Big huge thought bubbles

It is strange how certain sights, sounds and smell bring along with it, this deep urge to experience the little nothings associated with it, again. I’ve been feeling very nostalgic about assorted things, events and people, and have this very strong urge to smell, see and hear all of them again.

 

I cannot explain the smell of an afternoon downpour on hot Shahabad stones. The smell is not like the ‘saundhi saundhi miti ki khushboo’, its something else. Along with the smell came a strange happiness which only a 10 year old knew then. Oh, I so crave to smell that again, be a 10 year old again, standing on the hot Shahabad stones, getting drenched.

 

I can see it all again with my eyes closed. How , as a school girl, in every summer, I leaned against the barricaded old railings of the second floor balcony of that almost dilapidated Girish park house in Kolkata. I liked watching the two girls get ready for school, watch Reba pishi apply lipstick looking into the tiny cracked mirror, getting ready to go on her sales girl job and watch the Kakus leave for their government jobs. I watched with much interest, kakimas drain steamy hot rice, and fry fish. And with big questioning eyes, the para-r Thakuma grumble, since the time she wakes up. Their lives were so open- all living out of one room houses, a total of 6 families lived below us, out of 6 rooms, all rooms in maximum of  1000 sq ft area. 1 common loo, 1 common bath for the womenfolk. 1 tap for the men who bathed openly with their laal gaamchaas on.

I was back in the evening kneeling against the railings to watch the kakimas perform ‘Shondhya’, blowing conch shell and light dhup kathi. Then  dadu and Thakuma, called for me and Dipu to sing ‘English’ prayers that were taught to us in our convent school.  I so want to see Kolkata again.

 

I can hear Basi Mye sweep and then splash buckets of water in the courtyard before sunrise, in Cuttack. I would be in a state of semi consciousness, listening to the familiar sounds, that I heard only in summers, a kid. The mooing of cows used to be almost a wake up call (back then, at my maternal grandparents home, they kept cows). Next would be Aie talking to some passer by, enquiring after their family’s well being. Aie knew everyone, and talked to everyone. Then a knock, with the chain against a wooden door (you know, a chain that is used to bolt doors?), and the clinking sound of a kettle and a steel cup next to my bed. ‘Chaha’. I some strange reason, I associate Cuttack with the tring tring of cycles and cycle rickshaw bells.

When will I see you again, Cuttack?

 

And my deepest thoughts are in Hyderabad, with Ma and Dad. Ma is probably kneading atta and making bhaja for dad’s breakfast. And pa must have just taken a bath, and is about to light an incense stick and ask for ‘peace and good health’, in front of the Gods. Before this they must have had bed tea. I love this part. Its my favorite-est part. I love having cha on the bed, with dad, mum, dada, sitting up, chatting on a lazy Sunday morning. Dada is married and so am I. Both, living in far away lands, leaving behind parents, all alone.

Ma and dad are probably talking about me. And my thoughts are with them today, like most other days.