My Color Palette

Flashes of speculation
During days of time
Clouding my thoughts
And often coloring them

The mind churns
whirlwind of emotions
a state of frantic rush
and often very peaceful

I ride on the constant tide
Balancing on the edge
As the flashes of color pass by
I clutch my paint brush tightly

Grihini

The fish always smelled when Mitali put her hand in the endearing plastic bag , known for carrying quantities of fish every Sunday. Sunday was a given day for the home to be loaded with goodies for the week. Vegetables of all shapes, sizes but all in bulk quantity were brought in. The anaj (veg) for shukto(a special veg bengali dish), patol, bhindi, gobhi, saag were staring at her . However, the fish always reigned the day, there was rohu, katla, choto mach (kinds of fish) and on some days there would be Hilsa. She sighed as she saw her kitchen filling up with numerous raw materials. Mitali was seen as the converter of the raw materials into the mouth watering goodies which the family would enjoy.

She had just finished sorting out the things into neat piles when a clatter of footsteps were heard. "Tia" (her dak/pet name) yelled a loud voice. Tia quickly settled her saree above her head and answered. The lady of the house, the mother in law, the sovereign swept in with all the glory befitting her. She plunged on the settee and started fanning herself furiously. She said “Ki goroom, baba go.. uff.. Tia .. eto bajar esche, aajake kaka kakima ra ashmbe ar amar khokon bhishon roga hoi jachae, char-panch rokom er ranna koro. Sorse Elish, tilapia mach, posto, macher bora, chorchori, shukto, dal, saag.. ektu bhaja bhuji ar kheer baneo. Thakur ke diye mishit doi aneyo neyo.” (It so hot… uff.. Tia.. so many things have come, today relatives are coming over and look how thin my son is becoming. Cook 4-5 items including Hilsa, two kinds of fish, 3 vegetables, dal and kheer and get Thakur to get misti dahi)

She seized her string of instructions and started moving the vegetables around. Tia glanced meekly at the time and realized she needed a miracle to produce all these items in such short notice without any flaws. She could almost hear herself gasp but could not let anyone see her like that. She started the herculean task of preparing the feast where she would have to toil from 7 am to 12:30 pm, get ready , serve the entire household and the guests, clear up after them and then maybe eat a few morsels. In her heart she worried that she should be able to cook all these items and have them ready on time, she knew her husband liked her cooking but she worried about what Ma (mom in law) would say even if she found less salt or any minor deviation.

Tia remembered as a kid when she had examinations to give how she would worry about what she would write and the result. It was reassuring however as her mom always assured her that marks or no marks she would get married and her role was to satisfy her husband and his family. She would have to devote her life for them even if she would get no praises or welcoming remarks. She thought she was lucky, her in laws did not abuse her, she had some time to herself in the afternoons and the time she had for herself she wrote. She enjoyed writing about frivolous things and her mind wandered to the sheets of paper with scribbles of Bengali lying at the bottom of the trunk. That was her escape, her life within her existence, the freedom within the walls.

Time ticked as she toiled towards completion. Thankfully, Thakur and Bhola , the help of the house lent a helping hand and the food was ready by12:15 pm. Tia quickly bathed and drapped the saree in a typical Bengali style, the wet hair dripping on her back, she smeared sindoor on the parting of her hair and made a round bindi on her forehead. The guests arrived and sat cross legged on the mats across the long verandah. Tia graciously welcomed them by touching their feet. The serving followed, everyone chattered and ate noisly. Few said the food was good. She looked up at Ma for any reassurance or praise. Nothing was said or gestured. She noticed her husband ate well and that made her smile

Tia began to settle the kitchen after the afternoon fiasco and ate a few bits towards late afternoon. Noone asked for her after, no one inquired on whether she ate. She was used to it, she enjoyed her own company and could not wait to get away to her room as she knew the afternoon talks would continue till she would be called to serve tea.

Running upstairs, she sat fanning herself against the window. The scrolls of paper rolled on the bed and she sat down to write. She wrote today of what she cooked and how people ate. She wrote about the day .. and she wrote about her world. She dared not dream more than that. This was her world, in whatever defined limits she was in charge here. She controlled some part of the household. She was the Grihini.

As she day dreamed gazing at the noisy street across the lane wondering life beyond this pakmara lane. "Tia………." yelled ma.. "chaaa koi?" (where’s the tea”). Tia rudely woke up and ran down. The Grihini lived on in her world, secure in the existence carved out for her, protected and provided, alone yet hopeful, free yet bound but still very alive. The spirit lived on.

Its not a myth!

Some days stick to your memory as if you relive that day, that moment every day. It began with that frosty glare across the room. The tenacity and the meaning in those eyes was in explainable. In the frosty glare and the stiff upper lip, there was a world of mystery waiting to be discovered, a surge of emotions and silent words. I remember trying to steal many glances and hoping to draw some attention but the path seemed snowed in. The brief moment seemed an eternity. It had tales of fortitude, of unforeseen passion. It had pain and pleasure, mystery and clarity, aloof and near, it was painstakingly familiar and known.

The moment replayed in my mind. You seemed to be on it and the our brief interlude was glorious. I knew you felt it too.. you felt the mystery .. you felt the connection. People would wonder how so brief a look could have such results. I never expected this too. The moment etched in my mind and at some level freed it. The tainted glass seemed clearer and I felt re- born. It was an amazing feeling of familiarity amidst the masses, a connect one finds in another being who is part of this magnanimous life. It made no sense to me and also seemed very sensible. Oxymoronic to the core.

You rekindled a lot of things that night.. you made me believe again.. in moments, in people and above all in miracles. The journey ahead is much more exciting as my mind is ready to absorb more and ready to trust again.. Its not a myth anymore.. It’s a miracle of a moment and I owe it to you.

ICU

Staring mysteriously with an enchanted gaze
The droplets seemed like dew on the moorish patch
Currants in black shone through
The mysticism in the mauve was oozing

The lift was gentle and generous
The placing on the edge was perfect
I temptingly stretched my hand
Smilingly I bit into my "black currant" ice cream.

Passer-by

The letter lay crumpled in a heap of papers. The sobbing continued to soak her sleeves but never seized. The barriers were finally broken. The cries grew louder and the breathing became heavy. For any passer-by the heart would wrench at her cries. As the time ticked, the passer-bys moved on and the cries abated abruptly. She slowly rose and bent down to pick up the crumpled paper. Ironing out the letter she held it up to her chest and gaspingly uttered- “I will live.. I have so much more time.. the tests (she sniffed) the tests were negative….”. I walked on wondering that the deafening cries of happiness was overwhelming and scarier than sadness. Unexpected happiness and sudden plight of sadness evokes unforeseen emotions … She huddled by me and the passer-by’s moved on. Life has its ways I thought.

Irksome but true.....

As I sat staring into a blank word document with a desire to pour my mind. I continued staring blankly. There are days when words and ideas cram your head but little can be done to process the same on paper. It is one such day I presume.

Life I thought with a sigh and a pause. The constant irksome word evoking a thousand thoughts, a whirlwind of memories, an ocean of hope and a desert of wants. I smiled as I let go off my breath with the numerous thoughts. Why is it so difficult to talk about life? About experience and what is and what could have been? Why is it that words are never enough to describe people, moments, events or days? why is it so difficult to figure out what makes us happy and what is it that we want?

Does the surge ever end?
Does the quest ever cease?
Does the desire ever die?

Is it all about acceptance and adjustments or is it about living life on the edge and craving for the wee bit more? Is it the cyclical nature of bad and good days or is it the attempt to always feel that adrenaline rush? What is it that we all seek for ourselves or despite ourselves? “The journey is long and endless and in the end it is only with ourselves” (The sunscreen song) .

I seek without knowing, I travel without destination, I wonder without pausing. I constantly think. In the midst of the ageless mindless confusion, I attempt to live the irksome yet infectious thing called life. Do u?

The last flight

It was a sinister feeling as I walked the last flight. I never understood why I felt that way. A sudden shudder would also run through my spine as I remember always hastily turning around. I always wondered why it was only on the last flight that the eeriness crept in. The moment would pass the moment I reached the door. I remember puzzling over this for days. No matter how engrossed I was in my thoughts, how hurried I tried to rush the climb or how indifferent I tried to be the feeling remained.

It was unexplainable I thought to myself trying to analyse. The feeling was of disturbing familiarity, of an uncanny calmness and of known and unknown times. I ran through options of a doctor, therapist, a voodoo specialist in my mind but decided against any of them. It would only make me think more on the feeling. I decided to live with it. There are days I would pause on the last flight and feel pain, there were moments where I would dash the last step and feel hurt. It was a morose feeling, of anger, anguish and yes a lot of pain.

Its been many years now and the house has grown with me. The last flight remains. The feeling remains. Yet it has got surprisingly easy, it’s a part of my life now, a grown sense of familiarity and at some level fondness. It’s a feeling of comfort that maybe I am being watched over by a unknown someone. Maybe it will never make sense, maybe I will never know but the last flight is here to stay in me.