From Mahabharat to caste system to Lokkhon

I was ready to discuss some pertinent questions on social hierarchy and caste system in India as I gathered Ryan’s little body towards me and snuggled down to read the ageless Indian epic Mahabharata. Inevitably the question of caste system was asked as we read about Dronacharya’s refusal to accept Eklavya as a disciple due to his low status in society. Ryan was understandably miffed at such an injustice. The sense of fairness is very strong at this age, and this was extremely unfair. And since, I seem old enough to belong to the days of Mahabharat to him, I was asked if I have ever encountered caste discrimination. I was about to protest. I was about to tell him indignantly that I happened to be born in an enlightened corner of India where caste system was not encouraged. But I paused. Who was I kidding? Caste system existed and still exists.

I remember the separate doorways in many houses, backdoor of course, for the sweeper to come in. Sweepers belong to the lowest caste, the untouchables. The man who cleaned our bathroom and took our trash came in through the front door, for the lack of a backdoor. But I do remember the warning voice of our domestic help sounding out a warning ‘Lokkhon aasche, shobai shore jao!” (Lokkhon is coming, get out of the way)! The irony was, we got out of his way, quickly, like he was royalty. At the age of six or seven, I followed the rule and kept my distance when Lokkhon came to clean. When I was a preteen and felt righteously indignant about this whole complicated issue of caste system, I questioned this practice of staying away from Lokkhon. I accused my mother of treating Lokkhon thus, for his low caste. She explained to me she couldn’t care less about his caste. She was a firm believer of Chandidas’s immortal line ‘Shobar upore manush shotyo/ Tahar upore nai!’ (human race is above all, there is no other)! She was simply concerned about the germs Lokkhon may carry, given the nature of his work. She would have no qualms about mingling with him socially, once he was showered and clean. Can’t say I believed her, till one beautiful Holi morning.

Some incidents don’t simply fall away from my swiss cheese brain and this memory is one such. On a bright, sunshiny spring morning in Kolkata, I was playing Holi (the festival of colors) with the neighborhood children. My father stayed indoors and away from lime light to avoid being dragged out to play. My mother was smiling on our balcony as she watched us spray one another with colored water. I believe, it was baba who spotted Lokkhon standing on the periphery of the festivity watching us, with a gentle smile on his lips. His family was far away, he must have been missing his loved ones on this day of colors. Baba called out, “Go get Lokkhon, make sure he doesn’t get away. Put as much color on him as you can!” We paused in our game and looked at him. There he was, in his yellowing banyan and short dhoti, standing a little afar, unsure of where exactly he belonged. One of baba’s friends, went to him, grabbed his hand and brought him in our midst. He took a handful of gulal and plastered it on Lokkhon’s face. Then he enveloped him in a bear hug. My mother came out and put gulal on him. Shobar upor e manush shottyo, tahar upore nai…indeed! At an young age, our parents can do no wrong, but I was at that age when when our parents are never right. That day, that moment, my head bowed in grudging respect, towards my family, for walking the walk as well as talking the talk.

Lokkhon has always been the most loved employee in our household. He missed work, sometimes weeks. I chuckled as I heard my mother yelling at him, “Next time I am going to dock your pay, I am serious this time!” Lokkhon’s response was, “Hehehehehe, boudi! Bukhar ho gaya! Sach mein!” (I had fever, believe me)! I knew there would always be a next time, and that next time will see a threat of docked payment too. I also knew the threat will never be carried out. One simply couldn’t get angry with Lokkhon, in real. His ever ready smile made sure one couldn’t stay angry.

As I got older, I recieved subtle hints. “Didi, my son needs winter clothes. He hardly has any sweaters.”

“How many days did you work this month?” I joined the game.

“Hehehehe, didi, I got sick.” That was mostly the response. Or “I had to go home, it was an emergency!”

I remembered to buy sweaters for his little boy on my way back from work. Why? Because he was loved, and he was gentle and he was such a constant in our lives.

In 1992, when I was in college, the infamous riots over Babri Masjid claimed many lives – Hindus and Muslims took up arms over religion. Lokkhon rushed back to his village in Bihar to take care of his family. When he returned I asked him how everything was. Was his little village affected by the riots? Were people killed? Many bad incidents have been reported and some heroic efforts were mentioned. But many heroes went unsung. The villagers in Lokkhon’s village were such heroes who remained anonymous. This is what he said to me:

“Didi, we have more Hindus in our village than Muslims. But we have lived together in peace for generations. They are our brothers, our friends. We were not going to let anyone harm one of our own. They have their religion and we have ours. But there is no conflict, didi. People came to harm them. They said to give our Muslim brothers up. We took up arms, didi. We said you have to go over our dead bodies to get to our village brothers. We turned them away. We stayed up at nights to guard each other. We took turns. Not one person in our village got hurt!”

Oh, did I mention Lokkhon never went to school? And is considered ‘uneducated’? And he belongs to the lowest of the low castes?

These days when I go back, I enquire after him. Ma says, “Don’t worry, he will come. He knows didi is coming from America!” Sure enough, he comes with the same smile, maybe more gray hair than before and a little bent. But the smile is the same that I remember so well.

“How long will you stay this time, didi? Is dada coming? When? Didi, my children need clothes and I need new lungi. See this one is so torn!”

“Let me see how many days you actually come to work while I am here!” I play on, for old time’s sake.

We both know, he is going to miss days and I am going to buy him lungi and clothes for his children. I still overhear people calling out to my children, “Lokkhon aasche, shore jao!” And my teenager retorting, “Why do I have to move? He is a human just like us!”

My childhood comes back and nudges me gently “Remember?”

Way back when…

I firmly believe it is always a good idea to start at the beginning. For instance, the day I caught a glimpse of the back of a tall, well-built man at the book corner of an upscale store in a five star hotel in Kolkata, where I worked at the time. The man must have felt the brush of the pallu of my saree on his arm, or the soft gentle swish of air as I passed by him to the cash register, he turned back and smiled at me. Months of customer service training made me immediately flex my facial muscles into a responding grin. But then I smiled a real smile. Maybe I smiled because his smile was so genuine and warm, maybe because he had kind eyes or just maybe because I was twenty-four and a very handsome man just smiled at me.

I finished my job at the register and went back to my department in the mezzanine floor and promptly forgot about the man downstairs. In about ten minutes, he came up. He needed a gift for a wedding he had to attend, it was a Sunday and all the stores in the city were closed. I gave him some suggestions, of course, but surprisingly, the conversation gradually shifted from gift ideas to us – my Master’s program, university, job, likes, preferences, his work, education et all. I do not remember what all we talked about, but I do remember we talked for about two and a half hours. My poor manager sent a coworker up to my floor to make sure I was coping fine with a foreigner. I also remember, after talking for close to an hour, he asked me if I was married. When I said no, he extended his arm, gripped my hand in a firm handshake and gave me his name. I tease him to this day that if I WAS married, would he have not told me his name? He says he wanted to make sure the coast was clear for him to pursue farther. Fair enough!

Before he left, he handed me his card and asked me to call him sometime. The cards that I got at that job generally ended up in the trash can. His, I kept. After a couple of weeks, while searching for change in my purse, I came up with his card. I remembered the feeling of happiness and excitement in me when he was talking, the ready smile and the twinkling green eyes. I made a decision, very unnatural for me. I decided to give him a call. I am naturally shy, not prone to taking chances or making the first move. But I wanted to see him again.

I could almost hear the pounding of my heart as I dialed the number and heard the phone ring on the other end. And then his deep voice boomed into my ears. I managed a squeaky hello and a stuttering ‘I am Piyali!’

The response to that was, “Which Piyali?”

Oh, the embarrassment!!! I felt a flush of warmth creeping upon my face as shame swept over me. He didn’t remember me! I wanted to hang up immediately, instead I calmly mentioned I was Piyali from the ______! My voice didn’t waver but I was close to tears at the humiliation of being so forgettable. He recovered quickly. He even managed enthusiasm in his voice, which he now claims, was genuine. And then dropped the second bomb.

“Do you want me to take you out for dinner sometime?”

Do I want him to???? No I did not. Girls in parochial Kolkata in mid nineties did not go out to dinner with unknown men. All I wanted was to see him again, maybe at the store, in a safe environment, among a lot of people!!! My degradation, at that point, was complete. I politely said, “No thank you. I just called to say hello. You have a good day!”

I was bitterly disappointed but also strangely relieved that I could close that chapter and move on. His interest in me that night meant nothing. The next day, he was back at the store. And the next, and the day after that. He kept coming back. I was thrilled to bits, reveling in all the attention and the cherishing the novelty of knowing a man from a different country.

Then one day he asked me, “So, when are you going to the Book fair with me?” Not “Will you go to the book fair with me” but “When….” I was caught off guard. I couldn’t go out with him. My virtue as a middle class, rule following Bengali woman was at stake if I was seen with a man, a white man at that! Yet, in my heart, I desperately wanted to. I broke the unwritten rules yet again, I gave in. Our first date was the Kolkata Book fair, standing in line to get ticket, walking leisurely to the book stalls, stopping to see the local artists paint pictures, pointing out the ones we liked the best, laughing at our dust laden shoes, talking of our idea of a perfect life partner, telling him I never wish to get married, wishing his wife good luck when he said he wanted six children.

Our courtship was beautiful. Our rendezvous were covert, romantic and thrilling. For the demure, rule follower me, dating was a wild adventure in itself, dating a foreigner was beyond belief. He waited for me in front of the RamKrishna Mission in Golpark, outside my Mass Communication classes, he came by the hotel at night to pick me up and drop me home in his car. We walked along the Lake and the Maidan, we sat by the musical fountains and I talked to him about Rabindra Nath Tagore, sung him a few of my favorite songs. We ate ice cream at Scoops by the river Ganga and watched the sun go down by the Howrah bridge. We soaked in the sight of the pinkish hue of the Victoria memorial as the last rays of Kolkata sun illuminated the splendid marble architecture. Kolkata is a city where I was born, I have many pleasant memories of it. But the streets of Kolkata, that I roamed with the special man by my side will always have a special place in my heart. It was on those streets that we explored each other fully and discovered each other’s thoughts, views, core values. We found commonality and we found differences. We learnt, we grew and we fell in love.

Almost seventeen years and two children later, we are here today. Silver highlights in my black hair, and there is stylish grey around his temples. The love notes that we used to write to each other every day have been replaced by grocery lists, sticky notes saying ‘there is food in the oven’, quick texts saying when the kids need to be picked up and from where. I mourn the loss of the wild rush of the romance of the first few years. What happened to those days of listening to love songs, day dreaming, walking the streets of Kolkata and later Baltimore, endlessly, completely lost in each other, sighing over poetry of Pablo Neruda, candle lit dinners and serenades? G.B Shaw is spot on when he says:

When two people are under the influence of the most violent, most insane, most delusive, and most transient of passions, they are required to swear that they will remain in that excited, abnormal, and exhausting condition continuously until death do them part. ~G.B. Shaw, Getting Married, 1908.

We did not remain in that excited, abnormal and exhausting condition continuously. Who does, after seventeen years? The most violent, most insane, most delusive and most transient of passions have given way to steady rhythm of gentle companionship and a deeper bond of trust, love and understanding. We have both learnt to recognize and appreciate the different manifestations of love that is not limited to love notes, love songs, moon sightings and passionate sighs, but goes way beyond that to make one feel truly cherished.

Some nights I come back home from work to find him fast asleep or semi asleep. I open the refrigerator – my dinner is waiting to be heated up, the dishes are done and the kitchen is sparkly clean. I feel completely loved then – more than love letters, diamond rings or flowers could ever make me feel. I wake up in the morning after a night of snow to find the driveway already shoveled and my car cleaned so I can get out without worries. Most mornings, I feel him covering me up with my kicked away blanket and tucking me in so I can get a few more minutes of sleep as he gets up to do his exercise. In my semi awake state I hear him softly shutting my door and whispering to the children, “Don’t bother mommy. Let her sleep in!” Children, schedules, home works, activities, jobs take up most of our time these days. Mortgage, bills, college funds have replaced thoughts of Neruda, Dali, Simon and Garfunkel. Most days we don’t feel it, yet some days, while taking a hike among nature, when we have a moment to pause and take stock, we look at each other and find fulfillment. We are in it together, we built our life together, creating a family, nurturing our young ones and taking care of each other in sickness and health.

Despite all our responsibilities, I still find time to put my arm in the crook of his elbow when we go for a walk, he still makes me feel like a giggly girl when he flashes a smile and teases, we still banter like we used to which seem very amusing to the children, he still calls me out to show a splendor of nature – like the sunlight creating a rainbow in a spiderweb on the side of our house. I still don’t enjoy any experience to the fullest unless I have shared it with him. It was simply wonderful to be young and recklessly in love. I am so glad we have those memories. But I am indeed glad to grow and mature in this relationship with my spouse where a few stolen moments in the morning before the craziness starts see us through the entire day.

I love being married for all the right reasons. I love the man in my life for the man that he is. I love the feeling of being the only one for him. I also love being married for the reason Rita Rudner says here.

It’s so great to find that one special person you want to annoy for the rest of your life. ~Rita Rudner

Indeed!

Beginning

The sunlight reflected in her brown eyes and highlighted the gold in her brown hair as she focused intently on the high school coursebook that she held in her hand. She perused the book in front of her, chewing her lip, brows creased in concentration, thinking of her four year course plan. As I glanced at the utter focus on the young face, on the threshold of yet another phase in her young life, my heart constricted with an overwhelming feeling of love for this young person who was just a little bundle in my arms some years ago. I made a mistake as I held her, I blinked! And here we are, at this juncture in life. She is on her way to high school, deciding upon the courses she wishes to take.

Sahana is going on to high school this year and I am not ready. Just like I wasn’t ready when my fantastic radiologist took a look at the ultrasound report and said, “This baby isn’t growing in the womb, she is not thriving. We need to take her out now. Call your obstetrician. Get admitted tomorrow!” I remember sitting down in the nearby chair, looking up at Sean and saying, “I am not ready!”

Ready or not, she came. Grayish blue eyes, snub nose, pink skin, coconut head, rosebud mouth. She looked up at me with a stern expression as she tried to focus her eyes on this face looming large on her. “Here I am, mother. I am yours for a while. Yours to love, yours to nurture, yours to cherish, yours to discipline, yours to mold, yours to encourage and support. I am yours to help me to be the best I can possibly be! Are you up to the task, mother? You better be, because I am not going back!”

She, of course, said none of these. She just kept looking at me, or somewhat in my direction with all the loveliness, all the cuteness, all the sweetness that is possible in this entire universe. And I thought of nothing of the responsibility that I held in my hands either. I was happy! No, wait, that doesn’t quite say it. I was ecstatic. I was ecstatic that she was born, I was ecstatic that she was healthy, I was ecstatic that I still lived to watch her grow, I was ecstatic my husband held my hand and helped me breathe through the contractions. When the neonatal unit took Sahana away to administer the necessities, the other doctors took it upon them to sew up my torn body. While they worked on me I thanked everyone who happened to be within my eyesight. Sean reminds me that I supposedly thanked every single person in the delivery room with enthusiasm till I passed out from exhaustion.

There were many firsts, of course. The teething, the first step, the first words, the feel of little soft hand in mine as we both entered her preschool. I don’t remember who had the most trouble letting go of the other’s hand, it probably was me. I sat outside the preschool with other anxious mothers, and tensed every time I heard children cry, convinced that it was mine. I was later told she didn’t cry at all but watched everybody with interest.

We moved to US after her preschool years. She started kindergarten in a new school, in a new country, far away from her familiar world full of friends, neighbors, family. I felt an emptiness in my stomach as the big black and yellow bus swallowed my curly haired little girl to her first day of kindergarten. I was waiting, anxiously, at the bus stop for her when she got off the bus. “How was your first day of school?” I asked, nervous. “It was great! School is the best thing ever! And I think I met an angel!” she replied. She had made friends with another little girl who had blue hair and beautiful blonde hair. Her angel.

At the end of fifth grade, I started panicking again. Two dreaded words – middle school. I had grown up from age 5 to age 18 in one school with the same set of friends. My daughter was going to leave all her friends to go to a different middle school. And I heard stories of the horrors of middle school from friends in this country. Meanness, popularity, need for acceptance, dejection – all these become major factors as children navigate through the confusing corridors of middle school. I read books, I talked about the non importance of popularity, I talked about being herself, focusing on her schoolwork. She was nervous, but I was petrified. Again I watched nervously as she boarded the bus first day to middle school. The reply to ‘how was school’ wasn’t as exuberant as in kindergarten but it was still good. Middle school was a blur. She did well, she seemed happy bar a few occasions. Just recently, on a walk, she confided how difficult the first year in middle school was. How lonely she was. And friendless. Media center was her solace, she escaped there whenever she could and hid behind a book till she started finding like minded children. As the months went by, she became happier. Now middle school was something she was sad to leave behind. She didn’t tell me because I couldn’t help her and she thought she could handle it on her own, in her own terms. I was saddened and heartened to hear this. Sad to realize what she had gone through, happy to hear she learnt to be happy.

A new beginning yet again, another transition – high school, preparation of adulthood. Although, I am not ready, I do not have a choice. Everyday as my daughter stands a little taller and I stoop just a little tiny bit, as her face glistens with the freshness that only youth can boast and a new tiny wrinkle appears on my face, I see life slowly coming to a full circle. Many people don’t understand this, but I truly revel at every new stage in my life. Middle age is no exception. I have lived my youth, Sahana is starting to live hers. What an exciting time for her and what a simply amazing time for me to watch her bloom.

It is a new beginning for me as well, as a parent. With my first born, every stage of her life has been a new beginning for me. I have often been flustered and confused. Sometimes, the journey hasn’t been fun. I have had embarrassing moments galore but I have also learnt as I went along. I have identified my strengths and weakness. I have focused on my personal growth as a human and as a parent.

As I said, I am not ready yet to let go. I will never be ready to let my beautiful child go. But I have taken the first step. I will learn – to let go of her hands when she is ready. And will watch, yes anxiously, and learn with her as she steps into a new beginning, yet again.

In another land, on another day I met a girl…

Although, I didn’t spend my childhood with you, we grew up together when ‘growing up’ really mattered. I crossed the threshold from childhood to youth, holding your hand. I met you for the first time in the campus of Jadavpur University – fresh from an all girl’s school, wide-eyed, innocent, naive and sheltered, and with clearly demarcated views of right and wrong.

Our friendship strengthened as our horizon broadened. We learnt to think together, we expanded, we filled our heads with new thoughts, we discussed endless possibilities, we fell in love with the Romantic poets, we cut classes to sell tickets for the drama club, we dragged our feet while leaving the infamous J.U lobby to attend classes we didn’t particularly like. We walked the nooks and crannies of the J.U campus talking, sharing, learning, feeling, drinking life in and growing.

On the eve of your birthday, I was exploring our friendship of 23 years. We were physically together for 5, maybe 6 of those. But the friendship that I share with you transcended time and distance. We stayed in each other’s lives from far away, holding each other up in times of need, sharing our happiness in times of joy. We found our partners around the same time, we became mothers within a year of each other. Our talks changed from Rape of the Lock, Paradise Lost, philology class and tutorials to nap times, diaper rashes, teenage angst, husbands and sometimes ‘Lets go back and walk the campus! I am tired of these responsibilities of motherhood!’

But today, I want to revisit some of my favorite memories with you. Come on this journey with me. Let’s walk!

I met you on the first day of college in Fresher’s welcome. I naturally gravitated towards you because you had the most approachable face in the crowd of new faces. My first thought was ‘I have never seen more beautiful eyes than these’ as you turned to smile at me, a nervous one! We were both terrified.

Since then our friendship deepened. I had so much to share with you, so much to learn from you and about you. And learn, we did. Through endless walks, through trips to the British Council library, through your insistence that I treat you to Luchi, alurdom from Milanda’s canteen, through poetry and prose, through other friends and just by being inseparable.

I remember telling you the first day, in a somewhat 18 year oldish melodramatic way ‘Don’t desert me!’ I wanted you by my side to garner strength to face those frightening seniors. You didn’t leave my side.

I remember our trips to the Kolkata book fair. I remember the torrential downpour, your shoe strap breaking and us trodding in Kolkata mud.

Do you remember the walks to 8B busstand? Our destination always came before all the talk was talked. How could we part then? We had to walk all the way back to Gariahat to get you on another bus. After we reached Gariahat, there was nowhere else to go but home. I had to say goodbye to you and turned towards home, hoping the next day would come soon so we could finish our never-ending discussion of life, college, friends, future, tutorials, examinations, marks, love, crushes…..

What did we talk about? Do you remember? I am just left with the heady feeling of having someone by my side who understood me completely. I don’t remember our conversation.

I fell sick, you came to my house almost everyday sharing class notes and yelling at me to eat fruit and get my strength back. You needed me back at college.

I fell in love during our Master’s and missed classes to be with my boyfriend. You yelled at me again and held me firmly to terra firma by supplying me with class notes while all I wanted to do was live in the rosy world of love and passion. I passed my Masters – thanks to you.

I know I can’t enumerate the special memories that I have made with you since there are way too many. The trip to Mukutmanipur, the Copper Sheen lipstick, the hot summer afternoons spent in the cool of your living room, the numerous trips to BCL, the walks along James Long Sarani, your love for Manna De’s songs, your love for Buddhadeb Guha’s books, your Amaltash, Sangaskriti, the songs we sang sitting at the lobby – “abhi na jao chodke ke dil abhi bhara nahi”, discovering and drowning in the voice of Suman Chatterjee…. Even as I pen these down, several others crowd around in my mind’s eye. How can I put them all down in words? Those are our shared memories. They are and always will have a special place in my heart. College years are special for most. My five years in Jadavpur University were special for many reasons. I spread my winds and learnt to fly there. The line between right and wrong weren’t so clear anymore, I learned to think and I learnt to feel. I found new ideas, discovered new poetry, learnt to love literature. I also found you – my friend for life. My golden years spent at Jadavpur university turned so special because you were so intrinsically part of them.

Our physical presence in each other’s lives ended there. But not our friendship. Never our friendship. Girl friends, special ones like you, are a blessing in my life. You are my soul sister, my confidante, my partner in crime, my endless giggles, my shoulder to cry on, my guidance counselor, my picker upper when I need to be picked up. I share my joy and sorrows with you. You are the person who goes to Tirupati and prays to God to end my unhappiness. And when you are unhappy, I send a prayer to the universe for your happiness. You are my unconditional love – a source of love and friendship that is permanent in this transient world of ours where values, morals, relationships are constantly shifting.

The mindless crimes happening today make me heart-sick from time to time. But friends like you, good souls like you keep the faith alive. Happy birthday, bondhu. Have the happiest time ever. Please know, I am celebrating this special day with you, despite the distance. I will celebrate the birth of my best friend, whose presence and goodness of heart add to the beauty of this world of ours and gives me warmth and energy to keep going in the bleakest of days.

This is the kind of friend you are to me, Reshmi….

“A friend is one that knows you as you are, understands where you have been, accepts what you have become, and still, gently allows you to grow.”
― William Shakespeare

Thank you!

And HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!!!!!!!!

That time of the year.

Every year around this time, I wallow in self-pity. As the leaves start changing colors, the heat of the summer wanes, the blue of the sky simply dazzles my eye, the wispy clouds float aimlessly, I look up and my mind dissociates to travel back in time. Between cooking and cleaning and working and driving the children around my heart remembers the beat of the dhak from a long, long time ago. Durga puja – the biggest festival of the Bengalis is about to begin.

The myth goes somewhat like this:

Mahishashur, a demon, won over the heart of creator Brahma by his devotion and earned a boon that no man or deity can destroy him. He initially desired immortality but since immortality can only be achieved by a god, Brahma asked him to choose another wish. He chose to be killed by a woman, thinking no woman can be powerful enough to destroy him. Brahma granted him this wish.

His victory complete, he wrecked havoc on the abode of the gods in heaven and defeated them in war. He acclaimed the throne of Indra while the defeated gods ran to the safe sanctuary of Lord Shiva to seek his help. Shiva and the other gods, with their collective energy, created a brilliant, formidable force in the shape of a young woman. She was Shakti (power) endowed with divine gifts. She was the evil slayer, who finally destroyed the evil force and prevailed the good.

In Bengal, however, Devi Durga is more than the destroyer of evil. She comes to us as the much beloved daughter coming home to her parent’s house after a year. The societal structure has been skilfully woven in to this myth and made this festival a very personal and endearing one for most Bengalis. Durga is not only the revered goddess, she is our very own, our dear girl, come back to us for a visit after a long absence. The women, after marriage, are expected to leave their parents’ home and make a new life with her husband’s family. In rural Bengal, it was not easy for daughters to visit their parents’ home often due to distance, transportation, responsibilities. It was indeed a time to celebrate when the daughters finally came to visit. The same concept was passed on to Devi Durga, thus blurring the divide between godliness and humanity. I absolutely love this merging of the abstract with the concrete. Pujo is not just about celebrating the home-coming of the goddess but also the home-coming of many, many other daughters who couldn’t come back to their ancestral homes any other time of the year.

I haven’t been back to my home town Kolkata during Durga puja for over ten years now. This year I couldn’t even go to the local celebration because of work. When I looked at my schedule, I was crestfallen. I won’t get to see even a glimpse of the goddess this year? But now that the day is upon us, I am strangely not that sad anymore. I have those memories hidden in my heart in a beautiful gift wrapped package, waiting for me to open. So that is what I did. And this is what I found.

My first memory of Durga puja is the sky, always the sky. I remember looking up at the brilliant blue sky on a clear day as a little girl counting days till school closed for puja vacations. Our family had our own puja primarily done by my grandmother, who probably knew more mantras than the priest conducting the puja, but could only help in the capacity of an assistant due to her gender. A woman couldn’t be a priest. Durga puja of my childhood is one of unadulterated joy – we wore new clothes every day for four days of the puja, unending games with cousins, no lessons to prepare, we always seemed to stay under the radar of the grown ups since they were busy with their friends and family members. I remember us playing ‘detectives’. Some of us older cousins always assumed the role of the main detectives – Sherlock Holmes and others of his ilk while the younger cousins reveled in the roles of our side kicks – till they got a bit older and rebelled against this injustice. There were good foods galore, the taste of which I can still taste if I close my eyes, late nights, lot of laughter, camaraderie, just a bubble of happiness surrounding us. We knew the bubble was going to pop in four days and real life would be back with a vengeance. But those four days of puja was special and different and structure free.

The family puja finally stopped due to financial constraint when I was about nine. But Durga continued to come to Kolkata and Bengal every year, no matter. As I got older, the four days of Durga puja changed meaning for me. From teenage, I felt the absence of any sort of spiritualism in Durga puja in the opulence and grandeur that I saw all around me. Durga puja, however, remained as a symbol of happy times when life was vastly different from the structure and routine that kept us prisoners. It was a ritual, a joyous celebration. Durga, in my doubting, skeptic mind ceased to be a goddess, but she continued to be that young woman who came to her parents’ house with her four children to rest her weary bones. Durga puja was synonymous with sunshiny mornings, smiling mother, flutter causing dhaak beats, music blaring through microphones in the pandals nearby, the rustle of the new clothes, the limp due to blisters caused by new shoes.

And the crushes of Pujo romance!!! I remember taking umpteenth rounds within a marked perimeter with giggling girl friends so we could catch a glimpse of the young men who caused our hearts to beat a little faster. The stolen glances were all we had and they were enough. Pujo romances were not meant to last. They had the mystery and aura of those magical days. As I grew up, I simply stayed home during the colorful, bright and crowded evenings of those four days. But I still felt this veneer of good will and joyous spirit enveloping me. I long for that feeling. There was a collective sense of joy, rejoicing and abandonment. We were in unison in this feeling of letting go of our real lives for four short days. There was still poverty and sorrow, the homeless people, living on the streets, and that didn’t escape me. But even the little girl, sleeping on the streets with her family donned a new ribbon in her wild and unkempt hair, and skipped around in the pujo pandals.

There were unpleasantness in the crowd – pickpockets, eve teasing, the nasty man rubbing against an unsuspecting girl – but the distance has made those memories fade away. I have gleaned only the good and saved only the treasures. At this time of the year, the blue sky with wispy clouds is the only continuity I have left. The sky still reminds me that it is time for that special daughter to come home to us. I look up and get lost. When I look down and around, my real life painfully reminds me, I am far, far away from home. I speak fondly of those days, but my family can not relate. They don’t share the same memories.

Friends and family back home complain of the traffic jam, the crowd, the unnecessary opulence, the competitions that pujo pandals have these days. Durga pujo has lost its spirituality. Where is Durga in all this glitter, they ask. And I agree. This grandeur of pandals, this show of wealth – designer clothes and new jewellery, is not what Durga pujo is all about! For me, Durga pujo is all about reconciliation, reunion with family and with one’s inner self, it is about the special search within us to draw inspiration from the goddess to slay our inner demons and emerge victorious. And as I have already mentioned, Durga pujo, for me, is about happiness in letting go of structure and routine, just for a few days.

One year, I will go back home and try to relive my memories. I sincerely hope I will find those feelings that I wrapped up in my heart before I left home. If I don’t, no matter, I will keep the ones I have safe, and open them each year as Durga gets ready to make her descent to earth, bringing with her, her children, her lion, the repentant ashur at her feet and most importantly happiness and joy!

Respect

Recently I watched a Hindi movie English Vinglish, by myself because my husband flat-out refused to sit in a movie theater for almost three hours. The much talked about English Vinglish, according to the rumor mill, was made by the director to apologize to her mother.

The story line doesn’t include the usual song and dance sequences that are the trademark of most Hindi films. The movie tells the story of a woman – a mother, wife and a daughter-in-law, who constantly puts the needs of her family ahead of her. Her morning cup of coffee cools as she gets up to make breakfast for her mother-in-law, her husband and cater to the various needs of her children. She is the symbol of the quintessential Indian woman, or at least how the society expects them to be- traditional, domesticated, loving…and a martyr. If there is frustration in her, it doesn’t show, she takes care of everyone with elan and also runs a small business of making and selling an Indian dessert – a laddoo.

She wears the traditional dress of India – a saree, and doesn’t speak English, the language of choice of the middle and the upper level of the social strata. Her teenage daughter is ashamed of her non-English speaking, traditional attire wearing mother and screams her annoyance at this social ‘lack’. She wants to keep her mother hidden from her friends and teachers in school. The husband and the daughter ridicule her English pronunciation as the camera zooms in on the woman’s uncomfortable, embarrassed and sad smile.

A lot happens but I will let you go to the theaters to watch the rest. The plot written above is just a teaser which I got paid to write to lure audience (kidding!)

This dynamic between the mother and the daughter paused me to think back and reflect on my relationship with my mother when I was going through the turbulent years which we call teenage. As a child, I remember a sense of wonder filled awe towards this beautiful, strong, opinionated woman, who was my mother. I was her faithful follower. I emulated her laughter, thought the way she did, observed her kindness towards others and tried to please her always. She drilled in me I had to be someone in life, she told me I was bright and smart and I could do absolutely anything I wanted. I worked hard and got good grades to see the brilliant smile that shone on her face as she looked through my report card. She didn’t have a strong command of the English language but she enrolled me in an expensive, English medium school, the fees of which, we hardly could afford. She foresaw the need for English in my future, where a solid knowledge of the language will give me a boost in life. She struggled financially to pay the fees, but both my parents grit their teeth and paved my way for a better future.

As I thought hard about my feelings, as a teenager, towards my mother, I remembered many emotions I felt towards her over the years. Embarrassment was not one of them. Why wasn’t I ashamed of the fact that she didn’t speak the language or didn’t wear western clothes. First, it was a different age. Speaking in English was definitely important but the disregard for vernaculars didn’t reach to the degree that I see today when I go back. Most of the women of her era wore traditional clothes so I didn’t have anyone to compare her to and be embarrassed about her. But more importantly, I believe she had this aura of self-confidence around her which earned my respect. I never felt embarrassed about her for her lack of another language because she introduced me to a treasure at a very early age – literature in my vernacular. She told me stories, read me books in Bengali when I had no letter recognition. I was taught to read and write in English before I learnt the Bengali alphabets. She cleverly introduced in me this lust for more and more Bengali literature by reading to me works of Sukumar Roy, Rabindranath Tagore, Abanindranath Tagore and numerous other magic weavers. And did they weave their magic on me! I followed my mother around with an open book while she gently reminded me I could read these all by myself if I learnt to read the language. Learn, I did and how! I was like a sponge, I soaked up the language with a determined focus – to read Abol tabol, Buro Angla, Raj Kahini, Shishu, Aryanyak, Pather Panchali, Adarsha Hindu hotel, Bindu r chele, Chander pahar….

She taught me how to think and scratch the surface. Before I read Dr. Seuss’ ‘Horton hears a who’, she taught me a person’s a person no matter how small. Her comment about lack of English was something I tell non-English speakers in this country. She said, ‘I can still speak enough English to get by, most English speakers can’t speak my language. Are they ashamed of it? No? Then why should I be?’ When I grew up and married an English speaker, who doesn’t understand a word of Bengali, he whole-heartedly agreed with her. When a lot of people including my extended family exclaimed how lucky I was to find a husband like Sean, my mother was the only one who smiled and said to Sean, ‘You know you are the lucky one, right?’ Sean said he knew.

I loved spending time with my non-English speaking, traditional saree clad mother even in my late teenage. I remember coming back home early to go see a movie with her and answering friends’ questions ‘Who goes to movies with their mothers?’ with ‘I do!’ When I started to think independently and started spreading my fledgling wings, roles reversed a bit. She started listening to my points of views and nodding in agreement sometimes. She has this amazing ability to learn from anybody so today she can keep up with various generations and speak and understand their language. I started bringing home new music, new ideas, different thoughts. We disagreed often and debated on issues but she realized I was coming to my own. I was her long time companion, and I was slowly letting go and she felt the pain

I am a mother of a teenager now. I often talk to her about the heritage of my land that I am, hopefully, passing on to her – respecting an individual for what they have and not insulting them for what they do not. I often emulate my mother while parenting my children. Sometimes I find myself saying the exact same thing my mother used to say to me. I break down laughing, ‘This is what your didiya used to tell me when I was your age!’ I tell them. This continuity sometimes diffuses a stressful situation when the children smile with me, picturing their mother as a little girl and at the receiving end.

As I narrated how the teenager demeaned her mother, my teenager asked me gravely, ‘Mom, do I ever make you feel that way?’

I asked her back, ‘What do you think will happen if you made me feel that way? Do you think I will take that kind of behavior from you?’

‘I will be grounded till kingdom come? But that is not an issue because I don’t feel embarrassed about you, anyway!’ she responded.

My mother was and still is my biggest fan. She was the champion of my cause, my number one supporter, the sail beneath my wings. She loved me unconditionally, stayed up all night to tend to my sicknesses, nourished my intellectual needs She did all that and she demanded respect in return. I was not allowed to get away by being disrespectful. She was not the conventional mother figure to stay at the background and be a martyr. She is a strong woman who made her presence felt in my life and I am ever so grateful for that.

A life time of love and respect (oh well, alright frustrations too at times:) ) can’t be captured in a blog unless I write reams and reams about it. Unfortunately, some emotions can not be expressed no matter how much one writes about them, those are special feelings meant to be just felt in one’s heart. So I will end my tribute to her here. It is her birthday today and I am physically thousands and thousands of miles away. But in my heart

‘I’m already there
Take a look around
I’m the sunshine in your hair
I’m the shadow on the ground.

I’m the whisper in the wind
I’m your imaginary friend
And I know, I’m in your prayers
Oh I’m already there’

(Lonestar)

The blog is my feeble attempt to show my love and respect that I have for you as my mother and as a strong, beautiful woman of the world. Thank you for helping me to be who I am and sorry for causing you sadness and frustration at some points in our life together. I now fully comprehend when you said to me, ‘Wait till you are a mother yourself!’ I know now.

Shubho Jonmodin, Ma! Happy birthday!

Chasing my dreams! Wait, what are they again?

A friend recently wished me ‘May your dreams come true!’ When I hear such a wish, I say a thank you, I do feel gratitude towards the person for wishing me well, but to be completely honest, I don’t think about what the wish was. I feel happy for having a well-wisher and reciprocate the good wish.

But today, my friend’s wish made me wonder about my dreams. What are they? All I could think of was dreams FOR my children. I couldn’t think of a single dream of mine, a personal dream, a personal aspiration. In the process of growing up and becoming a mother, my personal dreams have been left somewhere along the way.

As a young woman, I dreamed of studying theater, that didn’t work out due to circumstances. I took up other jobs to earn money but they were just jobs, they were not stepping-stones to fulfil any dreams of doing something with my life, being someone! They were jobs, not my passion. Then came marriage and children. I got busy being a mother and without my knowledge my personal dreams gave way to dreams for my children. My dreams are my children grow up to be healthy and happy! Oh, did I forget successful? Yes, successful too, in finding happiness, that is.

To be truthful, I felt at a loss for this lack, in my life. But then after pondering some more, I thought was dream different from aspirations? I dream of going to Spain one day, I want to see the Angel falls, I would like to visit Yosemite. Can those be considered my personal dreams? And are aspirations what I want to be in life? I posed my husband this question. He aspires to be a better father, a better husband, he aspires to serve more people in his daily work, see a farmer grow his own crop to sustain his family, a mother open a small business to earn more money, one more child receive the light of knowledge. His dreams? To travel together and see the world. I now have to figure out what I aspire to be. All I could think of was I aspire to be less judgmental, more patient. I aspire to evolve and learn and grow in kindness, love and acceptance of others.

He led me to the right track. Aspirations need not necessarily mean success in the material world. I am not saying that is not important. Making something out of one’s life is fulfilling indeed. I am trying to say that qualitative not quantitative aspirations may bring us that elusive inner peace that we all strive towards.

Upon realizing that my dreams are all FOR my children, I made a mental note NOT to live my dreams through them but to be the wind beneath their sail when they embark upon that journey of pursuing their dreams.

Having written the above paragraphs on a rare Eeyore day, when the sun must not have been shining, I thought on my lack of dreams some more. I do NOT want this blog to become one of the sacrifice I made for the sake of my children. I did NOT make any sacrifice at all. It is my absolute good fortune that I have the opportunity to stay home – raise my children, read good books, write blogs (alright throw in some of the chores). My husband can’t wait to trade places with me one day. I am no martyr when I say my dreams got left behind somewhere. I realized, on a lovely walk with my dog on a beautiful, sunshiny day, this was my dream all along and I am living it. I dreamed of marrying Sean, I am living it. I dreamed of traveling, I lived it and hope to live more of it one day, I dreamed of having children, I was blessed with two healthy children who fill up my life with joy….mostly, and lets admit it, frustration sometimes.

I ask myself a question when the existential angst creeps in my mind (blame it on those gray days, when the sun doesn’t shine on my face). I ask myself if I could change anything in my life at the moment, what would it be. I come up with ‘nothing’. ‘Nothing’ is good, ‘nothing’ makes me take a deep breath, appreciate my life and move on.

But before moving on, I want to raise a cup of cheer to the universe ‘Here’s to living our dreams, people of the world. Let’s chase those dreams, whatever they may be!’ I want this post with this thought that I found very beautiful:

If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them.
Henry David Thoreau

Happiness isn’t complicated.

I will be labeled as a happy person by most. I greet people with a happy smile. I never forget to raise my hand to neighbors as they are driving by. The fact that I generally carry dog poop in a plastic bag in that hand and raise the dog poop in greeting is beside the point. You see, I generally see my neighbors when I walk my dog. I always wave frantically to drivers who let me go by with a casual flick of their hand. I am overwhelmed by the show of generosity in people in general.

And then there are occasional days when I am run down, cranky, hungry and tired. Then the gloom descends. Then I am a Grinch, I can literally feel my heart shrink three sizes. I don’t want to smile at the nice lady handing my provolone cheese at the super market. I smile anyway because I, too, work in customer service. Anyway, this evening was such a time when I felt I bore the weight of the world on my shoulders. I went to work, dashed back to cart my two children back and forth between swim team, football practice, confirmation meeting. In between dropping off and picking them up, I stopped at the grocery store to pick up provisions for the week. Grocery shopping, being one of my least favorite activities, did nothing to elevate my mood. The tiredness and empty stomach aggravated my grumpiness to no end.

While I tried to zip by the aisles, throwing things in my cart, a young mother tried her best to block me at every step of the way. She was having way too much fun in the grocery store with her toddler. The toddler wasn’t walking yet, she was scooting around on the dirty floor of the super market. The germophobic me shuddered at the scene and the veteran mom in me wagged a finger at the new mom. Get that baby off that floor immediately, woman! I wanted to scream. As I stood, somewhat impatiently at the deli to get my three-quarter pound of provolone, I heard a squeal. I turned around to a scene that brought the biggest smile to my face. The baby was taking her first steps – at the supermarket. And the mother was squealing her encouragement and filming the momentous event at the same time. The other grumpy shoppers like myself, stopped in our tracks to savor the moment. The woman in the deli left my cheese on the weighing scale while we all joined in aaahing and oooohing at the feat of the proud toddler. She waddled for a few moments and then went down on her bottom with a happy, two teethed grin. We all clapped! “Awww, honey, do it again!” “What a big girl!” “You are walking!!” Comments came from all sides. The mother looked at us, beaming, ‘Her first steps! She took her first steps!’

A special moment in the child’s life, and in the mother’s life, as well. We, the grumpy, Grinchy shoppers at that supermarket will always be a part of their joy and special memory. The thought made me happy. The line was long at the check out counter. I didn’t complain. I went to my car, unloaded my groceries and asked a woman who parked next to me if she needed my cart. She took it with a big smile and a grateful ‘thank you!’

Happiness isn’t really complicated, if you think about it. There are these little moments strewn around us like treasures. The moment when the big black and yellow school bus pulls up to my drive way and I see through the window a beautiful teenage girl sedately walking towards home, lost in her own thoughts; or a rambunctious seven-year old running like Usain Bolt because he is free from school. The moment when I see the back lights of Sean’s car backing into the driveway after a day’s work. The moment I feel the wet nose of Sage touch my feet in unconditional love. The lonely dove sitting on the electric wire against the back drop of a spectacularly clear, blue sky. The moment when I look out of kitchen window into my back yard to see the most fascinating sunset. I can string these moments together and wear them as a garland when my heart starts to shrink three sizes down. I simply need to look around and be mindful of the innumerable moments that I own, yet often, don’t realize.

The gift she gave me.

I was in seventh grade when I met her for the first time. The doorbell rang, I raced to open the door and there she was, looking back at me with a toothless grin. Not a single tooth to be seen in that wide smile she gave me. She was hungry and was wondering if I could give her any food to eat. The request for food was made in an empty stomach, but the smile that accompanied the request was one of pure joy. The smile reached her eyes.

She was an old woman, probably early to mid seventies, short, very thin, and as I said earlier, toothless. She had an old saree draped around her thin frame. The saree must have been white at some point but had turned gray with wash and use. I had watched Satyajit Ray’s movie ‘Panther Panchali’ recently and there was Indir Thakrun (a tragic character from the movie) right there in front of me. Her story wasn’t unusual. A childless widow with no money, no support, all alone in old age. She didn’t beg on the streets, but got by somehow with the help of her neighbors. She woke up that morning to find there was nothing to eat so she went from house to house to see if someone could give her food.

The connection was instant. She must have touched some chord in my young heart. I ran in to get her some provisions. Our relationship started that day. She didn’t come everyday, maybe once or twice a week. She wiped her forehead with her gray saree and rested her bony legs as she told me stories of her life. What I found wondrous about her was despite being in terrible poverty where she had to depend on neighbors to survive, she had an inner light, an inexplicable joy surrounding her. She laughed while telling her woeful tales and never forgot to thank the lord for letting her witness yet another day. And she had the most beautiful smile that I ever saw. She blessed me – every time we met. Instead of saying goodbye, she said, ‘May you be a queen one day, my girl! May you get a lot of love in your life!’ Being a queen was not on the top of my list those days, so I simply said, ‘Mashi, (aunty) come again!’

I tried to be sneaky while getting rice, dal, vegetables for my adopted aunt, but it was more of a game between my mother and I. She knew how much I was giving, yet she was indulgent and looked on quietly while I hid cups of rice from her. I still remember how the old woman’s eyes lit up in anticipation of a good meal if I could produce an unexpected vegetable or a seasonal fruit once in a while. One time, my mother bought a saree for her during Durga Puja, the biggest festival of the Bengalis. I remember, she cried.

She came to us regularly for almost three years, and then suddenly, didn’t. I thought about her sometimes, my family asked me where my adopted aunt was but I am ashamed to admit, I didn’t go looking for her. I didn’t have a clear idea where she lived. Also, youth is probably a bit self oriented. I was heady with the feeling of being young, growing up and just life. Priorities changed. I can’t say I forgot her, but she definitely slipped way down the totem pole as I moved on.

The elderly woman in my past embodied the spirit of old India, in its best and its worst. She represented the widows of India, uncared for, cast aside. Yet she remained accepting, joyful, thankful. In those days, she could ring people’s doorbell and ask for help. She wasn’t kept out by the security guards of modern-day gated communities. In those days the neighbors actually took care of her in the way they knew best. I seek for this warmth among the glittery malls and glass and concrete corporate houses in the big metros when I go back. Sometimes I get a whiff of the India I left behind, but often times, I don’t.

I think of her often now. I wonder how her end was. If death was kind to her, or she died alone. I think she came in my life at that particular time for a reason. She came to teach me empathy. She taught my tender, young heart to feel the sorrows of another and to try to help in whatever capacity. I also question who was truly helped in that situation. I gave her some food for sustenance, but what she gave me in return is invaluable. The lesson of kindness.

I later read Mother Teresa’s quote ‘If you can’t feed a hundred, then just feed one’, and I thought of my adopted aunt. As Albert Einstein said ‘Not everything that can be counted counts, and not everything that counts can be counted’. My cups of rice were indeed countable, her blessings and lessons to me, were not.

I am going to go ahead and say it ‘I lucked out!’

My husband and I had to cross several cultural barriers to start understanding each other. I may have mentioned in my earlier blogs, we had several disagreements at the initial stages of our relationship. It was mainly due to our cultural differences. One big divide was how we expressed our feelings for each other.

I grew up in a semi conservative, protected environment where voicing your feelings was frowned upon. In romantic movies, two flowers coming close together was symbolic of the intimacy shared by the protagonists. A lot of silent, amorous messages were passed through eyes. I grew up with the romantic notion that if my partner really loved me, there would be no need for words to communicate, he should be able to read my mind through my looks, decipher my expressions and know what I mean. This notion, in my particular case, flopped. My husband, I am sure, wanted to bang his head in frustration, because he didn’t understand why I was mad at him…again. ‘Tell me, please, what did I do wrong this time?’ Finally, I realized the power of words! Now I let him have it (exaggerating a bit) , he probably wants those days of silent treatment back.

He, on the other hand, embarrassed me numerous times in front of my immediate and extended family by professing his love for me openly. My parents and my uncles and aunts were uncomfortable at this display of verbal affection. My cousins and friends loved this novelty, they were amused and somewhat perplexed at the same time. I reminded him often not to verbalize in front of people how much he is in love with me, it was simply not done in India (this was almost 16 years ago)! The poor man, a white guy from a different culture and country, was desperate to reassure my family that his intentions about me were honest. He was also trying to fit in but in the wrong way.

Although, I pleaded with him not to make comments like ”Oh she is beautiful’ when one of my cousins said ‘she is too thin’ I liked
them. I felt cherished when he told my family and his family how much I mean to him, while I still cringed outwardly. Slowly, I changed too. After being married to him, I realized it is actually a wonderful and honest feeling when I acknowledged that I love my husband. India, has opened up a lot more when it comes to the matter of heart, but when I go back I still notice some reticence in admitting ‘Yes, I am in love with my spouse. Yes, I am lucky. Yes, s/he is handsome or beautiful!’

On Facebook, some dear friends (all Indian) were discussing what qualities they love in a man. Sense of humor, sensitivity, intellect, charm et all. After going through the posts, I realized, these were
the qualities, I, too, looked for in a man when I was a young woman. And I found them all in my husband. I mentioned that in the chat. I said, ‘I looked for all that in a man too, I got lucky!’ I was subjected to some good-natured ridicule for that. I was amused at the reaction, it seemed appreciating one’s spouse was still not a ‘done’ thing amongst many.

A couple of days later, I saw a post of one of my American friends where she said how lucky she was to have a wonderful husband and how much she appreciates what he does for her and how special he makes her feel. I know the couple very well, one can see the love and friendship they share. She was not ashamed or embarrassed to let the world know that she loves and appreciates her spouse. Her post made me smile.

I come from a country which has many things to offer to the world. My country is rich in heritage which I am proud to carry and hopefully pass on to my children. I have also had the good fortune to adopt a country which has a lot to offer and teach the world. Here, I have learnt, amongst other things, to appreciate another human, my spouse in this case, and not be ashamed to admit that I lucked out the day we chose each other and decided to spend our lives together. Life is a journey, people say. On this journey we can leave that we don’t need, and pick up new lessons that will make this journey, if not smoother, at least more beautiful and joyful. What is more joyful than to admit that the one who is walking by my side on this journey is the most special person to me? Why on earth should I not say it?