An Unconditional Life

An apology for not having grasped the worth of the finest man that God sent my way

After my grandfather, Teko is another departed soul who touched and positively impacted innumerable lives. A godlike father, dutiful son, loving grandfather, father-figure uncle, great friend, reliable brother, helpful neighbour, an eternal guardian, and the sweetest spouse you will ever see. Effortlessly playing each role to its best, the finest specimen of each I have seen.

Selfless, simple, non-judgemental, sacrificing, uncomplaining, at most times invisible and absolutely unconditional expecting nothing in return. Holding the golden umbrella, shielding the person, when required or showing them the guiding light or simply just doing nothing but being there without any encumbrances or weight of his presence. All of this coming naturally, with no realisation of the greatness and carrying it as unassumingly as his crumpled white pyjama.

My heart breaks each time I think of Mun and Maa the two souls whose life will have a gaping hole now. To Mun he was not just a father but a life blood, a God who never put a foot wrong and who only gave her happy memories. To Maa he was like the very air that she used to get her life from. I cannot empathise with eithers' grief fully and but I am trying to understand the struggle to reconcile with the sudden unexpected loss of a man who was a part of their being and who was virtually immortal till a month back. 

My heart bleeds each time my memories of him flash before my mind. The last time when I was flying to India, I was busy planning his 50th wedding anniversary. I cannot comprehend that nearly three years later, I sit on a plane rushing to attend his post-death rituals. Just four months back the man himself was making the same trip back home with the hope of visting us again in NZ.

 

His death is one more reminder of the Indian healthcare system, where most doctors and hospitals don't yet realise their true responsibility of dealing with lives but continue to see each person under their care as mere patients.

This is real grief. The sudden and unexpected nature of his death is a shock to the system. He was so reliable that those near him never imagined him to leave them and go. I am sure each life he has touched is crying in its own way and dealing with the grief. I hope during this time, as we are together as a family, lending a shoulder to each other to cry on, we all come to terms with it soon. We rather cherish the happy memories we have of him and celebrate one of the finest man that I now know so that we can let him be as he let everyone be. Else I worry his soul will cry and will not be at able to come to terms with his own absence for not being around for his Dipa, Mun or Joy and for having caused them so much grief.

During his recent sickness he told Maa that he will apologise to his grandchildren as the money going to his treatment means he leaves less for them. That was his almost incomprehensible level of selflessness. Incomprehensible for a selfish, judgemental, fool like me who could never fully understand the scale of the man inspite of having so many opportunities to know him in the 24 years that I have known him via Mun. Glimpses that were coloured by my myopic rigid old-school "son-in-law" lens.

Mun asked what has been my happiest memory of Baba. I couldnt make eye contact as I struggled to immediately pin down one. I am sorry Teko for everything and most importantly not including me in your life as fully and unconditionally as you included me in yours and giving the most cherished thing of your life - Mun.

This death is a lesson. I don't want to have "I wish.." moments with my near ones anymore. Set aside your respective lenses and like SPG, treat everyone for what they are worth and make most of your time with them.

This was a man who was truly "Gold Class" and I wish God continue to make them not for the sake others but for the sake of them. People like him make the world a more happier place as he did for Mun and Maa and so many others. Thank you for giving me Mun.

Wherever you go next I am sure you will be the angel, all encompassing and unconditional. Or have you earned your place in heaven? I believe you may have.

June is a Big Girl

I hope this post is not too premature.

Last night I got a call from my wife. Apparently June has spent 3 complete nights without her fingers in her mouth. It makes me really sad. I will not be able to see the cute sight ever again.

The way she put her fingers in her mouth was unique (next only to Ayush's). I really thought that defined her as a child and was a special feature of her personality. I could look at her for hours just like that.

She used to indulge in it when she was usually bored, was not getting much attention, was a bit tired, or lonely or plain frustrated with her surroundings. Just like when Opu chooses to have a drink. It is like a recharge.

This cute habit of hers has a little history too. When she was about 3-4 months old I had a client visiting us from the US. His name is Chuck Schriener. Chuck is an erstwhile clinical child psychologist who now works in the domain of wholistic living. It was a time when June just started putting the odd finger in her mouth.

Chuck came over to our house for lunch. And during the course of the day I tried taking June's fingers out of her mouth while she was happily chewing it away. But Chuck admonished me. He said "Let the tree grow". Don't "fiddle with its foliage". When the time comes she will stop doing it. If you dont allow her to do that you will make her an unhappy child.

After that neither me nor mun attempted to stop, encourage or admonish her. Except that we pointed out (of late) that it is something big girls usually do not do.

Recently June has had the tremendous urge to grow big. Or else how will she put liptick, grow her hair long and dry them after a bath, or go to a BIG school, or even teach like Sakina maa'm or Preeti teacher. Or dress up like Mom or even be like Scout.

May be that thought has been the catalyst. But sleeping without her fingers in her mouth seems to be too difficult. So as an aid she has requested her mom to sing her Beedi Jalaile, Zara Zara, Aaj Ki Raat, Pal Pal and Abol Tabol while she is sleeping.

Not to mention the contribution of Mun's mom in this. She has been the one who has been patiently explaining to her that this habit might be cause for major embarrassment one she is big.

If given an option I would have her continue forever to put her fingers in her mouth and be the cute little kid. But then she will be caught up like her dad biting her nails forever, even in a client meeting and getting admonished by her client.

Infact, if given a choice I will rather freeze her now. So that she remains a cute little child as she is right now, through my times. But may be this is what parental selfishness is all about.

But atleast I really hope during each phase of her life she will acquire some cute idiosyncracies which I can savour for times to come.

Of plants and kids

Prologue

June is 3 and she has already lived in Kolkata, Pune, Bangalore and Hyderabad. Along with us, a few plants have moved as well. Plants which could withstand the ravages of eviction. Plants which are well ensconced in their pots. But some have died, some have struggled as we have moved on and some have got renewed vigour. But we have moved on.

Initially June was more like those plants which survived. But slowly June is growing up. And she is asking questions which gives a peek into her mind. Of what she feels each time we move. Of the little roots that poke out of the bottom of the pot.

Here are 3 conversations that she raked up over the weekend.

Saturday evening. Jun, Mun & Me have just discovered this park somewhere in Banjara Hills. June spots a white Zen which stopped right in front of us while I was parking.

June: "Is that Scout?"
Me: "No, Scout is in Bangalore. Scout has an Alto. "
June: "Will Scout come today?"

An innocent question and most of June's questions come from nowhere

Mun: "No, we are in Hyderabad. Scout is in Bangalore."
June: "Scout cannot come?"

End of conversation I

Sunday evening. Three of us are driving back home after one of those "Explore Hyderbad" jaunts. We are crossing Banjara Hills Mainland China.

June: "Ghetu and Scout will come today?"
Another harmless enquiry and again it comes from nowhere.
Mun: "Ghetu and Scout are in Bangalore. We are in Hyderabad."
June: "Are they with Nicole?"
Nicole was June's best pal in Eurokids Bangalore.
Me: "Naah. Nicole is with her Mom and Dad. Ghetu and Scout stays somewhere else."
June: "They stay in Bangalore?"
Me: "Yes. In Bangalore. But on some other place in Bangalore."
June: "Are we going to Bangalore now?"
Mun: "Naah. We are not going to Bangalore. We are in Hyderabad. Bangalore is another city."
June: "We are in Hyderabad?"
Mun (feeling sad): "Ok Beta! I will take you to Bangalore."
June: "Now?"
Mun: "Not now. Bangalore is far off. Later"

End of conversation II

Before all of you start feeling that June is missing Bangalore here is the third conversation.
Saturday morning. I am relaxing. June is tumbling around me. Suddenly I remmember that its Ayush's birthday today.

Me: "Hey June, let's call up Ayush Bhaiyya. Its his birthday today. Lets wish him happy birthday."
June: "Ayush Bhaiyya will come tomorrow?"
Another one from nowhere.
Me: "Naah, Ayush Bhaiyya is in Bombay. Bombay is a different city. He cannot come from Bombay every other day."
June: "Mamiye (Ayush's mother) stays in Bombay?"
Me: "Yes"
June: "Mamuji (Ayush's father) also stays in Bombay?"
Me: "No, Mamuji stays in Delhi. Delhi is another city"
June: "Does Chachu (my brother) and Mamuji stay together in Delhi?"
Me: "No Chachu stays in Kolkata."
June: "With Didibhai (my mom) and Bhai (my Dad)?"
Me: "Yes"
June: "Ami Jaabo."

End of conversation III

Epilogue

Does each of these conversations give a clue? Clue to what June feels as she moves from place to place. Picking up new acquaintances and pinning old ones in her memory.

I realise as she grows up it is not about moving the pot anymore. She cannot be potted anymore. Its about uprooting the plant and replanting once again. AndI pray she is like her mother who survives and thrives after each such transplant.

But this is 21st century and June is 21st century's child. Just like Ayush, Trina, Tua & Jojo. But I have faith in Darwin. They will surely grow, each using their own circumstances. But the question is can they group around when needed? Or it is not important anymore?

Passion! Where art thou?

Its been a while since I have written for nothing.

Each morning as I look out from the window through the gaps of my sheet, most often I dread the white light of the day. Another new day, another round of painful meaninglessness. I dont wake up to something or go to sleep for something. Each day goes by. One by one, like pages of a novel which you just want to finish. Like watching TV. Click, click, click..... Zero to n and back again.

"What do you want to do in life?" - the line screams out each passing day, even after 8 years it was asked. Overburdening me with a sense of guilt for wanting to do nothing. Nothing that is meaningful to anyone. Just like a cockroach.

Was man always designed to achieve? Achieve something/s during the span of his life?

And then I think of the others who spread so much love around with no apparent love in their life.

Thanks to Deloitte, my present nest, I had the opportunity to go to an old age home. Its Deloitte's way of giving back to society in a constructive way. And I respect it for that.

And there I met 'Her'. She doesnt have an eye and a leg. Through her imperfect teeth she smiles the perfect smile. A smile which pierced my heart and made me cry. She infects you in that disinfectant atmosphere. She smiles, she laughs, she jokes, she talks and she dances on one leg.

Each moment you are there with her you feel guilty of not acknowledging your privilege. A privilege that you have 2 eyes and 2 legs. That you wake to go to work. That you can come back to what you call home where someone must be waiting for you. That you see new faces each day as you cram in a bus or a train or in the mall.

Each day the occupants of the old age home wake to another long day. A day of no newness and no hope. A day of waiting. Waiting for the day to end. And whenever they interact with hope they just cling onto it like a straw in deep sea. She fed me with a spoon and ruffled my hair. It felt so nice but it brought tears once again and with it embarrassments galore. How can a man cry?

So why does each day of my existence feel like a struggle? A struggle for nothing but a struggle nevertheless. Why do I wish the night lasted an eternity so I could hibernate till the time I found an answer to the question that screams out every day to me and make me feel small and puny.

Is it because I dont have the gift of passion? A passion for anything or anyone? A passion for good or for evil? Am I damned like the cockroach who can think and will survive all?

Maa' m a Mia

To us all she was the ubiquitous Mrs. Chatterjee. Buxom and with a face more like Moon Sen. In my 12 years in CBS she never wore anything but the slingy sleeveles blouse.

Her physique was more like what the crowd in Chennai roots for but in Class VII she was our elixir. Even at 35 she was as coy as a newly married.

There she was getting up again with her frail son who studied in Class II. This H.B. Sarkar's bus which used to ferry us to and from school was already full. Only the seat next to me was empty (it had to be otherwise how would the story be born).

I offered the window seat. The archetypal Bengali mother allowed her archetypal Bengali son to seat while she hung on beside me.

I was still in the learning phase about the birds and bees. But very often I could hear the hum from inside but could never understand it. It was those exploratory times when you start stretching at some stages. And then one day you realise that there is also an explosion after the hum. Slowly you also discover the conditions of such explosions.

But it was early days for me. And this was 1987.

This bus'seat was a little bit higher than usual. It made my small feet dangle and made the whole thing unmanly. But today with Mrs. Chatterjee's armpit above my eyes and her pouting tummy well within sniffing distance I could hear the humming sound again.

Up and down, right and left. Keshtoda was at his tumbling best. Each time he would press hard she would press against me. And each time she looked at me coyly.

Jiyo Keshtoda. But why are u driving so fast. The 40 minutes whizzed past and I was only left with the smell. It was only a year later when I discovered the cause of the hum.

Atleast Mrs. Chatterjee was coy all through.

I miss her so much

Parveen Akhtar

Mom was yet to arrive. In a family as big as ours it was easy for a 9 year old to get lost. Everybody loved me but no one seemed to notice my pain. There was only Laluda who understood my predicament.

Each morning he reminded me that I had to go to school. Each day I cried. I just could not get out of it. Each day Maa'm would call me at her desk and console me. That was the only time of the day I felt good. The rest of the day would be spent in acute depression and waiting for the next round of mollycoddle.

All this continued till Ms. Akhtar's patience snapped. She took her ruler and gave me a royal spanking, her plaits lashing around my face. It was only at Laluda's insistence I was back to school the next day.

"Kaushik Som!" She called out. I refused to say yes. She looked at me and put her tick. Later that day she called me to the staff room during lunch hours. She explained and explained. And she wrapped me around her. The smell of starch is still so fresh. That made it.

Next day she changed my place. Two days later my mom returned with my 4 year old bro. And my life was getting normal. And each day I carried a flower from my father's rose blooms. He didnt mind. He liked flaunting them and they were getting good publicity.

However it is when I knocked off this flower to take it to Maa'm that my dad was furious. It bloomed once in 12 years and rarely does so in a pot. He had managed the impossible. And didnt even have a look at it. A few rounds of spanks and he finally felt OK.

Life was going pretty well and everyday my adorations grew for my Maa'm. A year passed on and I had to move on to the next class. Ms. Akhtar would continue where she was. In that one year I grew up so much. I was feeling so bad. Mr. D' Souza would be our next class teacher I found out.

No flowers, no hugs, no crying, no nonsense.

The annual holiday were on and we had a trip to Musoorie & Dehradun. I was enjoying my holidays. I reasoned that Ms. Akhtar was not leaving school. So I would see her everyday.

One evening while I was taking a walk on the Musoorie Mall struggling with my Candyfloss I was taken aback. There she was walking in a group. She was in her jeans, wearing a "sleevless" shirt. It was 1984.

She was clinging to a man laughing and chattering. Ms. Akhtar was not married. How could she hold onto a man like that? How could she wear that stuff? I could not stand the sight.

My world for a moment came apart. I hid myself behind a crowd. I thought over and over. How? How? I was disgusted and felt glad that I was moving onto Mr. D' Souza' class. I didnt look her straight in her eyes ever since.

Mr. D' Souza was married and was an extremely nice man. I liked him and thought he was a good teacher till I found out six years later that he was having an affair with Ms. Parveen Akhtar.

Mrs. Chatterjee it seems was better.

Maa' m

June 1983. First day of school in a new academic year.

Like usual I was one of the first to reach school. I had to take the best seat. That would be mine to keep for the rest of the year. All assembled and the teacher (I dont remember her name) was doing the roll call.

Kaushik Som! I had to wait for my alphabetic turn. I always had to wait an eternity. Only Sourav Talukdar had to wait longer. My fault! I was born into the Soms.

However my name was not called out. I was apparently sent into section B. They usually knocked off the last names from the list to manage the numbers. I had to face that 3 times in my school life.

So? I took my bag walked across the corridor. And there she was sitting and calling out the names. I now know the word - Ethereal.

Merriam Webster uses the following phrases to describe the word
.. of or relating to the regions beyond the earth
.. celestial, heavenly
.. unworldly, spiritual
.. lacking material substance
.. marked by unusual delicacy or refinement
.. suggesting the heavens or heaven

Parveen Akhtar was all. It was another one of the many ephiphanic moments of my life.

She looked so delicate. She was in a brown cotton saree in keeping with her complexion and the dignity she oozed. Not one pleat was out of place. Thats how I always saw her till the day I left school 10 years later.

Each name rolling out of her mouth was like sweet music. So, she would call out my name every day of that one year in school? Good Morning Maa' m! Can I..??

Did I feel lucky?

I thought so but not till I had walked till the end of the class and took my place among the backbenchers. Ankan Basu and his gang were ready to gobble me up. It was just Std. III but they knew everything. Everything about everything and what made Ms. Akhtar Ms.

I had this strange feeling in my stomach. Ms. Akhtar was there (she was too far) but I felt devastated. My mom was in Nagpur. I had volunteered to come early with my dad. I had to attend school from day 1 so that I could choose my own seat amongst my pals.

What a cruel turn of fate. No friends, sitting in the last bench with a bunch of no hopers. Could people lose hope at Std. III? Tears filled up my heart and forced its way up my eyes. I never cried in school before.

"Maa' m! he is crying".

I didnt want this to happen. I didnt want to be caught up in school crying. Not in front of her. I tried my best to hold up. But I could'nt.

Ms. Akhtar called me up to her seat. I dont remember anything of what she said. However I do remember her hands run through my hair, trying to comfort me. I didnt touch my disheveled locks the whole day till the water next day rolled it straight.

What followed was a year of stargazing, looking at the celestial being, till that evening in Musoorie..

More in Next..

No, this is not Parveen Akhtar. But she would run her close.

Winter Pilgrimage

My usual winter homage to Kolkata came to a nice end.

Unlike my last two visits this one took a negative sheen. All the politics around the industrialisation is the main reason for that. I also see a undercurrent of support for those who are doing the antics against industrialisation. There is too much politics in the average Bengali. So while Bengal and Kolkata decays and bleeds the Bengalees continue to be blissfuly ignorant in their agitative mould.

But I will not ponder on the negatives like the ugly dirty taxis, the uneven roads with manhole sprouting like pimples. I would also not talk much about the stagnating bylanes where life has not moved an inch and income has come down. I will also not talk about rounds of bargaining that I witnessed around a 2 rupee cup of tea. Niether will I dwell on the unsophistication that is the becoming the bane of Calcutta/Bengalis.

I also had to face the wrath of the Bandhwagon. I had to cancel my railways tickets and take a flight back "home". Good for me because that helped me to slow down and catch up with many of my old favourites.

Here is a checklist of what I could and could not

1. Routine drive around Salt Lake to survey how my beloved place moving
2. Phuchkas around swimming pool and the phuchkawalah could remember the lovebirds from yesteryears
3. Roll, Chop, Cutlet, Mughlai, Momo from the street side stall
4. Tangra's chinese food
5. Walk around Park Street and Peter Cats's chelo kabab
6. Alipore Zoo
7. Shriraz's Biriyani, Aminia's Chap & Sabir's Rezala
8. Dakshineswar Temple
   

Besides all this there were routine visits to the relatives and in laws and lots of food. Slowly I am feeling like a "Probasi". But do I still qualify?

An alibi for life?

"It would be enough; as an alibi for a life, it would do; she would not need to apologise for how she spent her time on this earth"
Amitava Ghosh in The Hungry Tide

There is this feeling which haunts me every moment, every hour, every day & every year. Am I giving a good account of myself?

It leads me to measure myself. But how? Against what? With whom?

At most times I go to bed with this uncanny feeling that I failed in my purpose for the day. It is besides the point though that very rarely I set myself any purpose when I wake up the following morning. It is this same feeling which prevents me from enjoying every 31st December night.

Am I giving a good account of myself? Could I have done much better? Are we born with a purpose?

I believe each of us have a purpose. Some discover it pretty early in life, some struggle to discover at a later stage and some dont even think there is a need.

I do think that each would have a report card that sums up our life. May be thats what is Chitragupto's Khata. But how are the entries made? Is it in terms of the roles that we play in life. Or is it a pure objective rendering of our deeds.

Are we accountable for the time we spend on this earth? Does accountability start with the people around me like my family, friends and those who are dependant on me. Each day I look at June and I feel accountable for the kind of human being she shapes up to be.

Why do I have these uncanny feelings? Why do I need an alibi for life?