Too painful to write about the house that wants to be a home and looks like a mess. youth hostel without a caretaker.
R
Once in a French movie and in a song I recognized a line with my painfully acquired French ear. When I realized what it meant I burst into laughter…The line was “Voulez vous couches avec moi?
But where? chez moi or chez toi?
Perchance votre chateau? Home is a hope that the hideous dream you had is over and now you're home safe.And if you prefer your friends homes to yours perchance yours was just a wooden chateau.
Today I burst into tears because I could not remember where home was. And memory carried me back to 6 Mayfair road, Owners Court, flat no: 24 B.
By coincidence usually a trip to the city, and I was at the mouth of a street that led to the unhappy-happy home of my eleven year old self…
Let me incant the happy memories...
Lying awake the night before my eleventh birthday, the last birthday that this home would see. Too painfully eager to know what treats lay in store to sleep. tired out from anticipating the fun ahead, that was my first unhappy-happy moment…
The night we arrived at our new flat, I was decked out like a dodo and almost five years old. I admired the flat’s elegant proportions, airy balcony, some of the new and some of the strangely familiar furniture gravely and - accepted it as completely natural. Not once did I wonder who it all belonged to? Why so many familiar pieces of furniture were in this place ? Who was the host of what was evidently a party thrown for all of my daddy’s relatives?
Finally I must have decided that as the food was yum, and plenty of cousins to play with, it did not really matter much why we were there…
The next morning was my first beautiful day in the new flat where we stayed for six long years. Six lovely somewhat lonely years.
Never hopeless and dead like adult years.
But back to my first morning.Ma bathed her sleepy but curious daughter in the beige porcelain bathtub unlike the claw-footed monstrosity of our previous home.I still remember the rough and grainy texture of it.The tingling blood I tasted on my tongue when I fell in it.I have a tiny scar on my tongue now..
I had asked ma what why were we still in this house, and ma had placidly enlightened. ( how slow her nearly 5-year old still was.), “We, your dad and I, and your brother and you, will live here. From now on this is our home.”
O! That explained everything!
To this day I wish I could repossess that easy facility of belief in a mother’s loving voice that turns a strange house overnight into a home.
Now I vaguely remember, there must have been at least one previous visit with my father and one or two of his sisters, to show off our new flat - because prior to the night of the housewarming party, I remember wading into the corner room full of water, in this very same flat and my father explaining that the faulty plumbing of the bedroom with the attached bath needed to be fixed, while I thought how nice it would be to permanently have a roomful of water to splash about in.
After this memorable beginning there is a steady trickle of fun as well as funny moments…
Like my brother advising me to share my chocolate with him first so that his chocolate can remain intact for us to attack the next day.
The next day his chocolate is mysteriously absent from the fridge.
My brother advising that, as he was older than me with far more homework to tackle, he should own half of my study table in addition to his own, and as his devoted slave readily agreed, he promptly placed a yellow sponge divider on my table, to mark his new domain.
My brother compiling a list of books that he would sell or barter away for new books to read, advising me how the books he was selling belonged only to him and were certainly not any of those books gifted to me.
His indignant disgust that I had finally learnt to read, when I solemnly opened the cover of a book of nursery rhymes, that he planned to sell and pointed out to him the following legend:
“To Amrita, Love from – Baba and MA.”
My brother condescending to play catch in the drawing room with me, missing a throw, and shattering a beautiful Chinese vase. The next instant the front door is open and my big brother has disappeared through it. Ma takes my gaping surprise at his vanishing act as guilt and of course I get it, heavily.
My brother taking advantage of my childish need for an afternoon siesta to creep off and play cricket with his friends, visit the ice-skating rink, and execute his other shenanigans without the pesky tag-along sister at his heels.
The shenanigans involved training his devoted pack of slum dwelling children that he planned to build up a future Indian army with, the same loyal army which would periodically desert him
as soon as their stock of sweet cigarettes and other goodies were over.
And return to pledge allegiance as soon as that same stock of sweet cigarettes and goodies were replenished.
These goodies were of course bought and distributed in our drawing room, by my bountiful big brother, the fledgling patriot, to the hungry army named “SPI,” – short for “Secular Planet India” and jealously but silently lusted after by me, the greedy, tongue-tied sister who was excluded from the army, against her will. Boys Only, of course.
I did try to gatecrash a meeting, held in that same famous room with the attached bath, now bone-dry, obviously, by the simple procedure of walking up to the closed door, and knocking. As two of my brother’s henchmen opened the door I correctly gave the password, which I had overheard and smartly memorized and then looked inside longingly, knowing sooner or later, goodies would be distributed. The boys were amused and asked the ringleader if his kid sister was allowed entry. The big bro disloyally denied permission to enter and I was given a gentle yet firm shove to clear the passage for legitimate entrants.
The other activities of this club involved buying toy bows, arrows, swords and spears and practicing guerrilla ambushes and valiant combats in the vacant plot of land overlooking our apartment house. This was an overgrown jungle where my brother could organize imaginary warfare.
I was not really keen to be a full time member and warrior.
Just an honorary participant with rights to the sweet stuff.
Since the commando training part did not interest me, I overcame my dudgeon and insult at being pushed out so unceremoniously and even magnanimously chose to overlook that not one sweet cigarette came my way. No pain, no gain.
The goodies were Investments to lure recruits, and not Gifts to be wasted on civilians.
The other reason I was so forgiving apart from a natural sense of logic and justice was because I was an optimistic fool.
Once not too long ago, I had been given honorary membership of the first prototype of a club that my brother had formed, comprising of his 2 best friends and me.
I had been allowed a berth only by virtue of an alliterative necessity. They wanted the club to be named after their first name initials, and Biley, Babu and Vijju’s names made the name of the club a boring “BBV”; However if one of the “B” stood for Buri, the nickname of yours truly, then by inserting my brother’s formal name “Sumit,” the club could then become the more polished and euphonic, “BBSV.”
Even Badges were made and distributed cementing my indisputable right to membership.
So I patiently waited, confident I would be needed again in some such way.
I Particularly coveted the role of treasurer, which meant not just being in charge of cash, but being an integral part of the buying, stockpiling and distribution of goodies. This position was bestowed on an 8 or 9-year-old Boy called Rangan, maybe because he was deemed too young and delicate to fight.
I resented his appointment as he was not much older than me, and I after all had blood ties to El Capitan.
The cherubic Rangan though was decent and even invited me to his birthday, and by my ma’s strict instructions this was one occasion my slippery brother could not wriggle out of to evade being my escort. The party was most fun with boisterous games of hide and seek, treasure hunt and darkroom, though I was mostly in the dark and kept an eagle eye on my brother terrified he would give me the slip.
Another such occasion was my brother’s forced chaperoning of me to the Russian Film Festival held at the local ice skating rink.
Ma mistakenly thought I would enjoy the cultural experience, but watching maggots crawl on rotting meat meant for the sailors in “Battleship Potemkin” has always colored my opinion of Russian movies.
But the high point of the trip was racing to keep up with my sullen brother who told me this was a one-time treat and not to expect to accompany him on all 7 days of the festival. I cheekily told him to touch base with Ma on this. I believe his retort was something akin to “ scram, Tattletale.”
But little ms Tattle-Tale Tag Along had had enough of the grim and sordid fare dished out at the Movies, and would have preferred Ma bullying the bro into taking me skating as I had never seen snow or ice, but this she never did. Typical of unpredictable grown ups, she was more afraid of me spraining my ankle on ice, than having a nightmare or 2 where all the most delicious food was stuffed with eeky gooey maggots.
So Instead I had to be content picturing a vast indoor circular stadium of smooth blue-white ice, lit with pale gold lamps, and with foggy wisps of air that misted around it.
I even peopled my first imaginary escapist landscape with incongruous tutu clad ballerinas who danced past my stumbling brother.
The daydreamer was sharpening her milk teeth on her first misery, neglect from an adored elder brother.
So to continue, I waited and watched for the right moment when again as past experience had taught me, I would become indispensable to the club. That alas, did not happen. If anything as time went by security tightened.
There was one comic moment however.
My brother explaining to his eleven or twelve year old friends that it was safe to discuss their secret club details in front of me because “She can’t understand English.”
My silent moment of glee when I discover that I have perfectly understood what he said, and ergo I could understand English!
And so, I could regularly sit at all his secret meetings with a deadpan face and gain ultimate access to all classified data.
In my triumph I silently try out tentative English sentences, and find they make perfect sense just like those uttered by my brother’s gang.
Of course I am far too shy to utter a word in English for a good year or so, till I
discover the world of Enid Blyton, and the joys of the English countryside and the life of English school children, becomes my soul food.
My first Enid Blyton book: was a birthday gift, “Mr. Pink whistle Interferes.” Which I found weird and queer, strange but entertaining, I thought all foreigners were like Mr. Pink-whistle.
Then one magic day I got hold of the exciting adventure book of Blyton’s. “The Island of Adventure” suddenly swung open a massive door to a vast new world of sunshine. What I most remember about the book was my joyful surprise at the discovery of the existence of a kind protective big brother and his devoted little sister! I read the book in the first grade and Enid Blyton kept her hold on me all through the 8th grade though by then I was reading more of Agatha Christies and Hitchcock and Alistair Macleans than Blytons.
Still more memories rise like bubbles to the surface, let me sort out the different
Worlds each “bubble” belongs to.
The Biggest bubble is not surprisingly the “Brother Bubble.” After all in those years of toddle hood where my all-knowing all-powerful big brother went I yearned to follow.
I cannot in this connection leave out a few more queer sad mad memories…
The first time rain guarding sheets of wicker or jute, which in Bengali we call “Chiks”
Were hung by Baba in the balcony, my brother and I were fascinated by the rope and Pulley system of rolling them up and down. Soon the two of us were busily sitting on two cane stools or “Morrahs” and methodically tugging the “chiks” up and down.
Of course there being two “chiks” soon came the question of ownership. So though no one had assigned the job to us, we proudly allocated a “chik” to each party to pull and roll as we pleased, and god forbid that one of us should touch the other’s “chik.”
The sad memory is in its own way funny. Baba was in the habit of sending down a toy, a box of candy, cake or sweets in a company car, that he had ordered for us while at office.
Always neatly organized into 2 separate and equal bundles.
Even for Diwali, though the 2 boxes of firecrackers that were delivered held a differing variety of age-appropriate crackers, the quantity was strictly equal.
But on the day I am describing arrived a single beautiful sponge hat of bright hues. The crown of the hat was a bright candy pink and the surrounding brim was a lovely lozenge yellow. It looked like a hat made out of confectionary. To my girlish eyes it was like a hat from Hansel and Gretel, like the gingerbread house, it looked good enough to eat.
My brother pounced on the hat immediately confident it was surely meant for him.
After all sometimes Cricket passes arrived and these were usually for Baba and my bro,as I was too young to waste a pass on. Maybe he mistook it for a sunshade. Puzzled but young enough to appreciate the carnival of colors he played with the lovely hat while I looked longingly. Twirling the pretty hat he kept asking the driver if there was any other gift, a second more boyish hat. Then as the driver protested that one and only one hat had been sent something akin to sad suspicion darkened my brother’s face, as both he and I realized with a start, such a feminine hat must have been meant for me.
I do not remember if Ma rang up Baba and confirmed this or we got it out of the driver’s mouth that it was meant for baby sister, but the sudden joy of ownership was erased for me,when I saw the sad puppy expression on my suddenly childlike elder brother’s face.
Inexplicably my heart tugged but I dared not either present him the hat or gently remind him that as the bigger of the 2, he often received privileges I did not, like special passes to cricket, korea vs.filipino basketball and once even Russian Ballet, because I was too small.
What a sad defeat for a little boy who was somehow desperate, to come first always in his parents’ eyes!
As daddy’s darling girl, how was I to know what made him tick the way he did – generous enough to spend the last of his pocket money on sweets for his pal – but mean enough to grudge a useless hat for his little sister…
Then there is the “Birthday Bubble.”
Birthdays are a magical time for any little girl, bunches of streamers, packets of multi colored rubber balloons arrive, sometimes party hats and party favors too, if it’s a simpler kind of party, colorful paper bags are bought, and small gifts are packed in for the little guests.
These gifts range from toffees and bubblegum to colored pencil erasers, sharpeners, whistles and invariably the little birthday girl craves a few of these cute necessities and removes as many for her own use as she can get away with. Till Ma entices her to put all but a bagful back as anyway she will get the biggest best gifts of all, as it is her special day.
And finally around three o clock in the afternoon, after much concerted balloon blowing and wall festooning, dad sends down the birthday cake, which is rich and gooey with dark chocolate and white icing, along with The Gift.
Baba’s gifts were special in their power to delight if not me, at least my brother, as from the day that he could make me understand, like an expert snake charmer my brother could and would persuade, hypnotize and dictatorially advise me, what I should ask daddy for, on my big day.
So I got a series of unfeminine gifts ranging from a miniature plastic golf set to steel roller skates The latter I actually became quite proficient with.
After that the riot of guests arrive, eat, drink, laugh, sing, play games and leave.
But not without leaving behind a gift wrapped package!
Oh! The joy of unwrapping gifts with cards that address you!
One birthday I received almost 16 dolls, one could be bathed, one had separate sets of under and night wear and shoes, one could open and shut beautiful blue eyes, (This one I called roseanna as that was written on the box it came in.), one had a plastic frock and washable hair.
Some mothers make their daughters submit their toys after cursory play, especially the most beautiful dolls for show in the wardrobe.
My mother allowed me to freely raise the doll family as my own.
Free of care I washed the hair of the washable doll and brushed it to baldness, I removed the plastic frock of another doll to check for any outlet for the doll to go to potty.
Disappointed with the smooth uniform pink flesh, Bro and I gleefully pinpricked an outlet in the relevant area, after unscrewing the doll’s head, and filling the hollow shell with fridge-water.
Then of course the joyful applying of pressure to the mid section of the doll after the head had been put back on. And hey presto! Look! My doll is toilet-trained!
The beautiful blue eyed Roseanna with her red pumps was never experimented on. Deemed far too precious I suppose.
The other loot was boring stuff like towels and flasks, though it was birthdays that introduced me to the welcome world of Enid Blyton and much later on, the mindless
romances of Mills and Boons.
Then there was my birthday that the guys simply forgot.
I think the second child is somehow vaccinated against insecurity, because she is more a planned treat and not an experiment or obligation to fulfill one’s duties of procreation.Unless of course the second child is an unwanted accident.
I know that is why I was not even mildly disturbed to discover at age of 8 or 9 that my entire family including me had forgotten my birthday.
In fact I was busy at play when my grandma accompanied by her 2 then unmarried daughters burst in with presents and sweets for me. Ma was mortified but finally all the grown ups had a laugh, Baba was rung up to remind him that an impromptu birthday party was called for and I was suddenly made much of!
In fact my father assorted a respectable bunch of grown up uncles and aunties to attend my party, and a cake was cut and one of the uncles presented me with a fifty-rupee note,which Baba pocketed, as I still was not allowed any pocket money. I remember wondering if that was strictly fair given that it was because of their forgetfulness that I had been deprived of proper presents.
But the really funny part of that ridiculous birthday was the birthday gift I received from my brother, a pair of small black binoculars. Now bro was really attached to the binoculars as he had not yet got the smart green field glasses, (that he was given soon after), still he felt that giving me a gift, and a jolly good one to make up for forgetting my day, was the right thing to do!
So he addressed me gravely, wished me happy returns and then formally and dignifiedly handed me The Binoculars, (much like god handing Moses the 10 commandments for the benefit of mankind), -and I was suitably delighted, awed even, till I discovered --- “Conditions Applied!”
I was allowed to take possession of the binoculars with a stipulation, that once my birthday was technically over, I should return the said pair back to him!
“As you see,” he explained, “By then, It will no longer be your birthday, so there will be no need for a birthday present.”
Finally I was upset by the injustice, yet unable to fault his logic, I only wrinkled my eyebrows and pursed my lips to express my discontent.
Now though, as a useful device to pull his leg with, I find it the greatest birthday gift ever!
I add this last bubble, enough for this installment.
I call it my beautiful angel-inspired moment bubble.
No need for quotes or capital letters,This is a bubble of memories that only my guardian angel would have brought.
I am sitting at the oval white formica dining table for six, on a spindly legged black and white chair: The tasty but simple breakfast made by ma is over, one delightfully soft boiled egg and as many hot slices of toast that your tummy can hold, some with butter and pepper, some with jam, the crusts dipped in egg.
Today is happy because I have not been sternly told to finish the obligatory cup of milk.Ma must have given up for the day exhausted by the stubbornness of her tiny offspring. I probably have happily taken a cup of horlicks and hot water, which I like…and so the world is perfect, and perfectly contained in our sunshiney big drawing room that opens onto a balcony with glass sliding doors…
In our family we believe in keeping windows open and so the glass doors have been slid back and the pale buttery sunshine has crossed over the slim dark wood sofa set to streak the floor in front of the dining table. And in that poem inspiring half light I can see a small sparrow gadding about in greedy search for breadcrumbs…I watch as long as I can, till, delighted when a second sparrow flutters in, I loudly call for my mother.
Ma is just in time from the kitchen to see one sparrow fly by and the other hop out hurriedly through the balcony doors…
Whenever I look back on childhood, this memory works like a charm to dispel any notions that my childhood was sad…
“Hush my baby don’t you complain,” whispers my guardian angel, “don’t you mourn and don’t you feel pain. Look back and see , how happy you could be, a merry glad soul was my wise baby!”
Now I decant the sad stuff.
First I siphon away the closed-door crisis, when I was about 6 years of age.
The whole day their bedroom door stayed closed and muted voices of three adults faded in and out. My brother angrily pressed his ten-year-old ears and understanding to the door. At mid-afternoon the door swung open.
Now - fast action replay. I scurry in; rat like I scurry out, wondering why my ma would wave a slipper in my baba’s face, and why our tall, beautiful dark-skinned home tutoress looked sad.
I can remember my thin unprotected body in a white chemise unlike the other babies of the building who boldly flounced about in beautiful baby frocks. I had many, but that day no one had thought to put one on me.
I can sense my brother’s bottled sorrow. Yet my father is a good a loving man.
So why would anyone least of all my sweet tempered ma brandish a slipper at his sneering face.
I know now, and the day I found out? In an ugly roundabout manner on my 27th birthday. That story belongs in another world and time.
Back to 7 or 8 years old – and this scene cannot be described without horror.
My mother is still and pale and white as if in a swoon and that grown up man my father is howling.frightened.In tears.
Yet as I hide scared and puzzled in the dusky kitchen corridor and look into my mother’s youngest sister face even I can see something troubling that sweet lady. I sob out for her sympathy, but she does not comfort me. Instead I am shaken by my shoulders, and tersely advised that I am 8 years old and grown up now –to control myself and stop those tears at once.
My aunt’s mild sweet face turned so strict and stern that day, my tears dried up in fright. The hardness on her young face made me mask my bewilderment.
What is the matter with ma? If she leaves us where will she go?Will baba leave too
Where will we go?
Nothing like that happened of course, Ma came back, safe if not sound, and Baba too did not leave us. Never in flesh and not wholly in spirit.
The Bro and I were not abandoned.
The horror lies in my thanklessness, my utter oblivion of the storm...beneath the dull calm.The underbelly of decency snd goodness is ugly.On it are scrawled cold calculations and hidden ulterior motives for staying the course.Not always for principles oftentimes for expediency.I have done the same.Who am I now to judge ? When judgement wss needed the judges adjourned court.
Memories are like a will we bequeath to ourselves in our childhood, a legacy, part self made, part inherited, and when we are adults we have to live out our lives according to the way the cloth was cut.
And in turn we bequeath a part of ourselves, and our will of memories on the fresh forming minds of our children-
And so we bestow on them our inherited and acquired pain and bliss, our happiness and grief and our undimmable lights hand in hand with some of our unshakeable darknesses.
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(c) Amrita Valan 2014
