I see pictures of Ma on her wedding day – five days short of fifteen – the epitome of a shy, beautiful bride - a child bride. The youngest of nine siblings, the darling of her oldest brother, she was promised in marriage in a conversation between strangers bathing on the ghats in Benares. Atleast she was spared the ignominy of being examined by many before she married one. She raced on a bicycle down Seminary Hill in Nagpur and wore frocks till days before she was married, she grew taller atleast as tall as her husband after she was married. She became a mother at 16 only to lose the child- when she told me the story, the pain and horror of seeing a fully formed dead girl as soon as she was born was fresh in her memory. I suspect she had not spoken of this to anyone for a long time. One does not speak to sons of such things; one needs a daughter. Or someone who comes close even if it takes some time – a daughter in law.

Over time Ma’s voice, story telling voice, has grown stronger, she is now the only one surviving of her nine siblings. Her stories most of which I have heard many times now, sometimes change in their small details.

It is said that one remembers the remembering with each telling. The telling of the tale so that it be carried on is the important task, the details can be imagined. This is not an assessment or evaluation where a triangulation of facts is necessary. It is an act of companionship- of listening which is the best form of caring.

We are travelling across the Rupnarayan river bridge by car and she suddenly says “When I was young and we came from Nagpur to Kolkata by train we knew that we had entered into West Bengal once we crossed this bridge. Kolkata was not home to me then but it had something I recognised.The language. Chotdi Chotdi1 – in Kolkata even the beggars speak Bengali I said once.” I laughed aloud with her and pictured the young girl discovering for herself the state that she belonged to. She said to me another day as we ate lunch. “I did not eat Potol2 and Masoor Dal could barely manage the small fish but I learnt to make luchis3 about 50 luchis every other day.”

I came to live in Kolkata after marriage with my parents in law, I had many opportunities for interaction with Ma prior to that, even receiving letters from her in Hindi on an inland letter when she could not fathom why I was delaying becoming her daughter in law. We are extremely different in temperament but I am glad our aesthetic sensibilities are very similar. What would I have done otherwise? How would every gift of saree and jewellery be cherished and worn gladly like it is now.

My working life which involved incessant travel was possible only because she took responsibility of raising the lawyer, till one day when he was about eight she said - “I have done all I can, I have little else to give him. The two of you have to take more responsibility for him- he needs to learn from more knowledgeable persons.”It was she who read out to him Tuntuni’r Boi4 till he said the lines with her. It was she who taught him Tagore’s Birpurush5. She enjoyed shopping for his clothes,indulged his every demand and brought him back from school more often than I did. She was his Didi. Even as the good doctor and me exulted as a letter arrived with news of his admission to Rishi Valley School it was she who sobbed inconsolably - a piece of her heart was being taken away. She says occasionally - I wish I had stayed longer in school; I tell her that despite all my schooling I cannot wrap my head around the Sudoku; that maze of numbers leaves me dizzy, she tackles the Diabolical too with ease.

She showed us her grit when she fought back from a near fatal illness and without complaint bore the indignity of being completely dependent on others for every bodily function for nearly 3 months and now fully recovered, lives even if weakened in body, stronger in spirit.

This relationship between mother-in-law and daughter-in -law is an unusual one. I call her Ma - but she will never be my mother. I am glad that I had this understanding early on, perhaps it was easy because I had grown up seeing my Amma negotiate life with my Ajji her mother in law. The respect was visible, the affection more so, but there was also present a line which made the interaction assume a formal nature. Even if a few degrees less, this is how it has worked for me too.

And over the years I see how she has turned into a fierce overly protective mother of her oldest son the good doctor. I am incensed when instructed to carry out tasks which the man can and must do for himself. I have learnt to laugh it off and remind her sometimes gently, sometimes firmly, that he is no Kochi Khoka -not a small boy anymore - well has not been for over 6 decades. She smarts from my admonishment of sorts, but I know she is not offended. And at the next opportunity it begins all over again.

Will I be a mother like her? The one who even when guests come for a meal, will step into the kitchen and put aside the biggest prawns for her sons before the dish is carried to the table? This is what she knows, this is what is in her control, all else they can do for themselves. Should I judge her as being ungenerous? That would be unkind. For one who has never had ‘any money of her own’ she has taught herself home economics, she has saved every year to buy gifts for everyone who came home and all of us without having to ask the patriarch for an increased allowance. This is not unusual perhaps for women of her generation. I was unaware of these aspects of domesticity in my parental home, I left it too early and was too busy being a child and teenager. All my education, could not have taught me what I have learnt from Ma. How to manage the home, make a little go far and always be ready for visitors.

Her mother-in-law was a very capable woman, (she deserves an essay too), who loved with an iron fist and a fiery temper. Ma became the antithesis of this when her oldest son the good doctor, brought me in to this house. I came with no skills expected of a new bride. I would never have passed the rice test. I was brought up on eating rasam rice and curd rice – mashed into a smooth consistency – the grains of rice squished by Amma’s precious hands till the rice and the rasam became indistinguishable from each other just like her love for and disappointment in me as I grew older. If folklore is to be believed the rice cooked to a mush like this in a pressure cooker would not have made me pass the test to be a good Bengali bride. The most difficult thing to cook is Rice I hear. Each grain fluffy, fully cooked but separate and whole. This can well be a mantra for the individuals in a marriage, right? Fully formed individuals coming together but some space too. “Let there be spaces in your togetherness.6”

One dish that gets made at our home very often for guests is a Pulao- no peas, no vegetables at all, not even saffron. It is cooked rice, perfectly seasoned by a spice powder mix and some whole cardamom, cloves, cinnamon and bay leaves with a generous amount of cashew nuts and raisins drenched in home-made ghee. It is a recipe I have learnt from Ma, who now asks me for instructions when she needs to make it. I tell her how I make it – the same ingredients – varying proportions and a different method – she approves. My reverse engineering has paid off. But I omit an important detail. I cannot make it all from scratch by myself – I need help to pass the bride exam (even after three and half decades) I cannot make the perfect rice which should be ‘done but not quite’. I am glad I have help for this. A is a plump bundle of nervous energy and a loud voice. She has never failed the Rice test. She laughs at me “Boudi! (Bhabhi in Bengali) you do so much else – make the best mutton, the best prawns but you cannot make rice.” I say “I cannot even make rotis.” She laughs loudly. “No one will ask who made the rice or the rotis. The guests will say the mutton was excellent.” I always remember to tell appreciative guests that I have inherited a Shajaano Sansar7 from Ma.

She has learnt some too from me, I have spoken time and again that our pride lies not in being mothers of sons, that is just by chance, but in what type of men they have grown into. That her only granddaughter, is not just her youngest pretty grandchild but someone who will have as many opportunities as her grandsons and will be a part of this family always, even if she creates another one of her own later. Did she not know all this? She did surely, but it needed some articulaton, some examples, some realignment of experiences and a daughter like person to say this to her. Did she even think she had less opportunities? Perhaps not, simply because she had not imagined an alternative. I discovered an English translation of Ashapurna Debi’s Pratham Pratishruti where the child bride Satyabati questions her situation and patriarchal traditions and encourages her daughter Subarnalata to think differently. In the sequel, Subarnalata experiences the restrictions herself in a traditional household. Ma had read neither, She read the original and told me she wept quietly. She said “I did not need to read this, this is in a way my story.” Perhaps I did not do right by asking her to read the books.

There is little that excites her, perhaps she has learnt to stifle her emotions. That is what we her children and grandchildren see as equanimity, forbearance. “Chitra bhishun shakto, shaanto, anek shojjyo koreche” (Chitra is very strong, calm and has endured a lot) is what other family members say about her. She was not named Chitra - she was Pratibha - her parents knew she would be talented.

I say she is a picture (Chitra), of talents (Pratibha), of quiet elegance, fortitude and patience who has held together this home where every now and then I have needed reminding that I have had opportunities because of someone who could not even dream of them.

He changed what Kolkata meant to me. I knew him for less than a decade but he became someone I turned to when I needed to make sense of this complex world.

If I were to mention just one thing about him, I would say he was a kind man. He made time always, answered messages, took calls, explained and was ready to help.

He was not a modest man he knew the depth of his intellect and the command over languages Bengali English and perhaps Hindi too could not be missed. But never haughty never deprecating but always the teacher. Gently correcting when a student mispronounced in a session and always remembering to ask after the young lawyer in training whom he had met a couple of times only.

Handsome to a fault I would say. His favourite poet was Derek Walcott he would say. I have no one now to explain to me what many of the lines mean. His readings were often humorous - Lewis Carroll was a favourite author.

He named the good doctor Zapata- for the times he had a moustache. I had to look up who this man was. He loved the small triangular samosas with the onion filling.

He was a Darwinian and if I found any trivia it would delight him - never said “I knew this.” He would express effusive thanks like he heard for the first time. One liked to believe his kind lies.

In 2018 when my hero T.M. Krishna was being hounded on social media, I expressed to Samantak that I was afraid for him. He said “We shall send him a letter expressing our concern and solidarity.” He drafted it. He asked me to write it out in longhand on handmade paper and I hand delivered it to Krishna in Delhi after a concert.

He believed in the power of words to change the world. He also used them exceedingly well. His columns in The Telegraph were something one looked forward to. In a strange turn of events, the gap left by him in the Opinion column was filled in by T.M. Krishna.

Life begins and ends in the same instant. What we are served is a lottery. It is not this instant that must Life begins and ends in an instant. What we are served is a lottery. It is not this instant that must be relished or regretted it is what follows or how it was spent.

I try to remember him as ‘a man who chose to live on his own terms till the very end’ as was penned by a friend in a tribute to him. ‘He didn't give up’ she wrote, ‘he just left’.

Perhaps this was the only act of unkindness. Not that I can quarrel with him. He is beyond reach. But lives on in our love for prose poetry and more.

Mary Oliver Red Bird 2008

Our daily lives were anything but planned.

Our holidays, meticulously so.

My small world travelled with me.

I acquired the skills of an active passenger.

Paper maps, folded along the correct creases, within the confines of the small car.

The day began with Debabrata Biswas and ended with Enigma.

Breakfast packed. Start time noted. Milometer reading noted in kms.

End time noted. Final reading noted. Mileage calculated.

A shower, a night cap.

A clean bed to sleep in till the sun rose again.

Life lived in the moment, money well spent, there was little of it.

Recently, I have added the task of journalling.

It is my memory device.

I rely on myself.

I do not trust others with my memories even if theirs is more picturesque.

Now the whole world travels with us.

Birth family,married into family, chosen family, friends like family, those who support the family……

Daily, at least twice daily, updates are mandated.

I do not know by whom?

How indispensable are we?

Might we be forgotten?

Perhaps we will forget.

We spread ourselves thin and taut.

The edges fray over time

The centre even if half done holds. It waits its turn in the tin to be scraped up after the crisp crumbs are relished.

“Love is patient, Love is kind”.

I have been trying to recall memories of him that make me smile. He was not a grouch, but he did not always sport a smile. I guess that describes me too. There was one thing however that brought a smile to his face and that was music.

In the ecosystem of Indian Classical Music both the Hindustani and the Carnatic genres of my childhood, the artist was centrestage with some light on the co-artistes or accompanying artistes.The audience was a little more than an afterthought. In today’s Rock Concerts or concerts on World Music Day it is the screaming fans, the torchlight waving fans who nearly drown out the music and even have the temerity to sing along. They are even encouraged to. I tend to agree that it is better than, according space, to the pretend singers on stage.

In a classical concert, silence is the norm, an occasional “Besh Besh” or a long sigh from a wistful Rasika wishing he was capable of such magic. My father was one such. He was a dedicated listener, a disciplined one. He could not hold a note to save his own life or that of his daughters. He knew that. He was support staff to my mother, he enabled her passion for music to the extent that his means and the circumstances allowed him. He bought the tickets, and accompanied her to concerts when it was possible and affordable.The delight was visible on his face when he heard a familiar composition. He did not try to recognise Ragas, Amma would tell him as soon as the Alaap began.

He played the role of the accompanying artiste of the highest calibre. He brought her back home. He was always quiet on the way back allowing her a few more minutes to soak in the afterglow of the music she had heard. He enjoyed it in a way that was unique to him.

And there were concerts he went to alone and occasionally took me along. In the late 1970s and early 80s Western Classical Music performances in Madras were rare. His extensive travels over the continent had exposed him to a lot of this genre. I tagged along to two concerts both held in The Connemara Hotel. One was a Jazz performance - A man playing the saxophone is all I can recall. Another was a classical piano and violin recital. The music probably did not appeal to me because I have no memory of it. The only memory that has stayed was that of the standing ovation and the muted applause. No one left midway. There was no interruption. It was very foreign - stylish. Men with their shirts tucked in, some even wearing a suit. Women in high heels and wearing bright lipstick.

Music Academy was something else. Loud applause, men in veshtis and Jubbas, and women in silk sarees. To the Academy I always wore a silk Pavadai, to the Hotel concert I wore a frock and my polished black shoes with lacy socks. He did not tell me anything about the music on the way home, I did not ask. Perhaps he knew, perhaps he did not. It does not matter. He knew it was something that demanded attention. He gave it fully. And so I learnt to listen too.

He loved Harry Belafonte. He played on the hardy Grundig, a Spool tape which had the recording of a Live concert of Belafonte. And my father sang along rather recited in Rap style. Man Smart Woman Smarter and he would repeat it many times. Did he have a choice being surrounded by the fair sex of 3 generations at home? They do not make entertainers like Belafonte anymore. A man who used his voice for more than a song.

We heard the silky sexy voice of Julio Iglesias on a cassette he brought back from a trip to the Far East. On the cover was a picture of the swarthy black haired Julio wearing a bow tie which I thought was very silly. I was very proud of my father’s tie wearing habit. Amma often picked his tie for him. He had quite a collection. A few of them the good doctor and my tall lawyer have inherited. My father’s favourite song was “To all the girls I’ve loved before” - he would try to hum along. Perhaps it was the only time I heard him say the word Love. He was a man of his time.

There was one other artiste he played at home often- Nana Mouskouri. She is a Greek singer - one could even say a tad geeky by today’s standards- she wore glasses thick shell frames. Her voice would not have been even heard today with that appearance. But she is a Diva all of 91 years old today. The 2 songs I remember are a French song - Plaisir de amour - I now know that it means pleasure of love - I never cared to know then. And the other was Scarborough Fair. I sang this loud and clear. Parsley Sage Rosemary and Thyme. I did not know what these were. I did not care. Now, I stock fresh parsley in my fridge and use rosemary infused oil to coax some hair to grow on my receding scalp.

The first TV that came home was in 1980. Solidaire bought from Vivek and Co. It was bought not for the size of the screen or the good price but because it had stereo speakers. My father connected our Philips Cassette player to it and he played Om Shanti Om from Karz loudly. As loudly as my mother would permit. Which was not very loud. And my sister and me, sang along. It is a very precious memory. I cannot remember going to watch the movie with him. I saw it much later on television.

Many years after he was gone, Amma said your father loved Waheeda Rehman and particularly in Choudvin Ka Chand. I think I know why. My mother in her youth had a striking profile like Waheeda of those times, a high bouffant and well defined eyes. My father was a man in love to the end with my mother, I hope he told her that and she understood it if he had not.

Love is not always lilting tunes or dancing rhythms. It is not loud. And like Winne the Pooh says “ you do not spell it, you feel it”. It finds a quiet place.

It requires a certain panache and confidence to live life like the way my father did. He gave me some and more. He was a brave man, he taught me not to be afraid, he gave me courage to embrace second chances and sing Aaj Phir Jeene ki Tamanna Hai even as I ask for strength to take on life’s challenges.

Plan a meal for the next day

With whatever is in the vegetable tray.

I peer again at the confusion inside.

Remind myself to eat the leftovers.

They will not match the main meal for the Bengali

It will be like wearing an old rubia blouse with a starched saree.

Printed cotton blouses are in vogue now

But in food they remain old fashioned.

Perhaps it is chic to say traditional.

The Bengali is very particular

He eats in courses

Like the French

Very proud of his contribution to literature, liberty and laissez faire - Cholche Cholbe

( Too many men & women smokers in both places)

We like a little tang in our food

Tamarind is a staple in the Kannadiga- Tamilian kitchen

The Bengali will screw up his nose and say TOK!!

He balances Tok and Mishti

Fights off the Bitter with a spoonful of ghee

We balance the Salt and Spice - Uppu- Khaara

And drown in Buttermilk Majjige - Mor

So how do I eat?

I squeeze a juicy slice of Gondhoraj Lebu1 into Shukto2

The bitterness sharpened by a tartness

Makes it tastier.

A foot in each kitchen is also how one makes it work and wholesomely so

.We learn to adapt

By compulsion or choice

One transforms over time

Like the Kashmiri cook

Who made Yakhni3 with Lauki and Nadru4 for me.

I said that the recipe is Kashmiri MorKuzhambu/Majjigehuli5

My sister groaned.

“The beginning of appropriation” she said

I said I would make it with goat meat for the good doctor once back home

I was too satiated to debate her point.

This is also what stops me from speaking aloud

Fine rice on my plate, satin sheets cool my skin

A Kanjivaram collection to drape over my curves

I am one of the many, not of the few

Familiar faces, favourite,fermented foods keep me in the fold.

Let me offer you free advice

Time is scarce.

Seek peace.

Draw your lines

Before others draw it for you.

And hunker down at home

And reinterpret Rabindranath

Some bearded men are acceptable

Still.

I am digressing. The point of this post is Ramanavami. The Ramanavami of my childhood.

It was a quiet festival marked by the Kannadiga equivalent of a High tea - the Palahara.

A very special menu that did not vary.

Gojjavalakki ( Poha flavoured with Tamarind, seasoned with groundnuts, Curry leaves and Roasted Sesame fragrant with Sesame oil)

Kosambari (Cucumber salad with coconut scrapings)

Kharbuja ( a variety of melon)

Balehannina Rasayana ( Bananas with honey, raisins, elaichi powder)

Paanaka (Sweet Lemon juice flavoured with saffron and elaichi)

I have memories of my Ajji making all of this till Amma took over. Ajji would also start a new ‘exercise’ book (that is what she called a ruled notebook) and write Shree Rama Jaya Rama ಶ್ರೀ ರಾಮ ಜಯ ರಾಮ 100 times everyday. The previous year’s notebooks would be handed over to the temple priest. I have no idea as to what use he had for them. It was evidence of devotion - tangible, unique and handcrafted.

Amma mentioned the menu on the phone. She also mentioned that for the past year she has started writing Om Namah Shivaya ಓಂ ನಮಃ ಶಿವಾಯ 100 times everyday. I am surprised. I wonder why? And if at all, why this shift of loyalties? Like most things related to worship, ritual and religion I do not know the answer. I can imagine how the letters will look in her neat plump lettering. She always wrote in Kannada to me when I was in Medical college. A few sentences after my father’s longish missives in an Inland Letter. It is good handwriting exercise now that she does not write any letters.

She will make the Palahara. She will put some into a small steelbox, share it with her friend next door. The aunty next door has also made nearly the same thing. The aunty will give her a portion too. Amma will eat both and conclude that both are equally nice even if different. She is hesitant about passing judgement except when it comes to her daughters.

I made this Menu for the first time in my Bengali household this year. You may ask why. Yesterday I left home in the morning and was stuck in traffic due to a procession of men- all men. Men wielding saffron flags, saffron turbans and raucous yells of “Jai Shri Ram”. My taxi driver had to take a circuitous route. I gave him a few rupees more than we had agreed to when I got in. He said it was not necessary. I just smiled. I had ranted wildly when we were stuck in traffic, using the most foul language that I could muster. He had heard me in silence.Surely he deserved some recompense. Later in the evening, to the accompaniment of what seemed like Electronic Dance Music I heard accompanying cries of Jai Shri Ram. I was quiet this time.

I played MSS singing Shuddha Brahma Paratpara Ram and sang along. It has been decades since I had sung along to this. But, it all came back to me. As I ate my Palahara with the good doctor I played my hero singing Teliyaleru Rama …. Saint Tyagaraja had confessed as way back as 200 years ago that he did not understand the Bhakti Marga that he was witnessing around him. Has anything changed? Or nothing at all. Well, the menu has not. I like to believe Amma would approve of my version of it too.

Love.

We are a malnourished lot

Overweight and undernourished

Transparent balloons with glitter

Empty from the inside.

I want a salty, sunkissed, pickled love.

Sweet is cloying, burns in the throat, it ferments, bubbles over, is gone.

I want the kind that is unkind,

Selfish,

Is exclusive.

“Kisi ke itne paas ho,

Ke (humse) door ho gaye”

Which celebrates a Tribe of One.

Which learns to say,

I before you.

My reading habit is not proportionate to my buying books. I am not unique in this I know and this assuages the guilt somewhat. I buy books all the time. I like to surrounded by them even in other people’s homes. I decide people are my people, If I see books in their beautifully decorated homes. I seal friendships by making bookmarks for them.

I read across genres, but I cannot read science fiction, horror or fantasy or the likes of it. I am too boringly grounded to allow my imagination fly. Neil Gaiman’s non science fiction short stories I have enjoyed reading. Terry Pratchett’s non disc world related interviews, lectures I listen to intently, but I have till date not been able to read the series. Perhaps this has something to do with the books that I was surrounded by, growing up. Going down memory lane I have realised gives answers to many questions. So much to hold our parents responsible for, the nice and not so nice. I did not read all the books that my parents’ collection held. They read widely, Sarat Chandra, Tagore and other Bengali authors translated into Kannada and many of the Kannada greats Kuvempu, S.L.Bhyrappa, Masti and others in the original.They devoured P.G. Wodehouse. For some strange reason I never read Wodehouse despite my father’s insistence and very visible enjoyment of his works. Humour perhaps is something I need to work on. But that is for another day. My reading is limited to English and some Hindi.

In the past decade, my reading has expanded thanks to the (Sarovar) B&G Book Club (of which I proudly claim being a member from its very first day). We celebrated its 9^th anniversary a few weeks back. The theme for the week’s reading was ‘Joy’. Two pieces of writing jumped up at me. Predictably Mary Oliver’s poem “Don’t hesitate” which ends with the lines “Joy is not a crumb”. Another one tucked away somewhere was a book called “Joy in the morning”. I read from both in the session and I would like to share my experience of the reading and the re reading of the book.

We had stacks of Readers’ Digest Condensed books at home – hardbound. Each of them had three or four abridged novels, they were not rewritten – they were just edited for length. We were allowed to read them but never lying down in bed cos the hard bind might come undone. We were reminded constantly that these and the big Atlas were bought paying in instalments. It sure was a different world. Books were bought in instalments, now jeans are bought in instalments- even one’s holiday one can pay for after it has been enjoyed. I had fragmented memories of the book. I did not even remember the name of the author. Thanks to the wonders of the internet, I located a pdf copy online – the author was Betty Smith. She wrote 4 books her first novel “A tree grows in Brooklyn” became a best seller and then was made into a movie Wikipedia tells me. Rereading Joy in the morning was a completely new experience. The book based in the 1960s in Brooklyn is the story of two very young people, Annie and Carl. She is keen on books and getting an education but has only finished high school and Carl is enrolled in Law School. She elopes and they marry in front of a judge the day she turns eighteen. I am sure the description of the University town and its library was fascinating to me as a teenager. Perhaps I imagined being in one such someday. The details of how the girls in university dressed must have had something to with it “a bob cut, long pleated skirts loose sweaters” and what I imagined as flat pump shoes described as “saddle shoes”. The story is predictable, the couple has their financial woes, but Annie’s spirit remains buoyant as she begins borrowing books from the library and dressing like the students herself. She starts standing outside classes till the Dean and a kind Professor of Modern Comparative Literature (I knew an incredibly kind one too) take her in and she becomes one of the students eligible for a degree. Contraception was just about being approved in the 60s and Annie gets pregnant not quite ready for it. Annie has memories from her town of a young friend who dies after a botched-up abortion referred to in hushed tones and she knows better than to take that route. Annie delivers a healthy child; Carl graduates and they live happily ever after.

Rereading the book gave me a perspective which I did not have when I read it as a teenager. I read it now with the wisdom of today and through evolving feminist lenses. One discovers layers which were unrecognised, one appreciates how much the world has changed. Women writers even in early 20^th century America, writing simple romance imbued female characters with ambition even as they mellowed them down with very wifely domestic qualities to strike a balance. One is also struck by the changed use of words and language.

Carl mentions to Annie that he had taken a girl out to a dance (cos if he did not “the guys would think him queer”) There is even a mention of Annie telling her husband not to give up his cigarettes, as he needs them to keep alert but smoke them till the butt to save money. Smoking was a rite of passage and the tobacco lobby had its committed followers. Patriarchy makes it presence felt throughout as Annie makes concessions for Carl consistently. She insists that she is not an ‘ambitious’ girl – as if ambition is a bad thing but she remains independent enough to insist that those whom she meets call her Annie and not Mrs Brown. I wonder if the word ‘Queer’ was used by Betty Smith in the sense of strange or was the term already in use as it is today to denote same sex relationships. The last word was recently revealed to me in its new meaning. Till then it was always about the young boy who saved Holland being swallowed up by the sea by sticking his finger in the hole in the dyke.

I was in an all-girls school and of course curious about the birds and the bees and more. Books with ‘the spicy’ descriptions were always discussed in school. Arthur Hailey was particularly popular. Betty Smith offers a variety of spice too. As Carl and Annie wait in the landlady’s parlour while she is getting their lodgings ready Carl wants more than a deep hard kiss which Annie refuses to participate in. “Fury added to sexual frustration, made him wild” He grabs at Annie and tears apart her blouse despite her vehement protests. She tells him firmly after her tears are spent and shame overcome that she does not like to be “grabbed”. I do not remember reading this perhaps it was a section that was edited out. I suspect if it was retained, I would remember cos it was passages like this that were instructive. This passage if read by a young person now would be too bland to deserve a mention but perhaps the violation of consent would be the main takeaway. I knew it not then. It was not part of the vocabulary then. It came later, much later.

Reading this book makes me want now to read more and also re read. The latter is a singular experience. Many books perhaps everyone of them is received differently based on one’s state of mind and experiences. They deserve a re-read. This has been one of the greatest joys of being a member of the book club. Looking for a reading on the chosen theme for the session requires a racking of one’s brains to identify which book or which passage of poetry would fit. This is an exercise in itself. Open the bookshelf and stare at it for a while and hope for a revelation. Extract the book, and leafing through the pages reading more than one intends to read aloud is doubly delightful.

I see the young lawyer re-reading or listening to the Harry Potter and the Jeffrey Archer series for the umpteenth time. What is that he looks for? What is it that he finds appealing? Is it just to evoke memories of a time when he was younger reading these for the first time? Reading for pure pleasure, skipping words he did not know exactly and more interested in the story. Does he find nuances he had not recognised earlier? I suspect the former. The same works when he reads Feluda in Bengali. It is a connection to the home of his childhood, not as much linked to place or room but to experiences and people.

There is one book I wish I could re-read to him. Winnie the Pooh and the Hundred Acre Wood, it was our bedtime storybook. A character I discovered with him. Each time we quarrelled from childhood and well into his teenage years we made up with Pooh and Piglet speak. And he has remained true to this childhood story. He is my place of reason and truth even if it sometimes is unpleasant to hear it.

This is what books give us, create worlds that we can always return to, they enable us to extract what we need at that point in time even as that changes when read another time. Men and women in books are more real to me and closer than many I see around me. I see myself in some, want to be like some others and fewer I pray, I never become like.

And now I am faced with a question that I hope you will all help me answer. Do I reread and discover old friends anew or do I enter new worlds and make new ones?

This ease does not transpire between us. Do we take each other for granted?

Relationships even those which have been traditionally loyal, unwavering, adhering to the most orthodox standards also meander. There is a need for diversion, that submersion in playfulness, idiocy, “brains left behind banter” to appreciate the unsmiling grim set face which is half asleep on the left side of the right side of the bed each night.

It is to that warm body that I turn to when the joints ache and the only word that escapes one’s lips is Amma. It is that person whom I will coax to have a glass of milk for dinner, even if the only thing done after an extraordinarily heavy lunch when it is nearing dinner time, is a deep long midweek evening nap. Brunch is between breakfast and lunch- is there such a word for when lunch is nearly dinner? I am thinking ‘luinner’– it sure helps to get leaner. Perhaps it will get included into the Oxford Dictionary in a few years.

The one who stirs each time I wake up at night, is the one who reminds me to drink water, will pull up the sheet to my legs and put off the lights I leave on in the bathroom. Annoyed he will be, I will continue to be consistently uncaring of these ‘small things’

When pride raises its hackles and I say enough, I will be my own person and put off the lights It is never noticed. We are living in an age where doing the inanest things has to be recorded, liked appreciated. I will show him I have done it right, (there is proof for it too), without his intervention and promptly forget to do it next. My point is made.

Freshly shaven, crisp shirt, ready to be patient or party, alert enough to dispense advice, come early morning or midnight, it is always conversation time in some other time zone. I think there must be a clear recognition of a certain other type of zone- family zone and beyond family zone.

We achieve most times a state of peaceful coexistence, I hear that this deceptive calm breeds detachment. Is it even possible I wonder. He is my muse; (I wish I was His, bloggers do not need a muse, artistes do) It is in a curious way similar to what Mary Roy was to Arundhati Roy - the author ever in awe, seeking approval always and desperate to please. It is a quasi-parental relationship.

We intimidate one another even if we are inspired by each other. We challenge, we apologise, we compete. We claim to know the other inside out, we have our tools. I listen when he sings, to understand him, I observe how those whom he sings with react to his cues, and he to theirs. It is a performance. One that is played out in public. He reads my words to know me better, I am not sure he can see beyond the words and between the lines, I write alone. it is a solitary act; Do I leave clues?

There is a voice which I hear always; which is annoyingly ever present even if I Shoo it away. The same voice which I need to hear when nightmares strike, the voice that make my eyes well up when he sings Mone Kichhu Koro Naa …^[iii]. The voice I take for granted. Touch Wood.

^[i] The note in a Raga which is central to the raga’s identity. (Carnatic Music)

^[ii] It can be described as the signature of the Raag (Hindustani Classical Music)

^[iii] A Bengali song sung by S.D. Burman where the man says to his muse/love – Do not be miffed if I call out for you without reason even as he proclaims his love and sincerity to her.

It hides in the folds of my flabby body

The devil is really in the detail;

Dark attics, my tiny hand forced around hard and warm

Rewarded by orange Chiclets when it was light.

My back shrinking into spasms on the cold metal

Even as shiny sterilised metal readied me for life ahead.

Joy flies away

It is always perched on the tip of my nose

I wish it was on my fingers

Then I could freeze it into word cubes.

Do I seek actively one and ignore the other?

Is fun anathema to me?

The human body is made up thirty trillion units

Is it all really the cellular composition?

And the juices that lubricate its functioning

Or is it menopause?

I crave a conversation

Outside of my own head.

I speak to be heard

To ask for understanding is unwise

In this raucous world.

We all need space.

Increasingly so.

We are growing wider occupying more space, elbowing ourselves aggressively into corners which are not ours.

Our minds are shrinking to fit into coloured crevices; the shop windows are always dressed in a single colour.

I seek the company of women

The attention of men is passe

There is no need to woo them or anyone anymore

The only one who needs my attention and affection is the woman in me

I demand quiet

I have not the energy to judge anyone

I am only looking to realise all of myself

There are fewer days ahead of me than those I have left behind.

A belly laugh, a shy smile.

A voice that blends into a chorus, and hums to herself in the kitchen.

Whose presence is felt, in her absence.

Who is ever attentive, but needs no attention

A ubiquitous ordinariness, a calm despite all the chaos.

There is more to learn than teach.

Read than write,Listen than sing

It is also less work

A slow life is in style

A wooden garden bench is appealing

I will teach my restless self to embrace this person.

News of death of elders near and far, some not met in months, some whose voices are relished thanks to the wonderful music that they brought to life, leaves me steeped in a reverie that feels self-indulgent. I say I am miserable what should I do? And Mary says in her “lovely voice, Excuse me, I have work to do”.

An accomplished Rabindra Sangeet singer who would say in the middle of a gathering- “Amaar Aajke Gaan Peyeche” (Song has come to me today) and burst into song passed on a couple of weeks ago. Attending his Shraddha (death ritual) found me in a room where I was amongst the younger but not uncomfortable, one with most of the greying,grieving heads.

Many I could not recognise, till they did me. Some identified me saying “Are you not S Babu’s son’s wife?” Putra Badhu - sounds nice - makes me feel like the tastiest part of an exotic open sandwich whose topping you like but do not know the name of. Being linked to two men who shower me with affection in their distinct ways. It reassures me of sorts to have these strings attached, makes me feel safe. Another time I would have said where is MY identity? But just now I am content to be cocooned. Does not take away from my feminism.

I left the room with his voice ringing in my head – I said to myself he must be in the elite company of the one whose songs he sang, he taught and revelled in. He has earned his place.

A family elder crossed over soon after, one closer to home. A remarkable mind, a maverick maths teacher who reportedly never used the blackboard; he taught it like a philosopher would; it is said that there is not much of a difference between the two. A teacher appreciated by generations of students in a small town whose valiant efforts to teach teachers across the state how to teach science deserve sincere appreciation. We bemoan the poor teaching in our schools, particularly of science. We lament how young people have been drawn away from the study of basic sciences. He took active steps to remedy this, conducted camps to inculcate the culture of enquiry in school students, worked with teachers on how to adapt their teaching methods with the available resources, without major disruptions and respond to curious young minds. He was convinced that language was not a barrier to learning maths and science and worked in his last years to write textbooks in the mother tongue. He reached out to his students across the globe to establish a centre for science education in the small town – he told me with great pride how his students responded beyond his expectations. This was a vindication of sorts for him, not that he needed any. A ‘Brahmana’ who did not take his ‘exalted’ birth status but earned it manifold.

Is this how an eulogy is written? Can I say without hesitation that I loved him like the father figure he was. His actions inspire me. A family member said the elder's infectious exuberance never failed to bring cheer to all around him. This very same quality was not very useful in helping to run a household- he was clueless about how households run and the world outside his family gave him a long rope- as if his extraordinary mathematical prowess made up for everything else.The Marathi proverb describes the situation very well.

शिवाजी जन्माला यावा पण शेजारच्या घरात (A genius should be born, but in the neighbour’s house, not in mine)

His inaction, his acts of omission leave me cold. I cannot point to what he did ‘wrong’, but I know and hurt for what he did not do.

Each death brings me a lesson, rarely tears.

Some lives I celebrate, some others I am glad they went with their family and faculties intact.For persons like my father who did not live to enjoy the fruits of their labour I find myself waking up in my dreams weeping. For the one who chose to leave without warning I am angry. Our truths are ours alone - it might even only be half the story. Perhaps this is me now trying to rid myself of my hurt and anger. Perhaps it is time to let go and introspect finally. I find myself asking what should I do? What should I not do? What will I be remembered for? And Mary gives me answers yet again“..believe in kindness. Also in mischief. Also in singing, especially when singing is not necessarily prescribed” This is a tough ask from one who is surrounded by voices singing in sync and in perfect pitch. And Mary whispers again “ Among the swans there is none called the least, or the greatest” Perhaps there is room for me too as I seek to renew memories of times spent when everyone was at their best, the elderly who were considered no longer ‘useful’ were cared for, protected, and all was well. Perhaps a trip to the mountains is in order to learn from “the pine trees that never forget their recipe for renewal.”

Rest in peace musician and mathematician ; I will find mine in poetry.

^{All text in bold italics are extracts from Mary Oliver’s poems in the compilation Devotions.}

He was an old soul even then.

He had taken into his being the words of the Bard of Bengal

“Nityakālēr tui purātan,

tu'i prabhātēr ālōr samabaẏasi”^[i]

(You are as old as time

And the age of the morning light)

Or he was getting ready to be an arbitrator

Finding solutions which are extra in a way – a little Hatke हटके

Or trying to be Gandhian from the state of Bose.

Look at me in retrospect imposing my weary wisdom on him.

This is how adults ruin it for the children

“They may not mean to, but they do.”

Larkin nailed it in

‘This be the verse’ ^[ii]

He said “Hit me if it will help you”

I collapsed on the floor and cried.

He says he has forgotten this

I am not so sure, even if I would like it to be so.

This is love of a kind

That even he did not know he felt for me

It was a reassurance that took me a long time to feel sure about.

Now there is another woman in his life

And I see clearly the different shades of this thing called love.

For me I think he reserves the pastels

That do not exist in a box of wax crayons

Gentle, all encompassing, the light blue of the Sarater Akash^[iii

And yet unafraid to draw a line when I draw too close.

For the young woman, it is all the bold and bright, burnt reds and burnished yellows

It is fierce enough to burn all the barriers.

No matter what distance lies between them

It is never close enough.

There is a lesson in this for me, there always was.

I am now ready to see it.

^[i] Lines from Rabindranath Tagore’s JonmoKatha

^[ii] Philip Larkin’s poem – This be the Verse

^[iii] The autumnal sky is a poor description – this is in Bengal the season just after the monsoon ends bringing in the season of the Durga Pujas

I want you to be there always, but visible only when I want to see you.

You want me to be brave, independent but unquestioning.

That is how you define trust.

I want to be free but tied with enough length of string to be tugged back.

Oru Murai Unnai Kanden

Yennai Naane Kandu Konden^[1]

(I saw you once, I saw myself in you)

I became what I saw of me in you

I want now, for you, to be what you see in me, of you.

This was written in response to a prompt in The Rhythm of Stories Workshop some months ago facilitated by and Tamil is a language which I love on my tongue and these two lines were the sweetest honey.

^[1] https://youtube.com/clip/UgkxQt9b5pHaCyNkBG4Xiuwf5gEsHYh_fE9O?si=S8Xxqs-VRw6C88vV

Dressed in bridal finery

Wrapped in nervousness.

“You have reached

Your forever after home”

“Tomar Sasur Bari^[i]”

She did not know which God was available

Their higher callings most often are beyond her comprehension

She did not know yet that this was the land where Goddesses were more accessible

She called on a sister story teller – Scheherazade.

Women are masters of jugaad.

We make do.

We make magic out of nothing.

She spotted the Kajal lata

A heart shaped silver object to contain Kohl

The Genie gave her a key,

To open the hardest of hearts.

"Daan Pa ta Diye Bari te dhuko"

Put your right foot forward first

She guessed right.

Her Hindi lessons in school came in handy.

She said "Thik Aache"

"Oh Maa! Ki Mishti!

Bangla Bolte Paare"

How sweet

She can speak Bangla

She had the key;

These were welcoming warm hearts

Who melted with her first words.

She now tells every bride who comes to Bengal

Learn this language.

At the door as she leaves

She says Ma, Jaachhi"

"Jaachhi Bole Naa

Aashchi Bole"

She smiles "Aaschhi"

She hears "Esho,Dugga Dugga"

The iconic lines written across the ocean

"We are programmed to receive

You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave^[ii]"

Resonate in this milieu too.

In this language in which

Coming and going are all the same

The entrapment is laced with a languorous rhythm, a solemn song, an honest intention.

It is now the language in which she lies, and declares her truths in her dreams.

It has been a long journey.

^[i] Your marital home

^[ii] Lines from Hotel California by Eagles

The artwork is by a talented artist who read a first draft and needed no inputs to capture the essence of the piece. Serendipitously, the colours he chose for the bride’s saree match exactly the colours I wore on the wedding day.

So said even a Professor of Comparative Literature. “You have done well without stepping into an English classroom in college”. I asked if he would allow me to attend his classes after the pandemic. He laughed, this lovely man. Another man took a more practical route to learning from the Professor. He walked in the Lakes with him regularly because he wanted to understand ‘Contemporary’ Literature. Which meant that he got more time with him. The Professor walked with this man because he said he “wanted to understand how you Marwaris think?” I am not sure who learnt from whom and what.

His students were lucky- some even got to ride on his scooter and take a picture. And they called him ‘Sam’ much to my shock and disapproval. I am glad they did not prefix it with Uncle. His favourite word for them was “Apodharto” (useless). It was a word which was the equivalent of an endearment – they knew it and I am quite sure he meant it to be.

I met him at best twice a month at the Book Club sessions so at most 120 times in 66 months. He came to our house just twice; It will be three years to the day today that this life came to an end. What did I learn from this man?

The lines of the English Bard come to mind

“Men at some time are masters of their fates.

The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,

But in ourselves”

Not just the fault but also the courage and the will to be, to do or choose to stop doing.

I do not like July for this reason. But I am glad that August follows. Two men came into my life in this month more than three decades ago. The good doctor tied 3 knots that we both are reinforcing as we share song, secrets and seek solace in solitude. The other was gently severed from me physically but he is bound to us forever. This is how it is.

Perhaps that is why there are an even number of months in a year. Happy months and Sad months. Months when we hold on and let go. Do we really let go?

I leave you all to let me know.

What kind of man I wanted to marry.

One of two kinds of men

A man in uniform

Or

A man who could sing.

Could I not have had both in one?

That would have been greedy.

I found and pursued the latter kind.

He was and remains the prototypical Mills & Boon hero.

I did not read Mills & Boon's though

Not my style.

For those of you who didn’t too,

Let me tell you,

Tall, Dark and Handsome.

I stood up for a long time

My legs and back ached.

Finally,

There was agreement all around.

A complete understanding and acceptance

Is still a Work in Progress.

Perhaps it is just lost in translation.

I was delighted when I had a son

I told myself

“Well done!

The Banerjee's have an heir,

I do not want to lose more sleep or hair.”

The infant fitted perfectly on the forearm of the good doctor

His soft broad palm cradling the small head

Lulled to a smiling slumber by the sweetest lullabies.

We reversed roles effortlessly,

He nurtured gently – fish, fun and football.

I nudged noisily – numbers, efficiency, productivity.

This is how, unsaid, we struck a balance

More times than less.

When we drifted close to the precipice,

The pivot of our lives,

The prize, the purpose, pulled us back together.

Be like water some great soul said.

Fluidity is a word that is commonly heard.

The child becomes the parent,

I crave to become a child again.

We are many parts

All being played out in a day.

Trying to spread cheer across continents

It disappears like butter into a piece of warm toast

Shape shifting even as we track each other’s shadows

Defining the modern family.

My mind is turning shades of green, a pale green, tinged with red – the colours of the bitter sweet tender leaves on the neem tree that I am so partial to.

My mouth brings up bile –“I am envious” I say to myself – this is half the truth I realise. I am dark green with jealousy bordered by a fiery red anger, the origin of which I do not know.

It has come to stay like an uninvited guest and a stranger to boot. ‘Agantuk’^[1] No warning. Even the good doctor does not recognise this stranger “You who were so appreciative and in awe of everyone what is this sea change?” he asks. I want to scream. This is the only way I can express myself. But I do not know how to.

I say it is “the churning of the ocean.” I want to recognise the worst in me so that I can politely close the door on it. I struggle to slam the door- I feed it, I attempt conversation, I pretend to be interested and then one day it leaves. At the door, in the language of this fertile land, it says “Aashchi” “I am coming” even when it is going. It does not serve me well. Perhaps I should send it away with good thoughts and say “Fare Thee Well.” I think it will understand the finality in this foreign phrase.

When the ocean was churned, I read that the Devas and the Asuras had to be explained that it was not a tug of war- they could not each pull to their side using their might. They had to pull and pause alternately. The metaphor makes sense. I cannot fight my battles alone, even if they are with myself. I need help. From where do I seek it? How far do I go? How vulnerable must I become before I can be strong again? Or is vulnerability a strength in itself?

And then I begin to see the stirrings of the best in me. To be in awe, to be encouraging, to make the connections, join the dots and “Begin afresh, afresh, afresh”^[2] I hope this guest will like the spare room and make itself comfortable for a long time.

^[1] Agantuk- ‘The Stranger’ – Satyajit Ray’s last movie – a must watch based on a short story called ‘Atithi’ (Guest) he wrote himself.

^[2] Philip Larkin Poem ‘The Trees’

I lifted myself out of a deep gloom

The room feels brighter now, the voices less strident, my song in sync

I coax the patriarch to use his walking stick

I urge my nonagenarian obstetrician aunt to not hide her hearing aid below her hair

I tell myself that I need a tried, tested safe crutch too

It will help me straighten out the spirals

Even as all the noise, makes me nauseous.

I used my now stable, always nimble fingers to express gratitude

I counted crosses, imagined I strung a violin and held a bow.

The music plays, it makes me smile,

I hope the gift makes the scholar happy

I started reading a book^[i]

Searing in its intensity even as the author lists birds

Thirty-five of them of the four hundred “that torrent… through this migratory super

highway”^[ii]

I know of the skies where these birds fly alongside fierce and fiery manmade things

“Every year a new landscape appears underneath…”

Like other bird lists, this one does not bring me joy.

The newly acquired calm is being tested, but I am compelled to continue.

I think of a lady doctor^[iii], who found charred remains of her children

She continues to live and work, the least I can do, is not think of her grief as irrelevant to me

I am from the land of Arundhati Roy who reminded us “To never look away”

I am from the land of a great sage - Ramana Maharishi “There are no others”

I am from the land where hoardings scream “Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam”^[iv]

I am trying to live all this.

This is the fine balance that I must achieve

With my eyes, ears, mind and heart wide open.

This short piece emerged from a bonus session of Rhythm of Our Stories Workshop presented by and facilitated by team of and Vimal Chitra.

I must also acknowledge the deep impression post made on me- the inconsistencies and contradictions of our lives are here to stay; we make attempts to come to terms with it with our words.

^[i] Apeirogon by Colum McCann

^[ii] Bold Italicised text is from the book above

^[iii] https://www.theguardian.com/world/2025/may/25/gaza-doctor-last-goodbye-nine-children-killed-airstrike

^[iv] The world is one family in Sanskrit

I will tell you about a lazy mother whose son did all the hard work. The only work she did was bear his weight, when he weighed the least.

He left home as a child like his father had done.

In her new found freedom she flew till the edges frayed. The worries flew away too, she hoped not to him.

Now, she holds him in a vice when it is time for him to leave after his holiday at home. She wants to say to him “Stay back, do not leave.”

Just then the bearded man pipes up and says"Shudhu Jaawa Aasa, shudhu srote bhaasha" It is just about going and coming, just floating along.

She imagines his response. He is now a man of few words. “The Circle of Life” he will say. The Lion King was his favourite movie as a child.

She removes his tube of shaving cream from her bathroom shelf. But she knows she will be happy to have her house back to herself.

Even as he will always have a home to come back to, for a holiday.

This short piece emerged from a Rhythm of Our Stories Workshop presented by and facilitated by team of and . It took me a couple of weeks to own it, edit it and put it out. The singing voice at the end of the video is that of Additiya Mukherjee - a young friend and a talented singer amongst other things. She can be contacted at Additya.M@gmail.com