happy memories – whatmamathinks

I was watching a Hindi movie on Netflix last night, Metro In Dino by Anurag Basu. The locales were different metropolitan cities in India – Delhi, Pune, Mumbai, and finally Kolkata. In the movie, some characters (or a character, I don’t remember) drives through the street in front of Victoria Memorial in Kolkata. And the camera zooms in to a smoggy silhouette of the iconic Victoria Memorial built by the British to honor their queen Victoria, our colonizer. No matter the history of the building, it is undeniable that Victoria Memorial along with the Howrah Bridge are quintessential landmarks to the skyline of the city.

As the silhouette of the building came up on the screen, I felt a jolt in my heart. A wistfulness. I would call it a pain even. It is hard to describe. I think I have been inside the building just once or twice in my entire life. The grounds, however, are a different story. We found ourselves on the grounds of Victoria Memorial for every school picnic since we were very young. We would all board the school buses, ready with our picnic lunches, badminton rackets, board games, and other picnic related fun things and head to Victoria Memorial in the winter. As I write this, I can still smell the oranges that were inevitably packed in everyone’s picnic lunches. We would put our things together on the grass, bask under the sweet, winter sun all bundled up in our sweaters and mufflers. We were out of the closed confines of the classrooms for one day and we made the most of it. We laughed, shouted, played, ran (although not too far from the group). The teachers also got a break as they kept an eye on us, letting us be carefree little girls, as they talked among themselves. I believe there was some kind of teaching involved about the colonial rule of the British over India but the warmth of the sun and friendship are what I remember.

I went there with family too for picnics. We Bengalis are foodies so even our picnic lunches were elaborate. Luchi, alu r dom, cakes, oranges, and for some reason, boiled eggs.

And then I went there as a young woman with my boyfriend, now my husband. When Sean and I fell in love, Kolkata did not have a lot of places for couples to go to. The gardens of Victoria Memorial were a popular spot for young lovers to snatch some private moments far away from the prying eyes of friends and family. Kolkata was very parochial. Acquaintances seemed to be everywhere, coming out the woodwork. Sneaking away with your significant other far from the madding crowd was no easy feat. Since I was from Kolkata and Sean was not, it fell upon me to find secluded spots. But Kolkata is a congested city, so seclusion in my mind was simply avoiding relatives and prying eyes so word did not get back to my parents. Once I held hands with Sean as we walked the streets of Kolkata and a family member saw us. She promptly reported back to my parents about my public display of affection. An unmarried young woman was holding hands with a man, a foreigner at that! The scandal!. As expected, I got in big trouble for it. I laugh as I write this. How different were those days! Anyway, I digress. Back to me romancing Sean in Victoria Memorial. There were some beautifully lit dancing fountains on the grounds of the memorial. They played Rabindrasangeet (Tagore’s songs) as the water danced. A wisp of a memory has stayed in my mind. We sat in front of the fountain, mesmerized, holding hands (after making sure no relatives were hiding behind the bushes spying on me) as I sang for him. He did not understand a single word but he listened. We both were lit up by the lights that were lighting the fountains. Music played softly around us and perhaps, within us too. The beautiful marble of Victoria Memorial shone brightly in the moonlight. And then……

“Get out of here. Go! Out!” A police constable harshly interrupted our romantic moment. What? Why?

“Victoria Memorial closes at 7 pm. Leave. Now!” The constable must have kicked out lovers in scores every evening. And from his expression, I can safely deduce he had some fun doing it too. He gleefully interrupted us, thwacking his baton menacingly against his hand. Our perfect moment was shattered as we got up and made our way out of the gates with other disgruntled pairs of men and women. As the impressive gates of the Victoria Memorial shut with a clunk behind us, we were ejected into the chaos of the city and to reality – finding Sean’s car, navigating traffic, going home, lying to my parents about having double shifts at work.

Smoggy view of Victoria Memorial brought up all these memories. It evoked a feeling that is hard to explain. There was the feeling of loss yet there was also the happiness of my childhood and youth. I realize again and again as I get older that the sadness, the loss, the hurt, as well as the joys, the happiness, the memories of days past are all weaved within the tapestry of my life. I am who I am because I lived every one of those moments.

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.