The calling of the soil (Parenthood Ramblings - 26)
Shireen my love,
When you will get the chance to read this letter, you might be wondering why your mother addressed you as Shireen here in this blog while she calls you by a different nick name at home. I have revealed that in a different post in this blog, hope you will read to find it out. Do you know that you visited the soil where half of your being belong already when you were growing up inside me? Just look at the following photos. They are a few photos of a ruined, unkempt quarter in Durgapur.
This ruin is the very place where I, your mother, belong. This ruin is on which she had spent her years of adolescence and late adulthood. The soil of this ruin is what she calls her own.
In the year 2000, your mother came to this quarter of address CD -111/1, MAMC, V.K. Nagar, along with her parents and brother from another quarter, B1 - 107/2, MAMC, V.K. Nagar. That old quarter is another story, my dear, and your maternal uncle and mother must have already told you a lot about that B1 neighbourhood. As you know that a child is nurtured by his or her immediate environment, so were we nurtured by that old neighbourhood. The iron fence you see in a photo here served as an identifiable landmark of that neighbourhood. The unkempt jungle that you see here was once a very well maintained garden your grandparents took pride in. Your late grandparents....what would have you called them if they were alive? Dadu, Didun?....gave a lot of effort in the making of this garden. There were flowering plants in the front side while there was a kitchen garden at the backside of this garden. We mostly used to enter the house through the back gate. I loved this quarter more than the previous one. Why? Just because this place remained the base where I came to know who I really am. My voice, my identity, my being as a matured adult was nurtured by this place, my dear.
This place still remembers the conversations your mother had with her parents over tea and coffee. Her brother was away then. She bonded with her already older parents here as a working daughter. This place remembers about the hard days when your mother struggled with the tough calculus problems. This place remembers the aroma of the orange cakes, gulab jamuns, chholar daaler borfi, narkel er naru, and the quintessential assorted chocchori s your 'Didun' made. This place also remembers the day when your father came here to meet your mother's family and the nod of approval your witty 'Dadu' gave to your mother.
The day you visited there, first, being inside me, I didn't know about you. Your father and I busily sorted the books your 'Dadu' had left behind and brought those books to their house. I have left the books for you too to read, my love. Each book has a story of struggle which you cannot read. The struggle of a man to squeeze money from his low salary to buy the Russian publications and the second hand books in low price from the Boipara in College Street.
Do the soil calls you too? Would you like to visit there, once? Shireen dear, if you visit the place, can you please bring a handful of soil from the ruins? A handful of soil for me, your mother. I might be around you that time when you would bring the soil, I might not be around you, but that handful of soil will always remind you of that 18 year old young girl who acknowledged the fact within no time that her parents had retired early from their jobs, due to some inevitable reasons, and she would have to finish her studies fast to become an earning member along with her elder brother. It will remind you of those days coated with simplicity when a Sunday chicken was a delicacy and a mutton preparation was a rare relishing occurrence signifying some rare commendable feats of any of the family members who resided there, long back.
When you will get the chance to read this letter, you might be wondering why your mother addressed you as Shireen here in this blog while she calls you by a different nick name at home. I have revealed that in a different post in this blog, hope you will read to find it out. Do you know that you visited the soil where half of your being belong already when you were growing up inside me? Just look at the following photos. They are a few photos of a ruined, unkempt quarter in Durgapur.
In the year 2000, your mother came to this quarter of address CD -111/1, MAMC, V.K. Nagar, along with her parents and brother from another quarter, B1 - 107/2, MAMC, V.K. Nagar. That old quarter is another story, my dear, and your maternal uncle and mother must have already told you a lot about that B1 neighbourhood. As you know that a child is nurtured by his or her immediate environment, so were we nurtured by that old neighbourhood. The iron fence you see in a photo here served as an identifiable landmark of that neighbourhood. The unkempt jungle that you see here was once a very well maintained garden your grandparents took pride in. Your late grandparents....what would have you called them if they were alive? Dadu, Didun?....gave a lot of effort in the making of this garden. There were flowering plants in the front side while there was a kitchen garden at the backside of this garden. We mostly used to enter the house through the back gate. I loved this quarter more than the previous one. Why? Just because this place remained the base where I came to know who I really am. My voice, my identity, my being as a matured adult was nurtured by this place, my dear.
This place still remembers the conversations your mother had with her parents over tea and coffee. Her brother was away then. She bonded with her already older parents here as a working daughter. This place remembers about the hard days when your mother struggled with the tough calculus problems. This place remembers the aroma of the orange cakes, gulab jamuns, chholar daaler borfi, narkel er naru, and the quintessential assorted chocchori s your 'Didun' made. This place also remembers the day when your father came here to meet your mother's family and the nod of approval your witty 'Dadu' gave to your mother.
The day you visited there, first, being inside me, I didn't know about you. Your father and I busily sorted the books your 'Dadu' had left behind and brought those books to their house. I have left the books for you too to read, my love. Each book has a story of struggle which you cannot read. The struggle of a man to squeeze money from his low salary to buy the Russian publications and the second hand books in low price from the Boipara in College Street.
Do the soil calls you too? Would you like to visit there, once? Shireen dear, if you visit the place, can you please bring a handful of soil from the ruins? A handful of soil for me, your mother. I might be around you that time when you would bring the soil, I might not be around you, but that handful of soil will always remind you of that 18 year old young girl who acknowledged the fact within no time that her parents had retired early from their jobs, due to some inevitable reasons, and she would have to finish her studies fast to become an earning member along with her elder brother. It will remind you of those days coated with simplicity when a Sunday chicken was a delicacy and a mutton preparation was a rare relishing occurrence signifying some rare commendable feats of any of the family members who resided there, long back.
Brilliant dear😀
ReplyDeleteOshadharon...... She will do for sure
ReplyDeleteHeart felt
ReplyDeleteYou really miss durgapur as me but no worries dear our future generations will surely understand this
ReplyDeleteI sincerely hope so...let's see....:)
DeleteSundor!!
ReplyDeleteThank you all for your encouraging words...means a lot...
ReplyDeleteLeft me teary eyed :) and dear you will surely be around Aahona when she gets that handful of soil specially for you! Love and hugs from us to you :)
ReplyDeleteLove and hugs!! 😊
Delete