promises.....

Last night I dreamed I went to Murari Pukur again (that does sound so Rebecca-ish!!!!) The house was still standing and had got a fresh coat of paint. The lawn was well kept and the flowers were blooming everywhere. The ivy on the walls was fresh and green and trimmed to perfection. The pond looked clean and inviting…..the skies were laden with clouds and I was wishing it would pour because I could just imagine the sharp cold drops of rain falling on my skin as the rest of my body was submerged in the warm waters of the pond. There was a clap of thunder and everything was dark, night fell with the winds that howled and told me a storm was approaching. I stood under the big bakul tree and could smell the fragrance of the fresh flowers assailing me from my childhood…how I used to love to pick up the flowers and string them to keep by my pillow at night. Memories kept tumbling, like snakes from a jar, I could shut my eyes and smell the sights and sounds that have haunted me……I awoke in my cold room and lay awake and still for a long time after that, wishing it all back, the house of my dreams, the innocence of the girl I was when I was young and little girls had their guardian angels to look after them. Then I do not remember if this was my imagination or really another dream but I was back there, sitting on the patio and having a drink with my father. The house was in shambles and the only light came from a lonely lamppost by the pond which now seemed so far away. My father was talking but I could not make out the words. I replied but my words would not come and I could feel the tears streaming down my face as I cried into my pillow……..
This is why I am quiet today. Reliving the times we have been fortunate to have, memories too multiple and varied to enumerate here. Let me elaborate….Murari Pukur is the name of a garden house my dad inherited from his father when I was very young. It consisted of approximately five acres of land and the main portion was taken up by a huge two storied house built in the early 1800s with pillars and thick walls…and a lovely pond with steps leading up to the pond from both sides. There was another house in ruins on the other side of the pond, we were told that that one was built for the women to stay in…. Later. those ruins were taken down and as that part of the property belonged to one of my father's brothers, it was walled up….So we had the house, the pond and gardens on all sides of the pond. There was even a tennis court and other adjoining lands. It was also, historically, the site of the Esavi Match factory where Aurobindo Ghose, Barin Ghosh and others plotted before the Alipore Bomb case during the struggle for independence. My father, despite the well meaning advice of his relatives, refused to sell out and insisted on maintaining it as a garden house. It was our home away from home. Each weekend and holiday would find us there, my father happily pottering about in the garden while we swam, climbed trees, read, ran about and generally had a good time. The house was a huge old colonial structure with high ceilings and marble floors. The staircase to the first floor was wooden and we used to love stomping our way up and down. Often, during the holidays, we would go and stay there, joined by our cousins, relatives and friends. I used to fish in the pond, swim, eat the unripe guavas from the trees and steal raw mangos, “falshas” and “aamras” all through the lazy afternoons when everyone else was asleep in the heat. Baba even made us a sand pit and we spent many happy hours making castles and getting dirty and running into the pond for a swim afterwards. I learnt how to shoot an air-rifle, ride an bicycle and even drive a car. I hid under the bougainvillea boughs whenever I was called in for a chore, dug for earthworms only to watch them helplessly squirming on the hook of my fishing pole and found several excuses not to do my holiday homework. Oh yes, those were the glory days. Only we never knew it then….Often we would not want to go when asked and had to be bullied into it. All my friends thought we were lucky to have a place like that to run away to but we took it all for granted. When we had parties there, there was a lot of love and laughter…….I remember my cousin and I sneaking around in the garden on moonlit nights when we should have been in bed. I remember a clear moonlit night when my father woke me and took me swimming….the waters were awash in the light of the moon and everything around me took on the glow of a dream. I guess that was when my love affair with the moon took hold. We grew gardenias, champaks, radishes, cucumbers, pomegranates, mangoes, lemons and anything that took our fancy. There was a cinnamon tree and we used to love peeling the bark and nibbling on its wooden sweetness. There were trees I cannot name and plants all around….if you are reading this and have seen the place in all it’s glory, you will know what I am talking of. The hasnahana and bakul flowers serenaded us with their fragrances morning and evening. Even now, when I pass somewhere and smell those familiar scents, I have to stop and smile…its like a breath of fresh air from my childhood.
Baba loved this property; he fought to keep it and poured a lot of love and affection into its heart. He planted a litchi tree a few years before he died and told me that when he retired, he would go and live there and sit under the litchi tree in the summers and have a chilled beer in its shade. The last time I saw it, the tree was big and strong and its branches reached out to sweep the ground….just as today my heart is desperately reaching out to my dad, trying to find him.
Baba always wanted us to keep the property, made me promise I would not sell it, a promise I could not keep. After Baba died, my mom decided she had to sell that property. So even before I returned from college, she struck up a deal with a slimy real estate guy who was referred to her by an even slimier family friend who, of course, my mother trusted with all her heart. After I returned, I was told to sign on the dotted line…an agreement for sale. When I refused, the explanations came thick and fast. Money, difficulty maintaining, trespassers, etc etc etc……the list was endless. I wanted to look at other prospective buyers but I was told that that slimy family friend had the right connections and I was not to upset the applecart because the talks had considerably progressed.
I signed. God help me, but I signed. And it’s the single biggest regret I have today in my life. I should have put my foot down, I should not have been blackmailed by my mother’s cries about money..... The house had to go, and, it was vehemently stressed, my dad would’ve understood. I did not. I still don’t. But it is too late to atone for my naiveté, stupidity and incompetence. Now I look around me and wish I had been where I am in today…. Sure as anything, that garden house would be mine, back then, had I the means, I would’ve bought my mom and sis out. But I didn’t. And all that is so irrelevant. Now. Oh I got my share of the sale proceeds…but as I told Amitesh, it was blood money.
So I live with the weight of a broken promise.
Its never far from my mind.



promises continued...


I've been dreaming of buying back the land at Murari Pukur. I don't know if I ever will have the means or the opportunity but somewhere in the back of my mind the thought is stuck.....and I am optimistic about things falling into place.....some time. I will build a house there, in tribute to the house that was...and, yes, I do hope to live there.
Sadly, the old house has been torn down...the promoter who purchased the property felt it had to go. Along with the litchi tree, the rubber tree and various other much loved plants, yes, even the guava trees near the drive. The last time I saw the place it was like that. Torn down and broken and I want to see it heal...I want to be the one to do the healing.
When the house was being torn down, a strange thing happened. The workers refused to go there...the place is haunted, they said.They refused to be near the place after sundown and they said that whenever they hammered the walls they could hear someone telling them to slow down, to take it gently......
Truth or fiction?
Whatever...... when I heard of this, I went there. That was my last visit. I just went and picked up a brick from there and brought it home. They say that there was no trouble thenceforth....the ghosts went back to where ever they came from. And that was that.
But that is never that. That brick is here, in this very room and I hope one day I shall be able to use it to build a house in memory of a house and a father that define my very existence. And if I am unable to build it, when I die, I wish it is thrown in the river (or wherever it is that they plan to scatter my ashes) and finds its final resting place with me. Nothing else really matters, I have sometimes been asked what that brick is doing in my room....curious maids have even asked if they should throw it away....I just hope I shall have the opportunity to use it again.
And I have heard that the original promoter that bought the place couldn't do anything with it and sold it to another who is now frustrated in his attempts to develop the place......can I then dare, to dream, that that place waits for me sure as I dream of it?
Wish me luck.
I wish you peace.

Memories

13 May 1992. A day that’s etched forever in my heart, as it has the infamy of being the day my father died. In a way I died too. But in the same breath you could say I was also born. To a new life bereft of the paternal security and comfort I was used to. So today that makes me an adult. 18 long years have passed eighteen years without the man who meant the world to me and more. And what, have I grown up then, have I matured into a little adult? Did my father really die that night? No, I shout and I will say no again and again for surely he is alive as he lives in me. How can he be dead then, if I still hear the gold of his voice, feel this thoughts guiding my every action, feel his fingers brush away my tears?
Ah, then I have the memories………

I still remember the blood that flowed
as fresh and near as now
I remember every night in the ICU
sitting silent afraid to move....
lest I cause you pain

I don't remember what I thought
but I could feel your strength
gathering itself in my veins
letting me stay there by your side
time and again

I never once heard you complain
or twist your face in fear
your eyes stayed bright and I was proud
that you were my father
and fighting still

I remember you at home, those days
of stilted smiles and broken dreams
are etched forever in my heart
a vivid memory that I cannot
distil

I try very hard to forget it all
and think nothing of it
but these memories are engraved
too deep to erase even
if I could.

Sometimes in my silence
I understand that final lesson
I have learned. And if anyone thinks
that I am strong, they think wrong.
it’s you that lives in me.

Smile please!

For a while now, I’ve been upset. About various things…..work, things not working out the way I wanted it to, the girls’ school work…etc etc, the list seemed long, tedious and endless. So I’ve been moping around, coming out with the most pathetic statements on my fb status and basically spreading the shit around.
Thankfully these things do not last. I got a virtual kick from a cousin who, in not so many words, told me to shut the fuck up about my cribbing…and then I took one good look at myself and decided I do not like the crabby full-of-herself person I am now….So here goes, this is right here, right now. Cheers to the good times, life’s too short to sweat the small stuff!!!!

Little beads of sweat
little drops on my face…
heralding rain
on a muggy day,
hot and sultry
I sit and gaze
at the sky where
rain clouds are held at bay
by the late morning air
ominous and still….
I can forget about
these grey walls
the draft incomplete
the petition unread
the cases left open
for another time.
Clients can wait
the day can pass
life can be on hold
for this moment is mine.
The skies burst open
with a clap of thunder
my mind runs out
as the raindrops shatter
on my head

Wait then, I know
you will
I’ll catch up with
all my duties again
I’ll smile I’ll plead
I’ll even be funny
if you want me to…..

But now let me be,
quiet in my thoughts,
a song on my lips,
a smile in my voice!

ALL THE REST IS MADNESS!!!!!!

Thanks, Mr. Bell

When we were children, the telephone was an instrument, black and heavy, one could even use the receiver as a dumbbell because the telephone lines were not working most of the time anyway…. We looked at it with respect, and when it rang we all ran to it in the hope that it would be for us. My dad hated the phone. He insisted it was an instrument to communicate, usually matters of extreme urgency and could not tolerate anyone talking on it for longer than it took to say three sentences. As I grew up and my school friends started calling, I always had lame excuses like homework and syllabus to blame it on. Not that it worked…if I was ever heard giggling on the phone, I was met with a frown. Any conversation longer than 10 seconds made the frown lines deeper…and if, God forbid, any BOY called…ah…that was like the ultimate sin! I had these boys calling for me sometimes, local friends, but my dad never could fathom why. Usually he’d tell them very rudely that I was indisposed and after each such call I was given a lecture on the fact that all boys are the same and they have only one motive etc etc etc This held true even of my male cousins who did not identify themselves between the two “hellos”. So they took to stuttering a wrong number whenever my dad picked up the phone, or, worse still, voicelessly hung up! As a result of all this, I learnt to keep my phone conversations short, crisp and non-descriptive. I was rude even, anyone waxing eloquent on the other end of the line would be told I’d talk later in school the next day or some such shit and the matter would end there. But there were also these surreptitious phone calls to and from “boyfriends” late in the night after the house was sleeping…. I remember sneaking around in the dark in my dad’s study….trying in vain to silence the loud whirr of the dialer and hope that when I picked up the receiver or set it down, it would not “tingggg” loud enough to wake my father.
In college, there was a phone booth near the college gate. Not habituated to making phone calls, I relied on the Indian Postal System to get my thoughts across, albeit late. We were taught to make calls only in case of extremely extreme urgency and nothing really came close. The first phone message I received was after two years at college, made at Vani’s house, (which Vani drove all the way from Camp to Aundh in the driving rain to tell me), and it told me to be at Nanavati hospital ASAP to be near my father who was having an operation. I took the train that night….a complete stranger in a strange city and found my way to his side. My Ma had stayed behind in the US to be with my sis. The relatives who had “escorted” dad to Bombay from Calcutta were “in tension” and disappeared to another relative’s house In Borivilli or Kandivilli or some shitsville. So I spent the next six weeks by his side….going back to Pune to get clothes and stuff once or twice, I don’t remember exactly….and the night before his operation was the last proper conversation we had. After that he could never speak properly again and stilted phrases and sign language had to suffice for the deep voice I still hear in the stillness….The hospital authorities and the doctors were most kind. I ate, slept and lived at Nanavati. I became part of the furniture even in the ICU….the canteen guys and I knew each other by first name. And late in the night, sitting alone and crying over a cup of coffee and a Stephen King, my life seemed to be at a standstill. But life goes on…..one night I was suddenly woken up from my slumber on the couch in dad’s room because he had tried to get out of bed and broken the IV drip bottle…he wanted to go home. So over the next few days, arrangements were made, my mother finally deigned to return from the US and Baba was shifted to a hospital in Calcutta. The vanishing relatives reappeared and nodded when the doctors explained everything…..the mistake I made was that I did not fly to Calcutta with Baba as I thought mom was home and would handle things now. How could I imagine that those vanishing relatives had not understood a word of what the doctor had said and could not communicate anything to my mother……I blamed myself when I got my mother’s letter…and that was the first time I called home. This was certainly an emergency. It was one of the longest conversations I have had with my mother and by the end of it all we were both in tears…Baba would have so disapproved, I thought as I pretended it was just dust in my eye for the benefit of the phone booth guys….
After dad passed away I called home twice…once when I heard my grandmother had passed away and then a month later when my grandfather followed her.
Then my five years in college were up, I came home with the (erroneous) belief that I was needed here. The phone was now a slim line push button affair and I could make as many calls as I wanted and speak for as long as I liked. But I didn’t really care to. Oh it was nice to hear from friends and it was good to talk but my conversation was limited….and even curt. When my husband was courting me we used to talk all hours on the phone. He would call after I got home from work at about 1 am and we’d talk till the wee-er hours…..even then I realized that he did most of the talking…so much to his disgust I used to call him All India Radio….switch it on and there it goes…..
I always had this phone phobia ….or communication problem when I came to phone conversations…after I was married , my in laws often wondered why I did not call or speak on the phone. So when they went to Hyderabad and then Delhi, I took to writing to them…. Crazy letters that spoke of everything but said nothing, I realized I am much better with the written word than the spoken one! Even now I am haunted by the phone, each time it rings, I often hang up promising to call back and hope to meet the person in person before that call becomes overdue….I hate it when a client goes on rattling in obvious distress about lengthy domestic issues and wish they would just take an appointment and rant in front of me……when I have time….(one thing I really crave.) And now phones come in all shapes and sizes, they can do everything but make dinner and argue my cases for me in court. I remember the first cell phone I had, it was heavy and it resembled a brick. I used to call it my Nokia ad…once when Isha was just over a year old and could barely stand, she threw it from our 3rd floor apartment to the pavement below…..It was in pieces, I ran and collected them all and lo and behold when I put it together ( I needed the help of a rubber band)…it worked!!!!!!
Anyway now my latest gadget is the Blackberry storm…it’s nice and I can see all the emails I do not want to see when I do not want to see them! And one touch opens up the internet and facebook and helps me pass a lot of time when I really should be finishing that draft…(like now!!) but I still get tongue tied on the phone. I love it when old friends or friends or relatives I have been dying to meet or talk to call…I want to speak my heart out, tell them of all that’s been happening in my life and share a slice of theirs….I want to tell them I love them and they are precious in my life and I miss them and I am so happy and blessed that they are there and life’s too short to not say these things…
But all I can manage is a weak “okay,ya….” when I am asked, “how’s life?”
My silence says the rest.

Last Night

Theres this huge structure that lights up a mute shade of jade and in the light reflecting off it, fireflies glow a gentle golden...the wind whips up dust and on the crossroad stands the poet who made the place famous...also the custodian of the place. As our car passes we see him and his expression is kindly but grim. He is a big man with long hair that curls around his face as the dust blows. It is dark and cloudy and looks like rain and I want to stop the car and talk to him and maybe say something intelligent but the car will not stop the words will not come for my mouth is full of dust....I turn back and I am at my childhood home , only it is unkempt and wild, banyan trees have grown roots and the place hisses at me in the dark. But I know I have to go for there further inside, the lantern glows and I know my father waits for me...patiently. Someone taps me on the shoulder and I fall into my lover's arms...strong and safe and we are falling and free-falling and then flying through the air in each others arms and I am warm and naked and he whispers that he has been waiting forever and I want to reply but I cannot for the words will not come and it is an effort to speak and the wind blows the sea breeze in my face and I find I am alone on a rock and I scream into the wind that this is not what I want......but Isha turns and says,"..but you have to help me, Ma." and I run to catch her and hold her in my arms but then this door opens and I am in a wide chamber where the only light comes from a candle lit in a corner and this huge dark man has his back to me and I somehow know he waits for me so I approach cautiously, careful not to make a sound ...but he hears my footstep and turns...and I wake up screaming...and find myself looking at my alarm that rings me to safety.
Go interpret!

Welcome 2010!

2009
Okay, it’s that time of year again…time to do my annual recap of the year that was giving a low down on the highs and lows of the year basically letting you catch up on what’s been happening in my life…whether you want to know or not!!!!
So let’s see, where do I start? 2009 was a year full of trials…but there were good times too (only I’m trying very hard to remember what they were!)…well, it was one of those years, I guess. Work was good, (let’s start with something safe…) kept me appropriately busy and out of trouble, sometimes busier than I would’ve liked to be, but hey, I’m not complaining. I had to travel a bit and I thoroughly enjoyed the “time out”… a luxury I can ill afford! There were the usual share of disappointments but all in all it worked out more or less. I’ve become quite the juggler… home, kids, work, cooking, family, extended family etc…. only sometimes I feel the jesters cap is missing!
The girls have been busy…. Piano, roller-skating, badminton, singing, studies….they rarely have time to breathe! And I like it that way!! Isha wishes she was learning silly Hannah Montana songs instead of classical and watching TV all the time instead of learning Arithmetic tables but those are minor hitches as far as I’m concerned….at least now she’s learnt the words of the only MJ song I like (Will you be there?) and I’m hoping she’ll sing it for me one of these days…only as any Mum will tell you, kids never have time for such things for their “uncool” mothers! As for Amisha, she loves roller-skating and badminton and ice creams and sour sweets that make your teeth rot and fall out…but hates her studies and finds every excuse in the book to be in the loo when she should be studying! Isha had an appendix operation last March and milked it for all it was worth when she wasn’t allowed to lift heavy weights or do any strenuous activities for 3 months!!!!!
But the girls had some serious growing up to do, their beloved grand-mother passed away last year. She spoilt them rotten and the day she died they were heart-broken, their first encounter with something so final as death….but kids are more resilient than we give them credit for, they have neatly interwoven her memories into their lives. For us too, it was a huge jolt. Ma was more to me than just a mother-in-law and I do miss her calming presence. For Amitesh and Baba she has left much more than just a void and it’s something you can see in their eyes. For me I have just adjusted myself to having more to do…..although I seriously doubt I do anything of worth! We went though the motions and rituals and at every step I was faced with the girls’ pointed questions to which I had no answer. It prodded me to ask myself about the after death state of being…..is it infinite and peaceful floating in eternity or are we doomed to tuneless chants in a dead language! Whatever the case may be, it’s unlikely I’ll know very soon. But faith is a very strong emotion, specially if you have it!
I lost my uncle too, my Dad’s brother… and our family lost a much revered priest. I was sad but somewhere along the way I seem to have lost the ability to cry…grieving has become such a continuous process sometimes…..after committing the man I loved most in this world to the pyre I wonder if there are any tears left! And yes, I do dredge up the past. I look at it often, mourn the memories or smile at them as the case may be and return to my life……
Sadly though, the feelings remain. The loss, the anger, the frustration, the emptiness and the vacancy of nothing to look forward to. Yet there is love and laughter and the joy of friends and family who stand by us through it all.
That has been one saving grace, the support of family and friends. Near and far, they all reached out…some even came as a surprise…but I don’t know where we would’ve been without them. So God bless you all!
The year ended beautifully though, we were in Bhutan on 31st December and awoke to a city blanketed in snow. It was beautiful watching the flurries of snow as it fell. As I watched the snow and heard the girls’ laughter around me I was filled with a sense of peace and hope. May this year be like that, peace filled and as quiet as you wish it to be. May all your wishes and dreams come true and may you find contentment and see the light surrounding you…I hope to.
Quietly,