1.
I recently read Somak Ghoshal's ode to the Calcutta afternoons and loadsheddings of childhood. It brought back memories.
I started going to a montessory at age 2.5. Both my parents were working and afternoons back home would be mostly spent with my grandmother. She would tell me the tale of Sindbad: the one where they camp on an island only to discover it's a sleeping whale. Everyday I'd listen in fascinated horror as she described its size:
- As big as this room?
- This room, that room and that!
But sooner or later she'd slip into siesta. I would tip toe down from the bed and sit on the stairs near the window, in a world of my own. Sometimes I'd climb all the way down and hang from railings of the ground floor balcony, singing made up songs in nonsense.
This was, of course, before I learnt to read on my own. The first book that was borrowed from the library for me was Sailen Ghosh's Mitul Name Putul-ti. Adults soon tired of reading out loud to me. Ma said I should try to read on my own after several such books. I started reading Raja Bappa Hu Hur Dari. It was incredible to find that I could read. Of course I hadn't yet learnt juktakkhors so when I encountered words I didn't know I'd make up some pronunciation. So it came to pass that I didn't know till I reached 17 that I'd been prounouncing "আকষ্মিক" wrong all my life (ashommik, I still say in my head when I see the word).
Soon I was so addicted to reading my parents started worrying about my health and my lack of physical activities (you never win with Bengali parents). They had to physically drag me away from books come dinner time. My world was populated by Russian fairytales and folk tales, and bengali children's literature with a sprinkling of lady bird series and Enid Blyton. One day I chanced upon a copy of Subarnalata. I must have been around 7, and started reading it. My grandmother ineffectually grumbled by my side about this being adult reading. I continued to read till my father came home. He took away the book and put it on a high shelf away from my reach. I had memories of the book for a long time, especially the bit where Subarnlata tiptoes to the chilekotha with her anklets pushed up her calves so they didn't make any noise.
When I was 7 my parents moved away from the joint family to two tiny rooms on top of a roof near the Tollygunge studios. Summer afternoons were spent looking at the incredible blue of skies and learning cloud names and shapes punctuated by the cries of cheel. I learnt to fly kites and played cricket with the para boys (when I wasn't reading).
I miss reading, and my complete absorption into alien worlds created by words. I can barely watch hour-long tv series now. Distractions plague me everywhere.
2.
I was sitting by the beach in Penang after a particularly satisfying meal of crabs and clam and prawns. Drinking beer, taking an occasional puff of cigarette from my colleagues. I felt an intense nostalgia for Morjim. The days and afternoons in Morjim were mostly spent by myself, either walking at sunset or drinking and smoking while reading at a shack. The last time I visited was possibly November. It was my one surefire escape from feeling sad or lonely or angry. Observing dogs and people and the relentless waves, feeling the salty breeze in mymhair and the punishing daytime sun on my bare skin--it never failed to take the blues away. It was much more of a home--if home is somewhere you find peace and rest--than any of the houses I occupied during my 2 years in Goa.
I recently read Somak Ghoshal's ode to the Calcutta afternoons and loadsheddings of childhood. It brought back memories.
I started going to a montessory at age 2.5. Both my parents were working and afternoons back home would be mostly spent with my grandmother. She would tell me the tale of Sindbad: the one where they camp on an island only to discover it's a sleeping whale. Everyday I'd listen in fascinated horror as she described its size:
- As big as this room?
- This room, that room and that!
But sooner or later she'd slip into siesta. I would tip toe down from the bed and sit on the stairs near the window, in a world of my own. Sometimes I'd climb all the way down and hang from railings of the ground floor balcony, singing made up songs in nonsense.
This was, of course, before I learnt to read on my own. The first book that was borrowed from the library for me was Sailen Ghosh's Mitul Name Putul-ti. Adults soon tired of reading out loud to me. Ma said I should try to read on my own after several such books. I started reading Raja Bappa Hu Hur Dari. It was incredible to find that I could read. Of course I hadn't yet learnt juktakkhors so when I encountered words I didn't know I'd make up some pronunciation. So it came to pass that I didn't know till I reached 17 that I'd been prounouncing "আকষ্মিক" wrong all my life (ashommik, I still say in my head when I see the word).
Soon I was so addicted to reading my parents started worrying about my health and my lack of physical activities (you never win with Bengali parents). They had to physically drag me away from books come dinner time. My world was populated by Russian fairytales and folk tales, and bengali children's literature with a sprinkling of lady bird series and Enid Blyton. One day I chanced upon a copy of Subarnalata. I must have been around 7, and started reading it. My grandmother ineffectually grumbled by my side about this being adult reading. I continued to read till my father came home. He took away the book and put it on a high shelf away from my reach. I had memories of the book for a long time, especially the bit where Subarnlata tiptoes to the chilekotha with her anklets pushed up her calves so they didn't make any noise.
When I was 7 my parents moved away from the joint family to two tiny rooms on top of a roof near the Tollygunge studios. Summer afternoons were spent looking at the incredible blue of skies and learning cloud names and shapes punctuated by the cries of cheel. I learnt to fly kites and played cricket with the para boys (when I wasn't reading).
I miss reading, and my complete absorption into alien worlds created by words. I can barely watch hour-long tv series now. Distractions plague me everywhere.
2.
I was sitting by the beach in Penang after a particularly satisfying meal of crabs and clam and prawns. Drinking beer, taking an occasional puff of cigarette from my colleagues. I felt an intense nostalgia for Morjim. The days and afternoons in Morjim were mostly spent by myself, either walking at sunset or drinking and smoking while reading at a shack. The last time I visited was possibly November. It was my one surefire escape from feeling sad or lonely or angry. Observing dogs and people and the relentless waves, feeling the salty breeze in mymhair and the punishing daytime sun on my bare skin--it never failed to take the blues away. It was much more of a home--if home is somewhere you find peace and rest--than any of the houses I occupied during my 2 years in Goa.
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