Thursday, January 12, 2006

Thanks Mary Schmich!

After the Sunscreen episode I have begun reading more of Mary Schmich. Her page in The Chicago Tribune is a good place to hang out for her writings. There are articles with interesting titles such as "Everything that comes in pairs is destined to become single"- a story on the cold weather in Chicago and her ordeal with gloves. Apart from her regular columns over the years, the page also has a collection of her stories- I don't know why is it that they are called stories in any case, because they don't really tell a tale. I liked most of what she has to write, but this one story I read recently has caught my fancy, and has made me think on busy as hell Thursday.
The story is titled- Vivid memories light way home for Christmas ghosts. The basic theme is summed up in the following paragraph-
"The spirits of the absent guests always remind me that Christmas is never just one Christmas. It is the sum of all the Christmases you've known and all the people who have inhabited them.
Perhaps more than any other day, Christmas is the measure of passing time, the collective clock by which we count out our lives. It's a mutating event anchored in unchanging rituals. New characters join any family's cast--new spouses, babies, lovers--but the old cast is still clattering around in the wings."
On reading this story, I felt strangely nostalgic, about that one annual ritual that we Bengalis, even those in exile , celebrate quite fervently. It is called Durga Puja- and for us it the most prominent festival of the year.
I have very vivid recollections of Puja- spent with family, friends, neighbours, and other close ones. Puja has very different memories for me, at various ages.
At the age of 5, holding my dad's hand, and being taken from one festival ground to the other, sometimes in awe, some times in fear, being scolded at for various offences, mostly lack of attention and obedience. The euphoria then was with the new clothes, of not having to go to school. The fear, was in the crowds.
At the age of 12, when I was first handed over responsibilities, at the local festival ground to distribute fruits for each of the three days. New clothes became less important- the new found recognition was more than enough. There were women to impress, but not with appearances- 12 year olds can rarely impress girls of their age with their looks- such is the rule of nature. The euphoria was in the responsibility, the fear was of anonymity.
At 15, responsibilities multiplied, and so did the hormone levels. A wild stubble dominated my face, and of those around me. All the guys I knew were ugly, all the girls enormously pretty. I remember doing the first stage appearance, bringing the goddess home, and then taking it away for immersion. The joy was in the completion of a job well-done, the fear was a failure in front of the girls.
At 17, the joy was at finding a Puja close to your engineering college hostel, the fear was of not being at home for it, and knowing probably for ever. Maa calling, in tears, to say that this is your first Puja away from home.
At 29, the joy is finding the rare few Bengalis to round up to do the rounds of festival grounds in Bombay, the fear, is of knowing that your worst fears at 19 were probably true. Maa calling to say that that ... that yes, it is your 12th one away straight, and not bothering to shed tears.

2 Comments:

At 8:15 AM, Blogger dazedandconfused said...

Not my place to say but maybe you could call before she calls you up. Maybe you do and have just taken the, what do they call it, 'writers liberty'?
But yeah, not my place to say.

 
At 8:31 AM, Blogger dazedandconfused said...

No, its called literary license or something...

 

Post a Comment

<< Home