My life in Ballygunge Place

The years of my childhood were spent in a house that was full of people. Even though the house was modelled on the apartment building concept, which was a novelty in our country in those times, there was a great deal of to-ing and fro-ing between the members of the entire household and being the first child of the house I had unlimited access to every individual resident.
My days contained a healthy amount of school books, kittens, Tagore songs, homework, ludo and a lot of talking. Very early on I had decided that I loved talking and listening. I had conversations with my parents about whether to go to the mountains or the sea for our annual vacations. I conversed endlessly with the domestic help about the Hindi and Bengali movies on Doordarshan and even sang songs at their request. I spoke to my great-grand-aunt about the things that I was learning in school and how my social calendar even as a 7 year-old was choc-a-bloc with birthday party and 'day-spend' invites.

But most of all I loved talking to my best friend. A kindly spinster who loved me to bits and treated me the same as any adult. Daily I would come back from school, bathe and then dawdle with my lunch for an hour before flopping into bed with a story book. After a good read and an afternoon siesta I would go down the stairs, clutching my ludo board and cards, to her flat. She would serve me tea in my own special cup and puffed rice in my own special bowl and let me dip my tiny hand upto the elbow into her biscuit jar. We would sit  companionably and she would tell me stories of her life and her relatives while I would tell her about my school, friends and teachers. It was an exchange between equals. Then we would play a game or two of ludo and cards and then finally, I would sing some Rabindrasangeet for her. At the stroke of six my mother would call for me from our flat above and I would wind up my visit and potter upstairs for homework followed by dinner and bed.

Life was simple back then. I used to draw greetings cards for all the old ladies of the household for every occasion starting from Holi to Christmas. I would spend my summer holiday afternoons chasing the latest litter of kittens from one end of the house to another and barter news from one flat to another for edible treats. I spoke so much and so incessantly that my mother was quite glad to be rid of me for hours at a time. This is how I developed a love for old people. I thought they had a lot to say and a lot of stories to tell from their past which was interesting wasn't it? I could not wait to grow up and grow old!

In remembrance

I want to remember this feeling...
Of helplessness mingled with control
Of hope mashed together with despair
Of incessant pain dotted with brief moments of oblivion
And above all:
A desperate urge to know that has to be quelled constantly
It takes so much effort 
It is immensely fatiguing
It is relentless and unmitigated
But I know; this too shall pass.

Losing a relationship is like experiencing the demise of a loved one. The pain continues daily and there is this inner struggle to contact them but one cannot. Through daily tasks and the everyday mundaneness of life one forgets for brief periods. And then like a wave crashing on the shore the realisation comes back in full force that they are gone. 
There is a void. The mind refuses to accept it and keeps trying to find loopholes. Scenarios are built like holographic images and just as quickly flicker away into nothingness. 
Nothing remains but heartache. 
And the hope that things will be better in the future.

The day I got Mark Sloane

It was a Sunday evening and we had gone for a stroll to dispel the fog that hung thickly inside our heads as a result of a long afternoon nap.

The weather was perfect...a cool breeze was blowing scattering the leaves around and we were in a mellow mood. What had started out as a short stroll turned into long walk, we were both reluctant to go back home and sit indoors again. The wind changed and became a bit harsher and lightning started flickering ... we took a call and decided to head to a tiny new eatery to finish off an early dinner. As we were eating the rain started in earnest. It was quite a downpour and we sat indoors (in the restaurant) ruing the fact that we did not have a bike or an umbrella. As the rain softened to a drizzle we ventured out and took the known paths homewards.

Near my apartment is a grocery store and the owner has a pet tabby who had recently given birth. Noting my enthusiasm in petting her he had, a fortnight ago, suggested I take home a baby kitten. That evening he spotted us walking back and called me to take home the kitten. It was done in two minutes flat. He handed over the baby to me and I calmly put it on my shoulder and started walking homewards. It was a foregone conclusion that it was to be ours.

I must admit at this point that I did have a couple of misgivings including the fact that I had not really taken my flat-mate's permission but knowing that she was a cat-lover I decided to wing it. Back home I checked to ensure that the kitten was a 'he' and quickly set about converting a large wrought-iron tripod bowl-shaped stand into a nest for him. Warmed some milk for him and he promptly burnt his pretty pink nose trying to sniff it and got two rose-coloured weals on it. From then onwards Lil Mark Sloan refused to drink milk from the bowl. He played around climbing our knees and tummies like a little explorer and biting our fingers and toes in search for his mommy. But finally he was all tuckered out and lay in the crook of R's arm and fell asleep.

Not wanting to squish him in our sleep I insisted that Mark was to be put into the 'crib'. R asked me to place a tiny stuffed animal in with him for him to hold on to.

The whole night we checked on Mark periodically to ensure he was sleeping and awoke at 6 a.m.to see him awake and ready to drink some milk. The trick of pouring some milk onto the floor helped and I was quite surprised to see him lapping it up and licking his wet milky paws.

So now Mark Sloane is a member of the household and my absolute pet!

Market Day

It is Wednesday. Market day. People from all the surrounding villages gather here in the Hampi Bazaar from daybreak. The day traditionally starts with the prayer chants and hymns from the Virupakhsa Temple where the rich and poor rub shoulders in the presence of the divine. Once the holy flame is passed around and the business-class people have muttered their prayers for a successful day on the market under their breath, the day begins as though with a collective sigh of determined preparation.
The market place stretches from outside the temple compound to the end of the main road where sits the statue of Nandi, the bull. The stalls are situated on either side of the road within the plinths of stone erected to house them. Selling side by side are vegetables, perfumes, spices, cattle, gold and gems and slaves even.  Customers in colourful clothes against the dusty brown backdrop of this ancient town throw the stone carvings and architecture into relief.
A small gathering of young men watch excitedly while two rams lock horns in a street fight. A little girl tries to imitate her older sister and mother by balancing a small clay pot on her head on the way to the river. An elderly  farmer wipes the sweat off his brow with a red checkered cotton wipe-cloth.
Two of the eleven royal elephants are spotted in the distance making their ponderous way to take back supplies for the royal family from the market. All the sellers suddenly sit up and take notice....a few shoo their straggling customers away. The merchant who supplies goods for the royal family on market day is indeed lucky. Not only does he get paid handsomely in gold but also it is a matter of great honour for him as he is deemed to be standing head and shoulders above his fellow merchants and his produce is the most sought after for months.
This time the lucky man is someone who has never before been noticed. His stall is at the far end of the market but the aroma from his spice sacks wafts to the town gates. The elephants, whose mahouts trust their judgement, made their way through the gates and towards this unremarkable little stall. Goods and gold exchange hands and the merchant seems only to realise the gravity of what has just happened when the elephants turn their backs on his stall and begin moving in the direction of the royal enclosure.
A smile that holds pride and deference in equal measures spreads across the merchant's face as he thinks about his spices flavouring the food of none other than King Krishnadevaraya. He folds his hands into a namaskaram and with his eyes at the setting sun gives thanks to Lord Virupaksha. This Market Day has been exceedingly good for him.

Moving on

We are tracing lines in the sand with our fingers. My daughter and I. It is a strangely calming feeling. At this moment all I feel is intense love for her and a sense of peace with myself. She pushes some unruly strands of hair behind her ears and concentrates on tracing a shape in the sand tray. She is drawing a fish shape. 

Then she picks up a shell from the box beside it and looks up at me with big wide eyes. It is how beautifully we communicate without words that send a sharp pang of pain through my heart. Her look says: do you think I should use this? I nod imperceptibly feeling the prick of tears behind my lashes. As she bends down to continue her decoration I walk out of the room and into the adjoining bathroom to cry. I don’t want her to see me like this but I can’t help my tears. ‘How will I live without her?’ I think and then realise I won’t have to because I am dying.

We are at the therapist’s office. Monday and Friday afternoons we come here, just the two of us; so that my daughter can understand that her mother will not be alive for her next birthday. So far we have read story books together, painted cards, written letters to each other and spoken about the death of our pet cat Toby. She understands what death is, she is seven years old. She knows that I am ill, that Daddy is worried, that I stay in bed for long periods and go to the hospital very frequently. I believe she knows that I am dying but refuses to believe it. 

I catch her looking at me when she thinks I am focusing elsewhere. She quickly looks away when our eyes meet. The therapist says that the questions will come inevitably. That is why we come for therapy. To bring her to the stage where she can articulate her thoughts and face her fear that I am going to leave her forever. Initially it broke my heart to do this; I did not want to come. But I understand now that she is the one who has to continue living. Her wellbeing and understanding are my primary concern now. She should be able to ask all her questions, go through her feelings of pain and loss and say a proper goodbye to me.