Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Thursday, January 12, 2012
"Some Regrets and Some Mistakes: Death
I was 15 when my grandmother – my mother’s mother – passed away.
15 - A queer age that is sandwiched somewhat uncomfortably between matured sensitivity and naïve rashness. Bultama, as I called her, was the first woman I remember having set eyes on, and learnt therefore to regard as my own mother; not entirely an odd scenario, considering the fact that it was she who literally brought me up, with neither of my parents even inhabiting the same physical space for the first four years of my growing up!
Naturally therefore, I was attached to this woman like I was never again to be attached to any man or woman. It was a blissfully wonderful sort of attachment, for even though a mother-figure, she was, at the end of the day, not my mother, but grand-mother: And grandmothers are supposed to spoil you. And spoil me she did! AND how!!! I’d like to believe now, with all due modesty, that I stopped just short of becoming rotten, even though I’ve been seriously disputed later!
Bultama was not just the first person to nurture my world of fantasy with fairy-tales sourced from across the world (which I guess is wont to all grandmothers), but she was the first (and only one) who led me to believe – actually believe – in my world of make-believe. She indulged me into being thoroughly convinced that they were all in fact my stories where I could be anyone I chose to be; and my range being marvellously broad, I hopped-skipped-and jumped from pansy damsel-in-distress to daredevil shikaari who could hunt tigers, bring them home and tame them down to Tracey, Bultama’s Lhasa apso! You see, therefore, it was not any world of fancy, but one that had to be realistically tempered with very persuasive, and tangible evidence, even if logically questionable!
As compulsions such as schooling, education etc neared, I needed to be moved out of that world and be with my parents, who I came to regard as unfriendly strangers; who, with their best efforts, could do nothing to make me happy the way Bultama could. But naturally! This was the time when I began to realize what heartache would feel like - for there was nothing that would leave a desolate hollowness in my heart than the moment I would have to part with her. I began to dread all such inevitable moments that would necessitate either her returning home from our place, or us having to leave her behind.
As I grew even older and was informed about such things as death (sans any sugar-coating, thankfully), my feeling of despondence began sinking in deeper. Even the suggestion of an imminent separation would make me cry; would want me to hold on to the moment and freeze it if I could, if only to let Bultama be with me forever. The more I realised it was not to be, the more I held on to her mortal self for as long as I thought I could – hovering around her from kitchen to bedroom, from banks to saree-shops, from homes of old relatives to the local markets, I wished to be around her constantly so as to soak in and store, if possible, the warmth and smell of her soft milky white skin. Unnatural perhaps, but I would spend hours sometimes thinking of a world without her and pray with the most fervent sincerity to the greatest powers that be, to never let that hour arrive. Death, for the first time, began to scare me – if only for the fear of Bultama going away from me never to come back. The constant refrain in all my prayers would therefore be the most earnest promise to do all that was in my power to avert the moment, when it came.
Luckily or unluckily, I was around her in her last days. She was severely ill, with multiple-organ failure and on dialysis. Her body had shrunk to the size of a child and her long beautiful tresses chopped off like a schoolboy’s. Gradually but surely, the charm she held for me, began to wane somewhat, even as I consciously tried to reproach myself for it. In the very last week, she had become unusually restless; and wouldn’t/ couldn’t sleep at all. And while awake, she wouldn’t let others around her sleep either: Others that included a little girl who was hired as attendant, and me. We would be woken up at all odd hours when we had just about dozed off after an entire day’s work. While I would do my best (which at that point, I thought to be my extent possible) to somehow lull her back to sleep, she would be up the next minute and want me to keep talking to her. Irritated at one point, I remember leaving the room to go and sleep beside my father in the selfish belief that here at last I would be at peace. Poor soul, she came looking for me hobbling across the dark hall and called out for me feebly, even as I kept my eyes firmly shut and refused to answer. She walked back the way she had come. Alone, lonely and scared of death. Scared of her imminent separation with me.
Me: who had promised with all sincerity to do whatever she could to ‘protect’ the soul dearest to her. Me: who couldn’t avert the temptation of sleep for two earthly hours.
Bultama passed away without me around her two days later. She was cremated before I could reach. The last I had seen of her was the shadow of her bent body as she walked away with no answer from me.
I lost two souls dearest to me in the span of a month recently: my two dogs who saw me through laughter and tears for sixteen long years. Nothing I say about them will be enough to describe what they meant – mean – to me.
Piku, the elder one, was the gentlest soul I’ve ever known. Truth to tell, she was an embarrassment to the canine species, knowing neither how to intimidate strangers with a snarl or at least a dignified distance; nor how to bite, even if necessary! Not just a dog I affectionately regarded as my sister, she was, for all practical purposes, the first child I had. I watched her take her first tottering steps, crawling beside her on all fours to ensure she wouldn’t fall. I watched in amazement when she lost her first tooth, and was equally surprised to find a new one growing back! I waited with bated anticipation before she finally let out her first yelp at eight months, hugely relieved to know she could ‘talk’! I took her for her vaccinations and held her scared shivering self snugly every time Dipankar da, her ‘groomer’ would arrive to clip her nails! Piku, on her part, was nothing short of a Godsend. Staying with me through every hour of sickness, licking away the silent tears I cried in dark lonely rooms, sharing my ice-cream, tearing my school Report card because she thought it was funny (!!!), gleefully flaunting the tiny sweaters that I bought for her every winter, kissing me every time I returned home (even if from downstairs), she was everything and much more that made a life out of my mere existence.
Jhoru, the younger one was brought home three years later, when he was barely two weeks old. A brat right from the word go, he was the quintessential mischievous antidote to his tormented shy elder sister, Piku! Keeping with the P’s in the family and my own addiction to the product, even though he was initially christened Pepsi, he’d decided to respond only when addressed by the more rustic Jhoru, that somehow fit in more aptly with His Wildness! Let’s just say, Jhoru was a darling! He wasn’t as welcoming as Piku, but that’s because he guarded his space only too zealously. You had to let him be. Neither would he bother you with overt affection, nor would he expect you to mollycoddle him beyond a point! He had his won ways of showing his love for people he loved, and there were only a handful that he truly warmed up to; strangely enough they were mostly men! He was distinctly dismissive of my girl friends and made it a point to plonk himself right in the middle of an adda that took place over alcohol maybe, the prime participants being my male friends and cousins! Guess it’s a guy thing!
Despite all his starry airs however, I know he loved it when I would hug him tight and kiss him endlessly asking him if he was keeping count, in spite of the ‘I’m-very-irritated’ noises he would make! He was never irritated; it was all just a show!!!
Even as I write this at this ungodly hour, I still can’t believe they are not here somewhere, keeping a watch over me as I study, or snoring away to dreamy glory. But while they were here, I knew I wouldn’t let them slip away from me the way I had let Bultama go. Although it will be a regret that will gnaw me for as long as I live, it taught me to regard a cliche with precious seriousness - not ever to take anything for granted. Life, most of all. I spent sleepless nights for both Piku and Jhoru in their last days – as they went through the same cycle of restlessness that Bultama did, only worse, because they couldn’t speak. No, I hadn’t learnt to master sleep, I hadn’t grown a halo overnight, and I was very cranky when I went to work, as my boyfriend very patiently bore the brunt of it: But, yes, I had learnt to realise the value of ‘now’. Agreed it isn't a realisation that requires you to be rocket-scientist material, nor perhaps one that merits unnecessary brouhaha. But yes, it was a lesson I learnt for a very heavy price. Cathartic? Some of the people closest to me, who I know have had similar experiences should know...
15 - A queer age that is sandwiched somewhat uncomfortably between matured sensitivity and naïve rashness. Bultama, as I called her, was the first woman I remember having set eyes on, and learnt therefore to regard as my own mother; not entirely an odd scenario, considering the fact that it was she who literally brought me up, with neither of my parents even inhabiting the same physical space for the first four years of my growing up!
Naturally therefore, I was attached to this woman like I was never again to be attached to any man or woman. It was a blissfully wonderful sort of attachment, for even though a mother-figure, she was, at the end of the day, not my mother, but grand-mother: And grandmothers are supposed to spoil you. And spoil me she did! AND how!!! I’d like to believe now, with all due modesty, that I stopped just short of becoming rotten, even though I’ve been seriously disputed later!
Bultama was not just the first person to nurture my world of fantasy with fairy-tales sourced from across the world (which I guess is wont to all grandmothers), but she was the first (and only one) who led me to believe – actually believe – in my world of make-believe. She indulged me into being thoroughly convinced that they were all in fact my stories where I could be anyone I chose to be; and my range being marvellously broad, I hopped-skipped-and jumped from pansy damsel-in-distress to daredevil shikaari who could hunt tigers, bring them home and tame them down to Tracey, Bultama’s Lhasa apso! You see, therefore, it was not any world of fancy, but one that had to be realistically tempered with very persuasive, and tangible evidence, even if logically questionable!
As compulsions such as schooling, education etc neared, I needed to be moved out of that world and be with my parents, who I came to regard as unfriendly strangers; who, with their best efforts, could do nothing to make me happy the way Bultama could. But naturally! This was the time when I began to realize what heartache would feel like - for there was nothing that would leave a desolate hollowness in my heart than the moment I would have to part with her. I began to dread all such inevitable moments that would necessitate either her returning home from our place, or us having to leave her behind.
As I grew even older and was informed about such things as death (sans any sugar-coating, thankfully), my feeling of despondence began sinking in deeper. Even the suggestion of an imminent separation would make me cry; would want me to hold on to the moment and freeze it if I could, if only to let Bultama be with me forever. The more I realised it was not to be, the more I held on to her mortal self for as long as I thought I could – hovering around her from kitchen to bedroom, from banks to saree-shops, from homes of old relatives to the local markets, I wished to be around her constantly so as to soak in and store, if possible, the warmth and smell of her soft milky white skin. Unnatural perhaps, but I would spend hours sometimes thinking of a world without her and pray with the most fervent sincerity to the greatest powers that be, to never let that hour arrive. Death, for the first time, began to scare me – if only for the fear of Bultama going away from me never to come back. The constant refrain in all my prayers would therefore be the most earnest promise to do all that was in my power to avert the moment, when it came.
Luckily or unluckily, I was around her in her last days. She was severely ill, with multiple-organ failure and on dialysis. Her body had shrunk to the size of a child and her long beautiful tresses chopped off like a schoolboy’s. Gradually but surely, the charm she held for me, began to wane somewhat, even as I consciously tried to reproach myself for it. In the very last week, she had become unusually restless; and wouldn’t/ couldn’t sleep at all. And while awake, she wouldn’t let others around her sleep either: Others that included a little girl who was hired as attendant, and me. We would be woken up at all odd hours when we had just about dozed off after an entire day’s work. While I would do my best (which at that point, I thought to be my extent possible) to somehow lull her back to sleep, she would be up the next minute and want me to keep talking to her. Irritated at one point, I remember leaving the room to go and sleep beside my father in the selfish belief that here at last I would be at peace. Poor soul, she came looking for me hobbling across the dark hall and called out for me feebly, even as I kept my eyes firmly shut and refused to answer. She walked back the way she had come. Alone, lonely and scared of death. Scared of her imminent separation with me.
Me: who had promised with all sincerity to do whatever she could to ‘protect’ the soul dearest to her. Me: who couldn’t avert the temptation of sleep for two earthly hours.
Bultama passed away without me around her two days later. She was cremated before I could reach. The last I had seen of her was the shadow of her bent body as she walked away with no answer from me.
I lost two souls dearest to me in the span of a month recently: my two dogs who saw me through laughter and tears for sixteen long years. Nothing I say about them will be enough to describe what they meant – mean – to me.
Piku, the elder one, was the gentlest soul I’ve ever known. Truth to tell, she was an embarrassment to the canine species, knowing neither how to intimidate strangers with a snarl or at least a dignified distance; nor how to bite, even if necessary! Not just a dog I affectionately regarded as my sister, she was, for all practical purposes, the first child I had. I watched her take her first tottering steps, crawling beside her on all fours to ensure she wouldn’t fall. I watched in amazement when she lost her first tooth, and was equally surprised to find a new one growing back! I waited with bated anticipation before she finally let out her first yelp at eight months, hugely relieved to know she could ‘talk’! I took her for her vaccinations and held her scared shivering self snugly every time Dipankar da, her ‘groomer’ would arrive to clip her nails! Piku, on her part, was nothing short of a Godsend. Staying with me through every hour of sickness, licking away the silent tears I cried in dark lonely rooms, sharing my ice-cream, tearing my school Report card because she thought it was funny (!!!), gleefully flaunting the tiny sweaters that I bought for her every winter, kissing me every time I returned home (even if from downstairs), she was everything and much more that made a life out of my mere existence.
Jhoru, the younger one was brought home three years later, when he was barely two weeks old. A brat right from the word go, he was the quintessential mischievous antidote to his tormented shy elder sister, Piku! Keeping with the P’s in the family and my own addiction to the product, even though he was initially christened Pepsi, he’d decided to respond only when addressed by the more rustic Jhoru, that somehow fit in more aptly with His Wildness! Let’s just say, Jhoru was a darling! He wasn’t as welcoming as Piku, but that’s because he guarded his space only too zealously. You had to let him be. Neither would he bother you with overt affection, nor would he expect you to mollycoddle him beyond a point! He had his won ways of showing his love for people he loved, and there were only a handful that he truly warmed up to; strangely enough they were mostly men! He was distinctly dismissive of my girl friends and made it a point to plonk himself right in the middle of an adda that took place over alcohol maybe, the prime participants being my male friends and cousins! Guess it’s a guy thing!
Despite all his starry airs however, I know he loved it when I would hug him tight and kiss him endlessly asking him if he was keeping count, in spite of the ‘I’m-very-irritated’ noises he would make! He was never irritated; it was all just a show!!!
Even as I write this at this ungodly hour, I still can’t believe they are not here somewhere, keeping a watch over me as I study, or snoring away to dreamy glory. But while they were here, I knew I wouldn’t let them slip away from me the way I had let Bultama go. Although it will be a regret that will gnaw me for as long as I live, it taught me to regard a cliche with precious seriousness - not ever to take anything for granted. Life, most of all. I spent sleepless nights for both Piku and Jhoru in their last days – as they went through the same cycle of restlessness that Bultama did, only worse, because they couldn’t speak. No, I hadn’t learnt to master sleep, I hadn’t grown a halo overnight, and I was very cranky when I went to work, as my boyfriend very patiently bore the brunt of it: But, yes, I had learnt to realise the value of ‘now’. Agreed it isn't a realisation that requires you to be rocket-scientist material, nor perhaps one that merits unnecessary brouhaha. But yes, it was a lesson I learnt for a very heavy price. Cathartic? Some of the people closest to me, who I know have had similar experiences should know...
Monday, January 9, 2012
Collarbones
I loved his collarbones more than anything else in the world. You could see them peeping through his shirt when the top two buttons, and not a single extra one, was kept open. Not jutting like famine victims', they were however, solidly prominent. They revealed more than what they hid and I could easily picture his incredibly chiselled rib-cage. Reminded me of Jesus Christ, they always did. Not an ounce of extra flesh clothed those exquisite bones that seemed crafted out of rock. Rocks that bore diamonds.
The softness of my femininity yearned to be framed squished and destroyed in the rawness of that hard primal primitive and timeless stolidity.
And when sweat glistened on the surface of that bronzed chest - the chest that hid his pulsating throb - yes, I was crushed. And ruined for life.
His collarbones ruined me.
The softness of my femininity yearned to be framed squished and destroyed in the rawness of that hard primal primitive and timeless stolidity.
And when sweat glistened on the surface of that bronzed chest - the chest that hid his pulsating throb - yes, I was crushed. And ruined for life.
His collarbones ruined me.
Winter of my discontent
It’s difficult not to think of her - especially in winter.
...Her paper-thin hands that crumbled in my grip like dried brown leaves, leaving behind a whiff of moist sweat.
...Her veins that stretched from her breasts to her face like rivers drawn on text-book maps.
...The soft beating of her heart, that I stayed up all night trying to harmonise with mine.
...The pink of her cream that merged with the grey of my cigarette smoke.
...Her freezing cold toes that tingled mine under the blanket, till they had mingled with the all the warmth in my blood
...The transluscence of the skin on her neck that made the act of drinking water seem like the playing of some ancient musical instrument
It’s difficult…
…One of these winter afternoons I would like to look out of my window and have the tree look back at me, defrosted clean of the icicles of memory.
Soon…
...Her paper-thin hands that crumbled in my grip like dried brown leaves, leaving behind a whiff of moist sweat.
...Her veins that stretched from her breasts to her face like rivers drawn on text-book maps.
...The soft beating of her heart, that I stayed up all night trying to harmonise with mine.
...The pink of her cream that merged with the grey of my cigarette smoke.
...Her freezing cold toes that tingled mine under the blanket, till they had mingled with the all the warmth in my blood
...The transluscence of the skin on her neck that made the act of drinking water seem like the playing of some ancient musical instrument
It’s difficult…
…One of these winter afternoons I would like to look out of my window and have the tree look back at me, defrosted clean of the icicles of memory.
Soon…
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