Ipsita Banerjee's Blog, page 21

'M' for Moon!

I've always had a fascination for the moon, that lady and I, we go back a long way. As a child I remember walks with my Dad over the moonlit fields near Kanke and Madhupur...and long moonlit swims with only the moonlight rippling up the waters. It was always magical....And whenever I have been sad, she's been around to give ease and comfort, reminding me that no matter how far or remote she may seem, she's always there.
I specially remember one time when I was hurt and upset and on a whim I took this overnight bus from Pune to Bangalore...throughout the journey the moon followed us and the moon drenched fields and hills winked at me...so by the time I reached Bangalore I was comforted, much more at peace with myself....and maybe a little more ready to face things...
Over the years that beautiful lady has been a mute witness to my life.
Whether I have been savouring the summer breeze on the terrace, or enjoying a drink in the moonlight, or watching the silver beams dancing on the waves or enjoying the quiet chill atop a hill, she's been a constant companion, friend and inspiration for much of my writing, my poetry and my paintings.... So how can M be anything but the moon? 

'L' is for Load-shedding

Ah, load-sheddings.
What on earth is that, did I hear you say?
When I was growing up in Calcutta there used to be electricity crises. These were termed as "load-sheddings" as in the time it took the utility company time to 'shed' the excess 'load' and could last from anywhere from 30 minutes to 4 hours or more. Load sheddings were the norm in the 70s and 80s in Calcutta. Rare were the days when you had unlimited electricity supply all day AND night. And load-sheddings were especially common in summer. So every household was equipped to deal with power-cuts, we had our kerosene lanterns, candlesticks, hand-held fans etc all handy and on the ready. Generators were rare and inverters unheard of. Many an evening was spent with the whole family at the dining table in a room lit by candles and lamps. Each of us would do our own thing and candlelit dinners held no fascination for us.
But the best evenings were when we had no studies and the whole would converge to the verandah on a hot summer night. A fresh breeze would blow and we could talk or exchange stories or play word games. And if an ice-cream seller would pass, my Dad would shout out and ask him to stop and we all would gorge on as much as we wanted to....

Now we have generators and machines that kick on as soon as the power goes out so you don't feel the shift. In any case, power-failure is rare. One call to the electric company will ensure technicians get on the job right away..... my daughters have never slept on the terrace or shot the breeze in the dark with me. And ice-creams? You do not gorge on those, you drive to the swanky ice-cream parlor round the corner and chose from umpteen flavors and toppings!
Ah, progress!

'K' is for Knitting

I really admire people who knit. It's one of those skills I did not acquire. In any case I am all thumbs with all kinds of needlework. In school we had Needlework and one of the things we had to do (at the age of 13, that too!) was to knit a set of booties, bonnet and baby sweater. Are you kidding me? Firstly I could barely hold two knitting needles together, then the intricacy of those start up stitches had me in knots. All I could do if I tried really hard was a long strip of maybe ten stitches with some holes for dropped stitches (which I pretended was 'design'). If anyone asked me, I was making a hairband. In fact, I was perpetually making a hairband. My grandmother had pity on me. At some point of time she saw me struggle and felt sorry for me. So she made me a baby sweater and booties and a bonnet. I remember it clearly, it was baby blue and very pretty. When I saw it, I was delighted. I thought I could pull it off. So I wrapped it in cellophane and submitted 'my' work. The teacher was delighted. 'Ah, so beautiful," she exclaimed, "did you make it?" "Me?" I said,  "Make this? No way, my grandmother made it."The teacher sighed deeply. I was given passing marks for honesty. But I never learned to knit. 

'J' is for Julie and Jackie......

Ah Jackie. And Julie. I remember them today after such a long time. It's peculiar that the mind will forget so much and yet hold memories to draw upon at the most unexpected corners of our journeys.
How can J belong to anyone else?
J is for Jackie. The mongrel dog I had in our garden house when I was growing up. We found her when she was a tiny pup and she stayed. Her name was Jacqueline, if you please, but everyone just called her Jackie. She was the one who drank my milk each morning till I got caught, she was the one who ran after our car and jumped at me when the car drove in and she is the one who whined woefully when we left. Jackie was my companion in all my hair-brained schemes, I used to drag her to the branches of the tree where I was sitting, I insisted on her swimming with me and even made her test ride the raft I never managed to get to stay afloat! Jackie hated the water, some dogs do, and it was a real test of her devotion when I pulled her along with me into the pond. She tried to run away, but, eventually, she joined me. Ah those were golden days, the pond, the open skies, the trees and Jackie. Jackie died during my school finals. I was told later, after the exams were over and I never got to say goodbye to her. So in my mind Jackie still walks the gardens of my childhood, roams the field with me and tries to hide in the grass when I want to swim.....  The house is gone, those days are gone, but somewhere in my heart, Jackie lives on waiting to lick my face....

J is also for Julie. Julie, my husband's Dalmatian  who was wary of me when we first met. I could see did didn't care for me much but she endured my presence specially after we were married. Slowly I made friends with her and she would occasionally deign to lick my hands and come forward for some petting. Julie was a brilliant strategist. Anyone, I mean anyone could enter the house. She would just lie there in the shade, eyes half-closed and quietly watch you while you entered through the gate and went into the house. Not a sound. Just don't try to leave without a family member present. Specially with something in your hand that was not there when you entered, be it a book or the garbage! I loved it! Julie shifted to Delhi with my in-laws. when my daughter was an infant and I put her to sleep in the sun in winter, Julie would sit there, on guard. I knew my daughter was safe. Julie was diagnosed with Cancer and refused to move from the Delhi residence even when my father-in-law had to move. She would run back from wherever she was! Luckily the new occupant was know to my Father-in-law and he allowed Julie to live there...and that's where Julie stayed, till the day she died, soon thereafter. I've not been to that property since, but if ever in my life I have occasion to, I know I shall see Julie peering from around the house.

J is also for Jed and Jazz, two of the most beautiful Border Collies I know. Zorba, a huge black Labrador who could wrestle you to the floor and cover you with cuddles. Puka, the Golden Lab who silently endured all my 8 year-old daughter's torturing. Frisky, the Alsatian who was more human than most humans I know. And  all the other canine friends I have or had and who will live forever, somewhere, a part of my life and my childhood. I have not forgotten. 

'I' for Inspiration

It's a very busy day today. I have work piled up from here to forever and then I have to take the girls to some classes and pack for the long weekend as we are going to Jamshedpur tomorrow and will not return till Monday night. So today is not a good day to write a post. Then I remembered this poem. Like a true blooded Bengali, when all else fails, I have Rabindranath Tagore to quote from:

"Those who are near me do not know that you are nearer to me than they are.Those who speak to me do not know that my heart is full with your unspoken wordsThose who crowd in my path do not know that I am walking alone with youThose who love me do not know that their love brings you to my heart."

'H' is for Horror.

Rohit was neither very intelligent nor kind but he was exceptionally good looking. In our society where boys are a premium, my mother took one look at him and declared he would be her son-in-law. My opinion was neither sought nor expected and I found myself saddled with a husband at the age of 17. By 19, my daughter, Neha was born. Of course I was blamed for conceiving a girl and thereafter I conceived seven times and underwent seven abortions till my body gave up and I had to undergo an hysterectomy. Rohit still insisted on having a son and used a surrogate woman. I cannot say I was unhappy when the child was stillborn.
I often thought of leaving home and running away but where could I go with a young daughter? Rohit always assured me he would never leave me, that he would ensure I could not escape him. Three years ago Rohit was in a car accident and went into a coma. Neha is now in college, I have ensured that she will get an education and have created a fund to meet all her expenses for the next eight years of her life. I will not let her be married off as a trophy wife. I can only hope she understands.
Two days ago I brought my husband home from the hospital. Last night he died. Although the doctor expressed surprise at the sudden deterioration no one really checked for bruises near at the throat. Or commented that the eyes had flown open.
It is now 10 pm and I have returned home after the cremation, the smell of flesh burning is so difficult to get rid of. I have sent off my cousins who wanted to stay the night with me and I have Rohit's pistol with me. The same one he used to threaten me with when I refused to have sex with him. I will now walk into my bedroom and I know I will find Rohit there, rotting flesh falling off burnt bones.
I have to put an end to this.

'G' is for Girlfriends

Ah girlfriends! What would life be without them? For at the end of the day, only a girlfriend will understand why you are upset that the pudding has not set or why watching the advertisement with that sweet chubby kid brings a lump to your throat! You can share your angst your joy and your pain and the girlfriend will be there to help you laugh it off, giggle at what you cannot change and give a fresh perspective on who you are. They are the cornerstones of your existence; they sit and listen to your ranting AND they come back for more! That’s more than one can say about most men!
I do not have too may friends but they are all special for more reasons than one. It does not matter that there is almost a decade between us, it does not matter that oceans divide us or that the last time I spoke to her was over a year ago on her birthday and this year I didn't get round to calling. Who needs a reason? I can call now, meet after days or months or years and we slip back into the friendship like that old slipper one never forgets!
So here’s to all my girlfriends, the ones we giggled about boys with, the ones who laughed at us because we were stupid or stood by us when we were hopelessly wrong, the ones who understand that the husband is being crabby so we have to cancel that lunch appointment, the ones who know kids can be so demanding at times they won’t let you talk on the phone in peace, the ones with who nothing is taboo and you are not judged or patronized, the ones who will agree to go on a bike ride with you at two in the morning “just because’, the one who will wear a swimsuit and get into the water with you even though she does not know swimming, the one who will take the blame when your father frowns at you for being late, the one who will take responsibility for she is the teachers pet, the one you can wake up at any hour of the night by honking loudly outside her door (never mind the neighbours!), the one who will agree to go “paaaarp” in a loud voice because your bike horn is not working, the ones who will sit with you in the moonlight on the top of a hill and let you shout into the darkness and then laugh herself and you silly afterwards, the ones who insist on writing your paper for you for otherwise you are not ready for that exam and might flunk, the ones who will share their last drink and last drag with you because you’re feeling like a lost kitten, the ones who will bring you in out of the cold and make you warm again, the ones you who soothe you when you are hurting so badly you cannot think, the ones who pick up the phone and instantly know that something is wrong, the ones that laugh with you and cry with you, the ones for whom a little silence is enough, the ones for who words are not necessary......
I love you. I just don't say it enough.

'F' is for Father.

My father was a simple man. He loved life and living and he taught us to do the same. He gave me the secret recipe to happiness: it did not matter what you did, he used to say, as long as you gave it your best shot. He taught me never to run away from my duties or responsibilities and to face things as they are. My father never gave me dancing or singing lessons but he taught me real-life skills like first-aid and driving. When I was struggling with embroidery in school, he told me the only thing I needed to know was to sew a button. When I wanted to make gourmet meals at home he ensured I knew how to make a basic roti so I could feed myself when I was hungry. My father taught me to dream. And he taught me that anything is possible. But the most important lesson of all he saved for the last.  He taught me to be strong. He battled cancer for over a year. I was all of 21. I never heard him scream in pain or feel sorry for himself. Even as he was dying he would tell us of his plans for his next life when he would get to do all the things he could not do in this! 
As I grew into womanhood, my father was the person I missed the most. I never got to speak to him as an adult, discuss plans for my future or toss my ideas at him and have them be thrown back at me. My father knew me first a s a errant child, a difficult teenager and then a rebellious college student, never as an adult or a woman or a mother. But I like to believe he believed in me. 
I have often heard it said that I am strong. It's only my father's spirit that lives in me. 

'E' is for Examinations!

With two school-going teenage girls in the house, every now and then, we have to undergo this ordeal called examinations.
I tip-toe around the house so as not to disturb the little darlings when they are studying. And they "study" everywhere. The dining table, the sofa, the guest bedroom, even the piano is littered with textbooks and hastily scribbled gibberish which they insist are notes. Yes, you got it. They study everywhere except at their study tables. I should just turn their room into a swimming pool, take a deep breath and stay underwater until the exams are over.
Coming back to where I was, here I am trying to maintain peace and a feeling of calm, conducive for studying peacefully. Peace. Did I say peace? That's impossible. You see, "she took my eraser and Ma, she licked my earphones and she will not share her colour pencils and she lost my compass and she is not studying and she is kicking my chair and she pulled my hair and she is hiding in the loo and playing with the iPad and she is reading so loudly and LOOK MA, SHE IS HUMMING!"
I've tried separating them but they gravitate to each other. I try to ignore them. But that's impossible.
So after a round of weak 'shut up's and 'stop disturbing your sister' without any success I march in to where ever they are. I make them sit up straight, stop slouching and remove all distractions like Archie's Digests, story books and the PSP that have been shoved under some papers as soon as they heard me approach. I lecture them about responsibilities and that it's high time they knew what was good for them. I refuse to nursemaid them, I say and for good measure I add that if their grades do not measure up they are not coming for the summer vacation with us! They know the drill. They listen. It usually works until I have left the room. The 'shut ups' and 'I will tell' are softer now. I settle back into whatever I am doing.
One daughter strolls in,"I don't understand this."
"This", of course, is the whole Physics book.
"But you have Physics tomorrow, no? What were you doing for so long?"
"I was doing Geography."
"Why?"
"Because I like it."
You cannot argue with that kind of logic. And the Physics has to be learnt.
So I bite back the harsh words I was going to say and we spend two hours going over the chapters.
Obviously, she has no notes, she falls from the sky as if this is the first time she has heard the word 'mass' and has no recollection of anything being taught in school. As she looks at me wide eyed, I snap,"what were you doing when they taught you in school?"
She smiles coyly, "I like it when you teach."
Yes, I am a sucker for things like that. I smile vaguely. I tell her to learn diagrams and revise this, that and the other.
And I go to find the other beauty.
She is lying in the guest bedroom book open on her face, fast asleep.
The cordless phone is next to her. Discharged.
I shake her awake.
"I'm resting," she protests.
"Well, you've been resting all day.Get up and study!"
As I leave the room she says shyly, "Ma, will you read this for me?"
A piece of Bengali literature. Thankfully it's an interesting one by Satyajit Ray. I read. Then she makes me read another and another. I am filled with disgust.
"And where were you when they taught this in Class?"
"Choir practice."
Prompt comes the answer. As it has for the last week for any subject or any class you ask her. It seems all she does in school is attend choir practice! She should be Lata Mangeshkar by now!
I mutter something unprintable about what I think of her choir and leave the room.

I wish I could say they study seriously after all that. There's still the shouts, the occasional outbursts as each one picks on the other. Somehow amid all that I hope they are also learning something. The schools I understand have their schedules to keep and standards to maintain but all these examinations make my skin crawl and take a toll on my mental well being.
But, we'll have to discuss that some other time. I have to go now.
You see, "SHE IS HUMMING AGAIN!"

'D" is for Dreams

I've always been a dreamer. And I'm not just talking about the waking ones. I'm talking about the ones I cannot control, the ones that take me to new and often uncharted territories at night. In my late teens I had acquired a dream dictionary and off and on tried to maintain a dream diary in an effort to decipher what my dreams meant. I was heavily into symbolism and the like.
Recently I've been having these dreams. My father-in-law (sometimes with my mother-in-law, sometimes alone) has regularly been featuring in my dreams. I was very fond of him and he passed away 18 months ago. So it wasn't exactly unpleasant to have him around in my dreams. Usually the scenario was in an old house, often the house of my childhood. Sometimes the theme changed, we were all on vacation. or sitting down for a meal together. Always, there was something he was trying to say, something that eluded me. I used to wake up disturbed, often commenting about these dreams to my husband. But I also got used to seeing them every night.
Ten days ago my husband fell sick while in Delhi for an outstation case. He returned to Calcutta and visited the doctor. The day we admitted him I was nervous and worried. By nightfall three stents had been placed in his heart and the doctor was happy with the prognosis. I returned home late and fell asleep, shattered by the day's events.
For the first time in weeks I did not dream of my father-in-law.
I haven't since.
Yet.