There are days when the messy, throbbing, heated reality called Life seems far-flung. And for the remaining days, I’m immuned to the fact, for the sake of some clichéd happiness.
*
I’m suddenly reminded of yesterdays. And a bleary-eyed memory of a very, very old me that was. Of tricolors in a black and white home where Life, in all its glory, whispered and wreathed the stories of nine human beings together into one.
Of plum cats with big eyes, that tip-toe through green windows and sleep on insurmountable brick-walls, five feet tall. Of scary butterflies that flutter scary wings and look menacing. And of invisible snakes, that snuggle in the Forbidden Footholds of the
boro paachil, for little girls with ponytails.
Mid-winter horrible badminton with Didi, in a red brick-road where clumsy green and brown grass smelt cowdung-y. Stolen bitter blackberries that tasted ummmm. Cork salvaging sessions from tree-tops, car-roofs, verandas, cornices and latrines of the Haunted House. And how my enormous red racket was jinxed. And Didi, a big damn liar with a naïve face. Post-game fights and lip-curled fits. Tears, and laughter. Big red wounds with bold faces and
Hirer Dadu to the rescue with
powder-oshudh.
And, how for days, the red and black ants would bemuse me, as they lugged their sugar-balls up and down and up and down.
Springs would smell of
shiuli and
paatishaapta. I’d sit in my
chhoto piri and wreathe big garlands of immaculate white
gachher phool. Ma would hold me tight in her arms down
Ekdalia, Singhi Park, Falguni Songho, nudging, tickling, and calling me
Puchai, Puchi and
Katui. And I’d say with grim gravity and a very, very serious face, ‘
Puchai keu bole? Ami na school-e bhorti hoechhi?’
Monsoons were all row-row-down-the-boat to school with
Baba, and luchi
aloordom aar khichuri. And how delightful it was to surprise
Gugu frombehind all when she was busy with the
kadai in her little empire with yellow walls. She’d scream and I’d run.
And when
Baby Bon would call for lunch, I’d hide behind the door and giggle. Have
daal-bhaat and vanish before
machher jhol. Hear her shout
‘bhari oshobhho’.
Nights would smell of
Ma and
Thakumar Jhuli. And
shonarkathiruporkathipokhhiraajerghora take my breath away. I’d look shattered whenever the monster locked the princess in, or
Duorani was laughed at, or
rajputro couldn’t find his way, and wait with clenched fists for the climax.
Nursery two in Lycee with S. Tussles with Chirosree-Madhusree because they were twins, interchanged names and were horrible in Arithmetic. Half eaten biscuits and Farini cakes. And
rannabati in classrooms. And chalk-fights. And
teacher-teacher khela where the they’d fail miserably and
Chaiti-Shob-Jaane, the genius of the class come second to Shreya Banerjee-and-Rajyashree Sen. Life felt saccharine sweet.
School shift in three and hysteric phonecalls and conspiracies. Food strikes at respective homes followed by some more phonecalls.
Uncle had left by then. I left her when she needed me the most.
New school. New uniform and friends and faces. And I’m reminded of staircases that go up and staircases that go down. How some sashay, wind, twist and turn. Some trick to unearth you in dangerous places like staff rooms. Or, how exceptionally snazzy a loo can be, where the tap never betrays and the toilets have interesting boundary-walls.
D, the mafia of Section H and I, made the best terrorists ever. (She was feared for her fists and designation (monitor) and loved equally for Charm).
Thrashing helpless guys and hearing them complain. Stealing mithai and plumcakes from random Tiffin boxes. Giggles, and whispers. Enid Blyton the Great and Rana Sir’s canes. Frantic phone calls before exams. Earthquakes at respective homes regarding phone bills and then more faces joined.
Hangovers and deep talks and Chinese Whisper. Birthday parties and Holi with chocolate cakes. Word games during History classes and animated conversations about sex. Ranjabati Aunty and adulterated gossips ‘bout Sh. First crushes, F.R.I.E.N.D.S, Harry Potter. And which character was more like S and which looked like U. And how the guys would thrash Sweet Valley Jr. High and D and I defend it.
First menstrual cramps in school.
Some futile attempts of basketball.
Dhosa episodes. Fights and tears and hugs.
And D and I would sit in satisfied silence, with love-craving eyes look into the universe and spin beautiful castles of dreams.
Love, if there is anything called one, couldn’t have found a better place to exist.
*
How people change.
And you are left with albums of yellowing pages and the musty smell of rusted days. Like, some Great Banyan Tree which has memories of summers and winters swaying in its boughs.
So, the little red entrance gate’s gone, replaced with a big blue one and a big brick road made where there was a little timid garden of brown mud. A gray Maruti 800 accommodated royally with a blue roof over. Rooms renovated and no plum cats entertained.
They are
chased, instead, with thick yellow wood sticks.
Hirer Dadu left and
Gugu’s bent with age.
And,
Didi’s been too busy for seven years to play badminton.
The red brick-road’s been carefully buried under pitch where the perfect green grasses do not smell cowdung-y.
Neither does Love happen anymore, having fallen in and out of it twice for the last three years. And when Heartbreak happened, there wasn’t any shoulder to cry on. Or perhaps there were, a few phone numbers away, jotted in deliberately forgotten niches of Mind, when Loneliness hung as a third person between
friends forever.
(I’m sorry I can’t fall in love again for a very long time, I’m sorry, for the few people I’ve hurt hence.)
It is a vehemently arrogant Time that only moves forward.
And, what a volatile place to live in, this world.
Before you know, nineteen happy years are gone. So quietly, so sweetly, so bitterly.
Labels: thoughts
