All that you cant, leave behind
The packing is the easy part. The hard part is deciding what to take in the limited travellers' allowance. The painstakingly collected little ice cream pots full of colour co-ordinated grains. Or the glass jars of chocolate souffle recycled for spices. Or the herb rack I was so excited about. The quirky bottle openener. The herb chopper.
Thats just the kitchen. What about all the little things I got everytime you came over to stay. A catalogue of your colourful travels. The mosaic gecko from spain. The little pot from egypt? The doll from finland. How come I didnt inherit your wanderlust? Just your thirst for life and pain. Or are they the same?
And then, the clothes. The thread bare thermals u got me when i left home for the first time to go to bristol or the 80 pound cotton shirt from Pink? The bright red thing you bought me from Bhutan, or the brand new black and white dress from Zaara. The wall hanging you got from Madras - you were out of town on my birthday, my first time. Or the orange framed (from Pondi) photographs of 2 young things together, first love. Or the bronze frame with a crack across your face, with 'all my love' written below it? I remember the fight that put that crack there. A T-Shirt someone who reminded me of you had bought me in Texas. A cheap wooden flute a boy had given me in Kolkata. We had found him crying on the steps, Barbie and I. he had fever. Someone had stolen his daily earnings. We had given him whatever we had. 300 bucks. He left us the flute. That flute. The CD's you kids burnt me, eachtime he came over. The VCD's you recorded, ur blacky shaking ink lines marking, Meghe Dhaka Tara and memories: Baba, I watched 'Cloud covered Star today - guess what that is? The reply, its you my darling, maybe? My corny, adorable darling. And the red foot shaped ashtray: Didi, I got something for you - actually, Baba paid, but I chose it! Thank you my little angel. The cassettes you recorded for me, with your careful handwriting in green ink: Gluzar remembers Pancham and I remember you. Remember, how I used to make fun of 'ye kaunsa ball mere court mein' and u used the get angry. The books I bought for you and you returned. The second hand bookshops that yielded little treasures, collection of letters, birthday cards, a postcard, the movie ticket stub - we had gone to see together and I had wondered: maybe? a little post it on which you had written down a list of things to buy for Dad. The red cloth in which I had held ur last bits and pieces. Ur not there, where am I going? Why am I going. What will I do there without you.
I remember another departure, from Pune. U had sung to me 'wahan kaun hain tera'. U probably dont remember. Or the Veer Zara songs you used to sing on the phone. That was here. Or when you had called me on my birthday. It was after. I didnt think you would. It was wonderful! This house had my last memories of you. Of all of you. My ghosts. Thats all I have left to fill my life. Even the new and living I try to draw in become ghosts. Or maybe the smell the scent of death and run while they can. Maybe its for the best. This is what I wanted. This is the way I wanted. To be left peace to mourn you, as long as I know I can. Then, who knows, maybe its true what the fantasies of religion say and we will be together again? Its for the best the living turn away from the door: for the, anyway.
Originally Posted at Prerona.