Love

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.

London Love: Last day

/ sangeeta_chakladar / 5 Comments

I did not marry a chocolate cream soldier. Chalk does not understand flowers, chocolates or gifts unless told to do so! For him, the essence of any strong relationship is mutual respect, loyalty and responsibility. I too value the more meaningful aspects of life than the frills. And somehow life without the fancy frills makes it more easy at my age. As for romance, I am Cheese the romantic, I can do double shift romance, both for Chalk and myself.

For Chalk and Cheese special days are usually no different from everyday, but their children feel differently. They want to celebrate their parents anniversary and won’t listen to any of our arguments. Last year we were in Pittsburgh with our son and he had made his parent’s anniversary extra special .This year our daughter, aka Kessari was in London with us. She had meticulously planned the day, keeping in mind what Chalk and Cheese liked, but most of it was her secret, to be revealed gradually. It was almost like a parents day out kind of feeling for us.

“London has to be seen with the ‘London eye’ ” ; Cheese had said this to her daughter at some point and the daughter had remembered! The first surprise of the day was tickets to the London Eye. Chalk, Cheese and Kessari Iined up in drizzling rain for the ride. The wait was long, the wind and drizzle added to the chill. A panoramic view of London slowly unfolded as the giant observatory wheel completed one circle in thirty minutes. For thirty minutes we sat in a capsule looking down at The Big Ben, Westminster, St.Pauls Cathedral, the majestic buildings of London and the river Thames reflecting the city and its skies like an old trusted friend.

Our trusted Kessari had made plans of taking us for shopping . We followed her to the The Harrods department store. The cursory visit was more out of curiosity than necessity. The merchandise were mostly very steeply priced. My choice was clear, between empty pocket and empty hand, I preferred the latter.

A friend had recommended the store Fortnum and Mason. The store was established in 1707 as a grocery store, it has ever since gained in reputation and inventories and now stands as a luxury brand in London. It is heard that the Queen Elizabeth ll, visited the store personally and that the store has been the royal grocer for a century. Kessari, my genie for the day was making me feel nothing less than the queen. So the queen mother of Kessari entered Fortnum and Mason holding her daughter’s hand. Fortnum and Mason was indeed a beautiful store at every level. It had a winding staircase leading on to different floors. The interiors were elegantly done up, there were delicate glass wares on display, teal coloured tea sets, napkins, bags, and so much more. I felt adequately tempted to buy almost the whole store.

A visit to these landmark stores was definitely not about filling the shopping bags. Cheese was melting with other emotions. My daughter was holding my hand and taking me through the different sections of the stores , as if I was the child and she was my mother. She kept asking me whether I fancied anything in particular and with choked emotions all I could do was nod. I already had my world with me, holding my hand and walking along, how could I possibly fancy anything more precious than this moment .

Chalk and Cheese had started getting a little tired after all the store hopping, they wanted to sit for a while. On any other day we would have loved to find a bench at Trafalgar Square or Covent Garden, but this day was different. Kessari had hidden surprises at every turn. She had booked a table for afternoon tea at the Theatre Royal Drury Lane.

The wide staircase with a red carpet welcomed us into the interiors of the theatre, almost like royalty. The tea room gave vibes of an old Victorian drawing room, an ideal place to sit back and enjoy a cuppa of English afternoon tea. But there was more on the platter than just tea. Elaborately layed out tables with the finest of tableware and delicate flowers had already set the mood for the evening. With touristy mode
footwear (screamingly out of place ) Chalk, Chesse and Kessari settled down to an evening of style. Tea was served along with three different courses of delicious savouries. The service and courtesy of the staff was impeccable, they also got us a cake for our anniversary . Keeping to the Coronation theme, pastries were shaped like the crowns of the King and Queen. Sitting in the heart of England, your Indian Cheese was biting into the sweet taste of the crown! What a magical moment indeed.

After such a stylish experience of afternoon tea, I felt my London trip was almost over. But the daughter had yet another special treat waiting for us. The celebration continued with a theatrical extravaganza at the Piccadilly Theatre London. As we took to our seats the curtains were still down but the artists were amongst us, gyrating in slow motion, enthralling us, captivating us; titillating the imagination of the audience till the curtains raised to the dazzling show ‘Moulin Rouge The Musical’. The colours, sparkles, glitters were as much on the stage as on our minds. The delightful performance of the actors and the craft of story telling got embedded in our minds.

It was certainly the perfect romantic fairy tale ending to our anniversary date. The curtain had drawn on the stage of “Moulah Rouge” and finally it was time to draw the curtains on our celebrations for the day. A beautifully packaged gift of love from our children, a day filled with wonder, grandeur and dazzle. Chalk and Cheese themselves could not have planned it any better.

Chalk and Cheese are now back in India, settled in the comfort of home and the routine of everyday life. Writing this series of Chalk and Cheese European trip would not have been possible without the support of my friends and dear readers. Your encouragement kept me going. I cannot end without thanking my son for constantly nudging me to continue writing. He has been my cheer leader and one man technical
support team in this entire series.

It is time to wrap up Chalk and Cheese tales for now. With a promise to come back with Chalk and Cheese when we travel again, signing off, your’s truly ….Cheese.

The End.

Let’s Go Dutch…

/ sangeeta_chakladar / 9 Comments
All the colours together

A Dutch painter, some Dutch tulips, A house where Anne Frank lived and A district named De Wallen, and when they all come together they tell stories of different hues. Cheese loves stories and she will happily spread them around. Chalk will support Cheese with his firm , no nonsense attitude lest she loses herself in this labyrinth of fairy tales.

“Dekha ek khwab to ye silsile huye, duur tak nigahon mein hain gul khile huye…”, I have hummed this song so many times in my life ; but never had I thought that one day I would be running between endless rows of tulips, singing this song aloud. Oh so filmy , you might say. And yes, I accept, I am Cheese and I am a foolishly romantic and filmy person. My romance is not with an individual in particular, it is with nature, myself, my reading, my feelings, in short with life itself.

Tulips first bloomed in the mountain ranges of the Himalayas in Central Asia and the Alpine Himalayan belt of Turkey. The Sultans of Turkey used to put a tulip on their turban, and the name of the flower came from the Turkish word , turban. In India, the Mughals grew tulips in their gardens. But I did not go to any mughal garden to see the tulips. One Mr. Yash Chopra had shown us in his film Silsila ( 1981) the Tulips of
Holland with Amitabh and Rekha singing a love song ..”Dekha ek khwab”. I went chasing that ‘ khwab’ or dream all the way to a country called Netherlands. The big screen had left its magical mark in Eastman colour and what I saw in those fields matched with that memory frame by frame.

I left Chalk and the group with the tour guide talking about all the how’s and why’s about tulips. I walked a few steps away , to be with myself in search of solitude ! Aah, solitude cannot be felt so easy. Soon the cameras would start clicking and people talking. But in those few stolen moments, I tried to immerse myself in the magnificence of colours and beauty of a simple flower named tulip. The vision of the brightest red, pink, orange, yellow under the sparkling blue skies of May was arranged specially for me as a gift from the heaven’s above.

From the tulip farms ,we went to the famous Kaukenhof Gardens to see more tulips. The garden was curated to hold the visitors in absolute awe with its spectacular beauty. At every turn there was a fresh bed of tulips in amazing colours. In the fields the tulips are grown for their bulbs, so the flowers are headed off at a certain time. Where as in the Kaukenhof Garden the tulips are not cut, they are grown for display alone. Therefore the variety of the tulips, their size and the mixing of vibrant colours were unparalleled.

From the bounty of nature’s pallet, Chalk and Cheese take a turn to see the painter’s pallet in the Van Gogh Museum. Vincent Van Gough ,the famous post-impressionist painter who has left behind a school of thought, of learning and experimenting with the brush and easel, was born in southern Netherlands. His work includes landscapes, still life, portraits and self-portraits. A visit to the Van Gogh Museum to see his paintings was on the list of things to do for Chalk and Cheese. But when we entered the museum our ignorance hit us hard. Each painting stopped us in our track, to admire in reverence, an art form about which our knowledge was so limited yet each frame so immensely intriguing.

This museum is a place to see, read, think, imagine, feel, understand and admire the man called Vincent. Through his paintings, the artist has left behind a story of his life and made it immortal. We see the man, his loneliness, pain, chaos, experimental phase, blissful state, and so much more, all taking shape and form in colours . Van Gogh’s self portraits had a story too, getting a model to pose for portraits was an expensive business, therefore Vincent found his own mirror image the best way for him to practice and learn portraits. Van Gough kept on painting despite his mental illness. Painting was his release or escape in a world where he would not be misunderstood or plagued by doubts. His use of bold colours and brush strokes, at times using the canvas itself as his pallet to mix colours, were all in some way, foundations of modern art.

His famous painting ‘Starry Night’ is kept in New York’s Museum of Modern Arts. Paintings of trees with flowers filled the painter with hope and joy. We saw his two other famous work the ‘Sunflowers’ and ‘Almond Blossoms ‘ at the Van Gogh Museum. Chalk and Cheese left the museum soaked with the powerful colours of life, sprayed by a man called Vincent Van Gogh.

The scarlet or the colour red was the last colour we would see on our final evening in Amsterdam. As Chalk and Cheese set out for their evening stroll along the canal, they reached the infamously famous district of De Wallen. It was around eight in the evening. In full day light the roads and houses looked just like any other canal-lane roads and houses. Only difference was the gathering public around the pubs on the street. Chalk and Cheese were in two minds, whether to wait awhile or return to the hotel. But I guess curiosity got the better of us, we waited.

Around nine in the evening the street lights and the red neon lights on the windows started glowing all at once. The red curtains were pulled to a side and behind each window stood girls wearing bright, glittering fancy clothes , posing and looking directly into the eyes of the onlookers. The popularity of this street amongst tourists is perhaps because, everyone can walk these streets. The life of these sex workers is not an unknown story, there is no discreet alluring of sensuality, it is all in the open. A profession which has existed for centuries, hidden behind closed doors and hushed whispers, had at last raised the curtain, for the show to begin. You can be scornful, lustful, and yet these women will look straight into your eyes, almost daring you to turn your back. Chalk and Cheese did turn back, but this time in contemplative silence.

No matter how well one plans , some wishes still remain unfulfilled . And that is the way of life. It is not necessary that every door you knock will open for you. I knocked the doors of Anne Frank House , but in vain. The tickets for this house are available only online and had to be booked much in advance. I learnt my lesson to make peace with disappointment. I sat outside the house for sometime, remembering the book I had read when I was in school. Years cannot erase all memories, and a good book leaves impressions for life. Perhaps some memories are best left as it is, untouched. Let Anne Frank House stay in my mind forever, just the way I had imagined it to be years back as a young girl. A house where that young girl lived in hiding for two long years, let it remain hidden from the curious eyes of visitors like me.

To be continued…..

Some closed doors.

এক মুঠো পলাশ

/ sangeeta_chakladar / 4 Comments

“সারা রাত দুই চোখের পাতা এক করতে পারিনাই”, এই কথাটা ছোটবেলায়  প্রাই শুনতাম আমার  দিদিমার মুখে । শুনলেই মনে হতো ‘বুড়ো মানুষ রা এমনি কথা কেনো বলে, এমন টাও হয় নাকি, নিশ্চয়ই বাড়িয়ে বলছে ।’ দিন কেটেছে, সেই দিদিমাও আর নেই, মাও আর নেই, তাই তাদের গিয়ে বলতে পারি না ‘হয় গো হয়,  ঠিক এরকম টা হয় ‘। আমি যে এখন অনেক রাত ওই দুই চোখের পাতা এক না করে কাটাই, এখন আমি বুঝি । দিদিমা না হতে পারি  কিন্তু দিদিমা হওয়ার বয়েস টা তো হয়েছে, তাই এই ব্যামো টাও অল্প অল্প শুরু হয়েছে ।

গত শনিবার পুরো রাত রাতের পাখির মতোন ড্যাব ড্যাব করে জেগে থাকলাম। সকাল হতেই  in house golfer কে বললাম, ‘আজ তোমার golf যাওয়া চলবে না।  আমাকে গাড়ি করে ড্রাইভ এ নিয়ে যেতে হবে, তারপর কোথাও ইচ্ছে হলে গাড়ি থেকে নেমে, আমরা হাঁটব, তারপর কচুরি- তরকারি ,জিলিপি আর চা  at Sharma Tea’। কেবল morning walk বললে কাজ হত কিনা জানিনা, কিন্তু ওই কচুরি জিলিপির টোপ টা কাজ করলো । তিনি একটু দোনা মনা করে রাজি হয়ে গেলেন । বেশ কিছু ক্ষণ এদিক ওদিক ঘুরে আমি বললাম ‘এবার গাড়ি থামানো হক, এখানে অনেক গাছ, আমরা একটু হাঁটি চলো’।  

চালক গাড়ি থামালেন, আগে পিছনে করে নিপুণ ভাবে পার্ক করলেন। অধৈর্য আমি গাড়ির দরজা খুলে নেমে দাঁড়ালাম, আমার ভাবটা এমন যেন ওনার কারণে সিনেমার শো মিস হয়ে যাবে। চোখের সামনে সারি সারি পলাশ গাছ তখন আমায় হাতছানি দিয়ে ডাকছে, মন বলছে দে ছুট। আমার একটা বড় দোষ আছে, আমি যখন হাঁটি হন হন করে প্রায় দৌড়বার মতন করে হাঁটি, তাই আমার সাথে কেউ হাঁটতে চায় না। দেখে মনে হতেই পারে মহিলা বাস ধরার জন্যে দৌড় দিচ্ছেন। জোরে হাঁটি বটে, কিন্তু আমার মন কবি কবি ভাব নিয়ে প্রকৃতির ধীর গতিতে  চলার আনন্দের মধ্যে ডুবতে থাকে । কত কিছু দেখার থাকে চারি পাশে। মনে মনে হারিয়ে যেতে যেতে আমি গুন গুন  করে গেয়ে উঠি , ” রূপ  সাগরে ডুব দিয়েছি অরূপ  রতন আশা করি ।” আমার পাশের মানুষ দু চার কদম পিছন পিছন আসতে থাকেন, তিনি আমার এই  sprint walking style এর সাথে নিজেকে মানিয়ে নিয়েছেন বহুকাল আগে ।

আমি অবাক চোখে দেখি , পলাশ গাছের আগুন জলা রূপ, তার উল্টো দিকে গোলাপি  সাদার গুচ্ছ গুচ্ছ ফুলে ভরা মাধবীলতার সারি , হলুদ রঙের কলকে  ফুলের ভারে নুয়ে পরা ডাল, আরো কত ফুল, যেন কেউ  অতি যত্নে সাজি সাজিয়ে অপেক্ষা করছে আমার। কলকে ফুল গুলো আমার গালে হালকা করে টোকা দিয়ে যায় যেনো । চলার পথের ধারে কত রঙের বাহার, চারিপাশে ছড়িয়ে পরে আছে অগুন্তি পলাশ।  মনে হয় আমার ওপর তাদের বড্ড অভিমান হয়েছে, এত দিন আসি নি বলে ।তাদের উজ্জ্বল কমলা  বর্ণের ফুল গুলো মাটিতে পরে ধুলো মাখা মাখি করে জানান  দিচ্ছে  আমাদের চলে যাবার দিন এসে গেছ,  বসন্ত চলে গেছে,  তুমি আসতে দেরী  করে ফেলেছ । মন টা কেমন যেন  উদাস হয়ে ওঠে আর ভাবে ‘ইশ, আর কয়েকদিন  আগে এলাম না কেনো ।’ আর ঠিক তখনই, যেন আমার  মনের  কথা বুঝে নিয়ে , মাটিতে পরে থাকা এক bougainvillea র ডাল আমায় ডাক দিয়ে, ফিক করে  হেসে বলে, ”ওমন মন খারাপ করিস না, আমাদের দিকে চেয়ে দেখ, কত রঙে  সারা বছর তোর পাশেই তো থাকি আমরা ,পাঁচিল এর গা বেয়ে উঠে তোকে দেখার জন্য অপেক্ষা করে থাকি !”  আরে  তাই তো, এই  Kagaz ke phul ( যাকে আমি মজা করে বউ gone বলে ডাকি) ও তো আমার বড় আদরের।  মায়ার টানের টানাপোড়েন , তার কি কোনো হিসাব আছে।  আমায় টানে আকাশ, আকাশের চাঁদ, তারা, সূর্য  ; আমায় টানে সমুদ্র, নদী, রঙের খেলা ; আমায় পাগল করে সবুজের নেশা, তবে কেনো পলাশ পলাশ করে কেঁদে মরি আজ। পলাশ  যেনো কোন পুরনো প্রেমিক, যার সাথে রয়ে গেছে কিছু না বলা কথা, তাই তো সে তার বুক ভরা অভিমান নিয়ে টুপ টুপ করে ঝড়ে পড়ছে।

হাঁটার  পথের এক পাশে খোলা সবুজ মাঠ , লোহার গ্রিল দিয়ে ঘেরা সেই মাঠ । সেখানে টিকিট কেটে  ঢুকতে হয়, এত ভোরে সেই টিকিট  ঘর খোলেনা, তাই মানুষ জনও আসে না। ওই গেটের মধ্যেই সবুজ মাঠের ওপারে, ছড়িয়ে  ছিটিয়ে দাঁড়িয়ে আছে seven wonders of the world, ভোরের আলোয় ঝকঝক করছে , ছোট্ট এক পৃথিবী । আমার সেখানে যাওয়া হয় নি কোনোদিন।  আমি যে wonders of the world বড়  সহজে পেয়ে  যাই আমার চার পাশে । এই ঝড়ে পরা অভিমানী পলাশ এর বুকে , কলকে ফুলের নরম ঠোঁটের আদরে , আর মন মাতানো মাধবী লতার গন্ধে, এর মধ্যেই আমার শহর,আমার পৃথিবী, আর এক রাশ ভালবাসা ।

গরম আসছে, সঙ্গে করে আনবে ঝুড়ি ভরা কৃষ্ণ চূড়ায় মাতোয়ারা নীল আকাশ ; অমলতাস এর পাগল করা হলুদ ডালের হাত ছানি ; আধ ফোটা বেলি ফুলের মালা ; আর জুঁই – জাগা রাত । এই রে, কথায় কথায় আবার রাত জাগার কথা ওঠে  কেনো আমার মনে । বেশ তো হারিয়ে  যাচ্ছিলাম মনে মনে। আমার মগ্নতার জগত থেকে ফেরাতেই বোধহয়  পিছন থেকে  golfer  ডাক দিলেন, ” এবার কি ফিরবে?”  বুঝলাম অনেকটা পথ এসে গেছি উদাসী মনে হাঁটতে হাঁটতে। জোরে হাঁটি বলে অনেক টা বেশি  হাঁটা হয়ে যায়। ‘হ্যাঁ  চলো, এবার ফেরা যাক’ বলে about turn করি আমি ।  ফেরার পথে এক মুঠো পলাশ কুড়িয়ে নেওয়ার লোভ সামলাতে পারি না , তাদের দিকে আরো কিছুক্ষণ চেয়ে থাকার লোভ । গাড়ি তে উঠেই মনে পড়ে যায় , কচুরি-তরকারি আর জিলিপির প্রতিশ্রুতি, মনে হল golfer এর মুখে দেখলাম এক টুকরো হাসি ।মন টা বড় শান্ত  হয়ে গেছিল।  রাত জাগার ক্লান্তি আমায় কষ্ট দেয় না, রাত জাগা এই আমি ফোন খুলে গান চালিয়ে দি :

“আমার ভিনদেশী তারা…তোমার আকাশ ছোঁয়া বাড়ি
আমি পাইনা ছুঁতে তোমায়, আমার একলা লাগে ভারী।”

Little Pearl

/ sangeeta_chakladar / 1 Comment

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.

Forwarded.

/ sangeeta_chakladar / 2 Comments

The man of the house keeps sitting for hours with his mobile phone in hand and I see him smiling ,frowning or hear a hearty laughter now and then. There is a world of ‘forwards’ on his phone, which he receives from his multiple  w.app groups, and this ‘forwarded’ world keeps him absorbed for hours. The videos he plays can get quite annoying, for they start blaring all of a sudden. They can range from jokes to songs to ‘prabachans’ or even a diet plan, never lacking  in mix- matching variety! The man refuses to use his ear phones. Initially I was sympathetic to his dislike for ear phones. After all, as a pilot he has been wearing the head-set for the longest hours of every day of his flying  career, and now if he wants a break from putting noise pollution into his ear drums I am in complete compliance. But when the bedroom starts echoing various decibels of noise pollution at any time of the day, I do take offense.

I ponder, I think, I introspect, till I let guilt take over my  reasoning.The fault must be mine, I blame myself, infact I convince myself that my communication skills are largely at question. This gadget companion of my man ( the mobile phone )  could do what I have failed to succeed in in so many years of our life together. The phone can evoke various ’emotions’ in my man which I can not, no matter how hard I try. No one can blame me for not talking enough, I talk endlessly,  I don’t  expect reactions, I just do my bit…chatter chatter. He stays calm and quiet. All these years I was giving him the benefit of the doubt, I had started to accept that his emotional quotient was less than mine. I believed that the man was not capable of expressing or perhaps even feeling emotions. And here was this same man displaying more emotions than there are emoticons for them,  and his  expressions keep changing by the minute, depending on the ‘forwards’ he receives.  For me it is like discovering a  new man behind my solemn faced ‘fauji’ .For so many years I was content looking at a straight face ( thinking it to be equanimity) or a knotted brow (thinking it to be contemplation). But alas, my man has a completely hidden  side of which I knew nothing.  A world of whatsapp forwards!

Finally I gather enough  curiosity and ask him to share with me this private world of his ( which of course cannot  be too private for most of the forwards read ‘forwarded many times’) .To my surprise he happily introduces me to his  sanctum of entertainment.  Soon, a bit too soon, my mind gets the answers to my man’s muse. I think I would rather choose my man as my muse to w.app forwards ! He angers me, he frustrates me, but he also makes me smile and laugh like no one else can. Therefore let him continue filling up his spare hours and his mobile phone’s storage with whatsapp forwards while I fill my hours with my words, Netflix, and Prime. Let us each have our own guilty harmless pleasures in peace.

A last note, the man of the  house has read this blog before I thought of posting it. And guess what..I got my first reaction/ emotion…”it is funny ” said the man. Hurray,  I have made him smile at last. Long live the pen! Tring,  tring, tring, that’s  my w.app calling , bye.

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 .