My nephew bought a new car today, a Volkswagen Passat. I don’t know much about cars so I had to check the name twice because it sounded more like pasta to me ! I am a little partial towards this young man and so my enthusiasm is a little overboard. I will take a drive in his Passat when the time comes . As for now the time machine in my mind is taking me back to my childhood. The car- nama from Fiat to Rolls Royce ,from Mercedes to Duster, from gallons to liters have travelled a long way. But my story is a modest one filled with memories of first cars, simple cars.

The first family car was bought by my father when I was about six or seven. WBG 5840,the number plate of that olive green Ambassador has stayed with me forever. I have grown up sleeping in the back seat of that car, literally. Our driverji with his big mustache and his big hands on the steering wheel would drive us miles after miles on those narrow pitch roads of Bihar . My father would sit in the front seat while Ma would settle with didi and me in the back seat. Was it my tiny size or was the seat really big I do not remember, but there was always ample place for me to lie down and doze off with my head nestled in my Ma’s warm lap and the feel of her nine yard saree. It is strange how certain memories stay so vivid even after all these years. Yet, where did we keep the car key, deludes us every day.

The Hindustan fourteen was another car very close to my heart. I wonder today, why was the name of this car so funny. But back then it did not seem strange , but the shape of this car was very unique. The owner of this car was my uncle and often on Sundays we cousins would be designated with the task of washing the car. Together we would turn it into the most fun activity of our Sunday mornings, a car, soap, buckets, pipes, water, rag cloths and three kids. No car shined as brightly to us than our Hindustan fourteen.

My husband and I bought our first car after seven years of our marriage. It was a second hand Maruti 800, beige in color. The previous owners had left it with cartoon printed seat covers. I loved that seat cover and did not change it for as long as we had the car. I learnt to drive in that car. I would make my six year old daughter sit holding her six month old baby brother in the back seat of the car and drive around town doing daily errands. No seat belts, no baby seats, and no fear ! Today even the memory of that scene makes me feel terrified. We changed a number of cars in years that followed, each very precious, each like a member of the family. I have this strange thing of getting emotional attachment towards all Non living items that become part of my house. In my mind I give them a character and personality. Only if they could speak,I would have a gadget story 1 and 2 production of my own.

New cars came, old cars had to go. I have cried copiously bidding adieu to each of my old cars. The journey from miles to kilometers have seen a little girl grow into a young lady, having her own babies,and then those babies growing into young man and woman. It is not just the change in metric system or models and styles of cars that I have seen. I have seen beautiful places driving in these cars, I have seen laughing children enjoying family picnics in these cars. I have seen romantic drives in these cars. I have seen festivals, marriages, parties, good byes, in these cars. I have seen the story of my life changing, growing ,adding miles and miles in the story of my life.

The joy that a new car brings home binds the family together. It is not just a vehicle to serve the luxury of transport alone. A car brings joy, pride and hope. From grandfather’s ambassador to grandson’s Passat, from WBG 5840 to GZR 4377, it is all a tale of a beautiful journey. Keep on adding the miles.

I want to profusely thank the cosmetic industry, not for the magic it has done with my wrinkles, my tresses, my stretch marks; but for keeping me entertained all through these years. No one is born with wrinkles and grey hairs and no one ages without them. Accepting them is called graceful aging , but not always as easy as told. With my troubled sense of humor I call my wrinkles ‘the people’ in my life. The prominent lines on my forehead are the people who have made me think, worry, judge, and left me wiser . The lines around my eyes are the people who have helped me see the world in a new light,made me more appreciative,and humble. The people who touched my life with laughter, joy ,have left their mark around my mouth. I so love these people, for without them in my life I would not be the person I am. So which cream or lotion has the power to erase these line !

Bless the cosmetic industry for being such a life long friend and entertainer. As I turn the pages of glossy magazines I can stare, read, and believe every word the advertisement is trying to sell. Year after year the lotions change, the promises read more convincing, and I devour each word with gospel conviction. Then comes the visit to the malls,the aisles with luring line up of beauty products invites me with confident magnetism. Hours go by reading and analyzing bottles and jars till the right choice is made. Do the lines fade ? No. How can they, remember, they are people after all.

Mothers have a distinct scent of their own. I remember my mothers scent , so comforting and soothing. Yet I don’t remember her wearing any perfume ever. But she had her loyalty to her few but regular beauty products, Boroline, Nivea, Charmis and Tuhina. Those were the constant on our dresser through the years. My own dresser displays a confusion of errors ! Barring the comb there are not very many constants on it. I love to experiment with the new launches of creams and lotions. In fact I like to believe that I contribute a lot to this ever growing industry. After all I am their guinea pig, i am their consumer, i am their advertiser. In return they keep me entertained. Every few months the label changes, the packaging changes, the hydration changes, what remains constant is my reading the fine lines ,believing the fine lines, giving in to the fine lines, year after year ; for after all they are my fine lines, my people .

Run, run away from home,

Go to Spain, Go to Rome!

On the beaches find your lair,

Live a life full of flair

Just run away from home.

Where the shackles of constant bickering stare,

Where the ticking clock dares your glare .

Where the pillows carry your sweaty smell,

Where walls with peeling plasters dwell ,

Under that dark roof nothing is left of home !

Run, run away from home,

Go to Spain, Go to Rome!

Aging folks all around,

Threatning to curb your thoughts profound.

Like the old owl who has forgotten to fly,

They sit and smirk at whatever you try.

Their fading body, wrinkled mind,

Has long forgotten to be kind .

In such a place you once called home,

Nothing remains of the glorious dome.

So pick up your youth, pick up your jest,

The world beyond is having a fest.

Step out into that amazing world,

Don’t wait to see your plans stalled.

Challenges you will face anew,

To hold your hand , just a few.

Yet, march ahead, don’t look back,

No matter how heavy gets your sack.

Run, run away from home,

Go to Spain, Go to Rome!

Daring the rain, daring the transport problems , once again we set out of our house to see a little more, to soak up a little more , to look up to the sky and say ” drench us”. The Victoria Memorial, we solemnly announced to the driver. The driver repeated… ” Victoria Memorial ? “The question in his voice was evident. One, we did not look like tourists, two a mother and her young adults could have no business in a ‘ lovers paradise ‘, three it was mid noon and rain was lashing the city mercilessly, the three reasons put together I could not completely blame the quizzical tone of our transporter. As the car raced along the By pass road I looked at the skyline dotted with high rise constructions, though not a pleasant sight now, but in the coming years these very buildings will become the landmarks of new Kolkata. The landmarks of Calcutta still stand proud, at least in the eyes of the Calcuttans. As our car came out of the maze of traffic and narrow lanes of ParkCircus I promptly switched my gears from a gazer and became a commentator, ” this is Shakespeare Sarani, this is Kala Mandir, on your right is Hotel Kennilworth,on your left is Aurobindo Bhaban and so on. “My children, locked in this small car had no remote button to switch off my commentary. Though I saw the younger one desperately fidgeting with the ear phone in his hand!

Whenever I drive past these roads of the city the hide and seek of Victoria Memorial, Cathedral, south gate of Fort William, Maidan, never fail to amaze me. I keep staring out trying to capture all of it at once. It must be nostalgia; there is no other explanation of this awe struck feeling I get, each time, every time. Victoria…this majestic white monument has never failed to impress its admirers ever since. Thank you George Curzon and Prince of Wales . The empire has taken away a lot but left behind a few wonders for the romantic, the historian, the lover, the architect, the visitors , and the mere gazers like myself.
Keeping my romanticizing apart I concentrated on taking pictures of white marble wonder over the heads of Bihar/Up tourists thronging all around. I heard an innocent father enquire ” beta yeh kaun sa Mandir haye ?” Mandir hi to haye, ek rani ka, I thought to myself. The inside is well maintained ,but nothing more.My daughter Having just read ” Prothom Alo ” in translation , was identifying much more with facts and personnel recorded within the walls of the memorial.
While the rain kept pouring on the summer parched fields of Kolkata we walked inside the safe confines of Victoria soaking up history of the city we are making our new home.

The date with history was yet not over. My children were ready for the National Museum. By now our driver had given up on us. Not surprisingly he did not know how to reach the museum, but telling him to drive us near New Market ( kolkata’s shoppers oldest destination) helped and Google did the rest. Once again we queued up at the ticket counter and bought our passage into the corridors of history. But it was not history which caught our fancy at first. We found young couples sitting on benches inside the museum lost in each other. Such innovative use of museum premises amused us a lot. What better place to preserve budding love than in the sanctum of preservation. ! But we marched ahead with determination, we had a mission in hand, we wanted to go deeper and deeper into history . Archeology to textiles, mammals to geology, nothing escaped our attention. My children perhaps felt a little tiered by the end of the tour but I was strangely enthused. I was feeling very young after my recent introduction with things aging hundred, two hundred , AC BC, dates. Visiting a museum is a sure shot way to feel like a bachcha nestling comfortably in the laps of Mother Earth.

By now our little team of adventurers felt famished. What better way to end the day than take my children to Flurys’ for a high tea treat. This very old, very favorite, very famous , place is a must visit on the list of every person wanting to become a Calcuttan. We ate and ate till we could eat no more. Three happy people sat back in their car with an exasperated driver and declared…. ” waapas ” . Yes it was time to return home, our home, in our city ,,Kolkata.

My window with a view . In this long journey of life I have opened windows to a panorama of scenes . The first memory is of a big wooden window which opened into the terrace of our neighbors and beyond it the road . While my Ma listened to the frivolous chatter of the neighbors wife her whole focus would be on the road, waiting to catch a glimpse of Baba walking back home from his chamber. She always looked beyond. My first window to life was that, seeing the love my parents shared.

In another city, another house, the window opened to a factory chimney with the blue sky in the backdrop. The black smoke emitting from the chimney formed shapes in the blue sky. I had already learnt to look beyond. I saw the soaring birds, flying away from the black smoke.

Life moved on, windows kept changing. The window from my hostel balcony opened on to a beautiful cathedral . Many sun sets I have stood looking at the cathedral and wishing I was not bound by the tall walls of the school compound . How I wanted to run into a field, breathe in a lot of air , each time I felt so my cathedral window gave me my share of open sky, my share of free air.

The window of the University girls hostel opened to the waiting Prince Charmings of most of the boarders. This window wanted me to believe that love and lovers can wait for each other till eternity. But the windows in my childhood had taught me to look beyond. Like a sceptic I knew that promises are not made forever !

Time and tide took me to places and homes with changing windows. A green landscape where the farmers ploughed their fields from dawn to dusk was once my window view, teaching me to toil in the field of life. I would sit idle by this window for hours and speak to my baby girl, trying to open the windows in her life as she gurgled with laughter and played with her toys.

Years later the window to the snow peaked glaciers held me transfixed. This beauty played its magic on my mind with its grace and magnitude. Through rain and snow this window taught me to stand strong in adversity . I looked beyond and it seemed as though the mountains were passing on a message to me.

Years passed; and when I opened my window to see my son going to school for the first day my heart weeped in a strange upheaval of joy and pain. My window reminded me once again to look beyond. Children grow up and move away, but the mother still stands at the window awaiting their return.

Two windows from my two metro homes have shown me the passage of traffic. In the city which never sleeps my window has been my constant companion all through those wakeful nights. I have seen girls waiting on the footpath in glittery clothes, I have seen big cars stopping by, I have seen revelers by the night light, I have seen the mid night tea seller waiting patiently. Look beyond your good night kisses and sweet dreams my window has shrieked out to me.

In the city of joy my window opens to a huge bus stand.I see buses come and buses go. I see passengers alighting and getting off. No bus ever waits for any one passenger. If you need to go some place you need to be on the correct bus at the correct time.

The city window showed me the passage of eternal life. My window tells me ‘just keep me open’. Let the sun, moon, light, wind come in. Let life come in. Never shut any window of life. Windows teach me to look beyond.

Write,write,write…the mind kept hammering ! Why do you ask me to write, I have no time.I have enough chores at hand. The help has not been coming for a week, I have dishes to clean,floors to sweep, meals to cook,clothes to wash. Where is the time to write ?
Write,write, write…the mind kept hammering! Why do you ask me to write,I have no time. The world is shaking , tremors every day. I have to watch the people left homeless, the helicopters dropping food, the dead being buried.I am so dumb struck by the earth quake hit world. Mother Earth has just informed us that she can shake us off her lap whenever she wants. We are all scared beyond words. I am busy keeping track of the next seismic wave. Where is the time to write ?
Write, write, write…the mind kept hammering! Why do you ask me to write, I have no time. I am busy listening. Arnab’s panel is having a debate. I have to listen to The Salman drama being unfolded minute by minute. The noise is silencing even the Parliament debates. Bills passed can take back seat. I have to know what the Nation wants to know. Where is the time to write ?
Write, write, write…the mind keeps hammering ! Why do you ask me to write, I have no time. I am busy reading. So much is being written all over the internet, press-about how the earth shook, when he went to jail, and how great neighbors and friends we are ! Where is the time to write ?

A blog page, this is a gift from my two kids and husband. Who thought gifts could be so innovative, so technical. I did not. A pen and paper would serve the same purpose, I thought so. But my loving family wants me to keep pace with the time. So here I am , I -pad in hand ( Daughter’s gift) and reading/ writing glass perched on my nose typing away. The blank page stares back at me, almost daring me to fill it up with words, I am staring at it quite dumbfounded. The page or me, who shall blink first?
We shall see in times to come. The page has many alleys ,while I go out in search of mine.