The young woman loves sitting and listening to her mother’s reminisces. The lively glimpses into the life of a joint-family and its pros and cons. That’s why she often gently tugs her into the swirling mass of cheery nostalgia. And her mother never fails her. The older woman gladly plunges into her vivid past, merrily trotting down the familiar, dusty lanes and often fishes out something that has unknowingly left a deep mark on her.
Sometimes the simplicity of the incidents baffles her. But then again, when she sits alone and ponders over them, she realises how simple life probably was at the time and how uncomplicated the common human minds used to be.
She sat at the ledge, thinking about her mother’s family home. To her, it’s her mama bari, in other words, her uncle’s home. She has never met her grandfather. He has passed away long before her mother was married. So mama took over all the responsibilities, being the elder child and a son. It is over 3 centuries old now, the sprawling ancestral home with traditional, old-school architecture, large, airy rooms, full-length windows… dark crimson flooring serving as the base for thick, sturdy walls and high ceilings, from which, rickety fans hung down precariously. Long, winding veranda circles along the inner side of the house and overlooks the ground floor. Even on the hottest of summer days, the house maintains its pleasant, peaceful atmosphere, perhaps because of its untainted make.
Today the dilapidated house has nothing much left in it. Or perhaps, that is how it appears to the outsider’s eyes. But to her mother, it is a treasure trove of memories, it is her home, her childhood, her shelter and an indispensable part of her beautiful past.
Whenever the young woman visits her mama bari, she gets lost in those web of enchanting stories. To her, the house is like Gandalf, a wise old man who is centuries old. It’s rustic, chipping walls have witnessed generations of happiness and sadness… a silent onlooker to history forever changing colours and taking shape – from black and white to sepia, from sepia to chrome and now, from chrome to HD. As a child, she used to believe the house has some mysterious doorway or a secret portal that leads to a magical land. She only needs to find out where it is. So she would take her little sister along and sneak into every hidden corner of the house. But she could never get access to the rooms behind the locked doors. They still remain mysteriously closed to her.
Sometimes while walking around the house, she carefully takes in the sealed off staircases, locked and abandoned rooms and the dreary corridors… and then suddenly, the cobwebs recede, the house is washed with lively light, a sudden tinkering laughter is heard from behind one of the closed doors, someone calls her mother from the second floor, her young, beautiful mother runs up the staircase, two steps at a time to meet that distant voice, someone is washing up near the choubachha or the water tank, her nanibuni (mama’s wife) is calling out to the maid from the kitchen, “didiiiii, o didiiii.” Oh and right there, by the entrance, mama is coming back from his shop. The house is merrily buzzing with life and each soul is writing a different story which converges and diverges in time.
Someone calls her from behind and the lively scenes recede, leaving behind a strange echo. She turns and walks back into her gran’s room. Her mother is sitting on the ancient bed, she joins her. She eagerly looks at her mother and mutters in disbelief, “I still don’t believe it. It is impossible Ma. You cannot possibly do something like that.” Her mother gives her a wistful smile. “When I was your age, I used to. The moon used to be my constant companion throughout the night.” So the young woman smiles at her mother’s sparkling eyes and says, “Tell me more.”
“Well, there is always magic in simplicity my darling,” she said. “Whether you believe it or not, that is completely up to you.”
Her eyes grew dreamy and her voice took on a certain youthful chirpiness as she started narrating the past. Every night, before going to bed, she used to open all the windows overlooking the west. Located close to the banks of the Ganges, pleasant breeze often infiltrated the balmy nights. Deep into the night, the room used to glow bright silver as the moon shone directly at it.
Her mother said, “Even if I was fast asleep, the moon would softly wake me up with its persistent light shining unto me. Then as it gently drifted across the sky, I would follow it with my eyes. Sometimes it played hide-and-seek with me, cheekily hiding behind a dark cloud as I waited for it to show itself.” The daughter smiled affectionately at her mother’s excitement. Her mother continued, “Often, while waiting for it to come out, I used to drift off to sleep. Sometimes I would wake up as it shows itself, sometimes I did not. Serves it right, for making me wait so long!” chided her mother with complete gusto. “And this used to be our secret little game with each other, every single night for so many years.”
As the young woman listened to the story, she wondered whether she has been looking for magic in the wrong places. Perhaps her mother is right. Perhaps there is magic in the simplest of things, things that we often tend to overlook in our busy course of life.
“And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it.” ― Roald Dahl
PS. Dedicated to my mother and to that unforgettable past, that shall forever remain. Always have faith!