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.

Bubbles

I had left the cocoon of family, of my known world three years back, but this city had someone, as though waiting to embrace me and say “I am here for you sweetheart!!” An unknown place, an unknown culture, I was not sure how to react and what those words really meant. I was touched; yet, I was hesitant to accept all the affection that was being showered on me. I felt like a Princess as Jerry calls me, but I had to fight to remain grounded to the reality that I am an alien to this place.

Jerry had lost his daughter Natalie years back, a loss that is only corporal. Natalie is like sunshine, a zillion bubble of light, which might be shrouded in the dark clouds some days, but persists to shower life on her world, all day, every day. I do not have her dazzle but I do have the strength, strong as that of wind. May be that was what Jerry found in me – he said I was his daughter, the Indian Princess!! A day, a moment was engraved in my life. Did Jerry find the Wind to blow his Bubble?!

It was scheduled to be a day of celebration, a day of donation to the cause of wetland research. A boat, named ORWNatalie was destined to float on the Olentangy River, to carry the researchers closer to the troubled Nature!! The boat named after Natalie was to bring new life afloat. Somehow, at some moments of remembrance by all that knew this lovely lady, a teardrop reached my cheeks. I had never seen a father in such loss, a mother so grievous, a brother so proud of his sister but in so much pain as his quivering voice. I had never been with a family that mourned and remembered the loss of their daughter!!!

But there I was, thousands of miles away from my family, embraced by a new family. I felt helpless, I felt distressed. Can I ever make it up for them? I am no gymnast, not a winning danseur, but I am a daughter and I can be a daughter.

Light passes through Bubbles and Light passes through Wind, too…..

Photography by Jaideep Banerjee

The Colorful People

Every place has its own color. While every country tries to unite its Culture across the state borders, every corner of it still has a fragrance and hue of the people that live in it. Coming to this country to me, may be due to my utter naivety of the world, meant only to come among Whites!! Some more pink, some yellow or some more paler than that...but the shade of the skin was akin to white in my mind. While light skin has continued to mean superiority for ages, we have persisted to ignore the illumination of the dark.

For whatever reason, everything in this "developed" part of the world had to fall in place and time. Breach of time, dishonesty,littering in the streets, hunger, homelessness - these words had seemed so unfamiliar and unacceptable for months. What it means to be in the United States of America was all shine and glory. But then I was told to be scared, too! Getting back late at night, walking alone in the alleys, being alone - if any of these are true, I am expected to be scared and cautious - not of darkness alone, but of dark people, too. I see them everywhere in the city streets, in the markets, in the libraries, at the eateries, at school and I always see them so colorful. They manage to talk aloud likeh there is no one around, they burst into laughter as if laughing their heart out, they can dress so colorful as in motley, they speak an English I hardly can follow, they swing to music at all moments and adeptly balance everything on their hip! They are huge, tall and big to me....and I know some who have even bigger hearts. They will call you "honey" at every approach and be the most comforting stranger in your pain. They do not always seem to be rich in money though, their dresses are creased, oddly bright or torn, often. But they have an aura of carelessness, and a contrast so starking to the larger paler population. They are impoverished, vulnerable, may be victims, too, of fear and being feared!

In our city, these oddly big, motley loud people commonly serve to carry the pedestrians on the city public transport systems. Limited to the Campus area, I often took the same bus to the same place for a year and became acquainted with a black man. I began with caution as had been advised while travelling on these buses. May be it was me or may be it was the student in me, this person would always talk to me. He was funny but he was kind, too. He would see a heavy bag on me and drop me far ahead of the stop. He also knew my regular companion and would ask about his absence some days. He said he wanted to visit India after he has saved enough. He was never silent on those travels and never was he without a smile. He would made me wonder at his energy and lightheartedness. I began to call him "Bus kaku" as I would have in my hometown. Of course, never called him aloud..but I wish I could. I have a car now and do not travel on the bus as much now. I have a secured seat, a more familiar person for the drive. But I miss the laughter, I miss his incessant words that were gibberish to me, I miss the long talks with him in those 15 minutes, and above all I miss his Color!!

Friend

Turning around time and again, looking back through the haze of years

It was you who held my hand, wiping away yours and my tears

Oh Friend you have been with me since then ----

The first awkward step in school and cinema

Through the screams at “Enkushe” and the pride of “Sesher Kobita”.

You cheered my defiance of the world, you feared my heartbreaks,

Oh Friend you stood by me at the rickshaw stand, patient for the last bus, listened till the end ----

Your forms have changed to the open eyes

The bob-haired tom boy, the specs and pigtails, the shy vermillion

The hints of moustache, the wrinkled shirt, the evolving of a man.

All I need to know its you

Oh Friend is your warmth ----

Not the pair of trinkets you gave me once, nor songs of Rabindranath

You gifted me your years of care, a zillion memories so close to the heart.

Your praises have been with me so have been your rebuke

Oh friend I fear to go to school now, stranger to me is the Rickshaw stand

I dread to be the adolescent and tread the path without you.

The seat beside now holds a creaseless shirt, an i-phone

The chewed corner of my handkerchief to him is so unknown

Oh Friend will you care to stop me like then

From tearing the threads off the cloth

Oh friend I need your warmth, I need your hand now and again and again.