Life- The beginning
What is life....is it something that distinguishes us from inorganic matter,..or is it just a small voltage fluctuation in an essential flat line on the ECG monitor,or is it a period of time between birth and death,made up by the choices that we all make in between.
As I lie somewhat drowsy ,wriggling with pain in this small cabin of a nursing home after undergoing a surgery,i contemplated the purpose of life. Does life indeed have a purpose,or is it just living for the sake of living. I tried to get up to get a view from the small window of this wonderful cabin, but the stitches ached like hell. And just at that moment,when I was totally losing my sanity and senses,my anaesthetic walked in to hold me from making a fool of myself. A bit embarrassed (i was still in my OT dress), i fumbled and she laughed out heartily.
. Me with my Gang
my partner in crime
. Om shanti
Take rest, i will send someone to change your dress.
My protest was drowned in a series of phone calls.
What will you like to have for lunch?
Biriyani......!
She looked at me admonishingly,"no solid food,only liquid diet,soup and may be icecream...."
U r looking dam beautiful today! I interrupted her.
She looked speechless at me.
Go to hell,u pig.....she left the room with a dash of smile and laugh,like the fragrance of the lillies in the misty spring morning.
And then i realised, life itself has no meaning,it is just a blank canvas.....it is moments like these that make it a masterpiece,the darkness of the pain providing the perfect contrast to the bright colours of laughter.
Suddenly the left side of my chest ached, i clutched the emergency bell in panic and with all my might tried to shout out. As i lost my senses, i heard footsteps in the corridor, and a flash of the mighty Kedarnath against the white snowcapped Himalayas,like the trailer of a fast paced movie. The last thing I remember was someone shouting my name. I just mumbled....let me sleep, i have lived long enough.
The monotonous beeps reminded me that I was still alive. I cursed my fate, wriggling my fingers and toes to see if I was indeed returned back by Jamraj in a single piece back. I don't want to live as a defective unit, you know that. And slowly i opened my eyes to the dazzling light of the ICU....my lips just quivered, Chances?
She replied,100%. Now sleep.
No,i protested. Give me my Ipad, wish to pen down a love letter for you.
You r still a sarcastic old crook. She signalled the nurse with her eyes to give me my Ipad, and i started writing an ode to the Lord Kedarnath,not as a thank you note (i am an atheist u know), but for my first love ,the mountains.
Every Bengali has his first encounter with the mountains in Darjeeling,but things were always different for me. Born in the bathroom pan of the labour room(my mother once told me that, she later denied it....but I liked the story), i was a queer humble feeble thin lad with a large head and a thin physique. People used to call me Talpatar Sepai, not that I mind. There was also something odd about my birthday, people have one birthday,i had three- one marked official present on my Pan card, Aadhar, passport. The second one was celebrated by my mother (nothing fancy, only round potato fries,chringri bhaate and Payes, the three signature dishes on every birthday, and a vest/gengi as a gift always...even now!). The last birthday date was invented by me (actually you see,i was born after 12am, and also that day was made famous by Bin Laden....no points in guessing the date, though I used to prefer to say that the day was famous for Swami Vivekananda's speech in Chicago). Birthdays didn't mean party or cakes, it meant that I was spared from my father's slap for a day, for my father was indeed the Hitler, a loving Hitler to be fair,but more about it later. Let's get back to me, afterall it is my story.
Being a sick child always, i rarely participated in contact sports like cricket or football, or was usually bullied or treated as "doodhbhat"(ie, no captain wanted me in his team,what a shame). My playmates were girls of all ages and my younger brother.We used to play ranna bati,kitkit, bou churi, kumir majhi, guli ,pitto, korigona and all sorts of non contact non laborious sports. Roaming around the fields with the cows was a favourite pastime. The only thing I liked most,apart from sleeping was reading books. For in the books,i found a different world, a world where I could be a king, a romantic lover, a soldier, a vagabaund....i could be anyone. There would be no one to judge me,to criticize me. Later in life i realised that I was an introvert. So while talking about mountains,why am I talking about me. A bit of self boast ,you can say (who doesn't like that) and about a book (forgot the name), but it was about the pilgrimage to Kedarnath and Badrinath by foot. The vivid descriptions made this young sick child yearn for the lofty mountains.
It was the year 1994.Sushimita Sen had just been crowned the Miss Universe (how can they judge who is most beautiful of the Universe, when they themselves know very very little about it). Colour TV was a rarity, and mobiles,travelblogs were nonexistent. Travel research meant asking your neighbourly Sudhu jaetha and Bhromonsongi. So, when my father decided that we should go to the mountains this year, I was delighted with joy.
So,one fine evening we( by we, i mean my family of four, my mamadadu and my Dida.....why they didn't bring their better halfs, i didn't understand) alighted on the Rajdhani Express AC 3tier for our journey to Delhi. Rajdhani was the epitome of luxury travel, planes (only AirIndia) was for the super rich back then. Endless chocolates, foods like soup, chicken salami, egg devil's, salads....it was a heaven for me. Next morning we alighted at Delhi, freshened up in the restroom and caught an autorickshaw to the bus terminus to catch the state bus to Haridwar. The journey to Haridwar was a dusty one, with potholed roads here and there. Our tiny tin bus creaked through the sugarcane and wheat fields, with small mud huts strewn here and there. For a child accustomed to the Sujala sufala Bangla, this place was like Dante's Hell. Maybe God went to nap while creating this area, my little mind thought. But what kept me interested were the peacocks roaming about freely (i always thought peacocks are only found in zoo,how come they roam around so freely) and the monkeys. By evening we found our night shelter in Bharat Shevasram Sangha ,with snoring of a sadhubaba from the adjacent room as companionship. The ringing of temple bells marked the beginning of the next day, and before the sun could wake up from its lazy slumber,and lift his head from the soft cushy pillow of the dark clouds, we were walking through the narrow alleys of Haridwar towards the Ganges . The holy dip was less holy ,but more punishing for a kid. I was shaking like a leaf, with my pale skin looking like a plucked chicken just prepared for a Christmas dinner. As we made our way back ,those dark clingy desolate alleys, as if by the hyms of Mritosanjiboni mantra turned into loud,bright , bursting with energy and positive vibes. The shops with Puja samogris had opened, with shopkeepers calling out in a variety of dialects and languages, the lonely bull obstructing the paths of the groups of naga sanyasis with their jatas and trishula, the strwen maatir bhand here and there,and the sweet aroma of Kesar Jalebi and Rabri, with flies buzzing over it. It was chaos, complete madness, but there was a method in this madness.....as if almighty has weaved a beautiful garland with different flowers,the thread of religion holding it together. After Puri Sabji jalebi and Rabri for breakfast, we went to the auto stand ,where my "poor" father haggled with the Tangawalla ,who ultimately agreed to show us the city of Haridwar in 3 hrs, which itself has a history of 3000yrs! Temple and Temple and more temples......my knees were aching after being made to do pranam at so many temples. I think there are temples to the entire Hindu cosmos. But only temple caught my fancy, the Daksh Prajapati Temple, not because it was beautiful or auspicious,but for the wonderful story of Dakshya Jagna ( if you don't know, please Google it ,i am not your Grandmother to tell stories. Besides I am a poor story teller). The Tangawalla described it with such details,such passion ,such conviction, that for a moment I thought he must have been Dhaksya himself in a previous birth.
A kick on my legs caught me off-guard,and i looked angrily at my brother. " Tor khide pachhe na?, he hissed angrily....baba k bol. So, i ,being the Barodada as always was given the task of asking for something from my father. Lady luck was on my side that day,and soon the Tanga was flying like a pokhiraj ghora to Dada Boudi's hotel.
Dada Boudi was a brand(long before McDonald's or Pizza Hut) , a saviour for home sick (read Rice sick) Bengalis in far off chapatti land. Steaming Basmati rice , moogh dal, Desi ghee and aloo posto greeted us.In the afternoon,went to the famous Laxmanjhoola, bringing me back memories of Badshahi Angti (Feluda stories....again Google of you don't know, or should I give a hyperlink?!). The Tangawalla left us at Har ki Pauri ,to hear the melodious voice of Lata Mangeshkar singing Om Jai Jagdish Hare, while Diyas lightened up the black Ganga like ornaments of a newly wed bride.
Enough for today.......the sister is insisting on giving me a injection (must be to make me sleep...it is already 2am now).
Will complete if I wake up tomorrow. Bye.
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