Nostalgia.
We have all experienced this feeling sometime of the other in our lives, although with varied intensities. But one thing that nobody can deny is the power with which this feeling grips you once you encounter it. All would agree that it has to be experienced in order to understand it.
Right now my life is a mechanical routine. Same set of tasks to be repeated everyday just like a programmed robot. It has been eons since I have just stopped and wonder at the beauty of my surroundings, appreciated music & arts, learnt a new skill, or explore new and different relationships.
My life had got into a rut in the pursuit of materialistic happiness.
It took a jolt, a big one at that, to jerk me off the routine. Sadly it was the death of my grandmother that jeered me off my routine. It was a big shock for us but the shock slowly gave way to reality and practical difficulties like taking almost fifteen days off my work and so on.
Whilst I was here at my home itself, I started dusting my memories of my grandmother. It was a good five to seven years at least since I had seen her. The last time I had seen her she was quite senile. Hardly able to recognize her own sons, her grandsons were absolute strangers. I dug my memory even further, to the time when I was a little kid when I used to get freshly made ‘nadu’ (a sweetmeat consisting of sugar and coconut) and she would summon all her grandchildren together and give the freshly made nadus as ‘prasad’. Alas those are just memories now.
It was a pleasant surprise to reach the small town once again. It had the same old cycle driven rickshaws. Although we did not fit in as comfortably as we did when we were young, it had a nice feeling of old times about it. It was even more heartening to see all my cousins together at one place. I could not recollect when the last time that we all had been together was. Although I did not say it, but I think the death of my grandmother acted as a catalyst. It was shameful, but it was the truth.
I saw my cousin sister, she had grown so much. She was now of marriageable age, but the moment she saw me, she burst into tears and asked me as to why have I come so late inspite of her repeated requests. The repeated requests that she was referring to was the one we had made while we were kids always promising to see each other every year. But since long I had not kept those promises and her questioning made me falter on my stoic exterior, it had even made me feel sorry. All I could have done was to make one false promise again and tell her that no matter what I would definitely try to be in contact more often, but somewhere deep down I could tell that my cousin did not believe it anymore.
I looked at the house. Same old place (but a few storeys added), the same kitchen, the same courtyard. As the power of nostalgia took over me, I reminisced of happier times, when this place was alive. The place was alive with all the people gathering and singing ‘Rabindra Sangit’, the harmonium being played, the sitar and the tabla as well. Tea in kettles used to make rounds here and there, we kids were given any sweetmeat to keep us happy and not to disturb in the hustle and bustle that ensued throughout the day.
The ladies in their typical Bengali sari’s and the gentlemen is sparkling whites was a memory which I could only see in films nowadays.
I checked the same old place where they used to keep their musical instruments. It was still there, but it looked more like a tomb now. The tabla on which energetic hands played was gathering dust, the harmonium had springs coming out in few places and the strings in the sitar were missing. There were a few papers lying about there. I picked up and tried to read it with the rudimentary knowledge that I know of my mother tongue Bengali, it immediately struck me as a verse from a popular rabindra sangit. It was a sacred text back then, the ladies used to keep it along with their jewellery. It was a heart wrenching sight to see it lying about and I locked the vault again before I broke down.
The width of the streets had remained the same. The vehicles had increased though. But still the mode of transport was the cycle-rickshaw, the way it was since I could remember.
Now with the somber mood in our home it looked specially dull, but I was informed by the elders that it was the same no more. People like me who had now grown up were all into their careers, my cousins who had grown up in the small town also were looking for opportunities outside. This house, which once had a life of its own, was now decaying. Our house which was a landmark around where we lived, was now a testament of neglect. People spoke in whispers of the glorious past of our house and how its present condition was. They said that it was the same everywhere in this old town, which had failed to keep pace with the materialistic aspirations of the youth. No longer do they care to go up the small hill to watch the sunset, no fishing in the lakes, no playing cricket with the good old cycle as stumps, nothing. Absolutely Nothing.
After paying our last respects to our grandmother, I sat on the rickety cycle rickshaw once again, my mind wandering back in time, back to the days when life was simple, when life was enriching, when life was not a relentless pursuit of materialistic goals, when life was more about spending quality time doing what you liked, when life was spending quality time with your loved ones.
It all seems so far back in time now, in another world, in another place. It is almost similar to a fresh new photograph, with all colors rich, the brightness perfect, which is now slowly gathering dust , decaying bit by bit. The characters in the photograph remain the same, but the colors have long faded into sepia, with only the warm smiles remaining. The photograph, just like my memory, is waiting to be heard, waiting to be understood.
But still gathering dust.
