by Bakul Banerjee
At six: “Live for knowledge; practice generosity”
A clean apartment in Kolkata with four of us, and few possessions remained in my childhood memory.
Many coloured DMC silk floss made in England filled the Delft blue teapot resting on a thick brown leather-bound book full of strange symbols.
Much later, I learned about engineering formulae.
Father came home late from work. My brother and I waited for him to duck his head under our mosquito-net room inside the bedroom. He would nudge our heads with his nose, pretending to be a gentle cow and ruffle our hair. I would try to listen to stories he told mother as he ate in the next room. Once, he told the O’Henry’s story called “The Gift of Magi.” My mother had long black hair, but Father was an orphan never inheriting a watch.
Mother sat in front of him serving freshly made bread, dal and curry, sometimes made with goat meat.
My father’s extended family worked for Indian Railways possessing free passes. Often, they descended on us like cicadas. Father came home very late from work to avoid mother’s silent wrath. My brother and I avoided her too. We all shared rice and watered down dal for days. Mother bid them farewell at the door, putting on the sweetest smile, then rushed back in to count missing things – a pair of father’s new shoes, a coarse cotton sari and another thing or two.
“Don’t be sad Ma, I will buy you many saris when I grow up,” I wanted to say, but kept my mouth shut.
On some Sundays, sweet scent of tuberoses perfumed my dream of the future where I wished to live with my parents forever. I told my parents about my dream, secretly wishing that the endless parade of distant relatives would stop coming through our tiny home.
“And I will buy tuberoses for you on Sundays.” I promised. They gave me enigmatic smiles. I was six.
At fifty six: “Knowledge and generosity = Little riches”
After many moves and cycles of fortunes in health and riches, it was my last visit to the parental home in Kolkata. Though sparse as before, the home was filled with many more books. The Delft teapot held only backup medications. With its nicked spout and missing lid, it sat alone on the top shelf of mother’s wardrobe. As before, the wardrobe had only a few saris. Gone were the luminous silks or fine cotton ones with intricate woven borders that we, the children, bought her over the years.
“Don’t you buy Ma anymore saris,” my brother warned, “some folks are still up to their old tricks – barging in to take away things.”
She smiled – the same old enigmatic smile. I felt the tug of the chariot of Juggernaut[i] tied to my soul. It was time to cut the rope. I never bought her saris again – but told her stories about ideas or ideals.
My father’s stories were only for granddaughters. I was fifty six.
Pic from Wikimedia commons
[i] Juggernaut is the heavy wooden chariot for Lord Vishnu that is used to carry him in an annual procession. In the Indian city of Poori, the god is taken out in the chariot for an annual procession. The chariot is pulled using heavy ropes. Some devout Hindus believe that one can attain salvation if crushed by the chariot.
