Emotion

Drishti

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Revati sat idle by the window, a soft yellow wool ball resting on her lap. The knitting needles were kept on the round old table next to her. Revati was wondering if she should knit a cap for little Sana or a stole for Sana’s mother, her daughter. She loved this season of winter, the cosy feeling, sitting here by the window, the afternoon sun warming her socks covered feet and the touch of cool breeze against her face.

Soon this beautiful silent hour would end. Her daughter would walk in with a cup of chai, breaking into Revati’s reverie with her own loud voice, but till then the afternoon was hers and hers alone. Revati turned her head to face the window. The window was half closed, but that did not block the view of the green mountains in the horizon against the blue hazed skies. Somewhere deeper down in the valley the stream was gurgling away in a rushed frenzy, eager to reach some unknown destination. The big mahogany tree outside the window blocked the view to the stream. It was such a serene feeling, to sit by this window and day dream.

Lost in her own thoughts Revati did not hear the door to her room creek open. Her daughter had entered with the evening chai. With a loud thud she kept the cup on the round table by her mother’s side and started scolding her mildly, “ Ma, why are you sitting by the open window ? “ Revati was startled by her daughter’s entry, she somehow mumbled “ It is not very cold yet, and then you know.. how I love looking out at those green mountains in the horizon.” The daughter’s tone was on the borderline of frustration, “ Ma , you are dreaming again! How many times have I told you that there are no mountain ranges outside this window or any window of this flat, or anywhere in this city. And even if there were mountains, how could you see them? Why do you keep going back to imagining this strange mind space you have created. Don’t you remember anything of the present Ma? “

Revati was quiet for a few moments, angry tears ran down her blind eyes, wetting her crumpled cheeks. Memories these days had started playing funny games with her mind, sometimes totally deleting the line between the past and the present. It seemed to be just the other day when she could see her world with her own eyes and now the engulfing darkness all around at times threatened to engulf her very being.

Revati didn’t know what to tell her daughter, how could she explain that in her mind she could see the river, the stream, the mahagony tree. She did not need her eyes to see them. And speaking of the present, she remembered the harsh reality that Revati, the beautiful pahari girl named Revati, was now the old and blind woman living with her angry, loud daughter.

How could she explain to her daughter that it was this world of visualisation which filled her dark world with the abundance of light and colour. Why should she let go of this only power she had, to visualise a world of her dreams, a world of her past and live there blissfully, only if for a few hours. With a sigh the daughter picked up the ‘red’ wool ball from the floor, she picked up the walking stick from the floor and held her mother’s arm by the elbow…” Now, now, it’s alright Ma. Don’t look so sad and angry at the same time. Let me take you to the bed. Very soon Sana will be back from the playground and I will send her to your room, then both of you can tell each other all the stories of your day.”

A big smile gently replaced the tears and frown on Revati’s face. Soon her little Sana will jump into her bed and demand “Nani, tell me a new story today”. Of course Revati would tell her little Sana a new tale, and once again with her inner world of visuals Revati will create the story book of her eternal daylight dreams and she already had a name for it…Drishti.

Drishti

/ sangeeta_chakladar / 4 Comments

Revati sat idle by the window, a soft yellow wool ball resting on her lap. The knitting needles were kept on the round old table next to her. Revati was wondering if she should knit a cap for little Sana or a stole for Sana’s mother, her daughter. She loved this season of winter, the cosy feeling, sitting here by the window, the afternoon sun warming her socks covered feet and the touch of cool breeze against her face.

Soon this beautiful silent hour would end. Her daughter would walk in with a cup of chai, breaking into Revati’s reverie with her own loud voice, but till then the afternoon was hers and hers alone. Revati turned her head to face the window. The window was half closed, but that did not block the view of the green mountains in the horizon against the blue hazed skies. Somewhere deeper down in the valley the stream was gurgling away in a rushed frenzy, eager to reach some unknown destination. The big mahogany tree outside the window blocked the view to the stream. It was such a serene feeling, to sit by this window and day dream.

Lost in her own thoughts Revati did not hear the door to her room creek open. Her daughter had entered with the evening chai. With a loud thud she kept the cup on the round table by her mother’s side and started scolding her mildly, “ Ma, why are you sitting by the open window ? “ Revati was startled by her daughter’s entry, she somehow mumbled “ It is not very cold yet, and then you know.. how I love looking out at those green mountains in the horizon.” The daughter’s tone was on the borderline of frustration, “ Ma , you are dreaming again! How many times have I told you that there are no mountain ranges outside this window or any window of this flat, or anywhere in this city. And even if there were mountains, how could you see them? Why do you keep going back to imagining this strange mind space you have created. Don’t you remember anything of the present Ma? “

Revati was quiet for a few moments, angry tears ran down her blind eyes, wetting her crumpled cheeks. Memories these days had started playing funny games with her mind, sometimes totally deleting the line between the past and the present. It seemed to be just the other day when she could see her world with her own eyes and now the engulfing darkness all around at times threatened to engulf her very being.

Revati didn’t know what to tell her daughter, how could she explain that in her mind she could see the river, the stream, the mahagony tree. She did not need her eyes to see them. And speaking of the present, she remembered the harsh reality that Revati, the beautiful pahari girl named Revati, was now the old and blind woman living with her angry, loud daughter.

How could she explain to her daughter that it was this world of visualisation which filled her dark world with the abundance of light and colour. Why should she let go of this only power she had, to visualise a world of her dreams, a world of her past and live there blissfully, only if for a few hours. With a sigh the daughter picked up the ‘red’ wool ball from the floor, she picked up the walking stick from the floor and held her mother’s arm by the elbow…” Now, now, it’s alright Ma. Don’t look so sad and angry at the same time. Let me take you to the bed. Very soon Sana will be back from the playground and I will send her to your room, then both of you can tell each other all the stories of your day.”

A big smile gently replaced the tears and frown on Revati’s face. Soon her little Sana will jump into her bed and demand “Nani, tell me a new story today”. Of course Revati would tell her little Sana a new tale, and once again with her inner world of visuals Revati will create the story book of her eternal daylight dreams and she already had a name for it…Drishti.

Postcards from London

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I entered London with my own baggage, the baggage of my Indian origin. From East India Company to the British Raj and then the Quit India movement, till 1947 August 15th the stories are endless. The first East India Company that set foot on Indian soil for business was a Dutch company, the rest followed them. But it was the British who stayed back and the rest is history. Socio political history always leaves back a mark on the generations who live through it and also on the generations who come after.

Royal welcome

I was born in a free India but to parents and grandparents who had lived part of their life in the pre – partition and pre-independence India. Our history has not bound us to bitter memories alone, it has also shaped us in many ways than we would like to admit. Since then we Indians have resurrected our country to another level, keeping the sacrifices of our freedom fighters in mind. We have reconstructed our country and moved on with time. As I entered England for the first time, I held on to this feeling of being an Indian very strongly, lest it gets snatched away! But no, that cannot be. I carry my roots, my culture, my skin colour, my heritage , my passport, my identity with pride and dignity.

Black cab

Moving on to Chalk and Cheese journey, our train pulled into London Station on a bright and clear spring morning in the month of May. Chalk and Cheese stepped out of the station and in grand style Chalk hailed a hackney carriage for his lady. No matter how much I would have loved a horse driven carriage but it was not to be. The black cabs of London were also called hackney carriage. Lady Cheese was learning a few new things in this English country trip.

Chalk and Cheese were extra happy on reaching London for a very special reason. Our daughter, our ‘chalk-o-cheese’ was waiting for us in London. She was visiting her friends in Cambridge and Oxford and had planned to join us in London. Chalk and Cheese were excited like two children who have finally been united with their parent ! Roles were reversed. When your children start parenting you in their small little
ways, there is something soothing and comforting about letting go of the reins in their hands.

Letting go has its pros and cons too, specially when you have an over enthusiastic girl guide and two semi tired parents. My little girl gave us exactly ten minutes break at the hotel to catch our breath and then commanded “let’s go”. She had reached London five hours before us but behaved like she had been a Londoner all her life . She was wearing an oversized orange coat, a pair of well worn out walking shoes, a sling bag around her neck and a big big smile on her face. Sprinting ahead of us in her orange coat she looked like our Kessari tour guide. Chalk and Cheese started following their darling Kessari travels through the streets of London.

Primrose Hill with Kessari

The daughter, aka.. Kessari travels takes us to The Regent Park and makes us climb up the Primrose hill. A panoramic view of London greets us at the top. William Blake the poet who lived in London had written: “I have conversed with the spiritual sun. I have seen him on Primrose hill.” We sat there for sometime, not conversing. In silence, we looked into the skyline, the London skyline. Come tomorrow and we had plans to see London city and more.

The closest we got to royalty

The Queen was gone, the new king had taken his throne, coronation week was over and London city was getting back to normal. Our tour guide (an elderly lady and a devoted fan of everything Victorian) shared a royal secret with us. She told us that we were very lucky because all the royal jewelry had been brought back from the Royal palace after coronation and would be on display for tourists in the Tower Of London,
adding that only she knew about this piece of information. But standing in a very long queue to enter the Jewel House it seemed that a lot of other people were also privy to this royal secret!

Chalk, Cheese and daughter entered the Jewel House to see the display of royal jewelry, The Kohinoor and The Crown. Everything glittered, the gold, the rubies, sapphires, emeralds and intricately cut diamonds. But we are Indians, our eyes thirsted for The Kohinoor. We cannot ever forget how Maharaja Ranjeet Singh had parted with the Kohinoor, our Kohinoor. Every Indian sees a sparkle of India’s glorious past in the twinkle of that one piece of diamond. We also stood in front of the Kohinoor for those few extra minutes, trying to see the glimpses of centuries in those fleeting minutes.

A city is so much like a book. It has its own story. The roads, alleys, buildings, people, food, travel, all of them are like individual characters telling us a story. The more you walk, the more you learn about a place. We walked from Big Ben (not before standing there, craning our necks to look up in amazement at the big clock tower) … to Trafalgar Square. On our way, 10 Downing Street made us stop in our path for a
while, after all we do have an Indian connection in there, don’t get me wrong, I was only thinking about Sudha Murthy!

Later in the day met a very dear girl from India who lives in London now. It is very impressive to see how happily young people make a new place completely their own. We had dinner together at ChinaTown. China town because Chalk and Cheese were craving for some good chinese food, that familiar sweet and sour taste which would strangely give us home food comfort.

Like a typical tourist I entered random shops picking up souvenirs while impatient Chalk and Kessari waited outside. We walked around Trafalgar Square, we combed through Covent garden markets. Sometimes we got lost, sometimes we were happy to find a red bus back to the hotel. We were very impressed with London’s public transport system. The underground metro and the red double decker buses were certainly very convenient mode of traveling. Our dear Kessari made us walk, travel and eat like locals.

Sightseeing cruise on Thames took us along the city and under the, London Tower Bridge, Waterloo Bridge and Westminster Bridge. The British don’t pronounce Thames like you and me do. Their H is silent. I learnt to pronounce their Thames their way, and now I want them to pronounce Ganga the way we do at home and not call it Ganges! Seeing the London Bridge our age old nursery rhyme is bound to play through the mind …

“London Bridge is falling down…
Build it up with gold and silver,
My fair lady.
Gold and silver we’ve not got,
We’ve not got, we’ve not got,
My fair lady. “

This nursery rhyme revolves around the dilapidation and the rebuilding or repairing of the London bridge time and again. Wonder where they went in search of gold and silver? Anyway, my story is about our travels with our dear Kessari. Chalk, Cheese and daughter were yet to see the castles of England, the Roman remains of Bath, buried centuries at Stone henge, a visit to Shakespeare’s house in Stratford-upon-Avon. Our anniversary was coming up, and the daughter had planned a day for us. All this and more in the next London chapter.

To be continued…..

Little Pearl

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The little girl lived in the royal palace,
Playful, unnoticed, unseen.
She was a daughter of the king,
But her mother was not the queen.

Her playmates were princesses, 
Young girls of her own age,
The palace was her only home,
The courtyards her childhood’s stage.

Once upon a time, as enchantress of the ragas,
Her mother was the nightangle of the royal court.
But now fallen from grace with her lost sagas,
A favorites position she could no more afford.

In the mother’s khol black eyes,
The king had once found his peace,
Their love was her mother’s forbidden sin,
For which she wouldn’t be given a lease. 

In oblivion the little girl was growing,
Like a flower in a trusted shade,
But the thorns around her were waiting,
To tear her from her restful glade.

Long banished from the court,
Her mother now lived like a shadow,
Hiding her life behind the heavy veil

An unwed bride but now living like a widow

The king was ailing and had grown fragile,
Ministers and queens were fuming with wicked guile.
To banish the little girl, or make her a slave
The palace was filled with such whispered waves.

The mother loved the daughter,
Beyond any measure.
To the King she send her last plea,
To save her little treasure.

The girl was summoned into
The king’s private chamber,
There she stood shivering,
Her face a flushed amber.

The king placed his tender hand
Upon her small head,
A sparkle drop of tear,
Her fearful eyes had shed.

The king took a pearl string
And placed it on her palm,
His soft gentle touch
Seemed like a father’s loving balm.

“Keep this royal jewel , it is a parting gift”,
Said The King, in a quivering voice,
She stood holding the string of pearls
Not daring to make a sobbing noise.

The mother and the little girl,
Left the palace in the darkness of the night,
All the glorious years of love and leisure,
Had turned to a shameful fright.

They walked out together, 
The mother clutching onto her little girl,
A home forever lost,
But on her tiny neck,
Hanged the royal pearl.

Crystal Gaze

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Crystal Ball on Waves. (Philadelphia Museum of Art)

A tiny room, the walls filled with colourful motifs of flowers,
A gypsy lady sitting within, like one dwelling in her bowers.

A twinkling ray of sunshine was touching the crystal-ball,
In that twinkling light of silver, it held secrets of one and all.

Dark blue eyes fixed on the crystal-ball, she sat across me.
Time had frozen, it seemed we were part of an endless eternity.

Waiting for her gypsy blue eyes to read my life in a crystal gaze,
My story was simple and yet the crystal slowly seemed to haze.

I was there to ask the questions,but the answers I almost knew,
To hear it from a crystal-ball, that my days were left but few.

Transfixed, for long I sat in a daze , my impatience hypnotized,
She was humming ever so softly , my own name I recognized.

Which lines on my face or my sunken eyes spoke to her first,
Who betrayed my story;  to quench her curious thirst. 

I smiled and she knew, I was not there to see my destiny,
‘Ke Sera Sera’ had taught me, the future was not ours to see.

In that crystal she fixed her gaze, I saw no magic or amaze,
Hidden behind those blue eyes I saw a fire burning ablaze .

In a halting voice she went on, things I was not ready to hear,
Letting go of life’s desires , to conquer and surmount fear.

My desire to drive away lonely hours of melancholic pathos,
My desire to fill those hours with laughter, noise and chaos.

If this be my last wish, let me hold on to them till I fall apart,
Tell the crystal-ball to rewrite my story from the very start. 

My gypsy lady smiled again, a soft smile, spreading on her face,
She let me out of her spell with gentle humour and grace.

The crystal-ball was once again gaining back its shine,
Bright and clear it was ready to read between the lines.

My love for life was not a lie, but it was time for goodbyes,
In the journey of realization I walked alone without any ties.

The Stethoscope Of Heartbeats.

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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.

নির্বাসন

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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 ।

Hope of dusk

/ sangeeta_chakladar / 5 Comments

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.

I had walked a mile to meet the dusk.

কালো জিরে কাঁচা লঙ্কা

/ sangeeta_chakladar / 4 Comments

আমার দিনগুলো যেন পুজো সংখ্যার গল্প, গড়িয়ে গড়িয়ে চলেছে নিজের গতিতে। দুটো দিনের মধ্যে পার্থক্য ক্রমে কমে আসছে, প্রত্যেকটি নতুন দিন যেন গত দিনের জলছবি। সকাল  বেলা নিয়ম করে বুবাই এর মা এসে কলিং বেল বাজিয়ে ঘুম ভাঙ্গায়। আমার ঘুম যদিও তার আগেই হালকা হয়ে আসে ,কিন্তু ভোরের বিছানার উষ্ণতার আরাম সহজে ছাড়তে মন চায় না । বুবাই এর মার নাম মালতী, কিন্তু সবাই তাকে বুবাই এর মা বলেই ডাকে, সে তাতেই বেশ খুশি । আমি তাকে বলেছি এতে তোমার নিজের এই সুন্দর নাম টা হারিয়ে যায় যদি, তাই আমি তোমায় মালতী নামেই ডাকব । আইডেন্টিটি হারিয়ে  যাবার  তেমন ভয় বোধহয় মালতীদের নেই । কিন্ত আমি আজও আইডেন্টিটি খুঁজে বেড়াই, কখনও একটি নামে, বা পুরোনো বই এর পাতায়, ঝড়ে পড়া শিউলি ফুলের বুকে,অমলতাস এর হাওয়ায় ভেসে আসা গানে, কিম্বা আমার মশলার বাক্সে।

নামের উপাখ্যান ছেড়ে এবার আমার কালো জিরে কাঁচা লঙ্কার গল্পে আসি। মালতীর হাতের এক কাপ ধোঁয়া ওঠা কফি আর toast খেয়ে আমি চটজলদি রান্নাঘরে ঢুকি। ঢুকি বটে কিন্তু কী রাঁধব তার কূল কিনারা পাই না। মাছ, মুরগি, শাক সব্জি তে ভরা fridge টার দরজা খুলতেই  মনে হয় কেমন যেনো Colgate white হাসি ছড়িয়ে আমার  দিকে চেয়ে আমাকে challenge জানাচ্ছে, বলছে ‘দেখি তুই কি রান্না পারিস’।

এখানে একটু ব্যাক গিয়ারে গল্প টাকে নিতে হয়, নইলে তোমরা ভাবতেই পারো ‘এই মাঝ বয়সী মহিলার এমন দশা কেনো’। আসলে হয়েছে এই যে আমি দীর্ঘ কাল প্রবাসে ছিলাম। বহু কাল আগে কলেজে পড়ার সময়ে বিয়ে টিয়ে করে, একদম লোটাকম্বল নিয়ে এক Army man এর সাথে কলকাতা ছেড়ে ছিলাম। তারপর এই দীর্ঘ  তিরিশ বছরে ছুটি ছাটা ছারা কলকাতা ফেরা হয়ে ওঠেনি। ভারতের অনেক রাজ্যে ঘুরেছি, তাদের রান্না শিখেছি, রেঁধেছি, আর এই করতে করতে বাংলা মায়ের  হেঁসেলের থোর, বড়ি, মোচা, লাউ ডগা, কুমড়োর ছেঁচকী, এদের  ইতিহাস এর সাথে আমার পরিচয় ধীরে ধীরে ক্ষীণ হয়ে উঠেছে।

আমার এই প্রবাসী জীবনের গল্প টাকে ফরওয়ার্ড গিয়ার এ নিয়ে আসি এবার।গত কিছু মাস আগে Army man আর আমি কলকাতায় ফিরেছি ” ghar kab aaoge” এর টানে। আমার সাহেব গোছের Army man ,দেখছি রিটায়র করে কলকাতা এসে হটাৎ করে বেশ বাঙালি হয়ে উঠেছেন। রোজ ভোর সকালে তিনি সাহেবী কায়দায় সেজে গুজে golf খেলার পর বাড়ি  ফেরার পথে ঢোকেন বাঙালি বাবু দের বাজারে। দোকানিদের সাথে ইতিমধ্যেই তাঁর বেশ ভাব হয়েছে বুঝতে পারি বাজারের বহর দেখে। আজকাল দোকানিদের কথা মতই বাজার হয় আমাদের বাড়ির। থলে চড়ে ঘরে ঢোকে করমচা, কুমড়ো, উচ্ছে, কৎবেল, বড়ি, লকলকে পুই শাক, লাল শাক, আরো কত নতুন নতুন সব্জি । এমন অচেনা, অল্প চেনা, সবুজের অভিযান থেকেই  শুরু হয় আমার হেঁসেল শিল্পের challenge। এই challenge এর কারণেই  রান্নার লোক রাখার ব্যাপারে  আমার ঘোরতর আপত্তি। আমি সেই কবে থেকে রাজমা, ছোলে বটুরে , continental, chinese, সব শিখলাম আর আজ  কিনা থোর বড়ি খাড়া আর খাড়া বড়ি থোর এর কাছে হার মেনে, তীরে এসে তরী ডোবাবো, কিছুতেই না। তাই রান্নাটা আমি নিজেই করি, আর মনে মনে নিজের পিঠ চাপড়ে বলি এই তো তুমি প্রবাসী থেকে বাঙালি হয়ে উঠছো।

ভাত খাওয়ার পর, যখন পশ্চিমের জানলার পাশে গিয়ে বসি, কোলের ওপর থাকে এই বছরের পুজোর দেশ পত্রিকা। অলস চোখে বই এর পাতা পাল্টাতে গিয়ে চোখ চলে যায় নিজের হলদে হয়ে যাওয়া ডান হাতের নখ গুলোতে। বাঙালির ঝোলে,জলে, স্বাদে, গন্ধে, ডুবছি আমি, রঙ লাগছে আঙুলে আর মনে। আর হ্যাঁ,বলা হয়নি, আমি ধীরে ধীরে ঘন্ট, ঝাল, ভাপা, সবটাই রাঁধছি, কিন্তু ঐ কালো জিরে আর কাঁচা লঙ্কা ফোড়ন দিয়ে, তার বেশি লাগে না।  ঘরে ফিরে, অনেক  দিন গৃহ বন্দি থাকতে থাকতে বুঝেছি, জীবনের প্রয়োজন বড় কম, ঠিক ঐ comfort food এর মতন, কেবল কালো  জিরে আর কাঁচা লঙ্কা।

বহু বছর পর বাংলা হরফে কিছু  লিখলাম,  দোষ ত্রুটি পাঠক বন্ধু  নিজ গুনে ক্ষমা করে দেবেন আশা রাখি। আমার দিন, রাত্রি, রান্না, খাওয়া, বই, গল্প, আর আমি, সবটাই যেনো পূজো সংখ্যার পাতা থেকে  উঠে আসা সেই  পুরোনো আমি,যার কেবল চেনা ছিল কালো জিরে আর কাঁচা লঙ্কা। বাঙালি রান্না ঘরের আইডেন্টিটি ভেবে আঁকড়ে থেকেছি যাদের এত গুলো বছর, আমার সাধের কালো জিরে আর কাঁচা লঙ্কা।

Suitcase full of love…..

/ sangeeta_chakladar / 2 Comments

The Atlantic Ocean never seemed so deep, big, far and wide before. It was just a tiny ocean on my Atlas. But oceans separates countries and countries separates people. My daughter was about to cross the ocean and enter New York with her three bags full with as much India she could pack within them. She had got admission in the Columbia University for her masters program and as much as we were delighted with her achievement the thoughts of sending her to another country was mak8ng me restless by the days.

In the last few weeks before her departure, my time was consumed in packing and re- packing those three bags full. It all began with the purchase of suitcases. Much research was made, about durability and brand. There were suggestions from well meaning friends. My family likes considering many view points before making any major purchase. In this case suitcase was the major purchase. Our existing suitcases were heavy duty stuff meant to last a life time ,doing train journey but failing the ultimate test of air travel. The permissible luggage weight in domestic travel is a mere15 kilograms. Thus the travel people became wiser and flooded the market with slim trim multicolored beauties with sleek handles. The display almost looks like a beauty pageant where each suitcase is competing with the other in weight, height, and beauty category, My family too possesses a few of these delicate beauties which we use for our short travels. But situation in hand was different , we needed big ( size specifications very accurate), light weight, not very costly suitcases. After two three trips to the stores we finally came home with what seemed the perfect choice.

The next step was a much more uphill task. My darling baby opened the ‘ Alibaba ka khazana ‘, her wardrobe.! I sat in a room filled with soft , colorful, dainty looking silks , cottons, Khadi all around me. All of this were her clothes! When did we buy all this I wondered. Mother and daughter sat down sorting out the pile. There were sarees to be packed for those festive days, lehenga for Diwali, Churidars and Patiyala salwars, kurtis for class, tops, shirts, dresses, jeans, shorts, sweaters, jackets, scarfs , shoes, socks, the list went on and on and we kept getting tangled amidst all this fabric and nic knack . After days of struggle I triumphantly announced mission accomplished. Father of the daughter joined the ladies with a weighing scale in hand. Quintessential army man ( hubby dear) would not allow us to weigh the suitcases . After all it’s a mans privilege to carry the burden !

Lo behold, the drama unfolds, the suitcases are overweight. Never mind the overweight father and mother, but the suitcases need to be exact 23 kilograms each. The fauji father takes charge, unpacks both the suitcases, (my two days hard work ) and empties the contents on the floor. Daughter dear had smuggled in diaries, letters, cards, books, all favorite memorabilia , without which she refuses to depart. Don’t go, stay back, I almost blurt out these foolish sentiments. But I have to make things lighter now, in every way I can. No space for sentimental baggage.

A visiting family friend stated that their son had gone abroad carrying three jeans, six shirts, one foot ball boot and a deflated football ! I looked at my daughter wistfully. Alas, daughters are our Princesses, they need their pumpkin carriage, they need their ball gown, they need their glass shoes too ! Search for the lightest baggage started all over again.

Finally, the perfect suitcase, the perfect weight combination had been achieved. Wearing the tri color ribbon ( saffron , white and green ) the suitcases were ready. The day and hour of departure came way too soon. The lost, unrest feeling within me would know no rest. Did I pack everything ? Was I forgetting anything ? Will she need anything more ? The questions haunted me long after she had walked inside the glass door of the international airport. The glass wall separated us for a while and then the vast Atlantic Ocean separated us !

How could I pack my first sensation of motherhood, those little fingers entwined with mine, the gentle smile, the naughty smile, the foolish smile . How could I pack our hours of fights, arguments, sulking . How could I pack our short walks, long talks. How could I pack our lazy Sundays, late night dances, our reading each other’s unspoken thoughts ! I could not pack all this and much more. So I sitting on my side of Atlantic with all my excess baggage of emotions very neatly, carefully, lovingly packed within and hidden ! Waiting to open them together before the pages turn yellow .