For lack of words

You say you have nothing to say,
Just may say "I love you"..
You question what questions to ask,
Just may ask "How are you?"...
You wonder what you might have to share,
Just may share your journey of each day...
You seek for help in love may -
Here, I seek the lack of help.

You fail to speak or cry,
Words and tears are my victory
Countless moments, whiffs of wind
In lone homes not lone minds
I seek togetherness and spin memory
More than anything, I seek the lack of you!
But more and more, I want more of you.

Packing Up and Enough!

The very day my travel to Barrow, Alaska got approved, I was ecstatic to the “Top of the World”. The only concern that everyone else, but me, had was that it would be ruthlessly cold! Having lived in the mid-west for nearly five years and survived extended Ohio winters, I was feeling confident and could not gauge the “seriousness” of the matter. I had set aside 2 hours of a lazy Friday afternoon to do my Arctic Shopping as I call it, and had hoped for fun.

Having read a six page Clothing and Layering guide for extreme weathers, I believed I knew the rules of the game. To much of my bitter amazement, the 2 hours left me befuddled and indecisive and hopeless. I realized, it was not going to be easy to stay dry and warm in the ~30 below freezing temperatures of the Arctic Winter!!! The result – an extended research on the web, understanding synthetic insulation and moisture wicking materials and the very essential talking to “the experienced”!! Nylon blend, polyester blend, Thinsulate and Gore-Tex stormed my brain while the Parka, mittens, boots and gaiters strapped me tight. If I add all the time spent, it took me about 72 hours to complete my shopping needs for clothing alone.

In addition to that, I consulted and borrowed from friends and colleagues. I was told that all the synthetics make one smell and reek after a day’s work, knowledge of which I would rather not have and that turned me paranoid. Multiple sets of similar layers, deodorant and fragrant body lotions made room in to my luggage. Despite of all of this I was nervous after I finished packing, crossed my fingers and hoped to be warm enough and not odorous. My checked baggage had hit the 44 lbs mark and I was calmed.

The layering that I used and remained comfortable for extended hours (~ 10 -11 hours) in the field is:

1. Moisture wicking polyester/spandex undergarments
2. Silk base layer 1
3. Terramer layer 2
4. Fleece Layer 3
5. Patagonia Layer 4
6. Fleece Layer 5
7. Arcteryx Outer Layer 6

The very precious and expensive Sorel boots did not work in the field for me, and I had to resort to the famous “Bunny Boots” that squeaked all day long but snugged my feet with warmth.

In addition to clothing, what I found essential to have with me was a heavy moisturizer, sunblock (SPF 45), burt’s bee lip balm, goggles, fleece face mask, fleece hat, regular cap with shades, Gatorade, ibuprofen, muscle relaxing ointment, body powder, my favorite tea, lots of chocolates and the will power to keep smiling!!!

Memories of Sunny Nights

8 pm in a romantically pleasant East Tennessee evening, the Sun steadily seeking shelter beyond the gorgeous green of Spring, perhaps bidding farewell to the bright day. Couched in my patio chair, I wait and soak in the warmth of the last rays of today’s Sun; I fall in love with the pastel sky each day. Each day this time the red-breasted cardinal sings for me, the spring breeze sways and the blue sky blushes with twilight hues. Until today, dusk never saddened me because I knew morning was soon to follow – the Sun would rise again as the blue night departed. But today, and may be I will every day to come in my life, I miss the Sun – my Midnight Sun.

The Midnight Sun is delicate yet powerful, poignant and elusive, boastful but humble. With the power to incessantly brighten my world, its gentle rays embraced me to life as if to say there is much to  be done, much to brighten up and never to call it a day! I miss the sunny days and nights of the Arctic. Two days have gone by since, but the experience seems to have been one majestic dream. I bid you goodnight my Tennessee Sun, but I know my Midnight Sun would never say farewell!

From Cocoon to Fire

Places have changed around me, vegetation patterns have varied, the traffic has become busier, noisier or lighter and quieter, the markets I visit have gotten distant and fancier or welcoming with the smell of the Earth, the names of the people I want to call friends have changed.

As I make this well vested effort to deep-diving self- introspection while “Leaving on a jet plane”, I only have to shut my eye lids to see my father, anxious yet happy, bravely proud while letting the fear of his little daughter cross boundaries go – boundaries of the city, of the country, of everything she had known all her life, until this day that she chose to fly across oceans of dreams and aspirations. That “little girl”, yes that’s me, can still hear those same words that father told me 5 years back every time I leave for a new journey – “Be safe, be careful and stay well”.

In due course of time, the little girl has grown; at least I hope she has, into an acceptable human being. I would always fight my parents for stopping me from venturing into the world, I always complained for their being overprotective of me and now, the reality is, I have only become overprotective of myself. No, not in the fear of a “harmful” world, but in the fear of constraining myself to the known rights, the familiar wrongs, the recognizable expressions of love and hatred, the well-advertised  faiths and beliefs.  I bow down before the Almighty each day so may I learn all the ways in which I can say “I am here for you” for anyone who might need me, may my eyes be open and my heart continue to beat to bring little joys to the lovely people I meet.

It is only natural as human beings to belong to a “Culture”, and to me my culture is no more than a habit, the habit of having rice in a certain way, of drinking tea in a cup and not a mug, the habit of being coerced to have Payesh on birthdays, the habit of running up the stairs to terrace and rescue the Kite lost by some proud owner, the habit of getting drenched on the first day of monsoon, the habit of licking fingers everytime Maa made Murighonto, the habit of lighting incense sticks in my Recollection room every evening …And such habits I fear envelope us in such tight seal to often silently suffocate us.

While it is the right thing to uphold one’s culture, it is only more right to accept another!

Maa unfortunately does not get the chance to make Murighonto for me so often nowadays, but I do lick up the hot sauce from the aptly named “Nuclear” chicken wings; while I could not give up the serene essence of sandalwood incense sticks, I do seek warmth  from cinnamon candle lights every time I pray; cheesecakes have been replacing Payesh on birthdays; the romance of monsoon will get a good fight from the first day of snow on a clear night; there is no Monkey paint draped on Holi but there is the craziness and creepynss of Halloween; there are no hidden diaries but there is a secret blog; there has been no Chaitra Sale for me for the last five years, but there has been Black Fridays and a dozens of more days to celebrate and share joy. Being a Bengali, being an Indian is as much my habit as is being an American. If I see raised eyebrows at this the least do I care – I will not give up any reason that multiplies my days to celebrate, my culture is not limited by the boundaries of my birthplace but is only expanded by my actions each moment of every day. I am thankful to my father for letting me take that first flight so I can protect myself in the flights from cocoon to fire the rest of my life! 

Over a Cup of Tea

Into a pot of boiling water

you throw a slice of ginger

or a pod of cardamom may be,

in an urge to sip monsoon ecstasy….

Unwinding down the road to past,

of laughter, joy so selflessly passed

“Joy Da…five cups of tea please !!!”

With luchi-ghugni, such eternal bliss….

In the days of glory, in the days of rot

In the nights of love and dreams you sought

When friendship meant the world to you,

In everything the heart could pursue….

The water boils; you add the leaves of tea

Shoving away grief…so gingerly!!!

Oh! You forgot the milk and the sugar

A moment more, the tea will be bitter

And to strain you rush….

Sipping through the flavors of Earth, Monsoon strengthens with a gush

Life seems so dear and wily,

Ah! Over a steaming cup of tea….

In Memories of Home

Not the tall-standing city lights, nor the blazing eyes of the vehicles that cut through the hazy darkness  in unwarranted speeds…….but could the warmth of a full moon that comforted my grievous soul in her journey towards “home”.  As the man in the next seat tried to fall into restful sleep so indifferent of my presence, I was fighting my involuntary fear of his odor, his color, of his impoverished state of life……but what did I have to fear in my world away from home…drifting from one home and heading to another!

As Fall arrives and the morning fog mystifies the lazy Sun, I wait and wonder if the clothes-pin still tightly hold the flowers of the scarf that I wore to School every day, if the north westerly have begun to fight the mellowed Sun of autumn in Kolkata? I face both the wind and the sun weaving hours of dreaminess as I lean over the 80-year old arms of my beloved – the terrace that listened to me in joy and in pain and that still patiently awaits my returning to home.

The drifting homes are sometimes only a couple hundred miles apart conquering one landscape after another in their stride, from the uninterrupted impeccably golden corn fields of the Fall in midewest US to the dramatic rolling hills of the Cumberland Plateau. At other times, homes are a culture apart, taking a flight across oceans, waiting to be re-invented amongst patterned window curtains and cobbled esplanades!!

“Guten Abend”, said the sweet old lady as our army of three young women continued the fight of hauling 50 lbs luggage up the dark, narrow and winding stairs of 23 Strassemann Strasse, Bad Nauheim, Germany. Even though we lacked the prowess of a common language, the kind lady welcomed us into our home for 5 nights through an animated tour of the cozy bedrooms, 60 year old books adorning the living room, the kitchen upholding the proud recycle bins, and a quaint little room in the attic. Be it the royal blue bedspreads with flower patterns, the Summer breezing through cotton curtains, relaxed Sunday tete-a-tete of people, the cacophony of crows at the break of dawn or our mock fight for a night under the attic window, I was in love with this home away of home. How can I miss recalling the traditional restaurant that served a chicken cutlet served with a salad of cucumber, onions and mustard sauce – it was not the Peep-n-Inn as a fellow Calcutta may mitsake; but in the historical, picturesque city of Bad Nauheim that gifted me the unadulterated spirit of good old Calcutta!

No matter how many homes one may build in a lifetime, the same flavors prevail, the known fragrances linger and memories get the last bet…….memories of not what we leave behind, but what we created out of marriage with moments, moments of bewilderment, joyous reinvention of oneself, of retrospection and the longing to return home.

I ponder if such flights are often escapes from reality in longing for a recluse….as I play with words choosing memories, wrapped in the warmth of Maa’s 30-year old Kashmiri shawl I can smell the Shiuli flowers as Autumn glorifies my home…..

The Beginning of Givings!

A life worth 3 decades…….sounds like an achievement and indeed is! One of those time points in life when you start looking back as much as you look ahead; the only tangible reason being you have lived through the much speculated 50% of your life - an accepted norm.
And as with each new beginning, the 30th one derives its life juices from the past – a juvenile past, the past of the “bests” left alone of “perfects”, the naïve past and the innocent past, the loved past and the trusted past!! The very word “past” has the powerful, characteristic flavor of being lost. So, are all the bests and the perfects bygones? Who gave them to me, and who took them away?!
Many more strides to come in life, and with the sparkle of optimism, may each step fall and rise, may each such stride have the strength of the child’s tantrum, may each footstep lead to the path of trust, may every footstep embark on love, and may the naïve in me persist to never perish.