life

A Beach Day

/ sangeeta_chakladar / 3 Comments

I am your beach. I have come to share my side of the story today. No, I am not mute or dead. I am alive, I live by your side everyday, waiting for you, rejoicing with you, yet you do not know me.  When you walk on my sands and sing your favourite songs , I want to sing along with you. When the lovers sitting together gaze out into the sea, I become one in their togetherness. I witness all the love stories and the heart breaks you unknowingly share with me . You are not alone when you feel sad and lonely, walking in a melancholic mood; I try to tickle your feet with my slippery sand, just to bring a smile on your lips. Yes, you do not recognize me ever, but your tears, smile, laughter, talk, stay back with me forever. And in the darkness of the night, when everyone goes back home, I bring out my precious shells and within its heart I transfer all your secrets and toss the shells back into the ocean, to stay there forgotten, forever.

Hey, let me sway the pensive mood to something more interesting. Allow me to tell you my experiences, secrets and stories. But you have to promise me that whatever I share with you today will stay “tere mere beech mein”. No spreading beach rumours around the town. Let this be our secret pact, to be beach buddies.  

I will share a secret which no one knows. We, the beaches all around the earth stay connected. We know what goes on where. We have our own network system of communication. Take the sand for example, they are such big travelers!  And while sand travels, they carry tales from one beach to the other. The deep secrets and gossips of the thrashing waves brings us news from every ocean far and wide. And the unending canopy of the sky, reflects all our emotions. We just need to look up to the sky, our messenger! 

Holidays and Sundays people rush out to spend a day on the beach. They come in big groups and small, the families with their umbrellas, towels ,music, and their noisy children. Oh, these children, though I love them the most, but they keep digging at my heart. Why do they have to carry their little shovels, buckets and start digging out my sand ? I know it is a game for them, but it hurts. And what is this craze to build these sand castles on the beach? I just do not understand. If you ask me frankly, none of them look like a castle to me. But what do I know of castles, I am just a beach, waiting to be washed back again and again into the sea.

Have you seen the beaches in Goa? Oh, you must have, they are so famous all over the world. I hear that Goa beaches are always in a party mood, how lucky are they, seeing all the tourists, excitement, and partying every single day. Some say that the Goa beaches do not sleep at night. It could be a rumour,  I am not sure. Stories of the Goan beaches sometimes makes me a little envious. But being a beach has its advantages, feelings don’t last for long. Envy, joy, sadness, no matter whatever is the emotion, the sea comes and washes it all away. Leaving the beach sparkling clean, ready for a new day, always. 

The white sand beaches of Miami, Maldives, Railay and so many other exotic foreign locations, are beautiful no doubt but they are also the naughty beaches of our clan. How easily they flirt with the bikini clad pretty women and gorgeous looking men, lying whole day on the beaches half clothed,  making the warm sand sizzling hot with their presence!  I have also heard scandalous tales of these people covering themselves fully with sand, what a sight it must be. But it is okay, I am not very flirtatious by nature. On the contrary, I have a little religious bend of mind. What with all the Gods and Goddesses being immersed in the sea round the year, my beach mentality gets a little influenced. My tolerance and patience levels are better than many other beaches that I know of. 

I think you have guessed by now, I am your amchi Mumbai beach. I love being the beach of Mumbai. Like a mother I have seen Mumbai grow around my beaches over the years. But somedays I get tired of this burden of population. I long for those clean, wide, shinning sandy beaches of Mumbai from the past. Now, when people cover every inch of my sand on a Sunday evening, I feel like screaming out for some air. They come in hoards,  they trample me, they suffocate me, they throw around their empty bottles and packets on my face. After their merry making they go back into their city lanes. In that darkness of the night , I stand alone, crying tears of pain. I wait for the sea to come, to wash me clean, all over again.  But for how long will the sea engulf your discarded load. The sea is getting choked every day. I stand silent and helpless watching the sea changing it’s colour,  turning a shade of grey darker day by day. 

Tomorrow again the sea will come to wash me clean. I will wait for you once again to come and spread your happiness in every grain of my sand. I do not want to be a lonely, lost beach on an island, far away in the middle of an ocean. I want to be with you, in this city of yours. I want to hear you talk, I want to tell you my endless stories, to watch sunsets  with you and your grandchildren. For that beautiful future together, let us pledge to take care of each other forever.

Melting

/ sangeeta_chakladar / 2 Comments
Mountain range

The mountain peaks at dawn, glistening like a white dress,
From my perched window, it seemed to be heaven’s address;
Melting in the warmth of day, the glacier softening its snow,
Meandering along gently forward, yet none could see it flow.

I gazed and gazed and in my heart , I felt some desires
melting away, like the flowing snow!

The sun softly coloured the western sky in molten gold,
I stood transfixed seeing the hues, which the rays had unfold,
Each ray of warm crimson, slowly melting into the deep lake,
Touching the core of every ripple, till it bled red with ache.

I gazed and gazed and in my heart, I felt some deep seeded
anger melting away, like a pain waiting to go!

Evening Azaan from a far away mosque filled the air around,
The praise of Allah permeating and melting ; music profound!
I turned away from the window, and walked into my room,
To light a candle at my altar, to fill it with jasmine bloom.

I gazed and gazed and in my heart, I felt some greed melting
away, with the ebbing echoes by the evening light!

The melting candle at the altar, drops of wax gently pouring,
In meditative silence I waited, to feel the heart beats soaring,
Soaring into those lofty realms where the mind begs to reside,
In the lap of nature, in a world without any forceful divide.

I gazed and gazed and in my heart, I felt some attachments
melting away, in that darkness of the night!

The darkness of the night indulging the sparkling stars,
From dawn to night I stood and stared into a horizon very far.
I melted with the hours and followed the day like a sage,
I learned from every spec bestowed upon earth’s endless stage.

I gazed and gazed and in my heart, I felt some pride melting
away, in that humbling silence of gratitude.

Resilience

/ sangeeta_chakladar / 2 Comments

A story of a nation ,
Leaning on the mighty Himalayas and Hindukush,
Which fought to stop every invaders’ push.

A story of a nation ,
Seeing the world walk into its inner courtyard,
Believing in the silk routes’ trading facade.

A story of a nation ,
With resilience and valor trying to save its lands,
Saving its integrity from the tight grip of the British hands.

A story of a nation ,
To stand up with head held high, after each battle pain,
To uphold deep seeded resilience, time and again.

A story of a nation ,
Which marched for Swaraj with a steel resolve of tolerance,
Broken in two and yet celebrated independence.

A story of a nation ,
Often dwindling and crumbling into fragmented quarters,
And building again from those gathered mass of shatters.

A story of a nation ,
Where amidst unity thrives diversity’s endless scope,
Where hearts are filled with strong resilience and hope.

A story of a nation ,
Where a resilient populace marks its presence strong,
Swaying the national flag and singing the national song.

This is the story of my country, young but centuries old.
My nation is my pride, and has endless stories untold.

Sail Away

/ sangeeta_chakladar / 4 Comments

At the darkest hour before the dawn, I stood by the sea,
The waves were covered in a burnt-grey sky’s canopy.
In the darkness of that hour, there emerged a lone boat,
With fishermen swaying in motion, to keep the vessel afloat.
The winter wind made me shiver, but I waited in a trance,
Watching the men ready their boat, for the ocean-dance.

Fearful of the swelling waves, fearful of that sombre hour,
I wanted them to wait a while, till the day’s crimson shower.
I called out to them, or so I thought, in my fearful lost state,
They did not wait or stop for me, for I was not a sailor’s mate.
My whisper didn’t reach their ears, my voice did not carry far,
I stood alone with the sky and sea and a lonely northern star.

They were not my own brothers, from near or far-away life,
Yet I felt an oneness with them, I was akin with their strive.
In a heavy rhythmic motion they pulled their seasoned oars,
Pulling their tiny vessel far, far away from the sandy shores.
Their life, fate and friendship entwined with the waters-deep,
In these waves they learn to dance, to smile and to weep.

I stood by the shore, watching them sail away from my vision,
In to the deep, where sky met the sea, or was it but an illusion.
My heart kept echoing to the dark mist, to raise its heavy veil,

Pleading with the sun to rise soon,  then safely they could sail.

Their needs! mere and frugal,their hearts filled with pride,
For each new day they greeted the waves, to play and to ride.

Like a lover’s call the mighty waves thrash on a barren beach,
To woe a sailor and take him away, far from the lands reach.
They unite, hidden from our eyes, there where no one can see,
With no ties of the land, in the lover’s arms a sailor is set free.
In grey fathom less waters, they find rainbow colours hue,
The sparkling sun, dressing the sea, in diamond studded blue.

They sang in chorus, singing a song of faith and fortitude ,
They oared in symphony, filling hearts, with sublime gratitude.
I stood quiet, hearing their song, and seeing them fade away,
The sea was roaring, it was a call , every sailor must obey.
I stood numbed, seeing them go, bidding a silent adieu,
They lived a life of glorious challenges, gifted only to a few.

Lost Words

/ sangeeta_chakladar / 8 Comments

My words are knocking at my door,
And I am not ready to hear.
My words are waiting on a cold floor,
And I am numbed with fear.
My words await like a lover forlorn,
Aah, for the love of my words, I am torn.

I remember closing the door on your face,
Not with a loud thud, but with gentle grace.
Like one hides after losing the race,
I wanted to hide in an agonizing space.
You once attempted to hold me back,
But I had vanished in my ink-blue black.

Why should I bring you inside ?
What is there for you to see ?
The same stories of broken pride,
Chasing the ego and no place to hide.
The opium laced hours of mundane ,
Crossing the borders of sane-insane.
A few broken images of the bygone day ,
Effortlessly piling upon my today.
With no ray of light lighting up tomorrow,
Yesterday’s happiness drowning in sorrow .

Why should I bring you inside ?
What is there for you to see ?
Smiles and laughter I once had spread ,
Those books together, we once had read.
The pages are torn, flying around the room,
The air is dismal, laden with gloom.
Unopened pages are crying in vain,
They look at me, but with disdain.
Memories are fading, without any fanfare,
And I sit in silence, within these walls of despair.

Why should I bring you inside ?
What is there for you to see ?
There is no novella to tell or bard to mourn,
There is a numbing silence, to which I have sworn.
The stories we had once weaved together,
The dreams made of wings as light as feather,
They have flown away from my mind,
Not to come back, and no one to remind.
All grand and lofty words sublime ,
Have been buried in the ruins of time.

Why do you still stand at my door,
My long forgotten words candor.
Words with power, to build and destroy,
To lure and win is your age old ploy.
You unfurl stories from my heart,
You hold me tight and tear me apart.
My thoughts had frozen like winter snow,
Your sunshine awakens with a tender glow.

My words are knocking at my door,
Alas, I will make you wait no more.
Like a diver from the depths of sea ,
Bringing the pearl and setting it free,
My words you pull me from my reverie,
Like a shameless lovers’ ecstasy.

Who’s in your wallet?

/ sangeeta_chakladar / 7 Comments

When Chalk and Cheese were planning their long vacation in America, one obvious talk was about the expenditures ahead and how much money to take along.

When we say ‘money’ it is an all encompassing concept, something like ‘humanity’; undivided by continents and social structures. The word money may be universal but the universality ends there alone. The minute we start thinking in terms of currency, the divide crops in. The Dollar, Pound, Yen, Yuan,Taka, Rupee, the currencies  line up together . And to see our dear Rupee standing way behind in this greased and slippery queue is not very enriching.

Since enough is never enough, Chalk and Cheese together settled for a certain sum which seemed reasonably ‘enough’ to them. We kept in mind our Rupees stamina and strength to run along with Dollar for a three month long race.

With a day or two left for our departure from India, I sat down one fine morning with a few Dollar notes spread on my bed, arranging them in my new wallet, and humming ” ye jo thore se hai paise..” when suddenly I heard a voice. I looked around in surprise and saw that the Rupee notes were peeping out from my old wallet and staring down at the new display of Dollars. I waited for Rupee to say something , for I firmly believed at this point  “paisa bolta hai” !

With a hesitant voice Rupee whispered,  ” Since you are about to visit America and now you are displaying all these fancy Dollars in front of me, let me tell you that though Dollar is my first cousin , I am not particularly fond of Dollar .”
I looked up with curiosity at Rupee and asked “But why so ? Isn’t Dollar the most accomplished, the most famous one amongst you cousins ?”

Rupee was quiet for a moment, then with a sad face it replied “That is the very problem with Dollar. Everyone thinks so highly of Dollar and success has gone to its head. In a brash and boastful manner it makes all other currencies, I mean cousins, feel very small and insignificant. “
Rupee took a deep breath and continued “And why will Dollar not get all the importance, when in my own country I am not treated with respect.”

Hurriedly I butt in “Of course I respect you dear Rupee, you were in my first pay check, you are in my life long pension, infact whatever luxury I could ever afford was because of you.”


Rupee was not listening to me, it continued in a papery voice, “Why blame others for being more powerful. Every big and small note, even the smallest coins in the mint are  constantly living with the fear of demonetisation. You humans will never understand, how painful it is to be told without any forewarning that this particular note is no more noteworthy, it feels almost like amputation “.


“Well, some of us do understand your pain ” I attempted to reply, “As humans we too felt the pinch of demonetisation, all our treasured notes losing their value overnight was quite shocking. And then the adjustment with those pink, blue and green coloured new notes, it created so much confusion and anxiety for us !” 


Rupee looked at me indignantly and continued ” Please don’t  talk of colours.  We did not chose to be pink or blue and not even black or white ! You humans have made us wear white and black as per your own convenience. “

The hurt was obvious in Rupees voice. I tried to calm it, and said somewhat reassuringly “I really value you dear Rupee, it is you who bought these Dollars for me, in a way it is you who will be going with me to America”.


Rupee was not calmed with my reinforcing chatter. With deep sadness laced tone it continued ” If you valued me so much, would you rush to exchange me in such a hurry with those proud-green Dollar notes? I feel so depreciated at this moment. You don’t  care for me much, you are taking me to a foreign country locked in a forex card where my value will keep falling everyday “. 

With that conversation with my dear poor Rupee etched in my heart I left India ; but I also made a promise to myself that while in America I would think in Rupees while spending in Dollars. No matter how loudly Mahendra Kapoor sang inside my head ‘ mere desh ki dharti sona ugle, ugle heerey moti, mere desh ki dharti ‘ , I knew the hard hitting truth that our economy was not doing the best, not when our next door neighbors could beat us in per capita income.

The day Chalk and Cheese had entered the United States a tired and somewhat rude immigration officer had asked Chalk “How much money are you carrying?” Quite an indignant question, I had thought.  Chalk’s reply had satisfied the officer enough to give us an eyebrow raise and a nod. I had smiled to myself and thought, as tourists we can only add to a countries economy, and our Rupee empowers us to do so.

In the initial days of spending I would constantly multiply Dollar with Rupee every time I had to pay for something .  Gradually the habit of doing mental math stopped  because the more zeroes I kept adding the fear of numbers became bigger and bigger . The easy escape route was to forget the math. I started thinking of one Dollar as one Rupee. Somehow the familiar thought of spending in Rupee started comforting my mind. I started buying tomatoes with 4 Rupees, potatoes with 3 Rupees , eat out with 70/100 Rupees, and finished a lot of other shopping with just 100 Rupees. I had stopped converting. I was treating the Dollar like Rupee. As the multiplication stopped in my brain, everyday life felt more affordable and easy.

In a few weeks time Chalk and Cheese would be winding up their spread sheet in America and head back home. A home, where a daughter, mother, sister, brother, friends and family awaits their return eagerly. A home where…there can be songs on ” panch rupaiya bara ana”. A few Two-thousand Rupee notes in my wallet  waiting to fly out for some hawa pani. Once home Cheese needs to call up dear Rupee friend to say that the Dollar sends its regards .

Someone new in the market called Bit Coin has started ringing the door bells of the currency cousins. For once Dollar is feeling it needs to say hello to everyone , after all family is family.

Of Evening Walks and more …

/ sangeeta_chakladar / 4 Comments

“Walk the talk” or “walk the walk” that is the quintessential  question Chalk and Cheese are dealing with these days.
Cheese loves  “walk the talk” and my business like Chalk prefers “walk the walk” , in absolute silence ! Long evening walks have become a regular routine for Chalk and Cheese in recent times. I love to talk while I walk, so much so that at times I feel I only go for the walk so that I can talk. To clear my own head, I ask the questions and I answer my own questions. I make philosophical points over simple matters and I admire everything  around me, from the tiny flowers on the grass to the hills and river banks . Yes, I chatter, I chatter ceaselessly and the vantage point being that the partner can not run away from me, and I get to pretend that he is listening ! In reality, I am in conversation with myself.

In such a scenario what does Chalk do ? After being the subject of this “walk the talk” evenings, Chalk has come out with a new strategy. I have told you before that Chalk is the smarter partner ; so he has now beaten me to my own game. He has very smartly Chalked the walk ! To put it simply, he has come out with new routes, torturous routes  (aah…the melting feet of delicate Cheese), for our evening walks. And guess what, he has succeeded in pushing Cheese into a silent zone. I walk beside him in a zombied mode, my mind racing but my feet aching, my throat parching, and the rest of the body groaning for attention. Well, he has silenced me during the walks but he cannot stop me from spreading the word here with my fellow readers!

With these well researched, longer routes and difficult terrain plans,  Chalk has started enjoying the evening walks twice as much. Like writing on the classroom black-board Chalk tells me stories of his various adventures. I am his only disciple on these lonely roads. He tells me of his Indian Military Academy days, when as a young cadet he and his course mates had to do the Golden Ring walk in the hills of Dehradun. These young men would be left in the jungles with certain coordinates  and some refreshments to find their way back , walking all through the night for more than ten hours to reach the reporting base at dawn. I hear in amazement and admiration. This most unassuming persona of my Chalk has so many layers to unfold. He is senior to me in age yet more energetic and more enthusiastic, an army man to the core. Cheese has stopped her non-stop chatter during her evening walks, it is more out of exhaustion than anything else. Cheese is learning the art of listening, her silence is rewarding her with sack full of stories.

At times we get lost navigating new routes, well as lost as one can get in residential sidewalks with Google maps on our phone. The son calls up once in a while to track us. Chalk tells him not to worry for his mother is with the ace navigator. What he says in jest is not very far from the truth. When he navigates I drive and when I chose to navigate he takes the steering,  together we have journeyed quite a bit uphill and now from the plateau of life we are enjoying the view around.

In the coming week Chalk and Cheese will be traveling  towards the east coast, we will be going to see our son’s  university city and attend his graduation programme. Next week I will come back to you my readers with the story of another walk.The walk our children will take , the proud recipients of degrees in their chosen field of interest.There will be many parents sitting in the hall with me and there will be so many of them sitting at home and seeing their children through videos and photographs. I may not know you all in person , but at some level we have a common thread , our children. I will write for the children and their parents. I will tell you every tiny detail of what I will see, through your eyes and mine, it will be my own way to “walk the talk”.

Maiden Over

/ sangeeta_chakladar / 6 Comments

A week into the new life, new place and Cheese continues feeling like a “pardesi girl”. I am a total ‘pardesi’ in these American surroundings and being a ‘desi’ makes me feel in tune with myself. The Bay area has many Indians and seeing them in the supermarkets, the malls, the restaurants makes me feel quite at home. I don’t miss home yet, but I am missing two important people of my life! My everyday help Kamala bai and dhobi bhaiya. I go on washing dishes, pans, karhai, karchi and keep singing ” Meri Bai nahi aai, aaj Bai nahi aai, bartan pe jum gai kai”. Yes, yes, there is this wonderful machine called dish washer but I have been made to count its disadvantages more than the advantages. As for the dhobi bhaiya replacement I am trying to make Chalk feel like an Iron-man, but clever Chalk doesn’t fall for this word play and the washed clothes are piling up in waiting. Meanwhile the mischievous son is taking polaroid shots of Chalk and Cheese in ‘ghar ke kaam’ wala action mode and displaying them all around the house. There is no deleting of certain truths and moments. Welcome to American life Chalk and Cheese!

The other day, son took us to a ‘Kirane ki dukan’ a few miles from his house. The place is called “Bharat Bazar”. I half expected an Indian flag to be swaying somewhere nearby because the place had such strong Indian vibes. But no, and why should it be so, this is not my country. Americans love flying their national flag. One look into the horizon and surely there will be a flag or two swaying in cool breeze on top of some building, some home. The stars and stripes against the blue sky looks beautiful. But my tiny heart strangely aches for some saffron, white and green. I do not feel these ‘desh-prem’ type feelings in my day-to-day life in India. Is it my romanticism alone or does this happen to most people when they are removed from their places of identity? To cut short my Cheesy moment Chalk announces, “let’s have some phuchka at Bharat Bazar”, my Bangali babu..it is ‘golgappa or panipuri ‘ here, but what’s in a name…it is filled with those desi flavours which makes us say ” ye dil maange more.”

Talking of flavours and taste something happened last Thursday. We woke up to a rainy cloud covered day and the first thought that came to our mind was ‘khichuri or khichri’. These days major part of the planning process goes around food and kitchen. And for a quintessential Bangali rainy day and kichuri are almost synonymous. Chalk and Cheese also identify themselves with ‘ khichri ke chaar yaar. dahi, papar, ghee aur achar ‘. Well, once khichuri / khichri was cooked it was time for the chaar yaar. Dear Chalk doesn’t like his ‘papar’ microwaved or deep fried, he likes to roast it on an open flame. I suppose you have guessed it already my readers…the minute he started roasting the ‘papar’ the house got filled with  smoke and the fire alarm was set off in a shrill loud and scary way. Chalk ‘ne aag laga di’, well, almost literally.  Sonny boy and mama Cheese instantly started jumping around opening doors, windows, switching on the exhaust etc.  All this while Chalk stood perfectly still and totally nonchalant. Endless cups of Darjeeling tea, Rabindra sangeet, IPL matches and that nonchalant attitude, I think Chalk has quite enjoyed his Maiden Over in America.

Playing ‘ghar-ghar’ in their new avatar Chalk and Cheese are bonding in a very different way and feeling strangely young all over again. This lovely energy of doing the unfamiliar things together is creating conversations we have not had in a long time. Back home in India we start taking home and house-work for granted, we enjoy the privilege of so many helping hands to do our daily chores. But living in a foreign country we start taking responsibility for those very chores of our everyday life. When Chalk walks upto the white board and scribbles something, a curious Cheese peeks in, it is a simple to-do list for the day. A bemused Cheese stands silently, melting in the warmth of this simple moment.

In this season of changes for Chalk and Cheese they saw their son’s transition from toy store hot wheels to another stores hot wheels. To celebrate this game changer day of our son we drove upto a Gurudwara, built on top of a hill, looking down into the valley. Amidst the absolute quiet harmony of the surroundings with the chant of “Wahe Guru”, “Wahe Guru” encompassing one and all, our hearts filled up with gratitude and love. May the ultimate master of the wheels of our destiny teach us the balance of life at every given situation. In God’s home there is no foreign land, there are no boundaries of countries, cult or culture. Chalk and Cheese are travelers today and tomorrow they will be homeward bound. In this in-between time let us collect more memorabilia than what can be filled in those suitcases.

Till the next blog, till the new places we see, till the bridges we cross, till the people we meet with their stories, alvida.

First Day First Show.

/ sangeeta_chakladar / 11 Comments
The scientific method

Chalk and Cheese have packed their bags once again. The readers of my old blogs would be familiar with the Chalk and Cheese series of our travelogs. For the new readers, Chalk is my husband , the firm, reasonable, full of knowledge and no nonsense kind of guy. I am Cheese who melts with or without any reason, highly emotional , and loves to spread a word or two of her travel experiences amongst her readers. Having given the above introduction, let me begin our new travelog. I will try to tell you the stories of our everyday life in  new environment and about the places we visit.

The pandemic and the rules and regulations of different nations had kept the world confined for two long years. Restless travelers are now picking up their bags once again to set foot outside home, to experience the bounties beyond boundaries. Yours truly Chalk and Cheese did the same. We packed with us our little world of necessities and left home  for another home ( our son’s home in the United States). I noticed that many of our fellow passengers were parents  (like us) who had stepped out of their comfort zone just to meet their children who have chosen to live in a different country. As the flight took off from Kolkata airport , sitting on the window seat and looking  out at the lights of the midnight city my heart started humming ” But I’m sad to say, I’m on my way, won’t be back for many a day, My heart is down, I’m turning around,  I had to leave a little girl in….town”. How a mothers heart strings gets pulled at both ends and how she lives with this extended cord is another story altogether. 

The Sun on the west coast of America shined bright and mercilessly into our eyes as our plane touched base in SanFrancisco. Our son was waiting for us at the airport, dazzling with anticipation and happiness. Young men are not very open with their emotions, but this time around he just couldn’t help smiling. As the car ( which was being driven by the son ) rolled out of the parking slot I wishpered ‘ Dugga, Dugga’ in my mind. The high ways in America all look the same to me,year after year, smooth broad roads and zipping big cars in four or five lanes and exit signs marked prominently. But this time around everything looked different in my eyes because my son was behind the wheels. I sat stiff and anxious in the back seat, perhaps my heartbeat  was running faster than the speedometer. Last time I had seen my little  boy behind  the wheels was in his bicycle,  when did the equation change so fast, when did those two wheels turn to four ? I realize that the wheels of time has taken many turns in these years. Today the drivers seat had been taken on by the son and the father sitting beside him was a relaxed man enjoying the drive.

When we entered our son’s very meticulously organized, shinning clean smart home, my eyes blurred with tears. I had a time travel moment. I recalled my parents walking into my first home, first time, so many years back. In my son’s face I saw my own reflection, mirroring a thousand  emotions all at once. The tables had turned, here was my son, my youngest born now a grown up young man giving us his thousand dollar  smile. I stood transfixed in time with choked voice and moist eyes.

As the hours rolled by to the next day I tried to blend in as smoothly as possible into the new life of my son. But I am Cheese after all, I spread unnoticed, I start mothering-up his lifestyle and smart home in my own limited edition ancient ways. I place a fragrant rose next to his 3D printer, I hobble around in the kitchen boiling daal – chawal, I use tissues as ‘poncha’ (the search for a rag cloth was on agenda ), I switched off the air-conditioning and open windows for fresh air. A whiff of cold air hits my face, yet I keep standing at the window looking out at the hills in the distant. We are in a valley, but this valley is no meadow from my story book world. It is the Silicon Valley where ways of life is very different from the one I am used to. Time will tell how much the mother board can get compatable with the changes around her. The micro chip which was once a part of her has grown up into an individual beyond recognition.

Chalk meanwhile is quite adaptable to the white boards of life. He finds his own ways of settling down and unwinding himself. Even after soaking hours in bubble baths and red wine his emotional quotient remains dry and Chalk white. But I am sure as the days go by Chalk will bring out the multicolours of his persona and Cheese will definitely  spread the word for her readers. Till then a jet lagged Cheese would like to wind up her story of ‘First day First show’ and catch up on some sleep. 

The valley

Yoga Mat Mantra.

/ sangeeta_chakladar / 2 Comments

The above is a picture of a sad yoga mat. It is sad because  of its present status, a prop for photoshoot. My yoga mat thinks ( yes , it has an independent mind of its own) that it has in its power to make me connect with my inner self ! This has been my mat from my initial days of practicing yoga. The mat has seen better days of glory. It has been with me in my journey of learning and relearning how to bend my ego and spine both together. 

Once upon a time the mat had had a place of respect in our house. The minute it unfurled a whiff of fresh air and positivity would fill the room. Alas, those days of the past is like a distant dream for the mat. For sometime now my mat has been living under the bed, sharing a dark space with a ladder, a long forgotten briefcase, one pair of lost chappal, and a folding (one leg broken) laptop table; out of sight- out of mind. A life of total ignominy. To add more misfortune some spiders made a comfortable studio in the hollow cylindrical belly of the mat and were making their own web series. This web story was perhaps the last straw to my mat’s patience. It decided to finally reach out to me.

As I wrote earlier,  my mat has some special powers! It has the power to connect with  me. With years of having practiced yoga together our connect is quite strong. I could almost hear the mat cry out in pain and indignity.  And as I bend down low to recover the mat from under the bed my back muscles groaned and moaned in protest. So one thing was clear, my once flexible  body had become stiff and lazy. The muscles had forgotten to stretch and bend.

The only Surya namaskar my body had done in the last two years was to stand in the balcony with folded hands saluting the 9.am sun. The only Tree pose I had done was to stand under a tree and take a nice photo. The only Baal- Asan was to behave like a child filled with impatience. And my all time favorite, the Sab-Asan was performed on the bed. Now that I have made my reader count all my follies,  the picture is amply clear that I had not done any yoga for two years and counting. There is no connect with my inner peace, my restless mind is wandering, and my physical body is moaning  and groaning,

The mat insisted to be pulled out from under the bed, and I obeyed. But my escapist mind promptly found other uses for the mat. It became a prop for photography, It became  a place to sit on with the morning paper and coffee, and last but not the least the mat became my muse for another blog.

My mat is still talking  to me. It is humming  in my ears that Yoga as we popularly call it is actually Yog in Sanskrit. Yog, meaning connect ! Connect of the mind with  the body, connect of the mind with the soul, connect of the mind with the universe beyond ourselves. The concept of yog stretches much beyond the stretching of a few muscles and limbs. It is an ignorant and vain mat, proud of its bright red beauty and will not shut up till I transform my lifestyle once again and connect with my mind. I guess it is time to say “Thank you yog mat for your mantra”.