Tuesday, October 10, 2006
break the dam
i'm trying to catch this post before all the words and pictures slip away from my mind. early morning, as i'm getting ready, "chander haanshir baandh bhengechhe" (the dam of the moon's laughter is broken, no i'm not an adequate translator of tagore's beautiful bengali), the first line of the song breaks into my thoughts. i can see tubu mashi singing, a little smile on her lips. she's looking out of the window of our black ambassador at the passing digboi reserve forest in the the dense dark night (was there a moon out). my father is driving. ma and someone else is sitting in the car. they're all off to a late night drive from duliajan to somewhere, the forest with its elephants, tigers, snakes and orchids along the way. the forest, mysterious, magnetic, beckoning, always there. it was late 1960's.
was i in the car? or is this my mother's memory and without my knowing has become mine?
tubu mashi. tiny little tubu mashi. tip tilted pert nose, curly hair, heart shaped face, perfect ready to smile lips, black mole uhhuh beauty spot, brown eyes crinkling with laughter. laughter whose dam is broken.
tubu mashi's shuntki maach, chom chom. tubu mashi's artistically decorated house. tubu mashi's love for her neighbour's little girl (me). tubu mashi's utter loneliness.
till the arrival of tinku, her first and only child, at the age of 40 something.
at a very young age, this lady had given me a sort of love that i think cells and plasma remember. ma says, she would keep me with her when ma and baba were out for dinner or something, and every time i cried, she burst into tears too. the 3-year old in me can never forget that.
i remembered her when i had me first and only child at 41. i used to say, "hum ma ka mafik nahin, hum tubu mashika mafik banega", not like my mother, i'll be like tubu mashi. in one respect, it seems, i was to be like her.
i have met her intermittently since we moved from assam and as all our world's changed.
just before i got married in 1985. her wedding gift was an envelope containing 1000 rupees, to get the cooking gas connection she said. i was amazed: so much, tubu mashi? dhet! had we been in india it would have been one zero less, she'd replied. they had moved to kuwait. the day saddam invaded, i cried and cried worrying what was going to happen to her and the rest of the people from duliajan who were there.
in bombay, 1994. she and her husband and tinku spent a couple of days with us. they'd moved to pune in the meantime and settled down in their new home. she seemed unchanged. still tiny, still with that smile, still cooking unforgettable shuntki maach.
in kolkata, more than 9 years ago. tubumashi paralysed.
tears sting the back of my eyes even as i type this.
she can't move, she can't speak, she can't smile. never asked anyone, but does she cry?
"chander haanshir baandh..." the song sings on. maybe, just maybe, even inside her?
was i in the car? or is this my mother's memory and without my knowing has become mine?
tubu mashi. tiny little tubu mashi. tip tilted pert nose, curly hair, heart shaped face, perfect ready to smile lips, black mole uhhuh beauty spot, brown eyes crinkling with laughter. laughter whose dam is broken.
tubu mashi's shuntki maach, chom chom. tubu mashi's artistically decorated house. tubu mashi's love for her neighbour's little girl (me). tubu mashi's utter loneliness.
till the arrival of tinku, her first and only child, at the age of 40 something.
at a very young age, this lady had given me a sort of love that i think cells and plasma remember. ma says, she would keep me with her when ma and baba were out for dinner or something, and every time i cried, she burst into tears too. the 3-year old in me can never forget that.
i remembered her when i had me first and only child at 41. i used to say, "hum ma ka mafik nahin, hum tubu mashika mafik banega", not like my mother, i'll be like tubu mashi. in one respect, it seems, i was to be like her.
i have met her intermittently since we moved from assam and as all our world's changed.
just before i got married in 1985. her wedding gift was an envelope containing 1000 rupees, to get the cooking gas connection she said. i was amazed: so much, tubu mashi? dhet! had we been in india it would have been one zero less, she'd replied. they had moved to kuwait. the day saddam invaded, i cried and cried worrying what was going to happen to her and the rest of the people from duliajan who were there.
in bombay, 1994. she and her husband and tinku spent a couple of days with us. they'd moved to pune in the meantime and settled down in their new home. she seemed unchanged. still tiny, still with that smile, still cooking unforgettable shuntki maach.
in kolkata, more than 9 years ago. tubumashi paralysed.
tears sting the back of my eyes even as i type this.
she can't move, she can't speak, she can't smile. never asked anyone, but does she cry?
"chander haanshir baandh..." the song sings on. maybe, just maybe, even inside her?
