The part of Calcutta where we used to live earlier, is predominantly inhabited by people who during the independence were known as refugees. People who left their homes in erstwhile East Bengal , now Bangladesh. People for whom the mirth of independence was marred by the agony of partition.

Our family was one such. My grandma used to recount , how she, as a young lady along with my grandfather , had left behind her land of birth and set for an unfamiliar city with a lot of fear, pain , hope and anticipation. Initially they had taken shelter in a building at Park Street, which today stands tall a premier hotel.

Slowly , by laws of adaptation, their uprooted life began to find grip in the new soil. Land was bought , house was built. Moving out there, my grandma realized she was far better off than her neighbours. The neighbours were seven members , only five came to the city. The parents were witness to their daughter and son in law’s death. On the common note of anguish , they started to bond soon. So if Ilish was cooked for lunch at one home, the whole neighbourhood got a taste of it. They were complimentary to each other’s ordeal.

Along with stories of tuntuni, Ramayan, Mahabharat, alibaba, sindbad, tales of Dhaka and Borishal used to occupy the central place of my imagination. Maybe more than that. The places seemed like magical. The stories of unbound lands, ponds, playgrounds, Durga Pujo in courtyard, school journey admidst fields- perfect recipe to see a 7 year old’s eyes gleam.
“You know I got a double promotion in school”. I used to laugh.
During lunch, in the bed, I heard stories of a land I have never seen and formed images myself.
“ You know, there was this turbulent period of the late 70s , when curfew was imposed. Your Uncle’s marriage was a low key affair. People were not allowed to have illumination lest planes surveying understands that there is a city.”

Its tales like these, that my grandma used to tell me almost everyday, more so on the 15th of August...

I could be...

1. someone dejected with the ways of life, but happy taking her dog out for a walk,watering plants, talking to birds and playing the guitar.

2. someone running an ice cream parlour at one busy corner of the city.

3. someone still plagued with dandruff and hairloss troubles and using facewash 9 times a day.

4. someone happily settled , playing with kid and husband , shouting at maids while hurrying off to office.

5. someone who has finally managed to graduate from microwave to gas cooking.

6. someone happily single, ruling workplace in the day and parties at night.

7. someone who does/doesnt get excited about train journeys or about checking co passengers' list.

8. someone who is plain happy.

9. Or someone else.


Sigh!
Btw, Happy Father's Day.

So this weekend I could finally manage to make a long due telephone conversation with a long ago met not-so-long distanced friend of mine.
Actually , I fear calling her.calling her means for the next 1 hour we would be on our glorious glib talk, shutting ourselves from the ongoings of the rest of the world, only stopping when enough heat is generated between the duplex device and our auditory canal .


Calling up her means first of all mourning about our common plight of single hood. Either she’ll stance instances of how every damn dumb girl of her college is committed or I’ll make her even more sad citing stories of how the girls we found so stupid in school were dangling away with their boyfriends. Then we’ll pass some expert advices on on certain very important social issues like relationship of certain filmstars, etc, relive our old crushes and mourn again on the fact that we did nothing wild at all in all our teenage.

Last weekend , I attended a couple of unwanted weddings. No, unwantedly attended a couple of weddings. Usually in such functions, me and my brother make it a point to either stick to our father or fly to some uninhabited corner of the venue to get least noticed. So there I was, this time too , at a nook of a not so huge venue. Suddenly a huge came running towards us, with a wide grin.i wanted to play a ringtone on my cell and pretend a call has come. It was too late.


Lady:so you are Ponu’s daughter?(more grin)
Me:umm…ahhh
Now another lady comes to the picture.
Lady1 to lady 2: “ arre is not she Ponu’s daughter?”
Now, I know, and as many other known relatives say, that I don’t look like either of my parents. So I resemble this Ponu?
To my utter relief , I could see my mother , on the verge of visiting this territory
And I indeed turned out to be Ponu’s daughter. These people , who happen to be my mom’s cousin , calls her by this weird name.

Then they started talking of how I wetted their clothes when one of them took me in their lap and lo ! they started having a fight to ascertain whom I had wetted .
These conversations with unknown relatives are more tyrannical than the ragging sessions in the first year of college, I tell you.


There’s nothing good on the TV except for the new vodafone advertisement.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lB1UPJ4leqs

I rush down from the terrace, climb up the stairs from ground floor,poke out of the bathroom door to see this ad ,whenever I hear it being played on tv.

and i love its jingle too much:

"Everyday I want to fly stay by my side...
Everyday I want to dream stay by my side...

Every morning I wish I could just play....
Wish the mornings would just stay..."""