Reveries

Other than graduating in law, college had been a turning point in my personal and emotional life, as well. I always knew that my life at the Law College had such an impact on me, such an impact that I will carry for a lifetime, in defining relationships, friendships, in emotional quotient and all that. Yet, I shed my scales and moved forward in absolute forgetfulness of my erstwhile campus days. 

Recently the campus fb page is pouring memories, like how a bucket full of water is drawn from the well, the worn out rope on the rusted pulley, creaking pleasantly and then poured over my head, the cool memories drizzling down my face, over my closed eyelids, making me remember the happenings objectively, cleansing me of all that I didn't like about me, during those days. I am caught unaware, in a blooming dampness, enjoying the drizzle, the breeze and the little droplets I know now that I treasure.

Falling in love is no doubt a pleasure, which many lucky ones may embrace for a life time. But I cherish the love I missed falling into, like the broken bits of coloured bangles in my little treasure chest, like that peacock feather in my note book, I hear that bit of a song, the humming he sang into my ears, sitting behind me in our antique college bus and the subtle expressions I discarded. 

And I realize that I am smiling.

കിളിവാതിലിലൂടെ

 അവനോടു സംസാരിച്ചിരുന്നാല്‍  ഒരു ഗുണമുണ്ട്..മറന്നു പോയതും, ഓര്‍മയുടെ അങ്ങേ അറ്റത്തു  പോലും ഉണ്ടെന്നു അറിയാത്തതുമായ പലതും ഓര്‍മ വരും. അങ്ങനെ തെളിഞ്ഞ  ചില ശകലങ്ങള്‍ ഇതാ ..

- പടിഞ്ഞാറേമുറ്റത്ത്‌   പേരമരചുവട്ടില്‍ കളിവീടുണ്ടാക്കിയിരുന്ന   കാര്യം എന്നേ മറന്നു പോയതാണ്. പഴയ പ്ലാസ്റ്റിക്‌ ഷീറ്റ്,  ഓല, സാരി തുടങ്ങിയവ കൊണ്ട് ഉണ്ടാക്കുന്ന നല്ല ഒന്നാംതരം വീട്.. അതിനകത്ത് കയറി അങ്ങനെ ഇരിക്കുമ്പോള്‍ ഉള്ള ആ രസം..   അടുക്കളയും കിടപ്പുമുറിയും ഒക്കെ ഉണ്ടാകും.. കുട്ടികളും അച്ഛനും അമ്മയും കളിയ്ക്കും..ഉറങ്ങി കിടക്കുന്ന  കുഞ്ഞുങ്ങളെ വിളിച്ചു ഉണര്‍ത്തല്‍   ആണ് ആദ്യ പടി.. ഇന്നും ദിവസം തുടങ്ങുന്നത് അങ്ങനെ തന്നെ..

- ഓല മെടയാന്‍ ചില പെണ്ണുങ്ങള്‍ വരും, അതും നോക്കി പടിയില്‍  ഇരുന്ന ആ എന്നെ , ഞാന്‍ വീണ്ടും കണ്ടു .. കുട്ടിയുടുപ്പും ചപ്രാ മുടിയും.. നിറയെ സ്വപ്നങ്ങളും..

- പപ്പയ്ക്കയുടെ തണ്ട് കൊണ്ട് സോപ്പ് വെള്ളത്തില്‍ മുക്കി കുമിളകള്‍ ഉണ്ടാക്കിയിരുന്നു , കുമിളകള്‍ പറത്തിക്കുക മാത്രമല്ല, terrace ന്റെ കൈവരിയില്‍ കുമിളകള്‍  ഒന്നിന് മീതെ ഒന്നായി കൂട്ടി  കൂടാരം ഉണ്ടാക്കും.. എല്ലാം കൂടി മഴവില്‍ വര്‍ണത്തില്‍ അങ്ങനെ.. പൊട്ടും  വരെ നോക്കി ഇരിക്കും.. ഇപ്പോളും കൂട്ടുന്നു സ്വപ്ന കുമിളകള്‍ ..

- പിന്നെ പട്ടം പറപ്പിക്കല്‍, ഈര്‍ക്കിലും ദിനപത്രവും കൊണ്ട് ഉണ്ടാക്കി വാലും ചിറകും ഒട്ടിച്ചു ചേര്‍ത്തുണ്ടാക്കുന്ന പട്ടം.. അത് പറത്താന്‍ കൊണ്ട് പോകുന്നത് വയലില്‍ ആണ്.. അവിടെ ഒരു ബന്ധുവിന്റെ വീടുണ്ട്.. അവിടെ എത്തിയാല്‍ അവരുടെ ആട്ടിന്‍കുട്ടിയെ തോളില്‍ വെച്ച് ഓടും.. തിരികെ വരും വഴി ആമ്പല്‍ പൂ  പറിക്കും, തോര്‍ത്തില്‍ മീനും പിടിക്കും.. ചിലപ്പോള്‍ ഒക്കെ ചൂണ്ടയിടുന്ന ഒരു ഓര്‍മയും വന്നു.. നേരിയ തോതില്‍.. നിറയെ  കൊക്കുകള്‍ ഉണ്ടാകും വയലില്‍..


- തെക്കുകിഴക്കേ  വശത്തെ  മാവില്‍  ഊലാഞ്ഞിടും , ഓണത്തിന്.. ഉലക്കയില്‍ കട്ടിയുള്ള കയര്‍ (ആ കയറിനു ഒരു പേരുണ്ട്, ഓര്‍മ വരുന്നില്ല) കെട്ടിയുള്ള ഊഞ്ഞാല്‍. അത് പിന്നെ പൊട്ടുന്നത് വരെ അവിടെ തന്നെയുണ്ടാകും. 'തൊണ്ഡലം' വിടുക എന്ന ഒരു വാക്ക് ഈയിടെ ആണ് വീണ്ടും ഓര്‍മയില്‍ വന്നത്. ഊഞ്ഞാലില്‍ ഇരിക്കുന്ന ആളെ മറ്റൊരാള്‍ ആട്ടി വിടും, ഊഞ്ഞാല്‍ പിറകിലേയ്ക്ക് വലിച്ചു ഓടി വന്നു ഊഞ്ഞാല്‍ കൈകളില്‍ ഉയര്‍ത്തി കംബിനടിയിലൂടെ   കുനിഞ്ഞു   ഓടി .. അങ്ങനെ മാവിലകളിലൂടെ കാലുകള്‍ തട്ടി ആടാം..
പിന്നെയും ഉണ്ട് ഊഞ്ഞാല്‍ കളികള്‍, കൊച്ചങ്ങ താഴെ ഇട്ടു, ആടുന്ന  ഊഞ്ഞാലില്‍ നിന്നും  അതെടുക്കണം , കുനിഞ്ഞു...


- മണ്ണ് കൊണ്ട് വീടുണ്ടാകും, അതില്‍ ബോഗയിന്‍വില്ല  പൂക്കള്‍  കൊണ്ട് ഭംഗി  കൂട്ടും
- മതിലില്‍  പിടിച്ചിരിക്കുന്ന പായല്‍ വെല്‍വെറ്റ്
- മഷിത്തണ്ട് , അതിന്റെ തളിരിലകള്‍
-   മതിലില്‍  കല്‍ക്കരി  കൊണ്ടുള്ള  ചിത്ര രചന
- കുഴിയാനയെ പിടിച്ചു, സിമന്റ്‌ പടിയില്‍ മണല്‍ വിരിച്ചു പടം വരക്കല്‍.. കുഴിയാനയുടെ കുഴി നോക്കി ഉള്ള ആ മധ്യാഹ്നങ്ങള്‍ ..
- വാഴകുഴിയ്ക്കരികില്‍ മണ്ണിരയെ തേടിയുള്ള കമ്പും കുത്തി സത്യാഗ്രഹം..
- മണി അടിച്ചു വരുന്ന ബോംബെ മിട്ടായി കടലാസ് കോണില്‍ വാങ്ങി   .. യം യം യം..  .
- സാറ്റ് കളിയ്ക്കിടയില്‍ കോണി  മുറിയില്‍ ഒളിഞ്ഞിരുന്നു, വയ്ക്കോലിനിടയില്‍ പഴുക്കാന്‍ വെച്ച മാങ്ങ കടിച്ചു വലിച്ചു അങ്ങനെ...മ്മ്മ്മം  ..
- തട്ടുമ്പുറത്തു ധൈര്യശാലി ആയി ഒറ്റയ്ക്ക് കറങ്ങി നടക്കല്‍..  അവിടത്തെ ആ പൊടിയുടെ മണം.. ചെമ്പ് പാത്രങ്ങള്‍ ..

ഇങ്ങനെ പലതും പലതും ഓര്‍മയുടെ മാറാല നീക്കി പുറത്തു വരുന്നു.. ഓര്‍മകളുടെ ആ കിളിവാതില്‍ ഒന്ന് തുറന്നു കിട്ടിയാല്‍, പിന്നെ മറ്റൊരു ലോകം ആണ്.. മണവും, നിറങ്ങളും, രുചിയും, ഭാവവും, രൂപവും ഒക്കെ തെളിഞ്ഞു തെളിഞ്ഞങ്ങനെ വരും
അതിശയിപ്പിക്കും വിധം..


ഇനി ഇടയ്ക്കൊക്കെ കയറി explore  ചെയ്യാനൊരു ലോകം തുറന്നു കിട്ടിയ സന്തോഷത്തോടെ ത്രില്‍ ഓടെ
സ്നേഹപൂര്‍വ്വം
പിഗ്മ










.

Manjadikuru

Attachment is a word which deludes me. I fail to comprehend ‘attachment’, I feel detached and yet finds it difficult to ‘let go’ of these and more..

There was this talk about demolishing our apartment and going for a new one fetching us a larger area, and more facilities.. I can’t let go of my little space of comfort for larger comfort. People laughed when I said, that demolition is against nature and exploitation of resources. I am not ambitious, I was frowned at! But I ‘willed’ strongly and the idea is dropped for the time being. Here maybe, I confess, I dislike change, more so because I am lazy.

When people go through divorce, I wonder how they can let go of all that was between them.. with whom will they argue, fight with and show their worst once they are separated. Will they not keep thinking of the other one, and be inquisitive as to what he/she does? Will they not want to get back all of those  again? Here I am not speaking about certain cruelty imbibed relationships, where it is a relief to let go. I have such a story too..  that’s for later

When I was robbed off my wallet in a bus, I couldn’t let go of the it was just here a minute before feel. . Not much money was lost .. I was a student then.. But I couldn’t let go of the wallet and I saw it before my eyes for a day or two.. How can people rob others, don’t they know that it is not just the money, that is  being robbed..

That diamond ring, which my husband gifted on my birthday just before our wedding… since I treasured it, I wore it every day rather than treasuring under lock 'n keys. One morning while at a meeting, I noticed that the ring had abandoned the diamond. I didn’t care much and continued with the meeting. I was branded as 'careless' , 'not bothered' and 'having no value for money'.. all because I didn’t  grieve. I had felt no pain in losing that, because for me what mattered was the ring which touched my finger, and not a stone upon ..

My husband’s family was shifting to their hometown, was packing stuff and came with all their luggage to my place. While piling  the bags and taking stock, they realized that they have lost one bag, which contained all my gold and Amma’s too. Panic, Panic and Panic! Amma  almost fainted. (My Non-Kerala friends, if you google for a Keralite bride, you would see how much worth the loss would have been .. Down South, people are crazy about covering brides in gold, and I wasn’t an exception too). I stood as the calm one, and told Amma not to worry and that it does'nt matter as much as her health. I adjusted quickly to the fact that, all that may be lost. But I wasn’t ready to let go. I prayed to Mookambika the entire 50 minutes during which time, my husband drove back to their closed house, to check if the bag was dropped somewhere. I prayed that I get back the fruit of  my mummy’s thirty three years of  sweat; she had bought me all that from her retirement largess. I prayed that if I be given back my maternal gift, I would give from that same lot, a piece (just one piece), to Mookambika. I know She doesn’t need my bits and pieces, but I wanted to force some misery on me  as a price for the return of the wealth lost. Exact fifty minutes of silence at home was broken by the much awaited phone call… The bag was there at the gate, waiting to be carried back to me. Two years later was the hardest part of giving up.. At Mookambika, I forced myself to submit one beautiful piece, and I realized for once how difficult it is to give up anything just for faith (confused faith). I can gift to a human easily and with love. But to let go, like this was difficult. I am not scared of divine wrath. I did that to kill the materialist in me.

How difficult it would be to let go of one’s love, for marriage. Giving up a love to marry another is quite easy, at least for a woman, I think. What I mean here is, it is hard to let go, when he marries another, despite the fact that I have.

There was this one time, when I could have just moved a little and not let it go; But I stood still and it went in flames before my own eyes. When my Appappan was laid on the funeral pyre, a seventeen year old me stood just near him. I wanted to take his specs, the brown framed one, from him, from the fire. I could have, but I didn’t.. I regret that loss the most.. I have not yet let it go.. the glasses are just there when I close my eyes..

If I let go of these Manjadikuru, I would'nt be me..

When nobody is watching you

You are what you are, When you do what you do, When nobody is watching you

I had read these lines years back and have written these as a slogan many times for others! Was just thinking what am I? What do I do when nobody is watching me? Other than the daily chores?


When I was a little girl, I was often left in my own world, where I used to talk to myself rubbing ice on my arms, copying the commercial beauties I saw on our black and white Keltron TV Box. It had shutters from the sides, wooden ones and we watched Lucy Show, Barbapappa and Salma Sultana’s samachar without fail. And of course the Saturday movies. There was a mosantha tree spreading its branches into our balcony, I used to collect the tiny yellow flowers which come in the centre of the light pink mosantha petals. It smells strange. While walking to school through the District Court premises, I had spent time collecting the hair like pink flowers which fall off those huge trees. Alone I would sit on a stone bench in the large and lonely lands. I would dream of me with princess frocks and admired by all, pampered by all.

On holidays, alone again in a big three storied building (we had lived on one side of it, the other half was lawyers’ chambers), I would squander here and there, often on the terrace never minding the sun. I really don’t know why I spat on people’s heads from above and amused myself when they were searching for the source of the ‘bird droppings’. I even extended my survey to others’ garden; there was an unoccupied house opposite to ours, and a pomegranate tree at the far end of it, spotted with chirping sparrows, and a tuition centre window closed against that tree. It is my fortune that I wasn’t subject to child abuse those days, considering my lone wanderings at secluded spots. Sometimes I used to open my coin box, take out a 20 paisa coin and run to the panshop near by to get a pink coloured bubble gum (double bubble, I think), it was theft in a way, as I did it quietly and knowing it was ‘wrong’.

At the age of 11, I used to earnestly pray that my jasmine and rose blooms. Every morning I expected a miracle, but the flowers never did come. I guess that was the last memory I have of innocence in me.

As a teenager, of course I was inquisitive about matters of sex, wanted always to watch an adult movie or magazine atleast, but never came across one, till date. In school I had serious discussions with close friends, as to how pregnancy takes place, I am surprised now that I didn’t know about it even at 12. We thought of different possibilities of how the sperm enters a woman’s body. In my mind I imagined sexual pleasures without even knowing the intricacies of the final act. For me it was nudity, kissing and mostly centered on a woman’s breast.

Finally I could get a ‘dirty book’ from my brother’s shelf, which I took out and read and kept it back without him knowing. Unfortunately the book had no pictures; it was a novel containing sexual descriptions and intercourse. This was of course a leap from the regular Mills and Boons. I explored my own body imagining a lot many things which could happen to it, all pleasurable and thrilling. Later on in my early twenties, at night in my locked room, I had worn mom’s saree and put on some jewellery and vermillion and imagined myself as a bride and had terrific imagination of loving and making love in the sacredness of wedlock. 

What do I do now, as an adult. When I am alone?

I waste time, I still dream the impossible, I fall in love, I romance, at times I get addicted to virtual world and fail to look at the sky and feel the breeze and trade all of those with a window which opens the world to me. I live sometimes in a fake world. And zoooooooom I come out of that hibernation, spread out my wings, soar in the high skies, I laugh, merry and spread fun and still remain alone… I am always that little girl who sits alone in that stone bench in the majestic grounds, dreaming of achievements and love. 

Memory Poke

Recently while reading my friend’s poem in his blog, what I had forgotten for years, again flashed upon my mind ..the memories of the pain undergone and the recourses my mind took to overcome the grief.

I lost a ‘baby’ during the third month of gestation, it was my first infact. I did not really grieve for the loss of the life. I haven’t yet known or felt it, so didn’t feel any bonding towards the being.

But I was agitated, angry and aggressive. I shouted at God, my mom and my husband. I proclaimed that I didn’t want a pregnancy again and I heard my mom’s soliloquy “poor child.. she was so happy.. why  did we ever married her off to face the pains of life” . I know mommy was unrealistic, but it did matter immensely to me that she most unreasonably cared for me.

My husband tolerated my tantrums depicting his love for me or his lack of options.. (I never really gave him any option at any point of time.. I love him as I want.. would receive him with a kiss in the evenings rather than a cup of tea, which he genuinely preferred  over me at that point of time)

I was angry at God , not for the life taken away, for it was never mine.. but for making me the field of experimentation..

What made me agitated was not the love for the being or the grief of losing it. It was what I saw in the clinical room which made me want to tear off the personnel there and turn up and shout at God as well as to my family. What was that plastic bucket meant for, and why was the rubber sheet on the high bed directed towards the bucket.. to drain ? Is a human being some biomedical waste to be thrown off.. Damn the government, the institutions, the doctors, and all those around for such insensitivity at least so that they should’nt have given me an occasion to see this.

Later on I tried to forget the ambience, the incident and I succeeded too. And I chuckled to myself amidst all this,  thinking that Moses came first, to show way for Jesus! Amen!

My traverses during story times

When I run out of bedtime stories for my son, I make up stories, or tell him about old times, ‘When Amma was a little girl’.. Off late, he is opting for the third category and I take it as a chance to take a meditating plunge into the pit folds of memory.

I told him what all I saw in my Appappan’s house, the steps and the sidewalls which led to the frontdoor, the   wide branched tamarind tree I saw through the small wooden window, the red coconut tree through Appappan’s bedroom door, Achamma’s pan chest holding tender pan leaves, perfumed chunnambu, powdered areca nut and the blackish wet tobacco sticks(which I never liked) and much more.

To my surprise the pictures were so vivid in my mind, as if from a reel, it unrolls and within my closed eyes..the scenes flash, and I voice it out for my son to see the unseen and make memories too..

I walked all over the house, amidst the rubber and cashew trees, ate the red aamla from the tree, checked the kitchen shelf for goodies, smelt the oil from achamma’s hair, saw the tiny brass box in which Appappan keeps his sindoor which he would wear like a round bindi on his forehead every day after bath, the small faded mirror through which I made myself pretty, achamma’s pujaroom with her Kannan all decorated with red petals dipped in sandal paste. I took the flute in my hands and slowly put it to my lips and savoured the bit of  jaggery from the Prasad glued to it and wondered if Kannan had played the flute after eating the Prasad achamma offered…

 I dipped my hand in the huge mud pot to take out the full mangoes dipped in salt water, and licked my hand up my elbow to stop the salt water from dripping down.. I ran through the rain to cross the open courtyard which separates the main wing of the house from the kitchen side.. played pebbles on the rough cement floor, touched the lamp wicks and inhaled the kerosene smell..

I told my son all of these.. and we fell asleep

Suzie

Snapshots captured in my mind do get buried with time.. but when they pop up, I can see them as if from an old tape.. not just that i can remember the visuals, but also the voices, the sorroundings, the aroma and the feel of it all. Suzie popped up in my mind today , I have'nt seen her for the past ten years, but i got the pictures quite well, her curly hair, her smile, her laughter, her faded brown jeans, her sandals and such particulars.. but more than anything i remember the wax idol of Mother Mary in her pocket and the fluoroscent green rossary she kneads in her fingers as she says her daily prayers and a drop or two of her tears which just overflowed from her heart and  fell down from the corner of her eyes.

Suzie was one of the pretty faces I had seen,  very bubbly and something innocent about her ways. She was pursuing her twelfth standard correspondence course, she looked around eighteen , but I was told later that she is nearing her thirties. She was the receptionist in the hostel I stayed in, and stayed next door to mine. I noticed her english accent, when she says 'sh' for 's', and her use of 'man' anywhere in a sentence. She would say, 'come man',  ' listen man'. I was picking up all of these Anglo Indian slangs from her. She baked delicious cakes, and brought for me fish curry dipped in thick coconut milk with slit green chillies and flavored with kokum.., see I am getting the aroma too in the snapshots..my mouth waters.

I didnt know anything more about her till many months later, when she started opening up with me. She was working there so that she is given shelter free of cost and food, the cost of which was deducted from her pay. She would do a lot of chores for the nuns there, to earn a bit more. She would iron their clothes, she told me with lot of anger on herself, and she might have been doing their vessels or what else, I didnt venture more. The hostel inhabitants being students from well to do families, Suzie had felt odd telling anyone about her, specially so everyone took her just like one of them. 

She started unveiling gradually to me, she justified saying that she somehow trusted me. I have'nt betrayed her trust till now.. This is my first attempt to do so. Suzie had never been sent to school. No one bothered to. Niether her father nor her father's wife, whom she called "mummy". Her own mother was a maid who was sent back to her own village after childbirth. Suzie had never seen her and doesnt know anything more about her. She grew up at home unschooled and alone. She had a  mute deaf sister, whom she loved the most, probably because she might have been the only person who had been kind to her. Her brother played for a band and another one was a radiologist. The eldest sister was a spinster and very sour too. Father has married twice, the second time the woman who was the governess for the children born out of his first wife and I guess it is the second wife that Suzie calls "mummy" with love.  This is the picture of her family which she drew for me.

Suzie, at some point of time had been kept in a convent for school dropouts and such children, where she was taken care of by nuns and that is how she reached this hostel and job. She completed her SSC at the convent and was working to study further. She had no guide, no parent and her existence wouldnt matter much to anyone in her family except maybe for the diferently abled sister. Suzie had dreams, of studying, of getting a good job and life. And she was on her own working her way towards her dreams. She always kept a wax idol of Mother Mary in her pocket, told me she was her mother, her own mother.  I remember that was the only time I saw Suzie's heart leaking through the corner of her eyes.. I left the hostel for good and I have lost touch with her.

I learnt from Suzie what it takes to be a strong woman, and I realized for once how weak and feeble I was, though I considered myself otherwise. One's strength is tested at crossroads of life where one is left alone with no means of living,  with nothing and no one to lean on to,  no way to go and nothing to look forward to. Making  a life on your own, that too a girl right from her tender age, unsupported, is not a small achievement. After having been brought up  in a secured environment with all  amenities and well taken care of, if a woman claims herself to be strong, though true, that strength is a cabined one, which works only in pre-set situations. I salute 'ant' women like Suzie who carry weight so disproportionately high to their own.

The Rise And Fall Of A Love

At the age of thirty two, I got a ‘love letter’. I was then a mother of a two year old. Did the pendulum swing between the high cardiac tides and the inbuilt vows in a traditional Indian woman’s mindset? Here goes the narration of a mind as honest as it could be.

I met him at an educational program which I attended for a month. He reminded me of the Great Vivekananda, my all time fantasy, maybe because of his brilliant eyes. Soon I was told that he is from the same land as Vivekananda, a place I’ve always longed to see after reading Tagore, Prem Chand and Kamala Das. He was from the city of palaces, Kolkotta. The way he says ‘Kolkotta’ is really magical. It is true that I was drawn to him and merely used to notice him and  I am sure I didn’t hold any softer emotions for him. He was not the least in mind at any point of time during those days.

We used to exchange quiet glances, acknowledgment and a smile whenever we came across all cordial and as courtesy. We were placed in a classroom situation, where I occupied a seat, away from his. As part of a simulation exercise we had to mix up more and form groups, where I noticed that he took pains to keep me in his group and was chuckling with joy amidst the group discussions. There was a good rapport between us and I realized that I enjoy his company. I asked him his zodiac and to my pleasant surprise found it to be the same as mine. Both of us were sort of typical Librans. The session got over and we split to take up our own seats.

Days passed by. The program venue was shifted to a different room. The morning I entered the new room, I had an instinct, I took the seat at the first row. The chair next to mine had a plastic bag on it, indicating the appearance of the owner soon to claim the seat. I glanced casually at the white plastic bag with some letters on it which I couldn’t read and felt for a moment that it could be his. I wasn’t wrong. We sat next to each other for the next seven hours of the day till the day’s sessions were over. We started having fun, like kids, passing notes while the lectures were going on, and giggling at small things which made us happy. I was back again to my teens, I felt.

The next day, I claimed my usual seat, my adjacent seat was vacant. I apprehended that anyone, just anyone of the group could take it over and then my mobile beeped. Quite unlike me, I immediately checked the sms and found a text : “Please keep the seat for me. Thankyou”. A smile spread over my face and I kept my bag most shamelessly on the seat, just ignoring the thirty others who may bother to observe me. He came soon with a beaming smile as always humming Krishna nee begane…. With a ‘good morning’ we started our day.. this being our routine for the remaining of our term.

I thought of him on my way to the class in the mornings and on my way back home, but no longer than I reached home to my son and his father. A few days before the close of the course, during the last session of the day, he slipped a paper folded to six into my book and told me to read it at leisure. My heart skipped a beat. In the bus on my way home, I opened the paper and read through, it was a love letter. I was laughing at the irony of the entire situation and at the same time a bit proud of having fetched one at this age that too from the best in a group of around thirty men. I remembered the first time I was given a love letter. I was eighteen then. The letter had unpardonable spelling errors and for the same reason I had thought of discarding it. Still it being the first one, I had corrected the spellings with white ink and kept it for some time. But I was a tender girl then. Now, a mother of a two year old and occupying responsible position at the job situation, I was puzzled by the entire sequence of events. I read the letter again and sweetness spread over me. I allowed myself to be pampered by the words of praise and love. I felt a bit shy thinking of facing him the next day. I thought of him throughout the evening and night. I wanted to talk to him. I didn’t think twice. When I heard his Bengali “hellow”, I shivered a bit. I told him that though I liked reading his letter this was neither the right age nor position for me to be led to such nuances. He told me that even if I were in my late pregnancy at that time, he would still have fallen in love with me. He told me without any leniency that he loves me. I waited for morning.

My husband dropped me to the Centre and to my surprise, he who comes after me every day, was waiting for me outside the class. The day was sweeter than all the previous days, though nothing more was spoken of the letter. We had just less than a week to finish our program and for him to go back to his Kolkatta. That full week he was in my mind throughout . I found myself avoiding sexual approaches by my husband on one pretext or the other.. I removed my magalsutra just so that I can have a free mind for the rest of the week. I did not think at all about the morality of what I am doing nor did I feel guilty about anything I did. I still have no regrets and feel I have done no wrong.

He gave me many more letters, and I gave him none. I am a woman and fairly intelligent too. I didn’t want my fragility to be recorded in my hand. And moreover I knew very well that this is a transient feel. He would get over this the moment reached back home to his wife and his life. And I would get over this too, because nothing and no one has ever kept me glued for long.

The last day, we found some time for ourselves, alone and he asked me if he can kiss me. A repulse reflex lit in me and I said ‘No, Rana I don’t wish to be kissed by you.’ He told me it is his greatest wish and even if I don’t allow him now, some day he would. I merely smiled. I asked him to hold my hand. I didn’t feel any magic in his touch. On the contrary I felt we are such genuine pals. He gave me a look which I will never forget. My womanhood never received such a boost as his look of wanting for me, as if I was irresistible to him and I loved the feel. We parted with a good bye.

He sent me few sms , romantic ones. My repulse again was strong when he asked me if in his dreams he can chew my lips. I replied again “No Rana I don’t wish you even dream of me that way.” He was disturbed with my response. I did not reciprocate the romance he expected of me. Over emails, we had a few arguments regarding this. He asked me why I couldn’t dream freely and allow him to. He told me there was nothing wrong in dreaming, in any case we may not meet again. So it wouldn’t harm if we are more expressive in our correspondence, because that would only make both of us happy. I mailed him too and told him about how much I cherish our days together, and how much I wish that the flame be kept alive in us forever. And I also told him that I don’t wish to sleep with him because I don’t feel like doing it. What I don’t wish for, I find difficult to dream. Gradually the frequency of our mails came down. We are still in touch, in the sense we call once in a while. We know we were genuine at that point of time and that we enjoyed our togetherness and enjoy even now the remembrance of it all.

I don’t think of him now unless I see him online or I hear a Bengali saying Kolkatta or when I hear ‘Krishna nee begane…’ or when I find our old post it notes when I clean up my workspace. The letters are destroyed and gone.

Reflecting on myself about why I felt repelled at the thought of physical closeness with him, I found that it was not because I didn’t love him, it was not because I didn’t find him attractive, it was not because of any vow of chastity or loyalty towards my wedlock. It was just that I didn’t feel. And I also noticed that I get a similar repulse in any like situation. And I know why it is so. It is because I am incapable of even imagining sex or sexual advances with any man, maybe I have a genetic ‘disorder’, which old folks would call  as ‘born of good parents’, not that I approve of it or claim it. . And I never felt myself with this 'disorder' prior to marriage. I am born with stronger genes, which will not just let me go any way and lust is not in my blood. My mind is free and so is my will, and this free will desires my body to be touched and caressed only by my husband. I feel unclean any other way. I don’t preach chastity or marital loyalty.