Coming home

My mom used to change the house a lot. When we were kids, my mom would regularly move the furniture around the rooms, trying to see if the house yielded more space than before. It was great fun for us kids. We got to push the chairs and tables around once in a couple of months, and felt very strong. At that time, dad was mostly out of town, posted in towns far from us. Given the travel involved, and the safety issues associated with it, dad would usually visit us once in a fortnight, sometimes a month.
Now that I think of it,  I wonder sometimes how it made dad feel. Coming home to a new home time and time again, at the same address and with the same people in it, but just different in little ways.

When I left home to go to college, we lived in a flat in Baroda, a city we had moved to 2 years ago. I still didn't have a hang of the city, but I was slowly getting a feel of the house. It had a basement that I studied in, a balcony out back with potted plants. And then I moved.
While I was in college, we bought a house in Baroda. The first time I saw it, it was a half constructed house, but the walls already felt of home, and it came associated with a permanent address, something I had never experienced in life.
In a few years the house was finished, we moved in, we made it home. All this while, I was in a bigger city, far far away. Every trip home I would find new additions. A new show piece in the drawing room, a microwave in the kitchen, new sheets that I hadn't seen being bought, and other things small and large that were part of the house.
Last trip, it was a new room. A room with cement walls, large windows, a fancy design. Wall color and furniture choices were the questions most discussed. This will be my room, and hence my choices are important. What should the shelf look like, will there be a low bed, or a study table, where's the best light.

What I couldn't voice , and probably will never be able to, is that I never want all this. I just want to come home and be the little me again, happy with what I painted in drawing class, feeling strong and invincible. That's what coming home should be about.

Summer days of Yore

Summers, especially if you are a kid in India, should hold so much of your memories as it does. Its the hottest time of the year, and for many parts of the country, its just basically the same as the rest [My brother in Chennai would agree]. And yet, these months that come after the winter chill has vanished, and before the monsoon decides to wash away this land, somehow, manages to hold each of our imagination. It plants itself in our memories forever, refusing to let go. And I guess this time, the heat has got to my head. I can't see any other reason why I would decide to write this post. Except this post that brought back old memories..

*** I think this is going to be a long post. Leave now, or grab your glass of chhass, sit back, and enjoy ***

Summers, according to me, can be classified in many ways, some of which I display below. 150 possible combinations I see.

Classifying Summer

Now, of course I mention these because I have lived through all these. And until I made this table, it never struck me how versatile life has been.

A new experience (একটি নতুন অভিজ্ঞতা)

STATUTORY WARNING: 
DON'T BOTHER READING, IF YOU CAN'T READ BENGALI.
DON'T USE GOOGLE TRANSLATE. THE RESULT IS TERRIBLE. 
JUST VISIT THE LINKS DIRECTLY. ENJOY THE MUSIC.

Didi

Last year, on Feb 7th, I got a call in the middle of the morning, that went on to change my life forever over the course of the next 7 days or so.

Munidi called me to ask me to come to Agartala, as Tinidi was admitted in the hospital, and was in a comatose state. I didn't know what to do, and booked travel tickets for 9th Feb. I had to go. After all, she was my sister.

Munidi and Tinidi are my elder sisters, and cousins as they may be, they are closest siblings I have. I have very fond memories of times spent together during my growing up years, planning our next day, next week, next year, and our far-in-the-future life. We were inseparable. Also, Munidi and me, the elder ones in our respective families, shared common traits - heavier builds, bookworms, etc etc, and Tinidi and Kutu, the younger ones, had similar features. We were a great gang. :-)

On the fateful morning of February the 8th, 2011, Munidi, in a broken voice, called me and told me it was all over, that I can cancel my tickets, and there was no need to travel.

The moment froze. I can't exactly remember what happened. But I found myself standing next to  Durgamcheruvu, a lake near office, with a colleague, trying to make some sense of what was happening. In a matter of maybe 30 seconds, I had experienced death, loss of a loved one. But I don't think I cried. I was shocked, sad, but somehow that wasn't equal to tears streaming down my cheeks.

Only after a couple of days, when I reached Agartala, my Agartala, that the truth slowly started dawning on me. Uncle and Aunt, shocked, sobbing, like little children, trying to cling on to memories for support. Munidi was suddenly all grown up, handling the house. It was a mad house. People dropped in at any time, sit, try to talk to uncle and aunt, who broke down each time someone walked in. After some time, I felt like locking the gate and not let anyone enter the house. I sometimes went around town, met friends of Tinidi and Munidi, who were helping with all arrangements. There was so much to do. Death didn't bring peace. It brought struggle, grief, and a pile of work. In the valentine season, in the season of love, we were out completing tasks deemed necessary by death.

There is one person on this planet who, I think, can tell me the exact numbers of seconds passed from THAT fateful moment. I am damn sure he kept count, at least for the first few months. Maybe even now. He is living his life, not the way he expected to, but he's going along. That's whats expected out of him, isn't it.

The last time I met Tinidi was in 2009, I was on a short trip to Agartala, and she introduced me to him. She was shy when she told me about him, and she wanted my approval. My approval. I was younger than her, by years. She had known the guy for about a decade, if not more. They had been 'going-out' for years. Everyone in the family knew about them. But still, she wanted me to approve. It was sweet, and tender. That's how much I meant to her, I guess. Well, I had her talk to my girlfriend when I was in a relationship. I guess we meant that much to each other.

We didn't talk often. There would be a phone call in months, an email, a greetings card sometimes. That's all. I wish I knew her better. I wish.