"Leftovers in their visible form are called memories. Stored in the refrigerator of the mind and the cupboard of the heart".
-Thomas Fuller
“Hello? Can I speak to Sarla di?
“Yes, speaking.”
“I’m calling from your uncle’s house in Dum Dum.”
“Oh... what’s the matter?”
“Can you please come here? Your uncle passed away at 9.30 this morning. I called Girish da. He is in Guwahati now, so it will not be possible for him to come immediately. Since there is no one here and I don’t know anyone else, so......”
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It’s been almost 10 years. What’s the name of that house again? Yes, “Chhaya”. That’s what was written, as far as she can remember. For the middle aged Sarla, it became difficult to magnify past incidents clearly with the telephoto lens of her foggy memory. But she could remember the road which led to the house, mostly covered with red clay and measled with pebbles. The well-trodden road was mostly unadopted that time, witnessed by a pond on one side, and the house on the other. She used to come here every year, accompanied by her parents and sometimes by her brother, older to her by 4 years. The area, though officially a part of greater Kolkata, was located in the outskirts of the city and cannot be exactly termed as a benchmark of development. The state government's apathy towards the region was somehow a blessing in disguise for Sarla and her brother, as the air was not choked by the sounds of horns blaring. For a child's mind resides in a dome of innocence, seeking peace and imagination from less-noticed properties like the stillness of water or the blue of the sky. The thought of visiting her uncle's house fascinated her always, she being constantly pampered there, and the collectibles which her uncle brought from England seemed like mysteries to her, belonging to an unknown world. The rather boyish photograph of her uncle in the passport, the tales manifesting the rich heritage of St. Paul's Cathedral and the hubbub of Piccadilly Circus kept her oblivious of the fact that worldly problems like division of property, land and other assets do exist in middle class Indian families, enough to breach the dome of innocence illuminated by stories from a make-believe world. So one day while she was dreaming of a cookout with everyone, and her father and her uncle were having an "argument" inside, she was unaware that her father would suddenly storm out of the room and say to her : "We are leaving now".......
Things were never the same again.
***************************************************************************************
Memories peeped out of her indistinct recollection like the treacherous sunlight peeking through the leaves of trees hurrying past her as she looked out of the window of the taxi. It wasn't difficult to recognize the house, only this time it had a few visitors waiting outside. Warriors who fight the battle of Life along with it's aide Loneliness never get a square deal, for they are always unsung. The clay bathed road and the pond lined with weeds seemed only remnants of a man who was once close, only to become a stranger through time.
"Oh, you have come. I am quite relieved to find a relative at this juncture. The thing is, we are short of money to proceed any further and.......". The words seemed to come from a distance, almost drowned in the silence which can be fathomed only by a gloomy mind, clouded with memories amidst all the murmurs of the visitors.
Tears left trails on partially wrinkled cheeks while a fish made a ripple in the pond.
-Thomas Fuller
“Hello? Can I speak to Sarla di?
“Yes, speaking.”
“I’m calling from your uncle’s house in Dum Dum.”
“Oh... what’s the matter?”
“Can you please come here? Your uncle passed away at 9.30 this morning. I called Girish da. He is in Guwahati now, so it will not be possible for him to come immediately. Since there is no one here and I don’t know anyone else, so......”
***************************************************************************************
It’s been almost 10 years. What’s the name of that house again? Yes, “Chhaya”. That’s what was written, as far as she can remember. For the middle aged Sarla, it became difficult to magnify past incidents clearly with the telephoto lens of her foggy memory. But she could remember the road which led to the house, mostly covered with red clay and measled with pebbles. The well-trodden road was mostly unadopted that time, witnessed by a pond on one side, and the house on the other. She used to come here every year, accompanied by her parents and sometimes by her brother, older to her by 4 years. The area, though officially a part of greater Kolkata, was located in the outskirts of the city and cannot be exactly termed as a benchmark of development. The state government's apathy towards the region was somehow a blessing in disguise for Sarla and her brother, as the air was not choked by the sounds of horns blaring. For a child's mind resides in a dome of innocence, seeking peace and imagination from less-noticed properties like the stillness of water or the blue of the sky. The thought of visiting her uncle's house fascinated her always, she being constantly pampered there, and the collectibles which her uncle brought from England seemed like mysteries to her, belonging to an unknown world. The rather boyish photograph of her uncle in the passport, the tales manifesting the rich heritage of St. Paul's Cathedral and the hubbub of Piccadilly Circus kept her oblivious of the fact that worldly problems like division of property, land and other assets do exist in middle class Indian families, enough to breach the dome of innocence illuminated by stories from a make-believe world. So one day while she was dreaming of a cookout with everyone, and her father and her uncle were having an "argument" inside, she was unaware that her father would suddenly storm out of the room and say to her : "We are leaving now".......
Things were never the same again.
***************************************************************************************
Memories peeped out of her indistinct recollection like the treacherous sunlight peeking through the leaves of trees hurrying past her as she looked out of the window of the taxi. It wasn't difficult to recognize the house, only this time it had a few visitors waiting outside. Warriors who fight the battle of Life along with it's aide Loneliness never get a square deal, for they are always unsung. The clay bathed road and the pond lined with weeds seemed only remnants of a man who was once close, only to become a stranger through time.
"Oh, you have come. I am quite relieved to find a relative at this juncture. The thing is, we are short of money to proceed any further and.......". The words seemed to come from a distance, almost drowned in the silence which can be fathomed only by a gloomy mind, clouded with memories amidst all the murmurs of the visitors.
Tears left trails on partially wrinkled cheeks while a fish made a ripple in the pond.
