Outsider

The hills, the greens, the jack fruit tree in front, the mud ridden path to the well in the backyard, bricks strewn along to step in, in the muddy rainy days...I remember my home, my childhood in the state I left for quite some time now. Remembering.. getting nostalgic.. we do it so often though when I left my state nobody forced me to..and many like me, we left willingly in quest of a better career, better life. The state rides over our thoughts in a wave of nostalgia, romance, fond memories hardly of any relevance now.. except may be visit once a year, parents, relatives and the world of childhood changed a long ago.. the city has grown from a fledgling struggling teen to a youth in full bloom.

And then I see my city in headlines.. molesting a teen age girl , seemed a joint venture of so many sick men. But I see my city grabbing attention.. media.. TV channels, newspapers... Barkha Dutt arguing, politicians storming into the scene. Did we not wish Guwahati to be in lime light, to be in the mainstream.. so badly in our school college days.. and did we not vying for attention and ' mainstream' gradually made a beeline for greener pastures.. Yes we complained.. our state , our city not getting enough ' footage' in TV channels, national media, we stay isolated...and years after when I see the ' footage' the reason brings a lump in the throat. This is nothing new.. this had happened before many times many ways.. and it happens again.. among the glare and light of the watchdog media..

My state grabs headlines again, this time for a longer duration, this time when the entire nation felt the pain of the state, the tears of the region. Riots, deaths..hatred like infection caught the entire country, the ' exodus'..and we stand and sigh. I make a silent rewind of the journey of my childhood in my turbulent state..my first school days in Jorhat, three to four years of schooling in Goalpara, then back to Guwahati where I finished college and university. Jorhat I have a very vague recollection guess I was too young, but Goalpara flashes vibrantly in my memory..the Brahmaputra.. closest I have ever been to the river.. hardly five hundred metres.. cross the wide stretch of sand..and.. the river. Foreign influx, immigrants.. I had a vague recollection in Goalpara.. the vegetable vendors, the fish vendors who would come to our house sometimes would  talk of their hardship and from elders I would know they are ' Bangladeshis'. Rest apart the town was a mix  of all kind of population with a language of its own.. Goalparia.. a special genre of music with great Bhatiali notes specially catering to the songs of the river. I learnt my lessons of ' Assamese' there and with age was learning not to speak Bengali in public.. not because anyone told me anything..most of the people understand Bengali there but there is a feeling at work.. same feeling may be makes my 3 year old daughter speak in Hindi in Delhi without anybody asking her to...

I remember happily visiting my father's colleague,s house in Ramzan evenings..the aroma and the variety of food..mind boggling. I remember them coming to our house and putting up for weeks when the town was flood affected...through our relatives raised eyebrows, we cooked in the same oven and ate the same meals.. May be it was the time when the fruit of hatred was not ripe, seed has been sown into history though. As I spent my remaining childhood and teens in Guwahati  knowing it to be my hometown, my motherland..though accepting the fact that Bengali to be spoken in home and with other Bengalis. There was a time like all Bengalis I longed to be in Kolkata, listen to Tagore songs, watch Bengali movies, read a lot more of Bangla and speak openly. But then random visits to Kolkata never made it my own..may be the language and yes the raw accent of our sylheti  Bengali would draw the ridicule and sarcasm of the Kolkata Banglans. Therein surfaced the identity crisis gradually.. we are Bengalis from Sylhet uprooted during partition, settled in North East. I was tired of answering the question ' where are you from' with..' I am Bengali.. settled in Assam.' All drew a blank.. I can,t blame north or south Indians even fellow Assamese when the West Bengalis also remark , ' You mean you are from Kolkata'.. I am not , I never was.

But me and many like me.. rootless.. we began to love the city we were in..city has a common culture. a common lingo..and fell in love with Brahmaputra with Bihu and when a bit older with Bhupen Hazarika..and sometimes with Zubeen Garg and with All India Radio Guwahati.. churning out Assamese , Hindi music. The land became our own, the language our own and my closest friends whom I could tell ' I dont like your bland Assamese food'  and who could tell me ' Oh these Bengalis.. can.t speak a correct Assamese sentence.'

My land is burning today...lots I can relate to..lots I can,t. Lots I feel..of leaving my home, leaving my land..leaving my parents..of not being loyal to the land which knows to give and greet. of not being able to return anything to the land which gave everything to me..feel the pain of my land scarred by the immense strain of all the complexities, of the different population mix.. and the feeling of ' my state'and ' my city' deep inside me, may be an outsider myself in the dark pages of history..

North and further... Journey into life

Somehow in the place we were born and gradually finished school, college and university all of us had this dream to move  'out' though i still don,t understand why this yearning and 'out' in most cases did not mean moving out of the country simply moving to ' Delhi' , Mumbai did not have much attraction and next destinations gradually gaining popularity were Bangalore and Pune.

The brain drain or whatever started i think after high school when one of my close friend moved to Delhi to study in an  average college, and some other friends got though exams for admission into some engineering college. To stay back at Guwahati and pursue mundane graduation in a mundane college seemed a thing of embarrassment and more yearning to move out, go to Delhi to be precise. It held the keys to success, luxury a feeling of real world and what not.

First i moved out of my house for a  short stay in Delhi. Ironically uncle arranged a pg accommodation for me which i shared with girls of LSR college. Salwar Kameex clad, pinned Dupatta me had quite a cultural shock and kept my distance from them cautiously. They were smart and intelligent, at the same time they followed all the ' in' things which my small town upbringing forbade. Na i wasn,t all goodie type simply didn,t fit into the pattern. Actually i run off miles when i am aware of any pattern and me falling into it. Anyway during that short stay i missed Guwahati so much and somehow knew i was not meant for the big city. I did not have any friends nor i wanted to make any..as if i had left my soul at home. I had heaved a sign of relief as i had left that pg and again settled at Guwahati.

My urge to move ' out' much toned, i was happy in Guwahati. But as life would have it I came back to Delhi after a few years but this time with a job and some confidence under the belt and with lots of other small towners who had cleared same competitive exams, small towners who were much more under confident in matters of speaking english. North gave me a cultural shock of a different nature. Being Bengali and hard core non veg, slowly it dawned people do not appreciate gobbling up all the non veg food specially on some particular days meant for rituals and like my husband made non veg food a no no at office. Festivals here are celebrated through fasts for an entire duration of nine days where as in eastern India festivals means more food!!

Once i settled with the food issue , the veils were slowly lifting and i could see behind the veneer of urbanisation the poor and pathetic condition of women. Those who worked with me had no qualms about going and making perfectly round rotis whle their male counterpart watched  tv. Girls invariably were married off at an early age to a boy of the parents chose while in east ,north east India girls married late and lots of inter caste marriages if not inter religion ones. Dowry was another sock which both the parties happily obliged. Some how in that small city of mine in a corner of the country things were much healthy at least for a woman. And i leaned never to regret of having born in north.

We adjusted our lifestyles to survive in this city. Scorched ourselves in the heat of North leaving the sultry days of east. We learned to speak and adapt Hindi to the extent my daughter hardly speaks Bengali with us. One day i found myself babbling in Hindi in my siesta, felt the pangs of grief, is my language leaving me gradually...  We learned to celebrate Holi and Diwali more than the Durga Puja, have Rajma Chawal and Dal Makhni.

Some parts of North east still lives in us as we strive hard to be the hard core Northerners.... People here have welcomed us but only they are alien to the life people lead outside this Northern belt, the food they eat and the language they speak, the boundaries of the state they share. Till then we try to be one of them...

Mr and Mrs Iyer

Just a little bit about my favourite  movie.  Excellently made, crisp direction and superb acting. Well this won,t justify the waves of feelings i go through as i watch this movie.

I will begin with the love story. And the best way to meet the love of her life... in a bus as they travel together to catch train from the same station. The picturesque roads unfurled themselves with every turning of the bus and the beginning of a unique relationship in unique circumstances between two protagonists for whom falling in love was not at all any priority yet the inevitable happens subtly, slowly. The plot and the love story flows seamlessly as the story unfolds... an average Indian audience can easily relate to the young educated married girl struggling with her baby in public transport, the tussle between the baby...his feeds, diaper changes the struggling mom and to the rescue the smart wild life photographer.

The focus of the story shifts from the interesting chemistry between the protagonists to the horrid communal tension and the gruesome killings and in between comes her startling discovery the man who had been holding and feeding her baby is from another religion she has learnt to hate, learned to keep her distance from as touching them would make her lose her own religion as she  stares in awe at the water bottle she had shared with him. Their relation takes a new turn as they move away from the crowd to save themselves from the mob and she discovers a man perhaps she had no idea ever existed.

When the group of young girls from their bus press them hard to share the story how they met imagining hem as a couple with a kid, the story flows like a poetry from his mouth as she listens to the dream she never had, feels the goosebumps she never did. Like so many times in life, one feels stunned of the things one can never reach and yet they can be so close. The riot gives her many a glimpse of the real life, the hatred, the violence and yet draws her to a man from another religion which was alien to her from childhood.

The love story ends as her husband finds her after she gets down from the train... or does it... the  Mr Iyer her soul had discovered through her journey and not the tag her family has stamped her with. No definitely not a love story out of wedlock, even if it is... it,s the beauty of the relation which keeps us spellbound and simply no fault finding with the husband as he is simply out of the entire frame.

I do love all of Aparna Sen,s films... they are smart, crisp and handle relations splendidly... sometimes i feel only the way a woman can.

Life in the Airport... Barapani Diary

There is something good about working in a small, very small  airport..it feels like your own!! All the staff.. all the units..so alien to each other in bigger airports..where we ATCS are totally engrossed in ourselves..here just seem like one big family. One flight is the life of the airport..all the units would be waiting for the arrival of the flight and breathe relief once the flight is gone. There,s a bond binding all of us..make us see where we all exactly stand..whereas in bigger airports somehow its always me and us..my job my task.. not my responsibility...all units are fighting their hearts out in the blame game..anyway that might be essential considering the tough lives we lead...Let me come again to my small airport..this small airport gave me a sense of ' importance' , this is very obvious but then hardly any mere mortals who doesnt get copmlacent with a little bit of recognition , little bit of self importance and if it doesnt get to the head it works on fine.. it gives a 'my' feeling..dont know exactly when the building the passengers the flight the staff became so ' mine'..flight,s safe timely departure arrival became so much my concern not because its my ' duty' to read ' Cleared for take off' and ' Cleared to land'..simply because you become involved , concerned and learn to think of the airport as a life which needs to be watered and nourished so that it can breathe ,survive and beam with life.

Such a lovely building.. all it needs flights passengers taxiwallahs stallwallahs..bursting with activities cutting across the mesmerizing silence of the hills..pouring life into the adjacent villages..dont know which future is better..this calm tranquil building in the middle of nowhere or an aiport ,a full working airport dragging in the villages within its powerful clutches..transforming the area into a fledgling township.. I dont know..and to be on safe side the future does not depend on me! Well that is too safe.. future follows its own course, may be with great foresight and vision from certain stalwarts who are able to give a direction to the future.. for the rest of us .. just wait , watch... may be brood sometimes.. ah the greens and the hills.. all gone..or may be nod pessimistically..no futureof this place ,of this airport..surviving only in bureaucratic papers...I dont know what is better..can just wonder and marvel at the greens and hills, peek into the local life , and feel sorry for my airport...

Knotted...

Family, kids… responsibilities the words played havoc. She dodged them as best as she could. Once you taste your freedom other tastes shun you. The taste of freedom… and she loved hers loved it dearly. From the time she woke up when sun rays rush way past her heavily curtained windows to the time her domestic help gets her coffee and newspaper on bed to the late night movies and parties she attend and trekking tour she takes. Freedom all the way.

Her job was steady, decent, fair enough salary and gave her ample time. Credit to the exam she had cleared once her job did not take the life out of her as she had seen others engaged in more gruesome sectors. There were nagging parents, more inquisitive relatives, dying for men but more than all her group of girl friends, colleagues who crib with husbands, babies and mother in laws. Most likely they were the ones who put her mind totally off any sort of commitment and gradually the resolve tightened.

Men… they have been around and gradually seem more of a nuisance. Sometimes she would reject one her parents chose siting the reason he was not intelligent enough other times he was not earning enough and the remaining time he was not good looking enough. But then sometimes out of turn things happen and that trekking trip brought her close to this man… not his looks which were indeed very good and not his career which she was hardly aware of, it was his charm which blew her off her feet. Though she wanted to badly and was hoping he would ask for her number which she would politely reject…nothing of the sort happened and she continued tasting savoring her own freedom.

The twist when parents got along with the prospective grooms’ family like fire and she came to know the man was the prince charming of her trekking trip her freedom penchant faltered and she was eager to taste the fruit of the forbidden bliss.

A dream wedding, more romantic honeymoon and the beginning of a lovey dovey wedded life all fell into place. She glowed with love and pleasure. And then…mother-in-laws chiding remarks which kept one on toes more than any competitive exam ever could, making secret phone calls to parents and cribbing and the prince charming…. a male chauvinist mamma,s boy who irked her in no time. And before eight in the morning she was ready with tea and after an hour with breakfast before she rushed madly for work.

Knotted for sure…           

Justice

It was a matter of few seconds. As if some scene from a Bollywood Hollywood movie things happened 

fast and few shots were juxtaposed to give the impact.

I shrieked in horror as my friend beneath the steering gasped speechlessly in the middle of the road with the light showing red. The car ahead and we following somehow had jumped the red light without hardly realizing ( I know blame it all on girl drivers) and within moments the light from our left to right went green and very fast there was this huge colliding sound, the car toppling on one side hitting the divider with full force and turn upside down hit another bike in the process .

We paused in horror at the middle of the road as people rushed towards the car. With sense pouring in I nudged my friend ‘Let’s move… light is red’. Amidst all the fiasco we inched ahead slowly as people pushed the car upright. Both of us got the glimpse of a man, belt fastened , head tilted on one side absolute motionless and both of us did not know whether we saw blood trickling from his forehead or it was a figment of our imagination.

Our car started moving in track.

‘Should we stop’ my friend murmured in horror.

‘I think a crowd has gathered, they will help’ the sensible me tried to remain calm.

After a few seconds we were gasping with tears. I guess both of us thought that he was dead. She panicked ‘How do I drive, my limbs are trembling’

Later at the restaurant when we joined our office gang reassured us, ‘With belt people survive’

Burdened with guilt and shock as we were behind him as we crossed the red light, and I could vouch that in all the traffic somehow the light was not visible at all, with no timer and no yellow light there was absolutely no indication it has turned red. The car ahead tried to speed and clear off the red light as we faltered in the middle in confusion and moved slowly while another from the green light side had commenced movement. Was it his fault, did he drive rashly can,t be because we were just behind him and we could be novice drivers but not rash. Was the audi driver who had moved when the light was green was at fault, who was in such a hurry...

We didn’t know.. but could we be the one in Santro, trying to speed away after crossing a red light by mistake and then…  Well he didn’t die!! Didn,t he??  He couldn’t it was a busy road and so many hospitals nearby. I got convinced gradually as I tried to savour the food in the party.

This incident happened in the Mahipalpur Vasant Kunj red light two days back… would the authorities listen…was the light at fault.. can they ensure timers and an yellow light… can justice be done..

Should we have stopped the car and ensure he was taken for treatment, should we write a mail to Delhi Traffic Police…

Is the man alive… would justice find a way…

In to the dark...

Dearest Ninni

Is life really so tough..or it is tough so tough only on me..I think at some point of life we all face ...may be u will come across this question as well.. and the answer is...I dont know..Is life really too ' fair' on others...do we always reap what we sow..No Ninni I am not complaining..I have hardly sulked in life..(well may be some instances i did) in general I have been happy contented with whatever I have..But the last two months fighting with the strange horrible illness..sometimes it just seems..I dont have the tenacity to fight out anymore.. yes that sounds very depressing but this is how it is in life sometimes..I look at all healthy people around me and simply marvel..life is such a boon..even you know I look at the elderly and wonder.. would I live enough long enough to be ' old' when you would become a matured woman.. and even if i do would it be extremely painful..living long is a terror specially when u r attacked with all kinds of illnesses but missing out all the fun.. and waving bye bye to life..I dont know what awaits me and why...

Last one month..and till date what consumes me is my terrifying illness..sometimes I feel it,s killing my thinking power little by little, eroding my senses bit by bit.. No dont feel I have lost hope..I am trying to get better..doctor , medicines..I want to get better..for you, your father..your grandparents all..but somehow a strong force preventing me..consuming me and I can,t get out..

One morning I would wake up and feel may be today is better..it,s going to be better..but then again all the pain and nausea would take over..while at home in Guwahati I would simply think of the old times..the time I was not sick..the time I would lie down in bed with grandma with a book in my hand.. and talk staring at the leaves of the coconut tree outside the window..the times I had walked and walked to save my rickshaw expenses , the times I had roamed in the sun in search of a job..all I did in this city..yet I feel such a stranger now..lost..caught in a maize of several illnesses..a homelessness with a posting in Barapani, husband in Delhi..an apartment in Gurgaon lying unused.., parents in Guwahati in a house where I have not spent my childhood..in- laws in Silchar..funny..so many homes..yet I do not know which is my own and where I belong..You know it gives a sort of rootless feeling and I,m sure if I continue to roam with you like this.. you will all also get this feeling.. Still I had a home to miss.. my old house in the foot of the hills..wonder what I rather we are going to give you... a 12th floor apartment in a building called ' Maple Heights' to dig your roots in..

Some days I just feel I can,t make it anymore..yes I know I am still not diagnosed with any serious illness and can,t die like this..yet you know I feel life slipping out of me..I just think of passing another day.. sleeping another night..and yes I try to imagine the world without me..all would be fine..then you come rushing to me in between breaks of ' Doraemon' babble non stop..climb over me..try all your pranks..life seems too good...And the best part..you do not know to judge yet..calculate.. how much to give how much to take..you know between Doraemon and Chota Bheem you have to squeal ' maaa' and find me in another room...play..babble..and then safely go back to your own world..

This post may be inconsistent hap hazard.. perhaps in keeping with what I,m going through in this phase of life..

Yours

Ma