One by one four trains have gone by. We are still waiting for the level crossing to open. Dad and brother are the first ones out of the car impatiently waiting for trains to pass…

After some more hemming and hawing this morning, he got up from bed and got ready. Now it all depends on Google maps and accuracy of Wikipedia!!

Off we go to locate my dad’s birthplace!!

My trips to India usually are very short but very hectic. Partially because I have not yet learnt how to stay put in one place and partially because I can’t stop setting goals for everything. Reaching them is a completely different story altogether.

This time, reaching my top goal is precariously hanging in a balance. You see, for the last two years, I have been trying to convince my dad that we should go visit the village he was born in. He has steadfastly rejected the idea citing his poor health. What he would not admit is the emotional baggage that he might be carrying.

In 1940, when he had barely crossed his second birthday, he suddenly lost his dad. My grandfather was survived by my dad, grand mom, his elder sister and his eldest brother who was 11 years elder to him. Things are a little murky after that. My grand mom and my uncle (his elder brother was the respected patriarch in our family) were very reluctant to discuss this topic with me. My dad was too young anyways.

What I had pieced thru some of the information that was let out was that somehow my grandmother got thrown out of her house. My conjecture is that my grandpa’s brothers eased her out of the inheritance. (In India, at that time, society did not offer too many rights or much support to widows).
That led my grand mom to traverse about a hundred kilometers to a village where her brother resided. Her brother and his wife – who were struggling themselves, nonetheless, took the family in. Again, the details of the journey is murky but I know at that point my dad lost his elder sister too.

In any case, that new village is where my grand mom and family settled down and even reached a semblance of prospering (which means they had their own land to till and had their own hut). You might have seen the picture of that thatched hut made of dirt where I was born in a blog in 2012. That hut still does not have electricity or running water.

As I grew up, I realized that my uncle and grand mom never wanted to discuss their life prior to coming to my birth village. The memories of that phase of life is something they simply did not want to revisit. My uncle never took his wife or kids to his own village where he was born. Likewise with my dad.

But for the last two years, I have been pressing my dad. He was too young. He remembers nobody (although he had heard some names from his mom). I suspect he simply followed what his elder brother and mom did. I have been trying to explain that before dying, he owes it to himself to visit the place he was born in. Certainly, I want to see the place my dad was born in. I know he has no grudges (again, he was too young), but he is emotionally connected to his brother and mother’s example.

After two long years, this time when Sharmila visited him a couple of weeks back, it appeared that he has relented. He is willing to consider. Ever since I heard that, my brother and I have been talking to him everyday and making plans. Every alternate day he has been switching between “Let’s give it a try” to “No way, Jose”. The last couple of days, he has held steady at “Let’s give it a try”.

I have about 48 hours in hand. I land in India in 36 hours. After sleeping that night, my brother and I want to pack our parents in his car and hit the road. Before he gets a chance to change his mind. Assuming he has not already.
That was the larger problem. The smaller problem then was answering “Where is this place that he was born in?”. Google maps is showing nothing by the name he has always told us. I have a vague recollection that grand mom had once talked about a large village she had gone to for a fair from her inlaws’ house. That place can be easily located on Google maps. For three days, with an ever increasing radius I had been scanning from Google Satellite maps, the names of the villages. (sometimes, I had to spot what looked like a few huts and then kept zooming till Google would give a name; btw, Apple maps is worthless in this regard). Eventually, I hit a village whose name comes close enough.

My grand mom and uncle always called it “Deripur”. There is no such place in the whole district. There is a “Dwariapur” that is close to the larger village. Startlingly enough, there is a Wikipedia entry for Dwariapur. There are only 5 lines about the village. One of the line says that it is also referred to as “Deriapur” by locals. I am quite sure “Deripur” is the same name colloquially. Otherwise, I am totally out of alternatives.

So there it is. After a long trip to Kolkata, a few quick hours of sleep later, I am hoping against hopes that the my dad will still be agreeable to making the trip. And of course, that my joining the dots has indeed led me to the right village!!

Wish me luck!!

My dad was really upset…

For somebody – especially a four year old – who walked out of a hospital minus the gall bladder a few days back, my nephew was surprisingly full of energy and mirth…

Once more my brother and I hit the road… Today’s goal includes finding a classmate of mine from tenth grade in a town that I have never been to as well as visiting a four year old nephew of mine in another town who just returned from the hospital after having his gall bladder removed…

Growing up as a child, my relationship with my sister evolved in a very different way from that of my brother. I spent time with them only till I was sixteen years of age and then I was packed off to a residential school. I would get to see them only during the holidays – a couple of times a year. Throughout those years though, my brother and I bonded very strongly. We were born five years apart, however, we have remained very close to each other. Even today, we talk to each other at least once a day. Some of them are simply pulse-checking calls asking “Everything ok?” and lasts no more than 15 seconds – but we make the call, anyways. Every time I am in India, he makes it a point to ensure we are together everyday – regardless of the location. And he will not allow me to rent a car. He has to accompany me and drive himself wherever we go.

On the other hand, my sister and I – and we were born less than two years apart – never bonded that strongly. First, we fought over the same toys and then I hated her friends (because they were girls 🙂 ) In school, I was always awkward with girls (yeah, I know, it is difficult to believe that today) and everytime her friends would come to our house, I would drag my brother out of our house from the backdoor and start playing outside. There has always been that awkward distance between us.

However, there was one thing that always brought us together – our love for music. My brother was never musically inclined. That was my moment with my sister. Three to four times a week we would sit down for an hour together and practice music. That, of course, fell by the wayside when we left home to pursue studies.

For the last couple of years, we have tried to reconnect to those days by sitting down to practice music whenever I come to India.

This time was no exception.

“I really don’t care. Order something”. That was my lackadaisical response to my brother’s query “What do you want to eat?” as we started settling down at our table at Pan Asian restaurant at ITC Sonar hotel. And therefore, that is what he did. The usual Bengali favorites of hakka noodles, fried rice, manchurian gobi and so on. I was more focused on spending time with him than what I was going to eat that evening.

Something curious happened in the next couple of minutes. Just as the waiter had started walking away, my brother called him back “Ektu salad diye jaaben?” (“Can you get us some salad?”). Very proud of my brother that he was eating his vegetables – and obviously caught in a location context warp as I realized later, I commended him for eating leaves and vegetables. Ever concerned of his health, I enquired about whether he was focusing on the proper dressing too (stay away from the creamy ones, you know).

He stared at me blankly. “Maaney?” (“What are you talking about?”). It took me a couple of seconds to recognize what had happened. You see, in India, “salad” really means a plate of condiments – usually comprising of sliced cucumbers, onions and tomatoes and sometimes carrots and even green chillies with salt sprinkled all over. The sophisticated places might even give you beet-salt.

Chuckling inside, I told him that he should try and eat green vegetables too.
“Knacha ghaas paata khabo?”, he asked indignantly. (“You want me to eat raw leaves and grass?”). I replied in the affirmative explaining how our digestive systems cannot digest cellulose and therefore those leaves are great as fiber for roughage and bowel movements. Other than the obvious source of vitamins.

Thoroughly unimpressed, he dismissed me saying “Amader deshe ogulo goru-tey khay”. (“Here in India, cows eat such stuff”).

“The health benefits of leaves and vegetable salads are well documented”, I persisted.

He gave it some consideration and then burst my balloon. “Toder deshe-r kota goru-r khub bhalo figure?”. (“How many cows in your country are proud of their figures?”).

I gave up and started digging into the salted cucumber and tomato slices that had arrived at our table. Ooh! They were very tasty 🙂