A steaming cup of filter coffee in a steel glass with a steel bowl to hold the glass, this was the ultimate of coffee love for Trisha. Her impatient fingers could not wait, she touched the hot glass with her right hand and an instinctive “ouch” came out, louder than she thought. The man sitting on the table opposite to hers looked up. She gave a self conscious half smile, and before she knew it he walked upto her table holding a glass of iced water, “dip your fingers in this glass, you will get instant relief” he said. Trisha obeyed him like a small child and then started laughing loudly at the whole situation, he joined in too with an open smile. Without invitation he pulled out the vacant chair on her table and sat down. Their Hi Hellos slowly turned into some interesting conversation. Like the mellowing evening they eased in each other’s company. Dusk was settling its ink blue sheets on the ocean’s waves. Trisha’s hot filter coffee and his iced drink knew that this hot and cold acquaintance was turning into a warm friendship. Filter coffee sure knows how to break the ice and start an unfiltered conversation.
The doors were closed. All the doors in this little sleepy town in France were closed the day I went knocking. Perhaps they had all retired after a night filled with revelry. Perhaps they had all gone to the church together. The list of ‘perhaps’ could be endless. Yet through those closed doors I saw the people within, in my imagination. I saw them huddled around the parlour. I saw them busy in the kitchen preparing a casserole. I saw the ailing grandmother in her bed waiting for someone to enter her room. I saw the young lovers lying in bed sleeping peacefully in each other’s arm. I saw the father in his sixtees wearing a perpetual frown as he read the news paper. I saw the baby in her cot smiling at absolutely nothing. I saw the mother immersed in a book next to the cradle. These closed doors told me a hundred stories about the people living behind them in this little sleepy town. Every closed door is an assurance of life within waiting for a knock.
As I walked away from those closed doors I thought of you. Did you come knocking on my door or was it someone else. Did you wait for me on the other side or did you just walk away. Did you come to wake me up or for forever to stay. My questions will keep knocking on my door for the waiting is always endless.
I want to sit on that chair and sip a cup of coffee. The other chair will remain empty, absolutely empty. In my imagination I can make anyone sit on that empty chair, a friend, a celebrity, perhaps a stranger, or just my muse. I will have a conversation without words. I will smile but only with my eyes. My coffee cup will get cold but I won’t get up to refill it. The slow lazy winter afternoon will get hazy as evening will descent. I will keep sitting on my chair in silence watching the grass turn dark. The empty chair will slowly get wet with the soft tears of winter. The cold wind will gently pass by sending a shiver down my spine. I will hug myself for warmth. The chill will start setting into my bones. And then with a sigh I will rise from the chair with the unfinished coffee cup in hand to walk down those marked path. I will return to my room. The chair will be empty once again. Once again the chair will wait for someone to come and sit and share their stories with it.
I am a doctor’s daughter. When your father is a doctor, you grow up amidst stories of patients, patient behavior, diseases , medical representatives and loads of medical journals all over the house. I don’t recall ever wishing my father on doctor’s day , father’s day, or even on his birthday. My father fell ill, very seriously ill twenty five years ago, and the medical profession he had lived for couldn’t give him a second chance. So I miss him ever since, I miss him everyday and on these special days I want him to know that “Baba, you were special “. I want to write about a few of the stories I have grown up hearing . They are the sweet and sour stories of a doctor who chose to practice medicine in a small town instead of shifting to the big city.
Warisaliganj was the name of the place where my parents lived, the place where I grew up till I had to be sent away to Kolkata for better education. Kolkata made me the person I am today but my fondest memories still go back to that small place called Warisaliganj. But this story is about Baba and his patients.
Since the town was very small Baba had opened a pathological laboratory within the premises of his chamber. Little did he know that one of his naive patient would one day land up with a ‘mithai ka handi’ filled with his morning job’s sample and place it on the doctor’s table with a victorious smile. Baba had just about started scolding the person for getting him rasgulla when he was stopped short and was told about the contents within the handi, it was a sample for the path-lab! Needless to say what happened after that ,but my poor Baba lost his appetite for handi full of rasgulla forever.
In the seventies, the small towns and villages of Bihar were often attacked by dacoits in true Gabbar Singh style. The ‘gaon walo ‘ would run indoors, shut all doors and windows and wait for the bombarding to stop , which was an indication that the dacoits had left. No one ever dared open a door or come out to help anyone. But a doctor’s door is open at all times without any discrimination towards the patients. One such night, when the dacoits were raiding our town , amidst bombardment someone rang our bell loud and sharp and insistently. Baba opened the door, only to find two armed dacoits in black clothing with their faces masked standing there. They had not come to rob us, we were not wealthy enough to be robbed ! They had come to take Baba to their adda/ thikana ( whatever you may call it ) to treat a fellow dacoit who had suffered bullet injuries. Yes, my Baba had to go that night with the dacoits. They blind folded him before starting their jeep. I still remember the extreme agony and tension Ma went through that night, though quite young I too stayed up the night with Ma waiting for Baba to come back home. Baba returned home in the early hours of the morning .Though such incidents were never again repeated in our life but Baba loved to recall this hair raising experience in light jest and call himself “Daku ka Doctor.”
If poverty is a curse, being poor and sick is a bigger curse. I understand now the immense sense of purpose Baba must have had to spend his life amidst the poor, to give them access to healthcare they otherwise might not have received. He spent many nights in small huts to be next to his ailing patients. His resources as a doctor were not many in that small town. Many patients had to be referred to the bigger hospitals in the adjoining district towns, but Baba stayed on with grit and determination. Another extreme story of poverty had left its mark on my childhood memory. During a house visit to a seriously ill patient Baba noticed the man of the house leaving home stealthily with ‘pital ‘ utensils. On being asked he admitted of not having any money, he planned to sell his utensils to pay for the medicines. Baba paid the medicine bills for many such patients. He had set up an arrangement with the medicine shop. He would write the word “free patient” on top of the prescription, this was a code for the shopkeeper to understand that the bills would be paid by the doctor himself and not the patient party. His diagnostic expertise and selfless dedication made him the most famous doctor amongst many districts of Bihar. People thronged from far and wide for their faith in his medicine. What Baba earned in cash fell short to what he earned in kind. He earned trust, he earned goodwill, he earned the blessings of people who didn’t have much to give.
These stories were not meant for the world to know, these stories were not meant to sing his praise. These stories are of my Baba, who just lived a simple life being truthful to the oath he had taken once as a medicine man. Ending my story here with a last funny note. When my Baba and Ma left Warisaliganj and came back home to Kolkata to start their retired life, his chamber did not shut down. Baba’s very accomplished compounder continued practicing ( as a quack doctor ) in the same chamber with “Dr. Chakladar” written on the board. Many admonishing letters were sent his way, whether to any avail or not, we do not know.
Thank you Doctors, health care providers, and scientists. Thank you for holding our hands all through the pandemic raging days. A big salute to our real life super-men and super-women.
তুমি নির্বাসনে গেছো, এ তোমার স্বেচ্ছা নির্বাসন। কথার কোলাহল থেকে নির্বাসন, নিরন্তর গতি থেকে নির্বাসন নীরোগ হওয়ার নির্বাসন, প্রিয় জন কে ভাল রাখার নির্বাসন তুমি নির্বাসনে গেছো, এ তোমার স্বেচ্ছা নির্বাসন।
তোমার অন্তরে লুকিয়ে থাকা গোপন যত ব্যাথা, তাদের সাথে হবে আজ নতুন কিছু কথা। জরা জীর্ণের উর্ধে উঠে জ্বলবে যেদিন আলো নতুন সূর্যের ছটায় হারিয়ে যাবে আঁধার রাতের কালো।
তোমার ঘরের বাইরে ঘুরে বেড়ায় তোমার ছোট মেয়ে বন্ধ দরজার পিছনে তোমার উপস্থিতি খোঁজে চেয়ে চেয়ে তোমার ঘরের জানলা দিয়ে দেখা যায় যে মাধবী লতা হওয়ার টানে বয়ে আনে রোজ মধুর ফুলের মাদকতা আজ সেই সুবাসে তোমার প্রাণে জাগে না কোনো আশ গন্ধে তোমার ঘর ভরে যায়, চোখের জলে ঝাপসা চারিপাশ।
রাত জাগা এক পাখির ডাকে তুমি কবিতা লেখো একা ঘরের বিছানায় তুমি স্বপ্ন ভোরের ছবি আঁকো তুমি বেরিয়ে পরার স্বপ্ন দেখো, লক্ষ জনের ভিড়ের মাঝে তুমি জড়িয়ে ধরার স্বপ্ন দেখো, সকাল বিকেল নতুন সাজে পাহাড় শেষের উপত্যকায়, নদী যেখানে দৌড়ে বেড়ায় তুমি রামধেনূ রঙ মাখিয়ে গায়ে, ছুটছ যেন রণপা পায়ে।
তুমি নির্বাসনে গেছো, এ তোমার স্বেচ্ছা নির্বাসন রণক্ষেত্রে যুদ্ধ করে ,আর দুটো দিন থাকবে ঘরে, যেদিন তুমি দরজা খুলে ডাকবে তাকে কোলের কাছে ছুটে এসে তোমার মেয়ে লুকিয়ে পড়বে বুকের মাঝে।
তুমি নির্বাসনে গেছো, এ তোমার স্বেচ্ছা নির্বাসন তুমি বুক ভরে নিশ্বাস নেবে, এ খোলা of বাতাস তোমার তুমি মানুষের পাশে গিয়ে দাঁড়াবে, এ পৃথিবী সবার তুমি নির্বাসন থেকে ফিরেছো, সে ছিল তোমার স্বেচ্ছা নির্বাসন ।
The nights were sombre, days were grim, Dawn was clothed like sleep’s old pimp. The thoughts were crowded, smiles were hidden, Laughter was scarce, perhaps forbidden.
I walked a mile to meet the dusk.
The children had forgotten to run and play, Parents had locked them in homes to stay. The neighbors were fearful, doors were shut, The houses looked barren like some abandoned hut.
I walked a mile to meet the dusk.
The friends had left, families had forgotten, Humanity was alone waiting to be rewritten. The sick were in pain, breathing was not easy, Yet the air flowed freely, light and breezy.
I walked a mile to meet the dusk.
Dusk was filled with birds chirping sound, A joyous melody of hearts homeward bound. Dusk cradled in its arms the sun and moon,
Dusk showered the earth with a celestal boon.
I walked a mile to meet the dusk.
Dusk was waiting for me at the bend of lane, Holding in one hand, a sun set framed. Dusk showed me in that beautiful light, A hope for tomorrow, burning ever so bright.
Being a golfer’s wife is a very different game from being just a wife. Trust me on this one for I have been both, the former title has come to my life in more recent times. The perils of being a wife (without the affix) is a lot easier. Women have been trained to play a wife’s role by generations of mothers and grandmothers. We are socially conditioned for this role more than any other. Of course we can always chose to be a good wife or not ! The sudden transition from a wife to a golfer’s wife had its own challenges for me. No one in my family had ever played golf before and in my middle class upbringing the tiger always lived in the woods and not in the husband’s dreams.
When the husband retired from active services of one kind ( the one where he got paid) my expectations of him joining active services at home as my intern increased many folds. I have been toiling at the home front alone for a pretty long innings and my tired bones longed for help. For the first few weeks I took to pampering the retired man of the house ( old habits die hard). Then I thought of familiarizing him with the place called home, and explaining the finer nuances of home management. But when the man learnt that in this new job description words like incentives, bonus, gratuity were completely missing he immediately started looking for greener pastures elsewhere. He decided to chose golf over the nondescript job offer I had for him.
The sequence of events that followed after this was way beyond my control or anticipation. A love affair of another kind started brewing . The love of a sportsman with his sport. The grass surely looked greener on the other side ! The golf set arrived home even before I could learn to spell Decathlon. Membership to various clubs , finding the right golf partner , a good coach, all this happened in lightning speed .My otherwise tranquil married life of three decades and counting suddenly sensed the threat with a partnership of another kind where “love all” could never be the score.
The first day the golfer husband brought his new golf set home, his euphoria and happiness was childlike. And quite like a child he soon started swinging the golf sticks ( yes, that is what I had called it then, for the first and last time ) in mid air in our living room. While I sat watching him with my heart in my mouth, in constant fear that he would knock over something or the other, he played on. A friend of my golfer had tried scoring a ‘birdie’ in his living room which ended in a shattered chandelier and an angry bird ( oops, I mean wife ) tale.
That the grass was greener on the other side, I had long accepted, but his love for the greens had started making me a little green with envy. His eyes had already seen beauty elsewhere. Like an anticipating lover in waiting, the first change that I noticed in my husband was his restlessness to hit the greens. His night sleep got altered, he started waking up before the sun to get ready and reach the golf course at dawn. What followed for the rest of the day was a man who had hit the snooze button by mistake ! My impatience and his patience grew in reverse order. I knew there was no stopping a man in love, albeit with a sport. Little did I know that my bewilderment had just begun.
To appreciate any sport one has to have a lot of patience , focus, time , energy and discipline. I was not playing the sport but I had to practice patience to cope with the long hours of his absence from home. To understand golf I had to relearn some sporting facts. I am told golf is an individual sport, where a person plays with oneself, but when two or more people play at the same time they are playing two balls, three balls and so on. Hmm, so people become ball and then there is this guy running around finding your balls, I mean the real ball. Confusing, right? In short what I understand is that ‘you need a lot of balls to play a good game of golf’. It surely is a different ball game altogether ! In every other sport that I have ever taken any interest in, the score card has taught me that the more numbers on the board the closer you are to victory, but in golfing it is just the opposite, less is more and it is literally true. I am surely and definitely lost with this tiger in the woods story.
I am no fan of word play ! But to understand the terms of golfing word play does play a role. Why else would a golfer go to a golf club to play with a golf club, to fathom this clubbed factor I get a little more than curious. The club is a club only to begin with, the more you get into the game the ‘wood’, the ‘iron’ and the ‘putter’ claim individuality. A golfer can use them technically to score a ‘birdie’ or an ‘eagle’ and even a ‘turkey.’ While the golfers play with the birds on ground I almost hear an ‘albatross’ flying away in the blue sky shrieking ‘bogey’. Golfers too are birds of a feather, and they ‘flick’ together morning ,noon and evening. Like a flock of birds they are seen together but to give wings to their balls they fly solo. Indeed birds fly better than balls, but the elegance of a smooth shot and a tiny white ball rising from the green ground high in the air and landing with perfection calls for applaud.
To understand the lexicon of golf you need to be a golfer and I am but only a golfer’s wife. Thus following the golfer’s etiquette I yell ‘fore’ before my humorous ‘chip’ offends or hits any golfer in the greens.
আমার ছোট জা বললো “দিদি কালো জিরে কাঁচা লঙ্কার লেখা তো হল, এবার সরষে পোসতো নিয়ে লেখো দেখি”। শোনো মেয়ের কথা, আচ্ছা এমনি আব্দার কেউ করে যা রাখা দায়। সত্যি এর চেয়ে ঢের সোজা হতো যদি সে সরষে বাটা দিয়ে ইলিশের আব্দার করত। লেখা কি sunrise এর গুঁড়ো মশলার প্যাকেট, যার যখন ইচ্ছে প্যাকেট এর মুখ কাঁচি দিয়ে কাটবে আর ঝুর ঝুর করে লেখার গুঁড়ো ছড়িয়ে পড়বে। বন্ধু বান্ধব না হয় ভালোবেসে প্রথম কালো জিরে কাঁচা লঙ্কার ফোড়নে কিছু হাত তালি দিয়ে ফেলেছে, তাই বলে তাদের ভালোবাসার সুযোগ নিয়ে সোজা সরষে পোসতোর গল্প, তাও কি সম্ভব! লেখা ঝাঁজ হয়ে যাবার ভয় আছে, তেতো হয়ে যাবার ভয় আছ, মোট কথা হল এই যে এমন লেখার অনেক রিস্ক। টক ,ঝাল, মিষ্টি হলে তবু একটা কথা ছিল, চাটনীর মত চট চটে একটা প্রেম কাহিনী লেখার চেষ্টা করতাম। পিঠে পুলির শীতে, নলেন গুড়ের রসে জবজবে একটা লেখা লিখতে মন চাইছে, কিন্তু লিখতে বসেছি সরষে পোসতোর গল্প। ঘটি,বাঙালের গল্প নয়,গল্প হবে নর ও নারীর , একটু ঝাঁজে, একটু লাজে, চেষ্টা করি সরষে পোসতোর গল্প বলার।
সরষে পোসতো হোক কিম্বা জীবন, যতক্ষণ না শিল আর নোড়ার চাপে পিষছে রঙ, রস, গন্ধ ,স্বাদ কোনটাই প্রকাশ পায় না । পিষতে পিষতে ধীরে ধীরে মিশে যায় তাদের একান্ত নিজস্ব পরিচিতি, হয়ত বা নিজের অজান্তেই একে অপরের পরিপূরক হয়ে ওঠে সরষে আর পোসতো । আমার এই আকাশ কুসুম গল্পের খাতিরে সরষে না হয় হোক নর আর পোসতো হোক নারী , ঠিক যেন রান্নাঘরের “হৃদয়ের একুল ওকুল”। আর এদের যুগল বন্দি হয়ে উঠুক আমার রসনার রচনা ।
ঝাঁজ সরষে যেন কড়া মেজাজের পুরুষ, সারাক্ষণ বেশ একটা রাগ রাগ অহংকারী হাব ভাব। কাঁচা হলুদ রঙের সরষে ক্ষেতের উচ্ছল যৌবনের নাচ দেখল মন টা কেমন DDLJ হয়ে ওঠে আজও । আর হবে নাই বা কেন, দিল তো পোসতো হ্যায় জী, দিল কি মানবে কড়া শাসনের “প্রেমে পরা বারন”; নাঃ ,সরষের আকর্ষণ এ পোসতো সাড়া দেবেই। কিন্তু ঐ কাঁচা হলুদ সরষের ফসল দেখে বোঝা যায় না যে এই হলুদ রঙের ঝাঁকড়া চুলের যুবক আগামী দিনে হয়ে উঠবে সরিষার তৈল, ঝাঁজে আর গুণে অতুলনীয়। তবু কেন জানি পুরুষ কে দেখলেই আমার মনে হয় তাদের জীবন অনেকটা কাসুনদির বোতলের মধ্যে বন্দি দশা, ঢাকনা খুলতেই ঝাঁজ বেরিয়ে পরে। এদের মাথার ছিপি বন্ধ রেখে ঠান্ডা ঘরে রাখাই শ্রেয়, তাতে ঝাঁজ ও স্বাদ দুই ভাল থাকে! বাঙালি হওয়ার সুবাদে আমার অবাঙালি বন্ধুরা আমার কাছে সরষে বাটা দিয়ে মাছ খেতে চেয়েছেন বহুবার। প্রত্যেক বার রাঁধতে গিয়ে তেতো হয়ে যাবার ভয়ে ভয়ে থেকেছি। আমার আবার একটি দোষ আছে, ভালোবাসতে গেলেই বোকামি করে মাত্রা জ্ঞান হারিয়ে ফেলি, তা সে সরষে হোক বা পুরুষ। অভিজ্ঞতা থেকে শিখেছি, সরষে পোসতো কে এক করে রান্না করলে স্বাদের বাহার যায় বেড়ে আর রান্না করাও হয়ে ওঠে অনেক বেশি সহজ ।
মনের চোখ দিয়ে দেখলে পোসতোর সঙ্গে আমাদের মেয়েদের বেশ একটা মিল পাই আমি । প্রেয়সীর মতন মনের কোনে কবে কখন ঘর করে নেবে বোঝা যাবেনা। কিন্ত একবার তাকে ভালবেসে ফেললে মন নেশায় ডুবতে ডুবতে গেয়ে উঠবে, “নেশা লাগিল রে, নেশা লাগিল রে বাঁকা দু নয়নে নেশা লাগিল রে” । নারী আর পোসতোর প্রেম ও প্রকৃতি নিরীহ গোছের, বাইরে থেকে দেখে বোঝার উপায় নেই, সাদামাটা ভাব, কিন্তু অন্তরে প্রেমের সাগর লুকানো । সাদামাটা মন, সহজেই মিল মিশ খায়, আর নিজেই নিজের মূল্য বোঝে না। একটু সৌখিন, একটু আদুরে পোসতো বাটা যখন গিয়ে মেশে মুরগির ঝোল বা দেশী আলু ঝিঙের তরকারিতে, তখন ঘরোয়া রান্না ও হয়ে ওঠে পার্টি ফুড !
এমন সাদামাটা পোসতো আমাকেও (যে কিনা তার সম গোত্রের) কম বোকা বানায়নি । যখন আমার প্রথম সংসার করতে পথে নামা তেমন সময় একদিন আমায় জানানো হল যে আমার জীবন সঙ্গী মানুষটি পোসতো ভাজা খেতে খুব ভালবাসেন । তার এই ভালবাসায় আমার কি রোল সেটা বুঝতে আমার বেশ কিছুদিন লেগেছিল ।পরে জানতে পেরেছিলাম জিনিষ টি রান্না করতে পারলে আমার বিবাহিত জীবনের দুর্গম পথ কিছুটা হলেও সুগম হয়ে উঠবে। বুঝলাম “way to a man’s heart is through his stomach” গোছের একটি শিক্ষা আমাকে দেওয়া হচ্ছিল। মায়ের হাতের পোসতোর বড়া খাওয়া এক কথা আর পোসতোর সঙ্গে নিজের হাতেখড়ী ,এই দুটোতে যে কত পার্থক্য জেনেছিলাম তখন ! পোসতো বানাতে গেলে ঘরে কাঁচা পোসতো লাগে, আমার রান্নাঘরে সেইসময় এমন সৌখিন মশলা থাকত না । কোনো ব্যাপার না, মুদির দোকানে গিয়ে গম্ভীর মুখে দোকানি কে এক কিলো পোসতো দিতে বলেছিলাম। একটু বেশি করে কিনে রাখা ভাল, এমনই একটা মনভাব। দোকানি অনেকক্ষণ আমার মুখের দিকে তাকিয়ে থেকে ধীর স্বরে আমায় পোসতোর দাম শুনিয়েছিলেন । দাম শুনে খানিকটা থমকে গিয়ে, এদিকে ওদিকে তাকিয়ে প্রায় ফিসফিস করে ছিলাম, ‘তাহলে একশো গ্রাম দিন’ । সেই পোসতো বাড়ি এনে পিষতে গিয়ে জল বেশি দিয়ে ছড়িয়ে ছিটিয়ে, পোসতো ডুবেছিল না আমি সে গল্পে কাজ নেই। বহু পরে জীবনের জ্ঞান চক্ষু খোলার পর দেখতে পেয়েছি, ” way to a man’s heart is a blind alley”. তবে তা নিয়ে দুঃখ নেই কারণ পোসতোর সঙ্গে এখন আমার বেশ মাখো মাখো একটা সম্পর্ক।
পুরানো কাসুনদি ঘেঁটে আর কাজ নেই। আমার যুগের গল্প তো প্রায় ত্রেতা যুগের সমসাময়িক । নতুন যুগের সঙ্গে তাল মিলিয়ে সরষে আর পোসতো হয়ে উঠেছে প্রেমিক আর প্রেমিকা, এবং তাঁদের জন্য নতুন মোড়কে নতুন ঘর করে দিয়েছ sunrise, এখন তাঁরা একইসাথে থাকেন। সত্যিই এখন প্যাকেট এর মুখ কেটে ঝুর ঝুর করে সরষে পোসতো পাওয়া যায়।আশাকরি আমার গল্পে পোসতো খসখস হয়ে ওঠেনি আর সরষের ঝাঁজে লেখা তেতো হয়নি। যাক তবু ছোট জায়ের আব্দার তো রাখলাম, তাতে করে আমার গল্পের গরু গাছে চড়ে না হয় একটু খিক খিক করে হাসলোই বা, নতুন বছরে প্রিয় মানুষের জন্যে একটি উপহার তো তৈরি হল । পাঠক বন্ধুদের যদি ভালো লেগে যায় সেটা হবে আমার উপরি পাওনা।
I am fading, like the silk threads of a fraying old shawl, I am fading, like the peeling paint on your backyard wall, I am fading, like the fragile pages of an unopened book, I am fading, like the folded maps of roads I never took.
I am fading, like the sounds of those long unheard voices, I am fading, like the failures of my ruthless youthful choices, I am fading, like the lone calendar hanging way past its date, I am fading, like the wilting yellow grass under a trees shade.
I am fading, like my own shadow losing its way in the dark, I am fading, like the painting, unframed and watermarked, I am fading, like the crumbling sepia photos in an old album, I am fading, like a childhood memory lost in lifes humdrum.
I am fading, like the hidden heart-beat of a first secret love, I am fading, like the letters forgotten in the black trunk above, I am fading, like the autumn leaf withering in winter’s slumber, I am fading, like my reflection in a tarnished mirror, with nothing left to forget or remember.
The book mark was on page nine. A beautiful hand embroidered book mark with pretty pink and blue flowers. The book had got lost between the other books on the book shelf. I remembered having started to read this book many months back. Now that I had found it again I was ready to get transported into the beautiful world of stories, to lose myself within its pages. I opened the book on page nine to start reading again.
Good books compel me to read and re-read some lines many times for its sheer magic. Intricately woven words, creating a mosaic with words both intriguing and fascinating ! Sometimes when I am reading a book the world held in the pages come pouring out and roam freely all around me. The characters evoke a myriad of emotions within me. Love fringed with anxiety, joy laced with pain, desire soaked with fear keeps me in its grip . But this story is about page nine, I am stuck on page nine. The book has been waiting for sometime now. The book mark was on page nine.
As I opened the book on page nine I wanted to go back to the first line of the book. I do this quite often, as if the whole story is hidden in the very first line ! I had once read a first line, which read “Of course the garden is located where all our beginning, Karim’s and mine, are located:Karachi”, the book had me in its grip at that. But coming back to the first line of the book held in hand, I read the first line and the second and the third and was about to turn to page nine when a burning smell filled the air around me. It was not my imagination, it was real, the smell was coming from my kitchen. I had left the milk pan to simmer on the stove. The milk and my reading hour both definitely got ruined for the day. I had no reading hour these days, to steal an hour for my book from myself was not an option. The book mark came back on page nine and my book lay on the table to be opened again on some later date. The book mark was on page nine.
A few days passed by before I had time to come back to my book again. The book mark was on page nine but I could not remember what had happened between pages one and eight. My mischievous memory could not recall those tiny details of who was related to whom and how. I went back to pages five to seven to brush up my memory. I kept reading and every line seemed new. Had I read those lines before ? I couldn’t remember ; was I half asleep or my mind was elsewhere while my eyes were reading. I read every line again, as though for the first time till I reached page nine. I was totally intending to read more when the daughter walked into the room and asked “Ma , interested in watching a new show together, it is on hotstar.” Of course I was interested, this was an invitation I could not refuse. The book could wait but not the precious time with my daughter. And the book was once more shut on page nine. The book mark was on page nine.
Once upon a time I could read for hours, uninterrupted. Those days are lost, I have managed to fill my hours with everything else but a book ! Yet reading is almost like a fatal attraction, once in love with a book it always lures me back in its folds. I reopened my book once again.The book mark was still on page nine, patiently waiting . The girl and the boy in the book were talking about ‘old uncle Rahim’. I remembered ‘old uncle Rahim’ he was the gardener, but just could not remember what he was wearing , was it a black checkered half shirt and a worn out denim pant. The need to know these tiny detail for sure was almost like a compulsive disorder. I had to go back all the way to pages two and three, just to catch a glimpse of “old uncle Rahim” limping around from one bush to the other in a black checkered shirt and a worn out denim pant !
I sat with the book open on page nine and as a gentle breeze would sway, my mind sways back to the beautiful garden where the young boy and the girl ran around chasing each other in rain soaked clothes. Why do I have to make a cinema of a book in my mind as I read ? I will never know, but the motion picture has to run parallel with the reading. I smiled, as I remembered the oleander tree in the garden with a blue bench under it. What colour were the flowers, were they pale pink or vibrant red. I had to know, I had to see the flowers of eternal bloom in the garden, on page four. I had to go back into the pages once more looking for the oleander tree. I was losing my way in the garden, I had to come out of the garden before the dark, I had to switch the lights on, I had to go back to page nine, for the book mark was on page nine. The book mark with its beautiful hand embroidered red and pink flowers are still waiting for me on page nine.
sangeeta chakladar 