Category: General

Cholera found Nityananda at the age of 43 and his dazzling story was forced to come to a premature end in the village of Kelisahar where his family lived.

By modern standards, Kelisahar which is a part of Chittagong district, continues to be a village. It is hemmed in by Agartala and Aizawl in India and Barisal and Chittagong in Bangladesh. Nityananda’s family comprising of his wife Syama Sundari and her sons (I believe she had three, but that fact may not be entirely accurate) were left orphaned by his death. The eldest son, Sarat Chandra a magnificently handsome man, was my great grandfather. Sarat was just 15 years old when his father succumbed to cholera and the mantle of head of the family fell on his young shoulders. However, his mother was a feisty woman and was determined that her children should not be burdened at such a young age. She used her savings and the family property to keep things going and as a result Sarat managed to complete his law education.

Syama Sundari means dusky beauty and by all accounts she was one. My great, great grandmother was known for her sharp tongue and for being totally fearless, qualities that made everyone stop in their tracks, including her husband who was no pushover himself. Syama’s paternal family was originally from Uttar Pradesh who had settled in Kelisahar. Her marriage to Nityananda produced six sons of whom three survived, my great grandfather Sarat Chandra of the magnificent good looks, was the eldest of her sons. He had inherited the dragon slaying spirit of his father and the fearlessness of his mother and not surprisingly, he led the family to new adventures.

Like most people who are aware that they are made for greater glory Sarat Chandra Chakrabarty exhibited certain tell-tale signs. He was restless, had a large appetite for achieving, didn’t believe in giving up easily and took risks …for a Bengali man of reasonable means living in 19^th century Bengal it was seismic.

His name has cropped up regularly during the occasional discussion among family members and distant cousins. A part of  his larger than life achievements even finds representation in the Smithsonian. His picture in a pin-striped suit accessorized with a fob watch used to sternly stare back at me from my grandmother’s dresser. He looked like an English lord and I was certain that he rode a horse as well as he wore his fob watch.

The legend of Sarat Chandra Chakrabarty has permeated the family history indelibly and till date we love to hear of his exploits with slack-jawed wonder.

The colours of joy are many. Just as there as many words to describe the feeling. My friend Dee even has an expression called mellow-joy. And she  uses it from time to time. I suspect it is mainly because people always stop mid-sentence to ask her “Mellow joy? What’s that?” She loves that, because it’s quite apparent from the way she uses it that it never has one singular meaning. Really annoying!

But if you fall off the cliff of happiness into grief then it is always two tones. Gray and bluish gray. Nothing more. And when the haze of grief lifts, the world is bathed in pastels. Bright colours can occasionally be spotted in the distant horizon, but it is too much of an effort to get there. Strangely however, in my dreams grief has an overtone of yellow which makes it bearable. My pop psychologist friend Dee of ‘mellow joy’ fame, thinks that it is my way of dealing with the problem without coming apart at the seams.

I recall something that my mother used to say when I was little, which would help me cope better. She would say that we all have an extra muscle in our hearts which gets stronger and goes dhakaa dhak…dhakaa dhak every time we feel sad or frightened or want to cry. That muscle is what helps a person in times of trouble and if I keep absolutely still and quiet I can hear its occasional flutter.

To this day I find that every time I’m punched in the gut with grief and sorrow I search within me for the beat of the extra muscle and take strength from its rhythmic dhakaa…dhak. Maybe that’s why for me the two-tones have pastels in them as well.

The day she created her first tattoo, Rohini realized that she had magic in her fingers. Literally. Every groove she inked into a person’s skin danced with a life of its own. The design called out to her and she responded to it with abandon. She would look at the person who came to her and in a flash knew what to draw. For instance, Kiri was a dolphin girl. Nothing else would sit on her skin. So Rohini created one and watched it almost weave its way across her rounded shoulders. When Rosto came to her his ebony skin demanded something unique and at once she knew that it had to be the intricately patterned sphinx moth. Under her talented fingers the colourful speckles came to life till Rosto’s back became the nesting spot of this beautiful creature. Rohini’s face broke into a smile. Her fingers were magical, indeed and she had no idea how they got that way.

And then one day, she knew why. That was the day she met Gore. Gore with his lazy eye and a mouth that rarely smiled. There was an air of barely concealed raw power even when he was sitting down. She had no idea what the design was going to be. Almost as if moving with a force of its own her fingers started moving. At first Rohini positioned the needle on his right shoulder.  It seemed like the most likely place, but of its own volition her hand moved to his heart. She resisted. And when she looked at Gore he looked at her as if daring her to ignore what was being asked of her.

She felt a frisson of excitement as she started. The design started forming. She still had the magic in her fingers. And then she began drawing. She saw a face appear and then the lips and a freckled chin formed. They seemed to be familiar. A few loose strands of hair had spilled on to her forehead and she pushed them away in a distracted manner. She continued with the tattoo. Gore barely moved. His muscles under her hand seemed relaxed.

The face she was drawing was almost over. She added the last little touches with a flourish and then stepped back to examine her handiwork. And that was when Rohini realized that it was as if she was looking at a mirror. The strands of hair on the forehead accentuated the features. She almost dropped the tattoo needle in fear. And as her glance fell on Gore’s face she noticed his smile. It seemed to say something.

But all Rohini could register was the fact that she had no idea where she was. As if a part of her was missing.

When I met Jack-a-chack he was in his early sixties with a shiny pate where once a thick mop of hair had flourished for about 35 years, I was told. Nonetheless, he carried his bald pate with a certain ribald dignity and at times often seemed to revel in the fact that it designated him with wisdom which by his own admission, he lacked. I just found it plain endearing, the way he drew attention to it with jokes and one-liners.

If you looked beneath this surface of jauntiness and nonchalance you would find a person who was done with life and living. Someone who had already hung up his hat and jacket, put away his boots and was now ready to die. As far back as I can remember, Jack-a-chack had been waiting to die. To be gone from this world where he had lived and loved, married, procreated and laughed with friends to whom he gave generously of himself. It was to others a strange and rather morbid desire but to him it made perfect sense. He was done with his responsibilities, his health was iffy and he had seen and experienced enough for him to say that he had lived a full life. What then, was the point of continuing?

Every day he chafed and strained at the leash, waiting to be released from his mortal self. Without self-pity or self loathing. With an intensity that burned through every pore of his body. The universe turned a deaf ear. Clearly, it was not done with him. And Jack-a-chack continued to wait his turn. He dreamed of the moment when he would be free as the wind through the trees looking down on this world where he had left some remnants of himself. One day he knew his turn would come and he was ready for it. The bed was made and he was sitting at the edge. That would be a happy day, indeed.

It took K many months to get used to looking at the mirror. Ever since the kidnapping he had become jumpy always expecting to see someone else every time he glanced at the mirror. It was not a bizarre, irrational fear. It did happen. The faint outline of another person hovering around him. It was always there. Like he was being closely watched and not in a reassuring way.

The morning of the kidnapping had not been an ordinary, uneventful day. In fact it had been extraordinarily eventful. His lawyer called to say that the investors were not interested in putting in more money, the doctor had changed his anti-depressant for the n-th time and his son…something about him caused alarm bells to go off. No, you could safely say that the day was full of events. So sitting in the car and finding a strange man at the driving wheel seemed almost normal. K did not even give it another thought till he noticed that they had reached an empty office block instead of his usual address.

He was irritated. And the flutter of confusion deep inside of him reared up and socked him hard. He felt breathless. Thirsty. And mildly nauseous with the smell of garlic as it invaded his senses. What was this place? He must’ve said it aloud because the next thing he knew, the man politely said…. something. K could only see his lips moving. And then the void rushed in and filled everything. Memories floated by, face up. Of the time when the young, attractive lawyer who was looking after his account turned her face away as he offered his hand politely to help her with her bag. Of his wife’s tragic expression every time he told her that he had made a new investment. Of Anna. Her bedraggled innocence which never failed to move him.

When he finally awoke, it was to a reality that was singed forever. Nothing would ever go back to being normal. The way normal used to be. The papers said he was found naked in bed with a woman who had a luscious bedside manner.  K remembered nothing.

What he did remember was the shadow that persistently stayed with him every time he looked into the mirror. It refused to go away. And he never saw it completely either. But it was there. He knew it. Because ever so often he could almost feel its breath on his neck.

Have you ever had the experience of grabbing a stray thought by the neck and wringing it till it turned tail and ran? It’s happened to me a few times. But the problem with that is sometimes it refuses to go away quietly. It plays dead for a while and then when I’m not looking it skulks away and settles down in the corner of my mind. Very annoying because then I get conflicting emotions. On the one hand with the thought out of the way I open the door to other thoughts that have been lurking around and desperately raising their heads to see if I spot them and then without any warning I find that it has squeezed itself back in the corner, spreading itself thin so that I miss its contours.

Sometimes while watching TV I notice, from the corner of my eyes, a grey, formless thing slipping away and I know immediately that it is one of those stray thoughts that has not managed to catch my attention. I let it go. Fade away into nothingness. What does one stray thought matter from an ocean of squirming thoughts that are piled high inside my head.

Over the years I’ve gathered thoughts that refuse to go away easily. They pace around in my head, sometimes silently almost on tiptoe but sometimes I can almost hear the footfalls.

“Don’t you get a migraine with such heavy-footed thoughts?” D asked me the question while sipping an exotic drink, the recipe of which she insisted was created from the lush creativity of her mind. Of course I didn’t believe that for a minute but I did think her migraine question was a good point. I was surprised that other than the occasional escaping thought, I wore this weight lightly. I had not yet gone stark, raving lunatic that was for sure. Or was it? But then again one person’s lunatic is another person’s genius! Oh the joys of living in a topsy-turvy  world where anything goes.

The last time I had felt the weight of a thought was when I was deciding between ice cream for dessert or dark chocolate. Seriously. Don’t remember now which dessert I went with, but I do remember that something escaped that night. I like to think that it was a stray thought but it could be the significant piece of my memory. Because I suddenly seem to have forgotten what I gave the cat next door to eat last summer.

The summer it died under mysterious circumstances.

One of my favourite theories is that we’re all born with the same quantities of fear and courage, the capacity to stay happy, resilience, tensile strength of emotions, love, patience, sanity…among other things. For the purposes of keeping it simple let’s say that it is one gram of each quality. So then, how does one gram of fear contained among all these other emotions become over-poweringly big in some people.

To explain that I have another theory. The minute you allow fear to creep into a corner of your mind, inadvertently, it takes over and very soon it dictates your decisions and the way you deal with life. It’s like a parasite that feeds into every healthy cell and membrane of your brain leaving behind a trail of blackened, charred cells that are impervious to anything bright and happy. It starts out easy, like fear of dark corners, of the neighbour’s dog, the shadow on the wall, the sound of footsteps following you on a lonely stretch of road, circus clowns, speaking up in front of the boss to say that you don’t agree, changing old habits, defying the neighbourhood bully….the list is endless. And before you know it the invasion has begun and you’re paralyzed and terrified. The scientific explanation talks about the amygdala (an almond shaped organ in the centre of the brain) that sends signals to the nervous system, but how does one define the gradual decline of mind and body that happens when fear has completely taken over all the senses?

It has often been said that the older you get the more irrational your fears are and the more they settle into your psyche. To that I say, doesn’t it make more sense for you to be able to recognize what’s happening? You’re older and wiser. Surely the one gram of patience and sanity have outgrown the one gram of fear and yet, clearly not in many cases. Somehow the corrosive nature of fear beats all the positive emotions, hands down.

Someday when I write my book ‘Conversations with Me’ I will begin each chapter with – There’s no place for fear, here. Because, while I’ve worked hard to keep my one gram of fear at one gram the truth is that it has ballooned to about ten times that size. But then something strange happened. It hit a wall, the one that I referred to as the wall of stubbornness and then it couldn’t grow any more. So yes, it’s there but it’s not growing. Instead it is wrinkling a bit and dying, in small pieces. There are times when I still give in to it but then I have a ‘Conversation with Me’ and tell myself that this was something that was meant to be just one gram. Let it stay just one gram. And that immediately increases my one gram of courage!

He was sitting all huddled up in what seemed like an old blanket pretending to be a not-so-old shawl. All I could see was heavy lidded red-rimmed eyes, sallow cheeks and cracked lips peeking from under a robust, hearty mustache. Faint traces of sunlight turned the rocks around into molten gold. This was early morning in Petra and tourists like me were going around staring in slack-jawed wonder at the sheer majesty of it. There was a charcoal stove in his little tea store which first attracted my attention and then I saw that he had an assistant who was brewing mint tea. On that cold morning it was a sight that warmed me to the core. And so I wound up sitting beside him sipping tea and listening to him.

I will never forget that voice. It emerged from somewhere deep within, crusty and grated at the edges with a vibrant resonance at the center. I could have grated cheese with that voice! He barely opened his mouth to speak yet every word was clearly enunciated. We talked about Indian movie stars, life in Petra, tourists, the state of affairs in the world, the merits of taking a donkey ride up to the top to see the famed Monastery, the attractive complexion of Indian women…. I let him do most of the talking while I just listened. His voice seemed to take in some of the smoke from the charcoal fire at times and occasionally it felt like the words would break into brittle little pieces and float away into the mist. Even now, a week later, I can recall the smoky, tangy flavor of his voice with its serrated edges.

Sometimes all it takes is a voice to turn a great vacation into a memorable one.