Aditya Deb

Bitter-sweet sixteen

2010-06-05T23:14:00.009+10:00

***Wrote this in Fiji, posting upon return to Melbourne. Must try and blog more often!!!***

I am in Fiji as I write this, on the last day of our deferred honeymoon. I have been married over a year now, and it feels so normal to have a husband! “How’s married life?” is a question we get asked quite often, and “Great!” is the answer, of course, but more important to me is the fact that our “married life” is really no different to the life we had already begun together prior to tying the knot. In fact, in typical fashion, we decided to wed after we had established that marriage was not a big deal for either of us, i.e., we had nothing against it, yet it was not something that we felt would be the defining moment of our lives.
So here we are, 12 years after we first met, in year 2 of our “married life” and year 3 of our re-connection, enjoying each other (in oh so many ways!) and continuing to build our lives together… sharing the joys and angst of, amongst other things: house-hunting and subsequently settling into our new home; each other’s jobs or lack thereof; making career choices; the dysfunctional nature of each other’s families (ok, mostly mine!); planning mini-breaks and honeymoons and then of course actually going on these holidays.
In the 2 years since we met up on Brunswick Street in Fitzroy, this (monkey) man has become my best friend, my confidant, the core of my “support system” who cheers me on and cheers me up unfailingly. And, much like Dada used to, such a long time ago, he believes in me (blindly, almost!) and most importantly, stands up for me. I am pretty fiercely independent, as is Russ, and am quite capable of fighting my own battles, but on the rare occasions that I need proof that I have someone in my corner, it is good to know I have that unique brand of unconditional support once again.

So, 16 years after losing Dada, I find myself able to enjoy a fun-filled holiday in the days leading up to his anniversary, knowing my husband will appreciate the occasional lows in my mood and help me deal with my unexpected fears, and try his best to understand them, even when I don’t quite comprehend them myself. Let me explain…

We were staying at the Novotel in Nadi for a couple of nights last week, before heading over to Viwa, a secluded island resort a 3-hour boat ride away from the mainland. On the 2^nd night, he fell ill. Probably food poisoning / indigestion brought on by a suspect guava, but whatever it was, this was the 3^rd time in a 6-week period that he had suffered from acute abdominal pain and vomiting, and I was furious with myself for not having brought along any medicine to relieve his pain. Like Dada, he is really quite amazing at handling his pain and discomfort, and does not complain much at all about his misery, nevertheless we struggled through the night with hardly any rest.

We had set our alarm for 6.45 am as we had arranged for a pick-up at 7.30 am, but we were already awake when the alarm rang. I wanted to cancel, or at least postpone the Viwa leg of our trip, not wanting to be so far away from medical assistance, and he was seriously considering it too, when he threw up one last time. Considering he had already purged most of the previous night’s meal from his system in previous bouts, he threw up mainly water this time. Quite natural (and he actually started feeling a lot better and after a hot shower decided that he was feeling well enough to go to Viwa), but seeing him retch, I suddenly had a vision of Dada not being able to keep down water…

So there I was, feeling worried, helpless, ever so guilty, and exhausted… on the bus to the marina, to my mortification, the tears started rolling and would not stop… and the poor chap who had spent the night in pain and was still in a lot of discomfort, held my hand and comforted me in silence. On the boat I felt a bit better and then explained that it was it not just about Dada… that I had suddenly been engulfed by an irrational fear of losing him, Russ, too… the parallels were just too much for my sleep-deprived mind… a holiday overseas at the end of May with someone so important to me; an illness starting out innocently enough; medical help not being easily available or the most reliable; and then the violent vomiting…

He assured me that he would not take any risks… that he was definitely feeling well enough for the trip, and agreed to tell me if there were any signs of worsening pain instead of ignoring them as is his wont, so that we could organize an immediate return to the mainland if required. Luckily, he improved steadily and within a couple of days the pain was gone completely and we thoroughly enjoyed our 5-day stay on the island without any major injuries or incident, although we were both carefully scrutinizing every scratch and cut on both our bodies for signs of infection (see Note at end of post), and checking the food for suspicious smells! Not totally unfounded, the watchfulness, as another honeymooning couple had food poisoning the night before we left the resort. Plus I have managed to twist my right ankle, so it is quite swollen and painful at the moment, and Russ is recovering from a cold, but all in all, we are in good shape.

But bloody hell, the invisible scars we carry are the worst, as I have just re-discovered. I absolutely refuse to live my life being constantly paranoid about the well-being of the people I love, but this time (for a couple of days there) no amount of mental “shush”-ing from the sensible part of my brain could quell those annoying, irrational fears that the emotional, mush-ridden part kept conjuring up. Oh well, if this is the price one has to pay for love, I guess it is a small one and worth it… well, as long as it is kept in check as much as possible!

Note: My dad recently had Cellulitis, which is a bacterial infection of connective tissue leading to severe skin inflammation, and can apparently develop into sepsis if it goes untreated. It usually occurs where the skin has previously been broken, such as cuts, insect bites etc. He was quite unwell for a couple of weeks but luckily the doctor had diagnosed the condition early on and started him on a course of antibiotics, so he’s okay now.

P.S.: Over the years I have had many arguments with my parents, trying to convince them to move back to India where medical resources and help from family and friends is more readily available and where I can get to them easily in case of emergencies. Failing at that, I had fights with them about the importance of medical insurance… there was a long period of time where they had none, and in particular had no emergency evacuation facility in place. Finally I gave up, deciding that they were responsible for looking after themselves in the way they chose to.

And they do have their own support system there… a number of the doctors in Beira are their friends, so they make house calls, and genuinely care about their well-being as was evidenced when Baba had Cellulitis, and even when Ma had her accident. So, although I used to get agitated about the fact that Dada was sick there and was perhaps not helped in time, I do less of that now, accepting that it is their choice to live where they do.

Fifteen years...

2009-06-06T02:52:00.007+10:00

Too tired to write today, but thought I'd upload some photos...

Little Bozo

More of little Bozo

Dada and me with Reshmi and Opu

At Narendrapur ... (L to R) Baba, me, Didu, Dada, Ma and Thamma

With Dadu

My first post of the year... on the last day of the year

2008-12-31T10:38:00.012+11:00

It's the 31st of December... can hardly believe it's the last day of 2008 already. I haven't blogged at all this year, which is not good at all... but Ma has been keeping the blog alive for us, which is great... it is our blog, after all.

What a year this has been... like a roller coaster ride! it did not start off all that well... for me, anyway... there was the trip to India which was great in many ways... got to spend time with Ma, Baba and my Didu... and spent a lovely few days in Bombay with my cousin Y, her hubby V and their adorable little daughter, my niece. G, my other darling cuz joined us there too, and we had a ball. Christmas was spent with a lot of the family at Y and V's place, and we had fun watching 10-year-old home videos, playing Taboo, eating biryani and drinking Tequila and wine. But as always there are the unpleasant repercussions of spending time with family and friends, and this time it all got a bit too much. I also spent NYE being sick thanks to a meal of bad prawns, so that wasn't a good start to the year anyway :)

Then Ma had her accident in Beira, and that was a crazy time. Extremely worrying due to lack of good medical care and especially frustrating because there wasn't anything I could do to help. Much as they love each other, my parents tend to fight more than usual in moments of crisis, which is part of their relationship I suppose, but upsets me no end. I really want them to move back to India as soon as possible where help is more readily available, and family and friends are closer. But that will happen soon enough, when they are ready.

Anyway, so with all of this happening, and some events of late 2007, I went through a bit of a low phase early this year, and had to cut myself off from family and friends for a while to retreat into my shell. I also think that starting the blog, while definitely a good thing, had also brought memories of Dada and the associated guilt to the fore, and made me a little too vulnerable. (That is the reason why I decided to take a break from blogging, although it's been a longer one than I needed because I've been busy with work and other things lately.) Luckily, I realised that I was getting pretty close to depression, and seriously considered getting some help, and somehow, the very act of looking into counselling options did me a world of good, and soon enough I was back to my normal, mostly cheerful, sometimes-crabby self. Things were looking up.

And then a couple of months later, I re-connected with an old acquaintance, which has turned out to be the best thing ever. His name is Russell McInnes and has since become the most important person in my life; he is simply amazing and I've fallen head over heels in love, which, while not a new state of being for me, hasn't happened in a very long time, and nor has it ever been so delightfully uncomplicated; I find I am less cynical and more hopeful about the future, and it was the easiest decision to take what is a huge step for me; to marry him. Fortunately he is crazy enough (about me, and in general) to have agreed to put up with me for the rest of his life!

It was on the 16th of May, my Didu's birthday, that we first met up for dinner, and by the end of the night I felt quite nervous because I really liked him but was not ready to start a new relationship at the time. Thanks mostly to his easy-going nature though, we got past the initial complications on my part, luckily for me. We have been practically inseparable since July, but are able to pursue our own interests at the same time; have had a couple of awesome holidays in Queenstown and Tasmania and are in the process of moving in together; everything being so perfect, it seemed only natural that we officially commit to spending the rest of our lives together, just to mix things up a bit!

And so it is that 2008 ends on a very different note to what it started on... not only am I happier than I have ever been, I am also busy planning my WEDDING!!! We are in Traralgon at the moment, in country Victoria, where his parents live. We have come here with my friend Bhavna and her husband, Prashant; went on a road trip yesterday to swim in a gorge, and are going to spend New Year's Eve camping nearby. A good start to 2009 and hopefully lots of good things to look forward to.

Happy New Year, everyone, and especially to my dear Ma and Ba. Love you.

Poora Bola Karo, Honey!

2008-12-29T03:07:00.008+11:00

This here is inspired by Y's post of 7th December on her blog.

This blog seems to have become more about der Debs than about Aditya. But it matters not, does it? For my part, whatever I do or think or say still includes him, as though he were still here, with me. And he is. Still here with me, i.e., perversely perhaps, but strangely, closer to me than he ever was when he was alive.

For those that have not read that post, it was about Y's family indicating to her that the sarcastic add-ons to most of her coversation were well left out.

Be that as it may, there are those of us that will think half our convversation and speak the other half.

Take this, for instance:

Arup (crouched on all fours behind the TV, which has not been working): Hmmm. This connection needs to be tightened.

Lalita (sitting in front of said TV, waiting to see if image comes back on): Hmmmm, ...

A whole minute passes by.

Arup (sounding rather annoyed): Koi! Where's the screw driver!

L, jumping up: Oh! You didn't ask for it. Here. Here it is.

A: Of course I did! I said this needs tightening. Pass me the screw driver.

To be fair to the man, he truly thought he had but - believe you me, he did NOT vocalize that second sentence!

Then there are the times when he borrows something or takes it to get some work done, and then 'returns' it. I'm still getting over the trauma of having 'lost' my D.I.R.E., or Residence Permit. I'd given it to my Mia to go and encash a cheque that was in my name. Then we travelled to Maputo, and I realized to my horror that I was not carrying it. In this country, you can be jailed for failing to produce it on demand by the police. Fortunately, they rarely ask for it if you're driving on a Mozambican number plate.

I remind my Mia that he had taken it to the bank.

"But I returned it to you!" says he.

This has happened before, so I'm able to remain calm.

"So where did you put it?" asks I

"On your table!?" he says, matter-of-factly.

"But you said you'd returned it?"

"Yes!?" even more matter-of-factly.

Well, the happy part of it is that after 3 weeks of looking high and low (the house got tidied up in the process!) I found my D.I.R.E. but tell me, dear friends! Which equation sounds more common? Sensible?

Returning = leaving wordlessly on table, me there to see or not?

or

Returning = Vocalizing: Here's your D.I.R.E. I'm putting the money in the safe?

I suspect a lot of wives have had this kind of an experience. Come on, tell us, do!

And where did I find my D.I.R.E.?

On HIS table!

God, I love this man!

And Bozo did it too, ...

2008-12-10T20:06:00.006+11:00

One afternoon, Bozo and Mini had just come back from school and were playing a bit while I got the food heated up and put on the table. Mini sat quietly (!!!??) on the divan, giving her doll her feeding bottle. Bozo played with his dinky toys - he had these itsy-bitsy models of various makes of cars and trucks.

Well, there I am in the kitchen and I hear his cries, alarmed and desperate -

My FUCK! My FUCK!

WHAT?! Says I

My FUCK! My FUCK! Ma, I can't get my fuck!

Mystified, wondering, SHOCKED, I leave kitchen, walk into lounge. There he is, on hands and knees in front of the fridge. His bum's in the air, his face is to the floor as he peers underneath the said fridge, little arm stretched out under it to grasp something. All the while yelling, My FUCK! My FUCK!

Ki holo? Says I. (What's happened?)

Aamaar fuck chole gaeche! (My fuck has gone!)

So I go down on hands and knees beside my six-year-old boy, reach behind the fridge and retrieve it for him., ...

Did any of you ever notice that Bozo had a problem with his 'R's? Well, he did! Harare was Hawawe, Fire Engine was Fangine, etc, etc! So now, who can guess what had gone behind that fridge?

There's a prize to be won for the first one to guess, so be quick!

MINI, SHH-SH-sh-sh-sh!

Snapshot: Three Little Words

2008-11-09T18:59:00.013+11:00

She's 3 and 5 months. Her first day at school dawns. She's all set and eager. Armed with brand new school-bag, brand new pencil-case, with brand new pencil, rubber and other implements, she goes forth to face the outside world. When we reach the school gates, she lets go my hand and runs off into the grounds. I watch with a twinge of regret. What? No crying and clinging to Mommy, as Bozo had done for days? Not even a hug and a 'Bye, Ma'? But that was ok. She'd been rearing to go to school ever since he'd started and it had been difficult sometimes to get her away when we'd gone together to drop him off! So I let her go. I watched as she joined up with Tania and Pum-Pum and said hi to Titli Didi. And then, Miss Rita scooped them up and took them into her playgroup.

She came home that day a tired but happy little girl. The crisp new uniform of white shirt and red gingham tunic was not so crisp or so new any more and the white socks and little black 'ballerina' shoes were well-soiled, but she fell asleep over her lunch and only awoke around 5.

That evening, we were all sitting in the lounge, generally chatting, Bozo and Mini happily playing with their Lego blocks. Suddenly, Mini began to shout something out, in a loud, strident voice. She kept shouting three little words as she got up and clambered onto the divan that stood under the switches. We watched in shock and horror as we realized what she was saying. "Shuck-a-Fuck! Shuck-a-Fuck! Shuck-a-Fuck!"

Obviously, we were stunned and didn't know what to say or do for a bit. Obviously it was something she'd picked up in school that day. She carried on her chant as she stood up on the divan and switched the fan off. And then, she stood there a few seconds, looking VERY pleased with herself, almost looking for approval. Then, she switched the fan back on and wordlessly returned to her brother on the floor.

We grown-ups sat there non-plussed, wondering what it was all about. Then I asked Mini. What was that you were saying? "Shuck-a-Fuck! Miss Rita bol-lo, Ingriji te fan off koro ke bole, Shuck-a-Fuck." (Miss Rita said, in English, 'Switch off the fan' is Shuck-a-Fuck.)

We grown-ups were even more mystified. Miss Rita? Chaste and a virgin, religious, 30-something Miss Rita? Did she even know the word, let alone teach it to her 3-year-olds?

It was Bozo who put our minds at rest. Apparently, instead of saying Switch off the fan, dear Miss Rita preferred to say Shut the fan.

Obviously with so much else having happened on that day, it got just a little bit twisted as little Mini remembered it!

To have or not to have .....

2008-11-04T00:56:00.011+11:00

... A Birthday Bash.

It's been a long time (18 years, actually) since either Arup or I have felt inclined to celebrate our birthdays. Well, we really, really want to celebrate each other's birthdays, but since neither wants to celebrate their own, we just don't. Me, I still hate it when my birthday comes around, ...

Oh, we celebrate in our own small, low-keyed way: on my birthday, he'll take me out and we'll order a bottle of good, red wine and have a scrumptious meal at our favourite restaurant; on his, I'll make him his favourite meal of aaloo parathas and kosha mangsho (Indian bread stuffed with potatoes and fried and mutton, fried up with spices) or aaloor dum and Mughlai Parathaas
(a potato curry and an Indian bread stuffed with minced meat and fried with egg poured in). Then there's the traditional kheer, or rice pudding.

It was Arup's 60th last week. I wanted to have a really BIG BASH. And he actually agreed. Well, he didn't say his usual vehement NO, but said, "We'll see after my test." So we 'agreed' to do something over the weekend instead. We went out for dinner on the day after his test, and ..... that was it.

What excuse have I for not organizing it? I have none! I went to the extent of roping a friend in to help me organize it and came up with a great design for a cake. Even invited a few friends. AKD went along with it, but I could see it was only because I wanted it. His heart was not in it and I knew he'd be miserable. I knew because I knew I'd feel the same if it were my birthday. So I called the whole thing off.

And now, I'm not sure if I'm regretting it. Do you think I should have just gone ahead with it? I sound like a VERY confused person, no?!!!

Having written this, I'm now inclined to organize a belated party for him.

So, CHEERS, Arup! Happy 60th. As Mini said, "You made it, Fatso!

For some reason, I couldn't upload photos, so for pics, go to

http://picasaweb.google.com/elgeedeb/AKDSpecial

Kolkata, Thammar Badi

2008-09-04T00:41:00.016+10:00

While on the Bandel to Calcutta trip, here's another one:

Mini just adored her Thakur-Ma, Thamma for short. (Paternal Grandmother for the uninitiated.) So whenever we made that trip, she knew it was to visit her grandmom.

But there was a firmly fixed idea in her three-year-old little head - When we reached Howrah station, the main railway station for Cal, we'd all talk about having arrived. Getting off the train and all through the ride to Dover Road where they lived, we'd try to tell her that we were now in Calcutta.

But no. She was not to be kidded. "Kolkatta aekhono aashe ni." "Calcutta has not yet come." She was VERY FIRM in this knowledge and would watch the roads very intently.As the car or taxi turned into the drive-way of Number 10, Dover Road, she'd turn to us and announce smugly, "Eyi to Kolkatta, Thamma-ar Baadi!" "Here it is, Calcutta, Thamma's house!"

As if to say, "You guys! You know nothing!"

And guess who enjoyed it the most? Big, wise older brother, Bozo, of course! - he thought it was tho thweet...

Mini Bus, Bozo Bus

2008-08-29T18:12:00.013+10:00

With only one week of school holidays left, I thought I'd get some 'snapshots' in.

When we were in Sahagunj, where Dunlop had their factory, we'd travel every other week to Cal to visit Arup's parents. Often, the whole 3-hour-or-so-journey would be by car but sometimes we'd take the local train and then a taxi from Howrah station to Dover Road.

Whenever we were on the go, I'd mostly have the kids VERY close to me. - Yes, both of them! - Mini propped up in one arm and Bozo perched on one knee. Sometime he'd slide off onto the seat, but still keeping pressed to me, his hand clutching my knee...

Well, I did say 'mostly'. If we were by ourselves, no other Dunlopian travelling with us, for him to talk to, Arup would have Bozo on his knees and talk to him. If Subir (Sengupta, Subir Kaka) was travelling with us, Mini would sleep in his arms - and do unspeakable things to him.

I was in the habit of talking to them all the time if they were close by, and getting them to respond. They'd be wonder-struck by the most mundane of things. "Look at that tree. How BIG it is!" "Watch out! There's another train going in the opposite direction, flashing by us." "That's Howrah Bridge. Why do you think it's there?" (Bozo's answer? "So people don't have to get wet if they want to cross the river.") "That yellow car's a taxi!" ('Tah-sheeee!' Bozo'd say.) And his favourite was the mini-bus. They were all brown in those days. Our Mini was a late talker (and did she make up for that!) so she'd just chortle and chuckle and gurgle and bounce up and down on my knee when she began to sit there. Each time we saw a mini-bus, there was much excitement.

On retrospect, I doubt if they knew why it was a mini-bus. Obviously, they only associated it with our Mini. Maybe they thought it belonged to Mini. Or maybe they decided it was the name of the bus - one bus that mysteriously appeared all over the place, just because it WAS another Mini, so had to be part of us. Who knows what deductions such little ones make from things we grown-ups take for granted, so don't bother to explain?

One day, Bozo came up with the clincher. I suppose he'd deduced from his learnings at school what a 'bus' was, and what 'mini' meant. So he brilliantly put the two together and on one trip, he shouted out, "Oi to! Oita Bozo-Bus!" "There it is! That's a Bozo-Bus!"

It was one of the usual, larger buses and most pleased he was when we agreed heartily...

And from then it was "Mini-Bus", "Bozo-Bus" all the way home!

Snapshot

2008-08-27T22:10:00.006+10:00

I never saw this sight myself, but it has been described to me several times, by different people, Purobi or Tutu or both amongst them:

Brother and sister are studying at the Dunlop English Medium School. School used to give over at about 1230 hours, and all the kids were naturally famished and tired and often cranky. Mini is a year and eight months younger than Bozo, so there's not that much of a difference in their sizes.

The sight described to me is like a photograph in my mind -

They're returning home from school. Bozo has his school bag AND Mini's slung about his shoulders, but on his chest. Mini is riding piggy-back!

If that's not cute enough, Mini on several occasions had this stick in her hand, pretending to be riding a horse. Cute, because I've never heard it told that she USED it!

Yaad-e-Daag

2008-08-18T21:08:00.008+10:00

November, 1975:

Mini takes her very first flight on Indian Airlines. (There wasn't anyone else to fly with, those days!) For some reason, their Dad is already in Calcutta and I'm following him with two babies: 4-month-old babe-in-arms Mini and 2-year-old toddler Bozo. (Take note, Y, ....)

Bozo I knew would pose no problem. He was easy-going even as a baby and would be happy with me talking and pointing things out to him or even going off with the air-hostess for a while. Mini? From the last snippet you'll remember that this is one smart kid, who's not likely to keep very still during the 2 and a half hour flight, not to talk about the long wait at the airport. And she was VERY wary of strangers, very choosy, actually, for she'd hold her arms out to one stranger and cry murder with the next.

So I'd been wracking (racking? where does that expression come from, anyway?) my brain for ideas. Cough syrup? Even Phenalgan? Na-ah! Not on a flight, anyway... so, what?

I remembered the flight was an afternoon one, and had a brainwave - DON'T LET HER HAVE HER MID-MORNING NAP. That worked out fine. She was a bit cranky, but fell asleep in the cab on the way to the airport. She slept soundly through the ride and the wait at the airport. The three of us got onto the plane. Lots of compliments all round about how well I managed, how well-behaved my two were, etc., etc.

She slept through it all like a...like a...well, like a baby, what else!

Then they began serving the snacks. That's when my inexperience showed. "Tea, Madam?" Tired as I was, I couldn't resist the cuppa that was extended towards me. "Yes, please," I replied and carefully took it my free hand.

Well, I don't know if I got down to that. Taking it in my free hand, I mean. For all I remember is the cup of hot tea hovering in the air, with the saucer hovering below it. As if in slow motion, the two tilt and begin to tip and come down, perilously, pouring the tea onto me and the wriggling baby in my arms.

Had she been waiting for the right moment to kick? Had she had that gleam in her eyes, keeping them half shut so I'd think she was asleep? Whatever. Her aim was good and her tiny foot had soundly kicked that cup and saucer into the air.

Of course, there was a huge fuss. The baby's screams had heads turning, some annoyed at having their naps so rudely disturbed. The hostess ran for the BurnAll (they were caring still, back then) while I brushed the hot liquid off my now screaming baby. The hostess came back with two others and they grabbed Mini and rushed her to the loo. I followed. We poured cold water over the now angry, red patches on her stomach and then applied the Burnall. She quietened down only when I put her to feed, still making angry, protesting noises as she fed!

Fortunately, Mini does not have any scald marks. Baby skin and all. I have one still, very faded, very light, on my thigh, which I can see only because I know it's there.

Pyar ka daag...the mark of love.

Thanks, Mini.

;-(

And Bozo slept through it al...

Snippets

2008-07-23T02:25:00.014+10:00

Now here's another "occasional" one... only the second this year, tch, tch ..... and this time it's Mini's birthday.

I've been racking my brain for ideas, but a certain lethargy seems to have come over me these past few months. I know I don't have to write anything at all, but I couldn't bring myself to just let the day go by without a mention of it here. So here I am...

And why would I talk about just Mini when this is a Bozo blog? Because, for me, they are inseparable. That's all I'll say to that question, for those who know the Deb family know what I mean.

I so wish I had more snaps of my daughter as a little girl! But, well, no point crying over spilt milk, is there? I do have scores of her as a girl and a young woman, though, and some videos as well. So, you see, I do seem to love her, after all! ;-)

I do also have lots of mental snaps, little snippets, so thought I'd "develop" them today and "print" them here for you.

Obviously, the first memory is of that night in the hospital in Madras. It was K. J. Hospital, on Poonamalee High Road. Very posh, not something we could really afford at that time, but the doctors knew us and had been taking care of my pregnancy, even though they were still building their maternity wing then and were not really ready to take on delivery cases. So ours was to be the first baby ever to be born in that hospital.

I went in just after midnight. It was one looooong labour, as this kid didn't want to come out. She had actually grabbed the cord and wound it firmly round her neck several times, so by the time Doc Vis (Jagannatha Vishveswaran, the 'J' of K J Hospital) pried her out, she was black and blue - - and - - very silent.

A few sharp slaps on her back-side, and she was protesting VERY loudly, I tell you!

But those were the first really bad moments of my (then) 24 years. I was so afraid I'd lost her. And then when I heard her, I was sobbing with relief and happiness. It's a girl, said Doc Vis.

Of course, my first question was the same as every mother's in the labour room: Is she alright?

And then, they put this tiny, squirming bundle into my arms. And it went still at once, snuggling after a moment, searching, ....

Of course, we hadn't known it was to be a girl. And of course it was what we had both secretly hoped for.

And here's my snap-shot of my first glimpse of my daughter's face (only another mother of a daughter can know what that word really means to me!):

She had a head of very black hair. She was wheatish-complexioned, still a bit bluish in patches from her earlier trauma. Her nose seemed tiny compared to her cheeks, which were round and plump and rosy - flushed! Her lips were a bright pink and perfectly shaped, a rose-bud! I looked deep into her eyes. They were large and very dark. To me, beautiful, even though rather sunken, as a new-born's tend to be!

Of course, she had lost no time nosing around and instinctively finding her source of nourishment, and sounds of her feeding filled the room. There are no words to express a woman's emotions when her baby suckles at her breast, so I shan't try....

Coming back to her eyes. She gazed up at me as she fed and suddenly, it struck me - Hey! A baby's eyes are supposed to stay shut for the first few hours. Bozo's had, all the books said so.....And here was this one, hardly 15 minutes old, and I had not seen her close her eyes! I thought then, she was special.

When she was through, satiated, she closed her eyes and fell asleep. I had to burp her, though, so put her to my shoulder. She woke up and - LIFTED HER HEAD TO LOOK AROUND THE ROOM!

Now Bozo had not neen able to lift his head on his own for a couple of weeks. And here she was, about 30 minutes old, .....I KNEW now she was special!

Well, it's late and I'm somehow inclined to sleep tonight with this first image of my own little girl in my mind. I know I'll sleep blissfully.

But I will be back with more snapshots from DE LIVES OF DE DEBS.

In the meantime, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, Mini. WE love you to bits.

On the wings of poesy....

2008-06-05T01:00:00.005+10:00

What with having been disabled for so long after my accident and still in pain after a full day's work, the pain of Aditya's anniversary seems more acute than it should be. It's been a depressing few months and heaven alone knows how long it's going to be before I walk normally again. I've tried to stay positive, but it's taking too long and my patience is wearing thin.

It sounds selfish, but I've missed him a lot more these past few months than I had begun to these past few years. I find I think of him more when I am sick and / or in pain. I took heart when Ma told me that she felt terrible when she missed my brother more when she was sick! I was able to see then and tell her that was perfectly natural and okay...

It's been fourteen years. Images of him at age 14 keep popping into my head. I can't figure out why this is happening. Yet, somewhat depravedly, some would think, I am thoroughly enjoying reliving those days in Kankroli. He had joined us there in 1985, after leaving Narendrapur (which I always think of as Narakpur, or Death's Place, for reasons I might disclose some day). He had been miserable there, mostly, I suspect, because he missed Mini so much! But there were other very valid reasons too and he was so thrilled to be back home. He bloomed into this talented, confident young lad. I could go on for ever about him and I daresay my reverie would at times seem exaggerated and I would see him in a better light than he actually deserved.

No, he was no saint either, but rarely does a mother really dwell on the darker side of her child. Do they even have one in her eyes?!! But he was my sun and Mini was my moon. They are the joy of my life, the light of my light.

Not being in much of a mood to write a lot today, no, hang on! having started, I find I actually am in the mood! But methinks me shall stick to the original plan for today. I hadn't really felt like coming here to write anything this time, but thought it somehow diminished Mini's initiative in starting this blog. I know she wouldn't have minded at all and would have understood. Still, I wanted to honour her effort. So I thought I'd just pop in and put up a few of the poems I wrote after Aditya left us. These are not exactly works of art, but they do reflect some of my feelings at different stages, and I thought it a good way to share my feelings with any of you that might be interested.

THE VIEW

We have walked down this road before,
Yet I know not what lies in store;
Our feet were swift, our eyes were blind,
Unheedful of what we’d left behind.
The only views are within my head,
The things I fear and the things I dread;
This view of fear and this view of pain
Sits like amber within my brain -
My dreams won’t let me be,
My ears can’t hear,
My eyes can’t see.

There are views outside my head, I know,
I can no longer see them though -
Yes, I know you walk, you walk by me,
What you look like I can’t see!
The wind is cold, the path is steep,
My body aches but I cannot sleep;
I move forward to empty skies,
Searching for the view to open my eyes:
A room with a view, they call it -
I call it an empty one!

We’re both together - and it’s true -
But I must walk on until I see the View.

[Written by Aditya, March, 1994, about 2 months before he died...]

MY CACTUS FLOWER

(30th November, 1994)

You are as rare as a cactus flower!
You are as fair as a cactus flower!
Who looked on you was enamoured of you,
Who knew you - knew but One of you;
In the bloom of your youth you fill my world
With such happiness and peace, I feel I’m blessed
In a way no mother has been before -
My Aditya, my son, you’re twenty one today!

Well do I remember bringing you home,
A bundle of joy in your father’s arm -
We strutted proudly as we walked along,
Our lips smiling, our hearts full of song;
The fruit of our love, the love of our lives,
We vowed to protect you - we thought us so wise!-
We dreamed of your youth, and here is this day -
My Aditya, my son, you’re twenty one today.

From baby to child, from child to boy,
I watched you grow with increasing joy;
I watched over you, I nurtured you -
So many things I taught you to do;
You learned to read, you learned to write,
People said you were so bright -
And brilliant you are, As bright as the sun -
My Aditya, my sun, you’re twenty one today.

I remember the day you came running to me,
Your first prize at six - held aloft for me to see;
A little book you showed me with such glowing pride-
“Second in his class,” it said inside.
I hugged you and returned it, and said, “Well done!
I’m proud of you, my darling, my precious son!”
“But Ma,” you said in your sweet child’s voice,
“I got it for you, it’s for you - it’s yours!”

That one little book is still cherished and dear,
As are all the prizes you brought me each year;
Be it singing or painting or a story to tell,
Whatever you do you do so well;
You composed music and on the wings of poesy
You soar to such heights, - it makes me dizzy!
What brought you into my life?
My Aditya, my son, you’re twenty one today.

Mini would say, ”Ma, your tense is all wrong,
For Dada is now ‘most six months gone;”
Cruel, but practical, for ‘tis true;
In your twenty first year we mourn for you.
Yet you are here, I know you are -
How can anyone so dear go away so far?
Your creations are here, your dreams, your songs,
So are you here - you’re not gone for long.

My Aditya, my love, you’re twenty one today;
In the bloom of your youth, like a sunflower you sway;
Does the sun ever fade? Does the moon ever wane?
Do the stars ever loose their lustrous shine?
Even so are you here in the sands of time;
The birds and the flowers tell me you’re still mine;
In the rush of the wind, in the splash of the waves,
I can hear you talking, comforting always.

Alas, poor heart! You delude yourself!
He’s gone, you’ve lost him - accept it well;
But what else can you do, a mother forlorn -
Alive in this world while your baby is gone?
Blessed is she who never Motherhood knows,
Cursed is she whose grown son goes:
Yes, cursed I am, or why else this pain,
That grows each day in a cancerous chain?

You were as rare, as fair as a cactus flower,
And you did grow fairer by the hour;
I watched over you, I nurtured you,
How precious you were, I hope you knew;
The beautiful flower that we all did love
Was also loved by the gods above;
We needed it here, but They wanted it there
And they took you from me - you’re in their care.

We walked together, yes, that’s true -
But you rushed ahead - did you find the view?

WILL I BE WHOLE AGAIN?

Well nigh three years have passed us by
It’s difficult still to say
If it happened such long ages back
Or only yesterday;
The days go by, the nights stay on
I scream into the dark -
When will I be whole again?
Till in death I do depart?

I care not what I look like now,
My mirror I still do shun;
The reminder shrieks at every step -
You have outlived your son!
What right have I to be alive?
Yet must I remain;
But will I never be whole again?
Will it never end, this pain?

I try my best, - God knows I try, -
To get on with my life;
I succeed a little bit by bit,
But most of the time I lie.
I fool the world, even fool myself -
Unannounced the tears do come:
When will I be whole again?
When will my grief be done?

Dear God, if I must keep going on
In life’s now meaningless toil,
Give unto me some glimmer of hope,
Not this shining foil -
This camouflage of a smiling face,
These easy ways, this strife;
Make me whole, My Lord, I beg,
Give me back my life.

My son, my sun, my Aditya,
Brighter than a thousand stars,
My wretched heart won’t let me see
You’ve gone away so far;
I look around, I miss something -
I know ‘tis there somewhere;
I will be whole once more, I will,
Once I know it’s there.

But when! - When will I be whole again?
I ask of Thee once more:
Will this broken heart mend itself?
Will my family again be four?
If four we’ll never be again,
How can I be whole?

Only death will make me whole again -
Till then this life I hold.
This life that Thou hast given me
Must I hold as dear as that
Which Thou hadst given unto my care
Till Thou hadst need of it;

Thus shall I live on on earth,
As true to Thy name as I can;
Yet the longing still does linger on,-
Make me whole, My Lord, if you can!
(17.02.97)

LONGING

These empty arms
These aching eyes
Pierce the dawn
As it bursts through the skies,
Longing. ……

The years stretch out
Into the millennium
No succour in sight
But to be with you,
Longing. ……

The darkness lingers
The puzzle unresolved
The puzzle of your life
The puzzle of your death -
Longing. ……

The dawn is here
Where is the light,
Though my lamp I tend
Burning so bright,
Longing. ……?

Aditya, you are
Brilliant as the sun
Why don’t I see you
As the new day dawns
Longing. ……..?

My hope is my death:
Nay I fear it not;
This life’s a farce
And I know it not.
Longing. ……..

(22nd March, 2004)

Feeling a bit low

2008-01-04T22:47:00.001+11:00

My baby hasn't been well for the last four days. She caught a chill, probably on a two-day trip we took outside of Mumbai recently with the family - in any case, it's suddenly turned cold and dreary here, and she hasn't shown any visible signs of improvement for the last couple of days. She coughs and coughs, her nose drips, and she hasn't smiled for what feels like the longest time.

All this has put me in a rather contemplative mood. I might even be a little depressed - and I realise as I type this that I haven't felt this way in months - since she was born, I think.

I suppose I should feel lucky that I didn't go through Post Partum Depression - I definitely was very jumpy, tired, defensive and annoyed at people's advice and comments - but there has been this underlying euphoria since then. That euphoria is definitely overwhelmed by a grey cloud today.

I think many things are bringing it on for me just now. First and foremost, is the fact that Peanut is not well. For the first time in 5 months. Everytime she has had her shots, the doctor warns us that fever is likely, but it never happened. She was absolutely fine. A related point here is that my maternity leave is coming to an end soon, and I can't imagine leaving her behind, - and it's heightened by the fact that she is so out of sorts just now.

Of course, and this is the second thing that is bugging me, is the fact that it has been implied that 'Nazar lag gayi'. Of course, this is the very smart but uneducated maid talking, but I've also heard this from other sources in more subtle ways. This thing about superstition, knocking on wood, not saying stuff like 'she hasn't been ill before', nazar lagna - all this is very annoying. Is it my fault for not putting some lousy kala tika on her beautiful face that she has fallen ill? Am I inviting trouble again by calling her beautiful? What is all this nonsense that we believe in? Which century is this, again? Oh, and gee, thanks for making me feel guilty in addition to feeling sad about my sick baby.

But the third thing, I suppose, is this post I read today, which is really just so sad. I know I've been thinking too much about my baby's safety and am actually what my own mother calls 'totally paranoid'. But the thing is - if it's not some students shooting another classmate in Gurgaon, or a recent road accident in which someone just lost his fiancee when a truck rammed into them on Lodhi road, or countless other incidents, then it's something just as random and senseless as this - a little toddler running around, falling and hitting his head, never to get up again.

Now, the thing is - I know most people would say that I'm just looking at the negative side of things. How you can never be prepared for everything. How you need to let go. How you need to live in the moment, and live without fear ( Jo dar gaya, woh mar gaya?). Or how it's all fate. Or God's will. Or a part of life. Or repayment for past sins. Or...I don't know, it's quite endless, isn't it?

The point of my writing this today is very simple:

How does someone make their peace with something like this?

And another related point - how does one live without paranoia of this sort, regarding something bad happening to your child?

I read a quote somewhere about how motherhood is 'when you decide to let your heart walk outside of your body'. This is the only quote I've found to be even remotely adequate as a description of what it feels like to be a mother. Most other words fail, especially when I try to articulate this feeling. So I usually resort to being flippant, lighthearted and write about the funny stuff.

But not today.

So, my dear Mashi. I was thinking that while we use this blog to remember and celebrate Bozo Dada's life - maybe you could also provide some perspective to younger mothers about these questions. How do you move on? How do you make your peace with something like this? And how do you live without being fearful and paranoid about your other child (yes I know Mini isn't a child anymore, but she's your child always, right?). That'll be another useful thing to know - how motherhood evolves as your baby grows into a toddler, and then a school going child, and then a sulky college-goer, and finally, an adult. When exactly do you stop worrying? Does it stop at all? How does this thing work? But I am getting ahead of myself and asking too many questions - it's just that they're all related in some way, aren't they?

Please write about this at your own pace. And of course, only if you want to. And by the way, I've been feeling since we started this blog that I never really knew Bozo Dada at all. I would really love to know more about him, his early days, what you remember of him as a baby - everything. As you find the time to write about him. All I know is that he was such a wonderful person - who I missed out on. It would be really great to know him through your memories and thoughts.

Happy New Year. Love you.

Happy Birthday!!!

2007-11-30T00:24:00.000+11:00

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

2007-11-29T04:15:00.000+11:00

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

2007-09-01T13:19:00.000+10:00

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!

2007-07-23T01:00:00.001+10:00

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...

2007-07-08T07:15:00.000+10:00

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

2007-07-08T00:16:00.000+10:00

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

2007-06-21T19:11:00.000+10:00

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

2007-06-19T00:58:00.001+10:00

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

2007-06-12T23:54:00.001+10:00

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

2007-06-06T11:47:00.000+10:00

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?

2007-06-05T22:13:00.000+10:00

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

2007-05-31T23:23:00.000+10:00

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?

2007-05-24T18:41:00.000+10:00

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

2007-05-15T20:11:00.000+10:00

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?

2007-05-14T23:43:00.000+10:00

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.