Thursday, July 12, 2007
Baba's been with us for a month now. Ma arrived a couple of days back. Baba flew down. Ma prefers the good old railroad. No amount of persuasion to get her on to a plane works. Her feet are too well grounded, I say. The train, wonder of wonders, arrived 10 mins before scheduled. She has come with one 24" VIP, a medium-sized red kit bag, a small overnighter, her trademark Guess shopper in which she carries her water bottles, a couple of plastic bags and of course her handbag. The suitcase has wheels so weight doesn't matter. But the red kit bag just can't be lifted. "what's in it, Ma?" "Oh just some stuff I thought you would need," she said, as a hint of embarrassment escaped her voice. Knowing my Ma, that was a really "loaded" answer.
Since she arrived on a weekday, I chose not to ask any more and got on with my daily chores before leaving for work. Ma quietly began pottering around revealing bits and pieces of the treasure she had brought from home and beyond. First, korapaaker jolbhora taalshnash shondesh (sorry non-Bengali readers, it is inexplicable, hence ethereal), white mishti doi (since I abhor the "lal" variety), a bag of "potol"-- some 2 kilos of it. A packet of Dalpuri'r pur, a watermelon, 2 cucumbers and before she came out with more, I left for office. On my return, I am asked what i want to eat. Aahh the bliss of being brought a glass of water, or even being asked about food-- I had quite forgotten about it. While I wallow in the attention, I look around for new additions to my kitchen. None that catches my eye. Very strange, I say to myself in the most Poirot-esque undertone. I wander leisurely in to the guest room and Voila! The flap of the red kit bag lies listlessly on the floor revealing stacks of "potato". Yes Potato -- in medium and small sizes. "MAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" I don't try muffling such screams, I don't believe they should be. "Ki holo?" She comes running. "Eta ki korecho?" "Egulo Doshghora'r chasher aloo," she says with the most unabashed smile (Doshghora is a pristine little village in Hooghly district where my Ma hails from. It's my Transcendental world). She's brought FIVE kgs of home-grown potatoes!
I know these days we pay for every morsel of our existence and hence "home-grown" or "from our farm" are rather romantic feudal concepts. But, I, dear friends have a long lineage of "landlords", commonly (de) recognized as Zamidaars in Bengali. That too, both from my paternal and maternal side. Despite the feudal system and landlordship being abolished now, needless to say, my parents revel in the lineage and have their own ways of reinforcing it in GeNext, much to our disdain. The above is a perfect case in point. But to carry Five kilo of potatoes as a separate luggage? Jeees!
I was too dumbstruck to take the conversation any further, even though Ma picked up her favourite refrain " Aar joddin achi, toke diye jai...erpor toh aar keu debey na." Thank God for small mercies to the last bit!
And let me tell you here, Ma comes from a different planet altogether. Ask her for a grain or a chaff and she'll get the whole paddy field for you. But very few people really honour the worth of such women. Sadly, including self.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Walking down alone, along the deserted pavement by a busy roadside at 6pm.
The clickety click of the three-inch heels; kicking up a little dust with every step. Licking on my favourite Kwality Walls Orange stick icecream; humming “It’s my life” and feeling the gentle evening breeze softly caress my tired face.
Never knew a walk back from office to home could be this blissful.
I love my evening walks these days. I have 20 minutes all to myself. To walk the way I want. Eat what I want. Let my thoughts wander where they want. Weave my dreams out of incoherent thoughts. It’s my space, all mine. It’s my life.
Monday, April 09, 2007
You want me to be chirpy, and listen to the music in my heart
You want me to be happy, and glow in my ebullience
You want to see me alive again.
But that's not possible anymore. The poison, it is spreading.
Maybe in afterlife.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Saturday, March 10, 2007
You were a man of so few words and even fewer actions. He was more vociferous.You loved discreetly. He dared to love.
You stimulated, he titilated. You played on my mind, he played with the tits and tush. You let live, he was alive and spontaneous. You were conspicuous by your absence, he was overwhelming (sometimes even overbearing) with his presence. You wrote me long mesmerising letters, never mentioning those fateful words; he told me, at least twice a day and wrote them in bold in every card, note and letter.
You cared, appreciated, encouraged and understood. He loved, lusted, demanded, misunderstood. I chose him over you. A momentary lapse of reason? Or a moment's pragmatism? Still wonder, why you play havoc on my mind after all these years.