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.

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*****.

Father's Day 2011

Another Father's Day without you, DaddyDearest. They say these things get easier with every passing year. Well, 'they' lied. And I'd like to wash 'their' mouths out with soap and vinegar and chilli powder.

Been missing you something awful these past few weeks. You know I'm doing a play, right? The original play is called "My Mother Said I Never Should", by Charlotte Keatley and it's been adapted into a bilingual play "Maa Bolechhe Korish Naa" by this wonderfully talented girl, Shuktara Lal, who also directs it. It's a four-women play about four generations of mothers and daughters -- their secrets, lies, broken hearts, unsaid thoughts and feelings. Though the men are never shown, their presence very much looms large throughout the play. After all, you can have events happening in mothers and daughter's lives if there aren't any fathers and husbands around, right?

We had such intense workshops before the play, where we delved into our own lives, discussed our pasts and dreams, had emotional breakdowns (breakthroughs?) and drew inspiration from the women, circumstances and events in our own lives.

The relationship my character, Anuradha, shares with her mother, Roma, is so much like the one MaaJanoni and I share. Roma's personality is uncannily close to MaaJanoni's and I feel the same bitterness, hurts and brokenness as my character. It also made me think about and miss you terribly...

This was a scarily accurate and intense play. Rehearsals would always leave us emotionally drained...

And then we came close to opening night -- June 18th, 2011. And I lost it. I couldn't believe you wouldn't be there in the audience and I sobbed.

Were you watching, DaddyDearest? Were you there?

The second show was on the 19th; Father's Day. I woke up with an ache in my heart, but I channelised my sorrows and instead drowned them in domesticity. I sat all four kids down and they made cards for the MIM and BIL-ly Boy. Soon, it was time for me to leave for the show.

Another good show. Did you see?

As we packed up and got ready to leave, 'Roma' gave me a string of jasmine to take home. Without even thinking about it, almost as a reflex action, I put them on your photograph.

It was only yesterday, after the Bro called and we talked about how much we miss you (he couldn't go into work because he was so miserable) that I realised the significance of my actions.

Happy Father's Day, Baba. Still missing you.

Like. You'll. Never. Believe.

The Beauty in Her Soul

Losing my father last year, was the most devastating event in my life. And I have had more than my fair share of run-ins with Unpleasant Experiences, Nasty People and Heart-Attack Inducing Moments in my 30 odd years of existence upon this earth.

The pain and trauma of those 20 days in January 2010 have left an indelible mark upon my psyche and soul, and I know it will never go. Yes, the wound will heal eventually, but the scar will never fade.

Being the Daddy's Girl that I was, am and forever shall be, I confidently believed that nobody was more affected by his passing than I. No. Not even my mother. After all, I was a witness to their marriage and it wasn't particularly pretty.

But then I saw her break. Her life-partner, her companion for the golden years ahead, the man she had two children with, whom she struggles with, made sacrifices with, sang with, lived with, loved, disliked, bickered and fought with, was gone. Is gone. Forever.

Now my mumma is a strong woman. She is our rock. We draw strength from her and count on her to be steady and solid and to never falter on our behalf. Gregarious and generous to a fault, fearless and fun-loving, she is my strength. My daddy was always my weakness.

I couldn't bear to see her crumble and cry. It broke me. Her biggest wail was, "How can I live alone now?"

Yes. Her biggest fear had come true.

Because you see, this strong woman who battled everyone's fears and forged ahead on their behalves, actually did have one fear. I lied. She wasn't totally fearless. She did have one fear. One she was always worried about confronting and succumbing to -- the fear of being alone.

After all, this was the woman who had moved continents just so that she could be near her brothers and sisters. This was the woman who willingly and happily turned her as-it-is-always-open-house into a big rehearsal space in the months preceding Durga Puja. This is the woman who has myriad friend groups to fulfill her different loves and interests: an adda group, a theatre group, a movie-watching group, a spiritual group, a charity group, a travel group...it goes on. This is the woman you call and call but who never answers her land-line, because she's never at home. This is the woman who's always game to go out. This is the woman who never says 'No.' This is the woman who just can't be by herself.

So when daddy died, who was she going to come home to? Who was going to open the door for her? Would she now, finally have to start carrying around a key?

My husband, sons and I went for a holiday to Himachal a couple of weeks ago. We took my mother along. It was there, near the steps of a temple, that I saw my mother looking at the expanse of mountains before us. The look on her face was serene, peaceful, beautiful. Without looking at me she said, "I think I can do. I can carry on. I can live."

This woman, who was once a calendar girl in her Shanti-Niketan-Bosonto-Utsob regalia; who her nephews and nieces still remember as being the most beautiful woman they'd ever seen when she stepped in as a new bride in my grandparent's home; whom I used to look at with awe whenever she dressed up in a Benarasi silk sari, was glowing.

Those images of the young woman in the calender, the beautiful bride in those black-and-white-photographs, the Benarasi-clad woman just slipped away from the pages of my memory. Before me stood a woman wearing the wrinkles of her life upon her face. The battles she'd fought and won were specks of survival in her eyes.

I saw her wearing her soul that day -- it was an armour of strength; it was a mantle of inner peace; it was a glimpse of real, true, inner beauty.

Lucky, lucky me.

One Year

One year. Today.

One year, today, since you've been gone.

So much has happened in this past one year, Baba, do you know?

Both your grandsons made their pada stage debut during Durga Puja. The children put up Kobiguru's 'Birpusrush'. We incorporated the poem into a script, added some Rabindrosangeet and voila -- a 40 minute skit was staged with your eldest grandson in the titular role and he rocked! The younger brat was in a dance, if you please, "Megher Kole Rod Heshechhey" and he was adorable, especially the bit where he pretended to play the flute as 'raakhaal chheley' -- "jusht rike Krishnaa!" No, he still can't say 'l' so it's herro (hello), raabdu (ladoo a la Chhota Bheem) and I raaabh you! (I loooove you!)

The EO has started guitar lessons and I know how thrilled you would have been, music being your biggest passion.

You know I got a by-line for M&B magazine; unfortunately you couldn't read my first article. Haven't written for them in a while now; my heart's just not in it.

And of course, I got the amazing contract to compile and edit two CS books for the Indian Soul series. I've finished the first one. I just can't believe that there's finally going to be a book with my name on the cover and you won't be here to see it.

Oh, and I got selected for a bit part in a Hindi movie, but they wanted to shoot in Jamshedpur on the 1st of January, so unfortunately had to turn them down.

And I finally, FINALLY got round to those dance lessons. Three months and counting and I'm loving it.

Of course you know all this Baba, because I kinda have a feeling that you engineered a lot of this stuff from where you are right now, you know, close proximity to The Pantheon and so on.

I've learnt some stuff about me too, this past one year.

Have suddenly realised that most of my memories with people are either food-related or music-related. And so, I've been cooking a lot more, experimenting in the kitchen a lot and hating the fact that you aren't around to try everything. Maa's no fun ever since she gave up meat. Thank goodness for fish!

I've begun to feel and experience song lyrics much more keenly now. I can't tell you the number of musical concerts I've bawled my eyes out at. I guess I've become more acute to pain, 'dard' and 'bekhudipan'...help! I've also come to the conclusion that Kobiguru was and continues to be THE BEST!! Nobody, absolutely nobody can touch him.

I've learnt that where you're concerned, my source of tears is bottomless.

And the single, most heartbreaking thing of all, is that I've learnt that I can live without you after all.

Here's the thing.

Here's the thing. Here's the thing.

And the thing is,

is that I am a volcano of rage right now.

I am a mass of rage,

of anger,

of pain

right now.

These were the last few days of my dad's life last year.

I am reliving those moments,

those words,

the looks,

the fears,

the utter

and complete

devastation

all over again.

The last cup of tea

I fed you with my hands.

Your desire to get out of there

and write about your hospital experience.

Do you remember daddy?

You had even thought of the title --

"From Doom to Room."

It turned out to be just the opposite.

How ironic.

How fucking,

FUCKING

ironic.

Except.

I can't laugh about it.

I have no sense of humour about this.

He wanted to get out of there

and write about it.

He thought he was getting out of there.

He believed he was getting out of there.

He wanted to write about it all.

About being stuck in a hospital,

in ICU,

about being shifted around many ICUs,

about having all those painful MRIs

and surviving it all --

except,

he didn't.

He never saw it coming.

And neither did we.

And I ended up doing his last rites.

How hard I tried to shake off

all the shittiness

of last year

with a nervous stray thought of hope

only to start off the first day of this year

with another death,

another farewell,

another funeral.

I walked around my grandmother's home

searching for the ghost of my little girl self

in the peeling paint of the walls,

in the faded black-and-white snaps,

the old hibiscus tree from where you got your flowers to adorn your Gods.

They're undressed now,

the Gods

without Their floral tributes.

The flowers hang loosely

and forlornly on the shrubs,

while in the kitchen,

there are memories

of your hustle and bustle

as a lonely cloud of forgotten aromas and fragrances

hovers about in the corner,

trying to keep alive

the love that you dished out to us,

didu.

That house

was where I felt safe,

loved,

pampered,

adored

and so happy.

The emptiness in that house

is so enormous

and never-ending

that there's no way to escape it

and even then

it can't swallow me whole

for I am bigger than that emptiness;

I am full of red-hot rage

and inky-blue pain.

I am a volcano of rage

right now.

I black hole of grief.

Of sorrow.

Of anguish.

Last year,

this day, was an ordinary enough day. The Bro was a-visiting and due back in the States a week later. The boys and I were staying with my parents and the MIM was over; we were going out for a movie. He wanted my parents and brother to join us. MaaJanoni decided to stay back with her sleeping grandchildren while the Bro, the MIM and I headed out for what would be the last ever movie we would ever see with DaddyDearest. Incidentally, the movie we went to see, was 'Paa'.
Yes. Last year, on this day, my beloved baba was still alive.

I love winter. I love winter in general, I love winter in New York, I especially love winter in Kolkata. That also means that I am a big fan of December.
This year, not so much.
This year, December brings back memories of DaddyDearest and his jaundice, DaddyDearest and his never-ending tests and scans, DaddyDearest and his first stint at the hospital, DaddyDearest and the tumor.
This year, December brings back memories of the January that followed last year's December.

There is a huge part of me that can't wait for this year to get over. That one month, and especially that one day in that one month, ruined 2010 for me forever. Yes, there have been many blessings and things to be grateful for as well. But first and foremost, 2010 will always be to me, the year I lost my father. My DaddyDearest. My beloved baba.

But here's the strange part. In a crazy, twisted and weird way, I don't want this December to end.
It's because I can still feel my dad's presence in my life, as if he's hovering over me, watching me, protecting me, loving me.
It's because I can say, "Last year, my dad was still alive."

Six weeks later, I won't be able to say that anymore. And my father will seem so far away. Really, really far away.

And I'm just not ready for that.

A Walk Down Memory Lane

Ever since I was a tween, I wanted to visit Shanti Niketan with my mother and her younger sister, Choto Mashi, my favourite aunt. The reason I love Tagore, Rabindrasangeet and Shanti Niketan so much is these two lovely women in my life. Why, I fell in love with Shanti Niketan before I ever even visited the place! And all thanks to their stories, their memories, their songs and reminiscences.

MaaJanoni was was there for just two years; she did her MA in Bangla Literature there. A phenomenal actress, MaaJanoni was well known for her histrionics and was very popular. She always was and still is one of the most gregarious people I've ever known. The Bro takes after her; I'm a wallflower just like DaddyDearest (was).

My gentle, sweet, introvert of a Chota Mashi studied there for five years; BA (Hons. Bangla) and like MaaJanoni, MA in Bangla literature. My Mashi was known for her vocal talents. Now I may be biased, but I think she is one of the best Rabindrasangeet singers I know!

During Basanto Utsab (i.e. Holi in other parts of India), all the students of the university used to get together and sing and dance. The campus would be aflame in gorgeous shades of yellow and all the girls would don floral ornaments. The tradition was started by Gurudev (Tagore) himself. A photographer's and tourists delight, the popularity for this festival has grown in leaps and bounds. One year, MaaJanoni and her friend were laughing and talking when a photographer came up to them, complimented my very lovely mother on her unusual flower-seed jewelry and requested their permission to take a snap -- they both obliged. By June that year, my mother was married and soon after, she was living in the US with her husband. In a letter from one of her cousins, the following year, the cousin had stated that he wasn't missing her at all since he saw her everyday. How? There she was, in the March section of the 1975 calendar! So that's explains where the photographer was from!

That picture still hangs in my parents' home today. Growing up, listening to these and other such stories, how could I not want to visit this place which held such an important place in my mom 's and aunt's hearts?

So it was always a dream for me to visit Shanti Niketan with them and to see 'their' Shanti Niketan. I wanted to see it all through their eyes.

And finally, two weeks ago, this little dream of mine came true!

I cannot even begin to describe the immense joy and pride I felt as I let MaaJanoni and Choto Mashi take us on a walk down their memory lane. I saw the stage where Mashi received her degree and my mom's degree on her behalf, during convocation. I walked about in their lovely outdoor classrooms. My sons walked upon the open-air stage where their grandmother had once performed.

I had goosebumps as MaaJanoni showed us the famous Shaalbithi, the tree-lined avenue, where Kobiguru would walk, always lost in his magnificent thoughts, hands clasped behind his back. To think that I was walking on the same path...*shivers delightedly*

We clicked so many snaps, they relieved so many memories, my sons ran about reveling in the greenery and fresh air, my cousin and I laughed to see our moms so happy...

It was one of the nicest days we had in a long, long time. Truly a day to remember.

It's Time for the Happy Happies to Begin

On 4th September, my first baby crossed a milestone. He left his twenties behind and entered the big 3-0.
No. I'm not talking about the EO.
I'm talking about my 'Baby' Bro.

Now while the bad rhyming was completely unintentional -- but once I realised that it was happening, I just went with it -- the sentiment is 100% big sisterly and true.

My baby brother; my source of wide-eyed wonder and delight; my first, biggest fan; my comfort zone...is thirty years old. The mere thought of it just boggles the mind.

Once again, I lament the geographical distance; that he is so far away from me/us. For twelve years now, he's been celebrating his birthday away from family, which means he's missed, or rather we've missed, quite a few milestone birthdays of his...18th, 20th and now, 30th. There's something rather heart-breakingly sad about watching an adored and once-upon-a-time-totally-doted-upon younger sibling, grow up and become a man, far away from you.

And what a terrible 30th year this is...minus one of our parents.

We all know that this time is an eventuality in our lives, but there's such a heaven-and-hell difference in the abstract concept and the actual reality of it.

But knowing the kind of person that Daddy Dearest was, I'm sure he spent the 4th popping open a bottle of champagne, pouring out a few pegs for his new Friends, and smiling down gently upon his one and only son.

Happy birthday, baby Bro. A sucky year for all of us, my pet. Next year, may you get the happiness that you so richly deserve.

July 23rd: Griho Prabesh

Over the last one-and-a-half years, the MIM and I have been building a dream, vacation home in the idyllic town of Shanti Niketan. Yes, of Rabindranath Tagore fame.

Two days ago, on Friday, 23rd July, 2010, we finally had our Griho Prabesh. It was a dream come true for many there.
For my mother, who did her MA from Bishwa Bharati University in Shanti Niketan. Even after she and my father were married and had moved to the States, a huge part of her remained behind in Shanti Niketan. She always knew that she was going to come back to India. She had even started making queries about purchasing land and building her dream home there, way back in 1974.
For the MIM's late tamma, or dadi. She was Rabindranath Tagore's student. In fact, he had composed his well-known song, 'Godhuli Logone Meghey' especially for her. She was the first to be conferred the title of 'Geetashree', the female equivalent of 'Pandit' or 'Ustad'; lesser known than it's Hindustani counterpart of 'Vidhushi'. She always wanted her own place in Shanti Niketan. Her daughter and son (my FIL) watched proudly, as the Grande Olde Dames wishes were fulfilled via her grandson (the MIM).
For the MIM and me. He wanted a holiday home. I wanted a place that I had a deeply profound, almost spiritual connection too. And thanks to my intense love of Rabindrasangeet, that place was Shanti Niketan.

However, for me, the ceremony was incomplete.

No, no. Everything took place and the pujo was beautiful. But BIL-ly Boy, SIL, the Nephew and the Niece couldn't be there thanks to the viral. The Bro, because he's busy earning a living in the States.

And most of all, because my DaddyDearest wasn't there.

At least not physically.

But he was there with me in spirit. I felt him traveling with us in the car as we drove down from Calcutta to Shanti Niketan, as I carried his photograph with me. I saw his face in the clouds as I looked out the window, at the sun-dappled tree-tops. I remembered him standing next to me, proudly and happily when we had gone for the Bhoomi Pujo, last year in February.

And I remembered the last pujo I sat for. For him. On 23rd January, 2010. Exactly six months ago.

The man worked his magic with dates once again, just so that he could be with me, somehow.

Father's Day, 2010

This Sunday was Father’s Day. June 20th, 2010.

Father’s Day.

This Sunday also marked five months of my Baba’s passing. Exactly five months. To the day.

At first, I thought it was a cruel, cosmic joke. Maybe the heavens really enjoyed seeing me weep till my heart was dry, wait for it to replenish and then weep again and again and again till my eyes were swollen shut.

Friends sent me warmth, kindness, words of love and wisdom. It helped...greatly.

When the rage of tears finally abated and I sat wearily by myself, curled into a ball in the bean-bag, looking at the green trees framed against a cloudy, grey sky, I let myself feel again.

From the time he went to the hospital and continuing, Baba has woven some kind of magic with and around certain calendar dates. There are messages intricately linked with those dates. I keep telling myself that it is his gift to me, to us, but mostly me, to tell me that he’s fine, he’s ok and he’s still here with me.

I have always believed that when it is a person’s time to go, he will go. The date and time have already been pre-ordained and there’s nothing that we can physically do about it. We may rant and rave and scream till our hearts, lungs and vocal chords burst at the unfairness and injustice of it all, but that can never change anything. No matter how untimely the passing may seem, it was time.

And it was my father’s time. I know that, I believe that, I just can’t accept that. Logically knowing and understandingly accepting are two different things altogether.

And I also believe that when a person dies, they go to an infinitely better place; the best place. I don’t believe too much in rebirth, but I do believe in heaven. Actually, let me rephrase that. I don’t believe that the rebirth is instantaneous. I believe s/he goes to heaven for a year, to be able to look after his/her family and also to be able to indulge in all his/her favourite past-times till it’s time for the soul to enter a new body. And that’s where my father is right now. In heaven...healed, healthy and whole; drinking his favourite tea, listening to endless sessions of classical music and finally learning the truth about his idol, the man my father literally worshipped while he was alive, Netaji Subash Chandra Bose.

It’s we who are left behind who are consumed with guilt, grief and endless questions that will never be answered.

Did my father have any regrets? Did he know at any point in time that he was not going to make it? Did he ever feel pain? Was there ever a point when he just couldn’t stand it anymore?

And of course the all important, burning one – did he know, did he have even the slightest idea just how much I loved him? With all my heart?

I have the answer to that one and it’s all linked to the dates on the calendar.

December 31st, 2009. The day I came home from the hospital to find my contributor’s copy of “Chicken Soup for the Indian Armed Forces Soul” waiting for me. Also, the date of my father’s operation. There was a point when his heart started fluctuating on the table, but he didn’t die. I now think it’s because he didn’t want me to associate New Year’s Eve with his passing. He knew me well, my father. He knew that if he left on this day, I would never celebrate another New Year’s Eve with family and friends again. And that’s why he held on till...

January 20th, 2010. Saraswati Puja. If there were two things my father held above all else, it was education and music. He himself had three degrees but he was never fully satisfied with them. He was in awe of anyone who studied ‘difficult’ subjects and who did PhD’s. And music! Oh music was his all-consuming obsession. It actually seemed appropriate for him to pass away on Her day.
It’s funny; no matter how faithful we are to God in our day to day life; no matter what our religious convictions and beliefs; even non-beliefs, for that matter; we all become our most religious selves when we see our loved ones suffering. Those last few days, when my father developed one complication after another and when we could see him shrinking before our very eyes, I think I called out to every God and Goddess in our pantheon. I made innumerable mannats and promises to All of Them...except Maa Saraswati. I don’t know why I didn’t call out to Her. And even though She called one of Her most dedicated devotees to Her side on Her special day, a day dedicated to Her in worship, prayer and song; I bear Her no grudge. I am not angry with Her. It’s as if She didn’t let me down; instead it was Her way of telling me, “I’ll look after him from now on.” As for the Others, I am still not on ‘speaking’ or rather praying terms with Them. Yet.

January 23rd, 2010. Netaji Subash Chandra’s birth anniversary. Also the fourth day after my father’s passing or the ‘chautha’, the day when a married daughter conducts a puja for her parent’s departed soul. Yes, on the day of his idol’s birth anniversary, I gave jol (paani/water) to my father’s soul.

January 30th, 2010. Maghi Purnimaa. A day so auspicious in the Hindu calendar that many homes and temples all over the country were having Satya Narayan pujas and havans. There was a havan in my parent’s home too, that morning. The one where my ‘baby’ brother gave jol to our father’s soul. After all, it was the 11th day after my father passed away; the day Bengali Brahmin families conduct pujas for their dear departed.

The significance of these dates have not escaped us. Everyone around us also told us what a good and pure soul my father had, for its journey to take place on such holy and highly significant dates.

I agree.

But I still didn’t need my father to pass away to know what a good soul he was.

And it hasn’t stopped there.

Since my father passed away, he’s been sending me all sorts of signs that he’s still with me. I think he knows how much I loved him; warts, faults and all, and he’s trying to tell me he loves me back. And his blessings, somehow or the other, always seem to find me on the 20th of the month.

“Chicken Soup for the Indian Romantic Soul” had already hit the bookstores, weeks in advance. I hadn’t received my contributor copies, until...that’s right, February 20th, 2010.

In the meanwhile, I got a lovely offer...a dream come true; to compile and edit two of “Chicken Soup for the Indian Soul’s” forthcoming titles. A few phone-calls, many e-mails and some contract signing later, I got my cheques on...April 20th, 2010.

Which brings me back to Father’s Day, 2010. It fell on June 20th. Exactly five months after my beloved, beloved Baba passed away. And now I know it wasn’t the fates mocking me. It was my father hugging me and calling my name to tell me that he’s still here; he’s still around, looking out for me and after me.

And I know he will. For the next few months at least. I know he will be hovering over us making sure we are ok and fine and whole again. Until it’s time for him to live once more.

In fact, I even know the date my father’s spirit will leave his final kiss on my forehead before he parts for good, leaving his memories and blessings behind.

It will be next year. Not on January 20th, 2011. I know my father well enough now, to believe that it will have to be a special, significant date.

It will be during next year’s Saraswati Puja; a day of worship and blessings. A day that will be forever and inexorably linked with my father from now on.

And according to the lunar calendar, next year's Saraswati Puja falls on February 8th, 2011.

Also my 10th wedding anniversary.

June 6th, 2010

...would have been my parents 37th anniversary.

Instead...my mother is now minus a husband. I can't think of anything lonelier or sadder.

Aar Ek Cup

We've all heard the story about the devout man whose faith in God was so strong that when his village was flooded, he turned down a raft, a boat and a helicopter by saying, "God will say me." When he drowned and went to heaven, he wailed, "God, I had dedicated my whole life to You, and yet, in my hour of need, why did You not save me?" God smiled sadly and said, "My dear child, I tried to save you three times, but you turned me away each time."

Just remember this tale when you get to the end of this little narrative of mine.

I you had ever spent a night in my parents' homes in Bangalore or Kolkata, and if you had ever slept in the bedrooms near the kitchen, then chances are, you would have been woken up in the morning by a rather terrible clanging and clashing. Not even a pillow over one's head was enough to drown out the quite-deafening sounds of the pestle and mortar being made to work by my father, a couple of hours after sunup. Every morning, without fail, my father would crush a combination of herbs, spices and ginger to brew with a spoonful of tea leaves for his early morning cuppa. This trusty concoction, he claimed, was his health tonic, and in my twenties, I got hooked on it too.

Tea. My father's absolute favouritest beverage in the world. And I don't use the term 'favouritest' lightly. Any time was tea time for my father and he could happily have ten or twelve cups of the brew throughout the day. Even though my silent, introvert of a father didn't say much when friends and family were over, he looked forward to them coming with great delight and an air of anticipation. We'd tease him saying that it was because he was guaranteed another cup of tea on their arrival.

My mother would often get exasperated with my father's frequent demands for "aar ek cup" through the day; not that her irritation bothered him...if it was tea he wanted, it was tea he would get. My father credited tea with many things. He claimed that tea was the reason behind his fair complexion and that drinking tea in the summertime kept the body cool. My mother would snort in disbelief, but maybe the man had something? After all, he was incredibly fair and also the most even-tempered man that I've ever known in my life; uncomplaining, humble and never, ever given to fits of rage. My mother? Well, beautiful, wheatish and passionate about everything and everyone in her life. Also, not a tea lover. So...

I love my aadaa-chaa, elaichi-chaa and flavoured teas as much as I love my cafe latte and hazelnut-flavoured cappuccino. But often I would ask for a cup of tea in my parents' home whenever I went to visit, just so that my father could have another cup. I wonder if he knew that?

I made my father his last ever cup of tea while he was still in the hospital; in the ICU. I had said my goodbyes for the day and visiting hours were almost over. A friend of my father-in-law's was with Baba while I waited in the lobby. He came down and said that my father was calling me. With just a few minutes to spare before the guards came around asking visitors to leave, I ran upstairs as fast as I could. My father was sitting propped up in bed, a flask of hot water, an empty cup and a tea bag kept on a tray in front of him. I asked him if he was feeling alright and whether he needed anything. He shook his head and just asked me to make him a cup of tea. Relieved and happy, I not only made him his tea, but I fed it to him as well, spoon by spoon; the security guard even gave me ten extra minutes to do so. Baba relished each and every drop and let out a sigh of contentment after we were done.

That night he was put on the ventilator. Three days later, he died.

I swore off tea forever. I couldn't even look at a cup without feeling the twin emotions of absolute anguish and irrational rage.

Well-meaning family and friends tried to get me to change my mind. I was stubborn in my refusal. My mother, however, understood.

The fourth day after a parent dies, according to Bengali-Hindu customs, a married daughter as well as her children, perform a puja for the departed parent in the daughter's marital home.

In accordance with these traditions, I woke up, had a bath, shampooed my hair, wore a new sari and fasted until the puja. Certain things are supposed to be given to the departed soul for his journey to the after-life...such as rice, fruits, vegetables and other things, like a bit of bhoomi (earth), an umbrella, some loose change, and five items that the person was fond of eating, amongst other things. Of course it may vary from one household to the next.

I saw all these items placed in front of my father's garlanded photograph. Yes, there was a packet of tea leaves there as well.

After the puja, whilst I was mingling with my family and friends who had gathered round me in my time of grief, I was given something to eat and drink. Famished, I wolfed down the food on my plate and drained the contents of my cup within minutes.

It was only after everyone was gone, while I was sitting with my sons, playing back the mornings' events in my mind that I realised what had been in the cup...tea!

I burst into tears. Not tears of grief at my father's memory or tears of remorse for a broken promise, but tears of awe and wonder.

It was my dad.

It was my dad's doing. He made me have that cup of tea. It had to be. No other explanation will do. How could he bear his beloved daughter giving up something that he loved so much? And that too, for him?

When I told my mother what happened, tears streamed down her face and she softly said, "He's fine. Your Baba is fine."

I am sure he is. And I am sure he is having "aar ek cup" while watching over us from wherever he is now.

It's three months today, Baba, since you've left. And even though I know you're fine, I'm not. But with you watching over me, I kow I will be. Eventually.

Raising a cup of tea, brimful with my tears, to you.

Butt-bitten

So I write my last post and immediately the Universe conspires to bite me in the butt. Or perchance my DaddyDearest sets out to prove me wrong...oh so terribly, terribly wrong I am.

1) My MaaJanoni teaches my EO Bangla. It just makes absolute sense. Now thanks to term break, the EO has happily forgotten all the knowledge he has painfully gained over the past one year. So, I sent him over to Maa's yesterday, for a refresher course. This morning when I went over, she told me how my precious son had picked up a hand-fan and started fanning the photograph of DaddyDearest's that we keep on his desk...it's very hot here after all, hain na.

2) I recently put up a photograph of DaddyDearest as my profile pic on FB. While I was checking the site today, my YO comes and plops himself down next to me. "Ki kochho tumi?" he sweetly asks. And then he sees my DaddyDearest's photograph and his eyes nearly pop out of his head. "Daduku!" he screams, smiling broadly. And then he turns to me, eyes full of sadness and says, "Daduku kobey aashbey? Aami okey miss korchhi!" (When is Daduku coming back? I'm missing him!)

3) This evening, while I'm working on the comp, the EO suddenly, while in the midst of play, bursts into my room and asks me, "Mamma, what kind of a prayer I can say so that Daduku will be able to hear me nicely?" Taken aback, I told him that all he needed to do was talk to him, the same way he would have talked to him had he still been sitting in his favourite chair. He understood and then stood up on my bed to open the latch to the balcony. "What are you doing?", I exclaimed, "It's night now."
"Oh" says my blessed son and goes instead to the windows and opens a pane. "I want to talk to Daduku." And then he looks heavenwards and starts talking to his Grandfather in earnest. "Daduku, tumi kobey aashbey? Aar koto deri? Aar tumi jokhon aashbey aami tomaakey jorey dhorbo aar chhaarbo na, chhaarbo naa, kono dino aar chhahrbo naa. Tumi aar jetey paarbey naa!" (When are you coming, Daduku? How much longer? And when you come back I will hold on tightly to you and never, never, EVER let you go. You will not be able to leave again.)

Now here's where it gets freaky...I was too shocked and touched to cry. But as my little boy was talking to his Grandfather, I got the most amazing fragrance of agarbattis (incense sticks) wafting into my room. I knew immediately that my beloved Baba had heard his little grandson's prayer and was hugging him tightly in return.

Remembering Their Grandfather

The MIM was six years old when he lost his maternal grandmother. The same age as my EO when DaddyDearest passed away. The EO is even younger; just three.

The MIM's memories of his Dida are very hazy; BIL-ly Boy's, who was four, even more so. That's why, I often worry how much my boys will remember their Daduku (what they call my DaddyDearest) as the years go by. It hurts me greatly to think, "Not much."

We've told the boys that their grandfather has become a star and that the sky is his new home now. They took it surprisingly well, but then they never really got the concept of forever. Once, the EO asked me if Daduku would come back when he was older. On the day of the 'Chautha', when I did a puja for my DaddyDearest, I asked the EO whether he would also like to participate. He immediately agreed and asked me what he should do and I said he had to say a little prayer and whatever he wanted to his grandfather. So he asks me very seriously, "I'll ask him to come back fast?" But how beautifully he played his part...repeating the purohit's mantras verbatim and precisely. He prayed for his grandfather with sincere devotion and took everyone's breath away. On the day of the 'Shraddh', the EO seriously sat through the beginning of the puja and made offerings to the fire. At one point in time, when he saw his beloved Mamu sobbing, it broke his little heart and my SIL had to quickly take him away from there.

But that was then...two weeks after Baba's passing. And now it's been a little over two months and they hardly refer to him at all. I sometimes wonder if he's already begun to fade a little bit from their memories. For me, not a day goes by when I don't think of him and my eyes well up. I cry every, single day and each time there's this horrible tightening in my chest that almost threatens to suffocate me when I sit up at night thinking about him.

Now, obviously, that kind of pain is mine. My MaaJanoni and the Bro are perhaps the only other two who feel this way. But yes, sometimes it amazed me when my two little boys stopped mentioning this man who was so much a part of their lives, altogether.

But I was wrong.

Little instances over the past few weeks have shown me that my DaddyDearest lives on in their memories yet. For how long, I don't know, but the fact that he does so for now, is good enough.

1) I remember sitting in my bed, crying one day, not too long ago. The boys were playing with their cousins and I thought I was alone so I could give in freely to my grief. Suddenly, the YO rushed in and jumped onto bed. I quickly brushed away my tears, because he hates to see me cry. But they're smart, these little ones and he caught me. He asked me why I was crying, and I told him I was missing my father. He immediately reassured me and told me to wait until nightfall and once the stars came out, I could see him there.

2) Normally, the EO absolutely love, love, LOVES going to MaaJanoni's house. In fact, he asks to be taken there and allowed to spend the night...or at least he used to. The other day, I told him to pack some of his favourite books because we'd be staying at his Manuku's place (what he calls my mum). Normally, this piece of news would have been greeted with a big whoop of delight. This time, he just buried his face deeper into the book he was reading. I gently asked him what was wrong and whether he didn't like going there anymore. He replied, "It was more better when Daduku was there." Aaah! So he missed him too! And we had a little chat about what he missed and it was mostly my dad cooking for them...his special omelets, french toast, sausages and of course, pizza! That little chat filled me with lots of warm memories and made me feel so much better.

3) The EO and YO were watching "Grandpa in my Pocket" on Ceebeebies and thanks to storyline, the EO was prompted to ask me, "Why was Jason worried about his Grandpa?", and as the EO is wont to do, he answered his question himself before I could, "Oh. Because he loves his Grandpa?" and then he looks at my DaddyDearest's photograph nearby and says, "Just like I love my Grandpa."

Always know this my sweethearts, your Grandpa loved you both too. Very, very much.

One Wedding and A Funeral

My Baby Cousin got married less than a week ago. The wedding and all the ceremonies leading up to it were a combination of nerves, laughter, chaos, tears and fun.

Yes, I had fun, but, and I am ashamed to say this, not in the beginning. When my Mashi, Mesho and cousin sisters arrived from Delhi for the wedding, I was too full of angst and pain to let myself feel any fun. And then one day, I saw how much they were hurting too and for God's sake, it was my Baby Cousin's wedding. It was her day; her special day. These same people were ready to postpone the wedding indefinitely until we were ready to cope. My MaaJanoni, my brave, strong, greiving, hurting, family-loving mother said "Nothing doing! The wedding's happening and it's happening here!"

So yes, the wedding happened and it happened here in Kolkata. We were making the arrangements before DaddyDearest went in for surgery and after my family arrived, we continued with the preparations. There were many, many, oh-so-frickin-many moments when despair took over, but I grieved in private or with The Bro, away from the festivities.

Anyway, this is not what this post is about. It's about watching my Baby Cousin cry during her 'aashirwaad' ceremony after she was welcomed into the boy's family. The same girl who was so exxcited about finally getting married and who couldn't wait to start life as a married woman and who didn't sob during her 'bidaai', finally started crying as the car pulled away and then once again in the boy's home (The Bro, Baby Cousin's sis and I all accompanied her). Seeing her cry, her sister started sobbing and seeing the two of them weep, I started.

All this crying reminded me of my DaddyDearest's funeral, where, at one point, The Bro, MaaJanoni and I were doubled over in pain and crying as if our collective hearts were breaking.

Why all this crying? At the funeral as well as the wedding, besides the obvious reasons of sadness, albeit sadnesses of different kinds. Past regrets and moments we wished we could take back, swim in front of our eyes. Things we could have done differently, opportunities to say things left unsaid, moments of meanness and pettiness...so many what if's that seem to swarm our heads and cloud our eyes.

Sigh.

One thing that I know and which has been played out to me with such absolute force in these past five weeks, is that life goes on. Sad and Happy are a couple walking side by side, each having their moment to shine in the sun and when they shine, they can be pretty blinding.

This is something DaddyDearest believed in very strongly; and now he's making me live it.

It won't stop me missing him, though.

One month.

It's been one month, DaddyDearest, since you've been gone.

One month and there have been days when I felt like I was going to die from the pain; die by drowning in my tears; die of my heart exploding; die from the scream going on inside my head, my chest, my lungs and just not stopping.

One month and there have been moments, many moments when you gave me signs that you are ok. I have felt your presence in my life in ways that have awed me and comforted my soul.

One month and you have shown us so clearly, so perfectly that we must carry on and continue; that we must laugh and live.

One month, my beloved DaddyDearest, since you've been gone and it still hurts like hell...sometimes more.

One month, since my world has changed...forever.

One month ago...

today, Baba, you were sitting up in your hospital bed and having soup. Your first taste of 'food' in twelve days. Visiting hours were over; on special request they let us peek through the door as you had your first sip. You saw us, grinned and gave us a huge "thumbs up" sign.

That evening, I went back and made you your cup of tea. Tea. Your most favourite beverage in the world. You were so happy. You looked at me, yours eyes shining bright, and said, "Today is the best day!"

You said a lot of things to me that day, DaddyDearest. You talked about your experience of being shuttled from room to room through never-ending corridors. You said you were going to write about your entire hospital experience and had even thought of the title -- From Doom to Room.

It was the last time you were so chatty, Daddy.

Exactly one month ago, today.

What do I write about now, DaddyDearest? "From Room to Doom"?

Missing you something awful today, Baba...

Words that begin with D...

Dear DaddyDearest,

Devastated.
Depressed.
Doomed.
Desultory.
Despondent.
Dejected.
Disheartened.

Dead. So very DEAD inside.

This is how I'm feeling, my darling, DaddyDearest, without you here. We've entered a new month...the first without you here. So many of such painful firsts. It was my birthday on the 27th...the first without you here and I can safely say the WORST ever. The Bro is here and this was the first time you weren't there to pick him up. So many people you loved and haven't seen in years came over to the house for you...and for the first time ever, you were not there.

They say it gets easier, but right now it seems tougher. Unbearable. Every second of every day, my heart explodes anew.

Daddy. My favourite 'D' word. I miss you so. More than you ever thought possible.

Love forever and ever and ever,
Your devoted daugther