Potpourri

My attempt to keep the past alive is getting stronger by the day. I hope to one day achieve what I call a fusion of past and present in me; the best of both worlds, old and new. I look up to glance at myself in the mirror as I write, and fail to recognize the real me behind the façade. Who am I? The quest to find myself continues.

A sudden early exit from the office today on the presumption of my failing health (if I may dare to be over-dramatic) had me ending up at a friend’s mom’s place. Things take their toll; demons, sins, life, and the fact that I chose to tear a part of me away for good, a part of me that was beautiful; a part of me leaving which I still fail to understand. A part of me that understood the real me like no one else. Anyhow, I was sick, car-less and stranded. With none of my friends available to give me a ride back home, I thought of Pinky’s mom who loves me enough to come and collect me. I often want to sink deep in the dark abyss of ingratitude. I try, believe me I try. But so many wonderful people around me, so much beauty and goodness, so much compassion in people just wouldn’t let me. I keep coming across people who are so full of love and I keep making new friends. Whoever said you could only make lifelong friends till a certain age and that is quite youngish. I refuse to believe that! Based on my own experience, I keep bumping into people who become very close friends in a very short span of time. The world is full of such wonderful people. I’m amazed to be writing what I’m writing and for believing all that I do, at a time like this. I should be sinking lower and lower in sorrow and grief. I have to admit that it stays, but so does hope.

And my past! My brother once asked in astonishment how I could just block certain things out and not even remember them. I didn’t have a reply to that. I believe that so much of my quiet, lonely yet content childhood had taken over my mind that there was no place left for any tormenting memories. My first most wonderful memories are those of my grandparents and not of my mom or dad. My parents both worked and it was my nana who raised me for the first few years. The first child in the family twenty years after my khala, I was, in their eyes, the most precious, the most adorable creature who was bestowed upon them only to be cherished. Yes, I was a princess in that house and for the longest time I believed that I was, in fact a real princess. The fact that our bloodline connected straight to Raja Rana Sanga further endorsed this belief. Papa always called me a ‘Raj Kumari’ a Rajput princess. I was nana’s Baata, Papa’s Laali, baray mamu’s Bulloo, and everyone else’s Tadoo. None of these nicknames fail to embarrass me, but at the same time they remind me of the immense and unconditional love that these people had for me. Nana is long gone, so is Papa, and unfortunately not many who used to call me Tadoo remain. But baray mamu is around and has a special place in his heart for me even today. Baray mamu, whom I called mama was quite something. Tall and handsome once, he is now just a shadow of what I remember him as. My many 'firsts' were because of him. First time I had an ice lolly, first view master (yes, it was a gadget), first few picnics at the beach, first fresh gigantic cone from Spinzer and many more.

And then there was my khala whom I called Adda, and later, so did everyone else including her siblings. With her ivory skin and ebony curls, she stood out amongst her siblings. She took care of me most of the time. A clean freak, she was the most immaculate person I knew. And she was so simple at heart. I adored her. She was my aunt, my sister, my friend, my confidant. Long gone after succumbing to cancer, she still lives in my memories. When the sabzi wala would come in the gali, she would lower a lovely wicker basket tied with a rope for him to put her desired vegetables in it and would draw it back again. That tradition is nowhere to be seen anymore but how I miss it and how I loved watching her do that.

And the goodies we had to eat. Til ke laddoo, gurya ke baal and batashay! Oh I loved batashay! The flat shell-like sweetness that just melted in my mouth once I was done crunching it. 

I had some strange habits. I liked to sit on the stairs and chat endlessly with choti khala, I would lie on the takhat in the verandah upstairs, my legs flailing, watching the sky through the open space, I hid in corners playing with my imaginary friends who were always over for tea, and I always had a favourite spot to hang out, somewhere in the house. I still do. Today, in my house, I have two reading corners, one where I read early morning, one where I read at night; I have a spot where I like to have an orange or two every single day till the season lasts; I have a favourite corner to sulk and one to sob if need be; and my most favourite spot is right in front of the balcony door where I can see the neem tree across my house and my evergreens right in the centre of the balcony.

I realize my world is very small, very limited, interlaced with old memories and some new ones as they are formed; but I like living in my small, simple world. I know nothing about science and technology, but I know how the civilizations began and what led to their downfall. It may not put me in the league of super smart people like my brother or my boss for instance, but it keeps me content and strong inside. It keeps me going. It keeps me interested in life and all the little things about it. It helps me move on. I want to stay fully connected to my past because all I remember are beautiful things about it. I want to stay within my small world because this is the real me, this is who I am.