Day 67. A pink two-tier car pulled along the road in front of our house, as far as my mother’s eyes could follow me from her perch on the steps of the house, and no further. Idols of Jagannath, Subhadra and Balaram inside the chariot with batasha or nokuldana or mishti for prasad. All through the year, the rath would remain parked in the storeroom and with a few days to go for Rath, I would pester my mother to take it out so that I could dress it up with new wrapping paper from Naroan (read Narayan) da’s shop and, if I was luck, may be leftover streamers from the last birthday. Naroandar dokan was, of course, my go-to shop for everything. I used to wait in front of his shop for the schoolbus to pick me up and drive him quite mad with my constant chattering. And whenever I spotted new waterbottle in his shop, I would promptly break the one I had so that I could get another one. For some time, the bus’s pick-up point changed and I soon befriended an old man who sat by the window of a nearby house. I called him Dadu and all I remember is that there would always be a vase of “kadam” phool on his window. The only house where I have seen these flowers being used for decoration. On the way back from school, my pit stop was the badamwallah. I would hop off the bus, run to him and pick up a handful of peanuts. And as Champadi (the lady who worked at house) threatened to complain to my mother, the badamwallah would smile and hand over a few peanuts to his “Lakshmi”. My own kabuliwallah. Even after growing up, every time I passed him by, I would stop and smile and exchange a word or two. A few months ago, I was there and spotted a young man who resembled the badamwallah. Guessing that it was his son, I went up and asked and my belief was confirmed. When I asked about his father, the young badamwallah said “Pitaji to chale gay”, making my heart stop before he added “gaon”. I may not have met him for years but I know my kabuliwallah is there somewhere. Not so for Naroanda. Places change, times change, people or their memories remain.
Often, it is a person who determines what I wear. The pink Phulia sari with kantha stitch I wore today belongs to Kakima (my sister-in-law Sarmistha’s mother). I knew Kakima was coming home this afternoon and so I decided to wear this sari she lent me for the pact. And as I was getting ready, draping this so-easy-to-drape sari, I could hear Sarmistha reading out to Kakima my earlier post about another of her saris since she is not on Facebook.
It was triple celebration today. Rath, Id and a pre-birthday lunch for my brother-in-law Sandipan. All celebrations, for me, are as much about what I wear as what I eat. So, Christmas has me wear something red and bake a fruitcake and Id has me make kebabs or haleem and semiyan (last year).
A pink sari for my (pink) rath along with papad bhaja, peyanji and jilipi courtesy my colleague Ayan Paul at work, my first attempt at sheer khurma later tonight for Id and lots of good wishes and a baking session tomorrow for the birthday boy.