Saturday, 16 January 2010

saturday rant

The cold is drifting away and this season reminds me of chhotobela and how I used to go to the chhaad of that other house and have oranges and read gopper boi and sleep on the toshok that I would carefully carry up and down with me. I wonder whether ma ever knew really, thakurma would go with me sometimes and curl up in the sun, next to me, like the smallest kitten in the world. She would sleep gracefully and I would fiddle with her snow-white hair and feel great despair and love. I wanted her to always be with me and the fact that she was growing old hurt me.

Dadu had died that year, 2001, I was reading N orM(Agatha Christie) and wondering why I would never enjoy the taste of food again. No chocolate, no orange seemed to taste palatable, edible even. Didn't realize it was grief, didn't understand what grief was. Tried to shut off things through that goddamned thriller, it was a Tommy&Tuppence book. It wasn't bad.

My other dadu died the next year, and then Arko jethu died, and then B jethu died and then S' jethima died this November. Again utter blank grief and despair struck me, food became unnecessary, clothes seemed a burden. Stopped wearing kajol. Then I started wearing kajol again, then things became OK. Now I can think of her without crying. I can survey her many gifts to me with a sense of detachment. Time does so much. I don't understand time. When I think of time, or the passage of years, (young as I am, only 21) I feel uneasy with the process called life. I cannot take the flux, the constant moving on and on, I hate not being able to remember, and I hate the idea of memory.

I want to live every moment that I have lived over and over again. I want to be able to recollect every month, week, day, minute, second. I want to freeze that eternal passing moment and extract its essence and I want to be able to talk with my dadus again. There was so much left unsaid and so much left undone. I definitely want to tell jethima that I loved her very much-I never actually did that.

Thakurma's diabetes is giving her a lot of trouble. She is the most active 81 year old in the world. She is witty, nasty, sarcy and warm. I love her so much it hurts. This house is lots larger and older and everything but the sun doesn't stay till 4pm on the chhaad. Otherwise I'd drag her and the toshok and get some oranges and run upstairs. She usually sleeps on the sofa and pretends she's actually watching TV. Sometimes she mutters my dadu's name under her breath, and I gently take the remote away from her hand, and tuck the chaador around her.
I hate time.

4 comments:

Holy Ghost said...

Change is a process called evolution. What you see, when you see is bound to happen.

But, when you connect occurences and events that you've seen and will see in the future, with one process called evolution - it won't hurt as much.

Eyes live on, so do minds. It's best to record both these two eyes and collect through thoughts that arise in our minds for others to read during their times.

If you want to make 'time' your friend, let others read through your passages that 'time' aint all that bad, time is good.

Always think of the bright side of time. Afterall, the only two things measurable are space and time. Measure your thoughts, but do so only for the good. And then the space is ALL YOURS for generations to come!

Elendil said...

Your grandmom is ubercool. Like totally awesome. The random observations she makes are fascinating.

storyteller said...

Despite being rant, there is something soothing about this post.

Madhuri said...

Yeah its a brutal life :( ... acceptance of time is beyond me too