sutra dhar

My mother never brought me up ‘by hand’. Juggling her work… her office, the regulation home maker’s rhythms, she really had enough time to see me through. Of course, twenty years back, life was still uncluttered. The enlightened kid, the democratic parents and the neo-western education system had not yet been concocted into a heady mess. Life was slow, demands were justifiable and ya… the woman still had the back seat. I do not know if the ‘equal music’ has been scored today but I believe somewhere the dignity is lost both sides.
My maa, with an Economics major from the Calcutta University seemed to have mastered a lot of electives on the way! The most important being… an ever smiling demeanor and a strength that wasn’t exactly word-power!
The morning tea, the religious ritual, the newspaper, my lunch pack for school- everything had a definitive, optimized approach, delivery. She never jarred anything beyond proportion. The lunch menu, the directions to the maid, handling the inefficiencies of each member of the family… she knew the reeds too well. I would watch her get ready for the office and there would be an amazing calm; the restlessness would show sometimes but then the adrenalin never took charge. She selected her saris tastefully- as I would say, she never wore a sari twice! But then she knew how to handle her sweetly assembled collection.
She would walk down the road and disappear round the corner, or later when she would ride pillion with my father on her way to office, I would really be curious to know what played on her mind!
My lunch would be measured out in various bowls and neatly arranged; invariably having something that I would love to eat… something everyday… she never missed that. She would call and enquire if I liked the food.
She encouraged my football, loved my essays (though it was she who made me understand the nuances of words and love the language) and listened to all the plans that I would thread for the futures. She believed in the independence- of thought, in action and for consequences. She never told me stories and had to be forced to sing a Tagore’s but she has a lovely voice!!
Her handwriting seemed to have a geometrical measure and symmetry… just like her. Her small note book of accounts, her office bag with the double tipped blue and red pen… her reading glasses and sun glasses! Everything was/is so neatly arranged, accounted for…
She never pressed the rank buttons on me… never tried to decide my subjects… never put the cart before the horse with her demands… she believed in the abstracts of life. She believed in resilience. For her, a smiling face meant a lot more than victory with a vengeance. I never demanded the moon and the sun… that is how I was brought up but then wishes and desires were safe with her… and still is!

The bar of dairy milk still awaits me when I go home… the letters, ya, snail mail, the inland letters, still talk about the principles of life and her support for my decisions and trust in me, of what I am. It does not talk about her needs, her aspirations for me- it does not carry any laundry list of expectations! It carries a lot more than that… beyond words…
How has my relation changed with my maa…. I don’t know. She was a friend, she still is one and maybe I would never know when she donned the motherly cloak.
She tells me the worldly modalities and the various mantras of social living but again never enforces them… be it the finances, the daily management or the career plans ahead. In time life opens up, new people, new relations germinate, metamorphose… the fast pace of existence leaves behind a lot of names, voices… memories. But with my mother… life will always be a one on one! At times I take liberties of a grown up, against her… she never refutes, never tells me to watch out… she just remains silent. And when I realize the folly, it’s so easy to rectify… so easy to say a sorry and mean it too!
She has sacrificed a lot of accomplishments, a lot in the career front, for the people who matter to her. The family is upheld but the individual takes a back seat- the concepts are changing and the guns of equality are firing today. Its not a question of who’s right…..who’s wrong- it’s a perspective that I have grown up with and have a lot of respect, a lot of regards for. Even now she tells me… that I do not have to think about her and that I don’t have to worry about the finances, her old age and all… huh… I guess that’s her. She means it, you can see it in her eyes- a lot of strength, calm and a lurking happyness that has been all that she has ever looked for… strived for… selfless.

Nothing has changed- the smile, the pitch, the emotions, the look, the unspoken spells… the rituals, the gamut of home and office management…. Nothing! Nothing has changed… and it won’t… I know… cause some people, some relations hold us together, above the self, irrespective of time and distance, their magic, their blessings and support remain.
She still is scared of the escalator… never rides a taxi alone even in Calcutta… and not very sure of the electronics around the house but I guess… these never define life! They never define our success… our strength… contributions. So even now when she sits down at the dinner table after serving even the second helping to everybody… life stares at me with all the possessions I can ask for. Maybe I can’t tell her what she means to me… or might be she already knows but still maa… thanks for everything!!

The Room...

There was dust all around. Spirals of dirt and strands of human hair seemed to spin like a top in the corners of the room. Dying rays from the western horizon added a tinge of red to the dampness around. The books, papers, pens, the red foldable table lamp and Vivekananda-on-a-postcard could be seen arranged around the bed. The bed had a maroon cover, complete with hand woven designs in the color of gold. Powdered with the spoils of time, it seemed holding on to secrets of the bygone. Smells and tastes- spills and splashes of many a moment gone by…
The mirror had lost its reflective shine; in places the mercury had peeled off and the bare glass created unruly patterns around the edges. Its prismatic effect broke down the weak rays of the sun and a careful observation would reveal the vibgyor- the rainbow colors peeping around its perimeters! Ironic- since time seemed to have lost its track within the four walls of this room! Collage and scribbles, now yellowed in time, hung on the walls.
“I am nobody! Who are you? Are you a nobody too? We can be nobodies together!”
“I try a lot, though, to color my joy and pain… but alas! In time only black and white do shades remain…”
Lyrics of western music, hard hitting words… rested on paper- unmindful of the waves of time and purposelessness. The shades of ink- black, red, blue… all seemed to look alike! Don’t we all look the same with age? In time, aren’t the yardsticks and differences nullified? And then the great equalizer of death!
The fan hanging, though brown, had been used to create a trapeze of cob webs. The white fluorescent tube, the electric bulb and the little black switches arranged orderly on the paneled boards seemed to be the only witnesses of the sound-of-silence that had engulfed this space. It takes a careful second glance to notice the pink of the walls- though the dull white ceiling stares back like the face of death. Why do they paint the ceilings white?
The cabinets of hard wood and the single paneled door revolted at the joints. The shrill metallic squeak seemed like a protest of the inanimate- laid to rest in time. The shelves and the drawers all dusty, all empty… all dreary. A slight touch seemed to have a seismic effect as the wooden joints shied away from human contact. In one corner of the cabinet minuscule naphthalene balls were sublimating slowly- leaving behind no trace, save a faint smell of its substance!
Do we leave a trace? Hop-skip and jump- towards the successes of life… towards the fireball of opportunities… towards the unknown geometries of time? The animate-inanimate linkages keep on getting redundant. Dusty. The emotional value also becomes too heavy to subscribe. Like this aged room with the yellows of decay, the past is abandoned.
The birthday cards make me turn the pages to a different era… the tremble of my grandmaa’s hand, as she had blessed her grandson…
The wishes of cousins, love of parents all seem to have been absorbed by the four walls of the room. The air smelt heavy; I tried to open the window but then the stagnating time seemed to have cast an evil spell… or was an effort to shield the evil? The evil of ignorance! The evil of need, greed and business- the evil of the self!
I was selling off this portion of the house. After my parents, there is no one to weave those tales of yester-years with the evening tea, with the setting sun and the noisy crows. There is no one to wipe off the precipitates of time from the objects that had shaped my life- my books, by stationary… by diaries, my letters…
My maa would live her life through these rewinds, returning to the room where her son had grown up. The room where letters germinated into words… sentences and stories. Where impressions of many an emotion would ring in her ears… where there would be an association nurtured… matured… left behind.
I have come back to sell the room. Only a room to me- some unwanted pieces from my past seem to occupy the space I had left behind a long time back. Land of opportunities, green backs and the fames of success! The son who made his parents proud- would say the neighbors!
Would they never smirk too? Would they never see a father and mother carrying the burden of a ‘son’ worthy? Would they never see the room with all its little nothings, like a collage, trying to capture the essence of a son? My room had protected my memories.


They do not seem to like my presence. The layers of dust seem to smear my gabardine. The scribbles on the wall seem to melt in front of my eyes. Strangely familiar covers of books seem to repel my touch. The dry inkpot stares back at me, saying, ‘its over mate’…
My legs give away… nausea suddenly clouds my senses… the dust on my tailored suit matters no more… as I clutch the hand woven bed sheet and the tears trail down. The room I had never looked back to… the people I had left behind… the relations I had forfeited...
As the darkness melts across the skies, I close my eyes… there seems to be a faint aroma of lemon tea- my father used to drink… as I would show him the home work from school after the evening game of football…
I suddenly realize… its going to be a long night, in my return to innocence…