Howrah Express

 

Sometimes, I feel I should capture my thoughts. Rather, be able to capture my thoughts as they form. By the time I can find a pen or figure out a tool to type in, they vanish like mist.

I’ve been feeling, not thinking, about disconnect. Like, even when I am having a conversation with someone, they say something to me and I feel something about it and respond. Their own feelings might be entirely different. And therefore, their own responses will carry a different perspective, a different tone too, perhaps, than mine would. Journeys too, sometimes evoke envy, sometimes just joy, and sometimes, a certain wistfulness about it.

In a span of a few seconds, I am hit by a curious mix of memory, feeling, pervading nostalgia, and nausea, discomfort of sitting hunched on the top berth of a 2nd class sleeper on a hot afternoon in May when the train was hurtling through landscapes I could not see, because all the shutters were down, the awe of seeing a sunrise from the train window, one day over a vast expanse of fields and another over a never ending row of trees, sometimes, the train would curve and I’d wish the window bars were further out so I could see and be fascinated. Because a friend is travelling by train. I’m feeling all of this and reliving snippets from memory. Of all my teenage train crushes, the first man I fell for, and kept staring at, and who kept staring back at me, for a whole day, and inspired several of my sappy first attempts at poetry. How the idea of love makes a fool out of me! Every damn time. And then Euphoria came out with Maeri. Palash Sen in a train, and I found the female lead so annoying! Kaun train ke darwazay ke paas khade ho kar, cute banday se eye contact bana kar brush karta hai yaar! How utterly gross!

And then all the delays, sometimes 4-5 hours, sometimes more, the enormousness of Howrah. The fascination of seeing so many yellow taxis, quintessential to Calcutta. There were no taxis in Ahmedabad. Reaching Hind Motor, the smells of that gully near the station, the smokiness muffling the gutter stench and carrying faint aromas of samoas frying, chai boiling, and slow moving. The journey long over, but the body still feeling the slight rocking motion of still being in the train.

I learnt to make a plait, braiding my mother’s long hair on a train. I would dread the time she would remember to ask me to recite the multiplication tables and I would hope that she forgets. I would wait for the chanajor, kheera, guava wala, they’d cut the fruit and add a generous amount of salt and red chili powder to it. Those were the most delicious cucumbers I ate. The chanajor with a mix of finely cut tomatoes, onions, coriander, chaat masala, and a dash of nimbu. It would burn my tongue but god, was it delicious! Mummy would let me have a little bit, dusting the spices off. She was a spice-slaying goddess for me.

Someone in the next compartment would being a round of Antakshari, and I’d be dying to join in but wouldn’t. I’d peep in sometimes, I’d look from the cage-like grill on the top berth sometimes. I would hope and wish we were a large group travelling because that would be infinitely more fun. And sometimes, well, all the time, there would be unwelcome passangers travelling without a ticket, sometimes with a child whom I’d hate for having to fight for the window seat. I would wonder which station they’d get off on. I’d hate being squeezed into a tiny space because 5 were sitting on the berth meant for 3. Afternoon siestas on the middle berth, the very act of setting up that berth – a wonder inspiring ritual. Getting the full seat for myself – a rare blessing. Somehow, the berth always had enough space for both mummy and me. The first time my tooth came off, was in a train. I learnt the concept of milk teeth and permanent teeth, and the idea of temporariness and permanence, in the Howrah Express.

Come evening, the big, rectangular, aluminium tiffin would open and dal-ki-poodi would be brought out, some ker-saangri to go with it, disposable plates, water from the thermos, and the wait for Kharagpur with its longest platform, confirming that we’re indeed close to nani’s house. Now there will be no more delays.

When you’re hurtling at whatever speeds your average Indian express train hurtles at, this is the sort of a view in store for you 

Cliché

Yun na mil mujh se khafa ho jaisay
Saath chal, mauj-e-sabaa ho jaisay
[Meet me not in anger, beloved,
Walk with me, like the morning breeze walks with spring]

Φ

A Mehdi Hasan rendition of the famous, Ehsan Danish ghazal, playing from a vinyl record, whitewashed walls, indoor plants, a carved lamp-stand, with a shade to match its elegance, teapoys and corner tables covered in muted shades of formica, plain wooden shelves containing all our books – our, yes – we couldn’t have been more proud than if they were our children – well-mannered, quiet, dignified, you could never guess the energies each of them contained, and me – all of us wait for him to be back. He has never disappointed us. 6:30 pm for me, or 1830 hrs in his language, he is home; rather, his presence makes it home. Somehow, everything seems to don a smile, when he returns – even the plants. Sirius and Laila laze contentedly after welcoming him home with hugs and kisses as if he’s been gone a whole week! Though, it was my bright idea to bring the puppies home; when they mewed and I doubted about their being canines; they would always have the first claim on his affections, on him, always getting the first hugs.

He was like a schoolboy in a sense. Rattling off what happened over the day, at work, over chai, never sitting down, fiddling with the vinyls, before he went off to play squash, coming back just in time for dinner. A post dinner stroll for all four of us, and we’d retire to quietude, always with a book. Yet, never alone. He called from work, thrice, sometimes, four times a day, always careful to not disturb my classes. There weren’t any long drawn out conversations, except, him saying that he was thinking of me. I could only smile and quickly ask him if he had nothing else to do at work.

He came home for lunch in winters. 6:30 pm seemed so far away! I’d smile to myself, dreamy-eyed sometimes, hassled sometimes, that I always had to plan ahead, making sure lunch was kept ready by the time he came home from work, and I came back from school.

He didn’t say a word through lunch that day. I didn’t know what, but I knew some trouble was brewing. In the evening, he said, he’d be gone for a while. A while could mean anything upwards of a month. I would have to take care of myself, and be strong were his only instructions to me as he packed. Waking up, getting out of his embrace and the warmth of the bed that morning was probably the most difficult thing I’d done in my life till then. I was as much in love, and as nervous as I’d been on my first date with him. He promised to write when he could. Phone calls were a luxury not for young captains.

That day, Sirius and Laila let me have the last hug.

[Note: the translation of the opening lines of Ehsan Danish’s famous ghazal are my interpretation of it, not necessarily an exact, correct translation of the verse]

J’ai Oublié

When I wake up, I feel the soft quilt and the coating of warmth it layers onto my skin. The soles of my feet feel the cool floor, in the kitchen, the skin on my face feels the moist warmth of the steam as it rises off the boiling water, my tongue, tentatively feels the comfortably hot sweetness of the honey and the tang of lemon in my morning tea. The worn china cup, sits warm in my cupped palms.

My skin has a memory of its own.

There are sights and sounds and smells that have become a part of me; and there are some that I’ve forgotten. But my skin records its own version of my history. Between the wrinkles and loose folds of my skin lie memories of hands held, my waist carries the imprint of his rough fingers, the skin on my neck remembers the harsh brushing of his stubble-d chin. The soles of my feet remember resting in his palms.

J’ai oublié

I don’t remember what he looks like , or the colour of his eyes. But I remember what he felt like. Rough, like the sand in my clothes after a day at the beach. And surprisingly soft at his shoulder – just where I would rest my chin, at a little hollow, as if it was made to the size of my chin. I remember how the frown lines on his forehead smoothed away  under my fingers. I don’t see us anymore, sitting together, or looking at each other. But my skin would know him if it met him again.

∞

“Why does your skin shine there?”
“Where?”
“At the back of your hand”
“It must be proud of itself…” I said, and smiled teasingly at him. His thumb passed over it many times then.
“And the other scar, does that shine too?”
“No.”
He made me tell the stories of my scars over and over again.

His fingers stopped wandering the length of my spine, halting at the little dot-like depression.
“How did this land here?”
“That’s from a biopsy.”
And I launched into the tale of the painful night and how I ended up calling my doctor at 4 am. Not even halfway through the story, I noticed he’d slept, his unbelievably soft head resting on my arm. The skin on my arm remembers his face.

Over breakfast that Sunday, the last time that I saw him, we barely touched. We were too busy leaving.
That last day, he looked at me so intensely, I felt his eyes had touched my soul. é

Recipes With Leftover Love – 3

اب کے ہم بِچھڑے تو شائد کبھی خوابوں میں مِلیں
جس طرح سوکھے ہُوے پھول کِتابوں میں مِلیں
احمد فراز ~
Ab ke hum bichhde toh shayad kabhi khwaboñ meiñ mileiñ
Jis tarah sookhe huay phool kitaaboñ meiñ mileiñ
~ Ahmad Faraz

∞

She evoked memories of another time, another person. She wasn’t reticent, she asked her questions however silly they might seem, she was there to learn. He was glad to teach. He might redeem himself yet.

His sessions were carefully placed baits, designed to make his students curious and disarm them of doubt and fear and encourage them to secure their chopping boards and create that natural almost fluid motion of the knife, slicing and dicing and chopping away to glory; to toss those sliced and diced and chopped ingredients into a pan; to find the strength of a spice and to season their meal and transform it, as if by magic. Their reward at the end of a good session was some fine wine.

She was making rapid progress in class as in life. Her kitchen shelves were no longer subject to the monopoly of packed foods. There were spices, oils, sauces and seasonings. The mostly empty drawers were peopled with pots and pans and she looked at cutlery with a new interest. The fruit and vegetable and meat in the fridge was used and replenished and no hours were empty anymore.

She surprised the class and most of all, him, one day, when she turned up with a chocolate cake she’d baked. It was her father’s birthday. And a year since he’d passed away after a painful struggle with cancer. There were years filled with sadness, rancour at fate, life perhaps. But she chose her memories carefully. The class was extraordinary that day. An impromptu celebration, happiness and memories shared.

What surprised him wasn’t the cake. It was the ease with which she could remember, she could evoke the memory of her father with only happiness and gratitude. Would he be able to remember without pain?

That night after class, he thought of her, the one that stood at the edge of the sea, a hollow in the world in her place now. He thought of the promises of half a century ago. He did not know then, that forever existed only so far as the next turn on the road. He was angry, sad. She was gone forever. He hoped to see her when forever ended. Theirs had been a particularly short one.

Fifty years could not dim the pain.

All the travel of those years, all the love and warmth he received, all the wealth and fame could not replace that emptiness that was her’s alone.

Food alleviated the pain of memory to an extent he found it easy to live and love again. But never found the courage to turn back and face his demons. They might catch up with him someday sooner than later. That night, for the first time in fifty years, he’d dared to look. His demons were there where he expected to find them alright.

They sucked out the life from his blood and left him gasping for breath. He remembered the chocolate cake from earlier in the day and dragged his feet over to the kitchen. It was cool, sweet, and just the right amount of moist. He felt life return to his blood slowly and he poured himself a measure of bourbon.

When he returned to his room, his thoughts, and his demons, were waiting for him. They looked less menacing now. Perhaps it was the bourbon. Perhaps the chocolate.

He’d sold off all of his fancy cameras and lenses at the prime of his photography career and taken a long holiday, travelling the world, searching for answers, avoiding questions that haunted him. He fell in love with Spain. The colours, the aromas of the streets of Madrid, the colourful dances, the full-bodied music and the heady wines, the fiery food, and even more fiery women. Spain felt like the home he’d searched for all those years. Spain helped him forget.

He searched his cupboard and found it. He hadn’t used it in years but it worked just fine. It was an old manual SLR that belonged to her father and she’d gifted to him. It was the only camera he didn’t dispose.

It was his turn to surprise the class with an impromptu portrait session. It was his turn to surprise himself with his ease at a skill he believed he had forgotten.

His demons seemed smaller and weaker that night. He thought of the sunset and sea and her. She no longer stood at the edge of the water. She dared herself to wade in, to submit to the waves. She turned and smiled at him as she waded further in.

The last day of the sessions, his students didn’t need anymore baits. Food wasn’t just a necessity anymore. It was an extension of their personalities. A part of their lives. They were grateful. The portraits were moments frozen in the safekeeping of time. There was happiness.

That night, he found mere shadows where his demons had once lived. That night, he remembered her laughter mixed with the waves of the sea and he wept.

Recipes With Leftover Love – 2

It’s the last of winters and the slightest breeze brings forth a shower of dry leaves from the trees lining the streets. Very soon, the amaltaas will vie for attention along with the gulmohur and the bougainvillea. Bursts of yellow, red, and shocks of dark mauve and white will inspire some poetry flaming with love, perhaps a dull page of prose too. Soon, the afternoons will be filled with the cuckoo’s song. Soon, the days will feel like they’re unending. Soon, the sun will seep into the mangoes and leave some of his yellow light glowing in the skin of that magical fruit. It’s a time for change. For a short wait before the bare branches are dressed in a tender green.

∞

He looks out of his kitchen window while the coffee brews. The lane leading up to his house is quiet for most part, carpeted in a soft cover of fallen leaves. They crunch when someone walks or drives over them.

He thinks back to all the times between winter and spring, in all the places he lived in. He thinks of his childhood in the Andamans. Port Blair was a sleepy town and the daily ride in the school bus over the hills, with the sea for company was the most exciting part of the day. There was no transition here. No leaves fell. There was a continuous canopy of green in varying shades and tints. He thinks of his late teens in Delhi. Of his grandparents’ house. The chikoo and guava trees sitting pretty in the neat little garden, and what were those silly creepers that hung over the main entrance to the house; winters were a pleasant affair there. He could lie in the grass, soaking up the sunshine and reading about airplanes. He thinks of the days of trying to make it big, in Bombay. Returning home soaked in sweat, the cold water in the shower was the only comfort. The seemingly endless wait for the famed rains of Bombay that felt like a clean up act for all the filth that made Bombay what it was.

He thinks of his hostel room in his alma mater. Of days spent believing he was Mitchell of Top Gun, riding his bike around the city like him, leather jacket et al. He thinks of the sea, of her standing at the shore, at once afraid of the sand slipping away from beneath her feet and awed by the vastness greatness of the sea. He thinks of a different set of tools his hands were accustomed to; tools he loved despite the pain he always ended up with, in his right arm and the stiffness in his neck when the day’s work for done. But it never really got done. There would always edits and more pictures, and there would be more work to do tomorrow. He thinks of a lifetime of tomorrows gone by. And he thinks of time freezing in the past. And he remembers. He remembers the glasses of the watermelon, strawberry and mint cooler in the freezer. He arranges them neatly on a tray and puts a little garnish of a mint leaf on each and he steps out into the sitting area with his coffee.

His students would be arriving soon.