Sands of Time

On some days, I wish science was as advanced as much as it is hyped. I wish there was a mental typewriter that could sequentially blog all that's steamed up within and auto format it into the appropriate text color, bold, italics and underlines reading my mood for the day. But then, welcome back to reality, for it's only 2015. But I know my idea is well taken and I won't be given patent for such wonderful food for innovation to the kids in centuries to come.

The plain logic as to why I crib this morning for a Doraemon Gadget, is because, I am tired to think and type. And vice versa.

The reason why I named this post so conventionally, is because of life's cliches gifted by my greying hairs, as the grains are slipping into the jar beneath almost kissing the 30th mark. So before it's 30days 1 millisecond on my age counter, these are some twisted truths and beautiful lies I have picked up from my otherwise uneventful life lately :


2. Favours - An investment.
3. Friends - The true marriage of souls.
4. Dreams - For women, forbidden. For men, wet.
5. Colours - Misnomer for absence of the other six wavelengths.
6. Infidelity - Ridiculously overhyped.
7. Rains - A sibling.
8. Bottles - Bombay Sapphire.
9. Honesty - Makes good short stories.
10. Bills - Reality

1. Love - The biggest abuse.

Post title : Blog Title

My daughter asked me why had I named my blog, Sree. I thought this should've been my second post. I promise to keep this one short and precise.

This blog is my second born. The man frequently made advances to make her happen, while I denied being in the mood for it. And then one night, the time was ripe.

Okay, bad metaphor; but she was indeed created with a lot of love. It was during yet another bout of grey in my life, when she came, acted like a sponge and soaked in those free gaps of time. She contains all of me - my childhood, my dreams, my incessant metamorphosis of thoughts. Sree is like that old trinket box; I can pour her contents all atop my bed and leisurely search for the perfect pair of earrings for the day.

"Sree" refers to being powerfully beautiful. Used in several ways, this term happens to strike a chord every time she crosses my path. Being in a Bengali household, we often witness a pretty work of art called the "Sree", created with dough kneaded out of flour and coloured powder and modeled into shapes out of sheer creativity. It is then placed upon a plate and soaked in mustard oil. It forms a mandatory part of wedding, thread ceremonies and certain pujos. I do not have a picture of the Sree that Maa had made for Jagaddhatri Pujo last November, hence a watermarked internet photo for reference :

I named my first one Sree in the mind, when I felt the immense power she was inducing within me the moment I held her in my arms, famished and sweated out after 9 hours of labour. She was a pretty little one, patiently carved and added a lot of colour to the blue and grey labour room. Later, it was modified by her father into something longer with Sree in it; so the second time, I held on to the zeal and used the name to connect at a deeper level.

Sree is here to remind, not all greys are sad. The clouds, Maa's hair and our faithful 13 year old Santro Xing are some of the most powerful commitments I witness through grey. Life will showcase a grey wardrobe only to test how one can pair it with the right colour, before she walks the ramp. Aren't we "rangmanch ki kath-putliyan" (wooden dolls upon a stage) after all?

I know traditionally it should be Shree, as per the Devanagari spelling of the Sanskrit word. But I preferred to keep the homely, earthen touch to the pronunciation to keep the lines flowing, just like over tea mugs on a rainy afternoon.

Also, Sree evokes the most inspirational pair of eyes. A photo which connects me to the word and the mother power behind it :

P.S : Mistake me not for a religious person. I visit temples and dargas and churches out of cultural curiosity, appreciation for architecture or tourism itineraries. I read the Gita, to find solace in uncanny similarities to some downhill drive at work or a sour discussion at the dining table. I define religion by sensational, high-giving,  take-a-bow picks like Fire & Ice pizzas, Dhakai sarees, single malt scotch, F.R.I.E.N.D.S, terracotta, kajal and Kajol-SRK films.
Sree is the religion I found for myself.



 

Crest and trough

....Because, life travels in sine waves. On a Monday after a Sunday, I came up with a post which defines, how. Snapshots of such uphills and downhills from real life incidents :

1. Walking, with something heavy on the mind and the eyes glued to the pavement. Suddenly, the daylight changes color. A gust of dust whirls around, the light changes from sun-like to mellow orange. A smile, the first time during the day and looking up in anticipation of rain.

Discovery of walking beneath a yellow tarpaulin of a building under renovation.

2. "Missed call. 3 PM sharp. Cordless-tar pashe thakish." (Stay beside the cordless phone)
    "Maa ghumole tobe to! Kintu kikore bujhbo tumi?" (Only if mum's asleep! But how do I know it's you?)
    "Duu baar duu to ring kore kete debo. Third time tulish." (I shall ring twice and disconnect the call. Receive the third time).
.
.
.
.
.
3.02 PM by the wall clock.
Bleep-bleep. Bleep-bleep. Silence.
 *Lub-dub-lub-dub*

Bleep-bleep. Bleep-bleep. Silence.
*Lub-dub-lub-dub*

Bleep-ble...
 "Bawlo, jaan."(Yes, my love.) (*butterflies*)
"Kay bolchhen? Eta ki 248****2?" (Who is this? Is this 248****2?)
"Errmm..hyan...." (Well...yes...)
"Line chalu achhe didi? Testing cholchhe..." (Is your line working fine, miss? The testing is on....)
"......."
"Hya-low?" (Hello?)
"Hyan ok..." (Yes, OK)
--Sharp Click-- (*butterflies-turn-cocoons*)

3. Michael makes excellent Chinese. His garlic chicken is to die for. Many such deaths had been died. And yet another day, the office dabba (packed lunch) was returned untouched, such was the beckoning.
12.30PM. Michael is seen setting up his stall. In a second, Camac Street evaporates and Michael is the sole being in the eye of the beholder.
But the stall looks somewhat different. Same utensils, same stack of paper-boxes, same umbrella, same crowd. Yet different.
"Dada..ekta fried...." (Bro, one fried..)
"Madam aaj shudhu momo aar mixed veg" (Madam, only momo and mixed vegetables are available for today) (*apologetic smile*)
" ? "
"Chheletar jawr, madam" (The boy has fever)

(*bulb lights up*)
 Missing : The black wok atop the stove.
And the boy, who was never noticed before.

4. He was waiting at the station for the home-bound train, when it was declared cancelled. The downpour intensified, the inquiry room shutters were down, internet was jammed.
He called her. She was heartbroken, as their last movie before the wedding, was off.
Next day.
The last Friday before her wedding break. She was sending out some last pending emails, when his number flashed across the screen. Heavily, she asked him what would he cook for lunch, stranded in a flood-struck area. How she wished, she could boil some rice, potatoes and eggs for him.
"Do something. Chhata achhe?" (Do you have an umbrella?)
He could feel her lips curving into a smile, and then a grin on the other side of silence.
"Nichey. Taratari." (Downstairs. Fast.)

She missed her movie. Instead, she got one.





****************************************************************************

Swelter

It's been hot in Calcutta lately. Yes, sultry too. Very uncomfortable, undoubtedly. Heat waves are making news, air-conditioner sellers are making a fortune, as incessantly as mothers are making neembu-paani (sweet lime water) or doi-er ghole (sour curd sherbat) all day long. It shamelessly creates an irony to be sitting in an air conditioned room and following the heat wave on LED screen, but I admit to have some very comforting memories of my life associated with the heat, without the AC having played a role in it.

Years ago, we lived in Howrah where I spent my entire childhood and the stepping hues of adolescence. We had a three storied house with a dark, cold ground floor of forbidden old rooms (with giant locks and giant spiders), a lighter, cool first floor with a few sofas, divans and beds, a bright, hot second floor with the bedrooms, the kitchen, the dining space and a scorching terrace. The sunshine index and "feels like"-temperature I mentioned are from mental data collected at around 12 noon of those days. The second floor would turn uninhabitable in the heat post 11 in the morning, and I remember Maa forcing us downstairs after our daily bath. Lunch in steel utensils would be brought down and we all would eat the spread laid out on the floor, sitting atop jute mats. The break from the monotony of dining table would kindle a picnic-like bout of glee. Silly, maybe, but isn't happiness sometimes about sweet nothings also?
Years later at our Tollygunje flat, now on summer afternoons, very conveniently we settle with full plates onto the bedroom floors with the AC on. It's become more of a necessary habit, but has no special charm to it. The comfort of the old, damp walls were somewhere lost in transit.

Custard has always been a major topic of debate in the family. Not the flavor, but mainly the texture is what calls for a war at dessert-time. Some like it free-flowing, some like it the souffle way, some team it with seasonal fruits, some prefer it with jelly crystals and raisins. I remember summers waving adieu to the evening Bournvitas and welcoming pink custards in the fridge instead. Maa always disapproved of freezing the flavor to death,while I loved how the icy crystals were sharply cut out from the aluminum bowl, heavenly melting away into the mouth. There was a thrill of discovering the solidly frozen pink custard in the freezer at 4 PM after the nap, before we went out to play or sat down with biology lab practical drawings.

Summers had nothing good to offer at the dinner table except for mangoes. Sliced, diced, chilled mangoes and plenty of them. Maa made this fish curry of longitudinally cut potatoes and raw bananas, flavored with black cumin seeds. Sounds ordinary. What made this extraordinary to a fish-neutral soul like me, was when it got teamed with kagji-lebu. I am not aware of the English name for it, hence the picture borrowed from the internet :

 With a pinch of salt and a fresh green chilli, slices of this lime set the perfect mood for an afternoon lunch.
My in-laws home  has a different application of the same taste for a summer morning breakfast. Paanta bhaat (cooked rice soaked overnight in water, preferably in an earthen pot), fried potatoes and onions, a pinch of salt and leaves of the same lime plant, emitting a very fresh citrus flavor upon crushing with the hand.
My rooftop garden has a lime shrub of similar species. Whenever I am taking a stroll, I pick out a few older leaves and rub the aroma into my palms. The best mood booster ever.


Summers would call for the street vendors' incessant traversing around the meandering lanes of our neighborhood, the entire afternoon long. Stick ice-creams of local make with outrageous colors in green and blue, lime water, baraf ka gola-s and jal-jeera, and topping the list, the para phuchka fellow, who set up his stall at the turn of our lane at 3 PM and wandered away to the main road at sundown. My heart would yearn for those forbidden pleasures and under Maa's strict control, I would crib and squirm and turn green at the familiar creak of a neighbor's window or a known voice asking for a stop by. Typically, our house would remain silent and un-budged at that time, oblivious to the thun-thun, clunk-clunk Morse-code calls of the vendors. Some  would be sleeping, while some waited for the sleep to get deeper. My paternal aunt has always been an adventurous woman with very similar indulgences as that of mine. On popular demand by the older kids of house and the other aunts around, she would stealthily collect a tin can, some tiffin boxes and tiptoe out in the scorching sun, asking one of us to guard the door behind her, because ringing the doorbell would be a no-no. Sweating in anticipation and the sweltering heat, a mere ten minutes behind the main door would seem like the never-ending, nail-biting wait behind enemy lines, lest the elder lady of the house discovered an empty bed and two pairs of slippers missing from the rack! After the parcel was smuggled inside, we would swarm around the loot, turn up the fan by a notch and peacefully indulge, amidst suppressed chuckles, the sweat evaporating from the skin and the heavenly tamarind water trickling right into the soul! Such delightful was the feeling, I could almost put it at par with Kaalboishakhi (nor-westers of Bengal).


The terrace garden was the most fragrant at this time of the year, the most widespread one being the bael phool. Once again the internet photo, this time for me, since it gives me an enormous high and almost makes me feel like I am smelling it right now :

As we watered our plants late in the afternoon, the rustic smell of the parched earth as it drank in gulps, laden with the haunting smell of this flower, was heavenly. This tiny powerful beauty forms an indispensable part of summer weddings, lovingly wrapped around ornate juras, the fragrance finding its way above the dominance of fish fries and pulao.

Flowers become obsolete too. We had one such, the korobi, which had a subtle charm to it just like its name. They flourished in dozens on the south east corner of the parapet wall, waving a warm welcome to the home bound souls, as they danced in the evening breeze. Then we left home. And they left us too. They took a backseat amidst lilies and orchids and gerberas. Years later, memories were unearthed this summer, as I spotted them growing in our office compound. And I instantly clicked to capture them for life.

Yet another summer affection - watermelons. The ones we had then were redder. Rather than neatly diced chilled cubes on a plate, the fun was in eating out of rough chunks and carving out the faintest pink hint before the inedible hard crust was met. And may be I am the only one, who thought thinks that the fruit smells of rain.
I do not know why suddenly I remember the flavor of lemon squash at the tip of my tongue, right this second. Druk and Kissan were patent brands, adequately stocked for guests. We kids were normally of neembu-paani eligibility, but at times we managed a treat of bottled exotica out of pleasing the mothers with a neat homework or an uninterrupted hour with the news daily. And if they came in glass tumblers, with a cube of ice thrown in, the day was mentally heart-marked as the most memorable day of summer vacation.

 I doubt whether anyone remembers a brand of pickle, called the Army-Navy. Typically bought in the summer months, a spoonful from this jar was the bribe offered against a promise of two full rotis with the much detested pumpkin curry at dinnertime. Never have I tasted a similar mango pickle ever again. It dates back to such obsolescence, that even three pages of Google images failed to search something out for me.

  When evenings were mundane with maths practice, the men of the house retiring in serially and we were supposed to look organized, quiet and concentrated, sudden load-sheddings broke the monotony and came to the rescue. Power cuts led to lighting of tubular lanterns for the study table and hurricanes for the kitchen and stairways. They would be kept handy since this was a repititive phenomenon in those days. Amidst that queer addictive odour of kerosene and soot, I remember Maa fanning us with hand-fans as we studied for a test or wrote our assignments for the next day.
If homework was light, study time would quickly evaporate and we would race to the terrace for that extra hour of cross-terrace gossip, identifying constellations and sighing at lighted windows from the more privileged homes with inverters or little Honda generators.
The elders would follow us too with their evening tea and murir bati (bowl of puffed rice, mixed with mustard oil, groundnuts, chopped onions and green chillies -  a typical snack of Bengal) and the discomfort of humidity and mosquitoes would soon be masked by the small family reunion of very basic conversations such as a dead telephone line, a dislocated TV antenna, some tap seeking urgent plumbing or the choice of fish for the upcoming Sunday lunch.

The best part of the blackout was the resumption of power. Silently the lights blinked and the fans rotated, but the surge of cheer that followed it was none less that the fall of Pakistan's last wicket or India's winning sixer at the 298th ball. Thrilling all the more, if it was at 7.55PM on a Wednesday, just in time for the week's most awaited silver screen delight, Chitrahaar. I remember us running downstairs to reserve the best place with the best view of the screen and closest to the table fan for that extra pleasure factor.

And then there are many more memories in the heat. It's all gushing in, so I'll randomly pick a few and board-pin them :
1. Our first car, the white, Maruti 800 was welcomed home on a hot March afternoon. It was never criticized for being a non-AC car on dusty, hot Kolkata roads for the next 7 years it stayed with us.
2. Years ago, a friend, who played the sarod to perfection, played it best in the chilekotha-r ghor (mezzanine rooftop room). While the room turned into a furnace beneath the tin roof, the music were like raindrops creating gentle ripples in the stillness of the quiet afternoon household. We never complained of the heat. And never changed the venue.
3. It was easier staying awake on summer afternoons to solve maths test papers.
4. Summer gave us the freedom of multiple baths. One before bedtime, one in the evening. It was considered great luxury to be freshly smelling of Lux or Rexona at odd hours of the day.
5. Road side lime water, green coconut water and all sorts of jaundice-causing water (It's only a myth, guys!.Or else I would've been dead by now!) on an unlimited spree. We always had our mental excuses ready : blame it on the malfunctioning water cooler at college; and Maa says no to bottled colas. So....
6. Phuchkas. Countless. We've had them at 12 noon and 10PM. Because they say spices and sour are good busters of heatstroke.
7. Kaalboishakhi. Each has a different story at different turn of ages.

Summer is like that hostel warden we were terrified of, yet silently admired.  It teaches one to endure beyond capacity. It interferes. It gifts the relieving gust of monsoon at the end of its lesson, sometimes rebukes to redness and tears. It enters just as we were in spring's spirit without a care in the world and binds us indoors. It doesn't allow sleeping late.  It arrives, it leaves, it is cursed, it is missed.

We've had summers without the AC, the suntan and the shades, as they call it. And we've had fun too. Share your summer story and let's see is we can wake up tomorrow with a hint of calm before stepping into the sun.

Trivia :  Eau de cologne drops in water : Luxury
Sour curd, umbrella, light clothes, sunblock : Necessary.
An old friend with an old house of old damp walls and wooden windows that can shut out the sun : Mandatory.

"Daze" of the Week

I believe I might just have reached that level of stoicism, where I define (and predefine) days by their color and texture and not moaning and shrieking with the calender and the marker in hand. Not all Fridays are thank-able, neither are all Mondays black. Sundays are a big, BIG misnomer at times and a Wednesday out of nowhere might give you the perfect calm, almost next to that of a Thai foot massage. I have come to accept that with time and motherhood and although I let my tremors (and temper) out, I try to conceal the aftershocks locked within.


Moral of the story : No more days. And no more presumptions. Let them be colors, when there is already a predefined spectrum with undefined boundaries of the exact seven numbers to make my post easier.

1. Yellow day : Any day, I wake up to a beautiful grey, cloudy sky, will be named so.

I have a few good friends who define my heartache  for rain, lovemaking and rain-&-lovemaking as a simple  biological mating instinct of frogs. Frogs! Obnoxious, I know, yet I stick to the stand that clouds are the world's best aphrodisiac. The puff of a short glance stolen from the office window or the enormous high when I feel them against my bosom atop my terrace, the boisterous, nimbus beauties steal the heart away. I wouldn't say I totally ignore the light, white autumn clouds or the cotton spread outside an airplane window, but the robust rainclouds always remain a point ahead. The exact way you (doubly) wish on a "vegetarian" day eat-out that the Paneer butter masala was a Chicken one.
Yellow days are the harmless, good mood days of a week, when you don't mind getting into the kitchen to cook up a fiery chicken at 9 PM or could almost pass a bad argument for an inevitable pothole of the weekly horoscope. Yes, it is that strongly a happy one.

2. Blue day :  I call upon this color not with  "blues" of life in literal sense, but with the mundane-ness of the shade. I subconsciously associate it with the more serious things in life such as school-and-tests, work-and-site, dictionaries-and-quizzes, airports-and-no-book and PMS-and a rain drenched me.

P.S : Yes Mondays, but not all of them. Not the ones when I can stay back home and (sick) in bed. Sometimes Sundays too.

3. Orange day : These are days are like unexpected white lilies delivered at the doorstep. Or, let's be more realistic, Flipkart parcels without COD. The maid arrives on time, the kid is less fussy about school, the mind works out a mental combination of what-to-wear. The remnants of sleep have left earlier than the snooze button, the hair gets shampooed and stays in place, the pressure cooker has boiled the chana-s to just the right texture, all within the same two hour window, that gives a pat-on-the-shoulder high. On this day, one wouldn't mind taking a Taxi to work or pamper the self with a salon appointment or two flavors of scoops at the same time. These days are like margharitas, they come with a wide circumference of indulgences.

Warning : They also come with narrow stems underneath and need to be delicately balanced. So, balance.

4. Green day : I detest the color most of the times. No, I love plants, mangoes and parrots. But days are not divine, so I shall excuse the mortal days from this unfair comparison. Otherwise, this color can be given a miss.
P.S : If I ever witness doomsday, I shall write more in this space.

5. Red day : A red day is any day that makes you hot on the grill, generously applies some chillies and makes sure those eyes of yours water like pepper sprayed! These are highly unpredictable, highly erratic days, they'll make one run from pillar to post searching, arranging, finishing, yet spilling, spoiling and soiling over and over again. It's like a finishing line that moves away with each step, missing three buses on the same route in a row, a mirage drying up at the halt of a thirsty traveler.

The cure :
(A) Some rocks and your poison. No, I do not mean suicide. If you do not follow what I mean, let's just quietly go to Plan B.

(B)  Sleep. Not after the day is somewhat wrapped, but the minute you get a bed before you. Following (A) or not, this is the sure thing. If need be, fake illness and go under those sheets for a couple of hours. Set the alarm , if you must. And shut out the noise, the light and the conscience.

6.  Violet day : A very busy day, but sorted, fruitful, packed and complete. It's bold, solid and is a non-complaining, peaceful coexistence of several hues, beautifully smoothed out. A violet day ideally should feel like reaching the finishing line and see Maa standing with a crusher of lemonade; you suddenly feel like running up to her, a notch faster. I love the fact that violet perfectly blends with her fellow-mates forming mauve, lavender, purple and the like. It's a versatile day that makes unexpected discoveries out of every effort made. And it goes appreciated, even envied upon, but never ignored.

Tips : Violet days are the rarest of all. These days will leave you neither happy, nor sad and far from being judgmental. It'll leave you content and confident. Therefore, it would be a decision as wise as a Magi's,  to use it to the fullest for some self reward.
i. Eat a simple good dinner, but spare yourself the pains of preparing it; so just re-heat, fry or order, okay?
ii. Read yourself a light book to bed. I recently read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory on one of such days.
iii. Buy some flowers or light the fancy scented candles your BF gave you three birthdays ago. Pocket friendly indulgence.
iv. As for parents, this is an ideal day to talk to children. I do not mean taxing your grey cells further and dig up algebra at the dinner table. Plain, talk. Just ask about school, or swimming class or the new song learnt. With satisfaction at the backseat, you are likely to cruise smoothly.
v. As for mothers, sing to you child. As for non-mothers, sing to any baby in the house, to sleep.

7. Friday : A day that starts with the anticipation of longer sleep the following morning. I used the color that popped into my mind. I leave you to choose yours.

This is usually any day before a holiday, when you are filled with an ant's energy to complete all on your platter, so that you can sleep late or party into oblivion and BBM can safely remain unanswered to corporate and personal pings. Friday is a feeling, not a definition. So I'll keep this para short and let everyone roll the scotch their own sweet ways!

P.S : All Saturdays. Fridays, for some. Even Thursdays, for the happier souls. Sundays, rarely. For the exact unexpected ones, look up the calender.

It's been a Friday today for me. Happy weekend to all. And find newer hues if you can!
Cheers :)

Bed. Time. Stories.

**Disclaimer # This is not a bed buying guide.It's much less informative than that.

**Disclaimer 2# Also, this is not about putting a child to bed. However, parts of it suggest what may follow that ;)

We all have a favorite bed. Sadly, I am not talking of those who are deprived from the queen-sized privilege of choosing between three beds at a time from the same house, but settle for the "rent contract"ual wrought iron cot or the self-owned portable mattress while sharing a flat with mate(s). I am talking of that phase when you live(d) in a home with more than 2 rooms, each having a bed with free access.

The bed is more that four wooden stands, a mattress and a colorful spread. It is a space in itself, a whole new world, cocooned within a room. I call the bed a beacon atop the rocks of life, after a rough, stormy day. Many modern households have purposeful rooms with fine upholstery and swanky work-stations, but the bed is what the heart craves! 9' x 7' of pure pleasure where you can roll, nap, laze with friends or salted groundnuts, study, read, fondle a pet, eat Maggi, spread out piles of documents or fistful of unsorted earrings and search for the one in question till the end of time.

Every bed has story. And a purpose. Some are ornate heirlooms from five generations ago. Some are storehouses of winter stock and utensils. Beds are priceless for their undeniable contribution towards a comfortable sleep. And sleeping. And what makes them the most missed asset (moreover, post lunch) is their rareness of availability in our rat racing lives. A bed is the owner's canvas ; you walk into a bedroom and the bedspread will tell you lots about its artist. In the bygone era, the patience, sense of geometry and eyesight of the new bride would be judged by how symmetrically her bed cover had been spread out.

 There is a significant liking towards each bed in the house for very different reasons. Personally, I am a wee bit partial towards the bed in my room for very obvious reasons. It has given me some of the best and most of the significant experiences of my life (now that's a different post altogether!). It was a shy (read : quiet), non-complaining brown beauty when it arrived in the house seven years back, three days prior to my arrival here. Since then it has lured, cured and endured a lot of me. A lot of 'us', too. It had undergone minor surgeries with a drawer roller stuck or a hinge gone stubborn, but it stands just as solid as the relationships it gave birth to.

And then there is the adda bed, I bet there is at least one in every house. Perfect when the gang shows up.This is preferably low, simple, sturdy and easy to access. It allows hours of uninterrupted chatter, even punctuated by naps at times. This is a secular bed with equal treatment to the welcoming of tea mugs, Bourbon biscuits or Uncle Chips, as for colas, Rum-n-colas, Dunhills and Davidoffs. I write this from experience. And plans.

Along side favorites, there is one forbidden bed too. Not in the literal sense, but this one is more of a spare bed, seldom used and almost always ignored. Tightly smoothed out, it's non-creased, non-used texture being formal and sometimes non-inviting, doesn't invoke too much. This is more like the reserved berth for wedding guests, unplanned bad-weather stop-overs, relatives visiting. While not slept upon, this usually serves as a stand for stacking light blankets, extra pillows and cushions, washed un-ironed clothes, towels kept handy.
Also at times, this is the protest room where the angry half may take refuge after a hot argument. And maybe hotter a make-up story by the angrier half follows afterwards?! ;)

Some beds reek of authority and demand the hat-removing respect, even if unoccupied. One wouldn't dare trespass on this one, even if no one's looking! Typically the grandparents' bed with firm black posts and elaborate headstands, light / white sheet and fat pillows in embroidered cases, these kind of beds involuntarily cause the feet to rub against each other before mounting it. Most of the times, they emit pheromones slightly laden with betel or tobacco leaves, setting the perfect calm to fall asleep on a hot summer afternoon.


As kids, we were always pulled out of bed by 7 AM on the blissful days of  summer vacation, Christmas break, post-Pujo mornings and Sundays. Maa would dust the sheets, spread out a brighter, coarser cover, open the windows, invite the sun and say, " Let the bed breathe." An unbelievably ridiculous personification. While we squirmed in protest for an additional few minutes of slumber,  this line sprinkled an amount of guilt, that instantly shot us out of bed.
I confess, I use the same words on my Sundays for my bed. Weird habits, like genes, get passed on with time as well.

Bibaho Boishakh

I have always criticized my mother for having got married in the sultry, uncomfortable month of Boishakh. One of the lesser important reasons why I chose Ashaadh (the monsoon) to show my rebellion and disapproval.

I remember leafing through my mother's huge, red, wedding album when I was a child. I remember it all the more because (A) handling it was always allowed under very tight supervision and (B) that's precisely how I learnt to carefully turn the pages of a book by their corners without forming a crack. Those were the 20th century days of black chart-paper like fragile album pages with golden or silver triangles for bearing the corners of Kodak moments.

By the time I was bordering teenage, my sister and I self attested our respective "Miss Know-it-all" certificates, given that we knew all my theorems and all her spellings, knew the newest BSB songs in spite of NOT having cable TV, and could sing My Heart Will Go On by heart. We instantly searched out some humor out of the grave old red book : the outrageous flowers in the maidens' hair, the totally overdone eyes and the Benaroshi-s, the modest wedding décor sometimes giving into a peeping "gamchha" from an open window or an array of unarranged utensils from the corner of a half closed door. Yes, those were the days when weddings mostly took place at the very own home of the bride.

And then the predictable happened. The much-made-fun-of "Behenji" stole the heart of "swanky flamboyance". The more we made fun of the photos, we I actually started stealthily loving the concept of it. Genes, maybe, you see.

It has been a (unwritten and coincidental) tradition from my maternal side, that the daughters get married in white/off-white and red Benarasis. Maa did, so did my Didibhai (maternal grand mother). And at 17, when life and tuition classes were opening up a panorama of prospective grooms, I decided I would too.

 I stuck to my promise for the next five years. After much eyebrow raising by the salesmen on a "white&red wedding saree" for not the mother of the bride but the bride, Mrs. Swarnali Kanjilal personally helped me pick a suitably gorgeous trousseau for my D-Day.

My mother was "decorated" by an aunt of hers. In those days, weddings at home called for some Ranga-mashi's designer khnopa-s (bun) and or a Phool-pishi's drawing of the forehead chandan, alongside the flash of bouty-s and Baluchori-s. It is the only colored photograph of hers I have seen where she's wearing red lipstick. Red. The only one. Maybe that's why it remains embedded within, an inch deeper than Shah Rukh Khan's "Palatt.".

One thing I "crushed on" from the album was their phoolshojjya décor. I hear it was ordered from some florist at Hogg Market. It was a rich jasmine upholstery with dollops of red rose buds, while curtains of tuberoses lined the room . But the show stealer stands out with the floor. They had created a marvelous spread of assorted flower petals, kucho-phool as we call it. Predominantly it was fuschia, white and orange dopaati, whose English name I am unaware of, hence the internet photograph for a sketchy reference :



Dopaati (Courtsey : Internet)

I promise putting up some pictures, if the lady allows me to do so. Only the room décor part. (I promise to spare ourselves the cameraman-cum-friend directed onscreen, icebreaker mush!)

(P.S : I explained a similar décor for my own. I shared snaps with the man in charge. Efforts were made, but then the result was nowhere close. I was a wee bit disappointed, but I'm happy that some things are rare. That's what makes them special.)

The ever-hungry soul I am, we often concentrated on the tit-bits of details on unfinished plates of our parents, on the post-wedding photos. I could figure out the Radhabollobhi, aaloor domm, chholar daal on Maa's platter. Baba had a couple of perfectly fat, rectangular fish fries (Not to be confused with the tapering shape of Beckti Fry of Peter Cat) and maachher kalia, with the sinful orange gravy seeping down the hill of pulao. I remember the amount of pitiful drama we created for having missed this biyer khawa! And Maa meekly had to compensate with pulao-mangsho on the upcoming Sunday, with absolutely no fault of hers!

I have called her at least thrice this morning. It was about picking up my daughter from school, a second one about altering of a blouse cuff gone long (and wrong) and lastly, a lifesaving opinion on the phoron we Ghoti-s put in our shukto.

 And then I wished her on the fourth one. My husband is already a point ahead with some white lilies at her doorstep. I plan to buy her a book. And a plant. Preferably, dopaati. Of all the things I miss about our old Howrah home, this terrace garden beauty almost tops the list.

My parents' 31st wedding anniversary it is. How at times I thank them for getting married to each other!

 

The journey so far...

I joined Blogger in 2009. And then I got pregnant.

Yes. You read that right. I was aimlessly wading through unexplainable mood swings of an unknown first trimester when I decided to start up a Blog. The steering was jammed, the accelerator just wouldn't work, the brakes failed and I decided to jump out of the seat. I was right.

but then, how can you dare to push-start a car on a desolate road, without a co-passenger at the wheel?
The realization dawned upon with a flicker of an idea to write. Write to myself. About myself.

I have been an ardent lover of the fountain pen and lined writing pads. I remember keeping some ink reserved for my mid-teen love letters, while I chose the pocket money-friendly "Gel" ones for school exercise books.

I started with some complaining articles. Most of them were poetic verses, xrayed to reveal my "stressed", "depressed" soul. I had zero followers, zero comments and was the sole reader of my own emotions.

And then the budding cotyledons within me started spreading out her palms, slowly lifting me up to the sunshine and the rain. A wave of regulations, appointments, ceremonies and tests kept me occupied. The writing slowed down. The flow of words didn't. I weaved them inside my head, sometimes on paper, sometimes on the shoulder of the man who had just taken his transfer of job to my city to be with his "girls" (Little did we know then). The baby arrived amidst a lot of happy bustle amidst my Bengali household and blogging packed its bags and left for oblivion.

I revisited my blog again in 2011. The poor place was unearthed from cobwebs. I had mixed feelings. It gave me the remnants of Miss Havisham's untouched, decayed wedding cake in form of unfinished drafts of a boisterous whiff. It also gave me the childlike glee of finding a moth eaten cardboard box of collected marbles. I tried to arrange some of it.  I couldn't. I left, silently.

Many years passed. Many things happened. Some did not. A few hairs turned grey and I, twenty nine.

This afternoon, I checked my balance and found plenty of it. Plenty enough to revive something long forgotten. So, I cashed out some time, changed the canvas, brought some colours, cleaned the easel and decided to start.

I re-named my blog. And I re-innovated it.