Glow when you get chance

I was on a early morning walk, doing my regular rounds on the same route. But today I spotted someone. An old lady was sitting on a wheelchair at the society gate. I never saw her before, not in the last one year since we shifted. But she wasn't in her night gown. She was wearing a fine salwar kameez and wore an emboidered dupatta. She put on a fine slipper though her feet were resting on the foot plate of the wheelchair.A man who would be in his mid fiftees was showing her something afar. He may be her son as the face cut had distinct similarity. The old lady, quite radiant with joy, tried to follow his descriptions and sqinted her eyes to see what he was showing. The scene remained in my heart for long. May its the first day after prolonged illness that she could finally see the sun and the birds fly and smell the grass. After very long she could interact with passers by. It must have been a herculean task today for the frail lady to dress up and come and greet the strangers. Just like the stray dog hovering around her, hoping to get some biscuits or the little boy, with ruffled hair and bare feet, marvelling the lady's wheelchair from a distance, curiosity writ on his face ...there is always a rhythm in life that needs appreciation. What a memomorable day, for the ones who captured the scene. Specially for the old lady, who is grasping every moment and painting it with joy and not leaving anything for tomorrow.

And if...

And if you asked me today - What is life? I would not dither a bit to tell you that Life is an Act of Figuring Out. Figuring out where you belong, what to do, how to plan future, why things happen as thy happen, how to deal with things, whats my purpose... and finally how to let go. We keep on figuring out all best possible ways and try fixing them until we can do it no more.

Only If....

And some day like this , I could only reflect upon the roads not taken, trips not made, calls not received, hands not held, not greeting more and paying visit frequently... often to the ones who matter.

And so they remain

Again we had to pack our lives in the trunk and move. Every morning I basked in sun in the lush green lawn, hugged the tamarind and mango trees at nightfall, danced in rain and watched the birds frantically flying to their nests and the century old neem tree stood testimony to all my love and tears. Its been a few months since then. While I was still reminiscing over my heliconias, duck flowers and lemon trees which are either mercilessly plucked away or decimated to ground, a video popped up from the ongoing conflict of Israel and Hamas war. It was of a beautiful home or remains of it. Strewn were framed photographs of the family members, heaps of broken plates, framework of furniture, toys, burnt curtains, clothes, greeting cards and bedsheets but surprisingly the garden was left unscathed. Flowers dangling from the branches, plants in the short drive way looking fresh. The green leaves remain but the green fingers are nowhere. The transience and unpredictability of life is baffling yet its the ultimate Truth. But at this moment, I wish the garden there to bloom with laughter of children, not rockets but buzzing of the bees to fill the air, not fear but motley colured wings of the butterfly to invade each flower. I realized being happy and to absorb the present to the fullest is a treasure for future. Therefore at this moment I relive the wonderful times again, glad for today, contented with everyone and everything around, and not at all dejected or regretful of what has gone by.

Budding but not blooming

Budding yet not blooming! It's been days that the Tiger Lily bulb which is full of promises, devoid of the ultimate expression. I stood for a while thinking what could have gone wrong. The sunlight, potting soil, the pot, watering all measured to perfection yet the subdued orange bulb wont open up to the world. Once a beautiful bright red hibiscus bud was completely devoured by equally firey ants. I kept waiting for the bloom then, too. Will the lily bud meet the same fate? Or It's just matrix of time...it will undoubtedly spread its magnificent petals one fine morning kissing the dews, fliring with the sun and swaying with the wind...?!? I'm certain many amongst us feel the same way. Budding with possibilities, pregnant with promises, teeming with ideas, loaded with potential and yet... for me, I dont know how to bloom. But I am all prepared and setting my crown straight and waiting for the moment.

Today

To know that everything will end one day makes living exciting or being oblivious of the inevitable closure of life makes every moment worth celebrating? Being ignorant as a child or being mindless as a lunatic makes us seize the day? 

Mostly, being aware of our mortality makes us honour the present. As waking up tomorrow , bathing in the sunlight is a miracle and this doubt makes us fearful. So we clutch onto today before it slips away. 

We lost many todays, haven't we?

Feel Again

There was a time when I got things whatever I wanted. Sometimes by pleading, attimes by throwing tantrums. It could be a doll, a cake, ice cream or a pencil box. And it made me think that I was powerful and invincible enough to convince elders to submit to my demands. Quite condescending I guess! Little realizing that those little things which I got were symbols of love and affection. Certain things which I failed to get I conviniently forgot about them as all small children do. As I grew up I figured that broken hearts could not be fixed. Childhood friends become distant. Loved ones fade away into oblivion. Complexities of life and situations are something to deal with, there is nothing to win or lose but to float along. For a while I felt enfeebled,shaken. Then going through the vagaries of life I learnt to accept what I cannot change. Sometimes gracefully, sometimes grudgingly. But there are some moments where I want to feel powerful again just like a child, grab and get whatever I want!

Not curious enough

I was in a rush. Moms always are.It was way past bedtime and yet my boy who was suffering from throat infection held the glass in his left hand and looked lost and engrossed in the yellow lukewarm water. It was grandma's remedy to gargle with turmeric and salt water. 

I reitierated and reminded him once more in an anxious tone to do the needful. 

Then I tapped his back and urged to utilize the time. He seemed nonchalant but intently looking at the water.

 " Mumma, I could see the creation of a planet here," spoke Jai with thrill in his voice and glint in his eyes. I raised my right brow in surprise and visibly disconcerted. I was about to push him one more time to do the required job.

 But with an expression mixed with astonishment and desperation he asked ," Why do you forget to be curious when you grow up?" I was bemused more. "Come here, mumma , and see," he ushered me to look into the glass. "You stiirred the salt and turmeric powder in water and after a while the miniscule yellow particles came from diffferent places, as if attracted by something in a central point and merged together on the surface of the water...," he excitedly continued without taking a breath, "That's how planets are formed too in space.It's so intersting and I can see it here." And he walked away with euphoria in his stride. 

I stood there for a while. Am I really stuck with charting duties and doing things within a stipulated time that I have forgotten to see the every day little miracles in everything around me?

 I donot lead a fast and furious life but the element to be delighted in regular things, finding something new in everday affair, to derive fun in the most mundane stuff is dwindling away. A child can see and feel the universe in a glass and I feel overburdened even when standing under the vast sky twinkling with stars. What am I seeking?

 And I decided to the let the child in me bloom again.

Hindustan Times Article 4

Hindustan Times Article 3

Hindustan Times Article 2

Hindustan Times Article 1

The Sky is limitless but fearful

On the occasion of World Yoga Day we camped in the open. It was around 6 am. Light cool breeze, chirping of the birds and mellow rays of the sun transcended me to a new world. While perfoming the Bhujangasana, I raised my head up. The white cotton like clouds sailing effortlessly yet mysteriously in the perfect vast azure sky. Some of them were clubbed together and going somewhere.But where? As far my eyes could see it was blue and white polka dots making their way to another horizon probably. The morning sun looked happy and carefree, just like a babbling child who just woke up in his mother's lap. But the space above looked infinite, the dancing clouds in the morning light wind didnt give me much solace. Suddenly, fear gripped me. What ever the saying goes, after death I would never like to go up there. How can I go somewhere which looks so far off,  enigmatic, and its enormity so imposing. Somehow the immenseness of the blue firmament indisposed me. Its captivating yet fearful. You may want to travel the untrodden path, explore the unknown , scale the heights with newfound vigour and curiosity after you leave the shell, but I would love to hold on to the earth. Touch every leaf, feel the wind, whisper to the grass, play with weeds and flowers alike, float in the river and ride the formidable milky waves. I will dance in the rain and gyrate witnessing the rainbows, sleep beneath the blanket of twinkling stars till the morning dew wakes me up, caress every bird, snuggle with every animal and insect, take a mud bath and be with my own beings here - in any form.

Lemme knew her purpose

Is it by constantly, repeatedly searching for our purpose in life we fail to understand it? Last year we bought two gunea pigs for my son's birthday and he named them Lemme and Cookie. Within a year Lemme gave birth to eleven offsprings. She was the most vocal, energetic specially when it came to munching the vegetables and adored the red juicy tomatoes.She had an unsatiable appetite. While other youthful cavies would run helter skelter and look for a far off dimlit corner and huddled, Lemme would jovially leap and then raising her front legs tightened the grip and nip away the largest piece of cucumber from me. Every two and half months there would be addition and Lemme ould lovingly nurture her furry babies. She always looked content, even in the cage. Two days ago she died after giving birth to a litter. And she looked content then too. Her demise saddened me and her look baffled me. Is this persistent striving, proving, struggling, voraciously trying to find who we are, franctic in depth search within to find peace...in this frequent search, much like the ruffled waters we are unable to fathom who we are. Contentment has become the Neverland.In life and death Lemme knew the purpose, yes, a tiny guinea pig understood her reason to be here, didn't spend days to realize or chase it, but why can't we who claim to be higher beings are never gratified. Who is more closer to the Almighty? For me, its Lemme.

The Black Trunk

Roshun Bhai. I guess the name was a distortion from Roshan. I heard he was of the same age as my (dida)maternal grandmother but he looked the same for years.;Anyways Roshun Bhai, the tall lanky fellow who ran errands and also ran the house in absence of eldrers was an enigma to us. Us - my rambunctious cousins who would gather in Sukhia Street house during summer breaks, mostly to find out more about Roshun Bhai's mysterious loft. Extended family from my dida's side lived in Sukhia street. Roshun Bhai always had an aura of seriousness around him and the way he gathered his immaculate dhoti as he climbed down from the loft early in the morning keeping a sharp eye on us, it catapulted our inquisitivness about his high abode manyfolds. The moment we tiptoed the iron staicase, the omnipresent Roshun Bhai would just yelp, "AAyyyyyiiiii..." We would literally tumble on each other and scoot for a hiding place. But attimes we got lucky. When Roshun Bhai went to fetch something from the market we would surreptitiously access his room - the mighty and mysterious loft. It was fun to see everyone from fourteen feet high, quickly we would play the typical "chor poolish" paper - game, giggled and endeavoured to find out any treasure. The cotton mattress was neatly folded in a bed roll, couple of shirts placed on the steel box and a nondescript black trunk with big lock placed in the right corner. After lot of deliberation and discussion, we came to the conclusion that the treasure was inside the trunk.The big lock was the deterrant and he must have stashed the key in a secret place. Overcame by curiosity and a compelling desire to know the unknown we tried to unravel the truth for years which remained hidden in the abyss of the trunk but without any success. Roshun Bhai's ubiquitous presence and his ability to get to us when we were upto 'something' still baffles me. With furrowed brows, squinted but with an unmissable twinkle in the eyes he would look at us straight and deep- further confounding us whether to stand there and brave him or run. We ofcouse always went with the second option. Once in a year he would go to his village, few kilometres away from Barouni in Bihar. And without Roshun Bhai, elders were seen running from pillar to post with flurry of activties with a bit of confusion. He became a big and important part of the family. But whenever he went he would carry his heavy duty trunk much to our displeasure. But kids dont have much to say in such matters! It was during mid nintees, I was a teenager then. Summer vacation mostly meant meeting friends and spending afternoons at each others' place. Spending the vacation in Sukhia Street became less frequent. My mother spoke about Roshun Bhai leaving for his village and that his eldest son had come to take him. He was getting old and his sons wanted him to be with them now. I felt a twinge of pain. Its not easy to let go someone who has become part of your childhood. We paid a visit to Sukhia Street the following weekend. By that time Roshun Bhai had left. My cousins were unhappy too, but the older one pointed to the black trunk on the loft. The sudden spark in our eyes and grin on our face could be seen from miles. We rushed up the iron staircase. But the lock was intact. We were disheartened as our treasure hunt met a dead end. Just then one of my uncle came up. Quirkly nodded his head and lifted his brows and hummed a tune only known to him and all the while adjusting his huge black thick rimmed specks with his left hand. Bappa da, as he was fondly called by all, was always amusing. His monotonous hum broke into a big smile as he took out a key from the left pocket of his shirt. He held the key almost in front of my nose as if he was granting us key to freedom - from Central Jail! Without blinking twice and thinking even once I grabbed the key , fumbled with the lock for a moment and then opened the coveted trunk. My younger cousin swtched on the light for a better view. Gripped with new found happiness we started rummaging things. Things such as two light woollen shawls and a muffler with holes of different sizes probably weathered by time or chewed up by rodents. A not so white shirt, a lungi, an old red and white gamchha, a tattered diary where he noted some calculations and wrote down certain things in hindi. A black torch without battery. And in the far left corner of the trunk there was a very small iron box. I opened it with care and hope only to find a rusted open razor, couple of topaz blades, one broken piece of fitkari (alum), a small mirror and a pale green coloured plastic bowl. Now Bappa da broke into a laughter. I frowned and my cousins looked away from him with utter disgust. Could it be that Roshun Bhai was gone and so was the treasure?'Listen' he squat down. He pointed at the key and said " Roshun Bhai always kept the key with me fearing that you all might tamper with his things and misplace them. He took it from me when he required," he added in a baritone voice. "But there is nothing important here," I added. My despondent tone was quite obvious to all, especially Bappa da. " "That diary was imporatnt. He maintained the house expenditure there." He sounded firm.I sat there for a while. Dispassionately I touched the diary once but left it there.Many years have passed. Roshun Bhai also died long ago. I have family of my own. I keep a track of monthly expectidures and note them down in a tiny handbook and keep it in a safe place too. Now I understand the treasure in the black trunk. It was filled with trust, love, responsibility, duty and dedication. Roshun Bhai left it behind when he no longer had to take care of the family he was living with for over fifty years.

The Last Sip

The Last Sip

She sat in the Starbucks Café, sipping her coffee and staring out of the window. The blood stained knife lay next to her handbag, covered with her blue silk scarf. ..

‘CUT’, the Director shouted as he also with a grin signaled the spot boys to pack up. He was gratified atlast. Shalini was relieved too. After five retakes the shot was finalized. This was her first big break in so called soap opera and the last scene of a three year long Bengali serial called ‘Bhorer Alo’, was finally and yes finally over. She played the vamp here, but doesn't matter, atleast now her work got noticed in the industry and she is getting good offers too. She desperately wanted to play heroine someday. Director, Pradhan, showed special sympathies for her, and offered her to drop home several times but she subtly turned down such advances.

Mrs. Shalini Mishra. She is known just as Shalini. It is difficult to get any roles for a newcomer with a married tag. Not to mention about kids too! She takes a cab from Tollygunj. She intends to go directly to Bhawanipore, where in her small two room flat, Rishi and Muni are waiting patiently for their mother to return. When she gets late, she asks Molina di, the nanny to stay put for the night. But today she will get home early. Yet something bothers her, she gets jittery and anxious. ‘Hello Molina di! What are the kids doing? Have they finished their home work?

‘Ha did, you will return early today? I told them so’

‘ I will get a little late, but definitely I will fetch them some toys. Just for today, stay a bit more. And yes, donot open the door to any one. You remember…?’

‘Okay didi….’

‘Do not open the door to anyone till I come .’…Shalini ‘s voice trembled as she spoke these words. Already the cab was speeding the Hazra crossing when Shalini asked the driver to take a detour to Chetla. ‘ Didi, you asked Bhawanipore..but now you  want to go to Chetla, you have to give hundred rupees extra.’…the driver looked at her through the looking glass.

‘Okay… ‘ she said. Its better not to annoy a taxi driver in Kolkata. Shalini retouched her make up somehow in the moving cab. Her fair skin, hazel eyes and slender body was quite captivating.  She could command any male’s attention . Just twenty six and already a mother of two kids, aged six and four, yet she looked a girl freshly out of college.

She got down at  Chetala. And today she did not mind paying the extra hundred rupees to the driver, too. She entered the by lane from the Rakhi Sangha club. She walked faster and knocked the shabby green gate of 12 B Ramakanta Dhar Lane.  She started to perspire even in the early December evening.

‘Who is there?’, an elderly woman,  in her mid sixties came out.

‘ I am looking for Rajat… ah..actually we work in the same office, and I happen to pass by this way..so I thought…’, Shalini fumbled as she said.

‘No. He is not here now…’, the woman said sternly and vanished inside the house.

Shalini stood there for a few minutes. Rajat never told that his mother would come. For the past few days he was avoiding her calls. But this was not unnatural as after a fight this ritual of avoiding calls go on for a couple of weeks. But somehow she has started losing confidence in her relationship. Rajat and Shalini were a couple from school days. They were both students  of Striding High School. Things changed after their final exam.

Shalini went to spend her holidays at Siliguri with her Uncle and Aunt. Shalini’s aunt was just five years elder to her. She was just in his mid twenties then. He introduced a friend to Shalini, a wealthy business man named Samar. Samar Mishra had his chain of garment shops set up in Nepal. He was swanky, handsome though on the healthier side yet Shalini was drawn towards him. The new Hummer was one of its kind in the small Siliguri town. Shalini became intimate with Samar and their romance continued for next two years. Shalini got married at the tender age of eighteen and then the fairy tale romance started fading away.  The property of the Mishras’ was divided amongst Samar’s five brothers after their father’s death on the same year. Samar, started gambling, got involved in brawls and atimes returned home drunk and injured. Shalini with two children felt cheated. Women became a part of Samar’s life and Shalini’s endless miseries too. She left his place with just her own jewelry and the two kids.  After briefly staying with her parents in Dhakuria , she moved to her own abode in Bhawanipore, away from the shadow of Samar. Samar had started invading her parents place in Dhakuria and demanding money.

After couple of years she again met Rajat at a  Jatin Das Park metro station. He was working for a News Channel. She was elated to see him and some where the pangs of gilt also pained her. Rajat , sympathized , after hearing her plight. He was hurt though. She knew it.

Later, phone calls increased between them. They met regularly. Rajat was an ambitious scribe and looked promising. He seemed to have taken a liking for the kids. The difficult jig saw puzzle of life was gradually finding a solution for Shalini. Rajat believed in her dream that she would make it to the highest echelon in the film industry, the most popular heroine. They planned to get married shortly.

Unexpectedly life took a different turn.

 A month before Samar found her address. He stalked her and started blackmailing for money or he would ask for the custody of the kids. Shalini, gave him money in installments. He hungered for more. He followed her to the studios and introduced himself as her husband quite authoritatively.  

Sounds of thundering jolted Shalini back to reality. May be the untimely December shower again! She walked towards the main road. Thoughts of Samar puzzled Shalini and she raced back home. While on the stairs she heard a scuffle.

She was aghast to see a dunked Samar trying to enter the house. Kids were screaming from inside and Molona di, was injured in the eye. Seeing Shalini, he raised his voice more and abused her. She writhed with anger.

‘Samar stop ..stop I said…or..’

‘Do hell with u…where is the money..ha?’….he shouted and the kids shrieked with fear. He tried to go inside the house…just then..as Shalini grabbed her bag she found the knife which was used in her last shot accidentally remained with her. Without dithering for a moment she clutched the knife and stabbed Samar several times. Gradually he lay still. She cried in pain, in fear or may be in guilt. But then, she exactly knew what to do. She took Molina di into confidence, closed the door ensuring that the kids donot witness such an act. They dragged Samar’s lifeless body into the corner of the balcony. It was raining heavily and probably no one heard him. It was pitch dark too. The kids were quiet and huddled in their room. ‘Molina di, I think my worries are over,’. ..she cried again but with firm resolve got a luggage bag and dumped Samar’s body inside. Molinadi, still trembling with fear repeatedly looked outside. Shalini assured Molina di, dragged the luggage bag and walked away.

She took a cab to Howrah. The driver charged extra as it was raining. Shalini became fearless. She knew the worst was over. She can live a peaceful life, with kids and Rajat. The thought of Rajat brought a relief in her.

She bought the ticket of the last Bandel Local. Shalini boarded the train with the luggage. It was the last train so very few passengers were there. A couple of them noticed the huge luggage or may be noticed her face as she was gradually becoming popular. But whatever be, she chose to ignore. She just wanted to get relieve of this luggage or rather her… so called husband. After a few stations, she was the only one left in the compartment. She got down at Baidyabati station leaving the luggage behind. The train chugged out of the station and so her worries. Atleast she thought so.

The strength and courage which covered her for the past three hours or so, seemed to fade away. She called Rajat. ‘Will he avoid my call again!’ she thought.

‘Hello Lini..’

Hearing his voice she broke down. He affectionately called her Lini. She narrated every detail. Tears welled up in her eyes.

Rajat heard everything with unusual calmness. Asked her to remain poise and promised her to meet at the Park Street Starbucks next day at 11 am. When she kept the phone, she was much relieved. She huddled in a corner of a station, covering her face slightly with dupatta. Few beggars and street dogs only gave her company. She boarded the first train in the morning.

As she entered the house the kids were sleeping. She kissed their forehead and slept there for couple of hours. Molina di woke her up.

‘I wont work any more, I am afraid. I want to go back to Canning..in my village…’

‘Nothing will happen now..I will double your pay…’..

‘But didi…what if police…’

‘Shhhh Rishi and Muni are sleeping..you will wake them up with your unnecessary worries..’

Molina di walked away towards the kitchen.

After sometime Shalini walked out of the house. Dressed in a pretty pink top and denim, she looked ravishing. The soft sun of the winter morning made her look radiant. She took a cab to the Outram Ghat. Strolled along the ghat for an hour. She was perhaps preparing for the new dawn in her life. At 10:30 am she took a cab to Park Street. She was waiting for Rajat eagerly. The watch paced ahead to 12 pm and Rajat was not picking up calls. Shalini was getting edgy as Rajat had been always very punctual. Her mind probed through a lot of possibilities, including his mother falling ill to his boss not permitting half day’s leave.

Her phone rang. She was overjoyed to see Rajat’s name flashed on the screen. ‘ohhh where are you… I am waiting for..’ Shalini was interrupted.

‘Listen,’ said Rajat. ‘Just wait and surrender. Do not try to flee. Police has surrounded the Café. They have recovered Samar’s body too. I will reach the Café in another five minutes…’

Shalini lay still. With bated breath she only thought about her children. An ambitious and upcoming journalist like Rajat, could not let go this opportunity of creating a ‘sansani..’.. Shalini couldn’t fathom why she did not get an inkling about Rajat’s next move…Why? Is there nothing in this life called Trust? Questions wrecked her heart.

Heavy footsteps followed inside the Café.  Still she sat in the Starbucks Café, sipping her coffee and staring out of the window. The blood stained knife lay next to her handbag, covered with her blue silk scarf.

She failed to become a heroine. She remained a vamp in reel and real-life too.

 

Sketch : Pensive Princess

 

                                                        Pensive Princess

The Tale of Smita and Swapan. My parents.

 The tale of Smita and Swapan. My parents.

A common love story which blossomed in the streets of Calcutta in early 70's with a unique and uncommon ending. All because...someone didnt want her Love and Faith to fail. It took undaunted courage and unwavering commitment to fulfill this Love.

Happy Anniversary to the eternal love birds. They have been celebrating "Togethernes" in Heaven for more than a decade now. A marriage hardly matures in eight years. It's too short a period. But me and my lil brother happened and that kept my mother going.

Their love bloomed during the tumultous Naxal Movement. A firebrand, charismatic, impulsive and very handsome young man found solace in a sensitive, dutiful, profound and passionate girl.

The 70's was the era of frugality. Turbulence brew which was followed by a tectonic shift in politics in Bengal. People were caught in quandary. It touched the young lovers too.

Swapan and Smita met quite often at the Coffee House in College Street. Paying for two cups of coffee was way too much so they shared a cup. Those hours were magical. The commotion of the Coffee House ebbed away as they remained engrossed in each other. She was the answer to his inner chaos and confusion.

Their relationship was wrought with impediments and complexity. All the drama around them eclipsed their love or so it seemed. Many a times they decided to trod different ways. But their paths crossed mysteriously and life converged at a point. They surmounted all hindrances and tied the nuptial knot on 17th April 1974.

But the Almighty has a puckish sense of humor and therefore a raging storm destroyed the newly settled nest...

With a six year old girl and a six month old boy, the young woman shouldered the responsibility of her in laws too who lost their only son. She juggled all the duties with equal elan and grace. Behind her quiet demeanor and composure lied grit and determination. After all, she had a promise to keep. She could not let her Love and Faith to fail.

Well some love stories have a different ending and this is one of them.

Boromamima

Boromamima

It took me a year, to gather myself and write about a very dear friend - my Boromamima (my aunt, maternal uncle’s wife). How over the years affection metamorphosed into a blooming friendship and her sudden demise left a deep crevasse that I can never overcome. Phone calls stretched from minutes to hours and encompassed all sorts of topics under the sun. A retd IAS officer, her humble demeanour made her loved by many. For the past two decades, I have been crisscrossing the country and she paid me a visit where ever I went. I would rattle out about various stuff on phone, she exactly knew where to advise, at which point to intervene, and exactly when to give a patient hearing. When chips were down I would cling onto her, she was my buttress against despair, my anchor.

Never forgot to wish on birthdays , anniversaries, or during important events. Both my mama and maamima would courier new dresses before the commencement of Durga Puja. And after my mother’s death, it was a ritual for her. My maamima would fret more over the size and mama over colour, especially buying clothing for my teenage daughter. I had to talk to the floor manager of Pantaloons over phone to assuage their worries. She was always amused by the antics and quirky ideas of my son. If I ever happen to get busy and not call her for a while, an anxious message would pop up, “kiire shob thik ache toh re?” (Is everything fine?)

Then there would be this predictable question around September, for which I would forever wait - “Ebar Durga Pujoye ashbi?” (Will you come during this Durga Puja?).

For the past few years, she became my pillar as I was hers. Maamima was always candid yet balanced with her suggestions and perspective. She came as part of our family in 1985 and grew more treasured as years went by. It was her first death anniversary yesterday, coinciding with the auspicious Mahalaya Tithi. As the festive mood and celebration fill up the air, for me, it’s one less reason to come to my very own city of joy. I lost a very dear friend. A year gone by, and I realized I needed her more than she did.

Festivals - A way to celebrate life

 

Festivals - A way to celebrate life

 The more you praise and celebrate your life, the more there is in life to celebrate – Ophra Winfrey.

Festivals are a cheerful way to celebrate life. They break the monotony of every day subsistence and like a sweet nectar, rejuvenates the whole existence around us. They delineate the heritage of our country to the next generation. Festivals are also a reminder that you can coexist with others and be happy simultaneously. Claiming that you have inherited a rich culture is not enough if you fail to adjust with your neighbours or bond with your family. Festivals are a great opportunity to forget, forgive, come together and celebrate the moment. Festivals also symbolizes that work is worship.  Whether ploughing, sowing or harvesting –physical work along with the changing seasons and nature are celebrated and honored equally.

I feel instead of ensuring material comfort and building assets for our children, we must invest in building relationships. And festivals are a wonderful passageway to that as they bind the entire humankind with joyous thread of happiness and exuberance. It is equally important to decipher the meaning of each festival, relating it to history and molding it with the modern era so the current generation can interpret it better.  Wherever life takes them , our culture and tradition is an invisible umbilical chord which will connect them to their roots. It’s a bridge between the past and the present.