The Hybrid Child

I’ve been a nomad ever since I can remember, hopping from one destination to another. I was born near the ocean, flown across skies and continents, and raised by the desert. I imagined my luggage had wheels and wings, apparating me to distant lands whose art I was yet to devour. All those stamps on my passport testified my wanderlust gene. That’s how I learnt, that’s how I thrived, and that’s how I’ve become.

Growing up in the Arab kingdom was a royal affair of exotic food, hypnotic lights and orgasmic colognes. Mom gifted me Sherlock Holmes and Dad introduced me to Feluda. Chanting of the Hanuman Chalisa was accompanied by echoes of the Fajr prayer. Aloo Posto was a dinner favourite and so was Fettuccine Alfredo. Tagore’s Rabindra Sangeet filled the silence as much as Beethoven’s symphonies. School was all about the exchange of Tiffin boxes and bellowing lunchtime blabber; boxes that carried over a dozen cuisines, and blabber that comprised of 16 different tongues, all resonating as the sound of friendship. Summer vacations often meant receiving weird looks from the crowd because our Chevrolet had suddenly transformed into a rickety rickshaw and my 5-year-old self couldn’t fathom why. Dumplings were replaced with Phuchka, and all I could do was hog on the spicy snack beside the filthy stall while the audience blinked at my naive glee. Curiosity stitched us together.

People sympathised with my frequent address fluctuation. “I don’t mind it”, I said, concealing the smirk of my Bohemian heart. Half the population marveled at my ability to speak in Bengali and the rest was befuddled by my fluent English. “Why can’t I know both?” I asked. After all, one was the dialect in my blood, and the other was the voice in my soul.

I laughed at the stories of the Red Tide and shared them with the White Cricket. I engraved my name on the stone walls and the black sand, and believed it would stay. I waddled through lanes unknown. They were strangers, till they became home. I met people who counted the same stars and danced on the same ground. I got lost, till I was found. I left my mark on the roads abound.  

A map. A world. A giant sea. I could drown. I could fly. A thousand possibilities. I watched and observed and witnessed, and ultimately realized that if you listen very closely, it all melts into one vision and one language and one heartbeat. Call us travelers, rovers or gypsies; we’re all the same kettle of fish. I’m happy with having one foot on the ground and other on the move. And I refuse to cease exploring till my existence is marked with the ink of adventures and my blood becomes an amalgamation of all the soils my lips have touched. Till I meander, till I wonder, till I breathe.

Butterflies

“I’m just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her.”

If only it was as easy as Julia Roberts made it sound, right? Or maybe it is. As I finish watching Notting Hill for the umpteenth time, it makes me wonder. Why should loving someone come with the package of wet pillows and blue music?

Let me tell you something: love is everything it’s deemed to be. It’s crazy, cranky, silly, sappy, illogical and immature. It’s passion and poetry wrapped in the form of a human being. It’s the 15-year-old giggling in your 30-something body. It’s wobbly knees and a butterfly tummy. It’s benches and dried leaves and letters and photographs. It’s someone who makes you stay awake till 5am despite your droopy eyes, and run to the airport because you just can’t seem to say goodbye. It’s the big box of memories whose lid refuses to break or close. It’s holding on and letting go. It’s the scariest dream and the prettiest nightmare, flying and falling at the same time. It’s having all the air around you sucked out and seeing your world build up and fall apart and being too smitten and too helpless to catch the broken pieces. It’s the right person at the wrong time and the wrong person at the right time and time being a wicked witch. It’s all of this, and so much more; so much more we’ll never know.

My sparse knowledge of this vast concept has led me to the conclusion, that of all the things it is and will ever be, may it never be basic. May all the mundane be on one side and the royal mess of your love affair stand with its coy pride. May all the myths of shooting stars and white horses and fiery princesses and knights in shining armours see the light of reality. May it sustain your senses and drive you insane. Because if love wasn't simple and complex and magic and madness, what else would it be? Amen, Amen, Amen.

Carrie Bradshaw and my bucket of ice cream await.

Till I write again,

Creative Insanity.

An Ode to my Superwoman

The first week of January. The air is so cold the blanket is frozen to my feet. I hear the clattering of the pan and mom humming her favourite Rabindra Sangeet, while moving around like a ninja. I’ve always believed that my mom is a secret agent working for The Institute of Inbuilt Magnificence. She can chop onions, fluff the cushions and give you life lessons all in one twirl. I guess it was she who took the train to Hogwarts and learnt all the kickass witchcraft. I groggily walk up to her with a half-yawn, and she smiles at me as she serves dad his breakfast. She doesn’t have time to comb, but she has time to smile. The hum is now replaced with small, soft breaths, her arthritic knees begging her to take a break. She doesn’t listen to them. She doesn’t listen to anyone. Dad leaves for work and mom waves him goodbye from the balcony, waiting till he takes the turn at the corner.

Just when I feel she’s about to run back inside her den again, I stop her. After a little struggle, she finally agrees to take that breath latched somewhere between stress and responsibilities. I hear her laugh and gasp at the whereabouts of some dramatic Indian woman on screen, as I settle our cups on the table. The next hour goes by me trying to help her escape through gossip and giggles, and before I know it, the ninja goes back to duty.

Wash, clean, cook.

“Sweetie, come have lunch.”

Dust, scrub, arrange.

“… Going to the grocery store.”

Calls, bills, cold tea.

“No no, it isn’t much. I’ll manage.”

Sprint, sweat, smile.

“Beta, dinner is ready.”

Another day comes to an end. An extraordinary woman’s ordinary day. Her warm halo and invisible cape retire for the night. I see her sitting still for a change, either plotting world domination or deciding what to cook for tomorrow’s dinner. I guess I’ll never know. For that moment, I let her stay in her little bubble. Just, let her be; before she resumes being a wife and a mother and a superwoman. My superwoman.

Pandemonium

Hey there, little girl.

Don’t be in a rush

To grow up.

Those shiny lights,

Those dizzy nights.

It’s all a trap.

Ride your bike,

Let your hair loose,

While you still can.

Chase the stubborn wind,

Dance with the wild ones,

Be the sky.

Soon the darkness

Will descend over

Your innocent eyes.

Soon a pair of cold lips,

And a crooked smile

Will arrest your breath.

Soon a big book of

Rules will be crawling

Under your tender skin.

Chaining you,

Groping you,

Deceiving you.

Soon you’ll be

Wishing and wailing and begging

To be free, to be heard, to be saved.

Soon the shadow of your mother

Will disappear in the puff of smoke

They said tastes like heaven.

Then why is it buzzing

And blending and bleeding

Between your legs and nails?

  

Scream,

Hide,

Run.

To the house you

Once called home, to the place

That still waits for you.

To the lonely box of letters,

Written to the girl

You now barely know.

To the haven that

Will embrace your nightmare,

And sing you a new dream.

- Sayantani Sarkar.