Letter to the Little one in My Womb

My baby,

Your little toes which have been kicking me off late day and night, tiny palms tickling underneath when I try to sleep, sleepy eyes that I am dying to see in every sonography scan, naughty punches that hide your nose in kung-fu style in the scan images – now that it’s 3 days left before I will be able to see you, I thought of writing you this letter. May be when you will be able to read and understand stuffs, you will find this letter archived here.

 My darkened skin, messy eyebrows, plus size dresses, tired and sleepy eyes, aching back and limbs,  body’s shifted center of gravity , restless nights- your mother is definitely not looking the most beautiful mother in the world, and not the fittest.

But I know all these will disappear with a soft touch of your magic wand when you will see me. After waiting for 40 weeks, I have stopped envisioning how will be that moment. How’d I feel.   It’s just some unpredictable unknown emotions which better to be left for the moment to come.

It’s been magnificent journey having you there with me for last 280 days, and I want to share with you so many things which I would never  have learned in life unless you would come.

• ·         Fear of change is good

Fear is always there for the things we don’t know or we don’t dare to know.

An year back I used to feel the hardest thing would be changing my free-spirited life into the one, where I need to care more for another human life than myself. And when I conceived this transformation and you, I was fearing these 10 months were going to be toughest and longest one, without my ‘me-times’ : frequent trip planning, my camera, a span without the word ‘career/ growth/goals’, without eatery excursions in the city, without outings and adventures – because my little adventure was sitting there waiting to grow up.

Extreme exhaustion, loss of free mobility,  managing office and home, then it was followed by putting on weight , tiring my  and shoulder, crampy limbs spoiling goodnight sleep, shortness of breath and pouncing heartbeats as I became heavier and heavier. But I still wonder how I have gained strength of coping all these automatically – as if I have been blessed continuously from a unseen source of energy or it was you who got me going round the clock. The things I feared the most, made me live in with them slowly and steadily.

Then after these 10 long months I feel the  hardest part is waiting there inside the delivery room.

You see what I feared was all about exploring an unknown chapter. And the greatest strength which helped me experience them with strength is nothing but Love.

• ·         The greatest strength is unconditional Love and Faith in Almighty .

 Love of a mother for her baby since the time it was a  tiniest cell inside her womb yet to get a human formation and now a cuddling baby communicating through placenta , endless love of a man for his heavy-weight wife who can barely get up from bed on her own and definitely looking tired round the clock , love of a family for a new member who is yet to arrive but already a family, love of the kind  Almighty only on whom you can have faith to guide you along.

A mother, who never traveled alone even out of her city, has traveled alone almost 3000 kilometer just to be by my side whenever I needed her the most – leaving your aging grandfather and my ailing 90 years old grandmother and her all household heavy duties back at home.

Your father, who has juggled between office and home, has come home early every evening to accompany me for prescribed evening walk, has helped me now and then picking up things from the floor when I could not bend down anymore, letting me sleep till late every morning so that we both can get uninterrupted sleep.

And in the darkest hour, I have closed my eyes and prayed to the God, to keep us steady, strong and healthy.

Their unconditional love have kept both of us tough and steady.

• ·         It’s because of you I started caring myself .

 I really do not remember when did I take care of myself before. And surely I would have never cared about my well-being if it was not for you. Pampering myself with good 9 hour of sleep, good food, natural ingredients, good reads and peace of mind - distancing from negativity around. Tiny you have already  taught me to be self – content, with whatever I have, because they are the best thing which I could have in this life. And choosing between what to listen - what to avoid, to love myself first to be able to love the entire family, to be more flexible and adjusting when life offers  bumpy rides, to be more kind and caring for the people who really matters .

Who says  one should only believe on whichever is seen.

You are the most wonderful unseen thing I have ‘seen’ and felt in my life, with the strongest message of your existence ever since you have let me become a part of yours,and you as mine.

Waiting to see you

Love,

 maa

An Obituary to the Dilemma of Returning Home

I travel home this time of the year, well no forte here, it’s the most common time of home-coming for most of the Bengalis from different cities of India. To get a cheaper air-ticket or at least a 3AC berth , to get leaves approved for two weeks at least, we all struggle for 4 to 6 months prior to the month of October. And the excitement flashes in the social networking posts as soon as the Mahalaya comes around. 

The most usual conversation when you meet a Bengali friend this time would be ‘Pujoe bari kobe jachis?  (When are you planning to go home, this Pujo)'

With Sir B K Bhadra tuning into  his iconic ‘Mahishasur Mordini’ to invoke the ‘patriotism’ towards our festival and culture, the Facebook floods with the posts “Travelling to Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose Intl Airport”, “always good to  feel at home” blah blah ,  followed by numerous posts of each day of the festival, selfies with Maa Durga and her entire family with our entire family, added with humongous crowd in the streets and pandals and eateries and café. The city decorates herself with freshly arrived autumn and embraces us as if it was waiting forever.

And exactly after a week  the whole atmosphere gets paled off with few saddened faces boarding flights in the same airport or Howrah Railway station waiting for the super –fast express.

Streets that lightened up and littered by millions of pedestrian, suddenly come back to the normal emptiness, or the normal routine of office goers, road side vendors, morning tea and ‘Anadabazar’, usual chaos in fish market, jam-packed mini-buses and claustrophobic local train compartments.

And most acutely, the emptiness prevails at the home, where just a while ago entire family celebrated ‘home-coming’ of us and the Goddess.

Most of the apartments and individual houses , in the city and in the suburbs are now marooned  , there dwellers are aging citizens. And there emerges the year long silence and loneliness, longing for another festival , longing for their children to come back home, longing for next year’s merriment. The usual morning tea sipped with the crackling silence in the dining hall, the gifts just unwrapped few days back when the grandchildren presented it to their granny, the usual submission to the television and newspaper are back as they are the most obedient compassionate. The strained and aged hearts would not agree to leave their root and start from afresh in another city. The minds will be cursing the luck for the separations and would give a second thought if they could also agree upon settling with the children.

And for us, who just luckily got a window seat and the flight has just taken off, look back to the city from bird’s eye. Even after 7 years , every time at this moment tears would roll down, I feel utterly embarrassed, wipe it before anyone can see.

Then I reminisce, every year I go home something gets changed.

• ·         Maa will have more grey hair than last year.

  Baba will be complaining about the joint pain. He looks dreadfully timeworn these days.

• ·         Our room will be cleaned and arranged again , but in the book shelves I would see my old school text books have got another layer of thick dust and that small geometry box, now rusted a little more.
• ·         Once I went home after several months, I don’t remember how many, and I was looking for our pet cat. Maa told she is no more, died a couple of months ago. I had stopped loving pets ever since.
• ·         The garden on the terrace will have new plants on old tubs, but I will look for an old one I saw last year, which has stopped blooming now.
• ·         Then, baba is no more that active Bengali baba, who would love to go to fish market in search of fresh fish every day and haggle with the vendors, he goes now twice a week.
• ·         Grandfather had passed away long back, soon after I came to Bangalore… but will still be smiling from his 10x12 photo frame in the living room. As if welcoming me back. But actually he could never welcome me ever since..

 And from all these scenery, if I omit myself, there prevails nothing but solitude. The fear of insecurity for them, the nonexistence of complement which they deserve in this age and the incessant guilt feel fighting against the practicality of our situation.

Every time I give a thought of getting back to the city, I find no job for either of us. Let’s keep the pay structure apart, there is no job even in similar domain. Projects, which are handful, either demands another transferable opportunities to other cities, which is meaningless to solve this problem, or they demand to negotiate the job quality. Well I do not do any rocket science business here , and a simple Optical Telecommunication is no big bang to get attached to for life long. But even then where is the job.

My handful of friends who still works in Kolkata complain about their situation all the time.

And then I see least effort to expand the IT sector in the city. It is what it was 7 years back, with minuscule changes. Now even strangled with political red tape, bandh culture, no freedom of speech.

And here comes the infinite loop which keeps postponing the thought process, which suppresses the dilemma of returning home, which compels so many like me to settle in a different city permanently  with no hope of coming back.

Probably there is a way out to join two ends of the string , going far away from each other, I am still searching. Let me know.

When a Bengali Name goes National

I was the first child in my family. I heard from my maa that there were so many names suggested for me. Even after the final conclusion on my would be name, my parents continued to call me by their favourite names for couple of months.  My name was given by my grandfather. After 7 years he passed away still I see him in early morning dreams, among many faces in this world he is the one I miss the most.

Satarupa

In Bengali , there are less ‘S’ and more ‘Sho’. There  is no ‘Ta’, rather there is only “Taw’ or 'To'. So how my name pronounces is Sho-to-ru-pa. Difficult aye?

I think when the parents or grandparents name a child in an Indian family, less they think of the globalization of the pronunciation, rather emphasize more of the meaning or the glory behind it . I  though doubt that in current days, Bengali kidos are getting ‘glo-bong’ names which sounds well and easier when a non-bengali tries to pronounce it. Kids you are really blessed !

After moving far from the coast of Bay of Bengal, my name had visited different mother tongues, different people in office from different parts of India, different countries, different rooms in hostel- PG rooms, Naukri – Monster and other call center services, thanks to my frequent India Tours different hotels and cab –walas. The one name has got so many dimensions, millions of pronunciations .

Sometime stuck at ‘almost pronounced’ state .

Sometime stumble upon ‘oh so difficult is your name’ state.

Sometime ‘sorry give me your surname please? ’ state.

Sometime  at ‘I give up, you only pronounce your name!’.

Satarupa has become – Sattu , Satrupa, Satapura /Saturpa (the most common one, even in official mails), sometime people prefer only Rupa and I hate it  the most ( reminds me of a brand if you understand it) :)

Thank God I am married to a Bengali and nowadays I use Mrs Sengupta in most of the places or just his name.

Recently I was chatting with my school friends , found out the fate of most Bengali names are almost like this. I realize that is the reason why the famous Bengali legends of Bollywood and Music world had once had changed their name to smaller, global, easier names. Who knows !

In recent years lots of movies have been released keeping Bengalis/ Kolkata in backdrop. And they have used the bengali name very cleverly. 'Pakhi', 'Lolita', Piku', 'Bidya' aka 'Vidya', Bob Biswas, though unfortunately Bomkesh has been modified as Byomkesh and Shatyoki as Satyaaki . 

However nothing is as sweet as a Bengali name. May it be as tiny as ‘Piku’ or else lengthy as ‘Byomkesh’.

Let me know your story.

Looking back to a Dream of Buying 50 Frooti Packs

Sometime a few smallest or merest things remind us of faint memories.

It was an usual weekend afternoon, Bangalore being too hot nowadays I am missing my food adventures or weekend gateway trips, hence was browsing Youtube. Suddenly found that song, in the suggested list –

“মন চলো নিজ নিকেতনে

সংসার বিদেশে বিদেশীর বেশে

ভ্রম কেন অকারণে…”

And in a fraction of second, a place - beautifully serene, cold like ice and filled with beautiful smell of dhuna flashed in my memory. A campus, painted in white, red ,yellow and saffron, surrounded by garden, flower, shrubs, a small pond and a beautiful temple. The benches , the open drawers inside the desks, the scattered  copies around – marked as C/W(classwork) and H/W(homework) underlining with a stroke of highlighter, the geometry box just got shared between two bench mates, the half-finished tiffin-boxes inside the school-bags and smell of ‘aloo-kabli’ around the back benches. The tiny fingers, smeared with red, tangy, saucy aloo-kabli packet- licking the heavenly taste together. A big tamarind trees standing in the middle of the playground, where a bunch of girls in white shirt and navy blue skirt- with white ribbons in their ponytails are running around in their dusty white tennis shoes. The ice-cream wala outside the school gate selling ice-creams to his tiny customers through the tiny opening in the gate. Coconut ice-cream in 1 Rupee, orange candy ice-creams in 50 Paisa. The curly-haired ‘Tandra’ di , keeping an eye to the girls around the campus. The white ‘Bokful’ and pink  bougainvillea outside the classroom. And there I saw me, sitting by the  pond stirs staring at how ducks are swimming and shrugging off the water from their velvety soft feathers after coming out of the pond. Then suddenly the bell rang from the teacher’s room signaling them to end the recess.

Yes that was my school. Those were my friends licking the chat masala and playing kabaddi. Those were our pencils and newly-bought gel pens , specially kept aside of literature classes. The benches – where I stumbled many times to cut my knee and on which we used to stand up after failing to answer a difficult question on Napoleon Bonaparte  in history class. the classroom black-board where we used to note down the names who were ‘making noise’ during the period breaks. The Rakhis, which we tied around each other's wrist, even being all girls, the hand-made New year cards we used to make during Christmas week for friends and used to look back the collection of cards after the New Year had started. 

All I used to worry were the exam results, the punishment upon forgetting the home-work copies and all I used to care about were to tie the white ribbon around my ponytails and keeping the dusty shoes white every morning in prayer line. And there were remedies for those problems too. Exam results could have been made better simply by studying, forgotten homework copies used to be made instantly by tearing off a newer copies first few pages and striking off the subject name from name label.  Dusty school shoes were made white by rubbing the chalks on it before Thursday and Friday’ s prayer. And for ponytails and ribbons around it, mom used to be always there.

Friends and teacher was the other family I had apart from my own family. And like every family, there were ‘villains’ and ‘heros’. Glance of few of them were enough to hide my face behind others, and had cried for some of them when they had left the school.

Our school temple. I still remember the cold and red cement finished flooring it had. Every morning residential students used to make fresh garland using the flowers bloomed in the school garden. The temple hall used to be less ornamented, but the aroma of flowers, sandal wood, dhuna and ‘aguru’ ( a water used to bath the Goddess) made it a heaven for me. There was a beautiful idol of Bhabatarini (a form of Goddess Kali). And Sarada Maa sitting next to her. Being a Ramakrishna Missionary school, for 10 years all of us had to chant most of the popular slokas and prayer songs in prayer classes. Once in a week we used to have the prayer class in the school temple.  Now around 30 students used  to leave their shoes outside the temple before entering for 45 minutes of prayer session, and each day I used to worry what if I lose my pair of shoes as all were in same size, same design and no need to say there was no token system to keep track of it.

There in that class, I learnt so many Veda slokas, which my grandfather used to explain to me the meaning. And few life-time memorable songs – like the one I mentioned above.

I used to dream of being so rich one day, that I would be able to buy 50 Frooti tetra packets and never had to share with anyone, only to enjoy it after coming from school in sunny, humid summer afternoon. Being 'Rich and Grown up' was defined by solely this capabilities. Because Maa used to scold me every time I'd drank it directly from fridge.

So many dreams have come true. But those innocent dreams were so precious, that they remained engraved and unfulfilled in those moments of making wish… Wish I could relive those few years of my life again.

“যদি দেখ পথে ভয়েরই আকার

প্রাণপণে দিও দোহাই রাজার

সে পথে রাজার প্রবল প্রতাপ,

শমণ ডরে যার শাসনে। “ 

Why does a woman climb 100 extra stairs, while a man only 10 ?

When I am a Woman :

I wake up in the morning, stopping  the roaring alarm clock and waking up the snoring husband, I rush to the kitchen.

Start with putting the milk in boiler, cutting veggies for lunch, washing rice and grinding masala and juicing up the fruits and whistling up the daal in pressure cooker.

In the meanwhile the clock ticks 9 and I serve breakfast in table, pack lunchbox and fruits in office bags.

While he sits for breakfast I finally get a chance to brush my teeth and looking for any urgent mails/messages.

Finally, once he leaves for office I get my own sweet time for super quick breakfast and getting ready for office.

I reach office at 11. Start reading incessant unread mails in inbox. Run into the task list and head to the laboratory door. Work very hard, try to keep my work unquestionably good always.Try to finish up my work by 6 , but it always gets delayed till 7.30.

I come back home at 8. Threw the laptop bag in a corner. First thing to think -what to prepare for dinner and then for next day lunch as well.

Fill the water bottles, clean the room, whisk up the dinner and serve hot to family.

Till 11 PM at night, I would be managing left over food in fridge, gas-knobs are switched off, windows are closed, mosquito repellants are working, things to throw inside washing machine, electricity bills are paid, enough stock of food in fridge, any immediate grocery needs attention and so on..

  

And in weekends the list is endless, planning the grocery list, cleaning house, attending visitors at home or being visitor to somebody’s home, keep in touch with  relatives & if get li’l time then pursuing high time ignored hobbies.

Now if I were a boy :

I wake up and with a big yawn, head towards to washroom. Brush my teeth with half closed eyes and grab the newspaper or switch on NDTV.  Then I have breakfast and leave for office.

I work hard in office. I reach office by 9, before anybody comes. I start checking mails and then straight head towards the to-do list. Complete my work by 6, sometime it gets delayed till 8. 

When I am back home, I switch on Arnab Goswami, yelling “the nation wants to know the truth” and I too want to know. I listen to songs, watch the movie trailers, finish reading news from tweeter feeds, chat for a while on FB and watsapp.

Then I have dinner, warmer the nicer and check the office mails again. Finish any pending office work from home till I am awake. Execute some script and leave for overnight execution. Anyway tomorrow morning I am going to reach early.

And still,

• ·         There are endless jokes on hundreds of common Indian television comedy  shows – how marriage ruins the life of a man.. how a woman creates a virtual jail for him. How an Indian woman talks / behaves/ laughs/ cries/ fights  at home . “Ghar Ghar ki kahani”
• ·         The Indian soap saga – most of the vamps are either business tycoon of a famous business emperor or a secretary. Have you ever seen an ideal bahu becomes the business tycoon and still retains “ideal bahu”  position in the serial? Think think.

• ·         There are hundreds of questions, sharp or blunt – always being asked to woman – “ will you continuous to work after marriage” , “do you cook at home or your husband <with a polite ha ha ha>”, “poor he, does not get time to spend with his wife”,“ why have you not called me for such a long time, always busy & busy”  , “girls go to office only as a hobbies, not for money or ambitions. why do you stay late there”, “if girls also become so passionate about job, who will bear the child and bring them up”, “please don’t run behind all these beta”

• ·         I remember one of my ex-colleague saying – girls always enjoy the privileges at home and work. At home, you get extra privileges for being a working woman, and at work you always escape late evening work by “showing off family concerns”. Really we are privileged.

• ·         At the time of appraisal, from office or from home- of course these factors play a key role. If you work 10 hours a day   and over weekends and over public holidays – management is happiest and you get rewarded. But your family will always frown at you, as you are somebody’s wife/ mother/ sister/ daughter/ daughter- in – law and when you come back home with a yearly bonus, only few of them actually understand the prize you paid off.

• ·         I see so many mothers carrying their child on lap and leaving them in nearby play school- so that they can keep visiting often from office. I see so many promising engineers leaving their job after their child starts growing up, for a quality parenthood.

I have never seen a man in a home-maker or baby-sitter roll, but I have seen many women as home-maker & as parent & as good team mate & as excellent manager & as business tycoon roll.

Amazing. Isn’t it ?