A man is but a sum total of his memories.

A childlike grin on his face. I imagined it quite well ... even though I couldn't see it. But, I know that look! That look of excitement and nostalgia. That look of suddenly remembering where you kept something… something you lost long back. 

I asked him again, do you remember how the house looked like? A long pause, and then he said, “Why wouldn't I remember? Of course I was only a boy, but things like these… you don’t really forget. There was a huge balcony. Actually two of them, a small kitchen where thakuma (grandmother) used to cook the most amazing begun pora; the smell mingling in the air… mesmerizing all those who passed by that busy lane. She was a woman like no other, the determination, the patience and oh the cooking! Do you know she used to make idols for puja on her own, what amazing craftsmanship. She collected my poems in secret, and published my first book .. I remember holding the book in my hand and thinking, how did she pull this off?!”


A couple of minutes later, and through all the childlike rambling, I finally managed to cut through the chatter again to ask, how is Kashi, why exactly did you do there? The thought that my extremely quirky and impatient father in his youth (arguably even more impatient) would laze around in a city like Varanasi, was rather odd to me.

He chuckled and said, "Bridge. I used to play Bridge”. Before I could ask him what bridge was he continued, “Our house was very close to Dashashwamedh ghat, one of the busiest ones in Kashi. On the second floor, right opposite Nishat Cinemas, do you think it’s still there? Look up Nishat Cinemas on Google Maps will you? Oh and there was Gopal Ghosh, he used to run an itar shop. He used to love me so much, I wonder if he is still there.”


Hold up right there! I jumped and said,  how the hell do you even remember his name? He smiled and said, “He used to give me small bottled perfumes for my girlfriend. Free of charge of course!”  But of course, I said (and went back to imagining the childlike grin on his face again.)

These late night telephonic conversations with my father  leave me puzzled, sometimes endeared, and sometimes question my perceptions about him. The rest of the midnight-conversation, with my 12 year old father, revealed his near perfect memory of every nook and corner of Kashi... how the ghats looked, how the sadhus sat around the edges, grandma’s cooking, his frequent trips to Ramnagar, on the west bank of the river, to fetch perfectly round and I quote “slightly greenish eggplants” which apparently led to some of the most unbelievable eggplant dishes, that my mother can’t seem to compete with (even to this day)!

And then I asked him, by the way what did you have for lunch today, and he paused and said, ‘mmm..I don’t remember, why?’

Later that night I  wrote this on a sticky pad-

A man is but a sum total of his memories,
The kites he flew and the cards he played.
The paths he crossed, & the footsteps in the alleys.
A man is but a sum total of his memories
The lives he touched, the strangers he crossed
The ones he shared, and the even the un-shared stories
A man is but a sum total of his memories.
The lovers that never happened
The familiar gazes, and even the unsolved mysteries.
A man is but a sum total of his memories.

10 Things To Teach Your Grandchildren

The smell of sweet candy. Freshly made sweet-meat. Fairytales. Woolen caps and mittens. Partition Stories. Mangoes. Warm blankets and hot chocolate. Home-made cough medicines. Vintage jewelry boxes.Those are some of the things that remind me of my grandparents. I remember my grandmother making sweet and spicy pickles during winters, bottled up in jars and soaking in the sun, on the roof ... just waiting in cute little bottles to be ravaged by sneaky hungry children. Aah! those were the days.

And if you are anything like me, you are thinking.. I have no clue how to make those pickles anymore. Of course, 'Cos you were too busy stealing them and less busy learning how to make them. So, go figure  now.

The summary of course:

Not growing medicinal plants in your backyard. Check
No clue how to knit. Check.
No clue who your cousin's husband's aunt's sister is married to. Check
Pickles are meant to be stolen, not made. Check
Home-remedies = Google. Check
Never Fermenting things at home. (Eww). Check

Congratulations! you are now spiraling your way to become a terrible grandparent. 

< -insert -90s-themed-laughter-track- >

Granted that when we grow old, we wont be able to do any of the old people stuff like knitting a cap for our grandchild or make coconut laddus, or cook amazing food of our ancestors; and definitely won't know shit about housekeeping and growing stuff in our backyards (no Marijuana doesn't count) or making household cleaners out of scratch. But being the incredibly positive, life-affirming person that I am: I am going to remind myself that there are still tons of amazing things to teach our grand-kids when we are older (not wiser).

1. We may not know how to grow medicinal plants and make potions but.... but we can definitely teach 'em how to open beer bottles without openers. #daadimaakenuskhe

Gather around children, and... grab a spoon.

2. Table manners are over-rated! Proper hash-tagging and tagging manners will make or break their characters. The single most important threshold, the moment that defines whether they will be labeled as cool or wannabes, or bitches, or spammers or trolls. It's a matter of life and death and only you can teach 'em that!

I'm so tired of being stereotyped by bloggers

3. Hangover cure. Yes! the one that you have perfected over your late twenties. 'Cos they will remember us with a smile, and minimal headache!

A pinch of lime and a drop of phoenix's tear

4. Flicking an amazing < insert- excuse- here > Selfie. A truly great way to bond with those ducky-lipped grand-daughters!

Genuinely-LMAO

5. And since their protection is paramount we will surely teach them how to set an incredibly difficult password.

The words poop and shit-head can only be cracked by 4th grade-hackers. 

6. Instead of telling them goose-bumpey stories of partition and how we came to India after the war, we'll tell them how we left India and migrated away to #FirstWorldCountries for more money, which we then converted to INR and became millionaires and hence afforded the house and Jacuzzi in which they play now! #Respect

Because. Patriotism.

7.We might not have vintage jewelry boxes and antique-finish earrings to pass on to them, but we can give them this piece of our heritage. That might be worth a fortune by then :P

The Joes are out of the picture. And by 'out of the picture,' I mean, 'out of this earth.

8. You will also share infinite wisdom with them. You'll tell 'em why Charlie Sheen was in fact not 'winning'!!

Is he winning yet?

9. You will also tell them to travel the world and live out of their suitcase for as long as they can. And, meet new people, drive across different forests and oceans and mountains, and never shy away from trying anything new. 

Stop freeloading. Go bar-tend in Hawaii

10. And finally....

It's taken for granted that invariably, without you even trying, they will catch on to one of your passions. Most grandchildren follow the passions and interests of their grand parents without even knowing where it came from. It's almost like a hidden bond; a watermark carefully planted inside them. You might be a rock and roll fan, without even having the slightest idea that your grandfather was a huge hippie back in the day. Or the fact that you turned out to be a great photographer, 'cos your grandfather wanted to be one. Or the finesse and passion you have for baking is something that's passed on to you from your grandmother or the fact that you enjoy reading poetry is because your grandma was part of a secret women's book club back in the 1930s. 

It's one big giant connection just waiting to be explored. This is something that has transcended generations, and trends, and pop culture and weed and internet and teenage mutant ninja turtles and technology and basically anything you can think of. Nothing dilutes that, and no one can take that away from you. It's yours to keep and yours to leave behind.  

Pillow-Chocolates, Christmas & Cookies!

I've always known that Santa wasn't real. I was a smart kid like that. But I could never resist watching my parents bring Christmas up a notch every year. Christmas wasn't ever about Jesus or Christianity for us: for obvious reasons. However Bengalis have a knack of meddling with almost every holiday that is major for anyone. If my dad had enough information about Hanukkah I'm sure he'd get a bunch of lights and candles and made a day out of it. For me Christmas meant plum cakes, fruit cakes, chocolates and gifts. It was more about how good we've been all year round. It was a bonus day (apart from birthdays) when we kids got cool stuff from a certain Santa person. I remember Mum sneaking chocolates under our pillows at night and Dad - up to his old antics to hide presents from us. This one time was spectacularly special and till date I don't know how he pulled it off. I had my eyes on a particular doll I'd seen at 'Wonderland' (Our closest toy shop) and I made it quite clear that I was lusting after it. On Christmas eve, we were sitting in the living room eating some snacks and watching tv when the doorbell suddenly rang. Dad looks up and mischievously says - go see who's at the door. The gift was kept at the doorstep (awesomely packed of course), and I don't think I need to spell out the contents inside the wrapper. I think that day, I kind of believed Dad was partnering with this mysterious Santa guy to ship us gifts. For the believers out there who bask in the goodness of Christmas spirit - this would have been a perfect story. Years have gone by, and I have been waking up to no chocolates under the pillow on Christmas day for a while now. I think holidays are definitely harder when you are staying away from home; especially when you have so many memories attached to each one of the occasions. This year I'm going to be my own Santa. I think.  - So... rushing home to make Chocolate chip cookies today (cos I can't beat the cakes mum makes). Hiding chocolates under  my own pillow might be too creepy at almost 30, but I'm still contemplating work-arounds. 

Mahabharat: Desire & Destiny or Triumph & Pride.

Within infinite myths lies the Eternal Truth?
Who sees it all?
Varuna has but a thousand eyes
Indra, a hundred
And I, only two.

Jaya is not the story of a great battle. It's not about kings and men or gods & asuras. Then what is it about I thought, as I kept down the book. I gulped down the book over the weekend occasionally breaking for thoughts and inferences over coffee, but the questions remained. As a young girl I'd read Kabi Sanjay's Mahabharata in Bengali, and needless to say it had its influences deep rooted in me. Probably it started even earlier, if I speculate. The Sunday morning telecasts that filled our household with sounds of conch-shells and brave men, whose voices almost thunder-like, reverberated across the lounge-room downstairs where- atleast a dozen people sat wide-eyed in awe of the epic. Sundays were incomplete without the story telling of 'Samay' and the aroma of 'Luchi' slipping in mischievously through the dining hall. However, my fascination with mythology continued over the years as I read more and more of the Greek tales of the Olympian Gods, the Titans, the Giants, the Nymphs; and the similarities of it all raised several questions which remain unanswered (to my fullest satisfaction) even today. When I picked up 'Jaya' I wasn't looking for answers to be honest. But, it did in a way attempt to instigate them again. Devdutt Pattanaik is a clever writer, he is thorough and steers away from 'point of view' style of writing. I appreciate the fact that he has taken references from the great epic told and retold throughout the subcontinent and merely lay out the different versions - almost like putting together a jigsaw puzzle for the audience aka the reader to go figure. No leading questions were asked and no opinions were slapped on. The myth of the story is not the story itself. It's unlike any other folklore about divinity that you may have heard. The myth is real in the architecture of its foundation. It merely looks into the soul of man and his passage through ages of civilization and attempts to answer the never-ending questions about life and death, spirituality and ideas of possession. Jaya over the mind, Jaya over your inner demons marks the essence of the great epic: Not war, not King-makers, not even familial inter-relations. For those who think the story is about a bunch of mythological characters who never existed and hence not worth reading, I'd urge them to don a different pair of eyes for this story alone. Don't read it as the foundations of Hindu devotions, but read it as a common man who wants to survive boldly & with no regrets, who wants to experience this world like a true intelligent being and maybe, just maybe you will be in for surprises which will shape your thoughts and opinions as you go on in your journey of life.

"Myths lie sleeping, at the bottom of our mind, waiting for our call. We have a need for them, since they represent the wisdom of our race."

Unpacking a million times over...

Coherent love or not -

I've been trying to write this post for a while, but with each attempt I realized how hard it is to pen down these thoughts in a coherent manner. So finally, this attempt is gonna be somewhat of a collage of thoughts, random memories and unfinished sentences. It's important to express the love sometimes, even if it's not extremely coherent.

The treasures I dug out -

The love for this city has been growing. From a confused, aspiring 22 year old to a more calmer version of the wild child I used to be. I've loved this city to bits, every single day of my last 5 years.
From the very first day I knew I was meant to be here. New Delhi was my home. I never felt out of place, never felt like I didn't belong, and it was always comforting to come back to Delhi wherever I went. It's breathtaking this city really... it's beautiful, it's big & bold ... and green. From finding love, to making the best of friends, and finally understanding yourself....this city has been my confidante.

I'm packing my bags-

And now that it's time to say goodbye.. I don't know how. A big one on my life list might get crossed off and I knew this day would come. But so soon! Such little time I had, but it seems like I've been here forever. Every little memory etched into my mind. A house I turned into a home. Cooking for friends. Lone walks across citywalk, sitting on the pavement with coffee and smokes watching the strangers pass by with huge shopping bags. Chinese joints, Nizam's kathi rolls, late night movies and 2 am dhabas with egg maggi and chai.

The love of my life -

Leaving behind everything that shaped me into what I am today can never be easy. Leaving behind the person you love most, the people who stand strong with you through thick and thin, the comfort of the home you created sincerely one tiny detail at a time. It seems like a mammoth task right now. Should I pack my favorite blanket? I'm still pinning thoughts and struggling with the finer details. But one thing makes it easy.. knowing the fact that he is ready to follow me into this new journey. When I look back, he'll be right there with a suitcase and a smile. That's going to make this all better. Singapore has tough shoes to fill. This city is tough to beat, these people are are one of their kind. The love is unparalleled.

The mirror to my soul -

I don't where I'll be in the next ten years, and I don't really want to talk or think about it now, but I do know that wherever I am unpacking my suitcase...this city will always be my steamy love affair, my hot cuppa, my late night maggi and the mirror to my soul. I'm still looking for excuses to stay back, and unpacking a million times in my mind.

Treasure chest of memories Part III

The small puddle of memory that I splashed around today was primarily the one about my happy place. Probably because I’ve been having a very bad day and I had to escape into that zone where I can comfortably cocoon up. I read this interview of JK Rowling, where she said that magic would always remain a prominent part of our growing up and also of our adult lives. There is no connect with religion here, and it’s not about religion at all. It’s about having some kind of power that helps you be in control of a situation. That’s something we rarely get right? When do we ever have any kind of power to change something that’s going haywire? Magic lets you do things that put you back on the leader-board. So, I wander into that rabbit hole of memory where I am in power. There was this old trunk in the attic inside my aunt’s workshop, which always intrigued me. Never knew what was in there but I liked making up stories about it. I would dress up in my mom’s cotton saree that smelled like jasmine (thanks to the odd amount of starch she used to put in them) and then put on some lipstick, wear some of her fake jewelry and then go up to the roof. I’d then pretend to be the owner of this magic shop where I can conjure magical things that would come out that rusty old trunk and sell them off to my imaginary shoppers. They would come pouring in, one after the other looking for odd things like the horse-hoof lake, the needle through which you can spin of threads of golden fleece and the owl’s feather which helps put people go off to sleep whenever they want to. In exchange I’d take kittens from them, or pickles or ice cream on stick – mainly because I was forbidden to touch these items otherwise. Coming back to the magic trunk – the rusty dusty one was kept in that room for a long time, sometimes covered with cloth, sometimes with things my aunt would make like rugs or tapestry or curtains. I never got to know what was inside but I bet there were things that were wonderful and kind of magical. The summer afternoons were well spent I think, in bargaining with my customers and reviving the barter system: and sometimes they gave me an extra something if they were happy with the products I offered them.  Some day when I own a house of my own, I’ll keep a trunk just like that (not so dirty though) and right by the foot of my bed. I have a feeling I’ll dream of calmer things if I had my happy place right inside my room.

Nightmare Dramas & an Unfinished dream

Im moody when I want to be. I know that! No questioning the intentions behind my anger spurs here. It just so happens that I can get angry when I am sleeping too. Because of something that someone didn't do in my dreams. Yes, I am that irrational.

Came back late after a nice long drive at night, and was super tired. The moment I hit the bed I drifted off. While boyfee aka Batman was reading this super gripping book (which I now regret giving him since he is carrying it around like an extended part of his hand), I slept off quite immediately. After a while I distinctly remember dreaming about going to some movie, and then coming back home to realize that the door was busted open and a huge hole in my bedroom wall. Well, nightmares can be vividly tormenting for me most times, and all I was doing was shouting and calling for help. How pansy of me no? Now that I think about it, if it was a real life situation, I would have been more forthcoming and heroic and would have called the cops or beaten the thief to death myself. I can be surprisingly bold in most real life crisis situations. But, since this is a nightmare and the sole purpose of a nightmare is to scare the bejeezus out of you, there I was screaming at the top of my lungs. Batman was of course there, and reading his book quietly (yes, even in the dream) and not responding. Which was infuriating. Period.

Struggling and screaming when I woke up and I realized he WAS actually reading the book, sitting right next to me. Furious I was, felt like beating the shit out him but I was too drained out by the whole ordeal of sleep-screaming. Now, obviously he doesn't realize why I was mad at him, and there is no humanly possible way of explaining this rationally to him. I know that, don't worry (but still that doesn't mean that I wasn't allowed to be mad at him for ignoring me in my dreams right?!). To make things simpler, I think I'll need to lay out the expectations and tell him straight that I am allowed to be mad at him for random reasons that he might not understand, but still must accept without a fight.

Talking of dreams now, I have decided to finally create an awesome library in my home (whenever and wherever that home is). So, I'll (rather, we'll) start buying our favorite books, one or two each month and stacking 'em up for the grand collection. Having a library of my own had been my ultimate dream for a very long time. I grew up in a house smelling of old books all the time. My grandfather had this mystery room full of sky high cabinets always smelling of old pages. There was this bed by the side and a small study table. He would spend hours there, and the collection was to die for. He would religiously visit the book fair in kolkata every winter and come back with dozens of new books. Some he'd give away to us, and some would be stored in his special wooden cabinets. I want a small room to myself too. A bright red room covered with mahogany wooden lofts: smiling ear to ear with books. Not just books, but gems. Each will be handpicked, each one ready to fit an occasion. I'll categorize and even buy a label maker. A small coffee maker, a fridge to hold the beer cans and comfy two-seater by the side with fluffy cushions. Yeah, I need the fluff! * sigh * life will be perfect then.

I was doing some research on online book stores and I already have a list of 5 that I wanna buy this month. But, since I am allowed to buy only 2 per month ('cos I aint that rich yet) - I am having a tough time deciding between 'A Thousand Splendid Suns', 'Anne of Green Gables' and 'A death in the family'. I know it's a random sampling, but since I have already decided to get 'A clockwork Orange' for this month, I just have place for one more. I'm still doing some picking and stuff to decide no.2 for September and then I'll be all set to order! YAY!

Here's to us!

Words fall short sometimes. This is one of those posts.

When I walked into this office, I had no idea that I will be meeting one of the most amazing people that I have ever met in my life, and that person will become the steadiest rock of my life. She'll pull me through shit like no one ever has, She'll stay up with me all night and talk random non sense, and be there when I need her the most. Today when you are leaving the country and traveling to a far away land, I can only look back at us and smile. I promised myself, I won't cry and see you off with a smile.

Don't think I can do justice to explain how much you mean to me, but I guess you already know.

Here's to us :)

One of those evenings, when we cried and laughed at the same time.

To all those evenings on the balcony with chai and sutta.

Through break-ups and hook-ups.

Through boring work days.

On the spot decisions to go out and have lunch for no reason good enough.

To all the drunken nights.

To the earth-quake and chinese ambulance.

For all those hours of mega counseling and 'life sucks' conversations.

Love you forever Jackass!

Glitter Days!

Some glitters stick on. Like the fresh air of the first days of autumn, the light flickering breeze that gives you the feeling of approaching holidays. Like childhood memories that fade away with age, but what sticks on is the way you felt about them.

The bottled pickles drying in the sun, the smell wayfaring through closed doors and alleys. Alluring, restricting and childish friskiness– all in abundance. Sneaking up to the roof in the middle of the day, little feet craftily climbing up the scorching flight of stairs on a hot summer noon. The memories and the miniscule details fade away… but what remains with you is the taste of mischief, the first bite of that delicious pickled mango. Sheer Bliss.

Some glitters stick on. Like the pulpy paper boats- that sink within seconds in the muddy monsoon waters. The few seconds of glory, smiling faces, excellent dexterity and the simplicity of the spectacle we call childhood. The boats may not be afloat, but what remains is the art. Stuck in a cubicle all day, when we fold up a piece of paper to create that one masterpiece again, what you recall is a small fragmented piece of yourself on one of those damp drizzling afternoons. Letting go of your illusion of control and taking pride in a few moments smooth sailing before the first boat in a series of seven submerge into the opaque waters.

Some things stick on. Some things never change. They are a part of you, and always will be. Complexities of growing up may change parts of you in ways that you may never understand, but there will always be those tiny specs of glitter that stick on to you, hold on to you for the sake of your own survival; to make you what you are and to never let you forget what the real moments of gratifications hold. The have supernatural powers to drag you back to reality and isolate between what’s simulated and what’s naturally beautiful. Maturity is mostly over-rated. It brings a lot of undeserving confidence, which smears your senses with superficial judgments.

Let me look at what’s exquisite. In peace. Let me not judge with a series of when and how’s. Let me go back to my glitter days, and let me look at the world all over again with uncolored eyes; let me take it all in once more again. Let me take back the phases of forced interpretations, and explore again… unbiased and tolerant. Let me discover my glitter days once more, I’ll make the most of it this time. I promise.

A Treasure Chest Of Memories! Part Two..

When I wrote the first part of this I knew I had to go on to the second chapter. There are so many times in life when word limits hold you back and this time I'm not settling for it. These memories are intrinsic to my existence and the person that I am today, so I would try my best to put them in words. Right now these thoughts and visuals are just like a warm fuzzy feeling that's wrapped into the comforts of my 'happy place', and trying to put these in words would be by far the most difficult thing to do. Now, here goes my hundredth attempt to write this piece...

Today, I am attempting to write about a place where I grew up a child. This post is not about a person, but about a place that has given me so many wonderful memories. They say you never know what you had until you lose it, and that's exactly what happened to me. When we finally waved goodbye to our old almost empty house in North Calcutta, we knew that we were leaving behind a part of us in every corner of that house. The balcony where we spent so many evenings waiting for the ice-cream cart, the terrace where we spent our afternoons dressing up kittens, the small semi-terrace where we hid while playing hide and seek and the stairways where we jumped from just to create a small scene, and the stair-wells where we planned our childish master-plans.

When you grow up with a house full of kids your age and three floors to run and jump around you tend to have an unparalleled experience we call 'Childhood'. There is something special about the houses in North Calcutta- I will try to break it down for the layman- The houses are actually so close that you can jump from one roof top to another and that my friends is adventure at its best. I remember the time when we found a hidden roof at the back of the house which had no side-walls and we knew we would get into a lot of trouble if we attempted jumping on it from our roof, but we did it anyway. The pure fun and excitement of standing on a roof with no boundaries is ecstasy for ten year olds.

We had our signals too- when parents were fast asleep after lunch, we would wait for our signals to come out of our rooms and go cat hunting! We'd bring by any and every kitten we could find and play 'dress up the kittens' on the roof, and of course there was the much coveted 'lock and key' which till date remains my top favorite game to play!

The best part about the house was the fact that there were so many places a child can hide- playing hide and seek used to be our forte! Every time any of us would discover a new hiding place we'd be ecstatic, by the end of it we were pros at it!

Knowing that the generation after us will never get a chance to be raised in such an environment makes me realize the opportunity we had. The time we were truly kids, not trapped into an apartment playing board games or watching TV. We would go out and play and have fun- the house gave us our childhood-it gave us our freedom and let us behave as kids should behave; it gave us something to remember and smile about after 20 years!

When I still think about the afternoons spent with my cousins on the roof trying to figure out the best strategy to jump on to the next roof, or sneak upstairs to get a taste of Grandma's pickles, it brings back a smile on my face, and it will continue to be that way for the rest of my life.

The house means something to each of us, each part of this house brings back memories to each one- to my father, it brings back memories of his childhood escapades, to my mother it brings back memories of early married life, to my cousin sister- the balcony brings her back to finding the love of her life, where she stood waiting for him every night, to me and my first cousin it brings back random fights and weird dance moves on the big corridor- where we sang our non-sense and danced around irritating others while at it!

Letting it go was one of the hardest things to do for our family, moving on was harder. But now that every one is in different parts of the city/country/world- I am sure we all go back to that one common memory that will continue to bind us together for life!

A Treasure Chest Of Memories!

Part of us today is only a reflection of our past. Behind every developed adult personality are influences of certain individuals who have fundamentally added to our principles and values, and in the process, have added an immortal chapter to our lives.

This post is a tribute to one of such intrinsic chapters of my life- that make me what I am today. This post is about my grandfather. He taught me to be compassionate, he taught me to be persistent towards my goals. He taught me to be strong, and over the years he taught me to rely on myself.

When it comes to him, my recollections are as vivid today, as it was 20 years back. It might sound surprising, but when you are able to reminisce something with so much clarity- you should know, this is the phase of your life, when you were impressionable- and when you could retain thoughts and ideas with passion and without stale judgment.

My memories of him circle around his memories. He effortlessly passed on his childhood memories to me, and I made them my very own. Stunning visuals and extravagant imagery of Pre-independence India- - the majestic villa with acres of land spreading as far as your eyes take you, the courtyard, the roses, lilies & ponds full of lotuses. He spoke of the long balconies which stretched on and on--overlooking 50 odd rooms; the huge bell that rang during lunch and dinner to alert the inhabitants. The grandeur of it all amazes me still. I laughed at the thought of him playing badminton with huge roses- he said, ‘what to do, we’d lose all the shuttles, but we had abundance of roses around. And they were big & heavy enough to play with’. Every time I picture it, I still can’t help but laugh!

...And then there were the stories of the ghosts & ghouls, which I used to eagerly wait for. On cozy winter evenings when I would quickly get inside the warm quilts, he’d tell me these queer tales of village spirits and wandering souls, who couldn’t emancipate from their worldly desires. His memories took me en route to lively melas, where he would sneak off to with his friends, the huge bullock carts he hitch-hiked on and his little boyish adventures. Whenever, he told me these stories, we travelled to these places together, and I could see everything as clearly as he remembered them- we build a connection, an emotion stronger than love and deeper than friendship.

When I think of him now, when I close my eyes to visualize.. I am taken back to some very specific scenes. The time-travel takes me back to a winter morning when I wake up and see him sitting outside, it’s warm & sunny. He has a shaving kit & a small mirror in front of him, still contemplating whether to start or not. Then I quickly time travel to a cool & windy evening, when I am walking along the road with him… just out on an evening stroll, nodding away to neighbors and familiar faces on the road; we stop at this small shop and there is a smile on his face. He says we’ll get the best cutlets here, and I have been waiting to taste them forever.

Today, I carry him with me, in my thoughts, in my beliefs- and in a place in my heart where I keep all my fondest & most precious memories; in a place from where I accumulate all my hope, a place of strength- A Place of Love!