It's March 1st, 2012

In other words, it's my baby's last month in pre-school. His LAST frikkin' MONTH!!

This realisation has hit me hard and it's one of the reason's I've been so quiet, to the point of being depressed. My baby has well and truly grown-up.

I know, I know...he's five-years-old and quite definitely shed the tags of 'baby' and 'toddler' quite some time back...but...but...but...sigh...

He's still my baby, dammit!

Yes, my little one has got admission into Big School -- the same one his brother and cousin are studying in. The fact that he's secured admission there is a huge relief, of course. The fact that he's old enough to go there is a huge big bubble of sorrow, threatening to burst at various points throughout the day.

When the EO started Big School, it did wound me, but not like this, because I knew that I still had the cuddlesome YO to baby. Plus, the EO did Big School in two steps, hopping from one to the other with consummate ease and what killed me was being forced to take him out of Big School 1 to put him into Big School 2.

But now, it's going to be one giant leap for my little son. From the loving, sheltered, protected environment of his Montessori to the big bad world of an all-boys, old school. From being one of twelve pampered and adored students, he'll be one of 44, jostling for attention or giving up in the process.

It's not going to be easy. I saw how hard it was for The Nephew who went from the same Montessori to this Big School. He was depressed for the first six months and would cry about it every morning. My SIL later confided to me how much it broke her heart. The EO, thanks to his two years in-between Montessori and present Big School, was already seasoned in matters pertaining to big classrooms, many boys and fewer teachers, and so it didn't take too long for him to settle down. So, I am already steeling myself for what's to come.

Of course, temperamentally, the EO and The Nephew are radically different. The Nephew is a shy, quiet introvert. The EO is gregarious, chatty and makes himself comfortable wherever he goes. Their personalities being such, I'm sure contributed to how they took to this most dramatic change in their young lives. In this regard, the YO is very similar to the EO and so I can only hope and pray that it will stand him in good stead when he takes that first step into the giant school yard.

Of course he's also stubborn and sensitive...

And what is he going to do in those horrid Bengali classes? How will he cope?

In fact, how will he cope with so many new subjects?

How will he react to the strict levels of discipline? No gems and smileys and stars for hard work here!

And his handwriting is just not up to speed!

And speaking of speed! God, for someone who's Speedy Gonzales on the field, it's amazing how tortoise-like he can be when it comes to getting his work done on time!

Sigh...at least he's got the EO to seek out for a hug during break time...

Not to mention the fact that he'll be joined by two of his friends from this playschool over at the Big School.

Ok...I need to stop hyper-ventilating!

But, the fact of the matter is, in one month's time, my baby starts Big School. This is his last month in playschool. In one month, I will be mamma to two big boys.

And while the YO says he's ready and excited about going to his brother's school...I'm not.

Not yet.

Don't know if I ever, really, truly will be.

*breathe, breathe, breathe*

Memory

Memories are powerful mood-stimulants. They can seat you on a beautiful, Persian carpet and take you on a magic carpet ride through the rainbows of your past. Then again, they can dig a hole through worm-infested, smelly mud and bury you under the broken eggshells and rotten tomatoes of past pains, hurts and tears.

Yes. Memory can be a teddy bear. It can also be a bitch.

And music, for me at least, is always a trigger-er of past faces, names and places. Most of my memories are linked to music and triggered by music.

This morning, at MaaJanoni's place and we were listening to a favourite music channel of hers. A Bangladeshi couple was singing popular as well as some unfamiliar Bengali folk songs and songs inspired by old folk tunes.

One song reminded me of happier times in JNU, when I was part of a Bangla Band. I associate this song with a friend of mine, who now happens to be my sister-in-law (the MIM's cousin; yes, she is very much responsible for our nuptials).

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zNM71yMwxcw&feature=related

The other song introduced me to an amazing artist. She is a gorgeous person and I am so thrilled to count her as a dear friend now.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BecwNwbgDRA

The songs reminded me of times spent together. The memories made me miss them. The songs and the memories made me grateful to have them in my life.

Today, memory was a teddy bear. A singing, teddy bear, no less.

Ta-daaaaaa!

Yesterday was my wedding anniversary and the MIM and I have enjoyed 11 years of wedded 'bliss' together -- hehehe! Hard to say that with a straight face, but yes yes, it's been mad, exciting and quite spectacular too along with some near misses!

As an anniversary gift to myself, I am starting a new blog...well, started a new blog would be more appropriate; yesterday I put up an introductory post. This has been an idea I'd been toying with for a long time now. Don't worry, I'm not going here, but I've since the voice of this blog is more personal and has mainly to do with memories revolving around my two boys, I've decided to start another one where the focus is all on WORDS; the written word, the spoken word, the sung word, they typed word -- yes, even the painted word and the cooked word. I plan on doing book and movie reviews, sharing links of interesting articles I've read and songs that have touched the chords of my soul; I plan on sharing recipes and hopefully doing author reviews and getting in guest posts too!

Of course these are all my good intentions and we all know what they say about these type of intentions and since I have no desire to be walking down the pathway to hell, let's take it one step at a time, shall we?

I decided to start off with something fun -- like organise a book give-away! Interested? Then what are you waiting for, head on over to the Chocoholic Bookworm!

With much excitement, pomp and gusto, I present to thee, my new blog and baby -- http://chocoholicbookworm.wordpress.com/

Saraswati Pujo 2012

DaddyDearest's date of *sob* death, according to the Gregorian calendar is January 20th, 2010. That day also happened to be Saraswati Puja that year.

Now the Hindu almanac follows the lunar calendar system and all festivals, religious ceremonies and occasions are observed accordingly. Auspicious ceremonies and dates of ritual importance are all planned according to the lunar dates called 'tithi'.

So while DaddyDearest's 'D' anniversary will always be January 20th, according to the Hindu almanac, the tithi will always be Saraswati Puja.

Saraswati Puja will never be the same for me again. It's like I get to mourn him twice.

Last year, Saraswati Puja fell on February 8th and we held the first death anniversary rites for him. MaaJanoni and I didn't perform any puja for Maa Saraswati, since we wer so busy with the puja and yagna for DaddyDearest. The date also happened to coincide with my 10th wedding anniversary. Sigh...

So this year, I was actually celebrating Saraswati Puja for the first time since Baba passed away, viz, after two years.

I wasn't too well this year, so I got up late. It also happened to be my birthday the day before...

Anyway, I woke up and saw that my MIL and the SIL were already at work with the puja preps. I sat down with them and watched them decorate the puja thalis and the idol of the Goddess. I remembered I needed a garland for DaddyDearest's photograph. The MIM said he would get one for me.

Things seemeed normal enough. Had the boys take a bath and gear up in their ethnic wear. I bathed and dressed up in new togs given to me by the SIL the day before as a birthday present. As per tradition I made the boys put their school books in front of Maa Saraswati and called up MaaJanoni asking her to put the EO's guitar in front of the idol she had as I'd forgotten to bring it home with me. Out of force of habit as well as love for this tradition, I put some books and a pen in front of the Goddess too -- my Gitobithan (i.e. Tagore's book of songs), a notebook where I write poetry and my editor copy of 'Chicken Soup for the Indian Soul: On Friendship."

The flowers for DaddyDearest arrived and as I garlanded him I found my eyes watering, but to my immense surprise, I found that I didn't sob like I'd expected to and for some reason that just depressed me. Was I all cried out? Was I *shudder* used to his absence? Had I accepted the fact that the closest relationship that I would ever have with my father from now on would be with his photograph? Had my heart hardened?

While I pondered my lack of tears, the purohit arrived and the puja started.

When time came for the pushpaanjali, I helped distribute the flowers and showed the children how they should stand, holding the floral tributes in between their hands.. We started repeating the mantras as per the purohit's instructions but I already knew them by heart thanks to...thanks to...thanks to DaddyDearest and that's when they came -- the tears. They just started gushing out and I sobbed as quietly as I could so as not to distress the children and cast a pall of gloom on the rest of the family. Memories of the last two Saraswati Pujas came flooding to me as well as a very pictoresque memory of a piece of paper with myDaddyDearest's beautiful, almost Tagorean, Bengali handwriting. On that paper, along with a few other mantras, he had written the Saraswati vandana for me before I'd left for JNU. I could see that mantra in his handwriting so clearly in my mind.

It was a memory that had been tucked away in the corner of my mind and as I repeated those words that day, I couldn't help but see them float before my very eyes. And so my eyes spilled over, along with my heart, with memories remembered, words once oft-repeated on a daily basis and the face of a dearly departed.

The children of course caught on and they looked at me with such love, such tenderness and yes, even a kind of childish pity. When I finally sat down, my YO cradled my head to his chest and gently rocked me to-and-fro while kissing me repeatedly on top of my head.

I'll never forget this.

I'll never forget.

Period.

Thank God.

Music...

My musical memories are many. Many, many, many. In fact, I associate different people and places with songs and melodies, not to mention occasions and events...

Childhood memories overflow with snapshots of DaddyDearest singing The Bro and me to sleep.

Then of course there's MaaJanoni and her lovely voice humming while cooking, or singing while simply staring at the rain outside the window while a powercut provides the perfect backdrop to her soulful renditions of Rabindrasangeet.

There's me studying for my ICSE late at night and into the wee hours of the morning;DaddyDearest's collection of Hindustani instrumental music surrounding me with peace and calm.

My happiest moments in school during my plus 2 revolve around the choir and inter-house music competitions.

My phool shojja.

Bedtime with the EO and YO.

Even my time with DaddyDearest in the hospital.

There are songs, melodies and lyrics that define these moments and so much more in my life.

Whenever I have found myself to be drowning in extreme excesses of emotion, I have noticed that Music has been my constant partner. Whether the depths of pain or the pinnacles of joy, the right notes have always cocooned me perfectly and like a feather I have floated through different worlds and sensations.

It is through Music that I know that I am truly alive.

Two Years...

My DaddyDearest,

Two years. Two years today.

You know, just a few days ago, a question popped into my head. I don't remember exactly what, but I'm sure it was something about music, or when you were a little boy, or when we were in America...they usually are. Yes, these questions suddenly pop into my head and when they do, my first thought, the absolute first thought that comes immediately, instantaneously, instinctively into my mind is, "Baba-ke call korey jiggesh kortey hobey." And then of course, it just as soon pours a bucket of ice cold water onto my head while simultaneously giving me a giant kick on my butt.

You see Baba, I still have questions that need to be answered. About you. About me. About our family. About us.

I still have things to share with you. About music. About food. About books and music. About your grandsons.

It's still so hard. So very, very hard. I still can't think about you without my heart hurting. I still can't talk about those twenty days in January without crying. I still can't listen to the music you loved and the singers you worshiped without sobbing loud, long and hard. Often, when I sing your grandsons the lullabies that you'd sing for The Bro and me, my voice cracks and I can't go on.

I still forget sometimes that you're not there anymore.

This afternoon, after MaaJanoni dropped me off on the street corner and I started walking towards home, I nearly froze in my tracks. I wasn't wearing my glasses, but I thought for second I saw you. I stopped and stared. The man walked closer...he wore glasses, had more salt than pepper hair and a nice big bald spot, wasn't too tall, not at all fat, shuffled along slowly, and walked with his hands clasped behind his back and a slight stoop. I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me and I started walking towards him in trance, almost expecting him to stop and say something. He wasn't as fair as you and wore his hair slightly longer than you, but as I finally focused on his face, I noticed that he wore a look of intense concentration just like yours. I almost said something to him just so that I could hear his voice and to see if he would have said something similar to what you would have said. Of course, me being me, I didn't say anything (I sooooo am your daughter), just gave him a half-smile instead. He looked back at me and continued walking...even his expression was similar to yours! I stood at the entrance to our house and kept staring at his back as he walked away. While there was a part of me that was disappointed that he didn't say anything, the other part of me couldn't get over his gait and just stood there drinking it all in.

You see, Baba? What I've become? A mad, crazy girl who expects random, old men to burst into words that you once spoke. A distraught, depressed daughter whose heart starts to beat rapidly because she's just seen a man old enough to be her father, walk her father's walk.

Really DaddyDearest, was it so necessary for you to go? Khub ki dorkaar chhilo?

I love you and always will. I miss you and I forever will. I'm broken and always will be.

Your devoted daughter

Hope...

"Hope in reality, is the worst of all evils because it prolongs the torments of man." Friedrich Nietzsche

Two years ago today, my father was having a bowel angioplasty.

Just twenty days before that, on Dec 31st, 2009, he had been through an ampulectomy to remove a tumour blocking his bile duct. While there were a few bumps and scares in the OT, the operation was successful and my DaddyDearest was recovering beautifully.

And then, suddenly, a week later, things started going terribly, horribly, frighteningly wrong. From a sudden heart attack to bouts on the ventilator to midnight calls from the hospital asking us to arrange for blood to spells on the ventilator to late night MRIs to an untraceable hemorrhage in the stomach to a lung infection contracted from the ventilator to shifts from one ICU to another...the two weeks that followed were a veritable journey through the different circles of hell.

January 18th was a terrible, horrible day with Baba on a frightening looking ventilator. His body, which had pared down to nothing but scars and bones, looked as if it was being slowly devoured by an alien, blood-sucking, octopus. Just before leaving the ICU at the end of visiting hours, I leaned over to him and said, as I had been saying everyday since his admission to the hospital, "My Daddy strongest." My weak, frail and pain-ridden father, who's eyes had remained closed the entire time we'd been there, lifted his right hand with super-human effort, looked straight into my eyes and gave me a thumbs-up. I think my heart broke just then. That one gesture filled me with infinite Pain...but also a fluttery, frail, gossamer Hope.

That night as well as the next day turned out to be full of infinite possibilities and Hope. The doctors decided to perform a bowel angio the next day to make a last ditch effort to trace and repair the tear in his stomach cavity...something that had refused to come to surface even after two emergency MRIs. 19th afternoon, while my mum, uncles and I were half-heartedly deciding what to have for lunch, I get an SMS on my phone -- the procedure had been successful! The doctors had located the tear and sutured it. My father's vitals were stable and he was recovering well. I think we all let out a whoop of joy and victory in the food court at Mani Square. We all let out our collective breaths which we'd been holding since day-break and finally recognised our hunger and gave in to it, talking animatedly amongst ourselves and yes, even laughing a bit.

That night, I felt so light and free. My father was going to be okay. He was going to be absolutely fine. He was going to come home soon. After all, not only had the tear been fixed, but his latest lung X-ray showed that he was responding to the medicines for the infection he had contracted from the ventilator.

The MIM tried to tell me to contain myself, but I snapped at him, telling him to let me be since I hadn't felt like that in a while.

Two years ago today, I was so many different kinds of hopeful.

The night of January 19th 2010, I was relaxed and chatty and full of positivity. I was all the colours of the rainbow. I was every song I had ever heard, I was a storehouse of unchained melodies. Oh yes, I had charged, full throttle, across the Land of Hope and was heading at full speed to the Continent of Hallelujah!

It was the wrong Hallelujah.

My beloved DaddyDearest died the next morning. He had a heart attack and there was a blockage somewhere in the heart. In an amazing display of irony and what-the-bloody-fuck, the injection that the doctors could give to clear the blockage would also burst open the suture from the angio performed fourteen hours ago.

I am wary of Hope. I don't let it excite me. I don't put an egg in its basket. I don't let it tinge me with stray blushes of pink. I don't let it tap dance within the range of my vision. I don't allow myself to be seduced by its siren song. No, no. Not anymore. Not ever again.

Hope is one helluva mind-f*****.