In Memory of the Woman Who Loved Sweets

Mornings in our home started with Mini – scraggly stray tomcat we had adopted from somewhere – tapping on the kitchen door, and thakuma making a concoction of mashed bread, milk, and water (only a little) for him. This was accompanied by thakuma’s threats “I won’t give you anything to eat from tomorrow” or “you dirty cat, I will throw you out”. Mini was unruffled.
Because she knew, none of those words mattered. Thakuma would come downstairs early next morning, lay out the food on a plastic milk packet, and make sure Mini finished the last morsel.

Then she launched into the garden, with her flower basket, plucking flowers for puja. I loved watching her sweep the puja room with water in a tiny bucket, and then lay out the flowers diligently for every deity. But we actually waited for the next bit – the long meditation she used to plunge into. That meant, we could raid her cupboard for the extremely tempting mint and orange toffees she used to store. Well, she knew, of course. We couldn’t blame Mini of the fast emptying glass jars. But she never said anything. She just made sure the jar got refilled.

I cannot think of anyone else telling us the story of Alibaba and the Forty Thieves in a more colourful manner than her. Chiching phak”, she said very sweetly. I liked my lunch a little better on the days it was accompanied with this story. I do not know of any other thakuma running around the courtyard and playing “lock and key” with her grandchildren. I wonder how many thakumas are caught redhanded at the sweet shop, mouth stuffed with roshogolla, when her diabetes report had, yet again, warned her to stay away from sugar.

This winter, my visit home will be different. There will be no more dressing up for wedding parties half an hour earlier than I need to because thakuma would want to see me all decked up and chat about the sari before I leave. I wouldn’t be watching Bama Khyapa while she very nearly dozes off in front of the TV. I won’t even need to wake up on time to run upstairs before her morning siesta begins.

Things change. But memories don’t. Love, certainly, doesn’t. And I love you, thakuma.

[Thakuma passed away on November 20,2010.]

Chill

Just made myself a vodka - a dash of lemon, a broken green chilli, just the way I like it. Nothing to romanticise. It's just to beat the cold that's creeping up through my toes, and settling down on my nose tip. It's not exactly as I had pictured such a night as a teen. Then, there would be a soft-glow neon light and Chopin, I would be in something silky, skimpy - certainly not in blue socks and cheetah pajamas - and my job would be way better. I guess dreams (the day kinds) come true in a warped way. The two things that are same are the glass of vodka and the slight tipsy-typing on the comp. Except that, back then, I was penning (read typing) a story, a classic. In reality, I am still not in bed because the sheets will be so cold that I'm scared, and because, for the third day in a row I had dinner alone.
Which should also be fine, because in that beautiful imaginative picture, too, I was on my own. As of now, I don't fancy that so much as I did in my head. So, a little while ago, I stood out on the balcony, feeling all mystical staring out at the fog blanket. Got bitten by a few mosquitos, and froze. Decided that fog looks sexy in Wuthering Heights and Harry Potter. And faraway flickering flames lit by someone trying his best to beat the cold - they look awesome, spellbinding - just would've been better without the smoke drift.
To be honest, I love it all. The smoke that chokes me, the chill that scares me, the fog that can cause traffic delays, the icy bedsheets (not so much the mosquitos). Together, they make a crazy mosaic of life. Soft wool, socks with five toes, hot chocolate, dashing in and out of the shower, tracking the dropping temperature graph, sudden peek of the sun usualy once a week, an odd drizzle that sends the mercury zipping down even more.