A steady yellow traffic light indicates slow down and prepare to stop if you are behind the Zebra crossing and continue if you have already crossed the Zebra crossing.  Never accelerate and start crossing afresh. This was the last driving lesson my father taught me. I have never been able to cross a yellow light since.

I have been wanting to pen down my father’s memories for quite sometime now……but words just don’t suffice.  After all it was my father who taught me the beauty of words.  He ushered me into the world of Maupassant,O Henry, Stevenson and other wordsmiths. How he would tell me the word meanings and their proper pronunciations and uses!

There hardly passes a day when I do not perceive my father’s values and mindset ingrained in me. But I think of him most when I think of the hills of Shillong, especially the hillocks of  Laban and Lumparing, where our home is.

The first time I went back to Shillong after my father’s demise —- the sinking feeling I had —- Rana Bhatt will never again be seen walking and driving through these hills, energetically going about his works and running errands.  Oh how he loved to keep busy!

The emptiness still persists…..but diluted. And like all things , good and bad, this too shall pass.

This anecdote took place quite sometime ago, in the pre-metro era Faridabad . One of our relatives were coming to meet us. As they were travelling trans Delhi for the first time, my youngest sister in law suggested we receive them at the Delhi-Faridabad border station, Badarpur as a welcoming gesture. We forgot to consider the office time traffic and congestion. Needless to say the confusion  that ensued. When they reached the station we were stuck in the jam, they finally got tired of waiting and hired a cab, with a lot of time and effort we took a U-turn. After many mobile calls and a lot of jam later we finally met at our place . My Mother in law was irked that all this chaos could have been avoided by the cab plan in the first place.  But my sister in law retorted ” My intentions were warm and sincere, how was I to know that it would turn out to be a fiasco!”

‘Intentions matter’. Words and actions are important being the physical outcome, but the intentions behind them are important too.

The story of intentions and manipulations dates back to the beginning of civilization. When man had limited speech, there were only clear intentions and body language. Then Man started thinking more, progressed and learnt to convey intentions through speech. And then started the word games!

I have interacted with tribal societies and realized they speak as and when necessary and act accordingly. Life is simple do we really need to complicate it.

In childhood we are all so clear of what we want and from whom. The Forrest Gump days when we just follow our hearts, intentions don’t even register. Its only later in life when wants, needs, wishes, aspirations, ambitions, greed start influencing the thought processes. And then spins out the web of filters, influencing, brainwashing, deception and manipulations.

I don’t write to preach or sermonize, but with coming of age I have come to realize more and more that intentions do matter. Intentions are the soul,words and actions are the outer manifestations. We have to be ourselves convinced and aware of our intentions. And we have to be mentally strong enough to defend our intentions from internal thought processes and external mind games. 

In day to day situations sometimes I am on the victim side and sometimes the oppressor.  But I try to follow my philosophy that clear and honest intentions can perhaps manifest in the wholesome and contented life we all aspire.

At what age do we register love and how? Well for me it was precisely the day I said goodbye to my hilly little hometown.  And how much I miss it even today!

Growing up, the honeyed sunshine, the verdant shades from my window,  the mist drifting around and the anytime anywhere rain were a part of everyday life. I always felt I have a comfortable and happy childhood. I was always content in our two room set allotted to us in a large patriarchal joint family. I never complained about the lonely deserted alleys or the shops and streets closing down by seven in the evening.  Ours is the third house up a hillock and the beautiful view made up for almost everything.

Growing up , I always wanted to move out of Shillong.  Sounds paradoxical right! I always wanted to move to a big city with no ethnic discrimination. Where I would not be a ‘Dkhar’, an outsider.

The Bengali’s of Shillong had emigrated from Sylhet (now in Bangladesh) after partition. Many of them spent whole lifetimes in rented houses. My grandfather always said we were lucky that his mother had purchased this land before partition . Hence he named the house he built on it after her — ‘Manorama Kutir’. The name itself opens the floodgate of memories for me….it churns something inside.

But the communal tensions were palpable,  especially during the Durga Pujas when the KSU ( Khasi Students Union) always furthered their propaganda on how the non-tribals are exploiting the poor tribals in their own land. In school we were all classmates, learning and playing on equal Christian grounds,  but the cultural and linguistic differences prevented us from becoming bosom friends. I always knew I had no job opportunities or business or future prospects there so moving out was the only viable option.

Nowadays I only go back maybe once in a couple of years or less. The latest update is that the local goons are not even allowing Assam cars to carry passengers from Guwahati to Shillong , you have to hire Meghalaya cabs. Such infringement of National laws! Nonetheless just the thought of Shillong still calms me with her greens and yellows when the blues of life start to overwhelm. I have long accepted the truth that not all love stories end happily, some just end with a pang and memories.

I was in class VI or VII, waiting outside the dentist’s chamber for my procedure, anxious and patient. Those were days before the mobile revolution. Thankfully I had my story book along and it quite whiled the hour interestingly till I heard my name being called.

These days of course the net is everywhere to pass our time entertainingly and informatively. But a word of caution about the radio waves,  these are the electromagnetic radiations generated from electronic gadgets. It is yet to be scientifically concluded if these rays are the cause of many feared diseases. But the strain on the eyes is universal and true.

That brings me back to my first love — literature. After all it has alleviated my tension during the haitus before results and activities. It has also somewhat dissipated my melancholy during the down phases of my life. So like every educated Bong I am proud of and grateful to my book collection for having passed many a lazy afternoons fruitfully.

For almost two years now, peri and post my father’s demise, the daunting to-do list made picking up a book crime. And even if I did manage to pick one my distracted mind just wouldn’t focus! But this season with winter knocking softly on my first floor glass panes, the resinous scent is again luring me and making me want to reach out for my plump pillow and a good book.

It’s Shillong time of the year again. But this year I am not relishing the thought of  going back, and that’s a revelation for me. Not that I have finally fallen for the metro city and extreme climate…it’s the question… are things still the same there as I had left them? That is daunting.

If I were to go back looking for the warmth in our wooden floored, asbestos roofed house or the girlish merriment in school and college  I would only be disappointed. Neither is the view from my bedside window as green nor is the lane behind our house quiet anymore. Shillong was warm and vivid because of the people there — my relatives, neighbours, friends, teachers and a younger version of my parents.

To cherish Shillong the way I used to I have to first search the girl who wholeheartedly believed in her dreams and innocently believed in all things good and wonderful. Her fire to reach high fuelled her days and the nights were of course comforted by the wintry silence and thick cotton quilts.

I have finally understood that the significance of a place is related to it’s people and our own mental state.The Shillong of my memories belongs to where I have rightly placed it — in my memories.

One is the time we pass or spend, accountable time, good or bad, well-spent or wasted. The other is the time that leaks out, eluding us , which leaves us flabbergasted ” how did I get late?”

I tried to trace my leaking time and found two punctures to repair — one was the extra cups of tea with anyone and everyone, time and again throughout the day, in the name of niceness, for the sake of formality. It not only adds to my waistline but also adds to the guilt of being behind schedule. The other was, of course, jabbering, especially about things that  remain status quo pre and post the talks.

In school I was notorious as the most talkative girl in class. The introverts were made to sit with me so that they open up, even if to say shut up. In Medical College my friends joked…don’t your peri-oral muscles ache! Too talkative….that was the only complaint in Parent Teacher Meetings.

But ever since I have perceived Buddha’s golden silence and worked on mending my time leaks I feel more in control of the clock. Speaking a little less and only the positive things at that helps me execute my day’s plan better, with a bonus me time. It also brings a sense of being organised and calms the mind. And that’s the simple story of how a Jabber bird quietened down.

My princess’s birthday is in the air. And as I am busy planning and selecting, it’s my dear boy who teaches me yet another essence of Parenthood.

As Ricky told me about his nine out of ten in Maths, I grilled him for that one mark he didn’t score. “And what about the nine that I have?” He smirked.

How easily we overlook our half full glass. How easily we preach contentment without practise. True without our ambitions and insatiable spirit for more Mankind would be nothing….

But every once in a while we can appreciate the efforts more than the results. And I can atleast lovingly pat my kids for what is rather than what if…..

As this year began with a siege on outings, due to COVID 19 restrictions which still continues, memories only will have to do . My evocations take me to the beautiful sceneries of Shillong.

Any excursion with friends — be it movies, shopping, birthday treats, for me was incomplete without wending to the Ward’s lake. I would lure them for a cup of coffee and some heart to heart talk while secretly enjoying the meandering stone walkway and fish feeding .

It was Phulkaku who always fuelled our family picnics. Be it New Year or Nobo Borsho an impromptu menu was listed. My mother was always ready with her aromatic Pulao or Biriyani. Kakamoni took care of the rest. We mostly went to the Golf Links, Elephant Falls, or nearer home, Lady Hydari Park. Once we landed in the Golf greens on a chilly Christmas Day and could just manage to eat and shiver. It was only next day that the local newspaper named it the coldest day of the year.

With my father’s friends and colleagues who were from the plains, we ventured to the Barapani Lake, 12 kms from Shillong. It was a full day of fun and games in the picturesque settings and we returned home , muscles aching but refreshed.

I learnt to drive on these hills , meandering the curves softly and struggling on the steeps. With my mother by my side, we roamed through the naturally air conditioned city and it’s popular eateries. We would glide through Upper Shillong, towards Shillong peak and sometimes even towards Cherrapunji.

The pine hills….Ah such serene and comforting images. I have been to picnics in my MBBS days, but sadly they are not half as vivid.

God willing , in the coming days I will be able to take my children for an outing. We will sprawl our picnic mat and while the kids enjoy their games and goodies, the vitamin D and the oxygen will silently do their work — and that’s the lively thought that keeps me afloat.

I am looking for a bird…. A little magical sparrow…. It used to take the colours of my dreams….. Chirping gleefully at my window about the good just world outside…. Spinning love tales of happy days to come.. Slowly… the colours changed shade, the chirping became pragmatic, the tales matured…. Alas I knew my bird of youth has flown away!

I am looking for a lotion…. That carried the sparkle of my smile to my eyes…. That suppled the wrinkles of the face and feelings alike…. That gave me a naive confident glow…. Pity they haven’t been able to bottle innocence as a lotion yet!

No wonder Time is touted as the most precious of all, Enjoy the Spring and cherish the memories in Fall.

Apart from our apparent resemble, me and my mother are our own persons. She was a strict disciplinarian and a bit too pragmatic for my mushy teenager sentiments. I actually never thought of her …..it was always my father I wanted to make proud and was concerned about. Because it was my father who discussed books with me and took me shopping and fired my dreams.

I first started valuing my mother’s role when I had to think of what to eat and whether the clothes are pressed in the hostel. But the real realisation dawned after my son’s birth. And as I quib with my daughter and giggle with my daughter the admiration is growing every single day. Now I know that though I remember nothing but she must have wiped my dirts adoringly and tickled my tummy playfully.

With the years as I am beginning to think and speak like her and she is mellowing down with age….I have started perceiving my mother as a woman, relegating her from the ‘Mother India’ pedestal. After all the wheel of time has come a full loop, I am today where she was yesterday. She is just a lady with her own likes and dislikes, joys and regrets, decisions and blunders. Befriending such a woman living her usual middle class life is much easier.

I don’t know if she is the ‘Perfect Mother’…. that’s for people to judge. But understanding and loving her as a ‘Woman First’ definitely makes me a perfect daughter.