Seasons in the Sun

For many, summertime memories linger long after the beaches have been cleared.

Meg Moore.

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In all my depression with Two Lives, while writing my last post, I forgot to mention the remarkable book which provided sufficient recluse and recovery. I turned yet again to an author of Indian origin, Jhumpa Lahiri. It is quite flattering to note that most Indians who attempt to write in English are either Bengali (my mother tongue) or have a deep connection with Calcutta. I looked around my parents' house and found The Namesake, lying seemingly unread. The book had been much talked about and again came widely recommended. I ran through a few reviews and commenced.

From the very begining I could not help but feel positively about the book. The story of displaced Indians in America, trying to find a foot hold, has been the favourite subject of many an author. The story of displaced Bengalis even more so. I still recall reading, somewhat laboriously "E Paar Bangla, O Paar Bangla (Bengal - This Side and Bengal- That Side), in my childhood. It is a dreamy world that for those who followed the rote- "Go west, young man" and went. The initial bewilderment giving way to hard practicality, the desire to hold on to one's roots, the dismay when their offsprings smirk at the mention of annual holidays to India, everything seems too much to be just laid aside and not written about. It is a melancholic truth, and I might say that Ms. Lahiri has provided it the place in literary history that it deserves.

I quite enjoyed reading the book, and even identified at times with the protagonist Gogol Ganguli, a second generation American (not that bit), who finds his way about the east coast, going about life, not realizing that he is really looking for his roots. The phenomenon of displacement, the overpowering desire to find an identity as distinct from the one inherited by way of parentage which struggles with the deep seated realization that "you are not the same as them" is to me the central theme of the book. The other characters of his generation- his sister and wife, also go through similar motions and emerge with very different consequences. It is proof that while an individual is the sum total of his experiences, there are things such as a collective soul, and how we emerge finally from such trysts, eventually determines the character of a person.

Now, to some other thoughts which have kept me busy through this long hiatus. For the first time in my life, this summer, I came across a person, briefly, whose memories have lingered long after the beaches have been cleared. I met her through a matrimonial post, not really at the behest of my parents. The thing that struck me then was that she played the piano- something that I wish my parents had made me learn. If things had gone well (not that they turned too bad eventually), we would have been in a marriage arranged by ourselves. However, for various reasons, things did not progress towards that end. Abruptly, after about a few weeks of acquaintance, we decided to forget the original purpose and well, vanished from each others' lives, as is expected in such matters.

However, memories linger. And I realized somewhat later, that I did feel a certain warmth towards this person. She was great to talk to, though somewhat impatient- in a very charming fashion. We shared hordes of common interests, shared affections for certain books, movies and songs. Holiday destinations. Foot wear. And bar designs. Each time we spoke (and it wasn't too often or too much), we realized that we had something more in common than one would ordinarily expect. Prima facie all the likeness was in junta things- books, movies music. But as we spoke, at least I realized that there was something more- even as she accused me of pointing out these similarities just to endear myself. Eventually, and not because of her accusation, but because they were all too frequent, I stopped mentioning the likeness.

When we did depart, and I think at that point of time I was more Yes than No, and she the other way round, she managed the show really well. I would send messages to her, very irregularly and at very odd hours, in a slightly inebriated state, and she would either reply politely, or at times ignore, sending a message by itself. I think she pulled it off really, really well. Soon I deleted her number from my phone book in order to avoid such embarassments. There were still a few messages from which the number could be retrieved, but then of course that wouldn't be on impulse. Eventually, I was more No than Yes.

It was unlikely that She and I, could have cohabited. We were much too alike. She said it would not be unlikely that we were twins separated at the Kumbh Mela- the once every 12-years Hindu festival where more people assemble alongside a river than the population of all of Europe. My patience comes at a premium, and so did hers. Most conversations were not without interruptions, and the two dates that we had were not really the best in my life. However, they were all mildly amusing, and somewhat unsettling. One doesn't pick up the phone to speak to one's own self. Intially, such likeliness is endearing, eventually, I know for a fact that I tend to frustrate everyone who has anything to do with me.

But yes, memories linger. Not in a mush way, but well... I don't really have the words for it. I don't even think I am sure of it. In fact I am not sure how long or how frequently. But some times I think it would be a nice idea to just meet (she lives a stone's throw from my house) and chat- or just call. Its not that I am lonely or lack female company. That comes to me even without design, by the vurtue of my profession, and the number of years spent in this city. Why even last night, when I walked in to njJBTB, my weekly watering hole, alone, I ran into some one I could gladly share the table with- as I often do. She is a "nice" person to know and these days the kind of people who I like spending time with is short. My list of non-professional acquaintances is basically Good Times people and the Connection people. The latter list is much shorter. We were connection personified. But by the time I go through the messages folder and retrieve Her number, circumstances prevail- the impulse passes. Sometimes I do message, and some times there is even a reply these days, but our lives do not afford us these certain luxuries- I have little time from my work and the other things I dabble in, and She- Me thinks has a rocking social life already.

But yes... memories linger.

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Another love has come and gone

And the years keep rushing on

I remember what you told me before you went out on your own:

"Sometimes to keep it together, we got to leave it alone."

So you can get on with your search, baby, and I can

get on with mine

And maybe someday we will find , that it wasn't really

wasted time

Wasted Time, Eagles, Hell freezes Over.

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