"Remembrance"
White saree with brown border, sometimes blue, and sometimes green with a bunch of keys dangling from the end of the "pallu", golden metallic bangles decorating the wrist, hair in shades of grey and white neatly done as a bun, short height and bronzen skin - this is how she is etched in my memory. My DIDA. My Granny.
During the much-awaited long summer vacations we had back at school, I always spent a good part of it by staying over at her place. I slept with her every night, both of us cuddling each other, my head resting calmly at her bosom, listening to the innumerable Bengali stories and poems she had to share. I still remember, she was the first person to wake up every morning at 5.00 a.m. , in the huge joint family of my maternal uncles and aunts. Then after the bath, offered her morning prayers to the plethora of Gods and Goddesses decorated sacredly in the small temple adjacent to her room, which we call "Pujo-r Ghor" . She, then, slowly walked around the entire house with an incense stick in her hands, filling in the fragrance in each of the rooms.and a divine conch in the other. Sometimes, I used to quietly lie in the bed and watch her doing all this , and that amused me. I never said anything while I watched her, thinking she might get disturbed. Every evening, at around sunset, she again went to the "Pujo-r Ghor", now to offer her evening prayers, after which she again roamed around the entire house with an incense stick in one of her hands, and a divine conch in the other which she used to blow thrice. As a kid, I used to run behind her holding her "pallu" while she passed by all the rooms, stopping only to bow before the photos and statues of Gods kept in every room.
She then used to go straight to the kitchen, for cutting vegetables to be used for preparing lunch for the day, sitting atop a huge wooden bed base. She used to keep few slices of cucumber aside, and gave it to me after I woke up, because she knew I loved cucumber.
Every afternoon, an ice-cream vendor used to pass by the gate of her house , shouting "KMB", "KMB", that being the brand of the ice-cream. Hearing that , I used to rush to my mother and ask her for five rupees so that I could buy myself an orange candy. But my mother, owing to the over-protective and over-sensitive nature of all the mothers worldwide, denied me most of the time, leaving me teary-eyed. And it was during those times, when Dida called me in a hushed tone and asked me to sit beside her. She then used to lovingly caress my hair and plant a kiss on my forehead, to soothe me. Her hands then slipped under the mattress of her bed, taking out a small pouch containing coins. She took out five rupees from the pouch and kept in my palm, saying, " Maa ke bolish na." , "Don't tell mom" . And I used to run outside the gate, chasing the ice-cream vendor to get my orange candy.
Durga Puja was yet another occasion , that I spent at her place, for full ten days. Before the beginning of this ten-day long festival, she used to buy new clothes for me . Clothes given by her, automatically became my favourite and that's the reason I used to wear those on the most pious day of the festival, i.e. on the "Ashtami" .
However, she seldom came over to my house, may be due to the traditional thinking that one should not visit her daughter's "sasural" very often. I don't know. I always asked her the reason behind this, and every time she maneuvered . But she never missed to come over at my birthdays, bringing along lots of gifts for me.
As years passed by, her coming over to my place decreased further. The clothes for Durga Puja got replaced by cash. The birthday gifts were reduced to phone calls. My dida was not the same exuberant person as before. She , now used to lie on her bed, silently, eyes closed, making a deep grunting sound from her throat at regular intervals, her arms and legs limp, saree now no longer adoring her, rather a cotton flowing maxi. She hardly spoke anything to anyone, and when she did, it was just in feeble monosyllables. She was now incapacitated to attend to her personal needs as well. Every time she had to use the bathroom, one person accompanied her. I did that most of the time. Situations worsened even more, and she grew weaker with each passing day. Now she had to be literally dragged to the washroom, because her body hardly had any strength left. Her body wag growing stiff day by day. She was in pain, which she didn't even share with anyone, and kept it within her. Her memory started receding. She once refused to recognize me. That day, i was truly heart-broken and cried myself to sleep.
Time passed, and her sufferings increased. I, along with my mother, visited her every evening for an hour and sit beside her. My mother used to oil her hair and tie it while we listened to whatever she kept saying in her now-even-more feeble voice.
One unfortunate day, I woke up from my afternoon nap, feeling uneasy. I chose to keep the feeling aside, because I had to get ready to go my Dida's place. But my mother refused to go that evening. I don't know why she did that, because we never missed even a single evening without meeting her. I kept on asking her why is she refusing, and pleading her to come with me. But she didn't budge. I was completely pissed-off. The uneasy feeling returned, intensely now. Still, I kept avoiding it.
Around 8 in the evening, my maternal uncle called. I saw the mobile phone ringing, and passed it on to my mother. She picked the call, and within seconds stood up from her chair screaming!
All worse thoughts started clouding my head. Only after a minute and a half, when she disconnected, I got to know Dida is no more. My mother, brother, and I, we all rushed out of her home towards her place, and I kept running on the streets until I reached her place.
There she was, sleeping, peace radiating from her face, lips slightly parted, her hard working hands resting on her abdomen, legs straight and stiff. People around her crying, mother held Dida's feet and cried profusely. Brother stood a corner, in a state of shock, tears running down his cheeks. And I, I kept staring at her face, which was so different from what I was used to seeing the last few years. Earlier, her face had the signs of the pain that she was going through. Now, it was tranquility that covered it. The grunts and the feeble words no more, just silence. The noise all around made my head feel heavy. It felt as if I am standing, and the entire world is revolving around me with all the speed possible. And finally, I broke down. I held her head with my palms around her neck. A tiny stream of tea, probably her last drink, was coming out from the corner of her lips, which I rubbed from the back of my hands. I caressed her head, just the way she used to do to me. Held her hands, which were turning cold. All this while, urging her to speak, to talk to me, to say anything, but she remained quiet.
I cried, because that was all that I could do. It was the first time I was loosing something utterly precious to me, and still I could do nothing to stop it. The helplessness was killing me. But I had no choice. I had to let her go. She left, without even saying goodbye.
It was 3rd August 2011 then, and it is 3rd August 2015 today. Four years have passed, and I still miss her with all my heart. Every time I come across an old woman anywhere, I try to search for my Dida in her.
I just want to say I know you are there somewhere, watching me, guiding me and protecting me. I'll always remember and respect you for your love, care, and how you put up with your hardships in your distinguished ways. You will always remain my woman of strength. And if heaven had a telephone, I would have been your daily caller. Just be happy wherever you are. I miss you with all my heart each and every day. I loved you a lot, I love you a lot, and I will keep loving you for the rest of my life!
During the much-awaited long summer vacations we had back at school, I always spent a good part of it by staying over at her place. I slept with her every night, both of us cuddling each other, my head resting calmly at her bosom, listening to the innumerable Bengali stories and poems she had to share. I still remember, she was the first person to wake up every morning at 5.00 a.m. , in the huge joint family of my maternal uncles and aunts. Then after the bath, offered her morning prayers to the plethora of Gods and Goddesses decorated sacredly in the small temple adjacent to her room, which we call "Pujo-r Ghor" . She, then, slowly walked around the entire house with an incense stick in her hands, filling in the fragrance in each of the rooms.and a divine conch in the other. Sometimes, I used to quietly lie in the bed and watch her doing all this , and that amused me. I never said anything while I watched her, thinking she might get disturbed. Every evening, at around sunset, she again went to the "Pujo-r Ghor", now to offer her evening prayers, after which she again roamed around the entire house with an incense stick in one of her hands, and a divine conch in the other which she used to blow thrice. As a kid, I used to run behind her holding her "pallu" while she passed by all the rooms, stopping only to bow before the photos and statues of Gods kept in every room.
She then used to go straight to the kitchen, for cutting vegetables to be used for preparing lunch for the day, sitting atop a huge wooden bed base. She used to keep few slices of cucumber aside, and gave it to me after I woke up, because she knew I loved cucumber.
Every afternoon, an ice-cream vendor used to pass by the gate of her house , shouting "KMB", "KMB", that being the brand of the ice-cream. Hearing that , I used to rush to my mother and ask her for five rupees so that I could buy myself an orange candy. But my mother, owing to the over-protective and over-sensitive nature of all the mothers worldwide, denied me most of the time, leaving me teary-eyed. And it was during those times, when Dida called me in a hushed tone and asked me to sit beside her. She then used to lovingly caress my hair and plant a kiss on my forehead, to soothe me. Her hands then slipped under the mattress of her bed, taking out a small pouch containing coins. She took out five rupees from the pouch and kept in my palm, saying, " Maa ke bolish na." , "Don't tell mom" . And I used to run outside the gate, chasing the ice-cream vendor to get my orange candy.
Durga Puja was yet another occasion , that I spent at her place, for full ten days. Before the beginning of this ten-day long festival, she used to buy new clothes for me . Clothes given by her, automatically became my favourite and that's the reason I used to wear those on the most pious day of the festival, i.e. on the "Ashtami" .
However, she seldom came over to my house, may be due to the traditional thinking that one should not visit her daughter's "sasural" very often. I don't know. I always asked her the reason behind this, and every time she maneuvered . But she never missed to come over at my birthdays, bringing along lots of gifts for me.
As years passed by, her coming over to my place decreased further. The clothes for Durga Puja got replaced by cash. The birthday gifts were reduced to phone calls. My dida was not the same exuberant person as before. She , now used to lie on her bed, silently, eyes closed, making a deep grunting sound from her throat at regular intervals, her arms and legs limp, saree now no longer adoring her, rather a cotton flowing maxi. She hardly spoke anything to anyone, and when she did, it was just in feeble monosyllables. She was now incapacitated to attend to her personal needs as well. Every time she had to use the bathroom, one person accompanied her. I did that most of the time. Situations worsened even more, and she grew weaker with each passing day. Now she had to be literally dragged to the washroom, because her body hardly had any strength left. Her body wag growing stiff day by day. She was in pain, which she didn't even share with anyone, and kept it within her. Her memory started receding. She once refused to recognize me. That day, i was truly heart-broken and cried myself to sleep.
Time passed, and her sufferings increased. I, along with my mother, visited her every evening for an hour and sit beside her. My mother used to oil her hair and tie it while we listened to whatever she kept saying in her now-even-more feeble voice.
One unfortunate day, I woke up from my afternoon nap, feeling uneasy. I chose to keep the feeling aside, because I had to get ready to go my Dida's place. But my mother refused to go that evening. I don't know why she did that, because we never missed even a single evening without meeting her. I kept on asking her why is she refusing, and pleading her to come with me. But she didn't budge. I was completely pissed-off. The uneasy feeling returned, intensely now. Still, I kept avoiding it.
Around 8 in the evening, my maternal uncle called. I saw the mobile phone ringing, and passed it on to my mother. She picked the call, and within seconds stood up from her chair screaming!
All worse thoughts started clouding my head. Only after a minute and a half, when she disconnected, I got to know Dida is no more. My mother, brother, and I, we all rushed out of her home towards her place, and I kept running on the streets until I reached her place.
There she was, sleeping, peace radiating from her face, lips slightly parted, her hard working hands resting on her abdomen, legs straight and stiff. People around her crying, mother held Dida's feet and cried profusely. Brother stood a corner, in a state of shock, tears running down his cheeks. And I, I kept staring at her face, which was so different from what I was used to seeing the last few years. Earlier, her face had the signs of the pain that she was going through. Now, it was tranquility that covered it. The grunts and the feeble words no more, just silence. The noise all around made my head feel heavy. It felt as if I am standing, and the entire world is revolving around me with all the speed possible. And finally, I broke down. I held her head with my palms around her neck. A tiny stream of tea, probably her last drink, was coming out from the corner of her lips, which I rubbed from the back of my hands. I caressed her head, just the way she used to do to me. Held her hands, which were turning cold. All this while, urging her to speak, to talk to me, to say anything, but she remained quiet.
I cried, because that was all that I could do. It was the first time I was loosing something utterly precious to me, and still I could do nothing to stop it. The helplessness was killing me. But I had no choice. I had to let her go. She left, without even saying goodbye.
It was 3rd August 2011 then, and it is 3rd August 2015 today. Four years have passed, and I still miss her with all my heart. Every time I come across an old woman anywhere, I try to search for my Dida in her.
I just want to say I know you are there somewhere, watching me, guiding me and protecting me. I'll always remember and respect you for your love, care, and how you put up with your hardships in your distinguished ways. You will always remain my woman of strength. And if heaven had a telephone, I would have been your daily caller. Just be happy wherever you are. I miss you with all my heart each and every day. I loved you a lot, I love you a lot, and I will keep loving you for the rest of my life!
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