Diary of an exasperated mother - Part 2

And so as soon I enter the house, the lady taking car of my little one starts about how the helper in the bus complained about him having hit somebody and how he has instead of saying sorry to the other kid has turned his face around and said "Bolbo na"!!!!!

GOD! How I feel like picking up my laptop bag again and going back to the the stupid office and stay there the night long! I have at least three deliverables tomorrow, and calls till 9 starting in another 20 minutes. Boys have fights all the time, so what????? And to top it all, tomorrow I have to take him to the bus stop and face the kid's obsessed parent who would be out to prove that their child is an angel! So I try to look stern and angry and call for him (who is conveniently hiding in the other room, knowing jolly well what he is to get once I am home) and very reluctantly he comes and stands in front of me, eyes down. And here is the conversation that follows...

"Did you punch Ainesh"?

"Ami toh...ami toh...Ainesh na..."

"Did you hit him or no? Yes or no"

"Yes" (very slowly)

"And why? Didn't I ask you not to hit anybody the last time when they told me you hit a girl?"

"Sorry Ma" 

"What Sorry? And why did you say 'bolbo na' when she asked you to say sorry to him?"

Silence.

"I want to know why you hit him and why you refused to say sorry"

"Sorry Ma. Galti ho gayi. Maafi de de na maiya"...

Not in Bangla, not in broken english, my son throws at me a hindi dialog in perfect grammar, picked right out of Krishna and Kans, his favourite DVD. 

And what do I do to control my anger mixed with the laughter at the way he handles me and my temper? Sit and stare as he comes, gives me a hug, a kiss on both cheeks and says "Kal Sorry bole debo, pakka promise"...

Oleander Girl - A Journey to Remember

I have always been a big fan of Chitra BD's books. I just love her style of writing - subtle yet extremely complex; descriptive, often to the point of being easy to visualize and yet shrouded with the human characteristic elements. When I read about Oleander Girl being on offer, it took less than a moment to decide on buying it. And there it was delivered to me within a day and in perfect shape with all the pages intact, very good condition (it was definitely not a defective copy) and a wonderful cover.

It took me about 4 days to complete the book. And...my respect for Chitra BD increased manifold. True, she has a style, a typical flow, a whole lot of complexities in her style of writing, but isn't all that present in each and every one of us? The dualities, the contradictions, the extreme emotional challenges that she subjects each of the characters to, and of course the very typically "Kolkata" flavour, with a dash of America. The beginning, the description of the house appears similar to her presentation of the Chatterjee Household from Chitra BD's other major book Sister of My Heart. But that is as much similarity as can be drawn between anything written by Chitra BD or by anybody else.

Korobi (A very beautiful and unconventional name to start with) is a child bought up sheltered by her strict grandfather, Bimal Roy, a lawyer by profession and almost by nature. With a knowledge that her father died before child birth and her mother during it, Korobi grows up, to find one fine day that he father was not the man she had known to be and might not be be dead at all. He was probably an American, nestled merrily in America, oblivious to his daughter. Urged by her desperate bid to find the person to whom her dead mother had so lovingly written a half finished letter, Korobi takes a chance of her life and sets out for America to find a man about whom she knows two facts - His name is Rob and he was in Barkeley around the time Anu, her mother, was there.

Her grandmother Sorojini, a stoic lady, who spent all her years in accordance to her husband's wishes, almost believing that he cannot be wrong, ethically at least has sheltered Korobi all her life till Bimal Roy expires suddenly and leaves her with a host of challenges including monetary ones caused by a history of hidden skeletons in the cupboard. It is after Korobi leaves for America that Sorojini is left all alone to face a bundle of troubles left to her including handling Rajat, Korobi's fiance, out of sheer love for the boy and chalking out a probable rescue plan for her husband's ancestral home.

Rajat Bose, a young and dashing almost-lost-and-came-back-on-track man who is fighting against all odds to make himself worthwhile to his family and to the girl he has found to be his good luck charm fights ghosts from the past, his jealousies and insecurities concerning Cara (his own personal name for Korobi), a failing family fortune, and his own self. His parents Jayasree and Shanto Bose are a rich-and-yet-aware-of-their-realities couple who swing through their own crises to support their children and their decisions. Pia, Rajat's little sister is a delight to everyone around, including Sorojini.

Chitra BD maneuvers deftly through the ups and downs in the lives of each of the characters mentioned above and also of side characters like Vic (Assistant and nephew of the American detective employed by Korobi to search for her father), Desai (The American Detective), Asif (The family chauffeur of the Bose's who regards Pia as his younger sister and loves her as much), Shikha (Mrs. Bose's personal secretary - in more ways than official), Sonia (Rajat's ex-girlfriend), Rob Lancey (Korobi's lost and finally found father), Mitra (The man taking care of the Bose's American Art Gallery), Bhattacharya (the shrewd and conniving politician who suddenly has a change of mind thanks to Sorojini and the old and famous Durga Mandir at the Roy Residence) and a host of other small characters. And what has always been appealing in Chitra BD's writing in the typically Bengali and Kolkata flavour that she retains in some way or the other. It never appears forced, nor does it ever appear incongruous. 

Thanks Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni for a wonderful experience.

Diary of an exasperated mother - Part 1

It was a simple task - one hour a day, a simple exercise of revising simple alphabets and numbers. No rocket science and no tests. But my darling boy just cannot remember that a "ghor" is a "House", a "net" is a "net" and not a "bat", a "sankh" is a "snail" and a "chain" is a "zip". And this after repeatedly going on with the corrections every day for at least 10 days 5 times a day. Ok once, twice, thrice...even ten times...but fifty times is a bit too much! And that too the last five times being in the span of the last 20 mins. Ask him what is Red Rangers name and he will tell you in a flash that it is Jayden! Ask him what is the name of the fat sheep in "Shaun the Sheep" and he will tell you without blinking an eyelid. So he isn't short of memory!

And in the other room, his saviours, my mom-in-law and grand mom-in-law sit with baited breath, thanks to the incessant howling of their darling "Sonar Gopal", who makes it a point to shout so loudly, without any provocation, that it reaches their ears. I mean, honestly...you know he is just being stubborn in not saying the things you expect him to say...but how do you control your temper???? You can't hit the child...thank god the Indian Government is still not as touchy! I would really like to wonder how the Norways, USAs, and UKs of the world deal with obstinate and spoilt brats like these!!!! And saviours like the ones they have!!!!

Disclaimer: Whoever is finding this funny right now, please remember...every dog has it's day.

Well, I am writing after ages...not because I don't get to sit in front of my machine (I do that for a living!!!!) but maybe because I did not have anything to write for so long! Or maybe because my thoughts were so scattered that they just wouldn't come and sit together!

I was thinking since the last few days...I wanted to put them all down...the way they came to me...but if I did that, this would probably read rather incoherent! And I wouldn't want anyone to form an opinion about my mental state after reading that! Well, not that I have much sorted out right now but there are more prominent pictures now...of my childhood...people who mattered to me, but are not there anymore to heal my wounds...of places...of smells...of scenes.

A lot of my childhood days were spent in a small hill town...the misty smell of pines...the cloud suddenly passing through you leaving a wetness on your clothes...the steps that we as children used to climb up and down just to play and hide somewhere...the little water spring that had the sweetest water in the world and yet the water was not to be drunk...the small woods around the graveyard at the back of the locality, with a tiny chapel and a few old coffins buried deep within the ground...I can see them all...I can feel them all...but I can never go back to them again! Oh how I wish I could...

I could go on writing about that place...endlessly! And go on wiping the tears that trickle down my eyes right now...I can never ever go back to all that!

I realize that it has been almost a year since I wrote! What the hell is wrong with me? I could write!!!! Oh I still can! "Click Next to Continue" or "By the end of this course, you will be able to"...who the hell cares what you will be able to do when you finish this godforsaken course! Or if you will take it at all...but I will still write what makes no sense...and what does make sense! Well they don't come any more!

Is this what was desired? I wonder!!! Or is it just a dream? A nightmare...I will wake out of it and find that I can write...once again???? But then, write what? I am not a storyteller, neither a poet! I am not JK Rowling or even Chitra Divakaruni for that matter! Neither am I a certain Raj Malhotra that I write down the story of my life and get a whopping amount for that! But then I could still write...scribble for myself, most of all!

And so, now that I have no "Click next"s to write for a couple of weeks, I thought of telling you all a story...

A love story...

There was once a girl...who lived in the dark world deep in the rugged and rough lands of the eastern plains. Her world was dark but she was a dreamer and dreamt of blue skies, green meadows, white ocean surf, yellow sand, pink flowers...all but the sun. She never had seen the sun even in her dreams! She loved light and yet her world was dark. She grew up amidst all the hard rocks and never touched one of them! She hated them because they were dark and lifeless. And as she grew she realized that her dreams would never come true. The more she thought about them, they more sad she would become. So she carefully put them to sleep and started to live without them. Live...perhaps not...but she still tried to and no one knew how hard she tried!

She did what all she was expected to do and never complain. And yet at night she would lay staring at the dark and see her precious dream...lie deadly asleep. She had mourned for them for long but then gradually and with time she learnt to believe that they might never wake up again.

And then one night when she was sleeping she had a night mare and woke up with a start. She was scared and started running blindly and in the diluting darkness she stumbled and fell upon a particularly large piece of rock that she had never liked. It was so dead and black! The moment she touched the rock, it turned into a shining mass of molten gold. It was brilliant! She smiled and the mass of gold rose above all, to the sky and became the sun. The light had been a prelude to the sun.

And as she smiled up at the sun, the world around her lit up...there were blue skies, green meadows, white ocean surf, yellow sand, pink flowers. It was her world of dreams. And the sun promised her that the light will never cease to exist in her life and the sun himself will never cease to exist. He would never let her world go dark again...

And they lived happily ever after...

As they merge…

When the world takes a twist on the roller coaster called life
Move along…
And there you go!
A new view, new colours –
Dampening the vibrance of the known…and yet…
Another twist…and when the view changes this time –
The deserted, left behind calls again.

And then;
The old and the new merge
On the same palette offering a myriad of colours!
And then as the new starts getting older,
It mixes with the older and the oldest…
And they all emerge as ONE and the same…

The cold is biting...it has been this cold for quite some time now! Was wondering what to do on a particularly light working morning, when I thought of listening to some nice music and working. And so it was an array of songs one after the other...and then suddenly Moushumi Bhowmick was singing this song called Jessore Road...not quite sure about how many of you have heard it!

I cried as I listened to the song, thanks to the rendition by Moushumi Bhowmick, but I cried when I read the poem too! I wonder what could have led Allen Ginsberg to write a poem like this!...and now I feel as cold as death!!!!!

It is not the song I want to share, but the poem...September on Jessore Road, written by a stranger to the land! Jessore Road, the road which literally connects and divided the two Bengals still sits broad and strong...

Millions of babies watching the skies
Bellies swollen, with big round eyes
On Jessore Road--long bamboo huts
Noplace to shit but sand channel ruts

Millions of fathers in rain
Millions of mothers in pain
Millions of brothers in woe
Millions of sisters nowhere to go

One Million aunts are dying for bread
One Million uncles lamenting the dead
Grandfather millions homeless and sad
Grandmother millions silently mad

Millions of daughters walk in the mud
Millions of children wash in the flood
A Million girls vomit & groan
Millions of families hopeless alone

Millions of souls nineteenseventyone
homeless on Jessore road under grey sun
A million are dead, the million who can
Walk toward Calcutta from East Pakistan

Taxi September along Jessore Road
Oxcart skeletons drag charcoal load
past watery fields thru rain flood ruts
Dung cakes on treetrunks, plastic-roof huts

Wet processions Families walk
Stunted boys big heads don't talk
Look bony skulls & silent round eyes
Starving black angels in human disguise

Mother squats weeping & points to her sons
Standing thin legged like elderly nuns
small bodied hands to their mouths in prayer
Five months small food since they settled there

On one floor mat with small empty pot
Father lifts up his hands at their lot
Tears come to their mother's eye
Pain makes mother Maya cry

Two children together in palmroof shade
Stare at me no word is said
Rice ration, lentils one time a week
Milk powder for warweary infants meek

No vegetable money or work for the man
Rice lasts four days eat while they can
Then children starve three days in a row
and vomit their next food unless they eat slow.

On Jessore road Mother wept at my knees
Bengali tongue cried mister Please
Identity card torn up on the floor
Husband still waits at the camp office door

Baby at play I was washing the flood
Now they won't give us any more food
The pieces are here in my celluloid purse
Innocent baby play our death curse

Two policemen surrounded by thousands of boys
Crowded waiting their daily bread joys
Carry big whistles & long bamboo sticks
to whack them in line They play hungry tricks

Breaking the line and jumping in front
Into the circle sneaks one skinny runt
Two brothers dance forward on the mud stage
Teh gaurds blow their whistles & chase them in rage

Why are these infants massed in this place
Laughing in play & pushing for space
Why do they wait here so cheerful & dread
Why this is the House where they give children bread

The man in the bread door Cries & comes out
Thousands of boys and girls Take up his shout
Is it joy? is it prayer? "No more bread today"
Thousands of Children at once scream "Hooray!"

Run home to tents where elders await
Messenger children with bread from the state
No bread more today! & and no place to squat
Painful baby, sick shit he has got.

Malnutrition skulls thousands for months
Dysentery drains bowels all at once
Nurse shows disease card Enterostrep
Suspension is wanting or else chlorostrep

Refugee camps in hospital shacks
Newborn lay naked on mother's thin laps
Monkeysized week old Rheumatic babe eye
Gastoenteritis Blood Poison thousands must die

September Jessore Road rickshaw
50,000 souls in one camp I saw
Rows of bamboo huts in the flood
Open drains, & wet families waiting for food

Border trucks flooded, food cant get past,
American Angel machine please come fast!
Where is Ambassador Bunker today?
Are his Helios machinegunning children at play?

Where are the helicopters of U.S. AID?
Smuggling dope in Bangkok's green shade.
Where is America's Air Force of Light?
Bombing North Laos all day and all night?

Where are the President's Armies of Gold?
Billionaire Navies merciful Bold?
Bringing us medicine food and relief?
Napalming North Viet Nam and causing more grief?

Where are our tears? Who weeps for the pain?
Where can these families go in the rain?
Jessore Road's children close their big eyes
Where will we sleep when Our Father dies?

Whom shall we pray to for rice and for care?
Who can bring bread to this shit flood foul'd lair?
Millions of children alone in the rain!
Millions of children weeping in pain!

Ring O ye tongues of the world for their woe
Ring out ye voices for Love we don't know
Ring out ye bells of electrical pain
Ring in the conscious of America brain

How many children are we who are lost
Whose are these daughters we see turn to ghost?
What are our souls that we have lost care?
Ring out ye musics and weep if you dare--

Cries in the mud by the thatch'd house sand drain
Sleeps in huge pipes in the wet shit-field rain
waits by the pump well, Woe to the world!
whose children still starve in their mother's arms

curled.

Is this what I did to myself in the past?
What shall I do Sunil Poet I asked?
Move on and leave them without any coins?
What should I care for the love of my loins?

What should we care for our cities and cars?
What shall we buy with our Food Stamps on Mars?
How many millions sit down in New York
& sup this night's table on bone & roast pork?

How many millions of beer cans are tossed
in Oceans of Mother? How much does She cost?
Cigar gasolines and asphalt car dreams
Stinking the world and dimming star beams --

Finish the war in your breast with a sigh
Come tast the tears in your own Human eye
Pity us millions of phantoms you see
Starved in Samsara on planet TV

How many millions of children die more
before our Good Mothers perceive the Great Lord?
How many good fathers pay tax to rebuild
Armed forces that boast the children they've killed?

How many souls walk through Maya in pain
How many babes in illusory pain?
How many families hollow eyed lost?
How many grandmothers turning to ghost?

How many loves who never get bread?
How many Aunts with holes in their head?
How many sisters skulls on the ground?
How many grandfathers make no more sound?

How many fathers in woe
How many sons nowhere to go?
How many daughters nothing to eat?
How many uncles with swollen sick feet?

Millions of babies in pain
Millions of mothers in rain
Millions of brothers in woe
Millions of children nowhere to go

(An activist, champion of human and civil rights, Allen Ginsberg visited India during the fag end of the liberation war of Bangladesh in 1971. He visited a number of refugee camps in and around West Bengal. In the course of his visit he travelled up to the border with Jessore and to a few other places and observed the horrible conditions of the millions of refugees from the then East Pakistan (Bangladesh). He could have just been there and gone, but what he felt and penned is perhaps one of the most empathetic picture of the harsh reality which split the land...)