Happy Birthday!!!

Ma's post prompted me to stop procrastinating and write again. I was going to post today anyway, because like her, I seem to feel the urge most when there's an occasion coming up. Like his birthday. Birthdays are a good time for reminiscing (and introspection) anyway, I have always found.

Here's one really really old memory: Dada and I had a bedtime routine when we were kids. I have no idea how it started, but every so often, once we were tucked into bed, we would have a Q&A session, which would go something like this... (we would talk in Bengali, but the English translation is in italics):

Mini: Dada, tui ghoomachchhish? Are you sleeping?

(Yes yes, I do realize that is a silly question to ask, but hey, we were kids.)

Bozo: Na. No

Mini: Tui kaalke aamaar shonge khelbi? Will you play with me tomorrow?

Bozo: Hain. Yes

(I am pretty sure there were a couple of other questions after this one, but I can't really remember them.)

Mini: Tui aamaake bhaalo baashish? Do you love me?

Bozo: Hain. Yes

Mini: Koto-ta? How much?

Bozo: Prithibi-ta joto boro toto-ta. As much as the earth is big.

Yes, quite corny, I know, and really the kind of conversation that sounds cute only coming from under-ten-year-olds, but it reminds me of how lucky we were to have each other for company while growing up, and also of how close we were. Of course, I think we usually had this conversation after we had had a fight, but it was a pretty good way to make up.

We would take turns asking the questions. In fact, I am pretty sure he thought them up in the first place. Oh and he would turn it into a competition as we grew older. If I'd answered, "as much as the earth is big", he would equate his love for me with the size of the universe, and no matter how much I tried, he'd always manage to find a way to top my statement. Yes yes, he was the smarter one, I know. :)


That's him with Ma at Narendrapur (the boarding school he went to for a year), and in front of our house when he was about 8, I think.

My Aditya, My Son, My Sun

Tch, tch, Lalita! This seems to have become an occasional thing!

And I don't mean 'occasional' as in once in a while, but 'occasional' as in I seem to come back to it only to commemorate an event.

And the event this time is the birth of my first-born, my son, Aditya, my sun for 20 brief years.

This is his 13th birthday since his death in 1994 and, wherever he is, he will be 34 years old tomorrow.

The Title and Label for this post may seem a trifle dramatic, but don't worry, the post is not going to be of that tone. And that's another reason why I mean to keep it short.....

A mother from The Compassionate Friends wrote,

"It was from his death that I learnt to look at Death and not be afraid, and from what I have learnt about myself, and in the light of my new philosophies, I have looked again at myself then and now.

Yes, it is true that we can never be “the same” again. If we were not to change and grow, it would be as if that death has not had meaning in our lives." ....Betty Wainer

On this the eve of his 34th birthday, I stop to ask myself if I have changed - and, if at all I have, in what way. In all outward respects, I seem to be the same. I still nag my Arup and I still react strongly (and HOW!) to things - and people! - I do not like. I still love teaching. I still speak out when I think something is wrong and / or unjust. ... The more material? I still don't like shopping or cooking and I still pamper myself with beauty creams and stuff. I've out grown my shoes and bag fetish, but that's because of age and, ahem, maturity.

So what has changed?

• I think I am actually more mature, in a real, deep way.
• I am still outspoken, but am more picky as to which issue is worth speaking out about.
• This might seem contradictory, but I am less tolerant of nonsense than ever before. I might not speak out or rave and rant about it the way I used to, but just turn away from it.
• Again paradoxically, my patience seems to have increased immensely. I might not understand why something is happening or why someone is doing what (s)he does, but I do go along with it and try to understand it.
• I am definitely more compassionate, more understanding of others' problems, especially if I see them as genuine, even if unreasonable to me.
• Also, I am more willing to help others than before, almost but not quite rivalling my darling mia-ji.
• Time is not so important to me now. Things will happen if they are to happen, when they are to happen.
• I care less than ever what people (with the sole exception of Mini and Arup) think of me or of what I do or how I look.
• I can't say I have become any more religious minded than I was before, but I do believe more than ever that there is some power that controls us and that our destiny is pre-written for us.
• I am more consiously appreciative of my Mini than ever before. I think I can say that I appreciate a mother’s love for her child more than anyone else. That does not mean that I love my children more than any other mother, but that, having experienced the full cycle of my child’s life, from the joy of his birth and life to the devastation of his death, I am more aware of that love, because of my loss. For is it not a fact that we do not appreciate anything or anybody fully until we have lost it/them?
• Indeed, I am more consciously appreciative of all our children. I see a little bit of Bozo in them all, more especially in my nieces and nephews but also in all our children of Chetla Gaach Tola - actually, in all the young people I have met and loved (thinking of you here, Craigee!). But above all, I love them most for just being there, giving us joy in their happiness and their well-being.
• I believe in the after-life. I have to, for that is the only way I can bear my loss. I will see my Bozo again.
• And no, I do not fear Death. To die is not such a terrible thing.

Randomly put, those are a few of the things I think I see. I'm sure - I know I have changed in a myriad of other tiny ways. If I were to dwell on it some more, I'm sure I'd find and be able to pinpoint many and Mini and Arup would be able to point some out too.

I have not made a conscious attempt to change and had not realized I had until I stopped to think about it just now. Furthermore, it is not for me to say if I have changed for the better or worse!

But I'll go ahead and say it - while I don't think I was a complete b**** before, I know that Bozo's going has really made me a better person. And now that I have dwelled on't, this is to be my New Year's Resolution. I shall try not to break it like I have all my other ones ......

Oops, I've said it publicly!

So Lord, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

I carry your heart with me

It has been a while since my last post... and this time it wasn't just my innate laziness that kept me from writing. I recently came to a couple of realizations in quick succession, followed by decisions which, while ultimately sensible, left me feeling quite lost and questioning my sanity as well as my ability to be happy. This, for someone who for the most part is perfectly comfortable (without being complacent, or so one hopes!) with who she is and the way her life has turned out, was unsettling to say the least.

Yes, very cryptic and dramatic, I know. But therapy is too expensive and unreliable, so expressing myself on this blog is the preferable alternative, hence the drama. (Ma, you can relax, that was strictly tongue-in-cheek!) On the other hand, this is not the forum for discussing the details of my follies (hence the veiled remarks), so without going into boring detail, the upshot is that I am now single again after almost 2 years. In case I wasn't clear before, it was my decision to end it. The irony is that it was by far the best, most uncomplicated relationship that I have had (and I have had quite a few) and he is a genuinely good guy, one of the best, as well as my best friend (yes, lots of "best's" I know :) but they fit).

Anyway, all things considered, it turned out quite well... the break-up, that is; thanks to how close we are, and the fact that we still want to be in each others lives. It will take some getting used to, naturally, but it seems the worst is over, and the good thing is that we helped each other through it. So today, as I write this, I am still questioning my sanity, but not so much my ability to be happy. The point being, I have made my peace with my inner demons, for now anyway.

What does all/any of this have to do with my brother, you may well ask. Well nothing directly, I suppose, but as with any major event in my life, whether it is a happy or a sad one, I think of him and wonder what he would have made of all this. I know he would have liked Craig, of course, but I also like to believe he would have understood without my having to justify myself, why I did what I did. He was, after all, the most non-judgemental person I have ever known, at least as far I was concerned. I have tried, in turn, to be that person to the people I care about and hope I have succeeded to some extent.

My parents (who met him in December last year and needless to say, loved him) have also been a pillar of support through all this, by giving me my space while letting me know that they were there if I needed to talk. So Baba-Ma, here is a poem by E. E. Cummings that I came across in a movie called " In her shoes", which made me think of you, of Dada, and others I miss:

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)

i fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

It's a bird ... It's a plane ... It's Supergirl!

My Mom's been telling me about 'IT' these past few months. There's going to be a baby. Her tum'd been growing and had began to look as though it would burst.

Now do I care if it'd be a boy or a girl? I don' sink so. I'm too little to know the difference and / or have a preferance. I'm only about a year and eight months, you see. All I know is Ma and Baba are SO EXCITED. And that's so infectious. I ask Ma each day, well, not each day, really, every couple of weeks.

You see, this woman doesn't seem to remember she's pregant! It's I that have to watch in horror as she climbs that rickety old step-ladder to bring that suitcase down from the loft. I can't see her face, that tummy being in the way, but watch carefully for the slightest sign of imbalance. My fingers twist nervously, but I'm ready to stretch my arms out and catch her if she topples over.

My intentions were always good, but not always so sensible. You know what I did one day? Well, she went off to the loo and took so long to come out, I began to get worried. It was about 10 o'clock, my juice and mid-morning nap time. I was getting hungry and sleepy - and anxious for her, remember! I went up to the bathroom door and tried to get her to talk to me. As we chatted, I fiddled with the little bolt on the outside. It was fun. How easily it slid to and fro...

After a bit, she began to come out. About time, I thought. But what's keeping her? Why isn't the door opening? She's calling to me. Bozo, doraja ta khule de. Open the door, beta. What? She'd closed the door from the inside, not me! What was all the fuss about? Now she's yelling out of the bathroom window! Something about somebody phoning Baba.

I don't understand it. Where's my juice? I want to sleep. I begin to whimper.

Then, quite suddenly, I hear her voice from - down below. I put my face to the floor and see her fingers, poking out from under the door, from the space there! Aaye, beta. Come. Lie down on the mat. Her voice is soft and comforting. Then, my favourite lullaby wafts through the crack. Ghoom padani mashi pishi.... and I fall asleep there, on the bathroom door mat.

I think I was still sleeping when Baba got home from work, at 4 o'clock! We're lucky he was on morning shift, for otherwise he'd not have got back before 7 or 8, as was his wont. Also, lucky there hadn't been any breakdowns of those Banbury thingies that day....

And we're lucky Ma wasn't nearer her time... or Mini could have been born in the loo!

But I digress. This is not about Ma and me, it's about The Coming of My Supergirl.

A couple of weeks later, my Chitra Mashi came to stay for the duration of some course she was taking in Madras. Now this is one cool gal, but more of her another time. Her arrival was a big relief, now that I had someone to share the Mom-watching duties with me. Sometimes, I doubted how grown-up she was - who takes a near-full-term pregnant woman on boat rides, for example? - but obviously, she'd be reliable enough in a crisis.

And, on July 23rd of that year, the crisis came at midnight, just like with Cinderalla. There was this hustle and bustle, excited voices, a few groans, I think. But I just sucked harder on my pacifier and went off, back to sleep. When I woke up again, Ma and Baba weren't there. I'm not sure what I did or said, if anything, but Mashi, can you fill in for me here?

Baba came back round 8. Very pleased with himself he looked, I can tell you. Nobody told me nothing, but from their talk, I could tell I had a baby sister.

Oh, JOY! And no, I don't mean that the way Y meant it when she saw pure vegetarian food at a party she'd been invited to.

Anyway, Mashi went off to the hospital and Baba and I followed at about 10. For some strange, unfathomable reason, K. J. Hospital would not allow kids in to visit their Moms, so we had to stand outside in the grounds, below Ma's window. Mashi brought the baby to the window and held her up for me to see.

Reminiscent of Rapunzel, Rapunzel! Throw down your hair! and Oh, Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou, Romeo! And what more romantic than my very first glimpse of my Supergirl, my baby sister, the one I was to grow to love even more than I loved Ma and Baba, or even myself?

Not that I could actually see her, of course. Not very clearly, at least. It was only about three years later that Ma discovered I was short-sighted. But Baba said, Oi to! Look! There's your sister. There's Mini! And the excitement and love in his voice was enough to make me full of those very sentiments!

But. Incredible! They'd already named her! And I'd still to have a name! I wasn't named until they had to choose a name for me to enroll in Dunlop School when I was three. I was still Bozo! Well, I know, I know! They'd always been decided. They'd name their first daughter after that old friend of Ma's, through who Ma and Baba had met. Mrinalini Singh, her name was.

Anyway, I was glad they'd shortened it to Mini and not to Munni, after the original. My parents are more sensible. Well, sometimes, anyway...

Two days later, Ma and Baba came home with their bundle of joy. And what a fuss they made! Mini slept in their room. Ma told me she'd move to my room when she was 4 months old. As I remember it, Ma was with her all the time! Whenever I looked, Mini was there, ín Ma's arms, and these desperate, sucking sounds, broken by intermittant, gasping breaths, would emanate almost continuously.

But was I jealous? Of course not! I'd watch fascinated when she slept in her little white, cane crib, which I had vacated only when I was 8 months old and moved to my own baby cot in my own room. I'd be in Ma's arms as the crib was on this high stand. And together we'd admire this beautiful little baby, our princess, our Supergirl...

No, I was far from jealous! A little bit insecure, maybe. My insecurity manifested itself in two ways. I began wetting my bed again and I went back to the bottle, from which I'd been weaned when I was 10 months old. Didn't seem to bother Ma that much. She seemed to take it in her stride, and just went about it as though she had just had twins. There were two sets of nappies and two sets of - what are they called? Those padded sheets Ma used to place over the rubber sheet? Kaathaa, they call it in Bengali.

And Ma had to feed two babies - can't believe I'm calling myself a baby! - at the same time. There was Mini in one arm, sucking on one of her breasts, and me in the other arm, sucking on my bottle! Both gazing up adoringly at her face, lovingly bent towards us. And more often than not, she'd be talking to ME, telling me how wonderful I was and how lucky we all were to have that gorgeous baby sister of mine with us.
I suppose Ma thought Mini was too little to understand her, and that's why she spoke to me. But Mini and I have our own language. And how she gurgles and laughs, when we share our secrets! Little does Ma know the things we say and are up to! I happily gave her my teddy bear till she got her own and even welcomed her into my cot. When she's older, she can even get on my rocking horse. But hang on! She has been on it already, in Ma's tummy!

There are other plus points too. The maid, Anjali Amma, can now stop tying my hair in ribbons, for starters!

Sorry, if this has become too long and boring, guys. I was having so much fun remembering, I just lost track of time. - And space! But if you've read thus far, obviously you love me enough to hear all about the Supergirl, who came into my life on this day of July the 23rd...

I end with a poem me and Ma wrote the other night. It's set to the tune of 'I Feel You In My Fingers ...'

My Cell Phone Mini
I see you in the morning
And as I go to bed;
You’re always there beside me
It’s like you’re in my head!
Each night when I do kiss you
I’m sure you feel it too!
I say goodnight so softly -
And do you hear that too?

You know I love you, I always will
And when I am dead, I’ll love you still
There’s no beginning, there’ll be no end
‘Cause on my love you can depend!

I see your face before me
Each time my cell phone rings
Your smile is sweet and gentle
It makes me want to sing.
Whenever I feel broken
I simply think of you -
And all I ask of heaven
Is that you keep being you…….

... and nothing to do with aptitude...

Yes, academically, they were both very differently inclined, and I remember how upset Mini used to be when her teachers would compare the two of them. And rightly so! I used to go and talk to / yell at them, my colleagues, the next day, though Mini never knew that, I think!

But we, her Ba and I never doubted her abilities. We were rather disappointed when she chose Hotel Management out of all those career options at that expo we all went to. (Do you remember it?) But we didn't let on. At least I hope we didn't....

And yes, he was the best big brother anyone could ever have, without exception. He totally, unconditionally, doted on his baby sister, from day one. The number of times he took the rap for her! (Do you remember, Mini?)

Even today, our Dunlop friends remember how he, not seven years old, would carry his school bag, Mini's school bag AND MINI, only a year and a half younger, on his back, coming back from school!

And she adored him right back, despite occasional appearances to the contrary. (What siblings don't have their disagreements?)

I remember the whole Dunlop School being abuzz one day, when I went to collect them! Must have gone to pay the school fees or collect report cards or something, as they usually came home on their own.

Anyway, the school was all abuzz, as I said before. Mrs. Mukherjee, Mini's teacher, and Mrs. D'Souza, Bozo's Class 3 Maths teacher, were supposed to be complaining to me, but they were totally amused and actually sounded approving!! They told me what had happened.

That day, Bozo'd scored 100% in a Maths test (yea, Y, nerdy even at age eight!) and two of his class-mates (one a sardarji, I remember! though that's neither here nor there...) beat him up for it. Mini was in class 2. When she got wind of this, SHE WAS LIVID. She got together a couple of friends, Pum-Pum and ... who else? All girls. Maybe someone remembers who they were! Anyway, she got them together and, armed with foot-rulers and sticks, they went to the Class 3 classroom, closed all the doors so they couldn't escape AND all the windows, presumably so the teachers wouldn't see and interrupt them, and BEAT THOSE BOYS UP.

Bozo never had trouble from them again...

It's purely academic

Ok so I've been lazy. I find it very easy to be lazy, unfortunately. But here I am, fighting my natural inclination to be a sloth, and writing about my beloved elder brother instead. ooh aren't I the sweetest :-)

Ok so I am not. He was easily the better person and certainly loved me more and showed it better too. Not that he didn't have any flaws, and we definitely had our rough patches, but he was still the best big brother ever. He's only 20 months older than me and we had the best childhood together. There are plenty of incidents from our Dunlop and Rajasthan days that I could write about and I will at some stage, but I will save them for a future post.

This one's about more recent memories... we were always close growing up, but our mid-teens did not go very well at all. We fought a lot; he became a domineering and controlling big brother all of a sudden, a complete change from the mild-mannered boy who had let me boss over him all my life, and I have to say I truly hated him for a while back then.

Thankfully that phase didn't last forever. He finished school and left for BITS (Birla Institute of Technology and Science), Pilani, many miles away, and came back after his first semester a changed guy. He wanted to be friends again, but as my parents (and some of my exes!!) know only too well, I am incredibly stubborn and find it quite easy to be coldly unforgiving. So it took 2 more trips and numerous pleas to be forgiven before I finally "deigned" to do so and we were back to being best of friends just like that. (Although I continued to remind him every now and again about how mean he had been to me, and he would be suitably contrite each time!)

By this time I was nearing the end of Year 12 at school, and Bozo, who was quite happy at BITS, wanted me to join him there, never mind that I was too lazy and/or not smart enough to get in. He would keep looking up courses he thought I might enjoy, but while I did like the idea of studying at the same University as him, I had no illusions about my intelligence/academic commitment, and decided to study Hotel Management instead. While this decision did disappoint him a little, and he continued to try and "sell" BITS to me each time I visited, he quickly progressed to being highly enthusiastic about my hoteliering achievements.

Like the time I happened to come first in my Cookery Finals in my First Year (purely by chance, seriously... my Professor was as surprised as I was). Despite knowing the full story, Dada went and boasted about his "talented" little sister to his friends, which I discovered on a subsequent trip to Pilani around Diwali with my parents, elder Aunt and cousin Manu. During this visit, some friends of his were cooking Tandoori chicken, and Dada told them very confidently that I would be able to tell them exactly what to do, being the culinary expert I was. I vaguely remember a disagreement over how long the chicken should be marinated for, and Dada laughed at them for not listening to me. A few hours later, I was embarrassed when the friends said quite smugly (and justifiably so) that the chicken had turned out just fine, but he insisted it would have been far better if they had followed my instructions.

The best big brother ever, as I said.

Note: I would like to assure everyone (especially my mother!) that I do not suffer from low self-confidence/self-esteem. It's just that there was an undeniably large difference between our levels of intelligence, coupled with the fact that he quite liked studying, whereas I had no interest in it whatsoever until I went for my MBA. So while theoretically I could have gained admission into BITS, it certainly wouldn't have been as effortless as it was for him, and I most definitely did not want to work hard enough for it. And that's ok too.

The Coolest Nerd

This is the Brat here...Ummm...I mean 'Y'.

So, really strange thing, actually.

I was just pottering around Pandara Park with nothing to do, recently, and chanced upon a little red diary - in which I seem to have written all kinds of crap when I was younger.

And the very first entry on the very first page is a poem making fun of the esteemed biggest brother - clearly it was a time when I was particularly jealous of his talents, and during that period, would insist on calling him a 'Nerd'.

Further, I have a feeling that he told me something about how the greatest poems must never rhyme ( now, I remember him saying something here about 'An Ode to a Lump of Cheese', but my memory fades out again...sigh...).

Anyway, my childish handwriting (which hasn't really changed much) in the book says:

''(99% Sweat, .1% Inspiration, .4% Feeling, .2% Boredom, .3% Bozo)

Bozo is Back
Woe, Alas, and That is all,
Because this Poem Mustn't Rhyme,

I sit here feeling sorry
For the nerds of this world
There's no denying, but they keep trying,
They're Nerds...Nerds...Nerds...''

And that's it.

How Irreverent! How Rude! What a Brat I Was!

But what fun we had!

Aditya Deb...Coolest Nerd I've ever known :-)

More photoos

Lazy thing that I am... am taking a break from writing stuff... so here are some pics instead...

This was taken in J K Gram, Kankroli in Rajasthan, after some function, probably in 1984/85. Not sure what that look on his face is all about, but I sure look pretty pleased with myself, probably 'cos I was definitely out of "prop" mode by then----->

Many years later, on a beach in Beira, Mozambique. Baba (our father) had been there on his own for 2 years, and this was our first visit, in 1990.

<-------

Aha! More baby pictures with Ma... happy little boy, wasn't he... that one on the bottom left was at his.. well some Bengali ceremony that I can't remember the name of ------>

A Brat's Memories

I am posting this on behalf of my cousin Y, who is one of my closest friends, 6 years younger than my brother, less of a brat now (much less!!!) and expecting her first child in July... And here's a picture of Dada and Y... she had just finished tying some ribbons in his hair, hence the dorky look on his face!!!

Now, Mashi, why would you give a name like Bozo to the most un-Bozo-ish person around? But it's a very sweet name, anyway!

I thought I would have lots to write about but I guess I really don't. I have gone through all the posts and comments carefully and can tell that getting it all out is a great thing. But I can write only about the very few things that I remember.

I never got to know Bozo Bhaiyya (yes, he was more 'Bhaiyya' than Dada to me) as well as I should have. He would just sort of turn up once in a while at Pandara Park. I would typically only know he was here, when I saw him shaving at the wash-basin in the morning – but it was always nice to have him around, even though I didn't really quite understand what he was all about – hadn't met anyone like him, you see!

For one, he picked up a guitar that was lying around – I was trying to learn it at the time – and he said he didn't know how to play – and proceeded to play what sounded like a very intricate and beautiful tune, to my young ears. I was amazed that someone who 'couldn't play' could sound like that. I have other faint memories, one of which involves a huge book, with almost all the Beatles songs, lyrics and chords – was it his, which he lent to Abhi, or something? Don't remember and don't know where that book is, either. Was he a big Beatles fan? I think he was but don't remember this clearly.

I do remember one time when I happened to write him a letter with a Rakhi enclosed – he was so touched by it that he sent me a present – a subscription to the magazine 'Connect'. Now, he was clearly intelligent beyond comprehension but I was a fairly stupid kid – and couldn't understand what the magazine was talking about, so made a disparaging remark about it one time. He smiled and casually asked me to go and hang myself and the topic was closed. Even after he passed away, the magazine just kept coming and coming – I don't know how long he had subscribed to it for me. I tried to appreciate the magazine after that but I still couldn't and in fact, every month's arrival filled me with a feeling of guilt for telling him that I was planning to use it for firewood! However, I like to think it didn't bother him at all because he was way too smart to have his feelings hurt by some ten year old smartypants. But then again, he was sensitive enough to be touched by a simple Rakhi in the mail, so am not sure. Anyway.

He had this amazing knack of telling jokes with a completely straight face, of course. I remember one particularly horrifying 'Dead Baby' series – I was so taken with these that I wrote them down in my diary for future reference. It doesn't seem all that funny now, 15 years later, especially to me now that I am expecting – but the point is – he was incredibly funny and I haven't actually seen that kind of sense of humour in anybody else – ever.

My memories are all mixed up and very sparse; I realize that as I try to write this. Maybe it will get clearer over some time – will try again then.

Love you, Mashi and Mini!

Y

June 5th

Today it's 5th June...and I very well remember the same day 13 years back.It's strange how our memories are.Sometimes we forget things so easily, but I still remember vividly each incident on the said day and what we went through. Of course, it was a loss of a lifetime. We lost a family member and the world lost a great soul.

Those were the days when Bhaiya (our maternal grand-dad, I dont remember who started calling him that, most probably Bozo Dada) was very sick.Our world revolved around him.Ma, Baba, Bon and I were always petrified what will happen next.Each month there were new complications, new doctors, new nurses.But it was nothing what we expected in our dreams would happen on this particular day.

June 5th was not a day unusual. Bon and I were having our summer holidays. Ma was burdened with grading of heaps of answerscripts. She finished it on this day, after series of sleepless nights and went to submit those to the coordinator.Baba, Bon and I were doing the usuals when we received a call from Darimama.We saw that Baba got excited while talking to him and was crying as he kept down the phone. We couldnt believe our ears when Baba said "Bozo is no more". Three of us broke down but soon gathered ourselves because of Ma. Ma was already under too much stress and we couldn't let her know the moment she comes. So when Ma came back after some time,three of us behaved as if nothing had happened. Till today, I think that was one of the most trying moments of my life. It was so difficult to hide our emotions.

After a while, Ma came to know from PishiDimma( Ma's aunt). As you can imagine, Ma just could not believe it.Who can believe that a bright, young boy would leave us forever before he turned 21?We grew up hearing stories about Bozo Dada and Mini Didi from Ma.It was such an irony that Bozo Dada came to visit Bhaiya, after Bhaiya had his first cerebral attack.Within a few months of his visit,he passed away. Bhaiya,though survived many more attacks for another 2 years, didnt know till his last breath, that his favorite grand-child was no more.Bhaiya had suffered a lot due to his illness, but his illness saved him from knowing this harsh truth.

We had met BozoDada the last time in Feb'93, when he came to visit his ailing Bhaiya. Who would ve known that this was the last time we are seeing him.Now, no matter how we are, where we are, it hasnt been a year that we havent been reminded of this day.

What Happened?

A Letter From Beira (I am posting this on behalf of my mother, Lalita Deb)

Many of you who knew and loved Bozo never knew what actually happened. You just heard out of the blue one day that he had passed away. That must have been so difficult, and more so because we didn’t bring him back home.

Today is the 5th of June. Every year, around this time, I feel like I’m going mad. Try as I might, I just can’t help it. I begin to remember everything, with every detail starting with how I was counting the days to when the four of us would be together for the first time in about four years. Bozo’s hols from BITS started on the 20th of May that year, 1994 and he and Mini flew out here. Arup and I received them in Harare. I remember how THRILLED we were.

Well, since I AM thinking about it, I thought I’d use this blog (thanks yet again, Mini) to think aloud, as it were…

Arup had for the past six months been planning this trip around Zimbabwe. Hotels and fares were all booked, and we looked forward to a brilliant time together, which we did have. We took the overnight ferry on lake Kariba, and spent a few days on one of the islands, with elephants, hippos and crocs for company. Then we drove down to Vic Falls. Spent a few days there, at Hwang-He National Reserve.

Mini, in the meantime, had us truly worried. She’d developed this little lump in one cheek. So we decided to drive back to Harare. Had her checked out.
I can’t believe Bozo shook the doctor’s hand and then waited outside with a magazine. He was already sick, though we didn’t know that then…
We were so relieved Mini was ok, we all went and saw a movie – that’s what this family does when anything untoward or special happens!

That night, Bozo had a fever. Said he’d caught cold and would be ok with a couple of Dispirins.
The next day, Saturday the 28th, we started back for Beira. We stayed the night at Drifter’s in Mutare. When Bozo got high fever again, I was alarmed but he still just insisted on having a couple of Crocins and going to bed. We should have gone back to Harare then. We know that now and Arup and I will forever blame ourselves for not doing it. It's a terrible burden to live with ...

The next day he was fine and we carried on and reached home on Sunday evening. He again ran a high fever and I was convinced it was Malaria.
Monday morning, they did a test. It came out negative. Monday night, the fever and shivering again. Tuesday morning, another test said negative to Malaria. Tuesday night, the fever and shivering again. I got some malaria tablets out. Had them in my hand as I phoned the doctor. No, he said don’t do it. Come back for another test tomorrow.

Next morning, the doctor looked at him and said it was hepatitis. We were actually relieved! Ok, he’d miss a semester from uni, but with rest and a strict diet, he’d be ok. (Only later did we learn that when malaria gets really bad, it causes hepatitis.)

The doctor ordered some tests. Everything began working against us then. The tests could not be done in Beira hospital, so we’d have to go to the Italian medical centre (they had one for their peace-keeping forces then). They had an inspection coming up, so could not do the tests till Friday. Even the Indian doctor with the Indian peace-keeping forces was on leave...
Anyway, we had the tests done on the Friday, by which time Bozo had become really sick. The results came in on Saturday, with advice for him to be hospitalized. Onset of renal failure, it said.
Of course, Beira hospital did not have the necessary equipment, so we chartered a plane and flew him to Harare the same day. He was admitted to Avenue’s Clinic. None of the doctors or nurses gave any indication as to how sick he was, so we went home, relieved that he was in good hands and would be ok.

Six o’clock next morning, we got a call from the hospital that we should get there soon. When we reached, he was already in a coma. They seemed to be doing what they could, but his organs began to fail one by one. In the end, his heart stopped. At 1330 hours, the doctors called us in and told us. He had died at 1320.

Old King Cole

One's memory is a strange thing. I remember the exact moment this picture was taken, and always have, but I don't remember who took it, although I am fairly sure it wasn't one of our parents. I do remember that it was taken on a Polaroid camera.... the very first time I saw one; it was very exciting!

I am not even sure how old we were... it was taken directly after a school function (and we are standing next to the stage) and Dada played Old King Cole in some kind of an adaptation of the nursery rhyme. I, on the other hand, had the extremely glamorous task of playing 'another brick in the wall' quite literally. I, along with a bunch of other chubby kids, formed part of the wall of a princess's castle. Did not bode well for a career in the arts. Sigh.

Dada, however, was always effortlessly good at everything to do with academics as well as extra-curricular activities. I remember a few years after this picture was taken, he was the Master of Ceremonies at another event. (It was some kind of a cultural show, and I had by this time graduated from being part of the set to being one of the dancers.) I was standing out front in the audience at the beginning, and there he was, this small boy on a huge stage in front of a sea of people, but there wasn't a hint of nervousness as he so beautifully spoke about the programme ahead of us that evening. He couldn't have been more than 11 or 12 years old at the time, and I was completely in awe of him. It was not the first time (and certainly not the last) that I felt so incredibly proud that he was MY brother!

Now what?

So I 've spent the last week or so trying to figure out whether this blog is a good idea or not. This is of course ridiculous, and I do realise that... I finally make a decision to do something I've been wanting to do for a while and then I agonise over whether I should have started it or not. Writing the first post was an interesting experience. It felt good writing about Dada, but I also spent the next week on the verge of tears, which is not a state I am fond of. I also wondered whether this blog defeated the purpose of my telling people I am an only child (I mean, I really don't want people reading it and thinking, "Oh poor thing"), but then again it's not supposed to be about me anyway, is it, nor is it really designed for people who don't know about him (ironically, the first 3 people I did send the link out to never did get to meet him, although I wish they had)... so maybe I should just quit being so self-centred and just send out the link to people so that they can start contributing if they so wish. So yes, the blog stays on. I also know that the first post was fairly intense and a little sad, and while I hope that that does not get to be the general tone of the blog, I have decided it is ok if some posts do get a bit low. Nothing wrong with that. Or so I think. For now.

Photos

Ma and Dada

This is one of my favourite photos, and just one of many baby pictures we have of Bozo... he was a cute kid after all. I, on the other hand, must have been a supremely ugly baby, because apart from one lone photo of Bozo and me when I was a few months old, all other pictures of me are age 3 or so upwards, which I assume is when my loving parents thought I was cute enough. Bah!

Why now?

This blog has been a long time coming... my brother, my Dada, would be (is?) almost 34 now... and I have been wanting to write about him for a while now, but unlike my far more talented parents and cousins, I am not good at this. This blog, I think, will take the pressure off me though, because it won't be "my" blog... with some help from family and friends, I hope it will be a forum where people who knew Aditya (Bozo) will talk/write about him, share their memories of him, good, bad, funny... and even if not many people come across it, I want to be able to just put down my thoughts, about life with him, life without him... I want to be able to remember him, however corny that may sound.

Why now? I decided to finally stop procrastinating, as simple as that, I guess. It's been almost 13 years now, and I have moved around so much I hardly ever meet (nor am I in touch with) people who knew him too, apart from family of course. And even rarer are the occasions when a bunch of us (family or friends) are together and actually talk about him. Which is fair enough of course, it has been 13 years after all, and to be honest I rarely think about talking about him myself.

In fact, hardly any of my friends/colleagues here even know I had a brother. And that is because of the conscious choice I make when asked the usual "do you have any siblings" question, in order to avoid the awkward silences and the obvious discomfort caused by the "whole" truth. And I am fine with the simple "no" that I respond with, except that I cannot help but cringe everytime I get the inevitable "you must have been spoilt being an only child" comments. I bite my tongue though, and let them pass, sometimes with a "hah, you didn't know my mother!" (no, not really, Ma, I just think it ;-))

But then there are times when you do want to talk about him, this incredibly smart and funny clown of a brother that you had, who loved you completely and unconditionally, who could be overly protective but was always unduly proud of your smallest of achievements, who just died without any warning before his 21st birthday and what do you do then? And then of course there are times that you want to talk TO him and those just catch you completely unawares and what do you do then? Well apparently after 13 years, you start a blog :-)

Enough of this mushy business... let's get this blog started.