Rest in Peace

Dreams & Nightmares

I have not found words or even the power in my voice in the past few days. Even now I am not sure I have them all lined up nicely, alliterations and all, secretly proud of my skills and honestly modest when I am appreciated. My adrenaline rush is checking Substack and seeing the number of views increase and the rush peaks when someone writes a comment. I write now cos if I do not, I am a coward. Rather be brave and incoherent than show off my erudition in calmer times.

 

Last week a evocative essay on home surfaced on Substack. And I added my own definitions of what home is, collected across the years. And then came the most tangible one from Sayantan Ghosh

“Home is where the most hard-boiled picture of me from when I was still a tiny baby exists”.

We all have a picture like that displayed prominently or tucked away in our parents’ purses or in keeping with the times as a WhatsApp DP. I look at my husband’s profile picture which is of my son when he was a 7-year-old, and tell myself that he has my chin and I wish he had my nose too. There is a father who has a picture of his daughter her face bleeding, broken glass all over and her legs splayed as if she was doing the split. Wonder if she resembled him or her mother – Pitru Mukhi Putri Sukhi? a daughter who resembles her father is lucky it is said – then what befell this young woman. Her luck ran out.  It was Karma from her past life! Please spare me this shit. She was the victim of a world that did not value her.

I wish for amnesia for her parents – a selective one – one that will allow them wipe clean this image and live with the memories of a little girl, of holidays in Darjeeling monkey cap and all, of celebrations of graduating from medical college. For her mother packing of the tiffin box of Ruti Tarkari, Deem Sheddho ^[i]and yes, her favourite Sandesh packed into a box for the night duty and then ….. Perhaps they can say to themselves she died in her sleep. She was asleep was she not? Wonder who was in her dreams which turned into a nightmare that ceased for her but lived on for her parents.

Home is where Mum waits for you. Home is where Mum waits for you to leave home.

Natasha Badhwar wrote in her essay; this mother’s wait will know no end.

No, a voice within me is screaming. “Show more spine; her death must not be wasted. what they need is courage to fight – to stand alongside those who are calling for justice and taking to the roads so that there are no more such incidents.” I do not ask this for them. ‘May her soul Rest in Peace’ I saw somewhere. Her soul be damned, I want one night of peaceful slumber and sweet dreams for her parents. That is all. This I know is too much to ask for.

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^[i] Roti, Sabzi and a Boiled Egg. This is the quintessential packed lunch in a Bengali home- an attempt at a balanced meal and a sweet treat at the end.