Love Letter

Dear Ma
I very rarely, if ever, talk about you on my blog. In spite of the fact that you are the most important person in my life. Is it because we are not a demonstrative family as such? We don’t tell each other how much the other one means to us--it’s just one of the many things that Dasguptas and most other Bengalis don’t do--we don’t demonstrate our love, instead we intellectualize it. I wish we were more Punjabi-ized in this aspect. You know, be more pappiyan-jhappiyan kinds. Spontaneous kissers, big huggers. Today I am going to try being that with you. Because I want to, because I miss you so much every day, and because for the first time in our joint lives together, no matter how hard I try, I will not be able to make it in time for your birthday.

My earliest clear memory of you is the day you were trying to teach me “he” and “she”. I was about four years old I think, and neither “he” nor “she” were appealing to me. I was familiar with “he-she” in Bangla, where of course it stands for something entirely different, and I was adamant about not embracing these unfamiliar Anglo terms. You persisted, you slogged, you tired yourself out, and finally, after hours I was enlightened.

My next clear memory is of the morning we were leaving Calcutta for good. At that time we didn’t know that it was going to be for good. It was just something we were doing because Baba had got a new job in Delhi. I must have been barely five years old then, and I remember you woke me up with tears in your eyes. You must have hated the shift that time, right? Leaving behind friends, family, home, your city...all for an unknown, unfamiliar life. At a time when there was no Internet, no inexpensive STD calls, no google-talk (our present lifeline). But see how good Delhi’s been to us? We have progressed, we have grown, we have had an enriched life. And most importantly, Delhi’s where Riju joined us. The only non-Calcutta born member of our family.

Our first months in Delhi were interesting. Especially your afternoon story-telling/story-reading sessions. They made books and words come alive. So much so that now they are indispensable. I enjoy being with them, I love living off them, I cannot imagine a life without them. And all because of the first grain you sowed.

Do you remember my entrance test at Tagore International School? Where on being asked to write the letters of the alphabet, I wrote everything from A to Q, and then forgot everything that came after? In my defense, I told you, “But Q is so strange!” Later I overheard your conversation with Baba. “How will this girl ever learn English? She can’t even remember all the letters after Q! Says Q is strange! English is the language of communication. What will we do?”
Thankfully, Baba wasn’t worried at all, and can I now safely assume that I have made mincemeat of your fears?

So many memories, so many rituals:
Returning from school/college/university/office, and then seeking you out before doing anything else in order to tell you everything, well, nearly everything that I did that day...conversations, compliments, criticisms. You know every friendship, every betrayal, every scar and every bit of glory. As also nearly every sin, every crime, every passion. You know about every man I have ever dated, and you have shaken your head and disapproved of each one of them. Because so far no one’s been the bhalo Bangali chhele...the sort you want for me: responsible, kind, calm, someone who will keep the wildness, the impatience, and the madness in check, someone who will keep me tethered yet let me fly. Someone like you.

Sitting so many miles away from you, I miss our conversations the most. They were the funnest ever, weren’t they? The one over morning tea while Baba went about yoga and the news, and Riju slept peacefully dreaming about yet another Manchester United glory. And then the one in the evening, when I came back from office. We stood in my balcony and watched the skyscrapers in the distance, while we poured our hearts out. I miss your kind of food, I miss the sound of your voice and laughter, and the touch of your fingers while they untangled my dense, usually unmanageable hair. I hate it that I can no longer walk into the kitchen and see you cook, while I hover around, waiting to taste, to check, “whether you have made it right or have messed it up”. I can no longer walk into your room, and curl up next to you, and then snatch from your hands whatever you are reading to either read it myself or to force you to talk to me. I miss sitting with you and watching inane shows on TV, the dumber the better being our thumb rule, while we debated over who will win the next year’s Miss India/Miss Universe contest--you or me. I miss pulling Riju’s leg, either by myself or by ganging up with Baba while you rushed to defend your “baby” who was always more than capable of taking care of himself.

I am reminded of yet another incident. The one just a few days before I started school in Delhi. We were going somewhere, the three of us, Riju still two years away. We were in a DTC bus, you and I were sitting while Baba was standing and holding on to the rod. You said to me. “You are in class 1 now. It’s a new life. It’s going to be exciting. Make sure you’re always careful, especially in the bus. Remember to take your seat, hold on to the bar. Be careful of your surroundings. All the time, always. Oh my baby! How will you travel so far every day?”

The distance between home and St. Anthony’s, Hauz Khas, was all of 7 kms, and you were worried. Twenty-two years later you still worry. Of course, the immense geographical distance adds fuel to the fire. From that sweltering, hot day in April, to this cold, wintry day in November, I have come a long way haven’t I? And every time I recount yet another adventure to you, your reaction is the same. “You took another risk, didn’t you? Why do you have to be this crazy all the time? Ektu shanto ho, eto tara kisher? Aaste aaste shob hobe, shob korbi.” Your words actually sound like music to my ears, even when you are yelling, because they tell me that I am on the right track. That I could go that extra step, take that extra bit of risk, because you made it possible. You created me that way, you gave me that confidence, you made me believe something you say to both Riju and me all the time: “If you have the intelligence and the interest, everything is possible.” Yes Ma, I agree. Which is why I spent the greater part of this Monday roaming around yet another new city. Walking, getting lost, taking directions from strangers and maps, discovering new people, sights, tastes and smells...completely on my own. And enjoying every bit of the adventure.

So, Happy Birthday Ma. Hope November 17 brings with it lots of joy and sunshine. Have a great day and a wonderful year. And yes, I will be home soon. I promise.
Love
T