More Love.

Love is sometimes, like fiction.
Its like a bestseller, that catches your attention at the book store,
which you promptly pick up, with just one glance.
You bring it home, and with a cup of coffee, sit on your favourite couch,
comfortable with each other.
You can't wait to begin,
and at a point, you don't want it to finish.
But you turn its pages nevertheless, savouring every word,
lying on one side with the night lamp burning,
and finally finish it.
And then, You are left with just thoughts,
more thoughts and words, that stay with you for a lifetime after.

Love in Dilli

Two glasses of water brought back

a pool of memories and more.

Of cutting chai, baingan ka bharta and momos

and the streets of Kamala Nagar.

 

Two glasses of water brought back

a host of conversations back into her head

of Manish, Jha and the Iyer babe, of smoke, Maggi and Satvik Ahaar,

masala anda, chai and place called cloud end.

 

Two glasses of water brought back

the gestures that you made,

with a bunch of wilted roses at the railway station, a muffler,

and two arms to wrap me around you, in Dilli’s chilling winter.

 

Two glasses of water, kept on the dining table,

told the tale of two love birds

in Dilli’s north campus,

looking at each other like Salim and Anarkali

the difference only being, they lived to love and will perhaps die in love.

The girl on a Guava tree

‘Hey get off the tree, and go home right away…..Pant…. Pant….they have come to see you’, they are from Kalikata (Kolkata) itseems….yelled Dutiya, as loudly as she could, looking up at Basonti.  Dutiya had come running to her own house where Basonti visited every afternoon, to climb her favourite branch on the ‘Pijuli’ (Guava) tree.

 

This was the best part of Basonti’s day, which typically began at 5 Am. Waking up that early was pretty normal to the girls in Orissa- they had a ton of chores to finish before the rest of the household woke up. Basonti, was all of 18 then, and she was the only sister to four other brothers. Not to mention the rest of the cousins who all lived under the same roof. She quite liked the hugeness of her joint family, but for the added responsibility that came along with it. She was however the pampered daughter to her dad, so she escaped most of the homely duties expected of an Oriya girl.  So once she was done with kneading  flour for 25 people,  and had finished feeding her youngest brother, Butu, she’d promptly run away to Dutiya- her best friend’s house.

 

‘Budi’, is what her Uncles, aunts and parents lovingly called her. Although its a mystery why someone as young as Basonti, should be called ‘Budi’, which meant – Old Woman. But love is strange, it makes you call your loved ones, the strangest of names- frog, rat, owl, witch- some more ‘lovingly’ given nick names of other youngsters in Cuttack’s Ranihat Gouda Sahi  (lane she lived in),

 

Basonti was a carefree girl. She didn’t want to study further, so she went to ‘Silei School’ (stitching school), kneaded flour, went to the ‘Bojaar’ (Market) with friends to pick up glass bangles and enjoyed every festival. There was something more she enjoyed doing with Dutiya- they loved entering ‘Bara jatris’ (Baraat in Hindi, or wedding processions), only to create chaos and confusion- by pinching women’s butts and running scot free, giggling . She also loved eating Gup-chups (Paani Puri), with a lot of Jhaal (chilli).

 

That day however, she was unprepared for this call. Dutiya literally shook her off the tree with her excitement. Basonti, trotted back home, which was four houses away, half irked, half excited at the prospect of meeting the family who had come all the way from the land of Rasogollas. She was in a ‘middie’ (below the knee skirt, in fashion those days), with a floral top. She was mad at the idea of wearing a sari just for the little show. And why hadn’t they warned her earlier? Grumbling, she entered her place, the gates of which had two stone Lions on  either side, and under those two animals ran a gutter on which floated many things besides paper boats, cigarette butts, previous day’s Puja flowers and shit.

 

When she entered, her Mother, Anima, a tall regal woman, asked her to quickly wash up. She was giving  Budi further instructions when her dad, Surendra, who was then, the state Hockey team’s referee, walked in. He told gently to his little girl- ‘don’t change Jhua (girl/daughter)- go in as you are’.

 

The ‘meeting’ went well- well enough for the wedding to be fixed in a few months time. The groom was an Engineer, who worked for Bata Shoe company, in Kalikata then. Word spread fast that the best looking girl in the sahi had the best possible alliance from Kalikata.  The to be groom’s name added to the hysteria- Gokul. They teased Basonti endlessly about finding her ‘Krusna’ (Lord Krishna).

 

Basonti however did not know what to make of it. She knew marriage

was inevitable, so she didn’t worry too much about it. But what she was excited about most was Kalikata.  On the night of her marriage she developed  high fever. The pundits on the marriage pandal said- it was due to the ‘bhari raasi’  (a relatively stronger horoscope, in comparison to that of the bride’s).

 

The fever left her and so did all other apprehensions, albiet, over the years, when they finally came to live in Shahabad with their Son, Dipu.  Basonti, had become a woman in those few years. At 21, she was a mother of 2, and she was full of patience and love.

 

She was the epitome of love- for the new family she went into. Her husband Gokul, had three more brothers, so they filled in for her brothers she left behind in Cuttack. Kalikata was hardly as she imagined it would be. For an 18 year old, taking up responsibility of a  family of 7, all by herself, was a nightmare. But Gokul found time for her, over weekends and took her to meet his friends.She missed home immensely but didn’t have much time to think about home. Gokul turned out quite like what the pundit had told- he had a temper…so much so that his brothers always vanished before he got back from work.

 

Things changed for her when they moved to Shahabad. She did all that she never dreamed of- she learnt all kids of cuisines, she learnt to make potato chips, bake breads and cake and keep a year long stock of Tomato ketchup. Moreover, Gokul changed too. His temper sobered. he turned into a popular, jovial man who lighted up social gatherings.

 

Basonti’s best deal  in Shahabad was the huge garden. It had two big lawns, seasonal flower beds by the lawns, 2 lemon trees, a rose bed, 7 mango trees and yes 2 Pijuli trees.  She felt like ‘Budi’ again. One day she stood in her kitchen, overlooking their backyard,  reminiscing her past, when,  she saw  her daughter. 10 year old Tina was on one of her favourite Pijuli tree branches, trying to reach a Guava.

 

She smiled, a happy, free smile.

 

(This ones for Ma. For all that she has done, and continues to, selflessly, and with so much love).

A love song

My post For you, demanded a translation. I couldn't possibly refuse that irate woman. Again, its something I asked my Dad for. In his words:

Have translated the song with little bit of changes to make it lyrical.Of course, the meaning remains the same, hopefully.Hv also added a title.Here it goes....



"Thou art no more"

Days gone-by, call me from far behind,
As though, old memories paint pictures with colours of pain,
in my heart & mind.

Now I recall, I can recall, I do recall the memories of the first sight,
I do recall the very moment, I gave my heart to her & lost my right.
Two different paths of two of us, converged,
At the turning of a new road, into one, it merged.
Days gone-by, calling me from far behind,
As if, old memories paint pictures with colours of pain, in my heart & mind.

That was in a unique new land,
The days were vibrant with songs galore, in bright sun & glittering sand.
Those tunes now lament in my empty life,
Its all gone, its all gone,
Now the host of sweet & romantic meetings are gone,
The games full of laughter & colour, are all over.

When & where an unknown star has fallen,
Why should the sky remember?
The days gone-by , calling me from far behind,
As though, old memories paint pictures with colours of pain
in my heart & mind


Beautiful, no?

Daddy and I

There is peace in simplicity. There is peace in simple little things, that gives you a strange kind of joy. Like this mail.

Dear Tina

Thought of replying immediately. Then, waited for a few days hoping for something interesting to come up but no luck.

Your travelogue is really as good as a picture drawn on a huge canvas.Sometimes, when I get an opportunity, I try to see the various parts of the world in Natgeo channel.So, I can , to some extent, visualise the natural beauty, you tried to describe. Moreover, GOD (Great Ocean Drive) has to be beautiful.

Noted the other redeeming features e.g. good food, lots of fish, etc., etc.,.....

Meeshu did not give any trouble, only shows, she understands & she is growing up , fast.Seen her picture, taken in her classroom(??).

My Master Health Check revealed marginal increase in blood sugar.No medication needed. Only diet control & some exercise,.. maybe morning walk. All that shall start after returning from Chennai.

Nandita Kaki is presently at Pune to attend a Training Programme.Tonight Pablo is supposed to stay at RBI Guest House, Pune where Nandita is staying. She will return to Kolkata on Saturday(24th).

Tinki's marriage is on 30thJan. Salil called up to invite but you know, its not so simple.Instead, yr Mamma is planning to go to Cuttack to attend wedding of Manju Mausi's daughter, Laali, sometimes towrds end Feb'09.

What else! I think, rest of the news, if any, shall be given by Mamma.

Needless to mention, we miss all of you very, very much.

We are all keeping fine. Wish you all to be in pink of health.

All the best. Love to Meeshu.

Daddy


There is really very little to say about dad and my relationship. Yet, there is so much more to it. A dad-daughter relationship always has, no? We communicate best in writing. He is the best writer I have ever come across in my lifetime. But he never really pursued it. His Bangla writings are especially something I have always treasured. There is a little Red note book, which rests in the attic of our Hyderabad apartment. It is ofcourse, in tatters now...that book was dad's poetry, short story and essay book in his student days. I chanced upon it in my childhood, and have ever since been enthralled.

This email, doesn't it smell of simplicity? He has always been that way. He is happy with a pair of shoes, 2 pairs of trousers, a few shirts, fish curry and rice. His soul rests in Kanachchanda, our native village in Orissa, where he spent a large chunk of his childhood. Swimming against the tide in Kanachchanda's Kharasrata river, later won him laurels in BE college, Kolkata- he was a swimming champ.

When we chat, we hardly talk. Its always about the weather and other such mundane stuff. when i got married and was at the door step leaving home (Vidaai), they just couldn't trace him. I was so upset. Ma later told me- he was weeping inconsolably in the balcony. It was a stroke of luck that I married into a family that lived on the first floor of the same building-- that way I got to see him everyday. He would quietly stand under the building at a spot where I could see him from Raj and my room's balcony. He would deliberately light a cigarette to while away some time, and wait for me to appear. If i'd appear to his luck, he'd wave and leave. So much love, can come from a parent only.

I miss you, Pa. And that Laali's wedding....I wanna be there too :(.

IST

There’s something I haven’t done, since I landed here three months back. Changed the laptop time. I haven’t, that is. It still shows India time, and I like it that way. It says 6.33 AM and I can’t wait for it to show 10.00 AM, when I pick up the phone and make my call to Ma.

 

And then soon enough my mail box starts filling in with comments, emails and forwards from friends, relatives and sometimes dad, who have just begun their day by logging in from their work places.

 

The orange idle dots turn green, the offline ones, come online. Gtalk, talks again.

 

Windows Live looks alive again, with more green buddies, personal messages are updated, ‘what’s new’ updates start ticking.

 

I like it this way.

Fiction: A bunch of white roses

He was a hopeless romantic. Perhaps, that’s the reason why she fell in love with him, at all. If you knew them both, you’d know. 

 

She met him on a hill. Her ‘fast’ friend had taken her there with two other boys. She had lied at home, saying she was going for her (fast) friend’s birthday, to Pizza Inn. This was her first time out, away from the city, with boys. She was scared to bits. They were in a Maruti 800, and every ten minutes, she would  nervously ask- how long before we turn back to the city. The short guy driving was the fast friend’s boyfriend. He was cute. The guy sitting next to him was quiet, and staring out of the window, like she was. They reached the little hill- it was near Taramati Baradari. The fast girl and her short boyfriend disappeared. The other guy spoke for the first time. He said very awkwardly- ‘ I know you. I see you outside your college when I go to drop my sister.’ Something about the way he spoke and looked made him look decent. She said - ‘That doesn’t one bit mean you know me’!

‘Oh sorry’, he said. But he didn’t stop there. He continued- ‘ I have three sisters— My sister is a Mtech (pronounced- yem tech) my father (read Fawther) is a government (gowrmet) servant in a very senior position, my mother amma works for the government (gowrmet) too. I  am in my final year engineering. Civil. I will go to the states next year for my MS. Get a job there, and settle down. I am crazy about America. And I know that i love you very much. Will you date me?’

All this was said in one breath, with a very thick accent, full of grammatical errors. But with a deep sense of honesty.

She stood there motionless. She didn’t say a word on their way back. Next day the door bell rang and there was a bunch of red roses  waiting. The day after, a big bar of dark chocolate. The day after that a CD full of love songs, the a teddy. Finally, the phone rang and he asked her decision, after a week. She said yes.

 

Truth be told, she loved the serenading. She loved being pursued. It was  the first time in her life a guy took this much interest. while she wondered how she’d ever take a guy, who dropped his prepositions and didn’t have a clue about Rabindranath Tagore.

 

They dated for a few months and slowly little things started irking her. The fact that he had never gone beyond Chacha chowdhry and Tinkle, made her sick in her head. But knowing,  how hopelessly in love he was with her, in a ew days he came back with 2 Sidney Sheldon novels and a Readers Digest, which was carelessly lying in his car’s back seat. When he picked her from college she asked - ‘Oh my Gawd, who reads Sidney Sheldon ?? Your 15 year old cousin? Are these her books?’  She knew it was his way of telling her that he was trying.

 

But she was slowly giving up on this. She was done with all the flowers and chocolates. She wanted someone more intellectually compatible now. She knew she couldn’t live on fresh air and love in the future. She started showing signs of irritation and disinterest.

 

One fine day she saw some papers in his car when he was away to pay the petrol bill. They were his  final year marks sheet. It was red all over. He had not managed to get through a single goddamn subject. He had lied. And this was the chance she was waiting for.

 

That was the last time they met. He had cried and begged,  she had said- I love you, but this intellectual incompatibility is way too much. He just couldn’t get it. He cried and cried like a girl would- ‘i’ll get fake degrees ya, I’ve already gone ahead with the process. My work permit will come through in a few months. Once we are there, it will be different. I’ll  get you roses every single day, re. Dutch roses- white one and not red, the way you like them. And I promise while watching football with your dad I will speak correct English. just don’t leave me.
Please.

 

She left him, alright.

 

Years passed, she moved on. On her way back from work, she walked past Pearson’s flowers. She stopped. She walked back and entered the shop.  She was not sure what to pick – Dahlias or the Lillies. The florist tried helping: ma’am those white rose buds- they just got in  ten minutes back. They’ll last you 15 days, no less, I guarantee. she looked at them, hard. And a story unfolded in front of her eyes. After a good 10 minutes, the florist, asked- so you want lillies?

 

Nope, gimme 20 of those white rose buds.

for you

(For old time’s sake)

 

Muche jawa din guli amay je pichu dake

Sriti jeno amar ai ridoye bedonar ronge ronge chobi ake

Mone pore jay, mone pore jay

Mone pore jay shei prothomo dekhar sriti

Mone pore jay shei hridoy debaar tithi

Dujonar duti poth mishe gelo ek hoye

Notun pothero bake

Muche jawa din guli amay je pichu dake

Sriti jeno amar ei hridoye bedonar ronge ronge chobi aanke

She ek notun deshe

Din guli chilo je mukhor koto gaane

Sei shuur kande, aj amar prane

Bhenge geche haye…bhenge geche haye

Bhenge geche aj shei modhuro milono mela

Bhenge geche aj sei hashi ar rongero khela

Kothay kokhon kobe kon tara jhore gelo, akash ki mone rakhe?

Muche jawa din guli amay je pichu dake

Sriti jano amar ei hridoye bedonar ronge ronge chobi aanke

malady of a restless mind

Something dawned on me a while back. That, I cook like a maniac when I am upset. Doesn’t mean I cook bad. Means, I cook way too much. I go a little over the top. Also realised that, when I do that, I feel a lot calmer. Its like burying yourself in something that doesn’t require you to think. Cooking to me in like that. I just go about it almost about blindly. I add masalas, as and when it comes to it. I never prepare. For me cooking never has a pre-preparation time. The first thing I do when I start cooking is turn on the stove and put a pan on it, reduce the gas knob to low flame and then open the refrigerator. If I see eggs first, then eggs it is for dinner. And whether those eggs will be scrambled, curried or made into Raj’s favorite Aziz bi dish, depends entirely on my hands, where they lead me to. Will my hands go for onions and tomatoes or will they just pour oil and break the eggs in.

So that’s how it goes….when I am upset.

 

And the last few days the kitchen has been a victim to my painfully long and arduous cooking. I made dishes, one after the other, like I had to feed a house full of guests. And not even  one dish complimented with the other. Pizza, chicken pulao, plain rice, doi maach, dal, bhaja. I reached for the brinjal to make a bharta out of it, and suddenly, I stopped. Exhausted. It was like being possessed by a troubled chef’s spirit. And then I wanted to sit with my hands over my head and, cry- who the hell did I think was going to do the dishes??

 

Ok, I am upset. I don’t like it when he leaves. Not the least, especially when I am no where in Hyderabad’s vicinity. 

 

My mind. My mind. Yeah, that’s the snag. I can’t seem to get a grip over it.

Another star in the sky

My earliest memory of her was in Hyderabad, in Vijay Apartments. They lived 2 floors above us. We were in school then- Jhinni and I. Then, they moved to Divyashakti apartments. They lived 5 minutes away from ours, so Ma and I often walked up to spend an afternoon over tea and gossip. While ma got busy conversing with Kakima, I spent my time chatting with Jhinni, furiously exchanging notes on our social lives. I so distinctly remember Kakima’s smiling face- always a warm, bright smile. She was quite a star in social gatherings. She used to be a dancer, and guess that’s where Jhinni learnt to dance so well. We marveled at how she managed to do a very hectic course for teaching special children, at a time when she could well have been a home maker. She was a sensitive soul. And very childlike….and pure. Ma and Kakima could talk endlessly about Sarees and jewellery.  Pujos were incomplete without them. They always dropped and picked us up during Pujo. And ma and Kakima were almost always together.

 

I met her last when I was pregnant. She and kaku, had come down to Hyderabad for consulting a doctor. She had predicted that I’d have a girl. Both our families went to Chinese Pavilion for dinner. That was the last I saw of her. 

 

Ma says, good people don’t live too long on earth…they are taken to happier places. I hope that’s where she rests now- in a peaceful, happy place. And my thoughts and prayers are with Jhinni and Kaku. We love you Kasturi Kakima, and you’ll always be remembered fondly, with a smile on our face, albeit, with a very heavy heart. God bless.

 

 

(Somehow I cannot come to terms with this. She is the first amongst our inner circle of family friends who left us, so early. It seems like just yesterday, when I met her in my school uniform, and she called me over to her place, to come and chat with Jhinni. She was always so chirpy and warm. I want to go back. And be with my loved ones.)

Aparna Is -----------------------(what are you doing now?)

Raj: why do you want the world to know you have made Doi maaach?

The Ketchup girl: I don’t want the world to know, I want MY world to know.

 

I have often wondered what keeps me hooked to the internet. What makes me change my status message on FB every few hours, follow people on Twitter, and update my inner circle with what I am up to? I think the answer is very simple. I have a need to connect like all social, normal people do. A need to communicate. A need to talk, socialize,  and inform. I don’t have Poo a call away. I can’t tell her that I made Thai curry for dinner and want her over. I can’t call ma every 15 minutes to inform her of Meeshu’s latest antics. I used to do that back home. And I miss my gossip sessions with my office colleagues. I can’t see Anu in front of me. Family is far far away, and Jacob is just an intangible blog.  What do I do?  What does one do when one lands up in a strange new country? A country, where neighbors who don’t keep their doors open like we do back home, exchanging a friendly hello, as they pass by the door, peeping in, not too conspicuously, but peep in nevertheless. They don’t send their kids to their neighbor's house to play, and don’t exchange notes on what’s cooking for dinner. I don’t even know what my neighbor looks like. I wonder if they have kids?

 

So when I feel low, I need to tell someone, and just the same, when I feel like a million bucks. I want you guys in my life, lest you forget me. I want my inner circle to love me, know me, and be part of all that’s happening in my life.  I want to continue sharing my life like I did, back home. And that’s exactly what I do every now and then, informing you through my status messages.

 

The same goes with blogging. why do I blog? I do coz I have an inherent desire for the world to read what I feel, and hear their points of view.

 

So, whether you like it or not, you’ll see more photo uploads, more status updates, more rants.

‘09

Welcome, ‘09. I hope you are full of pleasant surprises, warmth, good health, cheer, and peace.

 

And then, there is a wish for some wealth too.

And some good food.

Some more friends.

More wine.

And hope this year we find a little Calvin in ourselves, and set ourselves free. Free from bondage, free from thoughts and prejudices. Free from all that we don’t like. Free.

 

Cheers!

 

 

Happy New Year, dahlings!