[For my mother, on the event of her birthday in heaven. She would have
turned 76 this year on Mother Earth on February 26, 2023, but fate had other
plans ten years back.]
“Jokhon porbe na more payer chinho ei baante/ Ami baibo na,
ami baibo na more kheya toree ei ghaate go…”
(When you will not be able to trace my footprints,
imprinted on the roads, you won’t see me then, in the jetties, I won’t be then
to row my boat.)
---Rabindranath Tagore, Geetabitan.
Dear Ma,
A picture of you stands unassumingly, along with old and
new DVDs and books, in the top-most shelf of one of our old glass-showcases
that have traveled with us from one home to another. I see you today, as I see
you every day, in the blissful sheen of smile with my first born tucked
blissfully in your arms, surrounded by your erratic husband, my father, who
loved you in his own queer, idiosyncratic ways, surrounded by me, your only
child and my husband. “A complete family portrait, I will keep it snugly in my
heart always!” You had expressed in unbridled joy that day, a decade years ago
on the New Year’s Eve, while returning with a bunch of family pictures that we
had taken together at Portrait Studio, Omaha, Nebraska, where you had come to
visit us.
Years after, a copy of the same picture lay, along with a
stack of other pictures and memorabilia in a damp nook of your Barrackpore home
from where they took your lifeless body away, but where the imprints of your
being still lurk, crawl at the old, chipped walls, the unkempt furniture, the
dusty staircases. A home, its bricks and roof and floors that you had built
with your sweat, your diligence and utmost resolve, a home where your words,
your silence and your fatigued breath still echoes, calling out my name.
In a different home now, in faraway Texas
where we live now, unbeknownst to you, pictures of you, in various phases of
your life peep from our laptop screen, which I, your only daughter randomly
saved in digital formats from old, tattered, sepia picture albums. They were my
last desperate, painstaking attempts to hold on to you with my parched heart;
in all the sights, smells, noises and touch and their smooth, velvety feel in
which love was formed since the day I was born, till the day I gave birth. The
sensations and their impact seized to be physical, yet whenever I touch the
framed pictures, printed and gleaming, whenever I run my fingers through the
elusive screen that freezes those sepia and coloured moments of you and me, the
sensations gush through my veins, real, lingering.
“Ma-r shob jinish shonge kore niye ja, ekhane kichhu fele
rakhish na.” (Take away all belongings of your mother with you, do not
leave anything in this house) …
Relatives, neighbors had commented on the day of my return
to the US, following the rituals of your first death anniversary in our
Barrackpore home. They had quite obviously referred to the more valuable
worldly stuff that you had left in the house, but do they all know what else
you had left inside the rooms, interspersed with moments of love and beauty,
with which the mundane glittered, glorious? There, in the eerie silence of the
old steel almirah of your bedroom, lay a stack of your saris, starched, folded,
nourished with unconditioned love. In the middle rack of the almirah, old, almost archaic bank documents, question
papers from the school where you taught, handwritten notes and old, tattered
inland letters of your old students, old papers, souvenirs from my father’s
office rested inside files piled up against one another.
Inside the drawers of our old dressing table in
Barrackpore, a gift from your parents for your wedding, my old report cards,
the raw sketches of my preschooler days cough up the blood and phlegm of my
washed out childhood days. You had wrapped them all in the blanketed warmth of
the rooms, your old tanpura which
you had brought from your parents’ home, your rusty vermilion cases, your combs
that still carry thin, curly strands of your hair. You had shielded them from
the ever-changing world outside that was unaffected by your sedate, solitary
life.
In the kitchen of our new home in Texas, every week,
ritualistically, I chop bottle-gourd, spinach and potatoes in much the same way
you had told me to, still working on your signature recipes that you wanted me
to acquire skills in.
An old voice echoes in the thin air while I do the cutting,
chopping, stir-frying and tempering with masalas. “Never ever tell me to cook.
I am not born to cook. I am only born to read and write poetry…”
I would boastfully tell you on your face in my carefree
student days. You would laugh it off, convey my immature statements to other
women you knew, who told you it was just a temporary phase, a perspective that
would never hold good once I would marry and enter domesticity. I had your
genes, after all. The genes that carry poetic veins, the genes that know how
the fish and vegetables dance in a geometric swirl and traipse across the
aromatic blend, inside the mouths of the oiled, heated pots and pans. Cooking
in my later life, came to me in the ether waves of the long-distance phone
calls and long, descriptive e-mails from you, wooed me and overtook me as yet
another sacred journey solidifying our bond, much in the same way as your
poetry, your recitations did.
“Lau-te kokhono ada dibi na, panch foron, hould, nun, dudh
ar narkel dibi, amrit er moton lagbe khete.” (Never add ginger to
bottle-gourd curry, a concoction of the five whole spices, turmeric, coconut
and milk will do wonders to the dish, believe me, it will make it taste heavenly)
…
I smile, my eyes misting over, the tinkle bell of your
bangles, the conch shells in your hands still reverberating in the damp, molten
kitchen of our Barrackpore home, sprinkling salt and turmeric in the giant fish
pieces in smudged utensils.
“Pooja kori more rakhibe urdhe, shey nohee ami/Hela kori
morey rakhibe pichhe, shey nohee ami./ Jodi parshe rakho more shonkote
sampad-e,/ Sammati dao Jodi kothin brote shohay hote,/ Pabe tobe tumi chinite
morey.” (I am not the one you hail in the alter, worshipping, nor
am I the one you keep behind you, in negligence. Recognize my essence while you
keep me beside you always, in your bounty and amid deep hours of crisis,
allowing me to be a true partner in your life’s journey, a true accomplice in
your missions) …
I can still hear you mumbling the lines of Tagore’s ‘Ami
Chitrangada’ (I am Chitrangada) to yourself, in the ethereal twilight of your
everyday kitchen songs.
In your young, struggling days, when you and Baba (father)
came together in the same music school where the numinous beauty of
Rabindranath Tagore’s songs made both of you create your own universe of love,
you had held his hand tight, learning to love yourself more with each passing
day, for his sake. You had come to his ancestral home as a new, demure bride
amid 25 odd, unyielding members who never understood your true worth; you had
embraced his handsomeness and youth, his strengths as well as all his quirky
ways, his occasional bouts of temper, and took upon yourself the mammoth task
of supporting his demanding family, financially, emotionally, even while
draining yourself excruciatingly.
“What was the purpose of all your sacrifices for them, tell
me, when all they did was to exploit your resources, your inner goodness? They
made you give up your music, stopped your recitation classes. They didn’t even
let you eat properly when you were expecting me, years back. Do you expect them
to change and love you unconditionally in return?” I would ask you quite often,
when I grew older and wiser, unable to come to terms with what you had faced,
while you covered up with a smile when it hurt you the most. I never got a
concrete reply, but your silent resolve spoke volumes. You had loved my father
till your last blood drop, and his entire realm, both in its pleasantness and
its disagreeable mess, was your own. Right from the moment you discovered him
as your young husband in your first nuptial night, to the last evening before
your fatal stroke many years later, when you were washing his soiled clothes in
the bathroom.
My mornings would never be the same, Ma, without your
little love-notes inscribed in our Barrackpore home, swaying with the lilting
tunes of your Sanskrit chanting at the wake of dawn when with eyes shut and
hands folded in a gesture of pranaam, you would utter the divine mantra,
“Om jabakusuma sankasang kashyapeyang mahadyuting”, invoking the Sun-God. A
sliver, a chunk of my childhood and adolescent days, with lines of Rabindranath
and Jibanananda Das, and most prominently, the lines of a poem, “Bhoraai”, by
your favourite poet Satyendranath Dutta dangles in the rusted, dusty corners of
the rooms, the verandah and the terrace of the house, trying to reach me every
day, crisscrossing the haywire traffic of the continents. The lines that you
had recited with flawless diction and the inimitable prowess of your elocution,
the lines and their literary essence that you had taught me with utmost care,
lines which had then, unknowingly, laid the foundation of my love for the
scribes.
“Your daughter will be one of us, nothing
greater, who has ever seen a grape growing to be a banana tree?”
You had silently
listened to one of my elder cousin sisters predicting an inconsequential future
for me, while I sat in your lap, reading out my favourite books to you one day.
In your silent resolve, you had held me closer to you, whenever the uncertainties
in my life spiraled out of control, for you knew, in your heart of hearts, that
I will rise and shine, and find my own little firmament in the vast galaxy of
voices, visions and expressions.
Today, I dedicate each and every small or big publication
to your loving memory, to your simple, yet profound teachings. I cook the
recipes that you had taught me across the miles of our distance, I watch my
teenage daughters grow with starry eyes every day, much in the same way that
you did while I was growing up, knowing that perhaps my own words, thoughts and
actions, my own aspirations would find their way in posterity. Perhaps, many
moons later, when my bare form will meet yours, suspended in time and space,
trying to gauge the vacuum in between, perhaps then our words and silences, the
pauses in between will resurrect us. Till then, let your clumsy, messy, soppy
remembrances tell me your stories, every day.
I will remain your daughter in this life, whichever domain
you may have crossed over to.
Happy birthday, Ma!
Yours’,
Papai.
 |
| (With Ma in 2005) |
 |
(With Ma in childhood)
|
Bio: Lopamudra Banerjee is an author, poet, translator, editor with eight books and five anthologies in fiction, nonfiction and poetry. She lives in Texas, USA with her family, but she is originally from Kolkata, India. She has been a recipient of the Journey Awards (First Place category winner) for her memoir ‘Thwarted Escape: An Immigrant’s Wayward Journey’, the International Reuel Prize for Poetry (2017) and International Reuel Prize for her English translation of Nobel Laureate Tagore’s selected works of fiction (2016). Her poetry has also been published in renowned platforms including ‘Life in Quarantine’, the Digital Humanities Archive of Stanford University. She has been a Featured Poet at Rice University, Houston in November 2019. Her recent publication ‘Bakul Katha: Tale of the Emancipated Woman’, her English translation of Ashapurna Devi’s award-winning Bengali novel ‘Bakul Katha’ has received Honorable Mention at London Book Festival. Her recent poetry collection ‘We Are What We Are: Primal Songs of Ethnicity, Gender & Identity’ (2022) is a collaboration with Mexican-American poet and storyteller Priscilla Rice.
