Shuvashree Chowdhury's Blog, page 37

Say Something.

I liked the way you looked at me,

That evening when we first met;

Across the table over everybody,

A moment, our eyes professed.

It was a dinner party of over twelve,

All of us meeting for the first time;

But we���d all connected over wine,

You made your entry in due time.

You sat alongside me, to my right,

A young man between our sights;

Yet you made to connect with me,

But all your efforts had nil impact.

Yet it was over emails and types,

We stayed in touch over a time;

Slowly removing from my sight,

Your conceit clouding my mind.

Written words slowly broke the ice,

Which that dinner had frozen tight;

Due to facades that we both wear,

Shielding hearts broken over time.

Next time, unseen, you viewed me –

In awe, longing, affectionate pride;

Unravelled in a film, to my delight,

That I may rewind as often as I like.

The third time you stared at me,

It was like in a state of a shock;

As though you saw an apparition –

In black had landed at your porch.

None has ever looked at me thus,

With interest, in desire, all in one;

Light of your eyes melted my heart,

Set it rolling, trailing your sharp mind.

Now that my molten heart is a glow,

By the steady flame from your eyes;

You break the silence, say the words:

So my heart doesn���t freeze over time.

A Good Writer

It is in my bid to be, not just a successful writer, but a ���good writer��� with a view to the points here, that you are privy to my constant rehearsals on this Face Book forum/court/stage.

My posts are like daily basket-ball dribbling practices, wherein once surefooted, I can achieve with further practise of the layups and straight shooting – as I tend to with my poems and short stories in my blogs, to be a good writer.

I have read of passionate sportspeople, actors, singers, musicians, who have in their early days practised in public parks, courts, or stages, either for the lack of a private stage/court, but more importantly to build confidence in their skill, performing without reserve in the view of professionals and the public. A rather large number of my friends are journalists, writers and reputed authors, at various levels of proficiency, some very senior and veteran. Each time I post, I���m conscious that any of them if not all, might read it. Thus I am careful with sentences, and try to recurrently improve their construction, along with sharpening my thought process in them.

My husband never ceases to complain, on how much time I���m wasting on FB, instead of getting on with serious writing of my novel; and from relaying on his return home, how this/that person, from reading my FB posts – was asking what���s wrong with me. But I don���t give up. What he and his friends don���t understand is I���m a late entrant in the field of writing. I am not lucky as they are to have newspaper/magazine columns that pay, to practise, demonstrate their skills, before turning authors.

I therefore use free mediums like FB and blogs, for my practises. But over and above the practise, I always strive to make my posts count to inspire society at large ��� especially the many young who read/follow/share my posts or my blogs consistently, rather than writing to entertain my friends. Thankfully book���s pages and blogs give a motivating insight into the reader inflow, rather than having to look out for the ���likes��� and comments on ones FB profile.

With reference to the list here – Luckily, I usually have something to say, as I���ve read variedly since childhood, and continue to do so. And through varied corporate jobs that required such skill – have the ability for clear thought. But what is most difficult in this list here to achieve is point 4 ��� to be a genius at putting emotions into words. This requires the most practise and confidence, and thus you see my wearing a different emotional hat every other day, even at the cost of your assumptions of my emotional instability, and constant wonder at my drive and motivation.

But you see, how with practise, in a few minutes I���ve written a whole page, elaborating the points already well expounded in the list, differently, and I���ve said nothing new really. A novel, that���s what I see myself writing more of, is about pages and pages���and some more pages for you to read. Then I want to touch your heart and soul, make you think, and not merely entertain you on a flight or train. Do you think then, I can be a ���good writer��� someday? Would you pay to read me consistently? :P

A Kerala Rain

Coir blinds thrash my window sides,

Palm leaves hash the wind in all might,

Coconuts on tall trees violently collide,

Rain lashes the top of the lake I reside.

In the balcony reclining on my armchair,

Rain water drenching my face and thighs:

I look upon the canoe static by the lakeside,

It is tied so tight, like me it has no respite.

The thunder roars, as the wind whistles,

Sky, woods, lake merge ��� in grey they hide.

The sound, look of globs on the lakes surface,

Is vigorous, as top of tea water boiling inside.

Then through the sky there���s a shooting light,

The grey cover lifts, separating lake from sky.

The woods green the other side of the lake,

Just as was before grey descended on all sides.

My houseboat is safely anchored to the shore,

Yet I feel threatened, during turbulent surges.

Would I be better leaving this delusional home?

Its drifting makes me insecure, rattles me deep.

All photos by Shuvashree

A Supernatural Love

���Pronam kore aai, Baba ke (go and touch your father���s feet)��� mother said in Bengali, just as I was about to leave home, and was climbing down the stairs, to head to Howrah station to board the Coramandel Express back to Chennai from Calcutta.

���Why do you always do this?��� I snapped, as it���s one of those things that irritate me ��� as she���s reminded me for the last ten years since Baba passed and I left home. Ma has instructed us sisters to do ���pronam��� to Baba when alive, at every opportunity. ���Why do you have to say this���Baba lives with me as well, and I have the very same picture as you do – in Chennai, so why do I touch his feet here?���

Yet, as I tend to humour her in spite of cribbing, also as I was leaving, I climbed back up the stairs and touched Baba���s feet on his large picture, Ma has mounted at all times on her bedside table. I���ve always done this to please her, but for the first time, I sincerely asked Baba to keep me safe and well in life, especially on the journey, and then rushed down, got into the car. After driving ten minutes or so, I recalled leaving my keys hanging right off my cupboard. So I instructed the driver to turn back, then vividly recalled my stress as always during departures from home, due to Ma���s getting worked up and the resultant nagging over little things such as the ‘pronam’ to Baba.

After placing the cupboard keys safely in my hand bag, I strode down without answering Ma���s question – ���what happened, which key?��� Listening to the last round of Calcutta FM on the ride, I was looking forward to another soulful, eventful experience, as on the journey to Calcutta ��� what with the book thief. I was also tensed about getting to the Station on time, dressed in my special train wear ��� a lose kurta with a pair of stretch jogging tights – to clamber up and down the two-tier bunk, my feet in slip-ons, but the most essential part ��� a pair of glasses that give me an intellectual, unattractive look, so I can safely peer at those around me with a sense of personal safety; my hair tied off my face to add to the sternness of look, no trace of make-up obviously.

In spite of leaving well over an hour early, due to heavy traffic congestion from election rallies on every other stretch of road, I could not board the train. It had departed half an hour prior to my dogged determination to get on to it – would have me look down the empty platform dejectedly, even rush to the enquiry counter to ascertain what time it had actually rolled out. This was the first time in life I had missed a train or flight due to delay in my reaching, though I did miss a flight once very strangely from right inside the Calcutta departure hall, as I had missed hearing the announcement, then paid a fortune to get on the next one.

Even as I returned home, reserved a seat online on a flight to Chennai, I vividly sensed Baba smiling at me, with a smugness I recognised from his once charming smile, that I was not on that train. It���s true, if he were alive he would have desisted my travelling alone on this twenty-seven hours train journey, in spite of the romanticism around it I might have tried to convince him of. More so, in Ma���s room, where she���s kept his spirit alive all these years – in her heart and mind, I had asked Baba to guard me on the journey. Now I suddenly realised the uncanny difference between his powers in Ma���s room (the bedroom they shared) from anywhere else in the world.

Ma relieved at seeing me back, as she had called a few times on my ride, to find out at which point I was, knew I had missed boarding the train. Even as I blamed her for this mishap, for missing the train due to her nagging me, she defended herself calmly, then quickly brought the money for my flight tomorrow, on learning how much I had spent online, placed it earnestly in my hand. The look she gave me read ��� I may be old, but I���m still your mother.

Now with this couple ��� my parents, still much alive emotionally to each other let me tell you, how was I ever going to get on that train alone, if they could help it? One has supernatural powers now and the other a boldness of spirit that she will take along to meet him again someday.

Breaking My Silence

It was the end of the four visiting hours, on the only Sunday of the month at boarding school, wherein we were allowed to meet our family. A shrill, loud bell had just announced the end of the four hours visitation rights. Most parents had left by now, and all girls were in the study hall, awaiting the most difficult hour to allot to study; what with a stomach full of our choicest food, our parents had just fed us with. Then we were also loaded with tucks, stationery and supplies, to fill the month ahead. I hovered around in the lobby flanked by the two plush parlours, looking out towards the main door, trying to catch the last glimpses of my parents retreating forms.

My father turned back in time to see me still standing there, looking out at them with the backdrop of the strand and the river that flowed, behind him. He drew my mother���s attention, with a pat on her arm. She turned around, caught sight of me looking at them, and together they walked over, even as I stepped forward in their direction. Now we were all right outside the heavy wooden door used by boarders and guests, not in use for regular school hours.

���Ki hoyeche (What���s wrong)?��� mother asked, bending low to look into my eight year old eyes, ���Why aren���t you going inside? All the girls have gone, and your sister has too. The Sisters are going to be very angry now.���

I remained silent, looking at the ground, fidgeting with my hands as she repeated firmly, ���What happened, why are you not going inside?���

���I don���t want to stay here,��� I blurted looking at father, my eyes that had welled up by now with mother���s firmness, as I had looked at the ground, spilling out in a silent plea on seeing him.

���But why?��� mother persisted, even as father looked away, almost as if he knew why, then she added, ���What happened suddenly? You are in class four now and you���re not new here.���

���They don���t give me milk to drink.��� I blurted angrily, tears flooding both my cheeks, as I looked at her defiantly, my self-esteem deeply hurt, finding this utterance a good emotional cover to camouflage my acute homesickness and blame my behaviour on the horrid place in my view.

���Ah! That simple!��� she laughed, even as father looked at me quizzically and remained quiet. ���I will speak to Sr. Pushpa right now, come with me.���

���No, but I want to go home��� I insisted, ���I don���t want to talk to Sister.���

���Let���s ask Sister if we can take her home for a few days��� father added, ���we can tell them she is not feeling well, so we would like to take her for check-ups to a good doctor.���

���No, why���she must not be feeling well as she���s not having milk, so let me just talk to Sister to look into that��� mother said. ���Also, I will have to drop her back here in a day or two as they will not allow more time than that.���

I looked at mother with all the shock and despair I could muster at that age, wondering how she did not know, how much���how really much, I hated milk; that I often chucked the glassfuls infused with Bournvita down the sink at home when she wasn���t watching. Mother proceeded to talk to Sister who now had been hovering over my head, as I was very late going inside, watching this drama enfold, much to my anger at all the three adults. However, this little skit that was to play a very vital role in my emotional makeup over the years and into my life till not so long ago, ended with my parent���s departure, and my being served an extra dose of the detestable milk daily, to my immense anger and humiliation, after dinner thereafter. I would for long, not venture to tell anyone what and how I truly felt about anything, always protecting my feelings, my views, from my small and restricted world at school and outside on vacations.

After a few years, whenever I tried to tell mother to stop this extra milk I was being served, as I could not tolerate it, she reminded me of this incident. Over the years, it was much of a joke, told to family friends as to how I cried so much, refused to go into school, all for milk. Till date, right up to now, no one knows the truth of this drama. In my growing years, I was painfully shy, never admitted to anyone how I truly felt, even if deeply hurt, as it was a wasted exercise in my view. Those who love you should know and understand you, I always felt, I believed that if I had to tell my feelings to someone, what was the point. This attitude caused me to seem withdrawn, aloof and cold, in all relationships, with my mother complaining the most ��� on how I was very stubborn, she couldn���t get a word out of me, and how was she going to know what I wanted or thought, if I did not speak up. The more she complained the quieter and distant I grew, actually dodging her.

This evening, a Sunday, in a crowded mall in Salt Lake, Calcutta, I met a woman ��� a junior from my boarding school, who amidst a group of people overhearing and looking on curiously, loudly introduced me by name, to her husband and grown son a few yards away, as the author of the book they had read – naming it even. I felt as shy as the eight year old girl whose story I just narrated to you and muttered a tiny ���thank you!��� I returned home with the food I had packed for my mother, to write this and the thoughts which propelled me to do so are: It is this same girl, I, who could not tell her own mother that she was homesick, that she hated milk, didn���t want to stay at boarding school – who is now perceived to be bold, confident, forthright, open about her views – more so feelings, who can now state all of what���s on her mind, just the way it comes as I do so now in writing this.

I have been applauded, even cursed for my forthrightness, throughout my working years. But it has taken years of relentless persistence, plenty of failed attempts, for that eight year old girl to reach this state of openness as of now. But what she nursed was the willingness to try, to give it all she could, till daring to want to be a writer ��� a job that requires candour of views, ideas and emotions.

���I want to write a novel about silence. The things people don���t say.������Virginia Woolf

��

The Book Thief

He froze seeing me. But his soft eyes, now large, gleamed on his pleasant face, framed by longish neat strands of mostly white hair. His shoulders hunched naturally by age, stooped further. I approached him, on the aisle of the two-tier ac compartment of the Coromandel Express, we had both inhabited over the last twenty five hours, since boarding at Chennai. His expression took on that of a child���s caught robbing mangoes, from his strict neighbour���s garden. I loomed large over him, even from a little distance, as his expression – the tightening of his facial muscles, was attuned to his clutching of something tightly to his chest, thus drawing my attention to his lean hands.

Behind the arms criss-crossed over his chest, I recognised the covers of the two books that had alternatively given me company, over the many hours the man occupied the lower side-berth next in line to mine. I recalled his peeping at me every once in a while, if my curtain was open.

���Eta hocche ta ki (What���s going on here)?��� I snapped in Bengali, perhaps in fear of losing my literary companions, whose views I was yet to consume in entirety; loud enough for occupants of a dozen berths around us to hear, ���Aapni eta korchen ta ki (What are you up to)?���

���Ami just shoriye rakhchilam, ke jane kar (I was just keeping it properly, god knows who it belongs to)��� he replied stammering, all flustered, everyone was looking at us standing in front of my berth. He handed over the books to my outstretched hand, as he added. ���Ami arekjoner towel ta o shoriye rakhchilam (I also kept someone���s towel properly).���

���But I had only gone to the wash room, then stepped down at Kharagpur for a while��� I replied irately in Bengali. ���The towel is the railway���s property, but you had no business to walk off with my books.���

The man slithered back into his berth, like a child after a bout of scolding.

I sat down fuming on my berth, the books now safe in my hands, mentally still scolding the man, thinking of his perversity. You can trust a Bengali man, whatever his age, to steal books, if given a chance, I thought. Then as I looked out at the greenery rushing past me outside, I relaxed almost immediately. I could not help wondering now if I had overreacted. After all, he was an elderly man, over 70 surely, maybe a little senile even. Then also, it was only two books he had taken, not expensive stuff to most people as they were to me at that point. One book was ���Journal Of A Novel��� by John Steinbeck, that I am still possessive about, as I haven���t finished it yet ��� being a meticulous reader. The other, ���Paris Trance – A Romance��� by Geoff Dyer, http://geoffdyer.com/2011/12/06/paris-trance/ — the cover (in the picture here) might have actually triggered the man���s imagination and the one he really wanted to take.

As I write this now at my desk in Calcutta, a good 6 – 7 hours later, I realize I was in effect reacting fiercely, to the stealth and intrusion of my ongoing thoughts, to the impending rejection by my literary companions – my unfinished considerations via the Steinbeck book I had been devouring. Truly, train journeys on my own, as I choose to undertake many more since I���ve started writing; than I���ve done lifelong, give me varied perspectives on life. On this trip, I had other diverse thoughts, including watching a smart naval Captain with his wife and children who occupied the berths in front of me day long till Vizag, and who might fill as characters in a short story or a novel.

This incident of the book thief, gives me an insight into myself more than ever, as to how possessive and protective I am to unfinished thoughts. I realise alarmingly how I tend to not answer my mother, even snap sometimes, if my ongoing thoughts are disturbed, especially if I���m writing, not realizing her need at over 75 years to talk to me on my short trips, as she is more often alone at home. I must admit though, that I am possessive about unfinished thoughts, but tend to be more than generous in sharing even outrageous ones, once crystallized in a way I put out into the world in the form of a novel, short stories, blogs, emails or even face book posts for that matter.

This piece took me much longer to write than it need have, as I invited my mother to sit on the bed behind me as I wrote, even as we chitchatted through my writing process. But old habits die hard, so towards the end I requested her to watch Television on her own for a few minutes, but after telling her what I was writing about. She went ahead, amused and laughing at the old man, I went back to the first word of this write up to work my way back to this word – now.

A Parrot, Am I?

������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������

I was in the fourth standard, not that young really for such naivety, when I thought I could turn into a parrot, merely by painting myself green. Well, this thinking propelled by a suggestion from teachers at school, was so encompassing on my imagination, that I even tried to do it. In reminiscing this, I realise how I���ve always had a penchant for getting under the skin of people, things, animals and birds even; soaring really high if someone would give me a wing to such ideas.

It was the afternoon of the all-school concert. In my times, in the absence of an auditorium yet, to occupy the whole school along with teachers and parents, it used to be held on a stage built at the end of the large play field. The smaller open hall and stage, which was actually quite pretty with red floors, was used, in addition to our morning assembly, for a host of other events, even concerts when they were only a class or two at a time. Now each of us participated compulsorily in these concerts, either at a dance, a drama, or a musical sequence, or whatever was curated. We would have spent months practising for the same.

That year, I was assigned to be in the group parrot-dance, along with about a dozen girls from standard IV. Our costume included parrot green ankle-length kaftans, along with head-gear and wings. After lunch, we went into one classroom per group, based on the events we were participating in, to get ready; to enable our entry on the stage, for our show. The two teachers who had choreographed and taught us the dance sequences, were stepping out for tea, after ensuring each of us had our costumes that fit us accurately, ready to slip into. Before they left, they instructed us strictly to ���go get green watercolour and paint each other���s full hands and faces with it.���

After the classroom door shut behind the two young ladies – our teachers, we girls looked at each other, quite convinced from the firm instructions brandished at us, that we would need to paint ourselves, before their return. I went across to our study hall immediately, brought over a few bottles of varied green shades of Camlin water colours, along with a handful of brushes. In those days, sketching and painting were my greatest passions, and I had the skill as well for them, from what I had been told by teachers who made me draw and decorate the black boards of various classes for every other school event. This passion in the next couple of years was to shift to photography, even as I was to angrily ostracize writing, after a group of girls would read my personal diary at the same study hall I now fetched the water colours from.

Back in the classroom, still in our uniforms, waiting for the teachers to return, everyone by now turned sceptic of the teacher���s instructions to paint our limbs. But since I was the one who was most enthusiastic, even had the paint ready, the girls suggested they could all help me paint my arms and then my face. The rest of the parrot dancers would follow me in acquiring my green shade, one at a time. So by the time the teachers returned, both my arms ��� the sleeves pulled right up and pinned, were glistening as good as that of an exotic baby parrot. After all, I had even got a palette and applied my painting skills to get the right mix of colour. The arms done, I was about to put my face forward to get it painted as well, even while the other girls were considering the seriousness of the teacher���s instructions to paint ourselves. I felt really smug, proud even, as an obedient child – who could not wait to be applauded for being the only good girl in her class.

The two teachers entered and we all looked up at them. I looked at them with a sense of achievement, even as they looked at me quizzically and asked ���what have you done to yourself?���

���Miss you asked us to paint green,��� I said innocently, ���that���s what I���ve already done.���

The teachers looked at me in horror, as I displayed both arms, as the other girls looked from me to the teachers, and then back again at me. One of the teachers burst into a grin ���What have you done to yourself Shuvashree?��� as the other added laughing ���We were only joking, no one else has painted themselves all green, then why did you have to? Why are you so gullible, such a fool?���

I looked at the teachers desolately. Was I really such a fool after all? Had I no common sense that I had to follow their instructions blindly, being the first one to do so in the group. Could they not have said a kind word to me for my obedience, being the only one to take them seriously?

Its April Fools��� Day today���is it any wonder then, that I conceded to tell you the story of how foolish I really am? :) Don���t be fooled!!!

Germanwings Flight 9525

I had to bring us down,

No matter what or how;

I needed to belie pain-

I felt inside and out.

My anguish, as a boulder,

Crushing my ribs asunder;

My soul screaming aloud-

Will someone let me out?

I was drowning in my grief,

That ran torrid in my veins;

How could I think of you?

I was gripped by a grue.

You all had faith in me,

I would not let you down,

I was guarded by a senior-

He knew his job, inside out.

It wasn���t me, please believe -

I was only a taciturn spectator;

To a monster overpowering me,

My head – it nurtured his clout.

So feel a pity for me people,

I was just as helpless as you;

I was driven by my own demons,

But I was the only demon for you.

PS: The co-pilot deliberately crashed plane, officials say…

http://edition.cnn.com/2015/03/26/europe/france-germanwings-plane-crash-main/

The black box voice recorder from the Germanwings Airbus A320 plane

Time Changes Everything

�����Isn’t it funny how day by day nothing changes, but when you look back, everything is different…������ C.S. Lewis

A month or so back, over a lovely dinner banquet, accompanied by an array of the best wines and cheeses, amidst some of the best dressed people in town ��� mostly all expatriates, a senior hotelier friend passionately narrated the story of her American friend, who had left a lavish and full life back home to hard it out in the Himalayas. He���d been up there for over a year, in saffron robes, hair long.

���On the journey, he would set out every morning from where he was staying, carrying over a dozen to twenty Roti���s��� she added, almost every line on her face coming alive, much over her sparkling eyes at the brazenness of the thought ���along with a mechanism to make tea wherever he halted���can you imagine leaving everything and just going away.���

���I think I can do that someday��� I replied musingly, perhaps the smug feeling in my stomach from the exotic food she���d been recommending at every stage of my meal, along with the lightness in my head from all the wine I���d been washing it down with.

���I don���t think it is possible to just leave everything��� she said and then stated ���I just cannot do it.���

She moved on to talk to some other guests while I stood there at a table, even as husband chatted with others at another table. I pondered over my bold assumption and proclamation, that I could leave everything someday. Was it that I was in the midst of all this luxury, dressed in a cocktail dress, my face done up to match the dainty jewellery I wore, that I just could not perceive how it would be to give everything up and go away into the wilderness.

I had the opportunity, in the last few days, to test a wee bit of my perception of reclusion, to see at which point of the scale of this imagination, I have reached yet. Husband has been away, isn���t back yet, since the last five days on a work trip. Before he left, I had a number of things planned, these included meeting up with friends over lunch, dinner or coffee, going shopping or to the movies, all this after my regular writing dose off course. But right after he left, I changed my mind and did not call anyone or even step out of our apartment for anything at all. In the last four days, I did not see a single soul except for my maid for a few brief seconds, when I opened the door to her, to go back to my desk or to my book on the sofa or bed. The elderly lady pulled the door silently after her, in an hour or so as she did not cook. In the four days I made myself numerous cups of tea and coffee that went with bread and cheese-spread or jam. This was alternated by Maggi or Moong or Rajma sprouts. I hardly switched on the TV, logged into Face Book briefly, only to post a write up or some pictures and to acknowledge the comments from my phone. I felt good, felt free, I felt happy.

During these last days all alone, I recalled how as a child I feared the dark. If I had to step into a dark room on my own, I would dash to the switch board to get the light on immediately. I felt anxious even those brief seconds that it took to chase my mental ghosts away with the light. I was afraid to stay home alone, worse still – in boarding school I was petrified of being in any of the dormitories or infirmary on my own, or be alone on the large field after dark, as if ghosts or skeletons would jump out at me. When I started working and began to travel a lot, I was scared of hotel rooms, the quiet corridors, so even if I had to have meals alone at the restaurants – I preferred it while watching people, to spending time in my room alone. When back in the room I would promptly turn on the television and tune to a music channel, leave it on all night so that if I awoke, the silence would not scare me. Till I got ready and left the room, I had the music playing, as if a party was going on.

Home alone these few days, I pondered over everything that mattered to me and no longer does, how over the years I���ve let go off so many people, circumstances, needs. How I���ve changed, everything���s changed. I recounted those people and things that do matter a lot to me now. But I thought about how I have evolved emotionally into really needing no one, nothing particularly, happy if they were in my life, in acceptance if they would not remain. I���d been employed since I was 23 and so used to overspending, buying things in excess. Over the last year that I���m not working, after closing our family business, my material wants are so reduced, I���m so very proud of myself. I���m happy to even take the long distance train, sit amongst absolute strangers dressed in a simple Salwar kameez. I could never conceive of a lot of this earlier.

So in a decade, by the time I���m fifty perhaps, I���m hoping I���ll be able to achieve leaving everything, set out on a lone expedition, go up the mountains perhaps for long, live the life the American man whose story started this thought process, find myself truly. Then bring back to my life the new invigorated, free me.

Colour Choices: How It Defines You.

Sometimes, the most unlikely person notices, and will know you better than those close, or whose taste���s you rely on, so as to seek their approval when deciding on something you���ve aspired for long. This thought comes to mind, trailing those on the choice of my book���s cover.

I was to buy my first car in the year 1998, with my own earnings from working in an airline, based in Calcutta then. I had decided it would be a Daewoo – Matiz. This was after the gorgeous Lisa Ray became its brand ambassador. I was also wooed by the tagline ���Love at first drive��� in its print campaign, that highlighted the exclusive features of the Matiz in all its communications, just as by the comfort from a test drive I took of our family friend���s car. Now with this friend���s as well as my sister���s initiation, along with seconding by my parents, I booked a grey coloured Matiz.

The day I was to gain possession of the car, my sister and the family friend, my mother as well, and our family driver Shambhu ��� a man a few years older that I was, accompanied me to the showroom in Alipore. This is at the other extreme end of town from where we live in Salt Lake. We took a Taxi, so we could all return in the new car. While we waited in the showroom, the staff adorned my newly acquired car ��� after I had made the payments, with a number of free gifts like the wheel covers and the steering wheel grip etc. I decided to get the seat covers also installed, so the car would be ready to drive to work the next day.

It was at this point that Shambu walked up to me abruptly and said ���Didi, don���t take this colour.��� I looked at him in shock and replied ���but why���its quite smart, isn���t it? Chot-di and dada also like it.���

���Its��� smart, but does not suit your personality at all.��� He insisted ���Please don���t take it.��� I looked at him quizzically for a few brief moments: He had barely passed his 8th grade from his hometown in Digha and was quite a simpleton, yet thought it pertinent, that a car must match its owner���s personality right up to its hue.

I asked him, quite impressed actually, as I was then in the service quality department and very observant of such intricacies myself – ���So which colour do you think will suit my personality?��� He pointed to the car you see in the picture below and said ���this one is very good for you.���

I looked at the car for a few seconds and promptly made up my mind on it. Then I approached my sister and friend seated on the sofa, both of whom vehemently opposed my choice, more so when they learnt who my newfound advisor was. Mother looked at Shambhu, nodding at him in approval as she stated ���I was going to suggest you don���t take the grey, but you would not listen to me.���

Now it was just a matter of turning on my charm, to convince the salesmen of the sudden change in my choice. They politely conceded and quickly got busy in readying this blue car for us to drive home. As soon as we reached home, Shambhu driving us, I got my Lhasa Apso ��� Sylvie, and my father who was quite unwell then and at home, down and into the car, took them both for a test drive. The smile on my father���s face, Sylvie���s tongue hanging out with the wind blowing her snowy hair, are images still frozen in my mind. I was to have two pets thereon ��� one Sylvie, the other my very own blue Beetle ��� my Matiz.

How I wish, since husband���s opinion was given much precedence and credence over mine – due to his media experience and influence, he had more depth in understanding my ���personality��� in the choice of my book���s cover, :P so as not to choose a grey one (it looks green but is grey)���This book, my first, is as dear to me as my last two pets ��� Sylvie and the beetle were.

To the left is how my debut novel Across Borders looks now and to the rights is how it was conceived to look like till the very end, just before it went into print…and how I would have personally liked it to look, till my publisher much seconded by my husband, chose the one to the left.

The one to the right is so much more me…everyone was opposed to the balloons and found them distracting and taking away the seriousness of the book, and why this artwork got shelved, but that’s what I loved most:) I was so thrilled with the balloons…especially the large heart shaped one.