaabe,"Nah, Maa ekdom bhalobashe na amader noile bhalo tnetuler achaar, lebur achaar egulo jaabe bajaare aar amra khaabo kina kuler achaar?" Chhater koley aage haat-ta bhalo kore dhuye nilo Khokon - jotoi hok, bibeker dongshoney bhugte raaji noy shey. Ke jaane, hoyto kine khaabe paasher baarir Rinkidi-ra - haater dhulo laga achaar ora khabe, ta thik noy!
Chhotto haat-ta onayashe dhuke gelo botoler mukh diye bhitore - ek muthho achaar ber kore niyei onno haat diye shobtake aager moto shomaan kore dilo jaate keu bujhte na paare. Mukhe diye chakhte jawar aagei oboshyo Dada-r kotha mone porlo. Baatite kore ektu ontoto rekhe dite hobe noile hojom hobe na Khokon-er. Achaar dekhe khide pachhe khub tobuo shishir mathata shontorponey bondho kore chhutte chhutte rannaghore gelo ekta baatite tuley rakhte. Jawar somoy khawar ghorer dewaaley tangano ghoritar dike takiye dekhlo 3:30 beje geche - aar ektu porei Maa uthhe porbe.
Baatita haate niye paa tipe tipe oder dujoner showar ghorer dike egote thake Khokon. Ghore dhuktei oder khaater paashe ekta chotto table-er upor dhup, fuler mala aar chondoner fnota diye shajano photo-r shaamne rakhlo baati-ta. Oder khaate Maa tokhono ghumiye achhe - aajkal roj dupure knaadte knaadte Maa ekhanei ghumiye pore. Dada-r photor shaamne baatita rekhe diye aaste kore abar bichhanay Maa-r paashe shuye porey Khokon.
Chhate ghure berachhe kotogulo paayra aar ekta shaalikh. Ekta shaalikh dekhei Khokon chokh bujey feley...chhatey paa rakhtei erokom baadha porlo? Isshh! Ektu ektu kore chokh khulche aar bukta dhorash kore uthchhe. Aajke abar maar khete hobe? Dada-r jonno ektu opekkha korley jodi....? Oi to! Arekta shaalikh urey eshe bosheche chhater aalsher upor. Ek laafey shesh shniri-ta paar hoye Khokon uthhey porlo chhatey.
Songe songe paayragulo jhotpot kore urey gelo. Khokon o chhutlo tader pichoney dhawa korey.."Hushh, hushh...ja shob bokom bokom, hushh!" Mota knaacher botogulor chaardhaarey ekbaar besh kore ghure nilo Khokon - aage khanikta bhebe nitey hobe karon dhora pore gelei shei botol baatil - egulo je bikrir jonno baniye rekheche Maa. Khub shabdhane ekta botoler matha ghuriye naakta aacharer shishir khub kachhe niye elo - aha, ektur jonno gondhe jeno charidik mo-mo kore othhey. Mone mone bhaabe,"Nah, Maa ekdom bhalobashe na amader noile bhalo tnetuler achaar, lebur achaar egulo jaabe bajaare aar amra khaabo kina kuler achaar?" Chhater koley aage haat-ta bhalo kore dhuye nilo Khokon - jotoi hok, bibeker dongshoney bhugte raaji noy shey. Ke jaane, hoyto kine khaabe paasher baarir Rinkidi-ra - haater dhulo laga achaar ora khabe, ta thik noy!
Chhotto haat-ta onayashe dhuke gelo botoler mukh diye bhitore - ek muthho achaar ber kore niyei onno haat diye shobtake aager moto shomaan kore dilo jaate keu bujhte na paare. Mukhe diye chakhte jawar aagei oboshyo Dada-r kotha mone porlo. Baatite kore ektu ontoto rekhe dite hobe noile hojom hobe na Khokon-er. Achaar dekhe khide pachhe khub tobuo shishir mathata shontorponey bondho kore chhutte chhutte rannaghore gelo ekta baatite tuley rakhte. Jawar somoy khawar ghorer dewaaley tangano ghoritar dike takiye dekhlo 3:30 beje geche - aar ektu porei Maa uthhe porbe.
Baatita haate niye paa tipe tipe oder dujoner showar ghorer dike egote thake Khokon. Ghore dhuktei oder khaater paashe ekta chotto table-er upor dhup, fuler mala aar chondoner fnota diye shajano photo-r shaamne rakhlo baati-ta. Oder khaate Maa tokhono ghumiye achhe - aajkal roj dupure knaadte knaadte Maa ekhanei ghumiye pore. Dada-r photor shaamne baatita rekhe diye aaste kore abar bichhanay Maa-r paashe shuye porey Khokon.
Obhibyekti
Jokhon shomudrer jol aar paharer kuyasha diye tomay gorechilam, tokhon bujhini amar eto shokher chawa, amar eto chiroporichito bostuti bhongur.
Gorar somoy ekbaaro ta mone hoyni karon nishkolush mone amar bol chilo.
Tai bujhi.......
jole kuyashay jokhon tumi miliye geley, ashchorjer sheema roilo na.
Gorar somoy ekbaaro ta mone hoyni karon nishkolush mone amar bol chilo.
Tai bujhi.......
jole kuyashay jokhon tumi miliye geley, ashchorjer sheema roilo na.
The Amazing Maze
Amra shobai ekta jaaygay eshe theme gechhi - aatke gechhi. Thheme jete hoyeche. Chotobelay jemon hurmuriye chuttey partam, nirbhoye edik odik - ekhon ta stimito. Jeno Dilli-r jontor montorer bhitor prithok rasta dhorechi - othocho gontobyosthol ek. Ki ba kothay shei gontobyo? Jaani ki? Hoyto jaana nei bolei ekhono pouchhotey parinin. Pothhey deri hoyeche karon amader rastagulo kontokbohul na holeo shurongo onek. Onek oli-goli.
Some stopped to smell the flowers - others forsook suchsilly pleasures for their eyes were set on a bigger prize, a greater treasure. Our paths grew further away from each other and we lost sight of friends who had once been inseparable from our very souls. Once we struck out on our own, we grew steadier on our feet and lines on our faces furrowed deeper into leathery skin. Our eyes narrowes as we learnt to disregard minor scratches left by wayside bramble. Sometimes, very rarely though, when we caught glimpses of shadows through sparse thickets, some of us would holler for attention, overjoyed and ecstatic inspite of how much energy had been sapped out of us by the journey. Our calls were not always answered - not only because we had seen mirages in forests but also because some friends no longer travelled on foot and perhaps - it is difficult to discern ants from humans when once is perched on the houdah.
Or, perhaps, by the time they did recognise us, we had scurried off to hang our heads in shame and disbelief. These were friends who had snapshots to our souls, brief glimpses into our inner workings and yet we chose to ignore them, preferring grandiose endings to smelling the flowers on our way.
Who could I blame - him, her, them or my own self?
Some stopped to smell the flowers - others forsook suchsilly pleasures for their eyes were set on a bigger prize, a greater treasure. Our paths grew further away from each other and we lost sight of friends who had once been inseparable from our very souls. Once we struck out on our own, we grew steadier on our feet and lines on our faces furrowed deeper into leathery skin. Our eyes narrowes as we learnt to disregard minor scratches left by wayside bramble. Sometimes, very rarely though, when we caught glimpses of shadows through sparse thickets, some of us would holler for attention, overjoyed and ecstatic inspite of how much energy had been sapped out of us by the journey. Our calls were not always answered - not only because we had seen mirages in forests but also because some friends no longer travelled on foot and perhaps - it is difficult to discern ants from humans when once is perched on the houdah.
Or, perhaps, by the time they did recognise us, we had scurried off to hang our heads in shame and disbelief. These were friends who had snapshots to our souls, brief glimpses into our inner workings and yet we chose to ignore them, preferring grandiose endings to smelling the flowers on our way.
Who could I blame - him, her, them or my own self?
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