Flashback is my favourite function of the mind.
Back when I was about 10 or 11, bored of school work and confined within a million extra curricular activities forced to participate in, I would wait year long for the Durga Puja vacations to come through. Kids through our rather widespread family would be off for atleast 10 days and it'd be a sure shot at visiting dadabari. Nestled in a small village called Tofapur, that century old house would hold secret potions for fun that could never be found in our comfortable duplex in the metro. Sleepless nights and weeks of packing would finally end in boarding the overnight Gour Express from Sealdah station, eating out of packed tiffin-boxes and then sleeping off with a beating heart knowing the next time I opened my eyes, it would be the place I waited for, for months. Unless running late, we'd reach the station in the wee hours of the morning, more often than not greeted by a chacha who'd come specially to pick us up and then a drive to dadabari.
As the ritual held, dada would be sitting in his room looking out of the window waiting to greet the families that arrive, one by one. We'd rush into his arms and remember much later to do the salaams to which he would patiently smile. I never could decipher what that smile really meant, calm and loving. Then some muri with gur and off to our family room. On the way I'd steal cheerful glances at the cousins I've been looking for all along, while quietly being directed towards the room to freshen up and change. A minute later, much fresher in a lighter cotton frock, I'd rush back to where they were waiting, eager to exchange stories saved for the past months, instantly holding hands as if scared someone would keep us apart. And there the journey began.
Days and nights passed, but they all lost to the dazzle of the afternoon. One after the other, we'd spend them on the low hanging branches of the guava tree by our family graveyard. That was home. We'd play with wooden dolls, make little sections our private kitchen and cook imaginary meals out of guava leaves while sharing stories from school. But we had to get back before evening, for the folklore had it, spirits rose off the graveyard in the dark. So come sunset, we'd be running back the fastest our feets could carry towards the house. We'd enter from the backdoor to avoid getting caught by our respective fathers, only to get caught by the mothers instead. After some minor slaps on our backs for having been missing all afternoon, we'd be made to stand in a single file to wash our feet at the tubewell. Now this is what we'd hate the most because if you've ever played in a haystack you would know just how finely the hay cuts into your legs while you gleefully jump up and down on it. But that has never been a deterrent from doing it again, what we didnt want to do is, wash our feet. Mothers would however turn a deaf ear to all our pleas and threaten to complain to the fathers, which was fear big enough to drown us. So while screaming and swearing we'd quickly wash our feets to run back to the house and sit by dadi to hear stories of people we never seemed to recognise.
Sometimes if we were lucky, some chacha or the other would take all of cousins on a horse cart ride to the neighbouring village of Arjunpur for some nice rosogollas, shingaras or just plain ice cream. Sometimes we were even luckier when on late mornings they'd take us to the Ganga for a dip, completely oblivious to just how angry our mothers would be when they'd find out! Spending two to three hours splashing water on eachother seemed like the most fun idea Allah had ever devised. Only, the fun would soon turn into serious scolding when we'd return home drenched and coughing. And then there were million of evenings playing silly games with a hoard of the local village girls, most of whom I didnt even know names of.
Those days, that level of excitement, even those cousins now seem so distant. But I'm glad my memory can rebuild those moments every time I meet a trigger relevant enough.
Like I said, flashback is my favourite function of the mind.
Back when I was about 10 or 11, bored of school work and confined within a million extra curricular activities forced to participate in, I would wait year long for the Durga Puja vacations to come through. Kids through our rather widespread family would be off for atleast 10 days and it'd be a sure shot at visiting dadabari. Nestled in a small village called Tofapur, that century old house would hold secret potions for fun that could never be found in our comfortable duplex in the metro. Sleepless nights and weeks of packing would finally end in boarding the overnight Gour Express from Sealdah station, eating out of packed tiffin-boxes and then sleeping off with a beating heart knowing the next time I opened my eyes, it would be the place I waited for, for months. Unless running late, we'd reach the station in the wee hours of the morning, more often than not greeted by a chacha who'd come specially to pick us up and then a drive to dadabari.
As the ritual held, dada would be sitting in his room looking out of the window waiting to greet the families that arrive, one by one. We'd rush into his arms and remember much later to do the salaams to which he would patiently smile. I never could decipher what that smile really meant, calm and loving. Then some muri with gur and off to our family room. On the way I'd steal cheerful glances at the cousins I've been looking for all along, while quietly being directed towards the room to freshen up and change. A minute later, much fresher in a lighter cotton frock, I'd rush back to where they were waiting, eager to exchange stories saved for the past months, instantly holding hands as if scared someone would keep us apart. And there the journey began.
Days and nights passed, but they all lost to the dazzle of the afternoon. One after the other, we'd spend them on the low hanging branches of the guava tree by our family graveyard. That was home. We'd play with wooden dolls, make little sections our private kitchen and cook imaginary meals out of guava leaves while sharing stories from school. But we had to get back before evening, for the folklore had it, spirits rose off the graveyard in the dark. So come sunset, we'd be running back the fastest our feets could carry towards the house. We'd enter from the backdoor to avoid getting caught by our respective fathers, only to get caught by the mothers instead. After some minor slaps on our backs for having been missing all afternoon, we'd be made to stand in a single file to wash our feet at the tubewell. Now this is what we'd hate the most because if you've ever played in a haystack you would know just how finely the hay cuts into your legs while you gleefully jump up and down on it. But that has never been a deterrent from doing it again, what we didnt want to do is, wash our feet. Mothers would however turn a deaf ear to all our pleas and threaten to complain to the fathers, which was fear big enough to drown us. So while screaming and swearing we'd quickly wash our feets to run back to the house and sit by dadi to hear stories of people we never seemed to recognise.
Sometimes if we were lucky, some chacha or the other would take all of cousins on a horse cart ride to the neighbouring village of Arjunpur for some nice rosogollas, shingaras or just plain ice cream. Sometimes we were even luckier when on late mornings they'd take us to the Ganga for a dip, completely oblivious to just how angry our mothers would be when they'd find out! Spending two to three hours splashing water on eachother seemed like the most fun idea Allah had ever devised. Only, the fun would soon turn into serious scolding when we'd return home drenched and coughing. And then there were million of evenings playing silly games with a hoard of the local village girls, most of whom I didnt even know names of.
Those days, that level of excitement, even those cousins now seem so distant. But I'm glad my memory can rebuild those moments every time I meet a trigger relevant enough.
Like I said, flashback is my favourite function of the mind.
