A Night of Fireflies...

There were six of them. All wound up in unorthodox ways. In the distance, the full moon reflected its brilliance off the snow-capped Himalayan range. 

The stars fought hard to match the luminosity of the fireflies. Thousands lit up the valley, unperturbed by the six pairs of eyes that tried to follow their every move. 

“Is that a bird, flying away with the moon on its wings?” asked one looking up. 

They were out in the open. The rain had just stopped, and the grass, on which they lay, was still wet. The cool breeze, that came from the mountains above, was gathering the dark clouds and sending them off in one direction. 

Perhaps, the wind had watched the old shepherd round up his flocks in the evening, when the rain came pouring. 

The old man, as frail as the worn-out stick in his hand, had called out to his herd of animals, “Come back home! Even the naughty children are heading back to the safety of their homes.” Many of his animals understood what he said and followed his lead. But the ones who wanted to stay out and enjoy the rain had to be pulled away by the shepherd. 

But who would pull these six back to the safety of conventional life? What could each be thinking, as they lay there on the damp grass? Were they looking for someone to bring them back to life, or were they devising new escapades?

Only the fireflies knew. That it is better to light up each moment than have a dark, lingering existence. May be the six were made of the souls of those fireflies. Brilliant, yet flickering. In flight, yet chained down to the earth. Each wanting to fly out into space, like those stars sparkling above. 

May be the six were fireflies. 

but the fledgling has left the nest...

I was out last evening with a friend I’ve known for over a decade now. We’ve seen each other grow up, from being awkward school children to being rebellious college students and now as overworked adults.

So he gulps down his beer and tells me “I do not want to go back home”.

"Home" means Kolkata to both of us.

While it’s been two years that I’ve been away, it's nearly eight for him.

“What do you mean you do not want to go back home?” I nearly shriek. "The music here is always too loud," I add trying to appear calm.

“It’s home, remember... we have our family and our house there...”

“I would want to visit once every two years, yes. But I can’t live there,” he cuts me short.

“But you just called it home. How can one not long to be home, even if it means dreaming of doing so some day in the future?” I almost tear up.

Visions of my terrace, my flowering plants, smiling faces of my cousins... become a little more blurry than my memories would have wanted it to be.

As I turn to face the live band, I can't help but wonder, would I feel the same way if I continue to live away from home? Would a 10-day visit every year be enough to take care of this homesick heart?

Or would I not long to be home at all?

I don't want to remember you frail.
I want to remember you as the strong man who taught me everything.
I don't want to remember ever having seen you lie still on your bed.
I want to remember you with your fierce love for life.
I don't want to remember you gone.
I want to remember your hand on my head.

But, if I refuse to remember the end, I would refuse to remember the beginning.
If I cannot own the death, I do not deserve to long for the living.

Her home

It was not her house. She didn't even pay the rent.

Yet, she called it home.

Married at the age of 23, she had to move in with her belongings.

She missed the courtyard of her father's house.

Here, in the small adjoining garden she planted a tree, hoping it would bear fruits one day.

This isn't her house either. And no, she doesn't pay her rent. The far-away daughter does.

They call this home.

Feeble and lonely at 71, she has to move in with her belongings.

She misses the smell of raw mangoes that her tree bears every summer.

A pot of flowering plant is now what she calls home.

Love's hidden memories

I came home with stories full of love

"Don't show it," they said.

So I kept it hidden from view

And no one knew.

But it started to grow, love started to swell

I had to tell, I had to tell.

Everything I saw spoke of love

Your eyes, your face, your smile, your grace.

"Don't show your love," I heard them scream

I shut it out and built a screen.

But my love was not just mine to show

What of the love that made you glow?

My love I could easily hide

But your love for me was too strong to cover.

I failed to cut off love from my life

Because you were born to be the lover.

Growing up...

From fun-filled frolic in skirts, to idle merry-making.

From tiffin boxes full of handmade love, to doodles and empty notebooks.

Those days have long gone by...

From carefree pigtailed girls, to women with kids trapped inside them.

We've grown up. Our world has grown wiser.

Those who were grown-ups then, will only get older.

What was support then, will become frail.

What was home then, one day will no longer be.

Together

Placing my head on your shoulder, I heard your heartbeats. Like for the first time.

It plugged out the noise outside.

I lay still listening to the beat of your heart. Our Heart.

In that moment, if you were to tell me tales of loves lost,

I would have drowned your voice in the stirrings of the heart. Our Heart.

Trying to rise and write a note or two, you held me closer. 

My words lost their rhythm, when compared to the beat of the heart. Our Heart.

Of Changes

In another five months, I will be letting go of nearly most things dear to me. For the first time in all these years will I live away from my family. I will have to let go of my carefully chosen pink-coloured room. My old cupboard, which still has remains of posters I used to stick on it as a teenager. I will have to let go of my Kudghat house, where I grew up, nearly fractured my skull, learned how to play the harmonium and watched old Bengali movies on the television set. I will have to let go of my precious terrace, which was my special zone all through my growing up days. This is where I learned to dream and soothe my pains. This is where I fed the birds and watched clouds float above me. I used the terrace as my study zone, where not a single page was turned without darting at crows. I will leave all the chalk marks behind, they will continue to reminisce of the childish games I played on the terrace. I will have to let go of the plants I potted long ago. They all bear flowers now, all smelling of my childhood dreams.

I will leave my extended family too. The tales of how old and respected our house is in the neighbourhood… of how people from far away would come to be part of our Kali Pujo and Durga Pujo. I will also have to let go of the numerous old shops of the locality… the affable shopkeepers who saw me transform over the ages.

I will let go of my dear old city. The rain-drenched streets and the lush green trees. I will let go of my favourite structure, Victoria Memorial. I will let go of all the pavements, which hold so many memories. Memories of long walks, of shared happy moments, of secretly held hands.

I will let go of all the unbearable summer afternoons giving way to cool evenings. I will let go of the pleasant spring mornings, of the beautiful winter days. 

Durga Puja will be reduced to a quick two-day trip to Calcutta. It will no longer be preceded with the one month long impatient wait. Kali Puja, with its bright fireworks and fun with cousins, will most probably be given a miss. 

In a few months, I will leave my school para and my college para behind.

I will learn how to live without my mother. How to not expect maach bhaat every night I return home for dinner. How not to be woken up by her every morning. How not to have her by my side always. I will have to let go of my habit of being with Mamma every single day of my life.

I will, however, carry with me the person most dear to me. I will be leaving behind all the physical bonds I have had for so many years with this city. Filled with hurt and anger for so long, I finally am able to see the reason. The reason why My Appa is no longer just flesh and blood to me. When I will leave everything behind to start something new… I will carry only one person along with me. My Appa will travel with me in my heart.

When you've experienced death, you don't fear.

It isn't just all darkness any more.

With death comes the light. And,
the realisation that like all beings I am... and always will be.

"You are invited..."

 
…and yet another invitation... to a marriage reception of an ex. But this is not new to me. Even a couple of years back, this would have made me feel good about myself and about the world in general. The invite would be a proof of how well I had handled my break-ups even as a 16-year-old! But, no longer do I feel so unidimensional, so at peace with everything around me, so glad to have closed chapters (if they ever can be) and having emerged unscathed. The invitations are a nagging reminder that I may not have always done it the right way. They are a reminder of how closed chapters, when reopened, can be unnecessarily bothersome. They remind me that the cordial and civil way isn’t always the best. If having to spend all my salary over buying wedding gifts was not enough, my having been "nice" and "mature" after dumping (ouch…harsh choice of word, I know!) people in my past has paid off too [oxymoron alert!]. With everyone (sans a few) rushing to tie the knot AGES before me, I wonder if I will be left with any money to arrange my own wedding, which btw, is still unplanned… like everything about me. Ever since I have shrugged off a tiny bit of the I-am-so-happy-with-everything attitude, not all these invites make me happy! Maybe I, like most in my profession, or of my age, have gone a little cynical. Former invites I accepted as genuine extensions of friendly gestures; which were proof of ‘there is no more bitterness’! And boy was I glad! I even attended a few of these weddings, got gifts (for the bride of course), and was also guilty of secretly checking out this new woman, while being at my charming best! But this last invite got me thinking… Is this normal? Will I ever invite my former flames to my wedding? Of course I won’t! However, receiving these invites would surely make that a tad difficult. I mean, aren’t you supposed to invite those who had invited you to their D-day? And why do I keep receiving such invites from men (who once were boys, and were as silly as you expect boys to be), who once were oh-so-much in love with me? Is this their way of showing me they never cared? Or are they just being manly, and showing off? "Look what you missed girl…" is that what they seem to be saying? Or is it a way of reviving my belief in "nothing ever ends"? Maybe they are just being coldly-cordial with me, just the way I have been with them. Who knows…

Yesterday once more

Nostalgic! I didn’t feel nostalgic. I was in fact more annoyed. At those nameless faces. They were everywhere...like aliens suddenly dropping from the sky and entering our domain. Even claiming it as their own. I saw them loafing around near the Portico. Some were playing cricket near the canteen with funny seriousness. The ones sitting inside the canteen were the most annoying. Most looked through us, as if we were wisps of invisible cloud walking amongst the living. Those who looked...well stared! That made us feel like aliens. As if we were entering a zone, which though familiar to us, refused to acknowledge our past intimacy with it.

We had changed. TF’s professor failed to recognise him. This made me and R giggle. As TF tried establishing the fact that he was very much a student of the department, the professor looked at me and said: “Eke chinte perechi...amar student”, much to the agony of TF! (hahaha...I wanted to laugh)...but decided to look down at my shoes instead. This art learnt way back in school still is a saviour, I realised. TF and R protested together: “She was NOT from this department!”

The poor man. He was a little confused. He had always seen me with the boys (now men!) from his department. And since these ‘boys’ were hardly spotted in the classroom, me not attending classes in that department shouldn’t have appeared strange.

Well, TF rambled on... He wanted to collect a certificate or something. As Mr professor lectured him on how to get it, I stared at TF. He nodded his head from side to side, adding “okay okay” after each sentence delivered by the professor. Hands held together behind him, TF transported me seven years back. That is how we spoke to our teachers. Now an NRI, my dear friend was suddenly the young 20-something boy i knew, and me his giggly pigtailed friend. As I watched his face, I wanted to go over and hug him. For being a part of my growing up days. My college life. The best days that ever were. Sometimes...things last longer than you think. Like memories. Like friends.

Without you...

Without you, the colours have lost their lustre. Fireworks don't shine bright.
The 'dreamland' you built is just another room.
The tiny green lights you had put in my room have started flickering.

Without you, I seem to have lost direction.
You seem to have taken away my patience, my spirit, my love along with you.
You have filled me with void instead.

I seem to love, but not with ferocity. I seem to work, but not with passion.

I do carry on. But don't live my life.

Durga Puja celebration and sexist!

Proud to be a Bengali, I always thought the sexual divide in this part of the country is rather thin. Here, the man does help in the kitchen and need not be fed before his wife or daughters!

I have grown up watching my dad make tea for the family. And when mum wasn’t home, visiting her parents, we would have a gala time. Me, my elder sister and my father. He would cook for us and not allow us inside the kitchen! Those half cooked potatoes and bland meat however would win hands down even today.

Well, I shouldn’t be digressing from what I started with. I was talking about my preconceived notion about the equality of gender in good old Calcutta, now called Kolkata. Durga Puja, where the devi shakti is worshipped, is probably one of those cultural events (I shall refrain from calling it a religious festival, because anyone who has been in Kolkata during Puja knows what a huge social affair it is, something more than just a religious ritual) which is all about equality. Here, I am not just talking about gender equality, but also of religion, class and caste.

So, naturally, I was taken aback, when while interviewing a bunch of renowned foreign photographers, I was told that the gender bias during Puja had not escaped them! Now, this team was in the city for a couple of weeks to capture the life and spirit of the festive season.

“It was interesting to see that men and women came in different trucks during the immersion process,” said one. (Let me name the particular photographer P.) What? Thought I. But how is that possible? I tried thinking of my many experiences to prove P wrong. But I had absolutely no memory of any immersion process. Gosh…so I never did accompany my para puja procession till the very end. And why so? “Coz good girls don’t stay out amongst drunk men this late,” I recalled someone telling me ages ago.

So, good girls don’t accompany the procession. But then what about those who do? They simply board a different truck. Even if they must accompany Maa Durga till the end of her journey, they must not share the same breathing space with that of loud, boisterous and drunk men.

Not very liberal, as I would have loved to believe.

You. and Me.

One got the youth. The other got the kind loving soul.

One got the peck on the cheek. The other felt the caring hand on the forehead.

One waited for him to return home from office everyday. The other waited for him to come home in six months.

One wouldn’t let him go to work. The other sat up quietly the nights before he left for work.

One got bike rides, as the cool breeze, passion and spirit mingled together. The other rode the favourite Maruti 800, safe with the seat belt on.

One was asked to dress up and just look pretty. The other had to follow him around, sweaty and unkempt, granting his every wish.

One was asked to sleep peacefully at home, protected. The other was expected to stay up with him each night.

The one was you. And the other was me.

sealed!

I could never make a display of what goes on in my head. Never could make a display of my emotions. I never really found a reason to. What happens inside…was best kept inside. I still believe so. But I’ve been told…I end up building a wall around me. Does it help me protect from the hurt and pain? Often it does. More often I merely internalise them. Does that make the suffering go away? Or does it even make it pain any less? It doesn’t.

But I’d still prefer keeping them for me. My thoughts are all my own. And I am not the one to open my soul for everyone to see. Too personal, these feelings are to me.

But I do envy those who can show their wounds in the open. While others peer for a closer look, it makes them heal faster. Would it do the same to me? Even the thought makes me cringe. The blood and gash are maybe too dear for me to make a show of.

I’d rather internalise them. Try and heal them. Or maybe live with them. But I’d keep them safe within me.

fading away...

Sometimes I wonder how I'd like to go down...Make a lot of noise? Or just sink without a sound?

As a child it was all unimaginable. Scary to say the least. I felt if ever I had to leave...I would make sure to make it felt. Now, how does one make her absence felt? When you are not there, how can you be felt? Way back then, it seemed simple. I thought I would be able to see what others did in my absence. And even hear what they said.

I imagined them cry and say..."ohh what a lovely girl she was...always with a smile...no stubborn streaks...always ready to please...".

Funny. Really. Now all I would want is to just fade away. Like the soft drizzle that stops after a heavy shower. Or how the bright hues of the rainbow slowly scatter away. Once there...moments later...gone. And once gone...it's impossible to imagine how it was there even a moment ago.

Yes, if you capture a photograph. Or create a painting. Or write it down to remember all the little details. One fine evening you might even reminisce about it.

Maybe how I want to be remembered...is through memories. Through a song I'd sung. Through a smile I'd shared. Maybe through the love I gave...

Through the pebbled path...

These are days I miss him a lot. That kind smile. The giving look in his eyes. His spotless white dhuti-kurta. He smelt strange. A smell I loved. He smelled of an old world that came alive before me only through his stories. He smelled of India’s Independence struggle, of the old land in Borishal (now in Bangladesh), of the numerous hardships he faced with Dida. But mostly, he smelled of my mother’s childhood. Stories of my mother as a naughty kid amused me. And I begged him for more.

Every day spent with Dadu was special. With special treats and silly games. Of the British Raj stories. Of the love of Rabindranath Tagore and work under Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose. My Dadu was a freedom fighter. He fought against the British. I was so proud. His tales of secret meetings and life in the jail gripped my senses.

Dadu’s story of escapade to Santiniketan from Borishal on foot captivated me. And each time he was forced to relate the story again, it had the same effect on me. The part when he finally met Tagore (whom he worshipped; not just because of the bard’s magnificent writings, but his ability to motivate hundreds to the freedom movement through his songs) was the part I loved best. Tagore, pleasantly surprised to see a young lad of 13 leave home and travel all the way from Borishal to Santiniketan only to meet him, had asked (here I quote my Dadu): “Tumi eto dure ele. Eshe ki dekhle? (you came this far. What did you find?) Dadu had said, (and it always sent shivers down my spine, still does) “Ami dekhlam Bangla’r Balmiki. (I met Bengal’s Valmiki)”.

As I said before, every moment spent with him was special. But some were exceptionally special for me. One such day came every January. Pleasant and sunny. He was a special invitee to Raj Bhavan in Kolkata. On Republic Day (January 26) and Independence Day (August 15), my Dadu and other freedom fighters like him (those who were still alive) were invited over for a special lunch and meeting with the Governor and the Chief Minister. I was always my Dadu’s special guest.

Dressed in my best, I held his hand and entered the gate. The pebbled path fascinated me. The huge structure in front filled me with wonder. As people greeted Dadu, they either smiled at me or bent down to say hello. I wasn’t flustered. I felt at the top of the world.

Then it was Dadu’s turn to meet other freedom fighters. Old memories were exchanged. The sorry state of affairs discussed. I listened to each word spoken. Looked at each face that walked past. I etched a picture of the sunny winter day, the trees around, the wide lawn, and the white building behind it all, in my mind’s eye. There was no camera. But the picture of my Dadu smiling as he spoke to them, as his eyes glistened in the sun, will always be alive.

These are days when I miss him more. I miss being his special guest. I miss oiling his hair on winter mornings. I miss sleeping under the sky on the terrace at night. I miss his philosophies on life. 

A man who believed in spirituality, had no regard for religion. A person who gave up his all for his motherland. A man who introduced Rabindrasangeet in my life. “Tomar khola hawa lagiye paley…” (I am ready to dive deep, while feeling the wind in my soul, which is like the sail of a boat)... I can still hear his unrestrained smooth voice sing to me.

Of smoke and whiskey!

There is no ash on the ashtray. The bathroom doesn't stink of the smoke anymore. The bins lie bereft of the cigarette butts. The minibar lies empty. He has given up. 

He was my initiator. That first drag. The first sip of sinful pleasure.

I sat with the balding doll at his feet. The room full of laughter, noise, smell of food and smoke. This wasn't new for me. Tired with my mindless game I looked up at him. A cigarette dangled from his lips, he lit a matchstick and brought it close to his mouth. Watching me from the corner of his eyes, I saw him smile back at me. Satisfied to have caught his attention, I went back to my doll. He held the cigarette with one hand and took a sip of that strange-smelling liquid. The light caught the glass and it sparkled like a little pot of gold!

I had to do something. So i plotted and planned! I waited for her to leave the room. The moment I saw her make a momentary exit...I climbed on to the sofa. Sat close to him and whispered: "Eta ki? (What is this?). "Rong meshano jol" (coloured water)! "Amio khabo" (I want to taste too).

I didn't shock him. I somehow had the faith I wouldn't. "Or chotto glass ta dao toh" (Get me her glass please). She wasn't pleased at all. But well...she gave in! 

He took the glass and filled it with water...till the very brim. Then he leaned over and got hold of the bottle. A fat bottom, with a thin neck - it didn't look too pretty to me then. But this was 20 years ago!

As he poured the golden liquid in his glass, he winked at me. We shared that wink, reassuring and of a secret bond! Then he dipped his finger into his glass...once, twice, thrice. And my tiny glass had three drops of that golden liquid! plop plop plop...three small drops fell on the water. As he handed me my glass, I watched the dark orangish liquid twirl its way down, slowly blending with the colourless water.

I sniffed. I drank. It certainly smelled and tasted different. (I wonder now how three drops could ever make a change to a glassful of water!) 

"Tumi ek glass whiskey kheyecho" (You drank a glass of whiskey), he said. Oh wasn't I happy! Though it took me more than a decade to know how it actually tasted! And it look me longer to have my first share of more than three drops of golden liquid!

And oh...yes! The story of that first drag shall soon be shared! Till then CHEERS :)

of nothingness n more...

It turned out to be just another day. With not much to do. Just a whole lot of thinking. For me such days should be full of relief. I did have office, yes. And work there that needed to be done. Which I sure completed to the best of my abilities. After two weeks of running around...daily rounds to the hospital and blood banks...this sudden lull is strange. Though it should be reassuring, it is far from that. I know the battle hasn't been won yet. Not half fought even. The fear of days to come...stops me from feeling relieved on days like this. When things apparently seem normal...peaceful. But peace is fleeting. Mysterious. Unattainable to say the least.

But when peace acts like an elusive lover, I tend to look deep. I meet people, have fun. But peace I derive from within. A place, which most fail to search. And some forget it exists. But I know it does. Because when everything else seems to be falling apart...this one place never desolates me. I search deep within. And then there is calm.

Today was peaceful enough too. But with a foreboding of the chaos to come. Maybe I will learn how to find my peace of mind by taking refuge in the inner space. For a longer time. For more than just one day. Or even a week...