The Box Of Fond Memories

Cleaning up the cluttered book shelf and an old suitcase is messy, but also filled with pleasant surprises. I was looking for a few note books from my school days in an old suitcase and the suitcase soon became a box of memories. 

I came across an old photograph of me and my first ever friend, relaxing in the sun on a winter afternoon. I was hardly 5-6 years old then, and all I was concerned about was the sun setting too early and reducing my play time. That was the biggest worry then, and the biggest responsibility was keeping an eye on my toddler brother and going after the boys who did not give him a chance to be the batsman. The gully cricket was the biggest match ever and cycling around the neighborhood the biggest rebelling act.

Then I came across a few old letters. Yes back then I used to write letters to an old teacher of mine. She used to teach us Bangla and retired and shifted to Calcutta when I was in class eight. She left her address behind and I used to write letters to her. She was kind enough to patiently go through that almost illegible bangla handwriting of mine and reply to me. The smell of those inland letters made me smile and of course the innocence of the words written on them. I wonder if I can still write like that. It is sad how no one writes letters now and the closest alternative now is the email. I have been told a number of times by so many people to write small emails. Alas! I just can't. I am pretty old school here and love writing and reading long emails. Yes now we can chat over the various social networking sites, but then they are not as personal and beautiful and thoughtful as letters and emails.

A little more rummaging through that box of memories and I found an old, pages almost yellow, book by Albert Camus. On the first page of the book was written, "For being an attentive reader, and liking this book so much! --Sir" I remember borrowing that book from Sir and liking it so much and talking about it to him, that he had allowed me to keep that book. It was so precious to the 16 year old me, that I had not displayed it on my bookshelf. 

There were birthday cards and new year cards and gift wrapping papers with small notes from a special someone. An old t-shirt which belonged to the person I first fell in love with. Wrappers of chocolates, movie tickets, and so many other small gifts, and even a glass jar labeled, "a bottle full of sunshine and fresh air from the hills." That was my brother as a seven year old, bringing back fresh air from Darjeeling. I know these things probably mean nothing to so many people, but brought back fond memories to me. 

The final thing I found in that suitcase was a box full of shells. That collection was a recent one. When I was in Chennai, a few friends and I, on a whim went sea digging for shells. Chennai beach has got the most beautiful sea shells ever. We spent almost two hours collecting shells till our fingers were sore with numerous cuts and our back stiff from bending down for so long. But we were happy. We had the best collection of shells ever and we proudly flaunted it around.

These are the little joys of life which makes us happy. Maybe the friend doesn't remember me anymore, or that special someone has drifted away somewhere. The old teacher is no more today. My grown up brother considers it stupid to bring back fresh air in a jar now, and probably Sir doesn't remember giving that book to me. But these things made me smile, and I know what they mean to me. Being responsible and serious is important, I know but then it is the memories of those completely impulsive and careless times which make us smile. Rummaging through this box of memories on a hot summer lazy afternoon really made my day. And may be it is these memories that still help me to be the happy person that I am today.

The First Time I...

...climbed that big mango tree in my grandfather’s DPL quarter. My mother looking for me all over the house but in vain. My cousins and I, sitting huddled up around grandma and listen to ghost stories in those stormy dark nights. Playing with kalu and Bholu(My grandfather's pet roadatians). Force feeding them. Giving them baths. The wait for Poila Baishak. ( Bengali New year). The thrill of getting new clothes. Me and my cousins fighting over which dress which one of us would take.

Fighting battles with daddy. Playing the brave soldier. Travelling on his shoulders and feeling like the princess. Feeling the warmth of his hug. Using a camera for the first time. Making daddy pose like a model. My first Diwali. Lighting a cracker, while daddy holds my hand steady…

Requesting grandpa to get our favourite biscuits. Stealing raw mango pickles on a hot summer afternoon. Going to Durgapur barrage during monsoon and watching the water roar and rage as the gates of the barrage were opened. Shouting in the wind and hearing our voices crack. Getting drenched in the rain and doing that awkward dance with my parents watching. The first taste of the hot tea and feeling all grown up.

Holding my new born brother in my hands. Looking at his extremely tiny fingers and toes and wondering if he is human. Watching him sleep. Feeding him at times. Holding that tiny feeding bottle in my hand as he sucks at it. Looking at him with wonder. Feeling his tiny fingers curling around mine as he falls asleep. Feeling that first tinge of jealousy, on realising that I will have to share my mommy and daddy.

My first day at school. Wearing that white and blue uniform and going to school, holding daddy’s hand. My first class teacher, Ms. Disilva. Her kind eyes. soft hands, patting my cheek. My first friend in school. The first time I share my tiffin with someone.  My first medal in sports. The first time I perform on stage, with make up on.

Romping over MAMC township with my cousin. Learning to swim. Making up stories for each other. Going out for picnics. Cooking our first lunch. Building a tent for ourselves. Learning to ride a cycle. Falling down, scrapping our knees. Consoling each other. Staying awake all night and giggling over silly things. Starting to write our first journals...

My first love. That thrill of going to meet him secretly. My first pillion bike ride. The smell of those letters. My first rose, my first secret trip. The first puff of a cigarette.  Stealing money from daddy’s wallet to buy the love a birthday gift. First heart break. First tears for someone who meant a lot. Realising for the first time that love is a chimera and it passes…

My first trip on a plane. Feeling that first rumble in the stomach as the plane takes off. Looking at the clouds from so close. My first view of the mountains. My first trek up the Khardungla Pass. The first sip of Whisky with daddy on a cold night in Ladakh...

First day in college. Feeling grown up. Staying away from home. Taking up responsibilities, making mistakes. Learning from them. Losing my heart again. Meeting some wonderful teachers. Getting the wonderful opportunity of celebrating my 20^th birthday with a teacher singing to me on a silent night in the hills.  Joining the SFI. Going on marches. Standing for the students’ union elections. Winning it. Becoming the Class representative. Being a senior. Convincing juniors to vote for SFI. Attending meetings. The first puff of Marijuana. Getting drunk getting stoned. Being irresponsible. Learning from the mistakes. Promising never to walk that path again.

My first view of the Chennai sea. Connecting with him. Falling in love with nature. first road trip with my friends. Exploring new places. The first joy of sitting with someone on the rocks by the shore and sipping beer, looking at the moon. First time in Auroville. Experiencing the peace of mind. My first job. That first smell of money earned by myself. Giving someone something with my own money. The first joy of financial independence. Setting up my own flat. First failure. First setback. That sense of losing everything... Facing a blockade... Starting from the start again.

Watching myself growing up. Standing in front of the mirror at the age of 23 and promising to be responsible and serious. Looking back and laughing at my own silly self, smiling at the good old memories and trying to bury the horrid past. After all it is all about letting go and moving on… doing new things and creating fonder memories…

The Old Friend I Miss...

One year in Chennai, and the only friend I miss today is the Sea. When I first met him(Yes the Sea was more than just a natural water body.), he was very apprehensive may be. He made me walk for about 15 minutes before I actually saw his waves glittering in the moonlight. It was a full moon night, and I was in Marina Beach (There are three beaches in Chennai, that I know of: Marina, Eliots and Thiruvanmayur.). That was my first and last visit to Marina Beach. Being the lazy person I am, I was not ready to walk so much on the sand, to get to the Sea.

During my 2^nd semester, I was suddenly over taken by an urge for exercise. I remember someone saying that, cycling on the sand makes you really really fit. I decided to go cycling on the Eliots beach. That was just 15 minutes away from my college campus.

I regularly went there before sunrise, but never cycled on the sand. I sat there on the sand and watched the Sea. That was the beginning of our relationship. I remember walking close to the water, and he, came gently near me and kissed my feet. It was such a pleasant and welcoming gesture that I went closer, and then he threw himself all over me. I was drenched to the bone but I was smiling gladly. That was his acceptance.

I was solely dependent on Him, since then. I would go to Him, when I was sad. I would sit by him and  just talk. Looking him in the eye, I would just talk. Sometime in my mind, sometimes aloud (more often than not I would get stares from annas and Akkas for they probably thought I have lost my mind.).

He was my friend, lover and confidant. I would go visit him everyday, tell him everything that was bothering me. Plunge myself in his arms, and just let go off myself, going up and down with the waves. I would pick up shells, with the kids selling raw mangoes. I would run on the beach, chasing the stray dogs. And on some rather lonely day, I would just sit there looking at the vastness and think nothing.

He had his mood swings too. Some days, the Sea would just retreat. Go far away from me and sulk and frown. I just couldn't connect with him on those days. He just won’t listen to me, and I couldn't talk. He behaved like one of those best friends, who would be annoyed with you, but won’t tell you what you have done to annoy him. He just drove me away from him, on those days.

Then came Neelam (The cyclone that had hit the southern coast of India.). My old friend was at his majestic best that day. I had sneaked out of the college, bribing the security anna, with a packet of smoke. As I stood on the road, I saw a different avatar of the Sea. I have never seen anything more beautiful and scary than that. The waves rose almost 6 ft. high and crashed down with graceful anger. The sky was black and the wind blew all the sand up in the air. My friend was in a fury. One of those anger fits when you feel like destroying everything that comes in your way and just establishing your power. Such was the anger of the Sea. That day, I knew, I have seen my friend in all his forms. Calm, annoyed, upset and finally angry.

The Sea was a great teacher to me as well. He taught me first to accept. To accept people in your circle the way they are. Without judging them. He taught me to listen. Patiently. Without interrupting the thoughts of another person. He taught me to take in every word because it was important to listen. He taught me to love selflessly, without expecting anything in return. Loving by just being there.

He taught me to give till it hurts. He gives so much to so many people. He is a means of livelihood for some. Means of entertainment for many, and for the likes of me, a friend, a shoulder to cry on. He just gives, endlessly. He taught me to take a stand. To make myself heard, and to bow down and accept my fault when I am wrong.

When I was leaving Chennai, I knew that If I would miss anyone, it would be the Sea. After one year of leaving Chennai, I still miss my old friend when I am sad, or happy or just need someone to talk to.

The first time I met him on a moonlit night. (Marina Beach)

Before leaving Chennai. (Eliots beach)

The Neglected Blog and two Old Blog Posts.

‘People laugh at me’ this is one of the major problems of us, the teenagers. We seem to worry a lot about what people will say. How our peers will react if we did this. Won’t this seem to be funny? How can I wear this dress? How can I protest against the usage of ‘cool’ slang? Above all if someone laughs at us, the first thing we feel is embarrassment. We become depressed, stop speaking and contract ourselves in the shell. Being a teenager, even I used to think like this. I was not an exception to this rule.

But recently I realized that I am living in such a world were people only care about themselves. They come here to take things and not to give. They are selfish. If we think a bit we will see that we have contributed almost nothing to this beautiful planet. What use are we to this earth if we can’t give anything in exchange for what it is giving us? It was then that I realized that if people want to laugh at me what is wrong in that? I should be proud of myself that at least I am contributing something to the inhabitants of this earth. May be to a minority but still to some people I am giving something. If people can laugh only for sometimes forgetting all their worries and if I am the reason behind it… what’s wrong in that? I stopped caring about it. I laughed with them and surprisingly two things happened.

First my peers understood that there was no use laughing at me because they were not getting the fun as they could not anger me. And second, I became more confident, I knew what to do. I followed my conscience. I did what I thought was right and this rose my self-esteem to a very high level.

So my dear blog readers, if from now onwards, you see people laughing at you, don’t be sad, feel proud that you have contributed something to the world. Perhaps the most precious thing­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­… A beautiful smile on someone’s lips.

Post script: I would like to tell you that I would not have realized this without the help of my respected teacher Suvro sir.(Mr. Suvro Chatterjee.) Thank you sir. I would be always grateful to you.

2. what A society We Live in (March 1st, 2008)

Today morning I got a phone call from a distant cousin of mine. After the general formalities of how do you do and the rest, she asked me about my future plans. When I told her about my plans of taking a LLB course for 5 years and then specialising in environmental law( Thoughts on 19th december 2013:Jesus, I had high hopes back then. I think I sat for CLAT and the results were no doubt miserable.), she exclaimed in horror as if someone have just announced that she is going to die within a few minutes. her point was when am I going to get married if I study for so long!

Surprising isn't it? And still women of this society complain of male supremacy, fight for women rights. Do they really have the right to do so? a woman who can't think anything beyond getting married and adding to the useless population of India, have no right to complain of the patriarchal society.

I think the lower class women are much more independent and self sufficient. Maybe they don't have the sugar coating of morals and etiquette but they are the bread earners of their family. Unlike the so called educated middle class women they don't ask for money from their husbands.

Why shouldn't the men declare themselves to be superior? It is them who work day in and day out to bring the hard earned money and the wives just spend it on kitty parties and shopping.

Though we declare ourselves to be in the age of mini skirts, the range of a women is still to the backyard. They only admire women like Kalpana Chawla and Sunita Williams from a distance because they are 'extraordinary'. Really what a society we live in where women at the same time complain about male supremacy but are not willing to stand superior to men.Who have stopped them from taking up jobs and leading an interesting life where they can declare themselves as equals to men?

P.S. Probably now I know why I am not a feminist. 

19th December, 2013: People visited my old blog and commented on my posts. I wonder what were my PR skills back then. I have started to think, that may be this blog is just a figment of my imagination.