How many times do you walk on thin ice or broken glass?
How many times do you feel the breath being squeezed out from your heart?
How many times do you not feel the motions you are going through but go through them with a thousand thoughts ticking like clockwork?
How many times do you feel that it’s not fair?
How many times do you think it’s too difficult?
How many times do you not want to continue?
How many times do you repent?
How many times do you want to hide but have nowhere to go?
How many times do you want an expression of fear and hurt other than tears that can bring an iota of relief?
How many times does hope fly out of the window or step out of the main door?
How many times do you ask when will all this stop?
How many times are you filled with doubt, waves of uncertainty crashing at your heart?
How many times do you wish to turn the clock back?
How many times do you want to unsay the words said and undo the things done?
How many times will I say the same words, cry the same tears, feel the same feelings, hope for the same things and wish I never had to count the ‘how many times’?
There are times when our heart is weighed down by its own feelings. An agonizing fire of love and truth that we can only wish that special someone could understand. But it’s not meant to be understood because that fire burning in our heart has to go through tests, lest that fire dies out.
The pain lies in carrying that burning passion in your heart which seems to engulf the mind’s sensibilities in its flames. The pain of loving wrecks the core of our being because it is the only kind of pain which is so intimately entwined with another. The pain of loving is experiencing that intense helplessness and hope at the same time repeatedly, in various revelations. The pain of loving is crushing whilst opening windows to new horizons of faith.
The burdened mind asks, “Will this suffering ever come to an end?”
The heart answers with a smile, “Never” because it knows it has found a home with that very person. The only person in the universe for whom, it can experience such depth.
Tonight, I read the book, ‘By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept’ by Paulo Coelho. I had read this book before, in my teens and had treated it as a piece of literature, not understanding the essence carried through its words. Today, you gifted the book to me again. It is a book of seventy one pages and I read it with a new perspective, in a few hours. I read it as me and you and our God.
Destiny has driven us apart. While certain actions have abandoned our association, words have abandoned me. I can no longer make use of words to make you believe differently to what you do. As my heart is set on you, my mind is struggling to regain a futile balance to continue my days without your presence. But my mind and my heart know how much you mean to me, how I have silently appreciated all the little and great things you’ve done, how dependent I can allow myself to be on you, how much of you lives in me and how much I love you with an honest heart.
Knowing someone like you is not easy but it is a blessing. I’ve never told you what you mean to me but I cannot deny that you have become the light in my life. It is my prayer to continue living my days in your light, irrespective of whether you shine from afar or beside me and irrespective of time. I know you’ve given a ray of light to me that will guide my walk.
While reading, a few lines spoke to me… May you understand my love – because it is the only one thing I have that is really mine. Everyone’s language of love is different. In the midst of giving and receiving love, some do it by overcoming hurdles while some glide past it with ease. My love for you will remain mine and in that warmth, let me spend my days.
A city can be moved but not a well. It’s around the well that lovers find each other, satisfy their thirst, build their homes and raise children. But if one of them decides to leave, the well cannot go with them. Love remains there, abandoned – even though it is filled with the same pure water as before. I don’t know what destiny has in store for you and me but my love for you will remain. When a well is built, there is a great amount of digging, dirt and dust before one can access the pure water from the interiors of the earth. Only by digging can one build a well that can be a source of pure water. I believe that my love for you has turned as pure as the waters of the well and even if we are not by the well, love will be there.
You have talked about God in many of your conversations with me. You have led me to believe that you are at one with God. How you got here, the number of days you took, your journey, the road you took are all yours alone. I cannot know it first hand. As the book says, It’s one thing to feel that you are on the right path but it’s another to think that yours is the only path. Your journey may not have had to face obstacles and obstructions, slips and falls. My journey led me through several. But I have tried to get up and continue on the path. Your path and my path were different and if God deems it correct, I will be at peace knowing that my obstacles were indeed the different chapters of learning.
I will always love you. Amongst the many reasons, you also gave back what belonged to me. There are many reasons why I love you and can wish that we are united in eternal happiness but I know the light of your guidance and the serene, everlasting love I’m on my way of developing for you will replenish strength in my days. But as in the book, the human side of me, wants you immensely and hopes that we can work for our dream.
Sometimes words fail. They don’t capture what you’re feeling. With a mind racing and thoughts contradicting themselves, you’re caught inbetween. The mind rushes from one thought to another – questioning and answering simultaneously when what you’re left with is a surge of emotions building up. And when it escalates to the point of nothing and yet everything, you realise how helpless you are, appealing finally, to some higher power to grant you momentary relief from what you feel is momentary insanity.
Talk about it, communicate… They all say. With whom? I question meekly. With someone who sees right through, knowing it all? What do I say? You know everything after all.
Suppose I do speak. I pour my heart out. You smirk it off. You think to yourself with a smile on your face … “There it is! I knew it. And now listen to me…” before you begin explaining your interpretation. Something that cannot be contradicted because at that moment, I cannot.
I’m still stuck where I began. Mind racing, in a million thought deluge and worst of all that deathly feeling which I don’t know what to do with. The silent screams don’t work any more. Words have become stale. The tears have dried out. I lock everything inside. I know there’s no one beside me. No one to run to and no one to hold. It’s the mess and tears that I’m left with because at that moment, I yield to them. That is my control. When I’m feeling the void, there’s nothing else that accompanies me.
It’s true that actions do speak louder than words. When words fail, tell me what actions will do.
One who holds the sword of sympathy can slaughter purpose with its mere glint.
We are the bearers of various swords throughout our life’s assorted phases. The swords we build are molded by circumstances and our responses towards them. The impact they deposit in our bank of experience is what we use to build the narrative.
While each set of ordeal is exclusive to the individual, the structure of the sword is similar with the fundamental difference being in the material used for the glistening blade which is used to sculpt the present and the subsequent narratives.
As Einstein had mentioned – The difference between stupidity and genius is that genius has its limits. As an interpretation of these impactful words, the victory of people who shield themselves behind justifications and rationalizations outnumber those who choose to align their sword with determination, sincerity and will power. It’s an inequitable fight and the sober pragmatic one resigns, defeated by the glorified artificiality while the coward relishes the victory.
Maneuvering through this flawed defeat, I cannot help but wonder whether the man with the sympathy sword, self evaluates. Does he wonder what led to his victory? Does he introspect upon the source of his thoughts whilst he slayed sensibility? Does he indeed reflect upon how the slashes of his sword may have created a reverb of immorality? Is he truly, one without conscience?
For him, the misuse of reason to garner sympathy, manipulating every element into a plea of pardon and committed disregard towards anything external to the egomaniacal margin are typically the stones used to sharpen the sward. For others, the blade of their sword is ablaze with clarity, action, solution and purposeful formulas and incalculable attempts. Incompetence is not choreographed into triumph but is used as a checkpoint of further discovery.
Though the breed of mindless has thrived eternally, it is my futile optimism that more people will be more conscientious in choosing the right material for their sword.
As nightfall does not come at once, neither does oppression. In both instances, there is a twilight when everything remains seemingly unchanged, and it is in such a twilight that we all must be most aware of change in the air – however slight – lest we become unwitting victims of darkness. ~ William O. Douglas
The pandemic had far reaching effects in the entire world. The most significant being that of health. Innumerable people suffered, many succumbed to the virus, leaving behind a devastated family and millions around the world who faced the faces that injustice has.
Today, I’m going to talk about one of the cruel faces that the pandemic has turned upon us – the people in service who are being exploited in the name of the pandemic.
True, we’ve been lucky not to be cut loose. It’s not greed or ingratitude but it’s the deep sense of being used and utilised in inequity. Something that has life long repercussions. For many, the going is tougher because life does not adjust itself with the paycheck. One has to survive in the world and live the way the world expects us to. It’s a tug of war between the crisis of receiving and living with us as the rope that gets frayed in the process.
Injustice becomes apparently intolerable when the institution one’s associated with clearly continues making millions and then blantantly turns a deaf ear and a blind eye to integrity – insensitive towards its employees as the higher ups keep lining their pockets.
The sad truth : those who don’t need, keep receiving and those in need, have nothing.
Employees desperately seek work elsewhere but it’s not simple. While the institution expects a cent percent involvement and commitment as it uses its right to exploit, there are people who are struggling to make ends meet.
The education industry in India is abominable. The institution one works for is the only hope for a decently mediocre life. But there are institutions that have under the table deals where CEO’s who want to ‘give back to the society’, treat education of the child as a marketing gimmick and a prospective client.
The power of fame, the value of the brand and the bought success leave their doors perpetually open. You’re free to leave if you feel undervalued when in truth, not a soul exists to value you, here. With you replaced by a newer slave, the institution is happier because it’s wealthier. With steadfast obscenity, it expects the world to bow down before it.
Associated with one of the shiniest institutions in the country with a list accolades that are manipulated and purchased, it does speak volumes of how clear their intent is. Education is business and they stop at nothing to generate profit. The simplest contrivance – exploit the human beings running their facade for them.
I remember the times that I would hold onto you and speak my heart out, knowing you listened and provided the reassurance I needed by being there. In this one year since you moved onto a different world, there have been several moments of reminiscing memories, longing for your gentle presence, seeing you in dreams and going through your pictures. The little cushion you slept on has been carefully packed and stored away, the leash you so excitedly jumped around before your walks has been put away and your fur brushes are lying unused in a corner of my drawer. I know these won’t be used again but the fact that they’re still at home helps me to hold on to you with a little more conviction.
You were the light of our heart and the many memories that you’ve left us with, bring out a host of emotions – while some leave us with an amusing smile, others shoot agony in the heart.
I remember vividly, the day Ma took me to Padmini Aunty’s house to have a look at you, the enthusiastic little baby scampering about everywhere and your baby brother – slightly lethargic as compared to the bundle of energy you were. After a cup of tea and a chat, Ma asked me which of you I wanted and I sure was surprised! Little did I know that I would be returning home with you in a tiny basket! It took me a while to assimilate the fact that you were ours.
Ma was an expert at taking care of you and you I innocently accompanied you’ll to the vet for your shots and checkups. Feeding you calcium tablets and syrups so that you would grow into a healthy pup was done effortlessly by Ma as I watched with fascination! I remember the day Baba took you and me for a game of golf. We followed him on the course for half of the game after which we just had to rest! Returning home, you slept the entire day, scaring us a little bit but you were back to being yourself the very next day. I remember the times that you got into this ridiculous habit of hopping onto the dining table with your petite agility and polishing off whatever lay on the it. Once you understood that we did not take this well, you found your little escape underneath wardrobes until you sensed it safe to come back out while we went berserk looking for you around the whole house. Your pup-hood was delightful in so many ways and I will cherish those memories forever.
Early in your life, we discovered that you had epilepsy and the attacks you had periodically, were scary. We learnt how to calm you down, administer your medicine and understand how devastatingly exhausting it was for you.
At age six, after what seemed failed attempts of mating you, you miraculously gave birth to two pups after a few months, completely unassisted as we were misled about your pregnancy by a rather incompetent vet. A quirky mother that you were, Candy and Woofy were raised by Ma and me while you lived life in hiding for most of this phase. Letting them go was heart wrenching for us but you were family and we still had that.
The years passed and you continued being the star of the house, dreading the moments before your bath and bringing the house down with unthinkable energy after; chewing your favourite cloth as a chew toy; pleading for meal tidbits and making your preferences known in whatever concerned you.
You bid goodbye to Ma as she passed on and became more adaptable to your surroundings, often living in the house upstairs when Baba was out of station. You refusal to eat because you missed him showed us that you were one sentimental thing!
Whether you understood or not, your birthday was one hell of a celebration at home. While you were given chewy toys and bones, we treated your birthday every year as a reason to celebrate you.
The years passed and you gradually began showing signs of aging with problems with your sight. Your energy presented itself in spurts and you would need rest after play time. However, this did not diminish your personality whatsoever. You showed everyone that you needed ‘me-time’, liked your space, chose who you wanted to spend time with and maintained your habits with style.
On June 28th 2020, after a rapid deterioration, you lay in the centre of our home waiting for what seemed to be a very traumatizing experience to conclude. Over two days, you had lost your ability to walk or move and weren’t eating anything. Though we knew that the inevitable was fast approaching, I still hoped against hope for a miracle. For the last time, I fed you a piece of fish from lunch knowing that you would not come to me that afternoon, as was your daily habit. The saline drip administered on your right hind leg that evening seemed to have no effect as I watched helplessly. That evening was probably one of the toughest evenings of my life as you kept having your epilepsy attacks and the medicines had ceased to work. I remember sitting by you, stroking you and trying to reassure you that you would be alright as I prayed that was true. Feeding you a couple of drops of water probably annoyed you towards the end as I remember you yelped at me as if scolding me for doing something bad. Your last voice still rings in my ears often. Seeing you in that condition made me wonder whether it was worth for you to go through that pain and simultaneously I didn’t want to let go of you. You were closest to me and a few seconds before you stretched your body letting life go, I kissed you the way I had a million times before, knowing that that would be the last time. In that instant, you became a memory.
I wonder how I passed through an entire year of not having you around. Sometimes, I imagine you’re still lying under a chair or wardrobe, hiding. The sixteen and a half years that you lived with us, you had a complete and fulfilling life and equipped with my imagination and your memories, it brings me solace.
When we share a relationship with a family member, we inevitably think of the times shared together – memories of our childhood, memories of us growing up and their role in it and the memory of their old age. We think of our relationship with them. We know how they were and build their character through our perception. Rarely, do we think of the person as an individual because we are so influenced by how we see them as a part of our life.
On what would have been her ninety fifth birthday today and five years after her passing, I think of the individual my grandmother was…
Affectionately known as Putul (her pet name), she was a true version of Goddess Durga, doing complete justice to her name Shibani. She was one of many siblings in a renowned family in Guwahati. Her father was a well known lawyer and their family was a distinguished one.
My grandmother would tell me stories of how their home was an abode to various guests such as Gandhi and Nehru and how the great author, Rabindranath Tagore was refused into their home because he had become associated with Brahmo Samaj, theirs being a staunch Brahmin family. She told me stories of how Gandhi would take a walk, before the crack of dawn with two companions by his side and how she missed the opportunity despite waking up as early as she could during his stay in their home.
One of the most frequently narrated stories was that of Durga Puja at their house with all the members of the large joint family, being involved and making the occasion a success, year after year, as she grew up. She told me of one such year, when the enormous idol was being brought into their home on ‘Mahalaya’ and the head of the goddess fell off as it got obstructed by the ceiling of the room and how horrified my great grandfather was, as a result.
Grandparents are natural story tellers. They have a way of painting pictures with words and exciting the imagination. On several nights, my bed time would be a window to gaze into her life. At the time, they were just happy stories.
My grandmother was born on the 27th of May, 1926. Society was not what we know it as today. But when I put all the jigsaw puzzle pieces of information together, I realise that she was a woman, well beyond her time. She was the first female member in the family to have completed her full school education and enrolled herself into college for a graduation degree. She also learnt how to drive a car during this time. For us today, that may seem quite ordinary but I cannot imagine how advanced and resilient she was, almost a century ago.
From what she told me, my grandmother was quite a fashion icon. She found ways to be stylish within the norms of dressing at the time and had a fascination for heeled shoes. I remember seeing her pair of brown stilettos at a young age and was captivated by the clicking sound of the heels as each step was taken. For the young girl in me, she was a diva indeed!
The transition of becoming a ‘Dasgupta’ from a ‘Sen’ was beautiful as she got married to an Indian navy officer. She kept the home running as her husband fought in the second World War, far away from home. The strength and love she had for her family empowered her.
My grandfather ( Dadu ) – Shib Shundar Dasgupta
Alongside her daily responsibilities, my grandmother opened a school called Geeti Jhankar at home. The area where she resided, provided no opportunity for children or adults to nurture their creative interests and she provided one for them. Geeti Jhankar was a school of performing arts. Various instruments such as the sitar, harmonium, guitar, tabla, congo were taught alongside dancing and singing lessons, provided by various teachers under my grandmother’s expert supervision. She organized annual days for the students in auditoriums, on a large scale. For several years, Geeti Jhankar created an enriching space for many as she kept herself occupied.
Annual Program by the students of Geeti Jhankar ( Dida, on the extreme left )
As my grandfather grew into one of the eminent people in the city, my grandmother would accompany him with pride at state dinners and parties. One of the closest associations they had was with the former chief minister of the state – Mr. Jyoti Basu and his family and they would frequently spend time together in the prestigious Calcutta Club, if not visiting each other’s house for a quiet drink in the evenings. Their life was a happy one, complete with two children of their own.
Tea time with the Dasgupta’sA formal gathering – Dida ( extreme left ) and Dadu ( third, from left )
After my grandfather passed away in 1997, there was a very gradual decline in her emotional and physical health. Yet, she stayed headstrong and steadfast – living independently and going about life as best as she could.
Dida in 2014
Several years later, she watched her daughter fight an incurable disease and lost her child, right before her eyes. I watched the light in my grandmother’s life diminishing as she spent her last years, bedridden.
All the things that I’ve heard about and from my grandmother make me beam with pride and adoration, today. I’ve always seen her as my grandmother but she was an extraordinary lady, to say the least. She was much more than a mother or a grandmother, unlike several women of her time. Maybe she was fortunate to have received the opportunities she did, but I know for sure, she had a zeal for life that pushed her beyond the limits of making do with the ordinary.
One of the prominent traits in my mother was her passion for travelling. A seasoned world explorer, she would often plan trips on long weekends, after a diligent study of my school calender. Visits to far away places were reserved for longer vacations. However, she made use of whatever time we had, for visits to remote places that most people had never heard of.
Ma was independent, meticulous and bold. She knew that my father would be an ill fit in these expeditions and so she took it upon herself to keep discovering the unknown without him. To make it a ‘more the merrier’ situation, my grandmother would occasionally accompany us, making it a travel terzetto of generations. Ma had her Lonely Planet tourism book which provided her with travel ideas to unconventional spots which she was in the endeavor of checking off one by one. Her style was always staying on budget and she went to great lengths to ensure that we would have memorable trips at unfathomable prices. It is from her that I learnt, one can have the most beautiful times without being extravagant.
In October, 2001 Ma, Dida (my grandmother) and I made our way to a remote village – Gadiara which was the confluence of three rivers – Damodar, Roopnarayan and Hoogli. According to Ma’s book, Gadiara was perfect for a short get away. For Ma, the West Bengal government tourist lodge was her safe haven when she travelled with an elderly mother and young daughter. In the absence of technology at the time, she would go to the WBTDC (West Bengal Tourism Development Corporation) office, make necessary bookings, converse with the officials there to find out more about the spot, well in advance. Her patience for scrutiny was commendable!
Our travel to Gadiara was by a government CTC (Calcutta Tramways Company) bus. We walked to the bus stand (luckily, near our house) at the crack of dawn to wait for our holiday to begin. Ma always ensured that we travelled light so we would rarely have more than a small bag, equipped for a two night stay. Catching the bus early helped to avoid the crowd, reach our destination in broad daylight and check into the hotel on time and avoid the scorching afternoon heat. The bus journey was tiring nonetheless! We sat in the heat watching commuters hop on and off the bus, allowing the warm breeze from the open windows to refresh us. Ma had packed some sandwiches and we snacked on them during our cumbrous bus ride.
Being the expert planner Ma was, we reached Gadiara, checked into the hotel and had a hearty lunch. I was thrilled beyond words to discover that the hotel premises was home to a couple of street dogs. Nothing could have made me happier! I played with my new friends amidst the well manicured gardens to my heart’s delight! During lunch, Ma had struck up a conversation with the hotel staff and gained better perspective of how our sight seeing could be best organized. Before long, the three of us had set out on a rickety ‘toto’ to explore our surroundings. Our first day in Gadiara was marked off by absorbing the riverside ambience, visiting the jetty at sunset and returning to our rooms, a little after dusk.
Our second day was relaxed with the exception of finding an STD booth to make a call back home to my father. Ma asked around and discovered that Gadiara being a very remote area, there were none close by. We would have to travel across the river to a nearby village to find one. Ma decided that we would head out early in the evening and our day passed by, uneventfully. I frolicked in and out of the room to play with my furry friends and we enjoyed the holiday mood. In the evening, Dida decided that she would remain in the hotel so Ma and I stepped out, had another bouncy toto ride and reached the jetty from where, we could make our way across the river by a ferry. The ride was beautiful and we mingled with the locals for whom this commute was a part of their daily routine. To end such a pleasant ferry ride awaited a shock of our lives! Like everyone else, we approached the area of the ferry to disembark and saw in horror, a narrow wooden plank tipped against the edge of the ferry down to the river bank. Apparently, here, they were yet to build a jetty! The narrow wooden plank could accommodate only one person walking down relying only on balance and fate : one misstep to go splashing into the water, from a terrifying height! Ma and I looked at each other in panic and realized that we had no choice!
Ma and I waited for everyone to climb down the plank, trying to determine the best way of doing so. There was none. Ma and I were the only two commuters left. The local men working on the ferry encouraged us with all their might, reassuring us that we could do it. After several embarrassing minutes, Ma told me to go ahead and said she would follow. Mustering up an unthinkable amount of courage, I scampered down the godforsaken plank, successfully reaching land. Looking up, I watched my mother hesitate for a few more moments. When we were both on the ferry before the walk of our lifetime, Ma had even considered returning on the same ferry which was to make its way back to the Gadiara side. However now, she didn’t have a choice. Standing below on the river bank, I yelled out to Ma to come down, trying to be as encouraging as an eleven year old girl could be! She took her first steps and before long, to my utter relief, she joined me. We found an STD booth and the phone call was made but the joy of talking to Baba paled in comparison to our ghastly ordeal!
Ma vehemently dismissed the idea of climbing up yet another wooden plank to the ferry. Speaking to the locals, she found out the nearest spot, compulsorily, with a jetty from where we could return back. We were at our wit’s end and used the ferry ride to calm our nerves. Soon, we were back to our hotel, spending the evening, telling Dida what we had gone through!
Both Ma and I recounted our experience to friends and family over the years and it’s one memory that will continue to be the highlight of our Gadiara trip for the rest of my life.
Our return to Kolkata was scheduled for the next day. We concluded our trip by giving our word to the hotel staff that we would visit again. I bid a teary eyed goodbye to my furry friends and made our way to the bus stop. After a long and warm bus journey we got off and made our way back home. The short trip was perfect in all ways except one and we returned feeling refreshed and ticked off Gadiara off our list.
Chapters ...In Progress 