My Dream Catcher

I’m seeing her everywhere. Hearing her voice loudly demand her tea or yell up the stairs for someone to drill holes for her Wall of Frames. Hearing her footsteps on the driveway and the front door slamming shut before her dog begins the furious wag of his tail that he reserves only for her.

Yesterday, I saw her at the movie hall, where we went, just to get out of the empty house; but no, the ponytail wasn’t scrunched up exactly the way it should be. Then I saw her at the Chicago Pizza place, in those comfy looking harem pants, but wait, did she have an orange t-shirt like that?

“I don’t wear happy clothes” she said, proceeding to empty my cupboard of floral shirts, paisley blouses and other assorted items; and then, soon after, “I’m not going to wear dark clothes there, what if they think I’m a terrorist?”

Her room, a perpetual mess, with towels on the bed, littered with gloves, shoes, sleeping bag, head torch, and random other paraphernalia. Suddenly all packed into that monster haversack, with tubes of Odomos stuck inside the shoes; her horse-shoe shaped blue neck pillow, forgotten, looks abandoned, afloat on a neatly covered bed, missing its chaotic companions; clothes still tumble out of her cupboard ~ and are being folded grumpily by the maid who cannot believe there are so many beautiful sarees among the clothes; miniscule skirts rub shoulders with strawberry print pyjamas and drapey tops in greys and blues look starkly out of place among the blingy anarkalis;

“I’m going to Burra bazaar to buy hoops” she said ~ and returned armed with hoops, yarn, feathers and beads; I looked at her sitting at her desk diligently making beautiful Dream-Catchers – stringing up fairy lights in her room – creating a room that spells sheer whimsy; is this a fantasy world she’s creating?

What IS this girl? Do I know her? Does SHE know her? Is that what she’s gone to find, in the cold desert among the mountains where even breathing is tough? Through war zones and Hippie Trails, dreaming of Shikara rides, looking to meditate, eat local food and Instagram the pictures immediately (though, carefully steering clear of chocolates ~ ‘don’t want to aggravate that tooth, you know’)

Traipsing off to uncharted territories makes her “a very brave girl’ ‘with gumption’ I believe. I want to believe. “Such a noble cause” “she’s going to do god’s work, don’t you worry about her, God will look after her” I’m told. “You must be so proud” they say.

We look at each other, her father and I. We ARE proud. Worried, yes, but proud too.

We just don’t like the house so neat again, and quiet, after the whirlwind three weeks…..

Unholy mess or deadly quiet?

I don't know what's worse. 

I just want her to hold the dreams she has, and string them up like those fairy lights in her room that I switch on religiously, every evening at dusk while she’s gone……

I Will Not Be Invisible

I will not be invisible.

When you walk over my feet to get to the seat by the window;

When you ignore me and serve the lady wearing solitaires;

In a crowded waiting room, when you call the patient who arrived half an hour late

I will not be invisible;

When you Look over my shoulder as you spot someone more famous

When your eyes slide over me on to someone better dressed,

When your gushing and air kissing and label shopping, become too much

I will not be invisible.

I will not be invisible even when my shoes are old, and my hair uncolored

When I repeat my clothes, when I have to take a ride with you in your plush, plush, car;

When I serve you simple fare in my ordinary flatware with cheap and cheerful napkins

I will not be invisible.

I grew up here for heavens’ sake;

Today, when I return, with disappointments in my bag,

Shabby and more than middle aged, grappling to find my feet in this place once again,

I will NOT be invisible.

Baba ~ Last of the Breed

I was a spoilt little girl. I remember vividly, waiting at the big, curved, verandah every evening, waiting for Baba to come home. Till I was about 8 years old, everyday, without fail, I would get a gift ~ usually something I had demanded in the morning, before he left for work. Sometimes, I would even show him a photograph in a Woman & Home Magazine and demand a Doll’s house, or a ruffled skirt that I fancied, and sure enough, something very close to it, would arrive that evening with him.

He was a quiet man and not given to too many hugs and kisses; in fact I think he was kind of shy and got terribly embarrassed if anyone was overtly affectionate towards him. Secretly very pleased, but loath to show it, his nose would smile and his voice would turn gruff while he awkwardly returned a hug.  Not that I cared. I clambered all over him, as and when I pleased and kissed his stomach often; as I grew older, the clambering stopped but he still got hugged tight often whether he wanted it or not!

While I was growing up, we often went on road trips. If there was a long weekend, Baba would announce, “tomorrow, at 0500 hours (yes, that was him in army mode), we are leaving for ………… It’s a 6 (or 10, or 12) hour drive, so pack breakfast & lunch, etc.”  Off we would go, at the crack of dawn, with a Picnic basket carrying Coffee, Fruit, Hard Boiled eggs, ham sandwiches & Biscuit tins.  Dhurries & Cushions were packed into the dickey in case we wanted to stop somewhere on the way and sit a while. Usually, there were another couple of families traveling with us, sometimes friends, sometimes relatives, so almost everyone had company their own age.  By late afternoon or early evening we would all troop into a beautiful Dak Bungalow, all the ‘Ambassadors’  & ‘Fiats’ lined up in a row, and wander the lawns and exclaim at the Roses or Mango trees or some such. Baba, meticulous to the core, always pre-booked the Bungalows and ordered Fresh Linen and new soaps to be in place before hand; on occasion, he even had the meal ordered, so that we could eat as soon as we reached, especially if it was long way away. Massanjore, Puri, Hazaribagh, Krishnanagar, Topchanchi, Mayurakshi, Barakar, Shantiniketan, are just a few of these I remember; the longest one was to Delhi, and took 3 days with stops at Kanpur & Dehri-on-Sone.

Baba was in his elements on these trips. He knew the road like the back of his hand, without ever using a Map or asking for directions! There were no computers or Google maps in those days but we always knew we would reach safely, with him at the helm.  In his quiet way, he made sure his orders were followed to the letter and the service we got was always impeccable. 

I believe he had a vicious temper in his younger days, and was known to break a tableful of crockery with one sweep of his hand if the food was not to his taste, but by the time I came along, he was quite funny when he lost it. On one of our trips, after a breakfast stop, we were back on the road. He wanted to smoke his cigarette and fished out the pack from his top pocket, along with the lovely old lighter. It was windy with the window down so the cigarette didn’t light at the first go; or the second; or the third; next thing I knew, out went the cigarette, then the entire pack, and then, to my dismay, that beautiful lighter! I couldn’t believe he actually did that! A few minutes later he told the driver to stop. “Gari Ghumaiye”, he said, and my sisters had hysterics, thinking the trip was off; we turned around and stopped a little way ahead where he got off, calmly picked up his Lighter and sauntered back to the car. “ Chaliye” he said, and the trip was on again! After ten minutes of stunned silence, Ma, my sisters and I had a giggling fit. Baba, had the grace to look somewhat sheepish and managed a small smile!

He began graying quite early, like his father, before him. He looked somber, with his dark rimmed glasses and signature stance of either, arms akimbo, or hands clasped behind his back, and looked positively menacing to anyone who didn’t know better. Featuring among the first Indian Tea Tasters in the country,  he apparently was a Holy Terror at the Tea Auctions and remained a legend for quite a while; blunt, uncompromising and unafraid, he stuck to his guns and led to the coining of the term “doing a DR” used to describe someone who refuses to change their bid, no matter what.

My friends, particularly the boys, were terrified of him and were on their best behavior around him. One of them, visiting on a Friday evening, refused to come into the house because he spotted Baba standing with his hands on his hips. No amount of explaining that he was just looking at a lizard on the wall, would convince my friend that Baba was, in fact, not lying in wait for him, ready to shoot  if need be! He didn’t know that Baba was actually gentle, the gentlest of all when he was playing with the dogs, or patting me awake every morning before college. I’ll never forget the time I found him murmuring comforting words to Zsa-Zsa, our Dacschund, a couple of hours after he had smacked her for grabbing a biscuit from his hand.

I think my husband was one of the few, who recognized this gentle streak in him, early on; even today, Ashok never tires of telling everyone, how, when he had gone to ask Baba for my hand, Baba had looked at him woefully and asked “does Mamlu know?” and relieved, the moment he heard Ma’s footsteps approaching them, returned to his newspaper, figuring he didn’t have to do any more talking! They went on to become good friends, these two precious men in my life.

As he grew older, he became quieter, perhaps because he began going deaf. Vanity, however, ensured that he refused to use any of his Hearing Aids and left them to gather dust in his desk. Strangely enough, he never had a problem hearing what my kids said. Whether that was because they had piping voices or because he made more effort to listen, we’ll never know. He loved reading to them, playing cards with them (cheating unabashedly!) and telling them stories about his stint in the army. They in turn adored him, their Bombolati Dadu, who made them feel like they were the very best thing to have ever happened to him. Recently I saw my son wearing one of Baba’s bright red Hawaiian shirts and that delighted me.

Its eight years since he passed away, lying quietly on his side, looking like he was asleep. In the three years after Ma passed away, he re-read every single one of the Sudden & Louis L’Amour books he loved while he tied up every single loose end.  As always, he left meticulous instructions about everything, knowing that none of his three daughters would have a clue as to where to begin. Letting us know, that he, in his own quiet way, would continue to look after us for as long as possible.

My Baba, my solemn, gentle, sweet Baba.

Diwali Traditiions

My daughter is moving house. All by herself, packing, labeling, getting the registration done, collecting the deposit from one landlord and paying it to another,signing the papers required, getting her Gas connection set up,…all this while she goes to work, plans unsanctioned out of town trips......phew! She’ll survive on Maggi noodles for the first couple of days and then as soon as the weekend comes around, she’ll swing into decorating mode, after which, she will flood our in-boxes with photographs of her new home from every possible angle.

Diwali comes around with clockwork precision every year and I remember fondly, the last time all four of us were together for it, in 2011, after a gap of four years, when Kiki was away at college. Diwali was just a two day holiday for them in college! She left for college in 2007 and I  continued to do the Rangoli on my own, but there was no joy, no excitement to it. I miss both the kids, but I miss my daughter terribly at Diwali. I am always grumpy around Diwali, unless they’re home.

As a new bride, and then a new mother, surrounded on all sides by tea wives who played Tennis and Golf, with as much panache as they entertained and fasted for Karva Chauth, I still remember how I suddenly wanted to be a little like them, at Diwali,when Kiki was 4 years old. Till then, we had stuck to the fireworks and Mithai– one of which she adored and the other abhorred, even as a baby.

So, in 1992, on one trip to Siliguri from the Garden, I discovered Rangoli powders which looked much like Holi colors to my uninitiated eyes. I bought twelve colors, and armed with more enthusiasm than skill, I sat down to painstakingly draw out with chalk, a pattern of sorts, in one corner of the ‘jaali karma’, on the morning before Diwali. Diyas and candles and crackers had all been bought and kept away in the storeroom, and I was very pleased with myself for having the extra day to remedy anything if it went wrong. Babies were bathed and fed,husband was fed and sent to work, lunch instructions were given to the cook, and I now had a good 5 – 6 hours of Rangoli making. 

“First, make a Chalk Circle. Then make a perfect square around it. Then fill it in with the curly lines and the big Flower, Geometric shapes or whatever else you want”, someone had helpfully said.  This was good advice, I thought to myself as I stood back to admire the perfect circle for 10 minutes. Kiki stood by me looking at it and stealing glances at the big thali heaped with the different Rangoli colors; Madhav was strapped into his high chair,lugged out of the Dining room for the occasion, and he looked round eyed at the circle, nodding his curly head wisely. “Now Mama, you’ll make the flowers, no, Mama” said my little girl as I knelt down to start off on the Square. She sat uncharacteristically patiently on one of the cane chairs even when she was dying to dig her little hands into the Rangoli colors, craning her neck to look at it as it came along.Big Flower was made; tiny lit diyas were made at the corners, curly lines and vines were etched out in chalk, to be filled in with the powders.

I learnt fast that only an ass starts off with the lightest colors; I had to re-do the white lines and the Yellow Vines over and over every-time the green or pink or purple spilled on to them. Light blue swiftly became my least favorite color since it always simpered and allowed the dark blue to bully it and I realized my daughter’s favorite color was purple when her advice for each and every free space was, “Make it Purple Mama!”

There it was! A Huge Yellow Flower outlined in red and white, with green vines and purple leaves in a luridly pink circle; dark Blue Diyas at the corners with red flames, Curly Blue lines on its edges, with purple dots, all finished off with white outlines.

It was HIDEOUS!

 Kiki loved it! She walked all around it in awe and called the maali, bearer, cook and ayah in to look at it, and demanded they be as awestruck as she was!  Quite a Holy Terror she was and the maid, bearer & maali meekly agreed it was the best Rangoli they had ever seen, but old Nanku, the cook, remained non-committal. He sniffed and grunted "Baby, meringue jal jayega" and tootled off. Everyone who came to the house was told “my mama made a Rangoli” and dragged in to admire it,whether they wanted to or not!

And so began a Diwali ritual, which continued for a good 20 years. 

During her rebellious teenage years, she’d show no interest in the Rangoli, but heaven help me if it was not made! Her friends would be invited and asked in the most off-hand manner possible, ‘hey have you seen my Mom’s Rangoli ~ nice, isn’t it!’ A couple of years later, a small stool was brought out for me with a, ‘don’t kneel for so long Ma, here, sit on this and do it’ ~ my daughter, my daadi!  I had a few more lenient years, when she improvised the designs with a stern “No Ma, you cannot make a Ma Kaali with a Blue Face and red tongue!” or a 

“ It’s got to be traditional! Stop it now and make the paisleys in orange with me!”

And then, she grew up and went away, as children are wont to do…  first to College, and then to working a different city. I tried very hard to keep the Tradition going, sending her photos of the latest Rangoli and asking her for suggestions, but it was never the same. It was not the same, lighting the first Diya,  without her lighting it with me ~ it was not the same, feeding my mother in law Mithai, without Kiki doing the same with her grandfather; and it just, was not, the same, looking at the fireworks, without seeing their gleam reflected in Kiki’s eyes.

Today she is decorating her new place, and as expected, our in-boxes have been flooded with photographs, lovely shots of the house, cushions everywhere, shiny wooden furniture! She sounds happy, lighting her diyas, whose wicks she made by hand,  like her grandmother taught her; lighting her ‘mirchi’ lights all around the house; celebrating Diwali with friends.

I know, a small memory lies dormant, waiting for the right time to be resurrected, when she makes orange paisleys (or purple!) in a Rangoli at her own home, with her own kids! 

I wait for that day.

MEMSAABS

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It was mid week and the entire garden was abuzz with the news about the Dhillons moving into Beech Bungalow. I wondered what it would be like, to have a new family move in; apparently they were quite a couple, Roshni & Satpreet.  He, a robust, larger than life man, with hazel eyes, twirling moustache, and a penchant for ghazals (that, quite irreverently, he often did the slow bhangra to); and she, chubby, charming, outrageous and flirtatious in her Patiala salwars. Their reputation preceded them and as soon as their transfer had been finalised, hundreds of stories about them flew about, causing many a spat between even the staidest of couples! Quietly, unobtrusively, all the 'memsaabs' began planning day long trips to Jorhat, which boasted the one and only beauty parlor, not that their husbands even noticed their newly colored hair or pearly nails! Suddenly, plans were being made for a week long welcome fest ~ the bawarchis were summoned and coerced to outdo themselves with their Puff pastry, choux pastry, Trifles, Moussaka, Masala Dosas et al!
I was possibly the only person who hadn't met them yet and my head positively swam with all the information that was shared with me. I was intimidated to say the least, and grew uncharacteristically jittery about the welcome dinner at my place that was still a fortnight away....

What a welcome fest it was!

As was customary, for the first couple of weeks, the newcomers didn't have a single dinner at home...despite the fact that the crowd was the same, the working hours still ridiculous, it was party time like never before, continuously, till everyone had had them over!

I was delighted to meet Roshni, and even though she flirted unabashedly with my husband, I thoroughly enjoyed her company. She was intelligent, attractive and had a wicked sense of humor! We grew to be good friends and spent quite a lot of time together during the day over coffee, or on club days after tennis; Club teas after tennis were never enough and invariably led to Salim having to rustle up ‘anda bhurji’ and ‘parathas ‘, while we stayed long past our deadlines, chatting and singing and generally being boisterous.

Often the Dhillons would have one of their quicksilver quarrels that took us by surprise no matter how many times they happened; she would then flirt even more outrageously with anyone at all, hoping he would be jealous enough to pick a fight with the poor beleaguered chap at the receiving end of her affections, while he, equally contrary, would ignore it completely and turn his attention to the Billiard cue at the pool table!

The wariness continued though, and most of the ladies got a little antsy when she hung around their husbands for longer than normal, and called out to her to join them by the window seats or their card game; she however, preferred being on the tennis courts as long as she could, and then prop up the Bar along with the men! She could talk at length about the ‘maalibari’ or the new cows she had bought recently with equal gusto and endeared herself to the women as well, with her outrageous jokes and generous tips on Fashion, Beauty & Cookery. Quite a remarkable business head she had too, and turned those newly transported Jersey Cows into a pretty lucrative business, supplying Fresh Milk to all the Bungalows and to the Sweet Shops in town.

Before long she had turned into the general consultant for hairstyles and new clothes for all the younger lot and no shopping expedition was complete without her. Invariably five or six of us would pile into the Gypsy, armed with sandwiches, coffee,  aloo tikkis and nimbu paani and make an amazing ‘day’ of it. I wondered if the other husbands were quite as pleased about these trips as mine was! Smart man, he knew, being a city bred girl, a day out of this kind, would make sure I got home in a good mood and therefore I wouldn’t pick on him or mope around the house like I was wont to do otherwise.

One time on one of these trips, we had all ventured out to help Roopa buy her curtains since as the newest ‘memsaab’,  she was on a refurbishing spree. As always, we sang and munched through the 2 hour drive into town and proceeded to pull out every single roll of fabric at the solitary Furnishings store in Tinsukia, and turned up our combined noses at most of them;
Buying Furnishings is hungry work so we then proceeded to look for a restaurant good enough for ‘memsaabs’ to have a meal. I still cannot remember what we ate and where, but I do remember we had a very, very, very long lunch! A few of us enjoyed our post lunch ciggies and felt most urbane and languid, like we had just stepped out of ‘The Great Gatsby’, and  as a result, instead of heading back home by three o’clock, we were still in Tinsukia town at five thirty. Priti, being one of the more responsible wives among us, had tried to keep us on track but had thrown up her hands in despair when we behaved like schoolgirls out of Boarding school! By the time we headed back, it was dark already and the long two hour drive didn’t seem nearly as exciting as it had in the morning. With no bright city lights on the way, the road looked long and endless. Trucks loaded with Tea chests and other produce lumbered by and cyclists from nearby villages whizzed by as it grew darker and darker. Driving past endless tea gardens with fencing posts and shade trees gave us the feeling that we weren’t moving at all and were stuck in one place, and our singing gave way to restlessness and impatience with poor Tuni driver! Somehow, the five of us had put on weight during the day and were now squashed against each other;

At a railway crossing we had to stop to let the train go by and Saadia smelt Fresh bread and made the mistake of saying this aloud; before we knew what was happening, Roshni had jumped out and marched towards the bakers shack behind the level crossing, and returned armed with several loaves of warm freshly baked bread! At least we wouldn’t go hungry! To this day, I have not had bread as good as that, anywhere, here or abroad.

A little further along, as we turned along the road, the car came to an abrupt standstill. Peering out in the dark we saw the large shapes of elephants crossing the road to get to the forest on the other side ~ there must have been about 20 of them, including the little ones, with their trunks curled on to their mother’s tails. Quietly, and in the most disciplined manner ever, these huge creatures moved across the road – unhurried, un perturbed by the car. None of us had a camera and that was just as well, since the flash could have startled them and caused a stampede!

Tuni Driver seemed nervous and stayed still even after the pachyderms had disappeared till Priti barked at him to move; one by one we fell silent after the initial attempts at levity; it was pitch dark and getting nippy. We wanted to go home, shower and get into bed. Even the dirty jokes seemed lame now and no one wanted to sing any longer. Peering at the signboards on the Fencing posts we tried to figure out where we were and realised we were still at least a good hour and fifteen minutes away from home. Roopa, the most recently wed, started sniffling and tried to mask it by blowing her nose into her hanky; Priti, the most practical, rattled off the names of the other gardens that we would cross next, in a vain attempt to think where we could stop overnight and perhaps call up the husband-men to say we were alive and well; I chanted vigorously, asking for divine intervention; Saadia yawned and fidgeted and drove us mad; and Roshni? Roshni hummed to herself and seemed completely unperturbed. “He’ll come looking for me” she said, “don’t worry girls, he always comes looking for me”. None of us quite knew how to react to that. Should we be skeptical, hopeful or just plain jealous?
“He is perpetually afraid that I am going to run off with someone” she continued, “and I like it that way; keeps him on his toes; besides, the make-up sex is fantastic!”
Saadia was ready to faint out of shock at this declaration, while the rest of us giggled skittishly. Priti belted out orders in Assamese and poor old Tuni Driver accelerated the car in terror and in the process, ran bang smack into the speed breakers before the bridge, tossing us wildly inside the car, leading to shrieks that could have scared away any good hyenas within a 5 km distance!

Once we had righted ourselves and crossed the little bridge, maybe just out of sheer relief, (I’m being polite, it was plain hysterics) I started giggling and couldn’t stop, despite many thumps on my back, and many sips of lukewarm, leftover coffee. Remember, adventure stories make delicious reading, when you’re safely ensconced on a divan at home, but it’s quite something else, living it, especially during those pre Cell-phone days, crossing leopard country in a Gypsy, in pitch dark!  I was essentially a city girl after all!
Swearing never to stay out so late ever again, but  giggling hysterically, chuckling, snorting and hiccupping, we were a fine lot of ‘memsaabs’ ~ unapologetic about our fun day and ready to retract any foolish promises we may have made a few moments earlier! Some of the hysteria must have rubbed off on Tuni Driver because he yelled out loud and suddenly threw his hands in the air, causing the Gypsy to swerve like a drunk on skates! Five screeching women must have unnerved him and he shot forward and braked to a halt muttering “Shaab shaab”

What? Now we had snakes to contend with? Why had I ever come to this Jungle!!!!!

Up ahead, we could see the headlights of a long row of vehicles – probably trucks carrying Tea; they didn’t seem to be in any hurry and we counted six vehicles;  oddly enough, with their headlights all at different levels; and as they drew close, we saw a tractor, a Jeep, a Gypsy, an Ambassador and two Marutis. Wait, so they weren’t trucks carrying tea? Oh my god, were they…….could they be……..

Tuni Driver jumped out and gabbled incoherently waving his arms about; the vehicles stopped and a large flashlight shone into our Gypsy from the Tractor. That was Satpreet! In a trice, Roshni was out of the car and flinging herself at him, yelling, “I knew it, I knew you would come looking for me! I told the girls you would”
Ashok’s loud guffawing followed, much to my chagrin, but all was forgotten when he came up to ruffle my hair. Anil & Priti had a quick discussion in Assamese and Roopa and Saadia sniffled sheepishly and apologized to Raghu and Prem.

Would we ever live this one down? I wondered.

Mum & Dad and their Never Ending Romance

My Parents in law recently had their 71^st Wedding Anniversary. Yes, you read that right ~ 71^st wedding anniversary. 

Being the only one at home with them, that day, I sat with them in the evening, gave them bowls of celebratory “Ras-Malai’ and reminded them that it was that Special day.  Old and frail they may be, but oh the stories they remember! I asked them about their wedding day and then, like children, both of them began talking at the same time, telling me what they remembered. 

Dad, ever the charmer, started with a faraway look in his eyes ~ It was 28^th Baishakh when we got married. But not the first time I saw her. There had been a light drizzle that morning. I woke early and took my cup of tea and newspaper and settled into the easy chair in the verandah. Thanks to the rain, the grass looked freshly washed and winked at me in the sun. Suddenly a car drove up to the gate and stopped there. A Driver got off and held the door open for a lovely young girl in a sky blue saree. She began to head towards the house and her face lit up when she saw the raindrops on the grass. I was looking at her, and as if I had willed her to do so, she looked up at me.  Our eyes met. That very day, I saw my undoing, written in her eyes!

All this while, Ma had been telling me her story as well. She smiled and said,  “my friends came running to me on my wedding day and said ~ when we heard your husband’s name is Gobindo, we pictured some doddering old chap holding a hukkah; oh my god, were we wrong! My goodness, just looking at him could make us drop everything in our hands!”

There was a small period of silence, while they both relived that day, 71 years ago. Ma could hear the Shaankh and the Ulu, and the clamour of voices all around.  Dad was smiling as he thought of  pleasant things ~ when suddenly his smile turned into a grimace as he had remembered something ~

He began, “On the morning of 28th Baishakh,  (13^th May), we got on the train to Asansol from Bankura. My cousins and brother were with me and I was feeling very important, especially pleased with my brand new shiny Black Pump Shoes from Bata. There was an equally shiny black car waiting for us at the Station and we reached the house shortly.  After an elaborate lunch while everyone fussed over us, we rested a while. Who wanted to rest ~ not I! I wanted to go for a little walk with my friends and so I did, quietly, after everyone finished lunch and settled in for some rest. We had all good intentions of getting back in half an hour without anyone even knowing we had stepped out. 

However, this was not to be. My bloody shoes, those new shiny black pump shoes, gave me the most awful blisters on my feet and by the time we decided to turn around, we were quite completely lost; to make things worse, I had to take those blasted shoes off and walk bare feet. It got dark and we were still wandering around trying to find our way back, finally reaching the station, when, who should we see, but Phanibabu, my father in law’s friend and colleague! We waved at him bravely but he hurried away with just a brief nod in our direction. Tired, bedraggled and blistered, somehow we wended our way back to the bride’s house fearing a dreadful scolding.

Meanwhile Archana, she of the sky blue saree fame, was being dressed up in her benarasi saree with gold patterns all over it, having her hair braided into a chignon; a gold clover shaped pin attached to it; bangles teased up her arm and necklaces clasped around her neck, when like a ripple of wind, a whisper went around the room. One of her aunts bustled in and bustled out with equal alacrity, shushing the girls hovering around the bride. Archana had an earring in her hand and strained to hear what the whispers were saying.  “ the Bridegroom is missing” “where could he be”  “someone saw him at the station, boarding a train” and other similar bits of sentences floated into her ears. 

She looked around at all the flustered faces, taking in the round eyes and O shaped mouths. Pragmatic as she was, being all of 13 years old, she had an overwhelming desire to giggle. “Why, this is just like in the movies” she thought to herself, “bridegroom escapes through window” or bridegroom runs away to avoid marriage by force!” She shocked her cousins and friends by giggling aloud, quite unable to stop herself! Her friends, just short of declaring her mad, were silenced by the door bursting open and her aunts, all powdered and red bindi-ed came in ululating gleefully, “He’s been found he’s been found!”  and so, like all good children, they were married at Midnight, he a tall strapping 18 year old  and she a pretty, diminutive 13 year old.

Off they went to Bankura, the next day, tears streaking her face because she had to leave her beloved father behind; and he, feeling oddly guilty and somewhat embarrassed to have this beautiful weeping person accompany him.

Their Bridal bed was an old 4 Poster bed strewn with laburnum blossoms and cheeky little cousins hiding under it. She remembered sitting perched on the bed, giggling again, as he chased them away heroically!

The first few years went by in a blur; they had a little baby girl who became the apple of everyone’s eye. Life was peaceful, and routine, till that day when he sailed away to England to further his Aeronautic Engineering Degree. 7 years he was away ~ she took his letters up to the terrace in the afternoon to read them over and over again; played with her baby; learnt how to be a dutiful daughter in law; took her little girl to school; learnt how to knit and embroider; read her letters secretly; sang songs with her daughter. But underneath it all she was terribly lonely. She missed her handsome husband and his teasing ways. She worried about all those white women who might try and steal him.

7 long years passed and it was only when an irate and loving father in law saw this young woman pining visibly, that he ‘ordered’ his son to come back ,  citing an age old reason ~ ‘father serious, come soon’.

Goodbye England Goodbye Bankura.

On to uncharted territory ~ the Tea Gardens of Assam! Archana was lovingly re-christened Rani by her husband and Rani she was. Queen of all she surveyed, in her spacious bungalow with its lawn and vegetable garden; servants to do her bidding, fresh fruits from her own trees, coffee mornings with the Burra Memsaab and learning how to play Golf and Bridge! But best of all, were their three little babies to play with. She was nicknamed “Mother Hen” and had never been so happy.

A more devoted couple was hard to find and that took on new meaning when she lost her eyesight due to a botched up surgery for Glaucoma in 1989. Daddy took care of her so diligently, never complaining, never getting impatient with her as she re learnt her way about the house.

Today they are so old and frail, both of them; she has given up on everything after dad’s last major hospital visit in 2013, when we nearly lost him; she wasn’t sure he would come home at all and when, miraculously, he did, she wept like a little girl. Dad on his part, has decided that he cannot go before she does, because no one can look after her like he can. So he hangs in there, almost by a thread, but still with that mischievous twinkle in his eyes that endears him to all his grandchildren and daughters in law. 

IN TRANSIT

Sometimes I hate all this technology! Just as I am winding up work, and getting myself a cup of tea to sit down quietly and write, 

Pinggg! Message alert! Pongg! Facebook alert! Ghatlangg! Kitchen alert! Ting Tonggg doorbell  alert! 

Beep beep!  Best friend call alert! 

Sighhhhhhh..............

Not a moment goes by without being 'connected'!

Ok, so where was I? 

Yes, at an airport, sitting inside Security, waiting to board our flight back home. Smudged, dusty, floor to ceiling glass panels with row after row of bucket seats facing them. A weary young mother, with a million assorted bags, sits in the seat in front of mine and tries hard to contain her curious 3 year old's questions without much success. His piping, bird like voice wants to know why HIS plane hasn't come; why he cannot fly without the plane; why his orange truck cannot be banged against the glass panes; why  he can't have his Frooti right away; all this in one breath while his mother desperately looks up at the Sparrows swooping and gliding about, pretending to be Swallows. His voice reminds me of Madhav's voice at that age, and I quickly text him to tell him how much I miss him. That bit about technology, I like!

On the other side, by the Coffee Booth, an elderly Tourist, possibly European, hunches on the floor, while he painstakingly cellotapes his brand new Map - all the folds, taped ahead of time, to ensure that the same map will see him through his entire trip without falling to bits. He wears a 'tiki' and ugly green Crocs.  Covered in straps, across his chest, twice over, across his belly, across his shoulders, he is  evidently well-traveled, with several lessons learnt. 

Another airport, another time.  A young Nun from Mother Teresa's Diocese, the only person sitting in that row, is trying to doze,  rosary and thin prayer book clutched in hand . Her feet are in waterproof sandals and her plump face is not peaceful; she is waiting to go somewhere, and clearly not looking forward to it.  Her traveling companion, another young nun, is striding about energetically, chattering to people and seemingly quite excited about her trip. On my way to the Wash Room I am thoroughly amused to see her bend over her companion, the somnolent nun, and hear her say "hello, are you dead? Did you really die?"  Dozy nun is NOT amused however, swats away her hand,  and hisses at her "what are you doing, sit here quietly, no". 

I carry on to the Wash room pleasantly surprised to know that Nuns, apart from Maria, can make me laugh. 

Another spanking new Airport, all slippery floors and shining dividers, enormous spaces and letters from the Bengali alphabet strewn around its ceiling, faces us as we drive in. The Luggage trolleys all neatly lined up look like someone spent all night polishing them.  Bags are loaded, and the camera bag is tucked into the shelf at the top, dark hoodie thrown across it; the guitar is slung over the shoulder,  laptop & IPad are in place; with a quick check of the ticket and ID, he's ready to leave. 

Visitors are Banned from entering the Departure Lounge. 

A tight hug and kiss later,  he lopes off , looking back at us, saying bye. I do not cry but have a very difficult time dealing with the hollow my chest suddenly turns into.

We wait at the glass windows for as long as we can see that familiar, beloved creature, looking at us across the polished floors as he checks in, pays for his Overweight luggage (AS ALWAYS!!) goes into Security, when he waves, one last time and disappears into the crowd.
We drive home in silence, going over the last two months, occasionally smiling to ourselves, acknowledging the fact that with every trip home, he seems a little more grown up, a little more responsible and a little further away......

Back home I find an old notebook, with a piece written and dated August 1994, from my days in the Gardens. I wrote it the day before Madhav started School, his very first school, at the Binnaguri Army Base. 

As I read about his new school bag that he is so proud of, and the apprehensions his father and I had way back then, I realise that some things never change. Whether its to Nursery school for 3 hours a day or to College a 4 hour flight away, the wrench is always the same.

The foolishness lies in expecting it to get easier with time. It doesn't.