Blossoms From My Childhood Garden

I cannot connect to them on Facebook. I do not shed tears for them every day. Slient was their arrival. Silent was their departure. Equally slient is their existence in my memory. Here is an ode to the people/events that have left behind their footprints in my life.

Faguwari Baba, although I was hardly 3-4 years old, I vividly remember your saffron attire and your long white beard. You always wore a smile on your face. You would visit our homes every year before Holi, asking us for alms. You would sing some melodious tune I couldn’t decipher. You always patted me on the head as I would catch a glimpse of you from behind Ma. I always wanted to go to your lap, to touch your beard. But I was forbidden to do so. That instrument you played, I found it very fascinating. One fine day, you stopped coming. I have never seen you since. Where are you?

Didong, you could hardly read English. But you had preserved all the letters I wrote to you. My New Year would never be complete without making a card for you. I remember the way you had coaxed and cajoled me into piercing my ears. You would smell of sweet lime. Your wrinkled skin always fascinated me. I was not there with you the day you passed away. But with you, I lost something of myself. Things have never been the same. Nobody will ever take me to Thakurbari for that delicious charanamrit.

Murthy Miss, you are my first teacher. You would lovingly call me granny. I still wish to solve the mental sums you gave us. You had punished me for wasting food. I had eaten only the white portions of my bread and left aside the edges. I still follow your principles, Miss. I do not waste food on my plate. They said you have retired and gone back to your native place.

Monalisa, the first friend I had. We would NOT share our lunch when one of us brought something good. I would bully you all the time. We would fight tooth and nails over simple issues. But then, we would cry every time the other was absent. We have never shared the same section or the same bus. But you’re still my best friend. We wrote to each other in College. But then, after that last meeting in Bangalore, you vanished. I always remember your birthday. But I have no telephone number to call you up. You are not on FB. Please come back.

 Gadardihi, that sleepy little hamlet in Bankura. My ‘mamabari’. The day before the visits, Ma would be so cheerful. Packing our huge suitcase with loads of clothes. As a toddler, seeing Ma happy made me happy. As I grew up, I got attached to the place. Those dirt track roads. And the small shop in the vicinity which would sell everything from colorful candies to rice flakes. Best of all, my Uncle’s huge library. I could not reach up to the highest shelves. But then, the very “aroma” of the books, if I may use the wordJ, made me await my trips so eagerly. And then, during my teenage, we suddenly stopped going. Well, I do not understand the nuances of adult relationships and when they turn sour, but I miss my mamabari. All my uncles & aunts. And, Ma Dugga!!

Our ‘Goswami Barir Durga Pujo’. All of us, even distant relatives, relatives of relatives, would come together for those 4 days. Those 4 days Ma would not scold me. I could do everything that was forbidden! No one to chaperon me around!! Aah!! All of us would eat together, in batches. We kids would fight over the ‘banana leaves’ on which we ate. Everybody wanted the greenest one for himself! J And then, the fish! We all wanted the piece with the ‘hole’! J Most of us were growing up in nuclear families. With so many cousins and such a big house to play around, we had the best days of our lives. How I wish I could go there again.

When I see my little one struggling hard to rap her knuckles on my laptop, I wonder whether her childhood will really be as innocent. Changing times, nuclear families..Generations gaping far & wide..Mamas, mashis, buas, cha-chas will all a part of the fairytale world..I would not be surprised if one fine day my daughter asks me, “Mommy, you had them all???? Strange!!” JJ