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Tag Archives: Summer

Strange love : Still on the August trail

Holy matrimony seemed to have settled down with me and put to rest my search for August, or so I thought.  No, no, I was perfectly, happily married to the Bee.  Even the friends of the Bee swore in his presence that he had taken to Bengali like a Bong to fish, that he was actually speaking whole sentences in Bengali. Phew! I thought.  But who would have known then that life away from my Madna would get more complex. And little did I know that the affection for an abstract noun named ‘perfection’ would be the albatross round my neck and in trying to escape my Madna I was merely stepping into another Madna, only larger.

Why? Just read on.

Like the gasping, choking fish out of water, we,  the ‘freshly out of Charnock’s Kolkata’ in the Rajdhani,  found our first home at the heartland of Bengalis in Chittaranjan Park, in  South Delhi.The sleepy street with a long patch of grass separating the two neat rows of houses, the hint of Bangaliana in the terracotta name plates, the tastefully done up windows with chiks complete with a ceramic wind chime swinging in the gentle summer breeze, careless evenings spent on the wide terrace of our barsati and its row of potted foliage and the rusting desert cooler by the long french window – and like all newly-weds I thought the dream would never end. Because just like you, even I had thought that thenceforth it would be happily ever after in Lutyen’s, being far away from my Madna.

Thus, for a while I merrily found solace here, among the Bangali Mashimas, paanch phoron, bori, Ilish maachh, Durga  Pujo, Poila Baishakh, baro mase tero parbon and most things Bangali. And yet, somewhere deep down I pined for the language I had inherited. Something seemed amiss. And I kept putting it off,  distracted myself with  long summer afternoons,  the rattling, rusting desert cooler, andhis, pots of spider ferns and foxtails, holi and other  such idiosyncrasies typical only to Delhi.

It finally dawned upon me when my friendly neighbourhood Mesomoshai called me and informed me, “Are beta, ami to sedin sirf mazak korchilam“.  My Bangali chromosome was in for a rude shock. In the name of speaking Bangla, in the heartland of Lutyen’s Bong ghetto, they churned out a punch of Bengali peppered with  a liberal dose of Hindi .

That day I realized that however much I loved the nuances of a nuanced speaker of the English tongue, my Bong crux  cringed in seeing the thousand deaths my mother tongue died every minute. I winced in pain when the  Mashimas, Meshomashais, Boudis, Dadas as much as at the machhwalla, bajarwalla blurted out  with poker faces “Amar  naam Ghosh hochche“; “deyale chipkali dekhe bhoi pawar ki holo“; “Beta, eta tomar uncle hocchche“; “aajker Ilishta khub taza hochche“.

I even seriously considered opening a “ Eso Bangla shikhi” class, of course, pro bono with some snacks thrown in. So there I was again, reliving Madna among the displaced tribesmen from my tribe who were  perfect in their Bengali customs and rituals and utterly confused about their troubled tongue. I mean not too many Bengalis are known for their finesse in the national language.  But the way they had  acquired the ‘third’ language and made it a part of their daily existence  was a far cry from what my mother tongue was supposed to be.

In the middle of all this my tormented inner being  continued to forge ahead with its own faulty logic of  perfection.

One of those evenings I saw Agastya, standing by the flower shop at the corner of the Second Market.  Yes, he had stepped out of the alleys of my mind and  was watching me from the shadows, watching me betraying myself. He  seemed to question me, my sanity and what happened to my pursuit of ‘perfection’ and my pursuit of him. And I questioned myself, was it that I was in  pursuit of August or I was  still pursuing the old suspect Perfection?

Soon it was time  to move on,  but not too far , just a step away from the Bengali galli to the vast “good” gaon of Haryana.

The big guns had already set up the much promised land for the upwardly mobile corporates, for whom gentry, an X sized apartment decorated with Y brand of furniture, the newly launched Z car, Diwali gifts, weekend potluck, teen patti and some other inanities were but essential. I succumbed to the daily soaps that telecast the “pleier”  of  owning stuff, showing off faux couture with elan,  hosting cougar parties.Yes, I tuned in for a while, just to sit and listen. I was, perhaps, trying to tone down the compulsive perfectionist in me. Agastya decided to leave me alone with my trials and errors at fitting in.

Must I confess that I soon gave up on the “pleier” of watching the daily soaps and returned to “wrong pronunciations”, “grammatical errors” “they call this talking in Bengali”? The ennui gave way to an understanding that my perfectionism would flog me forever unless I learn to rein it and channelize it into, yes, you are right, planning an escape out of  this “still rustic at heart, still smelling of wet earth” Madna. Agastya still lay low, lost in the maze of my mind. I let him stay there. By now I had learned to live with him and was used to him appearing out of the blue as a premonition, perhaps.

Eventually, with the first escape hatch opening up, I was on a flight out of Madna, or so I thought, flying westward.  In four hours I had landed in Sindbad’s “land of black gold”.  As I headed out of the air-conditioned comfort of  ‘al mataar al masqat al dauliya‘  I thought I caught a glimpse of Agastya sporting a smirk, waiting by the automated glass doors which parted to usher me into the country with a gust of hot and dusty desert wind.

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Posted by on March 18, 2010 in Delhi, Uncategorized

 

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Dreams…

This is old wine in a new bottle. Its one of my favourites so I’m reposting it – Rose tinted glasses

I dreamed a dream in time gone by when hope was high and life worth living – Les Miserables

It was a dream. It was one of those dreams that puts the ever so restive soul to rest, a dream that gives a sense of roots to an ever searching soul, a dream that promises rain to the parched soul and a direction to the lost soul forever in search of its self.

Have you ever picked up a glass marble and held it up against the sun? Have you watched the colours of the marble  dripping through your fingers, rolling down your hand to scatter like drops of rainbow around your feet? My dream was just like that. Like a  green marble dripping the golden sunlight and then bursting into drops of translucent rainbow at my feet.

The last time I dreamt such a dream was in my childhood, on a summer evening  in a house bustling with people, as I sat in the balcony watching the evening darken into night. The cool summer breeze grazed through my hair, a heady wisp of  jasmine  lifted from the neatly woven strands precisely coiled into a heap on a  platter to allure the sleepy neighbourhood and half of a crescent moon hung in the sky. And I thought the dream would never end, that times would never change, that I would never depart and all would continue to be the way it was.  

But dreams are after all to be woken up from, and that happened when I grew up. The adult  understood that it was but a dream.

My prevailing dream had the same tranquil air. As if my weary soul had found the oasis it desired, as if my vagrant gypsy mind had found a home, my yearning for calm had found mooring in a placid harbour, as if a  friend had reached out to catch my tears and replace them with laughter.

 It was the same languorous evening slowly melting into the night, a soothing wind caressed my face as it swirled upwards from the rain-soaked grass, a night-bird flew past my window soulfully calling out to its mate and everything enticed me to linger a while longer. And every time I wanted to depart it became more real asking me to relent, urging me to stay and imploring me to believe that it would never end.

And then I woke up. It was time for the dream to pass. The rain it brought was to change into a dry, scorching day; the friend it promised was to become a stranger again; the chaos that I had lost for a moment was to return; the soul was again to become a nomad in the desert.

 
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Posted by on December 15, 2009 in Memories, Summer, Uncategorized

 

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the face in the window

old window

Have you ever been on a bridge that runs past a house with many windows? Did you notice one particular window, only  half ajar, while the closed shutter hid the pain and the darkness within?  Did it have the hint of a curtain, once floral and bright , now dusty and faded by the western sun? Did the walls have their erstwhile glory peeling to reveal the stark, rude present and was a young Peepul starting to take control over the parapet beneath?

Was it a summer afternoon mellowing into evening? A balmy wind must have lifted a wisp of the fragrant Chameli you bought from the little boy at the last crossroad and it made you look out at the distance, at  the house, at the window. Did you see a face at that window?

Did the face look gently at you and then look away? The eyes – were they forlorn, looking out at the distant sun setting, maybe? And after you had crossed and continued, did you wonder about the face?  The aging, once beautiful face, did it have a story?

Did you keep wondering what her thoughts were, whether she sat there every evening, looking out, looking at the rush of life flowing by her window?

I have seen so many of these faces, in some of the aging cities I have visited or lived in.  A  face in a window, from a bridge or from the street looking up to admire an old house or maybe from another window across the street. Always from a distance. Everytime the  face looked the same to me. A picture of life halted, waiting to pick up the threads, maybe. Or maybe left behind to wait by her window for her future to come calling. But  always, before the story could unfold, before the face could reveal more, I had passed on.


 
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Posted by on July 19, 2009 in city, Life, mansion, Memories, Summer, window

 

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It’s yesterday once more…..

night

The cursor hovered over the  ‘Log Out’  briefly and  quickly moved  over to the ‘Go Online’ link.

‘One last time’ I thought.

‘But it’s 12:15 a.m.’ said the mind.

‘Just one more try’ I told myself. ‘Tomorrow is Sunday.’

And there it was, the single illuminous green dot beside the name I sought.

And before I could ‘Go Offline’ the name came alive with ” Hello beautiful!”

But there was no turning back now, nimble fingers had already typed “Hey!” in response.

And before the head could harness the heart it was 12:40 a.m. and I waited with bated breath.

“I’m dialling….” said the last incoming line on the chat window.

The house was silent, apart from my heartbeat, the rustle of the leaves on the tree outside my window, a radio playing an old hindi song somewhere and a ticking clock. And just to prove how thick the silence was, the shriek of the telephone sheared it into pieces, making me jump.

I wrenched it off the cradle  before it aroused the two souls living under the same roof.

“Hello Mrs. Ghosh!” said the voice from 18 years ago, bridging a couple of continents and more than a couple of seas between us.

“Hi, this is a pleasant surprise ! A veritable blast from the past!”

“And what a past it was! How is your present?”

Once again, I was sitting at  the same desk, in the same class room, taking down the same Pythagoras Theorem with same Reynold’s 045 carbure tip, when the same voice spoke to me, “Mind if I sit next to you?” And that summer besides the desk we also shared our friends, laughters, heartbreaks, pains, dreams and all things 16.

For the next hour and half  I sat there touching my yesterday, listening  to the voice from yesterday and wondering about our yesterday.

Did she sound mellowed? Did she just say “romance resides only in novellas, not in real life”? Did her laughter sound strained? She, who was a rebel, with her unruly curls held back in a plait, her infectious, almost impish laughter brightening up an otherwise sombre Geography lesson, her nicknames for the XIIth grade teachers, everything came back to me in a deluge – also her rendition of  “I’ll say a little prayer for you..”.

After all these years, I surprised myself. I remembered nearly everything about her, every little detail.  And so did she. She remembered I was pathetic at singing but good at dramatics. She said I read a lot but mostly boring books. And she said I had a beautiful smile and remembered a boy who waited for me outside the school gates every Friday afternoon.

The moody midnight breeze brought in a whiff of  the fragrentKamini, blooming in the dark of the night. She had long disconnected the call and had gone back to her present. I was sitting in my present, in a house lost in slumber, dreaming of tomorrow. But the rear window to my past remained open, connected with my yesterday.

 

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the floor was coloured red

The other day I happened to walk into a conversation among strangers about something I must have  loved for a long time. I didn’t realize it till the mention of it brought back memories in rushes.

I remember spending countless days rolling on that red floor of  yore, my lazy summer afternoons with Satyjit, Sharadindu, Sunil, Shirshendu. On afternoons, when it would be dark and cloudy or even rainy, I’d curl up on the dark  mahogany four poster bed and watch the rain find it’s way through the chinks of the shutters on the window, roll down the ledge and make watery designs on the red floor. Or on a fast disappearing winter afternoon, the coloured glass pattern in the arch above the window would cast longer shadows on the floor and I would sit mesmerized by the changing hues of the red.

Then came the time when I was walking, running, lounging  on the mosaic of colours bordered with green in our new house. The house had window seats in  green mosaic and I would spend long afternoons pondering over Maugham or just stare out at the sky with  Joan Baez  and  ‘Hey Jesse, it’s lonely ….. come home’ or have the floor strewn with paper, paint, brushes while I  took flights of fantasy.

And one day  in my red Benarasi, I crossed over a threshold, on to a pristine white alabaster floor leaving behind a trail of footprints in red alta .  A new ‘I’ came into being, a new relationship dawned, relating me to many more and   breathed  life into a sprite.

Life moved on to  different cities, different mosaics and terrazzos, on to various shades of alabaster and granite, in barsatis, in shiggat (Arabic for ‘apartment’), in penthouses. But never again did I come across the red of that floor of yore. Not that I yearned for it, but somehow all my memories of my girlhood would have that touch of red.

Now in the eve of my life,  I  tread on my mosaic, a red mosaic , a red from my childhood, a seamless wonder that the adult seems to have clung on to all  this while.

mosaic Picture courtesy: mosaicartsource.wordpress.com

 

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Flame of the forest

That summer the Krishnachura broke into flames for the first time, right outside my window to the world. It was a scorching red blooming on the scrawny young sprigs that had started to reach for the skies, nestled among the luscious green of the fresh burst of leaves. The contrast of the red and the green against the decaying wooden lattice of the adjoining terrace mesmerized me for many summers till I moved onto other cities, to other distant lands. But the image of the flame tree stayed with me.

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Here and now, this summer, Rimi and I walked down a garden path tucked away between the compound walls of two neighbouring buildings. It was a longer walk, but  promised abundant shade from the overgrown branches of the tall trees along the path. Looking up I spotted the first hints of red among the entwined branches above.

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Last night it rained all night . Today morning while I took my usual detour, I found myself standing on a path flowered with the flame of the forest, fallen like rain with the rain last night.

I couldn’t tether the child in me, for once I didn’t want to. I returned with my hands full.

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