I was the only child. Raised in my maternal grand-parents sprawling ancestral Jodhpurpark home since the age of six. My afternoons after school were spent scribbling poetry in the long winding balcony guarded zealously by the Krishnachura tree. My companions mostly my books. My diaries. And then there were my childhood companions. Bedeshori mashi, our part-timers brood of grand-children (three from her oldest daughter Mangaladidi who now works for us ever since her husband burnt her, and threw her out of his village home, taking on another wife), Kalipada mama, our Oriya drivers only son, Madhu dada, Jamuna, our sweepers daughters in discolored lehengas and silver anklets. Shantimashi, my toothless nanny. They were pretty much the sum of my life all those years back. From khelna bati, ranna ghor, ranna ghor, shonamuni putuler biye, roth jatra, Dol utsav, Durga pujo, Kali pujor baaji, to Saraswati pujor bhashan - I was akin to a mighty queen reigning over a veritable kingdom. Some older, some younger. I never asked where they came from. Or why their family members cooked, scrubbed our basins, cleaned our rooms at dusk, drove our cars, daily. There was no need either. We walked in and out of our respective rooms with ease. Bapi, my maternal grand-father always indulging them, equally. Tram rides, cheap toys, books, warm woolens... I was alone. But, never lonely. When my grand-parents died within a month and a half of each other,I was forced to grow up. Suddenly, the city that was home felt alien and harsher. Kalipadamama too didnt survive this shock. Madhu dada leaving our home. Getting enrolled in a office, later. Jamuna didis daughters also started getting married off. Bedeshori mashi had a bad fall. Shanti mashi a heart attack. The walls that had held me safe were all dismantled, one by one. Maybe, it was fated. Today, the house is gone too. Like many things, it now remains trapped in vestiges of our memory, somewhere. And then tonight, just before dinner, I stumble upon little Geru, our Delhi house help Shikhas daughter, playing a game of paper chess with Mangaladis youngest son, Pintu, in their room, sitting by my mothers footsteps. I dont why I tear up. Clicking photos on my I.phone. There is so little left of us to preserve. I tell myself. Once. And yet, my heart flows with a rare, unbridled joy. Our tribe will outlive us. Growing. Gathering new members. Going forward with us....
Posted on: Sat, 10 Jan 2015 16:30:53 +0000
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