Ala Barfi!: Love will keep us alive...

Okay, so I watched Barfi last night at a multiplex near my house. And here I am writing a few words about it. (Without divulging the story for those who haven’t yet made it to the theater).

Barfi sits precariously but happily on a border that divides parallel and commercial cinema by definition and it is hard to categorize it into a genre. Without a hero/heroine mouthing a song in playback to an invisible orchestra, without the jhatkas/item numbers, the dhishoom-dhooshoom fight sequences and the glitz/glamour that  hallmark our Bollywood talkies, or even without the dark serious trends of the typical "arty" ones, it tugs at your heart for a new name. Go on, call  it a romance, a comedy, a drama, a tragedy...you really don't know which one suits the emotions that grip you while you watch it.

We have had incredible films from Anurag Basu in the past like Life in a Metro, Kites and Murder but this one is of a different league altogether. Barfi is a celebration of life. Of unconditional love and trust between two characters, who are both challenged in different ways. I realized one basic thing at the theater. And here it is...

Anurag Basu did not create this piece of work for money. No one makes a Barfi for commercial success. For Basu, battling leukemia since 2004, it must have taken a limitless hunger for life to craft something straight from his heart. Indeed, it takes very little to keep happy in life.
Maybe just love? Seriously, is it that simple?

To speak or not to speak...

In its absence of dialogues between the lead characters, Barfi capitalizes on your sensibility to listen with your heart. As a student of literature, I pride myself in being a judge of good drama, usually hinged on a strong script of powerful words. There have been exceptions to the rule though.

Waiting for Godot and The Birthday Party are classic modern examples of drama that have put silence into smart use. But then, they represented the angst and meaninglessness of an existential absurdity that their playwrights, Becket and Pinter, respectively, wanted to sketch.

Anurag Basu has laced his film with strategic pauses and silences, which are more effective than spoken language. However, his intention is not to paint any crisis. Nor a lack of emotions. But an abundance thereof - resulting in a nakedness of soul and a love, which "makes breath poor, and speech unable" to quote the British bard. Sometimes speech fails to communicate - ending up lost in a babel of empty phrases. This, to me, is the central theme of the film and mentioned by one of the central characters Shruti (played by Ilena D'cruz) in as many words.

Ranbir Kapoor plays Barfi Bahadur, a deaf and mute Nepali boy who can only utter a mumbled “barfi” - the protagonist. Priyanka Chopra enacts Jhilmil Chatterjee, an autistic girl whose silence is punctuated with urgent cries of “barfi” – this one word is perhaps the only dialogue they share and the piece of sweetness (barfi is an Indian sweet variant) that holds the movie together.

At the end of the movie, when the credits come rolling through the screen, it is this sweetness that will roll down your eyes as tears… I know I wept like a child at the theater not even caring this time that the lights were on and the cleaning boys were standing close to me with hoovers and bins in hand – watching me cry softly even as I smiled at the screen.

Then there was good old love to add to this silence. Barfi and Jhilmil play out a strong duet of speechless love, which is mighty captivating, I say! Again the back-and-forth narrative technique makes it rather improbable to have a structured conversation between the rest of the characters in the film. Narrators keep changing as well. Sometimes it is the police inspector Sudhhangshu Dutta, sometimes it is Shruti.


To live or not to live...

A total lack of a lachrymose portrayal of life’s hardships is also one to enjoy in the movie. Another man takes away Barfi's lady love; his father becomes jobless, suffers a stroke and eventually dies; he is falsely charged with kidnapping and murder and chased by the police; his second lady love goes missing. But Barfi never loses his zest for life. There is zero sentimentalization of love and that is so refreshing! Little acts of naughtiness, goodness and madness add up to the tiny nest of happiness that the film is all about.

Ranbir Kapoor is an unusual choice for the central character.  But somehow his chocolate-hero look gels well with Barfi's innocence, the slanting eyes bringing out well the Nepali origin of his character. He amazes your senses with talking eyes and a mouth that smiles throughout the film. As the film progresses, you realise that, you have been smiling at his Chaplinesque antics and laughing along with him. Such is the magic that he or Barfi spills into you. Priyanka Chopra once again proves her histrionic mettle underplaying every bit of her glamorous avatar to the hilt. It is not easy to depict autism specially when there is a risk in overdoing the peculiarity associated with it. She is unrecognizable with a curly mop of hair, a waddle for a walk and baby knickers peeping out of a frilled frock.

Technically it is a cinematographical wonder… Ravi Barman has captured the exotic locale of Darjeeling and its old world charms replete with the familiar toy train, the iconic Keventers, the winding roads, the Goodricke plantation -- turning it into a lyrical backdrop. Music by Pritam is fresh and breezy. The opening song prepares you for a roller-coaster laughathon that awaits you as the film unfolds. Mohit Chauhan enthralls with melodious "Ala Barfi!"  Nikhil Paul George is uncommonly brilliant with “Main Kya Karoon” and “Aashiyan” reminding you that helplessness indeed marks the first stirrings of love. So does Arijit Singh with “Phir Le Aye Dil”.


To notice or not to notice...

Let my cheesy gushing over the film not make you think that the film is flawless. It abounds in stimulants that could turn a dispassionate or a clinical critic (not me!) off. Like Barfi's inability to listen and speak is treated in the same cursory manner as one would treat left-handedness or a minor defect in someone otherwise physically perfect. The viewer is wooed to believe that Barfi has no problem sailing through life despite his defects. Unrealistic portrayal, many would say. So the execution stands dangerously near a quick sand of romanticizing people who are not 'normal'. This of course is balanced out with PC's controlled performance. Also the relative absence of dialogues in the film lends it a silent motion picture effect - and an impression that Barfi can actually speak but doesn't because of the mute mode the film is shot in.

There are anachronistic disasters too. A recent number plate is shown on a vehicle and the police inspector wears Ray Ban glasses. The Kolkata of 1972-78 is represented by a young Jyoti Basu painted in red on a public wall though they could have done better than just that. A radio croons a Salil Choudhury bangla number in the background and a Murphy advert gets replaced by one for Avon bicycles on the billboards to indicate the passage of time...again, a below average execution at that. However, you are hardly in any mood to take these into consideration when the rest of it overpowers you emotionally! Or at least I wasn't.

Go watch Barfi!!

And fall in love - again. It's never too late!

Happiness is High Design!

Have you ever watched lines of busy ants carrying ten times their weight to the hidden pores they call home? I have often wondered at their sheer grit and determination to fill their communal larder for more difficult times. If you try to break their line by lacing it with perverse water, you’ll see a new line emerge in no time at all. Ants are known to be the most hardworking of all the creatures of God. The innocuous smaller variety of black ants is curiously funnier to watch. In their daily labour of searching, lifting and carrying, they are almost imperceptible beneath their massive treasures. Sometimes all that is visible is a relatively huge bit of moving morsel. Only a closer inspection will reveal the tiny feet under it, scampering away with urgent ardour. If you watch for longer, you will catch them stopping for brief intervals, face to face with the comrades lining up from the other side. I have also wondered what that was for..I like to believe that they exchange information and not pheromones alone. Do you think they would follow something like this?

- ‘Hi! What did you find today?’
- ‘Oh some fine crusts of bread and also some really sticky dessert.’
- ‘How lovely. I was lucky too. I picked up the scent of sugar and led the whole brigade towards a hole into a bag full of sugar.’
- ‘Really? Where did you say it was?’
- ‘If you go to your left and bend the corner, you’ll see it. Or easier, just follow the trail...but better be careful, the human morons have brought out new mops to wipe us out…try to keep to the crannies.’
- ‘Thanks for the tip, sister’ (amongst ants, it is the female of the species that labours!)

You must be thinking that I am suffering from an overdose of imaginative disorder. Well, as much as I will not own up to the allegation of a surfeit of fancy, I can humbly accept all accusations of a mind that tries to find patterns of existence. I like looking for links that connect the great chain of being. I have thought of ants when I have passed a quiet moment at a branded coffee shop inside the recently built mall at South Kolkata.

The mall is a modern day five-story architectural wonder replete with stores satisfying every kind of consumer demands. There are designer adverts beckoning customers with the lure of labels. It is now chic to parade a posh Prada, a graceful Gucci, a modish M&S or the high class Armani in your peer group and you can proudly flaunt your upmarket conquests with élan and not even spell out the titles. Gone are the days when almost everyone would make a beeline for local tailors. Gone are the days when mothers would knit jumpers for you, twin needles bobbing up and down swiftly in deft hands - the sound of coral and conch bangles reminding you of the familiar jingle, or stitch your clothes in the popular Usha sewing machines.

Nowadays, almost no one darns a ladder in their socks, or hems in a loose lining or frill. It is all use and throw. It is all ready-made. Instant coffee, instant noodles, instant gratification!

I have mollified my mulling over malls in more ways than one. I have watched with amusement how unemployed youths hang around in a cluster craning their necks to get the best view under the shortest of skirts going up elegant elevators. My eyes have fondly followed housewives stroll through the well lit marble corridors window-shopping to their hearts’ content, huffing and puffing from the sheer excitement of the exercise. I have seen teenaged college-goers hunting for bargain deals to outsmart the class fashionistas. I have also marveled at kids no older than five putting their tiny feet down to articulate their express desires for a Ben Ten Omnitrix that comes for a dear Rs 1200. And the new purchase freak on the block is the urban middle class man, who happily gets sucked into the vortex of shopaholism with a pair of Levis denim or a pair of Nike tucked away under a proud but over-worked elbow.

The addiction has caught up like wildfire. The innocuous time-pass has turned into a chronic psychological condition. In fact, we do have psychiatrists prescribing retail therapy for the rich depressed. The brands’ motto is to catch them young…everyone succumbs to the lure of flashy ware! The retail razzle-dazzle is here to stay and rattle you out of your senses. The adverts scream, ‘Happiness is Hi Design!' or ‘Be Trendy with Titan!’ In a moment’s span ‘happiness’ or ‘trendiness’ get circumscribed by ‘having’ a couple of labels.

In a spree to possess everything that is touted as a must-have, the average metropolitan shopper becomes blinder than an ant in following the retail trail more out of herd instinct rather than any real need. In spite of having the 'compound eyes' of commonsense, intellect, and rationality, the urban consumer is rendered a puppet in the hands of string-pulling retail kingpins. Like overfed ants that strive for life and dies a hapless death trapped in the paralyzing surfeit of treacle or jaggery, the contemporary shopper dies a slow albeit spiritual death, engorged with the lust to possess: the death of his sensibility, creativity and rationality. Not to mention the steady drain in his pocket.

And as the brands slug it out on the battlefield of a five-star mall with the consumers as petty pawns, we, the ant-people can only remember Gloucester’s wise reflection in King Lear, ‘As flies to wanton boys are we to the Gods, they kill us for their sport’.

My cynical re-make would have to be something like this: ‘As ants to wanton mops are we to the Brands, they kill us for their profit’ What’s more, I must add with a chuckle that even I am not immune to this slow death.

A social death...

I had a busy social life, oh, yes for sure!
But a happier death, for  didn't I endure
All, that was foppery of friends, distant chats
With names bizarre; crazy emoticon brats.

They gave me virtual flowers, condolence sweets
Dried some tears and exchanged tweets
I sat atop a ceiling fan or did I just float?
Amused, I waited for the heavenly boat
To take me away from this freak show;
I had newer worlds, my darlings, to explore.

Newer cyberscapes starring planets of loneliness,
Newer galaxies of phantoms, wraiths headless
Who would chat endless encore, and reach out chords
Of electronic whisper, speaking in intergalactic codes.

O boy, am I glad to have died and moved on --
It is time you did too, and found your own Krypton
We could then spawn out worlds of our own, strangers' zones
Like islands that stayed drugged in network clones
And meet again as friends to bemoan
A death similar, a funny demise like my own!!

Sins of living...

Sweet treacle of pornish sweat
trickling down the spine of
my nightly conscience
Imagine how good it would taste
to the army of famished flies
those who have starved to numbness
I have burnt my guilt to light
the lamp for the spawning buzz
Go left
Go right
Go straight
Go to hell
They tell you always.

Hell is where my soul resides
in reflected glory
of an inglorious life.
Oh, the melody of a riot
the drone of a melancholic choir
singing in the church of Satan
Litanies of lust!

I will never be guided by God's hand
Never to heaven's door
beg entry.
Now my own Beelzebub
has grown wings of doom
to fly me to my
private loom.
And I will spin your life too
around my crimson-painted finger-nail
and toe -
Whipping your wary soul back to pandemonium
You, yes, you will be alive again
To sing verses that stir in you
the sin of living
of loving.

Story of a technophobe in a far away land...

Piku had applied for the position through a website. She wasn’t expecting a call at all. But seemingly desperate, the firm did call her for 'an informal chat' -- a modern day euphemism for job interview. The butterflies were doing their routine jig inside her burgeoning belly. A shrill siren was buzzing in her ears.

Premonitions all, she decided to tell herself. Take note! Take note! Each high-heeled step seemed to jingle.

Run, run, she heard.

She was ready to run hadn’t it been Baba demanding to know what exactly was wrong with her life over transatlantic telephony. The haloed apparition of her distinguished Dada in Harvard was haunting her day dreams on a regular basis. Baba’s cleverly manufactured icy tone was just the icing on the cake confirming her status as a black sheep of the family. How she wished for some ungodly lightning to strike her down, or Medusa to return her stare with her petrifying blessings. It was so damn difficult to carry the legacy of an illustrious gene pool!

She sauntered to the Railway Station with a resigned look on her face. She had taken care to dress for the occasion. She had even gone to La Senza to pick out work clothes for that interview. The store assistant had sized her up for a minute before directing her out of the lingerie haven. ‘What was wrong with me’, she thought. ‘Didn’t I see the glass windows dripping with lacy knickers and thongs?’ Her unintentional hosiery hoax left her feeling all the more defeated. She decided to go in a black cotton skirt with a white jacket and a pair of black pumps. She tried smiling at her own reflection in the bathroom mirror. An ominous wraith smiled back.

She fled!

The ticket window at the station was closed. She saw people helping themselves from a portentous hole-in-the-wall that looked like an automated teller machine (Readers, pardon my fondness for sonorous syllables!). The panic button went off again. She cursed herself for not learning how to operate on a cash machine. Trying to look inconspicuous, she let everyone jump her place in the queue. A series of ‘thank you’s greeted her sham selfless stance.

Everyone was in a hurry and seemed to accept her offer as a well deserved prize. She stood biding her time looking intently at a free newspaper that a vendor had thrust into her hands. Not a word of the news trickled in through the charade. Black winged letters swam under her nose. Mustering a wee bit of bravado, she sneaked a peek at the machine to see if it made any apparent sense. It did not. It was worse than a cash machine. Her roomie Susan has always drawn cash for her.

Damn Susan and her constant fawning!

Now who was responsible for this disaster?

After the queue had thinned out a bit, Piku inched closer to the machine and touched the screen where it said ‘Buy ticket’. So it was easy after all. Another screen flickered alive with multiple options of myriad destinations, and also options of zones and lines.

Where was she headed? Did she need the Circle line? The district line? The central line? The Hammersmith and City line? The Piccadilly line? The Jubilee Line? The Bakerloo Line? The Victoria Line? Or was it the Northern Line?

Little beads of sweat made their way from her hairline down through the side of her neck. She was having difficulty breathing. The blonde behind her was growing restless, shifting the colossal weight of her body from one foot to another with a bored expression on her face. She smelled of Cool Water. Piku couldn’t see her face.

She gave up. ‘Just remembered something’ mumbled Piku to an indifferent crowd gathered. She didn’t look back. She started walking back from where she came. She dreaded looking at the slim leather watch on her wrist. Her interviewers must have given up on her. She decided to call for help. Susan answered on the second ring.

‘How did it go?’ the eagerness was undisguised in Susan’s voice.
‘I didn’t make it’, Piku croaked.
'Why, what did they ask you?’ the urgency was mounting in Susan.
‘They didn’t …I mean…er…me ask anything’, lied Piku.
‘What? But, why? Did you freak out again? What was it this time? A tricky door handle that you failed to maneuver or a savvy elevator switch that jittered you out?’, Susan was trying to keep her jibes under control.
‘The station..erm..er…I mean the ticket…..the railways….erm….was closed. There was no one at the counter…erm. I came back..I was feeling….erm….like unwell..ahem….it was like raining…..er… and I forgot my umbrella’, Piku buckled under the attacks.
‘What are you trying to say? Was the ticket counter closed? But there is a ticket dispenser right there…Oh no….wait….I should have foreseen this…Oh crap…where are you now?’ Susan cried.
‘At home....just entered..will call and let them know something..what should I tell them?’ wailed Piku. ‘Tell them that you chickened out like a lily-livered moron at the sight of an electronic machine. Tell them that they are unlucky to have missed the chance to see such a techno-phobe. Tell them that in spite of having fancy degrees in your bag, you also carry a bogeyman in your head. Tell them all that….what the hell…will see you in the evening’, Susan had run out of patience.

 A miserable Piku ambled into the living room and flung her bag on to the couch. She flicked on the answering machine and it cackled to life. ‘Message one, delivered at 10 am on 23 April, 2010:

 ‘Hi Susmita, this is Merlyn from Techno-media. I’m afraid we are having to cancel today’s interview with you. Your line manager has had a fall from the stairs and has sprained her ankle. She called to postpone the chat at a later date convenient to you. We regret the inconvenience. See you soon, Cheers! Bye. – End of message…beep!’

Piku sat staring at the wall. She didn’t know if she was happy or sad. Happy, perhaps because she wouldn’t have to narrate the story of her unaccountable misery to Baba. Sad too as she’d have to repeat the nerve-racking journey to the ticket counter. A brilliant idea flashed across her mind. What if she pleaded Susan to buy her next trip for her in advance?

With a tiny smile hovering on her lips, she settled on the couch and reached sheepishly for the telephone…….

Face my Music, you!

Still groggy from sleep, the morning cuppa precariously perched at the side of my disheveled bed, I tried making sense of the black print of the newspaper, smelling of fresh ink and crisp to the touch. Another day had begun. Just another day like many that pass unobtrusively into night, and finally vanish into oblivion. The day turned out, however, to be special after all. It was World Music Day!

Now here was something that surely rubbed off the last of sleep, still hovering on my droopy eyelids. Did I catch it right? Was it Music day? And did they really assign a day to honour it? What would we have next? World Dance day? Poetry day? Drama day? Logic day? I turned up my nose at the petty news-making gimmick of contemporary journalism. They would sniff out trivial issues like this while there were a thousand other relevant matters that demanded immediate attention....like the depleting tiger population in reserve forests, rehabilitation of uprooted hawkers, juvenile violence, India’s pending nuclear deal with the US, so on and so forth. And here was the paper, with an entire page devoted to celebrating this peculiar day! I stuffed the paper under a pillow and made for the living room. On my way to the sofa, I switched the radio on, a habit I had acquired since time immemorial.

Not pleased with the music they played, I put on The Carpenters, my all time favourite. By the time Karen Carpenter was crooning “yesterday once more”, I was settled with comfort, toes curled under folded knees. I hugged myself in sheer contentment, humming the familiar refrain in perfect unison with the record. After a while, satisfied with the surfeit of the singing duo, I switched over to Jagjit Singh, the ghazal mogul, mellifluously churning out urdu lyrics penned by Nida Fazli. The melody stirred some chord deep within and I shifted my indolent self to the third floor balcony of my apartment which overlooks a plush lawn and a blue pool. The songs almost took on lives of their own. They became disembodied angels of solace, brushing my cheeks, stroking my hair as they encircled me.

“Hurry up! You are getting late!” Piercing my soulful harmony came my mother’s strident clamour. My daydreaming over, my spell broken, I stood before her. The clock on the wall said I was indeed headed for trouble with yet another red mark against my name in the attendance register. I had to rush. With the headset plugged to my mobile phone, I busied myself in the necessary chores. I made my breakfast, ironed out my starched salwar suit, packed my lunch, brushed my teeth, combed my hair and tidied my room. The latest Bangla band was pleading, “orom takio na, ami kebla hoye jai” (Don’t look at me like that, I feel foolish) to an invisible coy mistress. When I couldn’t plug the earphones into ears anymore, a feat which didn’t go well with bathing, I switched on my CD player again. And this time the volume had to be strong enough to penetrate my bathroom door and the hiss of the shower.

Moments later I was ready to leave for office. I caught a sigh of relief from my mother and the not-too-discreet haste in her bidding me a hurried bye. I knew she would turn off the music the moment the door shut behind me. I leapt into my car and my driver with the practised rhythm of a coded robot, reached for the button on the car stereo. He knew my favourite station. He didn’t even give me a second look when I began tapping my feet. I was late, as usual.

Depositing my bag on my work desk, I planted myself on my blue chair, a place which would hold me for the next eight hours. When my computer blinked into life, I brought my earphones out of the drawer and became impervious to all external noise. James Blunt sang “You’re beautiful”, and I smiled at the recollection of the video. The day passed uneventfully. It was time to unplug the head pieces and make for home.

Exhausted, I reclined on the backseat and sought sanctuary again in music. Once home, and my dinner done, I was more than eager to hit the bed. Something under my pillow made a rustling noise and I pulled out the morning paper. I squinted at the crumpled mess and couldn’t remember who had put it there. I was ready to shout for an explanation, when the culprit looked at me from the reflection on the wardrobe mirror.

It all came back to me, my disgust with the fuss over World Music Day, my horror at the levity of present day journos who overlooked graver concerns and my stashing the paper away in a bid to represent my revolt. My reflection had a funny look on its face. After spending my waking hours with only music as a refuge, it felt ridiculous not to respect the day dedicated for it. In the bustling city, in the midst of a maddening survival, in the din of traffic horns, in the cacophony of people bawling at each other, in the dry routine of everyday existence, music did sustain us. From rap to rock, ghazals to geets, country to choir, blues to ballads, folk to classical, pop to hip-hop, it was all there in our lives. From lulling the babies to sleep at night to charging the mothers with energy in the mornings, it was unmistakably a part of life. How could I not see it?

My fatigue disappeared. I propped myself up on one elbow, smoothened the paper out and began reading.

In search of my own space...

When my friend Mimi said that she had her own webpage, I was intrigued. Imagine the pride of having your own space. I asked her if I too could follow suit. And she said, why not? Not being very web savvy, I was a little apprehensive about my foray into this new wave of blogging that has taken the world by storm. I went ahead and created my account, but the immediate and obvious chore that confronted me was writing something meaningful to inaugurate my debut. After toying with several ideas that would surely credit me with intellectual capacity, I let go of all. It seemed artificial, this business of writing for the sake of it. I always prided myself in being a spontaneous individual who could never fake emotions. Therefore, in spite of having several erudite topics of discourse to show off my hopelessly cerebral talents, I chose to adhere to the matter at hand, that is, my utter helplessness to write something simple. Then it struck me that why don’t I write about my “space”.

 The next issue was a definite connotation attributable to this trite word? What exactly was this “space”? Was this a shortcut to instant access to this worldwide web of bloggers? Was this the place where you articulated your innermost desires? Was this the place where you searched for friends or long-forgotten links from your past? Or was this the space where you intended to get noticed for your literary skills? What was it?

In feminist jargon, we all come across this term “space” which is most commonly used in issues discussing the loss of it. Imagine our more homely female precursors fighting against the encroaching invasion of their “spaces” by their male relatives!!! They seemed quite happy with their spaces in the kitchen and the nursery. Empowerment of women was not in vogue the way it is now. They were quite powerful in their own ways, dishing out their homemade black lentils, yellow curries, green chutnies and red achars in ladles of love. With these helpings of their myriad recipes were added dollops of power, a silent persuasive push that did not need the vocal flourish of a Kate Millet or a Toril Moi. The power they brandished was that of the matriarch who was the source of both life and what sustained life – food. Their fingers might have turned yellow with turmeric, but their ample bodies draped in yards of sari did exude an aura of confidence which they drew out of the satisfaction from little labours of love. And there was no ignominy in being homebound without a career.

I do not remember my space in my mother’s womb, nor do I remember my infant cradle. The earliest metaphorical space that I recollect occupying was the silent corner of our back veranda where I would act queen of my playhouse, putting my dolls to sleep and chopping the local hibiscus for an evening meal for them. Sometimes our cook Minati mashi would take pity on me and hand me some atta dough with which I would roll out tiny chapattis for my dolls. There was so much of a need to imitate my kitchen-bound mom that a different kind of “space” from this was unthinkable.

We were two sisters. I was the youngest, born after a hiatus of ten years. So even before I knew what a woman’s “space” should be, I learnt from my didi how to protect your endangered space from nosy parents. So when I thought I was in love, I was actually asserting the imagined existence of my “space”. It was more a declaration of my protest against the violation of my liberty to an angry set of parents. They were perhaps clueless with the docile child turning a virago and crying out for her “space”. I am sure they did not demand theirs when they grew up.

The next phase came with visions of my overbearing father imposing his decisions on my mom. It never struck me as odd that my mother would abide by all of it. I never thought twice about my mom’s every day shrinking space. But shortly with the three of us hollering about our individuality and independence, it did finally register that my mother had none. I began my fight for my mother’s “space” and I embarked upon this daily clash of egos with my father. Unknowingly, I was giving up my own space for the family subaltern.

“Space” had taken on a whole new meaning attached to it and I was reluctant to let go. The subsequent space worth calling mine was my personal diary, a HPCL annual gift to employees, which became my confession box and confidante. I poured my heart out in it. Newspaper cuttings of George Michael and Phil Collins crowded the pages. Lists of endless heartaches for both real and reel characters, juvenile poetry written with sighs and tears, lyrics of Madonna songs (Papa don't preach! leading my charts), dried and brittle remnants of shiuli phool from our garden (the tree was murdered in midlife for its caterpillar nuisance) and a discolored piece of ribbon as a keepsake from an Anglo-Indian friend who migrated to Australia - all this and so much more populated my pages. All hell broke loose when my mother sneaked a peek into the forbidden pages. It was a trespass I did not easily forgive. I felt cheated. My space felt invaded.

Then came marriage - that rushing into an ill-understood chasm that sucks your emotional energy out, for better or worse. I was too eager to sacrifice my space to be with my husband, the man whom I had married after a heady romance defying my father’s dictates. I moved in with him after the ceremony, the demure bride, ready to play it right. Life was bliss, or so I thought. No thought of individual space ever crossed my mind. My space, was his - the rented apartment in a congested south Kolkata locale.

Soon we moved to Warrington, England. Another rented house became my new space. When my husband left for his daily job, I sat at the window side and cried for hours, longing for my familiar space back home. Tears would roll down my cheeks and I would sing Rabindrasangeet in a full-throated air, probably much to my neighbours’ chagrin. Sometimes I would walk down to the local library and find refuge in the books that laced the antique British bookshelves. Soon afterwards I realized my son was on the way and old stirrings of my hunger for space resurfaced full force.

What was I doing here? Waiting for what? Where was my space?

The motherly midwife assured me that everything was normal and millions of women delivered everyday - in exile. But I was by then determined to get back to my space. And what was that? The same old haven where I was born. My country which was perhaps not so clean, not so pollutant-free and not so advanced. I realized my space was India, or possibly the idea of her, which had nurtured me and helped me grow. The familiar jostling crowd of pedestrians in Gariahat, the haggling shopkeepers in front of the New Market, the vendors of old books at College Street; the buses packed to the brim suddenly became dear to me.

Memories came flooding my homesick brain. The aimless strolling inside our JU (Jadavpur University) campus, our professors admonishing us for bunking lectures, our petty rivalry over class notes, gulping down the lebu chaa (lemon tea) out of earthen khuris from the roadside stalls in a fashion that screamed “look at us..we are born of the earth ourselves!”, the sudden impulse to rush to Dakshinapan for summer skirts at bargain prices…were all part of my space. Like animals do, I was searching for the safest burrow to give birth. And was dying to go back where I was born myself. One of my college pals quipped that the teeming nation could jolly well do without another addition to its population. I nonchalantly told him that the best thing I could give my child was the first breath of the same Indian air which would bind him to the country. I know it sounds cheesily sentimental but that’s what I honestly felt. I wanted my child to impinge my space, I wanted him to share with his mother this first awakening in a country, which for all its shortcomings was the only space I knew.

We went back to Warrington after my son was one and a half. I had taught him by then that home was where his country was. And England was just a stopover to an Indian boyhood that I had promised him. Warrington, the picturesque village in the North West of England would always be my second home, a place I will always love. But the magic of the bonhomie that grips me even today at the Dumdum Airport will never fail to work its spell. I am sure my eyes still carry a starved look in them when they take in the common sights of the smoggy city on my ride home.

I guess it is needless here to add, that I have stopped looking for my "space". I now know where it is.