Father’s Day

 “Who do you love more?”, asked the relative who had come home to the little boy who just had shown off his talents with the tabla. “Amma, of course”, he said loudly, extricated himself from the hold of the relative and ran off to play with his friends. 

Both the parents were beaming at the response. Soon the visiting relatives were gone, and quiet prevailed at home. The wife chose to ask the husband. “Do you feel jealous that our son always says he loves me more than you?”

The husband said, “I feel proud. It was the same with me too. I always said I loved my Amma more than my Appa when anyone asked while I was a kid. It feels like my son too is continuing the tradition”. 

“I sometimes have felt a little scared that you might take it otherwise. Thought I might voice it”. 

“There’s nothing to feel scared about. It is but natural for most children to prefer one parent over the other, and the parents feigning mock disappointment, etc. But, I doubt if you’d be upset had our son preferred me more”. 

“I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it. As a child I always loved my dad more”. 

“From my own growing up experience, I can say this. The love for Amma among sons stays constant throughout. While the love for Appa grows with time and age”. 

“Is that so?”

“As a kid, I remember even resenting my dad and trying to be as different from him as possible. Now, I see all that was futile”. 

“But, I don’t want our son to be like you”. 

“You mean you don’t want him to love me more as he grows older?”, he said with a smile. 

“No, bum! I don’t want him to grow up resenting and resisting his Appa”. 

“Why do women want to control everything once they’re married?”

“Because they’ve missed out on all that until then. Don’t you generalise, now. Let me call my Dad and wish him before I forget!”

“I’ll do that too. But when I wish him, he will chastise me for starting these new rituals!” 

“Men are impossible! They find fault with everything!”, she put a firm end to the discussion with that, and walked away with her phone in hand. 

Back with the Books (A review of ‘Unlove Story’)

 

I got introduced to Sudipto through a WhatsApp group for 40+ people in Bengaluru. I learnt that he had written a book in Bangla which had since been translated into English. I connected with him over social media (Instagram) too. I saw a few updates from him about his book (his profile picture too features him with the book). Soon, I found myself invited to his and his partner’s (Biman) home on the occasion of their anniversary. I could attend it with Sayambhu as I was visiting from Andaman (yeah, I wasn’t yet back in Bengaluru). We met again at another Bengali couple’s home over dinner, but I wasn’t very keen, to pick that book up and read. 

Suddenly, this week I chose to order the book and be done with it. I ordered it along with two other titles. I wasn’t too sure if I wanted to read it yet. Some of my previous experiences of reading the books written by friends and acquaintances weren’t too positive. That was preventing me to dive into this. Now that the book was in my hands there was nothing much else I could do. I chose to read at last. In no time I realised my hesitation was and doubts were unfounded. 

‘Unlove Story’ (translated from Bengali by Arunava Sinha)  tells the tale of Mallar and his ‘Unlove’ over a course of fifteen years. An adolescent, Mallar meets Srijan at his friend, Chikan’s place in his hometown and begins to learn gardening from him. Srijan,  a few years his senior, becomes both his mentor, muse, and inspiration. The inspiration turns to adulation and brings forth the hidden feelings in the young Mallar, to which Srijan responds too. 

What could have been a love story becomes a saga of how not to love, or question, and only live in the moment, as preconditioned by Srijan. Over the years, the starcrossed and besotted boys grow into men, move places, bump into each other once every few years and discover they yet not have lost their attraction towards each other, despite others flitting in and out of their lives.  

Will Mallar forever live by those conditions set by Srijan or will he unshackle himself or both from them and find the love he has always pined for?

The story narrated in a linear fashion without too many flashbacks and back stories or sundry characters as fillers. The atmosphere is evocative of rural Bengal and even when it moves across different places, it weaves them all within beautifully. They add to the characters and the emotions they are going through ever so subtly. The characters stay real and true to life, and make you relate to them. The love story that is not supposed to be draws you in and keeps a hold over you until the end. Once you begin reading there is no way you would want to keep it down and think you would read it later. You may want to again, once you’re done reading in one sitting, this time languorously.  

I had previously too read a few queer titles written by Indians. Barring ‘Mohana Swamy’ a collection of short stories by Vasudhendra, a friend, and to a lesser extent  ‘Don’t Let Him Know’ by Sandip Roy, none other had made an impression. Until now. ‘Unlove Story’ made me feel that not all is lost in queer literature in India. In one phrase, go read it. 

Did I like everything about the book? Like a nitpicker that I am, I could point to some that I couldn’t/didn't agree with. Like, the unravelling of the plot suddenly at the end. Or, the way Mallar frets over lack of clients for paintings (and until then he never sounds like he cared about money so much). But, these are my issues, and most others may think they are the chinks in the character that add to the beauty too. 

A special word of praise is reserved for Arunava Sinha. The translation doesn’t feel like it is. It feels organic, original. Nowhere it feels forced. Having seen how botched translations can get, this is no mean achievement (and I discovered, as I read the print on the book sleeve, Sinha has been nominated for awards both in India and abroad for his amazing translations. Take a bow!). 

I am glad I read Sudipto Pal’s novel. I now hope there would be more stories coming from him, and from other queer people too. The community has millions of tales to tell, and the world needs to know. 

Fortune Cookie

 Weekend. She indulges in a long, leisurely ritual for her bath. First she oils her lustrous, long hair, massages it in, and lets it soak for a while. Then she applies a paste of gooseberry and fenugreek and leaves it on for some more.  

The water is hot now, she thinks, and heads for her shower. When she returns and is towelling her hair gently, in front of the mirror, admiring her own reflection, she notices one of her earring - the right one - is missing.  She panics for a moment, it’s gold and diamond; it’s possible it might have fallen off while showing. 

She heads to the bathroom, and searches all around the floor, but the ring is nowhere in sight. She thinks it might have gone away through the drain. As she steps out, she decides to return and take one final look. There, inside one of the buckets, she finds it. She feels relieved and happy to regain her prized possession - a symbol of her love. 

On a whim, she takes out her phone and searches for omens regarding falling earrings. The google search tells her that if the right earring falls down, it indicates an affirmation of love, and its culmination in marriage soon. She beams. Her mind wanders about thinking of destination weddings, pre-wedding photo shoots, and more!

She heads out for the planned dinner date, almost floating in air. He already is waiting - serious-faced as usual. As she sits down, he takes her hand into his, and tells, “I am glad you’re here. I thought it wise to say this in person than send you a message.”

“Yeah?”, she leans towards him playfully. 

He moves back a little, makes space for himself, lets her hand go. “Sorry to say this, but I don’t think we can continue this relationship anymore”. 

She wonders if she heard him right. Is he mocking her? A prelude to him suggesting a change in the relationship status - from lovers to married couple? But even for a joke it’s in poor taste! 

He continues, “I feel pretty insecure with you, and there is no way I can keep going. I’m stressed. And I’m calling it quits. Sorry”. Was it her fame that made him insecure? Or her confidence? She cannot recall a day or instance where she imposed herself or her opinions on him. Her head spins at the turn of events. 

He gets up, takes something out of his pocket, places it on the table; it’s the ring she had gifted him for his birthday. “Good bye”, he mutters and melts away.

She stays frozen. 

Like father, like….

 

As much as she admired and loved her dad, there were umpteen things she didn’t like in him. Not his character, but certain characteristic behaviours. She hated him for chomping his food noisily, dip his hands into sugar and salt bowls instead of using a spoon, using any available towel to wipe himself up. Or even just wipe on his clothes! There were a lot more of similar but less irritating kind too. Even as a growing kid she would show her annoyance at these. “Why do heroes come with flaws?”, she would groan many a time. She wondered why her mom - who was so refined in her ways - never bothered to correct him.  She was glad when she stepped away from home to study, and later to work. 

Years passed, but her reactions to her dad’s quirks didn’t change. She soon found love in the new city, and with parental consent married too. As luck would have it, she found her husband too ate noisily, slurped his drinks, and barely ever noticed that he was using her towels instead of his. “How does it matter? They’ll dry out eventually, right?”, was his reaction. To top it, he barely cared about the clothes he wore, and she had to take over his wardrobe choices on a daily basis. 

“How did I not notice any of these during courtship days? Is this why they say love is blind?”, she chided herself, as she clambered on to bed after the post-dinner chores. She had read somewhere long back that daughters invariably find matches that resemble their fathers. She had scoffed at it then. Today that memory brought a smile. She hugged her husband to calm herself. She had a lot of learning to do. Or was it unlearning?

Conscience Keeper

I was getting ready to head to work, and it was going to be 9:30 am. I hurriedly finished my breakfast and got my shoes to wear. My father who was finishing his morning puja quipped. “Looks like your driver has arrived late today”. 

That wasn’t the case though. I had seen him arrive as usual at sharp 9, just before I headed for my shower. 

“No, pa. He arrived on time as usual”. 

Papa said with a triumphant smile, “Not bad. You can still notice things”. 

He was as usual, ribbing me for being late to work. 

These conversations are a routine at home. As they say in Kannada, ‘ನುಂಗಲಾರದ ಬಿಸಿ ತುಪ್ಪ' for me (‘hot ghee in the mouth; cant swallow, can’t spit’). By any chance I return early from work - because there was no more work to attend to, or because I wanted to head somewhere, he quips, “Have you taken a half day off?” Mind you, it will be almost 5, and yet this sharp jibe finds its mark. 

My dad was in the State Government and worked for 41 years before his retirement. And, he took pride in his work. I remember my childhood when he would bring work home during weekends, and toil through Sunday to finish it all. No wonder, he finds my attitude towards work as lax. 

Even when my dad is away (or I am posted away from home), I feel his piercing gaze if I am heading late to work, or if I leave anything unfinished at the office, or arrive home early, for even any valid reason. He without doubts is my conscience keeper. 

Vortex

 

Every time he remembered his ex he was racked by guilt.  He had broken up with her over what she thought weren’t solid grounds. ‘You just want to dump me”, she had said. It wasn’t true - at least in his mind. She was talented, attractive, young, and extremely besotted with him. But in her devotion for him, she barely ever paid attention to anything beyond him. That was a concern. He loved her, but he also wanted her to pursue her talents and career - which she barely bothered about any while she was with him.  To her, the world began and ended with him. He had wondered earlier if his decision to part ways also stemmed from his belief that she would totally be dependent on him financially. He had decided to let go of that thought realising he would never be objective. 

Even after breakup, they stayed in touch. They had bumped into each other at some social dos too. She had even once asked him if there was a chance to get back together. He had answered in the negative.  One fine day, it all changed.  He had received a message from her saying she wants to take a break from her past, and hence cutting off people from her life. That included him too. “So long as you’re happy with what you are doing”, he had said. He wondered if it stemmed from her inability to get over him, and that was the beginning of his guilt. “Did I wrong her?” A year passed by, and it became two too. He had changed partners. But, the guilt stayed.

********

This morning, while browsing his social media accounts, he saw her pics and videos. He wondered if she had chosen to lift the embargo. It wasn’t so. He was seeing her in the uploads from other friends. He saw her with another man, dancing. She radiated happiness. He felt happy too, for her. And relieved for himself. He didn’t have to feel guilty anymore. 

He also wondered if he made himself more important than what he was in others’ lives. Like the world revolved around him! 

Years and Counting

 You are like fire and I’m water

You bring hope and I cause despair 

You are a hopeless romantic

And I a cynical realist

(Or is it a real cynic?)

Yet we met 

Sparks flew

Day turned to night

And night to dawn 

You stayed on

And on we have gone 

Ahead and around 

From a night of pleasure 

To a life time of treasure