Wednesday, October 29, 2008

Back to dadabari

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.

Monday, May 19, 2008

Of the wait

Tick tok tick tok tick tok. I make imaginary sounds in my head, eyes fixed at the mute digital clock on my computer. Somewhere in my mind large black numbers appear. 2 and 5. 25 bloody more minutes to go. The head reels under the numbness. Suddenly, BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ and the vision takes a long angle shot. Flashback.


8:05 am. You're late. I can almost see my boss lip sync those words from across the wooden partition. Traffic David, traffic. I silently lip back. With not a sound, we somehow communicated it anyway. Never hear the words, just listen to the message. Snap on the computer, fish into Outlook and ZOOP ZOOP ZOOP comes in the emails. Suppliers, clients, colleagues with questions, queries, requests, favours, demands et al. Flow on; sometimes smoothly and sometimes not so smoothly. One after the other; like braiding a nice long plait. I run my fingers through each to smoothen the irregularities, divide them with clean partitions and then let them flow into each other into a pattern that makes the overall product seem like a piece of art. Of course there also lies the utility factor of it all, money like they say. Within every twist and turn of the plait, the beauty is really how we wound each of those to end in the last bit, as free flowing cash.


Blur, blur, blur. A couple more plaits, some food and a couple of forwarded emails that try to make the process of plait creation funny. Sometimes effective, sometimes not. TZK TZK TZK. An average day. Today or maybe yesterday or maybe tomorrow. Not that one is recognisable from the other. Is this maturity? This greyness that surrounds all memory? November 1992 I was wiping my birthday cake off my face, May 2002 I was studying insane nights for A levels, September 2004 I was wiping ice cream off Rashmi’s nose. But July 2007 I was BZZZZZZZZZ. Grey. A dreary lull of time passing unnoticed waiting patiently for its turn to be detected and taken care of. The time is now, the time to bring some colour in.


The head reels under the numbness. Somewhere in my mind a large black number appears. 0. 0 more minutes to go. My head is filled with nail curling silence. I get up to go home. It is time to change now. And it begins again. Tick tock tick tock tick tock.

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

The post-effect trauma

She had barely had time to blink or register what it was before it hit her hard, square in the middle of her forehead. First she thought it was pain – but with time it was like a bubbling feeling inside. What’s the word? Effervescent, isn’t it? Like dirty yellow Sulphuric acid. Or was it Nitric acid? Wait, wasn’t Nitric acid green? Why couldn’t she remember? There was something wrong with her head - couldn’t think straight. And the loud and constant blaring from the speakers didn’t help either. But somehow instead of even trying to concentrate, she readily gave up and moved on to the next thought quite enjoying this sudden loss of control.


She tried lifting her hand to touch her forehead but flung her arm at a nice little carefree 180 degrees accidentally hitting something metal. Awww – that should’ve hurt. But wait a second – that wasn’t pain. It was a warm numb warm feeling around her palm. Quite like as if she was holding onto a warm cup of coffee. She smiled at the thought. Coffee would be good. The weather did feel a little cold. The thought of warmth passed an unexpected chill down her spine. As a child she believed unusual chills were signs of spirits passing by. Funny, what children believe in; and funnier, how our minds lose the power to be receptive as we grow older and wiser. The thought made her laugh out loud – she didn’t see it coming and it startled her that she laughed at something so factual. And that made her laugh again. It kept happening for a bit – laughing, stopping to think and then laughing again. Until the seemingly unstable mind finally rested on one thought – the story of the spirits. She wondered if the smoke she saw around was really her soul leaving. In reality, it was this fear that had brought the laughter to a deadening silence. After a moment, (or was it really minutes?), of thinking she decided it couldn’t be that – souls don’t smell burnt – and she could definitely smell something burning or something like it, she couldn’t be bothered about the details. But then what was all of this?


“Do you want another shot?”
“Do I what?”
“Another drink – do you want one?”
“A shot – no I don’t. But I do want something else, maybe something like the way I feel now – shaken not stirred.”