It was a sort of homecoming, though the home we had grown up and loved in Calcutta has long ceased to exist for us as it passed into other hands. Each of us went our separate ways and came together for short spells like homing pigeons. This time all of us met at my place and it was a four-day-long episode of recounting old tales and dusting memories that usually remain locked up in the mind’s closet till the time we meet. Each story is recounted with much detail and each memory rehashed and recycled over the years often getting reinvented in the process, with much fervour.
We talk of brands that are no longer in favour, no longer on the shelves. Toothpastes like Macleans and Kolynos and Binaca, Polson’s Butter, Threptin Biscuits, Khatau and Finlays Sarees no longer ruled the shelf. When did they leave the scene so quietly? In fact the saree itself is getting phased out as a geriatric symbol, functioning only as party wear and not as everyday outfits. We run on till we come to matters familial. The old skirmishes between us and the old grievances against one another are now remembered with much laughter.
We recollected one particular fistfight. Two of our brothers went at each other hammer and tongs with the third one standing in the sidelines and cheering them on. While mother’s admonitions fell on deaf ears, when my father stepped in, the boxers stood frozen.
My father said, “If only you fellows attack your books with the same gusto perhaps your grades would improve.” Shamefaced they returned to their books with black eyes. We also remembered that though we fought like cats at home we stood up for each other outside and how we cared for each other, sitting vigil, when one of us was sick. The days when we got jobs or cleared entrance examinations were memorable days and we celebrated with collective joy.
Cricket affected us and the cricket commentary on the radio pumped up our adrenaline, especially one of my brother’s who took notes of batting and bowling records with avid interest. He read cricket lore and was fond of quoting cricket writer Neville Cardus who said about the sublime skills of Ranjitsinhji: “Did he really happen or was he perhaps a dream, all dreamed on some Midsummer’s Night long ago?”
So our little get-together came to an end sooner than expected. Each meeting becomes a memory to be stashed away in the mind’s closet to be brought out and savoured the next time.
Sudhadevi Nayak
Email: sudhadevi_nayak@yahoo.com