Summer Of 2015

Nishant Bhatia

I was back in my hometown for the summer holidays for two weeks, thanks to “Andolan,” which just got over, and Delhi - Haryana border was open again. The moment I knew I would not be staying back at my aunt’s house for the rest of my holidays, I was all sorted out with my plans. I called Mayank, Gautam, and Babu, and we all agreed that we would watch IPL at Gautam and Babu’s place followed by playing PS2 at Mayank’s place, and on Sundays, we had our cricket plans sorted. We all were excited like 10-year-old kids meeting after almost a year. It was finally Sunday. What used to be a busy cloth market on weekdays, was our cricket pitch on Sunday. We all played for one hour, then Gautam had to rush for something. It was afternoon and 35°C, and we all were almost exhausted and agreed this would be our last match. So the pitch was 6ft. wide and 15ft. long cemented market with closed shutters on both sides and tube lights hanging on the top of shutters and wires tangled with each other in the air like a spider web. Each time the ball hit the tin shutter, it produced a loud bang and was the only irritating thing after Babu and Mayank played those long innings, and I batted for maximum an over( Even Virat Kohli had off days). Babu was batting for almost half an hour. I just finished my over, and it was 3rd over straight without him scoring a run; we felt like irritated Shoaib Akhter bowling to Rahul Dravid, only we were throwing batta spin, and every time he defended, he would walk two steps and tap the bat three times on the ground which in the street cricket language is considered as “giving challenge”. SO now, Mayank was bowling, I was fielding three steps behind him, and Babu was batting. After being Dravid for almost half an hour, he suddenly turned into Virender Sehwag. He advanced and hit the ball with full swing, and Bam!!. A loud noise came from above me I watched above and was surprised to see fine white crystals falling on me. I kept watching that with curiosity; what might be? Is it snow? I was about to ask

Mayank, but he and Babu were running like crazy towards home. It’s when I heard a loud noise “ Oyee!! Bhaag Babu ne Light todd di”. And that’s when I realized, “Ohh! It was a light bulb”, “ OHH NOO!! IT WAS A LIGHT BULB” and that too the biggest and most expensive one. And as soon as I realized, I picked up my pace, and we escaped from the crime scene as we weren’t even there, leaving no traces of our existence, and didn’t cross the path for at least three days until the heat went off.

It was again Sunday, and the last one with them as I will be going back on Friday. So we planned on playing cricket in our locality. This time our pitch was on the left side of the Square vacant space surrounded by houses (or “chowk’ as we say it). This time again, Babu was batting, Mayank was bowling, and I was feilding. The wicket was just adjacent to the opening of a very narrow street, and a window with a half-broken glass was just hanging above where I was standing. This time Babu was already in Virendar Sehwag’s mood, and Bam!!. The first ball straight onto the window above me, and I could see this time glass coming down and shattered in front of me. In a matter of seconds, even before I could respond, I saw Babu running with full speed and Mayank behind him in the street adjacent to the wicket. “. I heard again, “ BABU NE PHIR KAANCH TODD DIYAA… BHAAAG”. And once again, we disappeared from the crime scene as we were not even there. I heard the house owner was asking who was playing and finally our cover blew when three little girls told them about us and one led him to my house, So I admitted, and we all went to apologize. And the first thing he asked was “ Baki sab to theek hai, lekin tum sb itni jaldi gayab kaise ho gaye” and we all laughed, and that’s how my summer ended... With a laugh and lots of memories.

While others were breaking records, I was breaking Glass.

From Self-Abandonment To Self-Acceptance

Prerana Panja

On a cold November afternoon, as I strolled through the gulmohar trees to my house. Ma and Baba were deep in conversation. Next morning a nice uncle came over with lots of boxes and nails and soon I was on a train with my family. I distinctly remember asking Baba, “how much longer will it take?” I had never been on a train ride this long. Two days and a night later, I stepped foot on a city that would play a big role in shaping me into who I am today. But, not quite in the way you think.

As a very impressionable 7 year old girl who landed up in a city that was not just geographically opposite to my hometown back in Bengal but also culturally very different. For one, I had moved from a small town to a relatively bustling city and life here seemed to move faster. Slowly I began changing as well, I would avoid speaking in Bengali even at home and thought myself to be cooler for that. I saw my old ways and lifestyle as being beneath me. Although the opportunities around me were in abundance, my parents were well connected with the culture and they would attend many Bengali functions and concerts by renowned artists, I never paid heed. Every Saturday all families would meet at the Kali Mandir and us kids always conversed in Hindi. The memory of Das uncle twisting our ear to remind us to speak in Bengali is etched deep in my mind and soul. Although not the best method, his intentions were pure. "You'd forget your own mother tongue if you don't speak it" he'd say. And he was right. By the time I was in college, I realised how little I knew about my own culture and the stories my parents and grandparents would narrate to me. I realised that the day I have my own children, I wouldn't be able to recite the same rhymes and tell them the same stories that I listened to, because I was so out of touch and in denial. Choudhary uncle used to pity us saying that we missed out on such great literature because we never bothered to learn to read Bengali fluently. I realise this now.

In my undergraduate degree, I slowly started to re-explore my culture little by little. But it was this pandemic that brought about a paradigm shift. I went to visit my hometown and got stuck there for a good four months. It was a great opportunity to absorb my culture from the people itself. I started speaking Bengali so fluently that my own mother didn't quite recognise me. I would hum classical bengali songs, be curious about the history of my culture and the moment when I knew that I was more Bengali than I was before was when I started subconsciously inculcating Bengali words and references into conversations with non bengalis too. That is how I reconnected with my home. But ironically, as I write this today, I am moving back to said home from Gujarat. And suddenly, once again there is a sense of uncertainty and a loss of a sense of home. Perhaps home is something I'll always keep rediscovering or perhaps it is something that has always been within me.

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October

Samraggi Mukherjee

I woke up overlooking the city, basking in the sun's warm embrace and the blue skies covered with snow-white clouds, scattered throughout, like wet cotton balls. The sunlight shedding on the marble floor through the window wished me a good morning; the slight nip in the breeze that blew across my room - a smell so familiar - reminded me of a not-so-distant past. I checked my phone and smiled a little. It's October. The onset of Autumn has, perhaps, always stirred the inherent nostalgia. I grew up in a house with mosaic floors and in a city with old buildings made of red bricks that smelled of love and revolution, where October meant festival spilling out. My city is dolled up like a bride during October. Canopies of lights in lanes and streets, even the ones unnamed, make it look like it's aging backward. The rich odor of Shuili ushers in the forecast of a new beginning, and the sound of the camaraderie echoes every nook and corner.

One such bustling part of the city that I made frequent trips to during this time of the year is an old red-bricked structure. Resembling a British architectonic, a wholesale market, called Hogg's Market or, now in local parlance, the whole area referred to as New Market. The trips to New Market were never made alone.

While some trips meant therapeutic street shopping with a school friend, some trips were all about aimlessly roaming in and around the market with cousins - only to pick up mutton seekh kebab rolls from Nizam. It reminded me of how a customary family outing would take place every year; how it wouldn't be complete without Baba taking a detour to a 115-year-old Jewish Bakery called Nahoum's to buy sweet buns and brownies.

October meant struggling to wake up at 4 am to tune into the radio. A zeal drives people during this time; the sheer enthusiasm of planning five days for over a month seems what keeps people in my city alive till October. When I was in school, we would walk through the lanes of Dover Lane gazing and dazed by the lights that hung over and stop by every phuchkawala on the way. The streets around Sarobar Lake have witnessed a lot of firsts, drunken monologues, stolen glances, and missed chances.

I have come to realize that people define places more than the places define them. I left my city with a heavy heart and bitter feeling, hoping and wishing never to come back; however, there reigns a particular dichotomy in everything we do, and affection isn't any different. It's October. I miss home.