Sundays

6 45 pm: It is not yet Sunday, I know. I am thick deep in the middle of meeting a deadline for an editing assignment, with Mohin playing in the background, "Tomay Dilam". 

2002-03, college-going Sundays. 5pm, Etv Bangla, a series named "Shudhu Tomar e Jonno". In it I had first heard of "Rhododendrons". They were so different, those Sundays. From the previous school-going ones. I used to hate them mornings of Rangoli and breakfast, followed by a rigorous bath, and then being part of some weirdass routine-series like Chandrakanta, as my mother supplied snacky post-breakfast goodies during breaks. I didn't like that actually. Her going into the kitchen during the break. And, Daanu and Ducktales. Or, later, Maths tutions. They were boring, the Sundays; I always heard they are fun with family. Mine just meant morning of Maths and TV, lunch, nap and getting back to trying-to-study, or, completing homework.

11 50 pm: I finished my work while at I's, and just back I thus continue with a light heart. I didn't like the Sundays post-school too, much. They never became what they were exhibited as. I felt they are an over-rated concept of holiday. They were ones in Calcutta, mostly spent with cousins, or my grandfather. With me in a morning college, it had to be wrapped up quick. And then while-at-University, Sundays had a completely different dimension altogether. Initially they meant relative-visiting, and later became grocery-marking. And a lot of Mohin-scotch-chorus building up to Monday-hangovers. That zone suddenly seems an age away :)

Sundays in Delhi, or the ones once in Calcutta, were a nonchalant day of sadness over an impending week, till the beginning of this year. When I was introduced by my raving love that Sundays are fun. It's all in the head. And yes, they did kind of become interesting, once I decided to live it that way. Even in the similarity of everyday of the week, in listening to Dharma/YRF movies on TV while correcting bad stories on the laptop, or, in thinking of a tiffin which would cater to SM's all veg-almost fruit diet-Monday, or, in hanging out with R,R, R & I in simple long drives of same songs and shared puffs, and dream vacations -- Sundays no longer seemed tedious.

Today, Sundays are precious. Today especially. When I had to work, it being a last-Saturday of the month. I had dinner at I's. With R & R. I look forward to tomorrow. It would be a productive, non-work day, in its sameness, away from you-cannot-do-this, or you-must-do-that and in living each moment of a day to my self and my loved ones. Six days of piled tiredness v/s one of many loving wants, that might end up not being fulfilled.

For yes love, you have taught me well. It is Sunday! (Complete with the exclamation.) It smells of your contagious positivity about the day. It smells of you, even without you. I miss you, especially on Sundays. That's exactly how special Sundays are.

When I do not wake up to the snoozing of an alarm and a mug of tea through deciding upon what to wear, but over a deliberate indulgence in the wishful moment of, "And here you come, with a cup of tea / Wreathed in steam." Sylvia Plath.

Comforter

At the similar august gathering, I chance upon Chhuti again. She wriggles her way to me with her dainty bum and plop-steps and flashes that smile of recognition. Some making of faces and hide-and-seek moments later, she settles down next to me. Demanding my pen and a copy, she starts as if it was just yesterday she met me. "Draw flower."

I obediently do. A marigold and a lotus. From one stem. Yes, strange. She asks, "What flower?"

We are still expected to maintain silence. So I arrow the marigold and write 'You', and arrow the lotus 'Me'. And pronounce in whispers, "You-flower and Me-flower."

She has an expression of a rainbow. Surprise, disbelief, amusement, happiness, savoury, sweet, faith. "Lotus flower no, this?" pointing at Me-flower. I smile. I love children. They are so smartly pure.

She pauses, "No, no. Me-flower. OK, draw ice-cream." And herself drew a tiny orange candy. I mean she drew an ice-lolly which I would love to believe was an orange-candy. And then turned towards me the copy and said, "now you."

I drew a cone. Complete with a rather happy-scoop melting away from one side, a cherry on the top, and a plastic spoon. I gave her the copy back. She saw, slurped, smiled and made a sound of delight which I cannot put to words. She behaved as if the cone was waiting in front of her to be had. Just by herself. Almost as if dutifully, she bent down to dot a strawberry. On satisfactory completion said, "Put on top." Gesturing at where I had placed the cherry. 

Turning the page to where the marigold and lotus grew from one stem into you and me flowers, I realized I may have led her to believe that I could place the strawberry for her on the scoop. On the page, at least!

Tomorrow, people in my world have the luxury of a Saturday-off-day. It makes me sad as I meanwhile would slog on to a tragic equation of 'last-Saturday, working day'. I decide that I can either choose to complain about it and lengthen the pain of it, or, believe in the power of Chhuti's belief, turn to the page, create and be comforted in a happy-holiday, out of none.

 

Hello tomorrow! Let's face each other. Without it being a Chhuti. With Chhuti. 

Sugar-Rush

It was another afternoon of whiling away time as we waited, all packed, for the clock to strike 2 20. So that we could avail the 2 40. In a staffroom which spelled 'ease' the way it is spelled, with me tucked between my Dreamboss, and my Buddy. In front, an array of characters, some of whom we were dissecting to happy finger-food bits. In front, also, comfort articles - coasters, made by me out of runny brown boxes which held University answer-sheets, our own coffee mugs which held coffee made to our taste, little blocks of Government marble-slabs we used as paper-weight, each of which were doodled upon. All in all, a day well-spent, 'frying bherandas'.

At such an opportune time, the two women on either side began an interesting discussion. Really interesting. Typically intense with assumptions and snacks. And when I am really, really listening, I tend to doodle. So, with all marble-slabs covered, and papers tucked away from my reach, the only thing available was SM's (Buddy) Micromax mobile-phone which had a white coloured flip-cover. And her ball-point pen on which too, on some weird day I had scribbled the names of her two daughters. Like on her tiffin box. Having doodled, I didn't have the guts to face the fact that I did and with a bit of shame turned my head to my left and gestured to BRC, "I didn't do it on purpose." She saw, cleared her throat, and said, "Swaty, your white cover I guess is no longer so."

SM is an outstanding character. PhDing since the last ten years, and handling two kindergarten daughters, nothing in this world dares to ruffle her. Except things like - missing an AC Bus, which would destroy her National Library routine, or, Kents doodling on her things which may bring upon a fight at home. And so, she is disturbed that the doodle would now give rise to tens of questions at home, "Why not us?" I was sincerely sorry. I understand her race with time and couldn't undo it. But she moved on to the aalu-kaabli like seamless waves and said "no point worrying."

A day later, SM and I have invigilation duty, a rare day when BRC would not come in, August 5th. We used to get different classrooms assigned so that our breaks would be spent together. But I was greeted with a surprise when SM walked in to my room to 'Hi' me. She sat down and sorted out the time when we would go out for lunch, when she chanced upon a loose-chit I had caught off a student and had started doodling on it. And then came the story.

"Kents! I forgot to mention! I went home other day and Chini (the younger one) asked me, noticing the phone cover, "What is this?" Complete with a tone of accusation. Then Mithi (the elder one) joined in. "Maa, when I become big, will I have a phone?"

SM: Doesn't obviously know where this was leading. "Yes."

Mithi: "Will it have a cover?"

SM: Having a faint idea of where it was heading. "Yes."

Mithi: "Will Kens draw on my phone?" (Yes, the daughters call me that variation of Kents)

SM: "But you can draw on it yourself!"

Mithi: "But I can't draw as good as her!"

And that, ladies, gentleman and children, was the best compliment I have ever received. From a child who is as pencil-crayon friendly, to entrust me to do it, on her future-phone cover. SM later added that Mithi was so happy with me that she would, if she could, even buy me a house on the moon.

Doodling is obviously something which comes naturally to me, and unconsciously. I have never much paid attention when people mentioned liking them. But this was special. The most pristine and unsullied appreciation, ever. Thank you, Mithi. Means an awful lot. Incidentally, it also turned out to be the day I received the call some hours later from JDBI, offering me a full-time position. I was overwhelmed. I was rendered speechless. I was in a happy-mess.

And I was certainly sure, which made me happier.

Ear-phone Plugged

Blanket Overturned

Conversations Succumbed

To-do's Planned

Tiffin Packed

Journey Tracked

Presence Attested

 

Beings Created

Being Cheated

Time Trapped

Laughter Laughed

Stories Heard

Coffee Sipped

Dinner Chewed

Aspirin Popped

Clouds Smoked

Drink Downed

Fiction Edited

Love Abandoned

Dreams Designed

Sleep Allotted

Survival Lived

Penned Down

I do not know of many people who write with a fountain pen. Or, have one and write with it. Or, have one. I do, and have been. And cannot write with anything otherwise. Professionally a teacher, I also have one dedicated to red ink. 

I used a Parker something (handed down by father, some rare silver American version), Sheaffers Inled (handed down by father) and a Pelikan (gifted / handed down by AM Sir, when I worked at MSIT). The Pelikan was like a song. It was this amazing instrument which behaved like the engagement ring's purpose of being placed in the ring finger - the myth of being connected to some vein in the heart. Anyway, as I charted plans with it, and dreamt dreams in words it started showing signs of aging. And gradually gave away. I was hurt. I remember having shed a private tear or two, too. I was angry. And I started saving for a Sheaffers, of and on my own. Around the year 2010, Rs 3000/- for a pen meant utter luxury for me. I decided I would still have one, saved and waited for it, and meanwhile began doodling with a Parker Frontier.

Finally, my desired Sheaffers Agio was bought. It felt like homecoming. At the shop the pen looked as if uncomfortable and barely managing with the many high-lights on it. With me, I knew it felt warm. The warmth of belonging. It became my skin. I didn't need to wear it you know. It was me. But then, it had some issues with comfort. I gave it in for a repair and it was duly replaced. What returned now felt like my soul. My pen.

Years passed and I bought another Sheaffers, this one a cheaper model, for correcting scripts. Not a matter of heart. Just pocket. So I concentrated on the Frontier and the Agio. Life was wordily beautiful and beautifully wordy. And time passed with crisscrosses of the mind on paper. Till one day when I lost my Frontier. Yes, me. Lost. That year was horrible. I lost my RayBan too. I was shocked. And shell-shocked that a pen could do that to me. I was again angry, hurt, not-myself. And thus, much myself. How could the pen betray me? My aunt, a good-god-whatta-generous-soul, got me a Sheaffers big-black fountain pen. I was happy. The Frontier was a matte black too. But you know what kind of happy that happy is, right? Not exactly happy. I was overwhelmed at the thoughtful gesture by my aunt, and concerned with loving the new pen well. But well, a loss is a loss.

And thus another process began. Now I began writing mostly with big-black and used my Agio carefully. I started protecting it like a parent. Something happened and big-black started misfiring too. Fountain pens have a mind of their own, a distinct mind. They know it from the feeling they have of how they are being held. I know it. Anyway, big-black is due for a repair. And Agio has been my thorough complete companion. The soul doesn't leave you if you loved it enough, it is a part of you. How can I ever explain or put to words how it feels to write with it? It doesn't feel anything, actually. It feels as if the thoughts transpire directly to the paper. It is a cigarette-cut silvershine wand. Perfect. 

It fell down today. Well, all pens do. Fountain pens are delicate though. The damage is inherent. Since 9 30 am, I am not the same person anymore. I am crabby, with a resolve not to express my restlessness. I am crying endlessly without tears, holding it close, as it struggles to get back to life. I am hurt, angry, and trying not to be either. And, for the first time, I can feel how it is trying too. It is still writing, but we both know it, it has changed. I am behaving uppity as I use borrowed ball-point pens, all the while crumbling and shattering away within. I am also amazed that a fountain-pen can emote so much in me. I am intensely sad. Wounded.

As I was walking out of my room to leave college, a student suddenly ran towards me with a tiffin box in hand. Food & Nutrition, that's how I remember this batch. This was the girl who actually wants to become a Doctor; "Sleep Deprived" - what she had written. "Ma'am, we made pin-stripe cookies and (some) cake. Please have a bite!"

I couldn't tell you how it felt. The closest I can get to is that it felt as at home as it felt each time I doodled with the Agio. 

That was what the pen is. The metaphor for being. For, it is not - I think therefore I am. It is - I scribble, with that fountain pen, and that is why and who I am. Precisely.

Time-out

I was at an august (if not austere) gathering, couple of evenings back. Fifteen minutes into it and I realized my attention was drifting, in spite of myself. The entire gathering was deeply into what they were doing, while I adjusted multiple times my seating-arrangement. It was then that I chanced upon a little girl, who was constantly in a circle of her-own-game-with-herself. She had irresistibly mischievous movements, and hard-to-contain eyes. Eyes that interacted, before words did. She chanced upon me too. Restless, the two of us. Yet both shying away from reaching out to the other. So I made the first move and flashed a smile. Her circle was immediately cut short by couple of inches in diameter, and she moved in closer. I winked this time, and gestured at an empty spot next to me. She took royal time to arrive, and settle. Finally, she went back to her mother's purse, fiddled out something, and showed it to me. A photo of her in the mobile-phone. I smiled an 'Awww-smile'. That, I guess, set her off. Next what began was rather unexpected, and very clever of her, to be unassuming in her pitch. Here goes: 

Little Girl: "Which school?" 

Me: (Trying to suppress a laugh; showing a sad frown to her)"No school." 

LG: "I, Apeejay." 

Me: Gestured a wow and a thumbs up. (It may here be noted that silence was ideally asked out of the gathering we were both in.) 

LG: "Which class?" 

Me: (How could she ask me this??!) "No class (almost showing her a very sad smiley out of my face). You?"
LG: "LKG-B. Lower KG-B." (She explained.) Yes, that is the size that you can now assume of her! A tiny bundle of intensely charming energy. Bee-like. Very busy. 

LG: "How many friends?" Very serious. 

Me: Partying in my head, I acted out the saddest face I could and replied, "No friends. Zero friends." 

LG: "I, seven friends." This, while she showed four fingers to me. My moment of victory. 

Me: "Seven, or four?" 

That little thing was capable of remarkable embarrassment. And replied, "You can draw flower?" 

Me: Nodded a yes. And added, "Here." Pointing at her little fair legs. 

LG: The noblest, joyous laugh you could hear, was out that moment. Followed by "OK. Draw." 

Me: "No pen." 

LG: "Oho!" And ran to her mother's purse and fished for one. 

By this time, the silence of the meeting was at its end and people began conversing. And so we spoke freely, in audible hushes. Sensing she could find no pen, I asked for one from someone else and called her back, realizing I didn't yet know her name. 

LG: As if the conversation never ended, "Kaushani, Shivani...my friend." She sat to examine the pen and after approving, offered me her leg. Which had a birth-mole kind of thing, around which I told I would make a flower. However, I realized it would be wrong of me to do so, and so asking her to wait, looked for a slight piece of paper. Finding one, we set to making flowers. And the orders rolled out. 

LG: "House. Tree. Doll." 

I struggled, and maybe failed to live up to her expectations, and even made one fat-face in an attempt to sketch a doll in plaits. She said, "Kaushani" and took the pen from me. 

At this point, we were both being noticed in our interaction, and I became conscious. Of the august gathering. And how I needed a break from it. And was in one. And smiled an awkward smile at people. 

Her mother called her to leave. She immediately got up and went. I was smiling at the box-circle she had made on the paper in an attempt to replicate my flower. 

Suddenly I found she returned and said rather somberly to me, "Bring pen. I your friend. We do flower." 

Me: "Yes please!" And she left. 

A smile lingered within me. Those kinds which refuse to vacate your soul. At how friendships were formed. In prayers, and innocence. While we are bored, and restless, and trying and looking for a break. 

Later someone asked, "What were you both speaking? You and Chhuti?" 

Ok, I smiled on. 

Chhuti. :)

Aaj Jaane Ki Zid Na Karo

A very dear song in a very favourite version...like being tucked in a warm corner with a soft blanket and softer sunshine and sweet oranges...in happy tears and sad smiles and some memories that were, some that could have been and some more that can never be...
 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m3ZyU98N3Fk&feature=youtube_gdata_player

Hills Happening...Darjeeling

a distance around which dreams have been weaved, a place which remained inaccessible through time, a name off a fairytale...darjeeling... my darjeeling was impromptu, my darjeeling was laahe laahe, twas about clear skies and cloudwatching and mountain ranges of sleeping gods, my darjeeling was most unlikely to be true through Rusha, but it was and this is just one of the multiple colours of what we lived through three days...

Love Song to a Stranger

how numberless times have i put up this song, 

and how numberless steps have i taken along, 

yet, each time i feel this is the song i would love to die with, 

each time with which i breath...

How dare someone write something so perfect?

Give me a report on the condition of my soul. Give me a complete statement of my actions... Number my sins on the grocery list and let me buy. Did I make you go insane? Did I turn up your earphone and let a siren drive through? Did I open the door for the mustached psychiatrist who dragged you out like a gold cart? Did I make you go insane? From the grave write me, Anna! You are nothing but ashes but nevertheless pick up the Parker Pen I gave you. Write me. Write. Anna who was Mad, Anne Sexton.