Trick or Treat? Chill or Thrill?

I was fortunate enough to grow up on a healthy dose of Thakumar Jhuli (a collection of Bengali folk and fairy tales for kids, whose title translates to “Grandma’s Bag of Stories”). But my favourite happened to be Jethimar Jhuli (“Aunt’s Bag of Stories”). The latter was by no means a published book. Its fascination lay in the fact that only we, the kids of the Sengupta family, had access to this collection of stories. The Jethima (aunt) in question is whom we call Soma.

It took strangers by surprise that we called our aunt, who was so much older than we were, by her first name. But “Soma”, despite being a popular Bengali name, wasn’t our Jethima’s name at all. “Soma” was a contraction for “Shejo Ma” (coined by my sister, who couldn’t really pronounce “Shejo Ma” when young). So that’s how our Jethima came to be known as Soma.

Soma was the kids’ favourite, not just because she was well-read and charming, but because she actually took the time to know each one of us individually. She even made us feel that she really did enjoy our company. Most of her generation dismissed us as a “collective noun” – “the kids are up to mischief again”, “the kids need to be fed”, “the kids need to be in bed now” etc. Soma made everything fun – right from pujo rituals to current affairs. But she was the best at storytelling. In fact, I haven’t met anyone who can make the ordinary sound so extraordinary, purely by the power of narration.

One of my favourite childhood memories (and I am sure many of my cousins will agree) is huddling up under a blanket, on a crisp, winter afternoon in Soma’s bedroom, while she told us ghost stories. I never questioned (and still not sure) whether these were stories she had read somewhere, or whether they were products of her own imagination. But the goose bumps were real, as we held hands and squealed in the kind of thrill only the horror genre is known to bring. The pleasurable fear going down our spine… that bone-chilling sensation of a hand reaching out to grab us from the back…that eerie feeling of someone watching us from outside the window… that constant anticipation that the person sitting next to us may suddenly turn into that we most fear…the cold hands and feet that gave us no respite, despite being under the thickest blanket….

Soma’s stories evoked all of that. It transported us to a place we all feared but loved at the same time. One such story was about a girl called Ila, who rose from her coffin. “Coffin thekey uthey elo…..Ilaaaaaaa”, Soma would say, dragging out the name in her spookiest voice. And we would scream and beg her to stop….and the very next moment, we would ask her to say that line again (as if she was a rock star performing her greatest hits). I am sure we all had our own mental picture of Ila. Mine was that of a face-less girl with the darkest of hair, white as a sheet of paper.

Another favourite story was the one in which a mother ate the flesh of her own child! Gory, I know (and in today’s context, possibly very inappropriate for being a kids’ story). But we turned out fine (mostly). The saving grace was that (as was later revealed in the story) she bit off the flesh because that was the only way to save her child, who was poisoned. But she stuck in our heads as a monster, who liked human flesh over ordinary food.

When Miss 6 came back from school chatting about her Halloween plans for tomorrow, strangely, these childhood memories came flooding back. I have never really cared much that Halloween is an “American thing” and the theories around why it “should not be celebrated”. All I know is that Miss 6 looks forward to it for most of the year. And although she may not have a cool Jethima as Soma who can take her on a thrill ride, I have decided to start our own Halloween tradition of spooky stories to celebrate the day. And while I’m no expert myself, I am going to trust these guys, and these, (and read a few more) who say that “scary stories are good for kids”. If you have any recommendations, please do share, as Soma’s Ila will have to wait a few more years.

Gratitude, thy colour is pink!

While Steve Jobs’ Stanford speech is inspiring in every way, I have often wondered about the pragmatism of this particular part of his speech:

When I was 17, I read a quote that went something like: “If you live each day as if it was your last, someday you’ll most certainly be right.” It made an impression on me, and since then, for the past 33 years, I have looked in the mirror every morning and asked myself: “If today were the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am about to do today?” And whenever the answer has been “No” for too many days in a row, I know I need to change something.

Is it that easy to live every day as if it is the last day of our lives? Not for me. I’ll be honest; on cold winter mornings like today, the answer to the above question would most definitely be a No. I wouldn’t want to come to work, especially if it was the last day of my life. I am no Steve Jobs, who can dare to dream big and make it their reality. I am your average mortgage-paying, nine-to-five working, workout-hating person….with a child to raise and ageing parent to support. And remote support (from another part of the world), as you can guess, can become an emotional roller-coaster. You end up living two lives; often feeling like you’re not doing justice to either.

Today, was one such day. A day when I wished I was in India, by my Ma’s side. Today, she is to see a new doctor, who would hopefully show us some light at the end of the tunnel. But I was here….oceans away….living the other half of my life. While I struggled out of bed, I kissed my sleeping, almost-six year old, goodbye for the day. She went to bed with a wobbly tooth. I, for one, am not ready for her to lose her first milk tooth just yet. When I pick her up from school today, maybe that tooth will be gone. My baby would have grown just a little bit. Not sure if it was the hormones or the winter chill, but I walked to the driveway, teary-eyed.

Just then, I looked up at the sky. And there it was! The amazing pink hues of dawn (pic above), which leaves one awestruck. There it was…a moment in time…that will stay with me forever. I was overwhelmed with gratitude. For my life, my work and mostly, my people. The magical skies reminded me of everything I was so thankful for. For the friend who made this doctor’s appointment possible…For the niece and cousin who are taking a day off today to take Ma to her appointment….For Borda and Boudi, my second set of parents…For the friends who have stood by me through the toughest times….For the neighbours in India who have been helpful in more ways than I can list….For the family members who have been kind, patient and generous….For my friends in Australia who have put up with my highs and lows…For my work, which allowed me the flexibility, the financial freedom and the friendships needed to make a first-generation migrant’s life less challenging than it sometimes can be. For my daughter and husband, who fill my life with joy (when they are not driving me crazy!).

Tomorrow, I may crib, cry and complain again. But today, I choose gratitude. I may not be living today as if it was the last day of my life. But I am choosing to dwell on the pink sky...not the dark clouds. Apparently, the colour pink represents caring, compassion and love. It stands for unconditional love and understanding, and is associated with giving and receiving care. And today’s morning sky makes me convinced that whoever came up with that meaning, wasn’t far from the truth. I would only add “gratitude” to it.

World's a stage

Dear Shanaya,

I am not entirely sure how you have internalised “all the world’s a stage” without having read Shakespeare. But you like to behave that you are forever performing in front of packed audiences. Be it an impromptu song that you break into (with very original lyrics), or practising your kathak or other dance routines (for a real show you may be preparing for), or helping Daddy cook, or dancing in your car-seat to a song on the car radio…you give it your best! You want me to make little videos of your performance and put it on YouTube (which, I have not, of course). I did upload your cooking video (making scones) on social media, which received a flood of love and praise (obviously, from biased friends and relatives who love you blindly).

The other day, you danced to a Rabindra Sangeet (Madhibi Hotath Kotha Hotey Elo) on the occasion of Rabindra Nazrul Sandhya organised by BAWA. You were the little Madhobi, dressed in a pretty orange saree and a lavish flower crown (which was handmade with love). How well you danced is not for me to say….but how much you enjoyed it, was evident. The energy, smile and eye contact with the audience and other dancers, told me, once again, what I already knew. My little girl loves to perform!

You enjoyed every hug and praise you received after the show. But what I will never forget (or let you forget) is how you asked me if anybody would “take your autograph”! There was more innocence than pride in your question, which made it hilarious and adorable at the same time. Nobody took your autograph that day. But I hope, as you grow older and navigate through the by-lanes of life, you are able to hold on to that confidence and innocence. For they are amazing qualities, my dear girl – performing on stage or not.

Love,

Mummy

For goodness' sake

For goodness' sake
Stop asking a woman when she plans to have her first child.
Or second.
Stop telling her that time is ticking.
She knows.
She may have tried to, many times...
From tears and prayers
To pills and being under the knife.
She may have tried it all.
Or maybe she didn't try anything.
She just knows she can't or shouldn't.
Perhaps she doesn't want one.
Don't ask her why.
She must have her reasons.
And she doesn't have to justify them.

For goodness' sake
Stop telling her that a sibling is the best gift she could give her first-born.
Maybe, just maybe, the first born itself was a miracle.
Or a result of much pain, needles and loss.
Perhaps she cannot go through it again.
Perhaps she can, but decided not to.
Perhaps, one is all she always wanted.
Or one is more than she ever hoped for.

For goodness' sake
Stop judging a woman who doesn't want a child at all.
She doesn't need to follow a template.
She isn't selfish, strange or anything else you may think her to be.
She is just her.
So let her be.

For goodness' sake
Stop telling a woman that she shouldn't have any more children.
Three or four or five or seven...may be enough.
For you.
But not her.

For goodness' sake
Stop the casual small talk about a woman's childbearing plan over dinner or someone else's baby shower.
It's personal. It's intimate. And it often hurts.
If she wants your advice,
She will ask for it.
Trust me.

For goodness' sake
Stop asking a woman when she plans to have a child.
"Plans" don't work for many.
And no two "plans" look the same anyway.