April 2026 – whatmamathinks

There is a small and cute playground in the park behind our yard. This was built approximately a year after we moved into our house. As I write these lines, I can see a bouncy toddler and a little girl with wild curly hair running around in that little playground. For the most part, it was just the two of them, Sahana and Ryan, as the playground is in the middle of some baseball fields. The fields are quiet during the day and full of players in the evening. The playground fills up with laughter and glee during the evening as the siblings of those baseball players spend their time going up and down the slides instead of watching the games (who can blame them?). We spent many mornings and afternoons in that playground when the kids were small. The neighborhood children came to play with Sahana and Ryan. Little Sage (our lab mix) joined the kids too. When Sahana and the older kids went to school, baby Ryan and I claimed the playground. It was just us. Ryan toddled around, going up and down the slides, riding on the dinosaurs, rocking on other plastic rides. Then calamity struck. A County preschool opened up in a small building across from the playground. If I am being honest, the playground was built for the children in the preschool to use. We were usurping it while school was not in session.

I used to take Ryan during mid morning so he could expend energy and then get a good afternoon nap. As I said before, the playground was always empty. It was just Ryan and myself almost all the time when we went their. We would chase each other, catch him coming down the slide, order pretend food over a play telephone, play tic tac toe with plastic tic tac toe. It was a beautiful bonding time for us. One day, teachers from that preschool came over and politely asked us to leave so the children of the preschool can play. I still remember the confusion on Ryan’s face when I held his little hand and directed him outside the playground. He didn’t want to leave the premise though. He sat outside the fence of the playground with a perturbed expression on his face as he saw children a little older than him play in ‘his’ playground. After that incident, I avoided the time when the preschool had recess. Still, when other children came to play in the playground, Ryan acted a little proprietary. In his baby mind, the playground belonged to him and it always felt strange to him when he had to share it with other kids.

I write all of this to think back on this sweet memory and also to say that I now know how Ryan felt. I have started going to our local YMCA gym because I am getting old. And the bones are bad, cholesterol and sugar are not moving in the right direction. It is universally acknowledged that exercise does give one a better quality of life. If I have to live this life, I’d rather live it well which means I would like to travel and see the world before I say goodbye to it. Hence, the gym. I have also started going to the gym right when it opens, which is at an ungodly hour of 5:00 am. I get it done, feel good for a while, and then become grumpy and tired for the rest of the day. Why go at that hour, you ask? Because I like inflicting pain on myself. Jokes apart, I go at that hour so I can get it done before work because my battery is empty after work. After peopling at the library all day, I just go home and stay quiet for the rest of the evening.

I am not the friendliest person in the morning. I go in the gym, grunt a good morning to the employee who checks the card, never make eye contact with anyone, put on my headphones and get lost in a good mystery or thriller (I just finished listening to I See You by Clare McIntosh. It was excellent). The gym at that time is my not-so-fun-but-necessary-for-health playground. As you can imagine, there are not a lot of people working out at that time. But I feel very grumpy towards those who are. If they try to take a machine that I want, my grumpiness increases exponentially. That is my playground. How dare others usurp what is mine?! So yes, I understand how baby Ryan felt when he saw all those preschoolers using slides et all in what he considered his playground. He was much friendlier and better behaved than I am though.

On a side note, Sean tried to advise me that a good attitude can be beneficial when I go to the gym. It did not bode well for him. That is all I have to say about that.

Yes, yes, I am predictable. I am writing about the city that I have written about so many times in the past. I don’t know when I will go back again. I don’t feel that connection after my parents’ death but the city still has a stronghold in my heart. Except, I have learned to love it from afar.

I recently watched a reel about Kolkata (the name of this blog is borrowed from there), the city that taught me how to feel (the reel said). It showed the streets of the city, the book stores, the rickshaws, the Kolkatans engaged in serious conversation as they sip their tea. People have a habit of doing that; they solve all the problems in the world while sipping a cup of tea and talking over each other. I thought about me growing up in such a congested, dirty, irritating, noisy, absolutely wonderful, bookish city. My friends who live there still go to see plays all night. They go to Nandan to watch cinema, peruse books in the roadside book stalls to buy a treasure (yes, you may find a first edition there hidden in plain sight) because new books are expensive. They show me photos of long lines in front of publication houses in Kolkata Book Fair. They share pictures of themselves with other old friends, breaking bread in iconic restaurants like Peter Cat or Flurry’s. I am so in tune with that city, that I can almost feel myself being there with them. Last few times I visited, after ma and baba, I walked the streets of Kolkata by myself. A lot. Aimlessly. I took everything in because I didn’t know when I will go back again. The beautiful architecture, somewhat unkempt due to the moisture in the city, the rippling waters of Dhakuria lake, the little shrines dedicated to the deities along the road, the neem trees that provide much needed shade to unhoused people calling the streets their home, the tail wagging street dogs hungry for food and affection – I packed them all in along with the essence of ma, baba, and my memories of growing up.

Sometimes I think of the sunrise I watched every morning (almost) from the roof top of our Kolkata flat and the sunsets from our back window while sipping on tea and sitting in companionable silence with my parents. The view of the rooftops and some palm trees from our fifth floor window was one of my favorite. I could see far into the skyline of Kolkata as I went up to the roof, slightly hazy due to pollution but so familiar. “Ei shohor jaane amar prothom shob kichu/ Palate chai joto she ashe amar pichu pichu” (This city knows all my firsts/ I try to escape as it comes behind me). I sang these lines sung by Kabir Suman on the steps of the lobby of my university once upon a time. I listened to the song in a loop as I got ready for college and then work. Never did I imagine this song will become a symbol of my wistfulness for a place. Kolkata knows all my firsts. I am angry with the city. And I am in love with the city as well. I want to escape the memories sometimes, but it has embedded its essence deep within me. I joke about taking the girl out of Kolkata but not being able to take Kolkata out of the girl, that is not really a joke.

I am not even sure where I am going with this. I saw the reel and I felt an intense tug in my heart for home. The home that I left behind and the people in that home who are there no more.