One for the dad

“You got a dream... You gotta protect it. People can’t do somethin’ themselves, they wanna tell you you can’t do it. If you want somethin’, go get it. Period.”

The day, for some reason, wasn’t going well. My head hurt and my stomach hurt in tandem. So I did something I do almost always do while away time in office. The hallowed words, www.buzzfeed.com , and voila, ‘28 incredibly touching photos of fathers seeing their babies for the first time’; by the third photograph I was already weeping silently when I realised I hadn’t called my father to wish him. And so I dialed his number. In the middle of an afternoon siesta, my father mumbled a “thank you” and said he’d call me in the evening. 

If, you’d known me and my father, you would possibly say that I am exactly like him. My mom says that, when I refuse to arrange my wardrobe or help in the kitchen or refuse to budge, when in front of the television. “Tui tor baba’r e mei,” (You are your father’s daughter). Undoubtedly, I was, I mean, I am. 

It has been four years, since the time I have been staying away from home. When my parents were leaving me at my hostel for the first time, my mom, who usually weeps even during daily soaps, was surprisingly calm. And my dad, he broke down, and cried. Instead of comforting him, I too started sobbing hysterically. That continued for about an hour after I reached my room and unpacked. It suddenly dawned on me; I was on my own now. 

When I was in class VI, I told my dad to get me the first book of the Harry Potter series. Since my classmates kept yapping about the novels, I wanted to find out what was the big deal about them anyway. I asked for the first book, my father got me the first three. For someone, who reads anything between two to four books every week, he certainly didn’t want to underplay his excitement at having his daughter, asking for a book for the first time in her life. 

When I was in my third year in college, I remember whining to him, that we haven’t gone for a vacation for the longest time. He called me in my next break saying that we were going to Bhutan, when I came home.

I guess, we look up to our parents in different ways. Truth be told, I always trusted my mom more than my dad, but whenever I needed something, a hug, a packet of sweets, a book to read or even sanitary napkins for that matter, my dad got them for me.

Two months back, my grandmother passed away, and while all my family members used their lacrimal glands endlessly, my father sounded almost calm on phone. I was almost angry on him, for having such a steady voice, especially when he was yet to tell my grandfather that his wife is no more.

And then I remembered, when my maternal grandmother had expired five years back, I had gone so numb, that I couldn’t shed a tear. I mean me, who sobs on seeing puppy videos, had nothing but an overbearing sense of numbness at such an occasion. 

Again, I am copiously indifferent when it comes to things I don’t want to deal with, I can’t blurt out and tell people when they have hurt me and when I do, it almost always doesn’t have a desired result. How, I hope that I could be more volatile, hurl abuses at strangers, be angry at someone and get over with it. But then I am my dad’s daughter, who chases a cockroach out of her room instead of smashing it with her slippers.

Over the last few days, I have frequently wondered did I turn out the way; my parents wanted me to be?  Would I, could I, should I try be more social, more amiable, less of an introvert, stop day-dreaming and be obstinately ambitious?

 

Well, of course I could.

Then I look at my dad, listlessly sleeping in a local train, with a newspaper on his lap. A man, who didn’t take a promotion all his life, so that he could come back home and rush me tuitions, and when he did give the exam, he managed to top in entire east India. Can you imagine doing THAT at the age of 50?

Hence, more than anything else, my father has taught me one thing – to be a consistent version of myself, to be happy with the person I have turned out to be. To read obsessively, to dream endlessly, stand up for the choices I make, even if it means earning probably a tenth of what I could, with my resume and qualification.

A thank you, would probably be an understatement. For you chasing the school bus when I got late, or skipping office and standing in front of the passport office for two hours, in case I needed something. 

Even though I am 21, your presence makes me feel utterly blessed and believe that angels exist. And so does Santa Claus.

The C word

“...our loves ones truly are ever-present. We may bury their bodies or scatter their ashes, but their spirits are boundless and do not accompany them to the grave. The terms 'letting go' and 'closure' are just empty words. They mean nothing to someone who has suffered through the death of a loved one. Instead of insisting on figuratively burying our dead, why not keep them close to us? Love doesn't die when we do.” 

Closure. A word forever out-streching visible boundaries into the realm of the unknown. Whether you deserved it or not is a different thing and whether you achieve one is something else. Forgiveness brings closure. So does accepting the situations which are inevitably dumped on us, by some uncanny force of nature, at some point of time or the other.

I couldn't, for example, get over the first boy I happened to like, who sort of (read brutally) cheated on me with one of my closest friends. I am still friends with the girl, but I let go of him (yelling hysterically in a local train, mouthing Kate Winslet's words from The Holiday). "I am miraculously done in being love with you," I said. Looking back, I don't think I was love with him. But there is only so much a 15-year-old can take. And hence the breakdown. 

Truth be told, I haven't forgiven him yet, because he didn't deserve it. But I have definitely let go of it as an uncouth experience which is, perhaps the vestigial of teenage years. 

Anyhow, I returned home a few days back and my mother asked me to visit my grandfather directly from the airport and see how he was doing. The mansion-like house where my dadu lives now, was built for the family of nine, including their two sons and their families. Eventually disputes crept in, and my father and uncle moved away to build their own houses, where they stay at present.

The door bell was horribly screechy, for the benefit of my grandfather who can barely hear. He was so surprised to see me, that I couldn't comprehend when he was happy or dismayed with my arrival. It had barely been a month since my grandmother passed away. While my grandfather lived the reality of her absence every moment, it was thrust upon me, as I entered the house of my childhood. For someone who forgets daily errands rather frequently, it was a surprise even to me, that I remembered the chair I sat on, while I ate smearing rice all over my face. The stairs leading on to the garden where I played by myself, the monstrous terrace which would come alive during festivals. Nothing skips the mind. 

My grandmother clothes are neatly folded on the rack, I observed them while my grandfather added, that my granny's younger sister was desperate to marry him, but he choose Gran, because her face resembled goddess Durga. "Look. Didn't she?," he adds pointing out to her black and white framed photograph.

Closure. It is in knowing that people who you think have left you, haven't gone anywhere. Be it your atypical juvenile crush or a recently deceased grandparent. They live in your memories, sometimes in your hearts and often in your minds, as experiences which makes you the somewhat tolerable person you end up as. And it is never as bad, because in matters of live and love both death and heartbreaks are doom inevitable. 

But, what changes everything is how you choose to look at it. A heartbreak makes you value love and claim it obstinately. You take the plunge, you leap, you confess and you move on, when it doesn't work out, almost fearlessly. Death makes you cling on to even the infinitesimal moments, and it's important that you do. But it's also crucial that you manage to smile when you remember... and when you do, nothing ever is truly lost.  

Remember me

যখন পড়বে না মোর পায়ের চিহ্ন এই বাটে...

Her hands were all that I could think of. Her beautiful soft hands. Hands which cradled me and put me to sleep when I was a child, hands which held me fiercely tight during my brother's wedding... while walking or climbing stairs and when my mother or an aunt or my new sister-in-law wrapped a terse tasar saree around her waist, because she couldn't wear it herself. I remember how she shoved her pearl and gold nose ring into my hand, the last time I was home, concerned by the fact that my silver nosepin caused infection. I remember how, no matter how weak she felt, stacks of magazines, newspapers never left her bedside. Her sense of humour, the ability to laugh or cry hysterically or even to cuss without a moment's notice...

I was in office, switching phones with my colleagues trying to order burgers from McDonald's. The phone got cut. Twice. So I drank half a litre of water, and decided to suppress my hunger till I find food to stuff my face with. My phone rang, when it was nearing five. My page had to go inside the editor's room. It was my brother's voice. He flatly said, "Grandmother has passed away." I refused to react for sometime. After a second call, I realise she had been dead for a good two and a half hours. My brother had flown down yesterday morning, after a night shift. He had decided to take a quick nap before visiting her at the hospital. But, my forever eager grandma, decided it was best to leave, on her own, dispensing off even her first grandchild, to see her alive, one last time.

And I wish, I knew how to deal with this. Except for crying infrequently, staring at the ceiling and dozing off on my laptop, I haven't really done anything. My mother called and informed me that my grandmother looked pristine as a young bride, decked on her death bed before she was taken for the last rites. She mentioned that my grandfather, came into her room, every few minutes and sobbed silently. My brother messaged me from the ghats, saying that he had to rush to a washroom, in between the rituals, unable to control his tears. Yet, in all these difficult times my whole family is together, while I was miles away, tucked underneath a blanket, left alone to deal with an insurmountable loss.

Maybe one day, she'll visit me in my dreams, and tell me if heaven is worth leaving a grandchild behind, who misses her and demands her back in life. I hope she tells me funny stories from my father and uncle's childhood, and maybe mine too. And sings me a lullaby, or pat on my head till I fall asleep. 

On my last visit, she looked at me with a cloudy gaze, while chewing on a mach bhaja. Since she couldn't move to the basin to wash her hands, my aunt got her a mug of water. My grandmother smiled a little, but even when she was weak and  groggy, she was awfully confident. Old age, inconsistencies, a weak memory was complemented with a face which never ceased to express itself, which almost beckoned you to fall in love with it. 

Mamma, I miss you. I know wherever you go, you'll find a place for yourself but promise me that you'll continue to look out for us. Your foolish grandchildren, who have never thanked you enough, and who continue to need you much more than you have ever needed them.

Convalescence

She thought about the proximities of love. About abstinence and role play. Her addiction to cold coffee. His addiction to her. Her to his smell. His to her breasts, her smile, her feet, her thighs. Separation, distances both virtual and real. Could she make his realise that she was a person first, an object of desire later? Could he understand that she loved him, deeply, but the expanse of land which separated them, across miles, railway tracks and highways may be separating them in their minds too?

Of course it was preposterous to think of separating. It takes courage, hardwork and a lot of strength to make relationships work. His stubble gliding down the broad of her neck, she could do without it. But his smile, his smile and the angst on his face when she missed a meal or was out too late, could that be replaced? Or the letters he wrote and the words he used? 

There were times she shut her eyes too tight trying to sleep or was simply wide awake because love wasn't supposed to be as convoluted and far from reach. She wrote about it too, feebly, making attempts to recuperate. She thought about the times they spent together, that one time when he was sick, the only time he was sick around her; she couldn't do anything to ease his pain. She didn't know how to. She didn't take care of herself when she fell sick but merely tossed on the bed, had soup and coffee and drown in a pile of tissues. In that sense, she was really low maintenance. 

Maybe she is used to giving up too easily. Maybe tangible relationships isn't her thing. Maybe she was a cynic first and a lover later. Could she be consumed by love but not feel it at all? She had this crazy thought of cutting her hair really short, because he loved her hair and maybe metaphorically if she could rid of the things he loved about her, she could dispense off her feelings for him as well?

Love defiles life and strangely it defines it too. Oh. Yes. The glide of her head on his heaving chest, the affirmation that attraction is never sedentary, that it either consumes you fully or doesn't affect you at all. 

Miss Dash turns 22!

It is mildly difficult to chronicle the life and times of a spirited girl, who knows of sadness but never speaks of any. And the fact that while most ramble about morals, rights and principles, she gets her point across, quietly. You'd think she never tries, but she does. She always does. Not to excel but to strive. She is a 'food fairy' to some, an empathetic soul who always has time to hear you out, even when she is dead tired or not particularly up for a conversation or both.

But Miss Dash, even on her bad hair and bad clothes day is super fun. What I like best about her is that she never imposes anything. Not even chicken drumsticks, which she is so fond of. Instead she'll settle for my terribly spicy Chicken 65, with a gallon of water at her disposal and also a cute red nose.

Her calmness and positiveness is a sight for sore eyes, especially in times when people tell you can't, she will not tell you to screw them and be as you are. She will brilliantly (read: cunningly) coax you to be better for yourself first, and if you like your version of you, then discouragement, if it were a Harry Potter character, would apparate into thin air. 

Sanchita is perennially excited about shoes, clothes and offers on online shopping websites but she is also aware about the mining conflict in Niamgiri Hills. She is a romantic, but is aware of the repercussions of falling out with someone. 

So on the birthday of someone I call home in Hyderabad, what could I possibly say?

At the risk of sounding cliched, I will ask you to remain as you are. Not everyone takes friendships or friends too seriously. But I am glad you do. I am glad that you are a whiff of fresh air and that you are awesome at reading minds and reaching out to people selflessly. 

I am overwhelmed that for someone's (READ MY) birthday you can manage to scout all book stores in town to get the last copy of a book she really wants to read. And that, you'd do for any friend of yours, whom you care for dutifully. 

And that's why there needs to be more Miss Dash's in the world, who can spoil you rotten and snap you back to your senses when life has almost got the better of you. That way, the world could be a better and a more habitable place, when love and affection greets you like cold nimbu paani at the end of a humid day. You could do without it, but you'd rather not.

Happy 22 Sanchita. Here's to you :)

You...

Love for me was never about forever after. It meant, living in the moment, enjoying each day as it comes and goes. But then you came along, with a sense of incorrigible despair and distance. Miles and miles of distance. But not loneliness...never loneliness. 

Being the quintessential romantic I was, I had pursued love at various times earlier. And as a firm endorser of serendipity (the movie and the ALSO the word), I fell on my face too. Things changed then, when you came along. 

I started smiling more often, not the silent preachy laughter, but the loud boisterous one. Mostly on you though, but you merely reciprocated with the worst jokes on the planet and it scared me, just a little, to imagine life without you. The bespectacled lawyer, who thought that being sarcastic was his birthright and sneering made the world just a better place to live in.

It irritates me, how you have an opinion about everything on the planet but when time deems fit, you are eerily quiet. And it amazes me, how in spite of our ideological differences (which are far too many by now) we always reconcile. Also the fact that every time, you look at me, I ease into a protective vacuum where criticism doesn't matter, only love does. 

That's why Mr Bhattacharya, you are my best friend, my confidante, who judges me right in front of my nose, who reprimands me often either for being to loud in public or at times for gulping too much alcohol. 

It makes me wonder, wasn't it so utterly serendipitous that I had bumped into you at a tuition class, six years earlier, as an awkward teenager,in her cobalt blue school uniform and two pony tails? After which we had to struggle to build a friendship which is so special and meaningful.

You taught me how to love, with respect, consideration and immense honesty which is so difficult to master. And although thinking about the future makes me a little nauseous with anxiety, in those rare times I get to walk beside you, I have the feeling that love mustn't be judged by it's longevity but in those fleeting moments which makes life worth living.

Happy Valentine's day.  

Of Pain and its side effects

It was just another day, when a friend told me, "Hey you haven't updated your blog for a long time." I sneered thinking, in this gigantic community of internet based readers and writers, how does it matter what I write?

But I told him, "I don't have the time."

He asked, "Why don't you make the time?"

For a couple of days I have been thinking, what could I write about. And a single word comes to my mind. Pain. Not the seething, unbearable physical pain. But the quiet, docile, heartbreaking pain, which stifles you from the inside. Why should such a pain exist? What are it's symptoms and what is a possible cure?

Last Sunday, a colleague of mine lost her dearest companion, her beautiful dog, Jacqueline. The news of it shattered me, because I love dogs and I couldn't imagine what I could have done, if I was in her place. Possibly shut myself down, without speaking to anyone for a month or as long as it took.

Around the same time, I was reprimanded at work, in the most ostensible fashion. I lost my weekly off and I scraped through the week somehow, with frequent visits to the washroom where the humiliation of a breakdown would thankfully escape the public eye.

The week was difficult for both of us in different ways. While I made a joke about it, bracing myself every now and then, my colleague recovered a little, each day. She didn't skip a single day at work. And her smile slowly grew bigger and brighter.

We were fighting different battles, both of us, but we were also battling the pain inside us. And we tried to tuck it in, to hide it, discreetly but indefintely. And at least for me, it didn't help. What I realised is that we get over a sense of affliction, only by embracing it first. Because our lives will forever remain punctuated by moments of discomfort and agony. But there will be times, which will dissolute the unpleasant moments and we'll somehow learn to move on.

And letting go is far more difficult than simply leading an unhappy life. It's harder because it needs great resilience, courage, and a silent hope and prayer that like a gush of wind, the pain will also ease away.

Ultimately it does. What lives on, is a childlike excitement, which is vulnerable but equally innocent. It allows us to love, and be loved, try new things, make mistakes, admit those mistakes and to move forth in life.

The pain is not less painful now, but somehow we are okay to let it consume us temporarily, before finally setting us free.