Alvida!

Chorda (March 01, 1952 - Feb 1, 2020)

Dhanmama passed away one cold winter morning in Shillong. He had been ill for a long time, and always wanting to die in Shillong. He returned from Bombay, where he ran his own business. Existence had heard his plea and granted it.

The eldest son and first child of the scholar, Late Shrish Chandra Gupta and Srimati Suhasini Gupta, Dhanmama was a product of prayers and manath to the Gods for a child, two before him having died at childbirth.

God, as man, Dhanmama was kind, gentle, soft-spoken and compassionate. His passing away at age fifty-one, caused immense instability in the lives of his wife, Mamima, his two sons, Borda and Chorda, who suddenly had to take up the duties of looking after their mother and themselves, financially.

I was holidaying in Shillong, from boarding school, when this happened. I remember clearly, both Mamima and Borda, left asunder, with the passing of Dhanmama and with the fact that Chorda, was still in Bombay at the final year of his graduation. Alas, he had to complete it six months later, because, he had to rush to Shillong to be with his mother and elder brother.

I don’t remember Chorda very well when he came to Shillong. But Borda and I had struck up a great friendship as brother and sister, what with the additional and sudden appearance of Cupid, striking the hearts of Borda and my close friend at school, Chhaya. In the midst of the grief, love blossomed, as if putting a healing balm of their hearts. Soon Chorda arrived and the love seems to have expanded, spreading its wings towards Chorda as well. While Borda was more of a doer, Chorda burst into passionate poems, recited from well known western poets and some poems flowing out of his own heart.

The spring of joyous love was broken for me when I returned to boarding school. Mamima and Chorda and Borda returned to Bombay.

For a long time, I heard nothing of them at all, until, for the winter holidays I started to visit my Mashi, in Bombay. We would then visit them at their beautiful Mayur Pankh house, in Diamond Garden, Chembur and spend a few days there. It is, however, only in 1973, when I moved to Bombay, to continue my schooling and higher education did a re-association with Borda and Chorda start all over again. I went to Mayur Pankh house and stayed there for one or two weeks during the short holidays. We were a great family and if I had found brothers to rely on, they had found a sister in me, whom they cherished as much.

However, again from 1985 onwards, this connection was again broken, as life speeded up and I left Bombay with a partner, first back to Shillong to stay and do business there for a year. Hence, our family, consisting of Mejo, my mashi, Mesho, her husband, and other people spread across the country, were not aware of Chorda’s marriage to Shoma baudi.

Sometime in 1986-87, Mejo moved from Bombay to Poona because I lived there. One day, as I was coming up to our flat, in Poona, I found a postcard from Chorda. The card was addressed to Mejo, my mashi, the content of which was so sad, that as soon as she read it, she threw herself on the bed, weeping miserably. The boy, whose birth she had seen with her eyes, had passed away. Borda, had died of liver cirrhosis, leaving us all, his younger brother and mother. It was shocking, to say the least!

Mejo, dashed to Bombay, after a brief call with Chorda. This began the long unbroken relationship with Chorda, Mamima, and the two additions to his family – his wife, Shoma and their lovely and cute daughter, Almitra.

In the absence of his brother, Chorda, primarily, held on to me, for a confidante. This bonding grew stronger as times passed and I too got close to the family. When, Mejo, left for Kolkata, from Poona, to settle down there, I thought that the best thing to do for me now was to move to Bombay, because Chorda and baudi were there. I bought a small tiny flat in Vasai, with much help from my baudi, emotionally, and took that step to relocate to Bombay, not a city I loved most, but a city, where my brother lived. I felt, safe and secure, although he and I lived quite a distance from each other, yet, we were in the same city and that was a great solace to me.

In Chorda, I found a listener, a friend, a strategist, and a confidante. I could tell him everything. My baudi took it upon her to help me settle down in Bombay. She was a rock of Gibraltar, for me. I found my backbone once again, in a city, which was so large; I had to re-discover it once again. In the process, it helped me rediscover myself as well. I made new friends and banked on the family for emotional support.

But then, I moved again. Like a wheel, in constant movement, my next destination was Delhi.

I flirted with the idea of returning to Bombay, many times, but every time, I came close to that decision, I also ran away from it. It was my need to stay in a new city to write a new story for myself. It is still fulfilling itself.  

It is truly said that, unless you burn your bridges behind you, you can never move on.

There is nothing to look back upon now – the final connection having died at 4.23pm, on 1^st, February 2020. And although I knew the end was neigh, I never thought, it would be so fast.

Alvida, my dearest older brother, Chorda, like leaves drop from trees because they are weary, you too have gone, but will surely return, when, the journey you have embarked upon, from earth to an unknown destination, comes to the bivouac of afterlife, you will return like Khalil Gibran's continuation of life – Almitra.

Until a new beginning……

Do click on this LINK to read Khalil Gibran

Book Review: Family Matters by Nivasini Publishers

Photo credit HERE

Until quite recently in fact, say ten years now, my only concern with the family was about studying a social entity that was one of the strongest bond in a human life. My own interest in mine, came just two decades ago, when, I realised after a number of years of living alone, I saw my mashi’s sari drying out in the sun in my little garden, and my eyes brimmed over with the sheer emotional upheaval the sight brought up in my memory. Naturally, I picked up the book, with a mix of positive emotion not any less tinged with doubt. But I was in for a pleasant surprise.

Family Matters is a delightful collection of short stories and poems, all to do with the family put together in an anthology. These stories and poems have been penned by over 50 authors across the 9 countries. What stikes you most about them, is, whether, it is the author of a story in Canada, or a poet sitting in recluse in some cave in the deep corner of India, stories about the family have a common thread. They are about trust, love, bonding, care and sometimes, jealousy, anger, and even hate. Yet, these feelings are common to all humanity spread across the globe.

The poems talk of things that happen on a daily basis in any family, but because we life these realities, we are hardly ever so distanced from them, to be objective about them. Lived emotions, anger, love, concern and empathy,. Even competition, co-dependency and a host of other emotions cannot really be dissected like it was something happening in the chemistry lab. And these stories and poems speak of their lived realities, as a common thread that binds people living in family.

On one level, ‘family matters’ which mean that these are to do with the family, at another level, no matter what we experience as entities in the family, family does matter, are inescapable facts of life.

For some, this anthology might be valuable because it reflects their own reality, for others, it might awaken latent appreciation of a unit in life, which has far reaching effects, especially in our world, where, the real is becoming virtual.

You must pick up this book and add it to your family collection of all things you have treasured about your family. It might be impossible, not to see yourself in the stories and poems.

The one thing I thought NivasiniPublishers, who have published this book must do, is, maybe think things through, as to whether, putting a book, marrying poetry and prose together, is really such a good idea because, when you cut and bind the book together, the poems, following the left aligned margin might just about get cut too close to the edge in the process. And this brings us to an all important point, debated and argued for so long - of what does this remind us of the most, in Family Matters?   Cast at the edge of a family, the perpetual giver is a name name which starts with ‘F’?

You may like to Get Your Copy Now from HERE or HERE

Old wine tastes sweet, sometimes.

Visiting a place you have left behind or people you are no more in daily contact with, because they are no more a part of your life, causes both a feeling of happiness as well as sadness. Let me explain.

Many moons ago, I came to stay in a city which was buzzing with life. Over the years, it made me, molding me from raw and ready clay to a finished good ready to take on the world. The city was Bombay.

I can’t say I was ever in love with the city – who can really be, if you have come from the laid back life of a small town, picturesque and beautiful. Yet, the cement blocks of which I was going to see a lot in later years as well, grew in me and the people became my family. Yes, they say, in Bombay, you do not need your family; your neighbours make up for your family.

After thirteen years, I escaped to another place, close to Bombay, where the quality of life resembled what I had left behind, long ago. So, why did I return to Bombay after eight years out of it?

I longed to be in the hustle bustle of daily life, waking up at 5 am to take a train at 7 am to reach my work place at 9 am! Five years and I was done.

One day, I sat and calculated the number of hours I was on the road and it worked out to be like this: Out of 12 months in a year, I was only living 8, because the rest of the time I was travelling! It hit me like a bolt from the sky and I said to myself – Hey! I am not going to live like this anymore.

Just at that time, love came knocking at my door and I opened it to find that I was already flying out to another place, a place I was going to call my home.

Fifteen years in one place, changes you, for better or for worse. But it has contributed more to me than I can measure. Delhi is my jaan, my love, my life now.

Returning to Bombay, only recently, I realized that I was tremendously happy to be there and it almost seemed that I would return, just like I had many years ago, after living 8 years in a place which gave me, ease and a good lifestyle.  But early came a few warnings!

Friends and family I left behind years ago, were lukewarm.  They were also busy – Still! Even over the weekend, they did not have the time to meet. I understood! Isn't Bombay the place, where you promise to meet friends almost every week but can make it only once every other year? So why blame them; I am forgotten not because there is a problem with me, but because, life is so fast, it is like the old cassette we used to have, where you overwrite and everything is wiped out. So too me.

And there were a few new associations which were so warm and welcoming that I almost stayed behind. But good providence and past experience warned me of the devil within and the carrot that always hangs before a donkey, before it makes another enormous mistake!

I think that creative upheaval is a very positive thing and it pushes you beyond yourself to achieve new dimensions. This is exactly my point of view why I upturned my life so many times for a new place where I could start from scratch once again. But this time, I was shy of it.

It is indeed hard to create your stability with a city. It takes years to do it. And once it is cemented, then, it is foolish to ruffle up everything and start all over again.

There might be a home for me out there, but really Bombay, I am done with you and while I enjoyed my years with you, indeed, you are only old wine that tastes sweet, sometimes.

Photo credit HERE