Shuvashree Chowdhury's Blog, page 36

Dad & I

My dad was one of the coolest, politest, friendliest and most charming gentlemen you’d ever meet, and my close friends would vouch for that. But if you messed with his daughters and he was aware…you would know how potent can be the rage of the coolest man. just as “hell hath no fury as a woman scorned,” so too, hell hath no fury as a man whose daughter is scorned. 

One day, when I was in college, I was home while my parents and sister were out. Our neighbourhood aunty – a senior IPS officer’s wife, sent a group of 4 cops to our house, in quest of a carpenter who was working at her house and ours. He had supposedly robbed her money and absconded. When my parents returned home that evening, on the stairs itself, I told dad how the lady had sent the cops, who troubled me over the whereabouts of the carpenter. Mom who is the reactive one didn’t but dad immediately rushed down the stairs, before I could tell him the details and I ran to the balcony, to view the enfolding of the most shocking scene of my dad’s life.

As I watched on, dad was ringing their ground floor bell in anger, even as he held on to the bell switch and it screeched away, till the lady opened the door and he thundered at her…”Mrs…How dare you send the cops to my house, when my daughter is alone and how dare they harass her? My house is not your husband’s police station, that you can send your cops to ransack it.” Imagine how loud, he must have been screaming for me to hear it all few houses away, though I don’t recall exactly what he said. Then suddenly, I heard the lady who was half my father’s height, burst out crying, even as dad continued to tower over her threateningly, shouting aloud some more. Mom and I looked on shocked. Then what was more shocking was after sometime dad brought the same aunty back home for drinks…and she was so apologetic, much to my amusement, as I handed her a glass.

A nother incident was when dad, very ill by then, and his left side was almost paralysed from a massive stroke, in a burst of sudden rage caught hold of one of my boyfriend’s collar roughly, in our house, shook him hard just with the right hand, as the guy had been really troubling me emotionally for long. My sister and I pulled dad away, worried about his health, even as he cursed “If I were younger, I would have killed you.”

Then the night after my father’s death, this boyfriend got into a severe street fight, was beaten up bad, by a gang of guys, very close to our house. When we learnt of this, as he told us, my sister remarked very philosophically “That was Baba, completing what he could not do in life”

Luckily I got married a year after my father’s death, or god knows husband would be dodging him around – even if not with some broken limbs, but surely not daring to write parody on me and mother in his books and columns as he tends to. :)

 

 

My Random Moods

Lonely

At times, I’m so moody and blue,

Also jealous and unforgiving too;

It may’ve nothing to do with you,

But what in life I’ve been through.

Sometimes, I’ll squirm and shriek,

If you dig into my wounded knee –

Purposely touch its scab unhealed;

So then don’t blame me for cruelty.

Occasionally I might sulk or weep,

When you’re happy and carefree;

If you’re not sensitive to my needs –

Walking over me in your spiked feet.

With time I will heal, dispel misery,

Cure my jittery heart permanently;

But till then I might act injudiciously,

So bear with my moods graciously.

 

Pensive              

       

    Destroyed By Time                   

 

Perspectives

Perspectives

1.

I sowed a tender unique plant,

Nurtured it with love and care;

Into it I put my time and effort-

It would grow special and rare.

You came along to visit one day,

“The pot’s so exquisite” you raved.

2.

I dressed with care to please you,

My face shone, my hair was intact;

I wore my shoes and bag to match,

The earrings, neckwear, were rare.

It’s my dress you commended highly,

Looking through, as if, I wasn’t there.

3.

I loved you more than you did yourself,

Did all I could to convey, you’re the best;

But you flashed me your expedient views,

Jealousy in love is humdrum, out-of-place.

4.

I work so hard, to shine, to succeed in life,

You see my sincerity and efficiency radiate;

But you turn a blind eye, as if from the sun,

Appreciating the moon – my light replicates.

5.

I communicate, but you don’t read cues,

Leaving me unappreciated, so refused;

How am I supposed to love wholeheartedly?

When it’s only of your sentiments you care?

In steadying relationships, mustn’t we abide-

To receive with grace, listen to what’s quiet?

Perspectives: The World’s versus Mine

Perspectives

1.

I sowed a tender unique plant,

Nurtured it with love and care;

Into it I put my time and effort-

It would grow special and rare.

You came along to visit one day,

“The pot’s so exquisite” you raved.

2.

I dressed with care to please you,

My face shone, my hair was intact;

I wore my shoes and bag to match,

The earrings, neckwear, were so rare.

Only my dress you commended highly,

Looking through, as if, I wasn’t there.

3.

I love you more than you do yourself,

Do all I can to convey, you’re the best;

But you flash me your expedient views,

Jealousy in love is humdrum, out-of-place.

4.

I work so hard, to succeed at work, in life,

You see my sincerity and efficiency radiate;

But you turn a blind eye, as if to the sun,

Appreciating the moon – my light replicates.

On Stealing My Rainbow

I took my mother, who is visiting me in Chennai, for a walk this evening to the Jiva Park – with well laid out walker’s tracks, a children’s playground, in the heart of the city in T Nagar – where we live. At over 75 years, mother tires quickly, so we were sitting on a bench to the side, under the trees. I suddenly heard the familiar ringing of a bell from outside, and turning around noticed the Walls ice cream cart pulling up right behind me – beyond the park wall. I don’t know what it was, that made me get up instantly, after telling mother my purpose, walking in the direction of the ice cream man.

Perhaps it was the pleasant weather right after a drizzle just before we left home or childhood nostalgia from being home alone with mother as husband is out of town, and then sitting on a park bench with her. She had narrated but yet again, now that she tends to forget and repeat herself every so often, how as a child I always insisted on the maid carrying a duster to clean the park bench, when taking me for a walk to the park in Delhi or Calcutta where we lived then.

After some deliberation over the choice, I found myself holding a Choco-fudge Cornetto in one hand, with my wallet in the other, to put away the change the ice cream man was to return from the hundred rupees I had handed him. I was distracted, invoking reminiscences, of walking over with father to the Kwality ice cream parlour in our neighbourhood in north Calcutta every Sunday of school vacations, returning with ice cream for everyone at home. It made me sad that I could not take one for mother this evening as she suffers from acute diabetes, even though she seemed so happy to see me get up to buy myself one, even urged me to go ahead, assuring me she did not care for one herself. But the light in my eyes, the smile on my face, from the vivid recall of the excitement in returning home with father as a child, with half a dozen ice creams in a paper bag, both froze with a sudden loud and resounding clap right in front of my face.

I was so shocked at the sound of what I was to soon comprehend, that I might have dropped my ice cream thereon, was the trademark clap of a eunuch demanding money. I was shaken to the core from noticing a group of half a dozen of them surrounding me, as I looked at their much painted faces with overtly dramatic expressions staring at me, hands outstretched theatrically, clapping randomly, dressed pretty well at that in good salwar kameez.

“Give us some money” one of them said so close to my face, eyes boring threateningly into mine, as another added, “God will bless you, and fulfil all your wishes.”

I swiftly placed my wallet into my hand bag and instructed the ice cream man – “Please give them the change, I’m off from here.”

The ice cream man looked at my troubled face helplessly, while another two men watched this spectacle from the gate of the park – even as two of the eunuchs in turn stroked my hair, my face, their eyes theatrically provoking me as they added “we are so many, how will the change do for us?”

I was exasperated, at this intrusion to my revisiting my childhood – with this seemingly insignificant, but soul satisfying act, of buying myself ice cream, from a road vendor outside a park, on a rainy evening. That I left the ice cream, along with the change the vendor tried to shove into my hands, on the cart, and marched inside. I wanted to cry, from this outrageous stealing of my rainbow of happiness, as it felt to me like the snatching of a balloon or an ice cream from my hands as a child.

I walked back to where mother was seated on the bench, on the way feeling very sorry for letting her down as well, by not returning with the ice cream and giving her the pleasure of my having it in her presence, the way she looked forward to it. On the way, I recalled, how the aggression and bullying of eunuchs had on other occasions robbed my joy and anticipation. One such was when working for an airline, in 1997, I was on my way to an interview in Mumbai – at the head office at Andheri Kurla Road, for a coveted senior role, and a large group of eunuchs stopped my taxi on the way from the airport. They had pulled my cheek, stroked my long hair, pulled my arms – in a beige business suit, called me a heroine and what not, and then let go after I paid them five hundred rupees. With an added cost of my walking into the interview meeting, as pale and shaken, as having a nightmare and seeing my own cremation, and with no opportunity, to explain why I was so shaken. Thankfully there were a series of interviews and I had the opportunity to compose myself, and clinch the role never to be attacked by another eunuch in my weekly travel to the city thereon.

Another encounter with eunuchs – who had me started on my marital life on a wrong foot, was when they appeared at my in-laws place in Kanpur, in a large group the morning after our wedding (Bou-bhaat). I was woken from sleep, rushed out by my newly acquired relatives, to touch the feet of the eunuchs and seek their blessings as is the custom, much to my horrified indignation and refusal and then the humiliation of actually doing so to please my mother-in-law. The eunuchs had again robbed me of the joy of my last week of wedding ceremonies and the setting foot into a new life, along with the start of a misunderstanding right from the starting line, with my parents-in-law.

In a few minutes of sitting at the Jiva Park bench again this evening, retelling my mother of the harassment by the eunuchs, the ice cream man called me aloud – “Madam, come and take your ice cream.”

Though surprised, having lost all interest in it, I walked outside only out of respect for the elderly vendor’s calling me and perhaps to find out how much the eunuchs had taken from him. The vendor replied “Ma’am, I only gave them 10 Rs. Here’s the rest of your money. And here’s your ice cream.”

He looked at me as my face lit up, and in the eyes of the poor old man, I saw the compassion and satisfaction of one who gave me back a handful of my rainbow, the eunuchs had tried to rob. The man might have left with the ice cream and the Rs. 100, as he seemingly had more need for them than the eunuchs – but he didn’t. What right do they have – these eunuchs, in spite of all the injustices they suffer, to go snatching, extorting, humiliating people?

There are many others far more poverty stricken, like the ice cream vendor, or much harassed by life’s circumstances, but still look to share a slice of hope, joy and sunshine with humanity, as the ice cream man did with me.

Consequences.

I love the profundity of this statement. But what’s important, really, is we lead our lives such that we do not regret and expect to be served a different dish, when we sit down to our meal, from someone else’s banquet – that they have painstakingly marinated and slow-cooked, over a low flame.

It is common, for people to tend to crave what’s served to someone, at the next table at a restaurant, over what they have ordered – thus not enjoying as much, what started out to seem enticing while ordering. They also expect, everyone else would, just like them, crave another’s dish, and regret the ones they let go, when the platter was going around.

I tend to meet friends, family and well-wishers, who never cease to remind me, of what and where I could have been in life now, vis-à-vis a struggling writer – say for instance, if I had not quit my airline job, then my hotel and retail jobs, or for that matter my executive search one, even my business stint. What I try to communicate, but most often ineffectively, is that I’ve tasted all those dishes…but have no regrets in moving on, to newer tastes. What I am today, the ingredients I’ve collated, for the new pies I’m baking now, as a writer, is from all those past opportunities and experiences. Why would I want to continue, to have the same dishes I baked then, even if they all seem alluring, at my ex-colleagues tables – with the aroma, of their progress?

Why would I regret, not having been a journalist or a writer, early in life, seeing the by-lines of those decades younger than me, when in spite of all my varied experiences, added to that of one as an author, no one would give me, a public column to write? Neither have I studied literature or journalism, or started out as a reporter, in my early twenties.

Well, I made the choice, to study commerce, work in the corporate world, then make the switch, as a writer. I must then accept, I’ve got to climb up the ladder anew, as in a game of snakes and ladders, work much harder, than those who made their choices early.

I am so grateful, for all the enriching experiences I’ve had in life, I just do not find the opportunity, to envy those whose writing path, is so much easier than mine – for the choices they have made. I would not forego my learning curve, the wisdom, and confidence I bring to the new cooking grill of my mind :)

What I’m really trying to say is, we must take responsibility, for our choices, as they all add up to our experiences – which if we use judiciously and constructively, may form our destiny someday.

August Rush

We were sitting by the seaside,

After dinner in the moonlight;

Sipping beer under tall pines,

As in your hand you took mine.

The waves rushing to meet us –

Like my heart, stopped on track;

The breeze was cool on my spine,

But your hand felt warm in mine.

We were meeting the first time,

At a party on this August night;

Far from your friends and mine,

As only in our hearts lyrics thrive.

The moon and the tide astride,

You stroked my hair very light;

Talking trivially of our past lives,

What counted is this flash in time.

As you turned to look into my eyes,

In them surf rushed to meet the side;

I saw in your eyes the rush of the tide,

Yearning of our souls I couldn’t hide.

Kissing your lips, as the sea moonlight,

Instant connection we made that night;

Music we’re gifted with, that us did unite,

We’re nature’s scions, our souls surmise.

Silently we kissed on the face of the tide,

A connection firmed, we’re August born;

With time we’ve learnt we’re much alike,

We savoured a first kiss with salt of the tide.

PS – This poem is inspired by the film August Rush https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-5ab6RtA-KE I watched last night on TV – Romedy Now.

The Break-Up

When the phone rang last Sunday,

On the screen your name I viewed;

It constricted my wounded heart,

Rekindling memories I long refused.

It has been ages since we last met,

After when we parted at your gate;

I drove off from your steady gaze –

That from my memory never fades.

As I took your call, softly said ‘hello’,

Your voice in reply, was fixed, cool;

But the feelings between us ignited,

As if a thousand whistles softly blew.

I now asked how you were doing in life,

But in my heart pink butterflies flew;

In my mind they sailed, perched on you,

Then kissed your lashes, lips gently too.

When you asked me how my life was,

With severity of your baritone diffused;

It blew the lid off your assumed cool,

As over the seas, our longing brewed.

Speaking irrelevantly of those we knew,

It was desire for each other we renewed;

I felt you missed me, as much as I did you,

Our breakup I ended, by saying “I love you.”

PS: This poem is inspired by the movie “The Break-Up” http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Break-Up that I watched last Sunday. You could watch the trailer here https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=guRKt55XOfU if you haven’t watched the movie yet :)

When Poetry and Hymn Merged In My Soul, Out Of Deadly Fear:

It was when everyone was looking into their books on their desks, listening intently to Sister read out a poem from the anthology book – part of our English literature course in tenth standard, that I realised the book on my desk was the Hymn Book. It was exact in size and thickness to the one Sister standing at the head of the class held, and to the ones that lay open on everyone’s desk. This likeness had resulted in my placing the hymn book in my school bag hurriedly, when packing my bag for classes at the study hall, where we boarders kept our books on allocated shelves at the back.

I whispered to the girl in front, a boarder “I’ve got my hymn book instead of the poetry book. What do I do now?” and she wrote on a slip of paper, threw it back for me to pick and read – “Keep quiet now, I’ve moving to my right, follow my book from behind… take notes in yours.” I wasn’t convinced and really scared, as we all were of our Headmistress and English teacher and whispered after signalling to the girl to my right with my hand, while looking down at my book, – “Should I get up and tell Sister I haven’t got my Panorama (I think that’s what it was called)? What if she asks me to read or worse still to explain a stanza?”

“Don’t, don’t…you’ll get a demerit slip right away” she scribbled on a chit of paper and chucked at me. “You’ve already got two this week.”

This was the same advice I received from the girl behind me as well. It was true, the first demerit slip I had received was for bringing my Hindi library book the day of our English library period, and the second for forgetting to submit my Physics weekly test book, leaving it inside my desk, while collecting everyone else’s and carrying them to the staff room.

The third slip now would mean a two week suspension from school that one of my friends had just completed for more perky reasons. She was talking in the dormitory, and so were many of us, but with her loud voice she was most often in trouble; and another slip she earned for helping another girl pull her bed noisily at night. I don’t recall why she got a third demerit slip, except that this was the time when demerit slips had just been introduced, luckily to last for a brief period, and we were being handed them at random. Perhaps in our nervousness we tended to be collecting them real fast. In my case this surely must have been the case, I realize now, out of immense fright – of my mother being summoned to hand me over to, after it was announced to her I was suspended from school. Why else was I forgetting every other thing, when I was pretty meticulous actually?

So here I was scribbling serious notes on poetry, all over the pages of my hymn book, with baited breath, scared of my life, for that dreadful moment when Sister might ask me to read or explain something she had just read. She was the strictest teacher I’ve had to date. So I listened to every word that left her mouth – of course of a poem I had not read as yet, memorising it, to be able to explain if she asked me. Though my daring allies had assured me they would quickly shove their book to me, marking where I was to start reading. But no way could I afford another demerit slip.

Perhaps this was where poetry and song merged, and froze in my mind forever, I think now. Could this be why I tend to write sonnets – lyric poems, even when I don’t intend to sometimes. Somewhere the love for god in the hymn book got translated into romantic love. :P

All this floods my mind now, as its a few days away from my first poetry reading and Sister Andrea is incidentally in Chennai, as I write this. I was to go and meet her this evening, but the timing was changed very late to early afternoon, and I was not able to reschedule so soon.

My school (SJC) friends…would well imagine, how daring this situation must have been at the time. It was frozen in my head in fear, all this time – and I hope writing about it now liberates me to write better poetry  :)

Definitely, Maybe…

I saw the way you looked at her,

With that twinkle in your eyes;

The smile you could not conceal –

As it caught her eyes, also mine.

She smiled slyly, trying to evade me,

The twinkle in her eyes caught mine;

Rather than notice my crushed face,

I left you together, walked sorely by.

For months now I’d noticed changes –

A lilt in your voice, spring in your walk;

The delayed homecomings you justified,

Your phone’s notifications wouldn’t stop.

There’d be outings you both planned,

Then invite me to join you as an alibi;

To prove to the world, you’re friends –

Even a medical emergency you’d defile.

What’s worse is you were real nice to me,

Kinder than you were in a really long time;

Thus confirmed I’d be you were true to me,

The others were mere cherries on your pie.

Then I saw you smile by yourself, late at night,

You’d delayed coming to bed, working overtime;

That’s when I told myself – stop living a white lie,

Get on with life, not waste it on your black lies.

:) This is poem is inspired by the movie “Definitely, Maybe” that I just watched this afternoon on TV – Romedy Now.