Drumroll… and THAT time of the year

 

Durga Ma is on her way, and Messi cannot contain his excitement.

Sometimes, the wait for an event is almost as enticing as the actual occasion. The hours before a crucial football match. The final days ahead of a long-pending vacation. The morning of an eagerly awaited arrival.

Quite similar to the drumroll - rapid beats on a drum, increasing in intensity by the second - before the extravagant ending.

This drumroll is supposed to build up to the main event and often gets sidelined in the dazzling lights of the main event. However, I often find this anticipation, this wait, to be an endearing adventure as well. 

I have been indulging in such thoughts of late. Perhaps there’s something in the air, or maybe it’s the season itself. Because, folks, it’s that time of the year again. The buildup to the grand occasion that gets Bengalis world over supercharged. 

Durga Puja is less than a month away. 

While others may indulge in the religious intricacies of the occasion, for me, and perhaps many like me, this time of the year is a trip down memory lane. A chance to sit back and relive days from the past. It is like a box of sweets you can revisit time and again, one that never gets old or stale. It's a place that preserves the aroma and flavors of your childhood. 

Pristine blue skies, with fluffy cotton balls of clouds lingering for company.

This time of the year, every year, I revisit this heaven and allow my senses to remain in a trance. I recall days of my adolescence, spent among family and friends. I proceed cautiously through each frame of memories, savouring each moment, watching myself grow over the years, every year. I recall the ecstasies and delights, the fun and games, the minute pains.

Work, sometimes, has to take a backseat as I stare out the window and find lost smiles among days long gone by.

It is now, far away from home many years later that the actual ting of anticipation hit me harder. The wait becomes vivid, reminding me of the essence of time, that we have too little at hand. Four days of bliss appear minuscule and gone too soon, which is why the days building up to the event hold the utmost importance in life.

At this time of the year, the countdown has always been as sweet as the actual occasion.

Perhaps, this, in a nutshell, is what life is all about. The journey is as important as the destination, yet in the rush to build a future, we often forget to enjoy our present. The grand finish deserves applause, but if you sit back and close your eyes, you might notice that the drumroll has its moments too.

Needless to say, the Pandit family also remains invested in the effervescent effects of the season, strolling through the joys of the fabled drumroll. Messi is already hooked on the countdown to the day when he can return to his beloved Malbazar. There’s the familiar sizzle of anticipation in the air. Waiting as eagerly for new toy cars as for dresses. Chalking out itineraries for the four days and more. Planning to meet old friends and catch up with family.

Some days these are the only things we can talk about, much to the amusement of my six-year-old son.

So we work to make the buildup to the grand event worthwhile for the little man. We try to add to the legacy of the drumroll. Fill that perfectly preserved box of sweets with newer items. So that one day, as he grows up, he also has a kaleidoscope of memories to fall back onto.

Because, sometimes, the countdown can be sweeter than the actual occasion.

Life, Jokes and an Omelette!

 

What's life without fun and games?

“Are you joking?”

Messi froze in his tracks and narrowed his eyes. Minute creases of worry formed on his little forehead.

I had just told him that I was contemplating making an omelette on his head.

It was a warm, humid noon; the sun was glaring down on us with vengeance. I was picking up my six-year-old son from school. As usual, Messi rushed out of the gate, handed me his bag and water bottle, and proceeded to play with his friends. 

When the fun time finally ended, I got hold of my exhausted son, who was now sweating from head to toe. 

“It’s so hot,” he declared. 

“Shouldn’t have run so much,” I pointed out.

He simply shrugged.

On the way home, I suggested that since his head was so hot, I could crack an egg to get my protein intake for the day.

“Are you joking?”

My son has a very clear understanding of a proper joke, and the intricate details associated with it, and for that, perhaps, I should take full responsibility. While Sumita, my wife, remains my favorite subject for banter, Messi is a close second.

Some days, when he wakes up from his siesta, I tell him it’s morning and he must prepare for school. I regularly pretend to rub some aftershave lotion on his cheeks and declare that he will have a proper beard by the end of the day. Sometimes, when he runs rampant around the house, I pick up the phone and pretend to call the Forest Office for a tranquilizer.

“Please be serious, Baba,” he often admonishes me like a grown-up. 

This is where I need to take a step back and acknowledge that I often tend to be unserious. What I have realized in life is this – it is important to have fun. To laugh out loud, to smile softly. To shake your head in disbelief at something outrageously funny. Because life will give you reasons to be sad, to be frustrated, to be angry and it is the thin ray of fun, frolic, and joy that will get you through.

All this applies to Messi too. When he looks out the window with his sleepy eyes on late afternoons and realizes that he doesn’t have to leave for school just yet, a smile creeps up on his lips. Are you joking? While he was initially concerned about the aftereffects of aftershave, he is now certain that it cannot be true. You are joking, right? Right? When I pretend to enquire about that injection, he settles down with a wry smile. Baba, I know you are joking.

I take great pleasure in finding that tinkle of joy in his eyes. Which is why I insist on making an omelette on his head that noon, much to his amusement.

“I know you are joking," he says.

“Oh no, I’m actually quite serious!” I respond.

“You are not serious.”

"I will make an omelette on your head, I just need to find that egg…”

“No, Baba, when it is too hot, you need an umbrella, not an egg!”

I pause for a bit, my train of thought momentarily derailed by his words. I take a split second to regain my composure before I go again.

“That is true.”

He stares at me with cautious eyes, certain that this conversation is not over yet. And I don’t disappoint him.

“So, I'll not be making an omelette on your head then," I say solemnly.

“No," he murmurs, not entirely convinced.

“Maybe, I’ll make a poached egg instead!”

"You don't like poached eggs!"

“I might like it today.”

“No, Baba..”

“I could sprinkle some salt and pepper….”

“Baba, no..”

“It would go well with a piece of toast….”

As we head home, father and son arguing about an imaginary egg, I realize that these meaningless conversations actually bring out the rainbow on my azure sky. I feel the urge to try and dissuade these moments from disappearing into the wrinkles of time. Because sometimes, infinite value can be discovered in the most meaningless of things, and a little light-hearted joy can have a profound impact on life.

I hope that someday soon, once my little Messi isn't so little anymore, he will draw experience from these formative years, and put me on the backfoot. And I know that watching the tables turn will be eternally sweet.

Birthdays and Growing Old

Growing Old isn't bad when you have the right people for company

Does anyone know of a man who forgot his wife’s birthday?

No, because he didn’t survive to tell the tale.

Birthdays are special, apart from the fact that they arrive every year to remind you that you are growing old. I don’t usually wait a year to enlighten Sumita, my wife, with this sombre news; I point it out to her every day! Especially on her birthday, which falls on the 12^th day of September.

But then, there’s a charm in growing old together. There’s a wealth of experience to look back upon. Stories to retell over the dinner table. Subtle moments of déjà vu. Been there. Done that.

Among all the things I recall and relive is a memory from exactly a decade ago. The first time Sumita and I celebrated this special day together.

We were young, freshly in love, seeing the world in each other’s eyes. Girlfriend and boyfriend, yet to be knit together in social binding. I recall riding with my trusted Intrepido through the traffic-free lanes of the city early in the morning in a bid to surprise her. Yawning into the morning air brushing against my face, struggling to keep my eyes open. Excitement bubbled within me as I approached my destination. A golden sun languidly climbed up the stairs of the sky.

I remember her surprise when she caught her first glimpse of me on the deserted lane outside her house.

I recall that early morning motorcycle ride together, the world our oyster. Years later, and a multitude of birthday parties down the line, that brilliant day at the beginning of September remains mint fresh.

Growing old is inevitable, as inevitable as time itself. It is a journey of self-discovery, of learning the ways of life. Of becoming a better, wiser version of yourself. Meeting people, weathering storms, and finding a reason to keep moving.

Perhaps staying young is overrated. Or maybe that’s just old people talk.

My trusted Intrepido, witness to that day a decade ago, has picked up the years as well. Needless to say, I have joined the party too, with a generous dosage of greys in my hair. I guess growing old isn’t half bad when you have your favorite people for company. It is who you grow old with that matters.

Happy Birthday Sumita. Here’s to a hundred more. And good luck explaining to Messi why he is missing from this picture.