Connecting with strangers.

This came up in my Facebook memory feed today. A friend, who is an ardent Kolkata lover like me had shared this a while back. My world in Kolkata was whole then. Kolkata was home. It still is, in a way, but not in the same way it used to be. The city knows my every ‘first’, so it will always be my love but it is also smeared with sadness and tainted, somewhat, with my anger.

Anyway, I digress. What I wanted to write was this. I took some of ma’s sarees in a tiny tailoring shop near Maddox Square. There was hardly enough space for 6 people to stand comfortably within the store. My cousin, Sahana and I along with the wonderful woman who was taking our measurements, had taken up most of the room in the store. It was hot in there, a standing fan was whirring tiredly, circulating hot air within the store. The pleasing smell of new garments permeated the space reminding me of Durga puja when this smell of new garments surrounded us along with unmitigated joy. For the rest of the year, we could not afford to buy anything new. I digress, again. As we were giving measurements and my cousin was explaining the design to the tailor, a woman walked in with fabric that she wanted to be made into blouses. We Bengalis don’t say hi/hello to each other, I noticed. Is there a Bengali equivalent of greeting other than nomoshkar? And nomoshkar sounds too strange to begin a conversation with a stranger. It seems like we just jump in. And we did – this woman and I. I don’t remember who initiated the conversation or how it started but by the end of it I knew so much about her. Then our work was done, we bade each other farewell. We, most likely, will never meet again but a connection was made, life stories were exchanged.

During my previous trips, I have made similar connections with complete strangers in Ananda Publications book store in Gariahat. That was easy though. Bibliophiles simply start talking about books and suggest books to each other. “Have you read…..?” “NO, did you like it? Maybe I should buy it.” Kind of like dog owners here, one does not need any introduction to exclaim about dogs on walks with their pets.

Strangers become friends in that city in the East, for sure. At least friends for a few moments, an hour, a few hours. Some friendships continue perhaps, and some don’t. But the connection that was made kind of lingers in the heart and perhaps one remembers that I met someone, a stranger, who lend me an ear, and who shared snippets of their lives.

Here…eat!

This blog is about our recent trip to Kolkata. No, not about the emptiness and grief but about love. Gouri, as I have written before, took care of my parents till they died. And Breshpati, Khushi’s mom, also took care of them but she did not stay with them. She came to work and went back home after her work was done.

As I wrote earlier, this blog is about love. Love through food and feeding. My days in Kolkata were fraught with anxiety compounded with grief. And while I felt the impossible amount of love being showered upon us by the women who live in our house, I was too distraught and anxious to fully appreciate it. Looking back, I can feel the warmth of their love, their tireless efforts to show us that although my parents were gone, they were there to love us. Breshpati made my favorite food every single day. Gouri got the ingredients and did the prep work for cooking. Breshpati’s mother did our laundry, swept and mopped the floor. Although I sat down to eat, I did not have any appetite due to the intensity of grief and anxiety of cutting through bureaucratic red tape. But I made an effort. Since I am older, they listened to my refusal to more and more food but young Sahana had no such escape. They showed their love upon her by constantly trying to feed her.

Here is what happened. Sahana would eat lunch around 1 pm after we got back from our various errands at banks. The ladies would eat their lunch after us and settle for their afternoon siesta. Breshpati woke up from her nap within an hour to break a sweet pomegranate and bring the seeds to Sahana on a plate because one day Sahana mentioned she loves pomegranates. Sahana, not quite hungry after her sumptuous lunch only an hour before, would take the plate so as not to offend Breshpati. Having fed Sahana yet again, she would go back to resume her nap. After about an hour of pomegranate, a chocolate bar would appear for Sahana, brought in by either Khushi or Gouri. And then naps would resume for them again. Within 45 minutes of chocolate, the ice cream vendor would go by our street. Naps would be forgotten at the deep cry of Kwality icecreaaaaaaaam. Tremendous excitement would ensue among the ladies as they called down to the ice cream wallah to wait. Khushi and Gouri would run down to buy ice cream for all, whether you want it or not (they can not fathom why one would not want ice cream) and offer us those with triumphant smiles. I would forcefully refuse and request Khushi to eat my share. And right after ice cream would be tea time.

Before we left, Gouri said to me, “Didi, we can never give you the love that your parents gave you. But we tried our best to make sure your home coming was at least somewhat similar to what it used to be.” She said all this in Bengali as she shed tears at our departure. Now I think back to those few days and realize that with everything going on about settling affairs, I really could not appreciate their immense love towards us. But I think back on it now and know that despite my horrible loss, I am lucky in love and also wonder what did I do to deserve it?

Sometimes you just need a hug…

The best way, in my opinion, to get through a day is to focus on little wins. Yesterday’s win was a hug from a customer at the library. It doesn’t sound professional I know, but sometimes, to get through a day, one needs a hug. This particular woman needed a hug. And me, a public library worker was there to give her one.

She came up the stairs, somewhat distraught, very anxious, with a piece of paper which had call numbers of certain books that she needed. I took her to the particular section and asked her a few more questions about what she was researching. She did not even know where to begin her research to find information about her needs. I left her looking at the books, went back to my computer, came back with more information on her topic. As she took the papers from my hand, tears glistened in her eyes. “This is a gift. Public libraries are gifts. I wish I could give you a hug.”

We both had masks on. And I hesitated a bit – Covid, professionalism….But then I thought “To heck with it.” I gave her a hug. She asked my name. She told me hers. I wished her luck because she will need it. And she left.

My day got a whole lot brighter. I had my win for the day.

Spring

There is something about spring. Yes, even when it is overcast. I find myself smiling at carefully nurtured spring flowers as well as the unwanted (yet often very beautiful) weeds. The light green buds on trees, the glorious magnolia trees showering me with petals on my daily walks, the few cherry blossoms that waited for my return, the yet-to-bloom but full-of-promise rhododendron bush in my yard, the busy ants, who will soon become a pain as summer approaches, the smell of sweet basil in my back deck from the saplings I just bought yesterday, the frolicking bunnies in the yard, the young sunlight forcing its way through grumpy clouds and washing the floor of my living room – all of these make me thankful and fill me with good cheer and, most importantly, hope.

And this is perhaps the only time I tend to be slightly poetic, despite schedules, travels, commitments et all.

I weeded my flower bed diligently, yet I see a few weeds sprouting already. But my peony is coming back and rhododendrons will bloom soon. I see a couple of gladiolus stalks sprouting up. I uprooted all the flower plants after last year’s bloom except obstinate ma plant. It is the red geranium which I planted last year, the day after she died. It looks dead still and shows no sign of life. But it is spring, it is the time of resurrection and also hope. So I live in hope that it will come back to me and bloom in all its glory.

Stain

I thought I had done thorough examination of ma’s sarees before I chose a few to take to the tailor. I wanted them to be made into dresses and kurtis which I primarily wear during the summer months in US. When I went back home for the first time after ma and baba’s death, I had to deal with banks and fixed deposits, lockers and house deed. One of the tasks, however, was to clear their closets. As I brought out their possessions and stroked them lovingly, both Sahana and I teared up often. Their belongings apart from their clothes, included my entire childhood – pictures of baby me, my report cards since kindergarten, award certificates, all the letters I wrote to them from US. I brought back those memories along with some of ma’s sarees, some of her kurtas, some salwars, some of her costume jewelry. I brought back baba’s sweater, his shawls, some of his kurtas for Sean and Ryan.

A few of ma’s sarees, specially the white ones, had stains on them. Sahana and I laughed and shook our heads as we discovered stains on otherwise gorgeous sarees. She chewed betel leaf and those stained her outfits. Some of the sarees, however, were pristine. I chose those for the tailor to transform them into outfits I will mostly wear in this country. And as I wear them now, the analogy of soul leaving the vessel of a body and being transformed into a new form doesnot escape me. Old sarees finding new forms.

This morning I opened a black and white kurta which was made from one of her sarees and discovered faint stains of turmeric perhaps on the shoulder area. This one should not have passed inspection, but it did. I smiled at it though. Ma became more real because of those stains. I visualized her at the moment when unaware of the turmeric on her hand, she must have wiped it on the saree. She was at some event perhaps, she was perhaps laughing with someone. She was alive. Maybe she saw the stain and exclaimed that the saree was spoiled now. But she washed it, pressed it and saved it in her closet. Perhaps this was a favorite saree and now it is with me. I am wearing it.

I have been wearing her clothes these days. Her jewelry too. I wrap baba’s shawl around me when I am cold. I feel them near me. These touched them and they are now touching me. In my search for benevolence, these feature.

In a few weeks, it will be a year since they both died 9 days apart. These days, I wake up in the mornings and relive those last horrendous days till I have to mindfully remove the memories from my head. I try to distract myself by dressing up, putting make up, posting dolled up photos on social media yet at this time grief orbits very close to my heart, restricting breath, songs, joy.

Memorial

I have had this feeling of not doing enough for my parents. For the longest time after their death, I suffered from self doubts, from what-ifs. It is a terrible way to live. At long last I have realized how hard I tried with all that was within my power. The Covid outbreak in India in the months of May, June of 2021, the political leaders, the complete breakdown of infrastructure are all the reasons ma and baba died. Along with tens of thousands of families, we lost our dearest ones.

After they died, I felt I did not do anything to honor their memories. Guilt, self doubt, feeling of inadequacy kept me miserable for many, many months compounded by the grief of losing them.

I hoped to gather people together to hold a memorial service of some kind to remember the two people who were such huge part of my life who suddenly ceased to exist physically when I finally went back to Kolkata. Due to the shortness of my visit and the labyrinthine process of settling affairs, I ran out of time. There was no formal memorial service for them. Yet, as I look back on my short stay, I realize I had the best form of ‘remembrance’ with the people who knew them the best. Each morning as I sat on a dining room chair sipping my first cup of coffee, Gouri and Breshpati joined me with their steaming cups of tea. The first day they talked about the trauma of dealing with their deaths. I asked them to narrate happy memories instead since I have lived their last days many, many times in my head. And so they did. After the first day, we sat together each morning laughing hysterically as we talked about the happy memories of their everyday lives caring for my parents. We talked about how baba tricked ma, or how ma yelled at baba for being a glutton or their interaction with Khushi, or the fun memories they created with other members of our extended family. We talked about their work to help the vulnerable in their community.

I went to visit my uncle and cousins. In each visit we laughed till we had tears in our eyes at the life time of happy memories of ma and baba. It was not all joyful, of course. We veered dangerously close to sad memories of helplessness during the Covid days but we quickly detoured back to happier times.

I realized this kind of organic retelling of memories and laughing (and crying) was so much better than organizing a formal get together to force everyone to talk about them. In this way, in installments perhaps, I celebrated the lives of ma and baba instead of mourning their deaths. I mourned them for all this time. Back in their city and my city where they gave me life and opportunities, where they made and nurtured relationships, loved and cared for others, I celebrated their lives with people who celebrated them with me. I came back with a sense of fulfillment. Grief still orbits my heart, but it has given me space to live, laugh, dance, feel joy.

Khushi’s education

Khushi’s mother, Breshpati, has learnt to sign her name. Although she does not know a word of English, she attends every school meeting that Khushi’s school arranges. The meetings are in English. She signs her name, enters the hall, sits through the meeting without understanding a single word and signs out when the meeting is over. She goes because she wants the school to know that she is invested in her daughter’s education. Then she asks the parents of Khushi’s classmates what was said in the meeting. Her husband never goes because he cannot sign his name. He is embarrassed.

During my visit to Kolkata, I observed the routine of Breshpati and Khushi. Breshpati gets her daughter up in the morning, makes her breakfast as the little girl wipes sleep from her eyes. Khushi brushes her teeth, dons her clean and ironed school uniform, eats her corn flakes and walks half an hour to school with her mother in the heat of Kolkata. Breshpati then comes home, cooks for other people, cooks for her own family, walks half an hour again to pick up her daughter. Khushi spends the afternoon either drawing, reading or watching cartoon on phone. In the evening, Breshpati walks her again to someone’s house for tuition and practicing spoken English. She cooks for another family while Khushi works with her tutor.

Little 8 year old Khushi navigated online school through her mother’s phone for close to 2 years without any technological help from her parents. My parents, when they were alive, helped. But they have not been around since May of 2021. Today Breshpati sent me Khushi’s report card. She has been promoted to third grade. She got A+ in each subject. She has chosen chess as her elective. Her favorite subject is math. And this is what her teacher wrote in the comment section – she has “been consistent, has exceeded expectation and created a mark for herself. Truly commendable.”

During my visit, Khushi and I had some meaningful conversations. She talked, I listened. I listened to her telling me about how hard her mother works, how intelligent her mother is, how caring her mother is. The child is mindful of how her mother is giving it her all for Khushi’s success. That made me so happy. Breshpati left me a voice message about Khushi’s grades. Her voice was infused with happiness about her daughter’s success, about the validation of her efforts to give her daughter opportunities. I smiled as I thought how proud my ma would be today.

Lost in my own city

I went for my usual walk this morning but Dhakuria lake was closed for Holi so I took a detour, got lost somewhat in my own city, asked for direction, was told by the caring man that my destination was too far and ‘sister, take an auto, you can not walk that far’. I thanked him and turned around as I was walking in the wrong direction. The man continued to give me directions and to warn me of the distance. I smiled at him but did not tell him that taking an auto was not an option as I carried no money. So I walked and it felt good. I walked through my very familiar and now somewhat unknown city. Some of the old, now decrepit, houses in my path have been there for years. They were part of my landscape all my life. They evoked so many memories. The new buildings were remote and unknown and if you ask me, they don’t belong to the Kolkata I know – my Kolkata.

‘My’ Kolkata is getting smaller with every visit. Old, familiar houses are being demolished and new apartments are being built. The city is sprawling out in every direction. But those houses along Southern Avenue or the unchanged make shift stores on the sides of Rashbehari Avenue, or the hawkers calling out ‘didi ki lagbe’ (sister what do you want), assure me that ‘my Kolkata’ still exists in some small way.

And I remembered walking the same streets with baba when he walked miles and miles to stay in shape. He talked to, petted and fed every stray dog that crossed his path on these walks. They knew him and crowded around him for the biscuits that he carried in his pocket. As I walked today in the early morning hours, I felt him by my side – youthful, happy, fast and chatty. It was a good morning.

Searching for benevolence

I cannot wax poetic of my beloved city after being back in it for the first time after my parents’ death. The lights of Kolkata, when I first saw it from the plane, brought such joy in my mind in the past. This year, as the plane prepared to land, I looked away. The touch down was rough just like the raw emotions in my heart. The two human beings who came to receive me at the airport for the last 25 years were glaringly absent.

The first step in the apartment was perhaps the hardest. I spent some time splashing water on my face to disguise the tears that would not stop flowing. Later, Sahana and I went for a walk around the Dhakuria lake. There, we found benevolence. In the sweet cooing of the cuckoo bird heralding spring, in the rising of the orange sun over the calm waters of the lake breaking through the haze of Kolkata air, in the squabbling of the huge fish in the lake trying to fight for bread that a woman threw in for them, in the pace of the morning walkers, amidst the banyan trees and mango trees, the polash and krishnachura trees, I found the essence of ma and baba’s love. Kolkata was the city of their hearts (mine too, at one point). No matter where they went, they found the most peace when they returned to this chaotic city.

I also found benevolence in the love of the women who cared for ma and baba, in the love of my cousin brother who stayed up at night to bring me home from the airport at an ungodly hour, in my cousin sister’s question – “what can I do? How can I help?”, in my mashi’s show of love by sending me my favorite food, in Khushi’s gentle words and lovely drawing.

Most of all I found benevolence in my daughter’s quiet presence by my side throughout the long, anguishing journey ‘home’. A rub on the back, holding hands, carrying luggage, through a myriad of ways she took care of her grieving mother, while dealing with her own emotions of losing ‘her people’ as she called her dadai and didiya.

This trip is a whirlwind, overwhelming at best. This morning, I sat at my favorite spot at dawn, watching the sun rise and listening to the sounds of Kolkata waking up. I thought of ma, baba and our lifetime of shared love at this quiet time. I thanked them for giving me life, caring for me to the very best of their ability and also asked for forgiveness for failing to take care of them when they needed me. Their benevolence is present in this house though. I feel it as I touch their things, sleep in their bed, look at the shrine of my husband and children in every nook and cranny of this house. For my lifetime, that has to be enough.

A year of resilience

On Sean’s birthday eve, we took him out for a fancy dinner to a fancy restaurant. Between bites of wild mushroom and walnut risotto, we asked Sean how he would describe this past year, his past year. I prepared myself for yet another onslaught of pain as I expected him to talk about our loss. Instead, he said he considers the past year (past 2 years really) as year of resilience. He acknowledged the deaths in our family – his aunt, both my parents, my 3 other aunts to Covid. The impact of Covid on our family – losses, sadness, lack of any joy, despair. As well as how Covid impacted others – loss of loved ones, loss of jobs, deterioration of mental health, rise in domestic violence. Yet those of us who survived the pandemic persevered. Yes, we had differences about how we would deal with the pandemic which drew yet another divisive line among us, but we persevered. We came out of it. Medical professionals worked day and night to prepare vaccines. Governments made it accessible in varying degree in different countries across the globe. Despite our losses, we are laughing again, we are living, loving.

Recently, I saw one of our regular customers at the library after many, many months. I had not seen him since we reopened and I found myself thinking of him often. He keeps to himself mainly, paces the library, mutters to himself. I was shelving when I saw him slowly walking towards the computer with a cane. The cane is a new addition but he was alive. He came through the pandemic. I felt such a surge of relief.

There is a war brewing. Innocent lives are again being sacrificed to greed of autocrats. People are fighting back though – with arms, with donations, with kindness towards refugees. Human resilience at play, yet again.

Year of resilience it has been. Year of human resilience it continues to be.