We were posing for pictures in front of Devi Saraswati’s idol at my local Saraswati pujo. My friend leaned towards me and took a deep breath, “Di, did you wear this saree for the first time since you bought it?” I said, “Yes, how did you know? Does it have a new saree smell?” She replied, “No, it smells of Kolkata. It smells of home.”
I remembered this conversation as I brought up and hung my summer clothes today. I wore them all last summer – my kurtis, my salwars, and washed them too. Yet, as I lovingly stroked them and yes, smelled them, I got a whiff of home and of my parents’ love. Baba bought many of those for me. I have written before that he loved going to Dakkhinapan and buying clothes for me, Sean, Sahana, and Ryan. My parents never agreed on anything except the excellent qualities of their grandchildren and baba’s eye for good clothes. Ma grudgingly agreed his choices were good and he could be trusted to buy salwars and sarees. Many of my summer clothes are infused with their love and today I realized that once they tear or get damaged, I will lose that connection. But we won’t get into that yet. The fact is, the clothes are still lovely and I still wear them and remain wrapped in love.
I recently saw a meme that says something about not feeling the need to text when one lands since someone was tracking their flight the entire time. That is love. And that was my baba. I texted them when I boarded my plane from USA. And he sat on his computer tracking my 24 hour journey home. He would shout out often to ma and Gouri that “they are almost to Dubai, 3 more hours”, or “Sumitra, get ready to go to the airport, their plane will be landing in an hour.” They went to the airport way early, hung out, had very sweet, overpriced coffee, and looked up at every traveler coming out from immigration hoping it would be me and the kids.
Baba was a doer. I can’t say I had the closest relationship with him. He worked from dawn till night, had only a day off, when he ate and slept. I cannot imagine a man having any energy left to do anything other than rest. He worked 6 days a week but still couldn’t make enough money to make ends meet. My primary parent was my mother and understandably I was closer to her. As I grew up though, got married, moved far away, and baba retired, I realized that he was a brilliant manager and organizer. He became the manager of the apartment building that they moved into, he organized lavish birthday parties for Sahana every time we went back to India. He made sure everything worked like clockwork when we visited. I remember when all the work was done so that we had everything we needed, he would give a satisfied grunt and call out for a cup of tea. Next morning, he would wake up and ask me, “Aaj ki mach khabi?” (what kind of fish would you eat today?) And like a spoiled brat I would speak my desire, and that wish would be fulfilled. My love language is feeding people. I inherited that from him.
He also found family in strangers and animals. He created this beautiful network of people through social media. They became like family. Some of them tried their best to help me during my time of need when I was desperately trying to keep baba alive. He fed all the animals in our neighborhood, paid to spay and neuter them, grieved when one died.
I find myself often cooking the food that baba liked – lot of postobata, shorshe r jhal. Typical Bengali dishes. He did not enjoy biriyanis or other fancy dishes. Give him Bengali food and he was happy. I learned, late in life, to cook those things.
I went for a walk this morning to a small park with a lovely pond. There is a gazebo where one can sit and look at the water, the birds, the greenery. I could visualize baba sitting there, soaking in the beauty of nature, soaking in the quiet. Born and brought up in Kolkata, the man loved and hunkered for nature. When he visited us in the US, he spent hours sitting in our back deck, looking out into the green, watching the deer who sauntered in, the squirrels, rabbits, and birds. He always said, “I wish I could take this backyard to Kolkata. “
This blog is a stream of consciousness on the day I lost him four years ago. He did not go gently into the night. He fought a good fight. But finally, Covid, and failure of infrastructure won.
whatmamathinks 