A few words of comfort.

While still in Loreto, during a Teacher's Day assembly, a gentleman, in all probability a 'Father', came to our school to talk about certain things. He stepped onto the stage and asked us, "Could anyone try and expand this abbreviation I.A.L.A.C.?" One of my most favourite teachers, DB, answered: 'I am loving and caring.' He smiled and said, "Of course. But what I had in mind was different: I am lovable and capable. You must always remember this."

It has been five years or more, yet, even today, I fall back on IALAC time and again. There are people who think no end of themselves, and there are some who are forever underrated and underestimated, not by others, but by themselves. Then, these are magic words that could soothe you. Believe in yourself and believe in your self-worth. No matter what anyone else thinks, you too are lovable and capable.

A five-year-old sailor

A long time ago, someone had pried open a floor tile and slipped in a Will. And what an impressive Will it was! It curled perfectly, was brilliantly yellowed, and bequeathed to those near and dear, a yellow feather duster, bits of emerald wrapping paper, a magician’s hat and of course, what else but tin soldiers? Ah. Here was another child who thought death was near. But near because of what? Just a green ball of chewing gum.

Turns out, a few days ago his father- much averse to the constant chomp-chomp-chomp- had remarked, Boy! What is it that you are chewing so eagerly? If it is, what I think it is, beware. I knew a child who had swallowed chewing gum, and do you know what happened to him? Ah, may God bless his soul, the little chap died. It binds together the insides of your stomach. Keep that in mind. His eyes twinkled with mischief, but his voice was grim. The boy spat out a wad of chewing gum and ran inside to wash his mouth.

It was a dire enough warning for a five year old, enough to supply him with nightmares for a week. This child however, a brave one for sure, dared to resist his father, and decided to give it another go. This time however, before he could spit it out, he swallowed the innocuous ball of green gum. He sat and thought for a few minutes about what he had done, and in another hour or so, had completed his Will, made provisions in it for his young sister and his best friend, and then set out on his bicycle to fulfill within a day, his life’s earnest desire.

---

He was seen cycling towards the local church. His tiny feet pedaled fast, his heart beat like a drum against his chest, and the miniature flute that hung around his neck swayed to and fro. He had run away from home, without saying goodbye to anyone, and he was in a rush. He had no time for trifles, he knew. Time was of highest importance, the only bit he could spare would be for God himself.

God, he knew, was listening. So down he went on his knees, and touched the wooden floor with his fingers. What could he say today? I wanted to be a sailor dear Lord, a smart one all dressed in blue. Can I, just for a day, because that’s all I have, be a sailor in blue? He closed his eyes tightly and repeated one or two prayers he had learnt by heart, jumbling up a few lines here and there, while his tiny heart pounded- out of breath. He shivered a little, looked at the benign face on the Cross, so kind and in such torture. Was there something he had forgotten? Oh, yes.

I am ready, you know. I have heard things about death- it is like this endless tunnel and Mum says, those who have faith, like those who keep talking to you each day, find light. Now I talk, don’t I? Make me a sailor, and I will be all yours.

Off he went again, towards the port. Sweat dripped from his face, his eyes burnt but they remained focused on the narrow stretch of road. Just to make his short life meaningful, he must get aboard a ship, a real ship- not those tiny fishing boats, but a proper, majestic, black and white ship. He had seen it in the harbour just a few days ago. His sailor’s cap was tucked carefully into his waistband.

---

The harbour was empty. Fishermen spread soiled pieces of cloth on the ground and left little mounds of salted fishes on them. They’d keep them like that for a day or two, until they were completely dry. Our boy sat and wept for hours. The port master had told him in a gentle voice: The ship’s gone my lad. And what a beauty it was! Now it’s sailing like a queen I believe. You wanted to see it one last time?

The stench was unbearable, but where else could he go? If only he had cycled faster. He sat until evening hung around his shoulders. By this time, his tears had dried up; his heart sank along with the orb of glowing orange, right across the sea. Well, time to go home, he supposed. He had missed the ship, and perhaps, death had missed him. He wiped his face, carefully checked his navy blue cap, and returned home.

---

When he crept into his bed late that night, still alive, he knew he had learnt a few important things. It was not his father’s lie that troubled him. Like only a child can, he had erased the fear of impending death and had forgotten his father’s cautionary tale. What niggled at the back of his mind was perhaps a larger question. Did his prayer go completely unheard? So, was this God, just another practical man wearing an ironed suit? Are prayers supposed to stem from the mind and not from the heart? Ask for what’s possible, and it might be granted. Think, but not with your heart. Whoever heard of a five year old sailor, I say?

---

Rant alert.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.

I miss so many bloody things. Like good texts. I don't want to read Dunciad. I want to read Hughes' short stories, but I don't have the time. I don't want to read Tom Jones either. Or Wordsworth or The Heart of Midlothian etc. I miss my speakers, I need some music but I don't have the money to buy new speakers. I miss my iPod but I don't have the money to repair it. I particularly missed Debopama, Sion and Banerjee while solving crossword today. They can solve this stuff within minutes and I can bask in their shared glory. Special mention, Doel: who can not only solves puzzles, but can bake cakes with mousse stuffing. I miss Subhayu, but idiot does not return calls. I miss Subhayu having a room of his own too. Hrmpf. I miss Anwesha, while she goes out of her way to vegetate in her lab. I miss Srabashi, but she is swamped with 'submissions'. I miss Doel's giggles, they can cheer up one and all. I miss Clue-do, Scrabble and biriyani. I miss I miss I miss.

After Ed-pub, as Banerjee says, we must do some Oly-pub.

Rant posts, how I hate them.

[added later]

P.s: I miss Shifu and her puns, but now she won't have pun with me anymore, she says. I miss her chicken curry, she only gets fish these days. Prayag, oh yes, how could I not mention Gay-arp? After the betrayal and "contact" building? Hrmpf. I will expose you, right here.

He has one golden (foot)ball.

He has anterogade amnesia, and as Sion says, has enough guts to read Locke despite a 15-minute memory retention span.

But, he treated me to cold-coffee.

So there, grudging loyalty: He is so-so at Jumbled words. :P

However, I don't miss Prayag. I just miss poking fun at his self-styled-Ghajini-cut.

Let winter not touch you

If you open this letter

on a late afternoon

warm, wet and ochre-

let this remind you

of a long winter left midway.

Where the earth curls up

ever-ceasing, ever-withdrawing.

Wait awhile,

for my love, unused to summer

recoils for a moment-

and in the next,

spills out, shivering and restless.

Let such inexperienced love

melt with that bit of visible sea.

This afternoon

let it melt-

into untamed accents, unknown roads.

A naked letter prays

and outside your window

summer breathes.

Let winter not touch you.

(Letters are a recurrent theme with me, a device I use quite frequently in my infrequent bursts of poetry. However, this was written because I needed to write a proper letter.)

at five past twelve last night the phone rung. i have always been wary of late night calls, always. last time it rang to tell us that my pishemoshai had expired, leaving behind a very young daughter. that was 6 years ago and i can still remember my cousin holding my hand, her bright eyes swimming with tears and asking me to tell her a story. and I told her how God always metes out justice, even if justice comes a bit too late. i meandered and told her about troikas and all things Russian. it was a stupid little story but she drank in every word i spoke.

yesterday, my mama called up to say that dida has been admitted to a nursing home. she is in her seventies, but she is as sturdy as sturdy could be. for a moment, even before hearing the rest of what he had to say, the ground beneath my feet swayed. just hours ago, i had stood in front of tollygunge metro station, contemplating whether I should go to didarbari or back to ultadanga where I live. I chose to return. A few days ago, on my way to college, an elderly lady boarded the auto with me. she too had a golden white mane, just like my dida. she wore her shankha and pola on her wrists, just like my dida. she smelt like her too, she smelt of jasmine hair oil. i decided to visit dida and dadu that day, after classes got over. needless to say, as soon as she got off from the auto, I forgot that little promise made to myself.

mama said that dida had complained of chest pains and that she couldn't see anything in front of her. there was a darkness enveloping her, bit by bit. however, the doctors acted fast and admitted her into the emergency ward. i spent half of the night with my mother on the sofa, tethering on the edge, waiting for the phone to ring. i uttered prayers, prayers that had cobwebs all over them, lying unremembered since school.

today, i went over to see my dear old lady. she was lying in a little white room, a saline bottle hung beside her. she looked alien in such a surrounding. the trademark lal paar shada saree was missing, instead she was wearing a checked uniform. her face was bloated, and she squinted to see me. however, a little red bindi rested on her forehead. maa placed a comb and a powder case beside her. she called me close, and let me hold her hand. "dida, eta ki korle?" i joked. she smiled and said "kheyechish toh? shudhu khichuri? ish, ekta omlette kore dilo naa toke?"the relief that washed through me was indescribable.

dadu too is unwell, he is suffering from dementia. his memory is like a slate, wiped clean every few minutes. he has not slept since last night, he keeps asking people about dida. today, when he saw me his face lit up for a while. as always, he said " thank you dadu, tumi ele." he recognised me, but it might not happen that easily again.

days like this change the person you are. they probe into those half lit hidden areas of the soul, turning you inside out, showing you the person you are. i have always been insecure, always needed a bit of assurance and love from people, even unworthy people. today i learnt that in this fruitless quest of making myself popular and lovable, i have ignored those who love like no other. i am very, very sorry.

and I love you.

December and the cold cold touch.

I will tell you exactly how I feel about December.

10 o'clock and I am still snuggling under a canopy of blankets. Maa presses her palm on my eyes, and it is sooooo cold because she has been washing vegetables in the kitchen. I shiver-brrrr- it is so unexpected! But you know how it is, right? There is a mine of hidden warmth in that cold cold touch. December, too, is just like that.

I Dream of Jeannie, I do

How many of you loved watching I Dream of Jeannie as a kid?

I did.

I adored Jeannie because, ah well, as she says herself, she only needed to "think and blink". The show was a must watch for me when I was around six years old. After all these years, when the only detail that I could remember was that of Jeannie's pink harem dress and the cute genie bottle- Zee Cafe decides to air it again. Most people tend to avoid it, because the show has a dated appeal they say. Heck, how? We have a handsome and reserved astronaut called Anthony, finding a sexy 2500year old genie, conveniently named Jeannie, in a bottle on a deserted island after his shuttle crashes there. This is timeless folks! She falls for him, breaks his engagement, lives in with him and eventually after five seasons he falls for her too- despite being driven mad by her magic antics. Nevermind that. What actually appeals to me, even today, is that they managed to make the magic tricks look pretty awesome without the help of any hi fi special effects. We have miniature sized Jeannie sitting atop a telephone or inside her bottle looking completely at home. Moreover, the casting is brilliant. I love Tony's friend, Major Healy, the guy is fantastic! Anyway, it is a pity that they decide to start showing this oldie just when my end semester is about to start. I plan to catch as many reruns as possible. I like this kind of humour- such a far cry from the crass sex comedies that we have on tv these days, yet utterly delightful. Besides, I think Tony Nelson is hot. You may not agree, but hey, do I care? ;)