"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...