On Calcutta.

Mild winter breeze. Grey skies.

Overbearing crowds.

Traffic snarls. The eight minute wait at a traffic light.

The bells of cycle rickshaws. And the horns.

The CNG autos. The low floored buses.

The mouth watering rasogolla at the neighbourhood sweet shop.

The familiar smell of warm toast in the morning. The tinkle of a spoon against a tea cup. “You still prefer black?”

The endless fish curries. The waiting for biriyani.  The mutton rolls.

The plans changed. Times not kept.

The doorbell ringing in the morning. “Didi, aajkey oi baari tey ki hoyechhey jano? ” (“Do you know what happened in the other house this morning?”)

The news bulletins on Jyoti Basu. The heated discussions on politics, ideals and beliefs.

The new literature festival. The book fair missed.

Smiles, laughters.

The walks around a park. The life that seems a little troubled. A friend’s shoulder. A patient hearing.

Evenings spent with relatives. Neighbor’s lives. Gossip. Smirks. Laughters again.

Shawls and sarees. Kashmir emporium. New Market.

Sitting by the side of a mighty river. Staring out into the open.

Dreams had. Deams lost.

Peace. Home. Hope.

Heartache. Soulmate. Best friend.

Calcutta.

On an answer found

This last Sunday I made mutton curry at home. (Yes, that is an achievement in itself and achievement so significant that I had to use that as the opening line for my post!). Now, the mutton curry was good and we finished every last drop of the gravy with generous amounts of rice. R went to the bedroom shortly after that, slipped under a quilt, let out a big sigh and said “marital bliss”. With a smile that lit up his sleepy face.

Even though I kissed him and tucked him in nice and warm, it got me thinking. Thinking deep. Is this what marital bliss is about? A good meal and an afternoon siesta? What about the bigger things? Things that have more meaning? Shouldn’t they be a part of the marital bliss first? (It becomes imperative to mention here that at that point in time I still had not figured out what “bigger” things could constitute marital bliss but I was sure that there were “bigger” things).

Two days later. I came back from office freezing in the wind chill and promptly sprinted my frozen behind to the warm bedroom and slipped under the quilt after having changed into more comfortable clothing. I whined about how cold it is and how I do not want to get out of bed. Come dinner time R went and heated up the dinner, stacked everything on a tray, got it to the bedroom, waited patiently till I finished, took back everything again and came back to tuck me under the quilt. Oh! And kept a water bottle on the bed side table. As I lazily disappeared under the comforter, I smiled and said to myself “marital bliss”.

And right there, under my quilt on a cold Tuesday night, I found my answer!

Yet, in my country…

…it all works.

Sights in Delhi on a sunny winter afternoon.

Please click on the pictures to enlarge them.

This is my post for Wordless Wednesday. Amazing how I never actually post on a Wednesday!

On a winter afternoon

I thought winter mornings are the best. Until I saw a winter afternoon. With its soft sunlight in my bedroom, curtains drawn, a soft quilt and complete silence. Except the birds in my balcony who always have something to say. And surprisingly they have more to say in the winter than in any other season of the year! But that doesn’t matter at all. For I have had a perfectly sumptuous meal of daal, bhaaja and fish curry with rice, every bone in my body is lazy and I am just curling up on my bed to watch Charulata before I doze off to sleep.

Aah. Bliss. Thy name is winter afternoon.

Edited to add later- How would you spend a perfect winter afternoon? Tell me. I would love to know.

Diwali

is over.

The Rangoli is gone, the diyas are gone, the candles are over. R burst his fair share of firecrackers, I stood at the farthest corner possible, draped in a new saree of black and gold with a few Phooljharis in my hand cringing every time a cracker burst in the vicinity (that is to say, every other second right beside me). The lights from my balcony will come down tomorrow. Life will go back to being muchly mundane. We will all go back to work, to our daily commute, the songs on the radio and no particular mad rush of getting back home.

The Diwali ended well. With a traditional Bengali dinner complete with finger licking mutton curry, tomato chutney and narkel naru.

The Diwali brought with it a nice crisp breeze, a slight chill in the air, the mellow warmth of the sun and walks any time of the day. Yet now when the sunlight falls squarely on my east facing balcony, a slight heartache tells me I am missing something. It brings me tears of both joy and sorrow. Of loved ones coming and loved ones leaving.

But then there is tender daybreak. A new day, every day. It brings a little bit of hope for all of us. Hope of holding on, hope of letting go. Hope of being able to smile one more time before wiping away hidden tears.

Yes. Diwali is over. All that is left behind now is the strange feeling of nostalgia, the sudden feeling of emptiness. And the lamps, waiting to be lit again next year.