#3 Dear me! Letters to Myself: Coming of Age

Image Courtesy: Shoma Chakraborty

Dear Life,

This is my third letter to you.

I now start my day thinking what to write to you because there is so much I want to tell you. My head is full of reasons why I must thank you. I wonder why did I take this long to start?

This morning I remembered myself as a kid in school. I laughed thinking how I used to pray in the assembly hoping teachers would forget that they had given assignments if I had forgotten to complete mine, and how mostly my prayers were answered. I thought I was a lucky little girl.

How I wish dear life, that I had not squandered wishes away on unfinished assignments. I didn't know then that the genie only grants a limited number of wishes and we must ask for them only after careful consideration.

Nothing had really prepared me for sudden adulthood. Least of all, school or college where I was protected, cherished and given wings to fly.

Then dear life, came my violently ushered coming of age. It was sudden.

I woke up from a pleasant dream kicking and screaming with tears streaming down my cheeks to find that I was an adult who was untrained to deal with the real world. It was scary and I had no mechanism to cope with it.

Shame, loss, betrayal, illness... You name it and I had it shoved at me. In one stroke, my life was - I thought - ruined.

It was nothing like the lovely coming-of-age movies I had grown up watching, where, pretty boys and girls in beautiful dresses and hairstyles went through small confusions, overcame them and lived happily ever after.

Mine was all blood, sweat and the nasty realization that some people really hated me though I had given them no reason for it.

It was while flailing down a dark hole that I encountered others who were concerned and reached out to pull me back. I was so scared that I didn't know if I wanted to be saved. Did these people really want to save me? Why? Was it pity?

Eventually, I learnt that just like haters, there is no accounting for people who love you. There's no formula for this.

Thankfully I had you. My most trusted confidante. You were patient, understanding and allowed me to vent out my feelings.

I knew that you did not pity me.

You let me cry.

You helped me understand my pains, the reasons for them and gradually made me let go of my anger.

It is your most precious gift and I cannot thank you enough for it.

You stood with me on the shore of a friendly sea in a busy city. when I just said, "I give up my anger and pardon everyone who has wronged me!"

How I laughed and chuckled and jumped that morning. The gentle breeze fanning my spirit to soar, There was nothing weighing me down. I was free. Free to be an adult.

It was my most liberating moment and I can still touch the feeling as I write.

Thank you, thank you and thank you again.

With anger out of the way, you took me by my hands and pulled me inside. You showed me my heart. You introduced me to my spirit. You helped me put on my wings again and fly.

You also taught me to be kind and generous and to open my heart to other people and to help them.

I think that was a smashing gift! I know, 'smashing'! Funny? No? But, it was. It smashed all the boundaries around my heart.

Thank you for making me a better human being by allowing the light to pour in through the cracks of my shattered self worth. You made me glow with that light, put a smile on my lips and kindness in my eyes.

I now know that people spend a lifetime or a lot of money on cosmetics to get this look.

Thank you dear life for being my guide!

Love,

Shoma

Image Courtesy: Shoma Chakraborty

When Summer was Fun

It is that time of the year once more - summer vacation! I remember summer vacations as fondly as the best time of the year (the scorching heat not-withstanding) during school. Never an outdoorsy person, I spent most of the two months either visiting grandmothers or reading. In fact, while visiting grannies too I would be huddled in a corner reading or lying down and listening to my mom's mom reading out stories to me. In the case of my father's mother, she was a consummate storyteller and would recount stories about her village in East Bengal with as much flourish as she would tales from the Mahabharata and Ramayana.

I loved to hear her tales. They sounded almost unbelievable at times. Especially my favorite one, where a famous robber was attacked during the village fair in front of both my grand parents and she swore that even though his head was loped off, the man ran headless all over the place, drenching everything in a fountain of fresh, warm blood, scaring the hell out of everyone because he was still clutching his sword and slashing it about. According to her, it went on for a while till he finally fell down and died.

I would never have believed it possible if I had not been to a scene of a similar crime in Delhi years later as a reporter on Sunday duty. A cop had killed his wife by her slashing neck almost severing her head off. The wife had put on a brave fight for survival when she held on to the almost-severed head with blood gushing from it like a geyser and run around the corridor of the building knocking doors, seeking help. I saw enough gore the next morning to believe both stories to be true.

Sometimes I feel that the seeds for the love of magic realism and surrealism were firmly planted during those story-telling sessions. My mother's ma used to read out from her collection of what is now known as paranormal fiction. Her haul included, Alif Laila, Thakumar Jhuli and other such collections full of ghosts, demons and goblins all set to tilt the world order on one hand and adventurous, courageous and swashbuckling romantics who always found their love in the end along with enormous riches, on the other.

The fact remains that those two ladies had planted the seed of storytelling inside me, all those years ago during those lazy Summer afternoons.

Stories are what I love to hear, to read and now, to tell. So, those long ago Summer vacations are where the Big Bang of my storytelling universe must have really happened.

Summers was an excellent time to read and dream. They are the best times to be out in the nature even in a city like Delhi that is almost as hot as Hell.

The night sky those days, would almost always be clear dark cobalt blue with a hint orange from the hanging-in-the-air sand of the Thar waiting to plunge the city in a dusty cover. Mostly the dust storms came in the evenings.

It started with dark clouds gathering overhead and a thin whiff of sweet wind teasing our senses. This was the moment when I'd take my book and skip out to the huge terrace to read and day dream.

While, soothing after a day of relentless heatwave, this would only be the prelude to the real deal. Soon big fat drops of rain would start falling and even before I could run for cover clutching my book to my stomach and running, cool fresh water would be trickling down my neck into my back wetting my spine.

At this point, ma would appear at the terrace door to call me in and I'd collapse into her, shrieking with joy, my hair rushing in behind me in a tangle.

Inside, I'd perch myself next to the window clutching the now-forgotten book, waiting for the real drama to begin.

The massive winds would soon take over, sweeping the rain away with a disdainful dirty hand and shower the city with sand and dust. At this point I'd push the window a little to feel the gale. The moment I pushed it a wee bit, the wind would snatch it from my hands and flung it open almost pulling me out with the gust.

The dust would rush in with the speed of lightening painting me in grime and ma hearing the noise would run  in to the room and prying the catch from my struggling hands would bang it in place and shut the window, glaring at me all the while.

It was icky being covered in desert sand. It scratched the eye and tickled the nose. It also went into the mouth and made me bite - dust.

So, I'd make a contrite face that made ma go back looking for the broom to clean the dusty floor while I waited for the grand finale...

The most spectacular part of a summer storm is the lightening and the subsequent deluge.

Itchy with grime and scratchy all over I'd wait for the climax. When it finally came, it would make visibility zero for a few minutes and the only discernible thing in the sky were the thick streaks of light that cut it from side to side. Sheets of rain would fall making the wind run off with a whoosh, bathing the dry, gritty dust in water to make it submit, washing it off down the storm water drains. The divine odor of wet grime on the sizzling sidewalk would fill the atmosphere making me take several deep breaths and run around the room with my hands in the air like in a trance.

Often my little sister would join in giggling and we'd continue the ritual together, arms up in the air, deep breaths in and running around in circles, whirling like dervishes. Hearing all that naughty noise, ma would call her name and my little sister would run back to her while I was left looking for the right moment to flee - out!

Making sure that ma was indeed working in the kitchen, I'd tip-toe to the terrace door and open it a bit. The lashing rain would immediately welcome me with a cool spray and make me giggle. The giggle would be enough to make ma aware of the latest mischief but, before she could run out to catch me by the tail of my frock, I'd be out with the brick on the floor scratching my soft jumping feet. And there would be crowns all around me.

Raindrops falling on the water that would have collected on the terrace floor would resound with a thousand plops and make a million crowns that rose and fell within seconds.

The water would soak me to my bones and drench my dirty dress and make me happy, very happy because ma would be standing at the door with a hand on her hips and the other, restraining my younger sister from lunging into the water with me. I knew I was safe because she would never come out in the water nor leave the door in case I slipped and fell.

Did I say, Summer vacations were the best?!