GOLD - DUST On my many visits to house in Kashmere Gate when I was a kid, I would find myself sitting at the window ledge of Mamun and Papa’s room (My Jethi and Jethu, for the uninitiated). For some odd reason there was just enough space for one to fit snugly in. I still remember the window and the ledge as if it were yesterday. Of the many patterns of the curtain-design the one that still stays fresh is a multi-coloured curtain with a chequered pattern with a white lining running two and fro. Modest but effective. Plain yet colourful. And once you get past that riot of colour, there were solid iron bars that stood guard just like old sentinels do. No flowery motifs, no make-no-sense-at-all designs, these were pure solid bars of wrought iron, black in colour and grainy in texture. Although Kakaji and Chtoma’s (My kaka and kakima) room too had a window and a ledge, I don’t remember sitting there much. Only because that place was always pre-occupied with a jar of pickle or two that were soaking in the sun, getting a tan much before the term came in fashion. Back in the first room, once you push the widows open, you would come face to face with the biggest motor parts market in the whole of Asia. Not much of a topic of interest for a kid but nevertheless it promised a more lively view than most of the skyscrapers that line our National Capital Region. There was life to see, of people scurrying to work, of the sailor-tongued auto shop owners, of the residents of this very house returning, some from work, some from school, colleges, Bhai Kaka, Ranga Poba, Kakaji and Papa from Bengali Club, Mamun and Chotoma from the sabji mandi across the street. Kids, I was not allowed to play with, playing with a dirty ball, retrieving it from a gutter and hitting it back into yet another one. It was the same place we would all, and I mean the kids of the house, would crowd when someone came visiting from Calcutta or overseas. We would keep our ears pressed to the window and wait for them to shout our names as they would approach the house. At times, I would just crane my neck a little out and see Didu sitting at the doorstep, seeing people pass by, exchanging pleasantries with them, haggling with the vegetable seller, seeing us step in and out of the house time and again and mentally making a note which kid was where at what point of time. When fatigue would get the best of her she would retire inside, and sleep on the bed but would still look outside. As one of the oldest members of the family, the door must have been her window through which she saw decades rush by as if they were in a hurry. The only time I hated sitting at the ledge was when Baba used to come and pick me up. And as I would see two figures walking, matching step for step I would realise that it was time to go. And if I had any doubt, Mamun would gleefully announce “ Aik Jon er Baba eshaychay {Someon’e dad’s here} and I would sulk knowing it would not help, and walk to the waiting auto rickshaw as everyone would wave me bye, some through the door, a few through the window. Any Bengali loves his siesta, and things were not very different at Kashmere Gate, as the food settled in out tummies, we would be yanked in the room and were ordered to sleep. And the funny part was even if we weren’t sleepy we were made to believe just lie down and sleep would find its way to you. And this was the best part. As curtains were drawn there was a small hole near the window only that was occasionally left uncovered by the curtain. That hole allowed just a fistful of sunlight to creep in and I would see the dust particles suspended in the air. Gold-dust, these particles would dance as if they had a life of their own. Inconsistent in pattern or movement these particles would often push, pull each other like shoals of fish trying to race. I would often tire my eyes out looking at those dust particles, and as my eyelids would get heavy I would fall into deep slumber. A very peaceful one that too. As I grew up I would often go the room, draw the curtains and pretend to sleep, all the while looking at the light filtering in with the dust particles forming a kaleidoscopic pattern, only more random, only more beautiful. Today as I see Ma sleeping peacefully, slowly regaining her strength, I wonder if she found her Gold dust as well. I watch her shifting in the bed, an elbow splayed here, a thigh drawn up there, playing out half stories in her hazy dream thoughts. No one else sees them, not the owl hooting outside and winging for prey, not the sliver of sun shining palely through the crack of the curtain, not the watchman doing his rounds. No one else but the house, buttoned up for the day, silently suspended between yesterday and tomorrow. Soon I will go to my room and draw the curtains, deliberately leaving a cranny open. It’s been a busy morning for all of us. Once the sounds mute themselves, it’ll be a signal that Baba is also fast asleep. And as I will toss and turn in the bed I would wish and I wait for the Gold-coloured dust to stream in gingerly through the crack, snatch me away from all my worries, play with me, tell me stories of Kings and Heroes and put me in throes of deep slumber where I would meet the kid sitting on the window ledge of a old house, and perhaps I will manage to talk him into telling me what all did the day have to show to him through those wrought iron bars.
Posted on: Sat, 21 Sep 2013 20:31:27 +0000
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