Musings of an Undercover Yogi

I was a voracious reader as a child. My friends, that is, neighborhood kids I grew up with, and kids of family friends still remember me tucked away in corners bent over a book, oblivious to the world around. The only bedroom in our matchbox-sized childhood home had a special corner. The bed that I shared with my sister occupied the said corner and was adjacent to a window that overlooked the main road in our lane. Sitting in this corner leaning against the headboard or the window, I gazed at the road, passersby, birds and bees, absorbing the sights and sounds of our locality. This corner was my top reading and writing spot. It introduced me to Chacha Chowdhary, Tinkle, Tintin, Chandamama, Hardy Boys, Nancy Drew, Famous Five, Panchatantra, and so on. I could read day and night, only leaving a book for food and loo breaks. Sometimes, I had to read while munching on a favorite snack.  

In fact, I borrowed books from kids of family friends during social visits. Oh, not because I wanted to take the books home, though I did that sometimes, but to start reading right away while the elders chatted. Play dates with friends, specifically those who had similar books, were spent discussing the merits and demerits of characters, scenarios, and sharing snacks. As I grew older, my neighbor Mahesh and I exchanged novels. We held informal literary sessions to discuss the merits and demerits of each book we read. In our lane, I’m sure the two of us were regarded as bookworms, and rightly so!

Not to mention the kind of trouble this craziness got me into at home. To escape Maa’s eagle eye, I often hid books inside larger school textbooks while pretending to read the latter. When she dropped by the bedroom to fetch something or simply check on me, Maa threw a fleeting, stealthy glance at me and returned to her chores with satisfaction. Her beloved ‘studious’ elder daughter was studying a school book as she should, and all was well with the world. 😉 A confession after decades, Maa—your stealthy tactics didn’t really work. 😀 

I was a summer person until I started living in Delhi NCR as an adult. However, during childhood, winters were also tolerable for a reason. I hid books under the mattress of the bed and waited for my sister to fall asleep. Once she did, I sneaked books inside the blanket and read them by the flashlight. A slight movement from my sister made me act like a thunderbolt—swiftly and efficiently. Off went the book under the pillow and oh, of course I was snoring all along! 😉

We traveled to our native place in Bengal at the beginning of every summer break. Maa’s side of the family lived in a joint family setup. The huge house sheltered several grandparents, uncles and aunts, and cousins. Each younger couple and their kids occupied a room. Most of the relatives, the ladies and cousins, napped post lunch. While everyone enjoyed their nap, I roamed around the large silent house like a ghost. Rooms of my cousins were my targets. I took their Bangla comics and storybooks and looked at the illustrations and lines of text with a sad longing. I couldn’t read Bangla at the age of 4 or 5. 

As I grew older and studied Hindi in school, I started paying attention to Bangla alphabets as well. As Bangla font has similarity with Devanagari (Hindi font), it didn’t take me long to figure out which letter was what. More so because I grew up watching parents write letters to extended family, and asked questions about Bangla font and meanings of words. During this self-learning phase, I got badly stuck with joint alphabets. I’d file the tough ones in my mental catalog and later ask elders how to pronounce those. Mind you, I always mentally marked doubtful stuff, never marked the books. Books were sacred and could never be tarnished with stupid markings. Actually, markings were a sacrilege!

Throughout my self-learning phase, one person was particularly amused. My maternal grandfather, Dadu, bought colorful plastic alphabets and the beginner’s illustration book for children (Barnaparichay) long ago so that he could teach me Bangla. But the idiot that I was, every time he brought those out and asked me to sit with him, I ran away citing some or the other excuse. I was a seeker though, a true seeker of stories, emotions, mysteries, the entire range of human experiences, fantasy, reality… My keen interest in stories finally made me read Bangla fluently. 😊

However, back then, Nasik had zero Bengali stuff available. Our music, books, clothes, spices, food, nothing was available except for fish and a few vegetables. Specific items such as raw bananas, banana flowers, banana tree stem, pumpkin flowers, Malabar spinach, and other types of leafy greens gradually started appearing in markets. That too, only after foodie Bengali gentlemen of our locality educated farmers and vegetable sellers, and relentlessly pursued the prospect to procure a coveted item in every shopping trip. A Bengali gentleman saw this as a business opportunity and opened a small store selling spices and condiments used in our cuisine. The gentleman did brisk business as Bengalis from all adjacent localities shopped from his store.

As far as books, music, and apparel are concerned, Maa bought a few books for us and some cassettes of eminent Bengali artists for the family from Bengal. She ensured taking out time to visit famous markets with one of her many cousins to purchase yearly quota of ready-to-wear tops (blouses), underskirts (petticoats), and famous Bengali cotton saris for herself. Relatives gifted us a few pretty printed cotton frocks and Maa bought some for us. We waited for Bengali new year (April 14) and Durga Puja to wear new clothes. Apart from the few Bangla books Maa bought, my reading adventures were mainly restricted to summer vacations.

Post marriage, my true-blue Bong husband threw open his collection for me. Oh, what joy! Like a beggar starving for decades, I devoured famous mystery series to start with. Byomkesh Bakshi, Feluda, Kiriti Roy, Prof. Shanku enthralled me with their superior sleuthing skills. Every year, we drove to Delhi NCR’s mini Kolkata, Chittaranjan Park, about a month before Durga Puja to buy puja-special editions of famous Bangla magazines. Desh, Anandamela, Sananda, Shuktara, Nabakallol… uff! 

Delighted with our purchases, hubby and I finished chores and sat or lay next to each other reading, sharing anecdotes, laughing, and cracking jokes. After our daughter was born, I gave up on reading for years. As our daughter grew, I did manage to squeeze in a book or two every now and then, but only when my parents lived with us. I understood what a blessing it was to occasionally read or write without having to worry about zillion household chores or looking after our child. A few years ago, I also started writing for myself. 

Since my parents returned to Nasik last year, only now I find time to read again. So today out came the generous birthday gifts from hubby from a few years ago. These volumes were unopened all these years. Thanks to my daily diligent cooking during the lockdown, leftovers were sufficient to last us today. Hubby generously offered to make rice and poached eggs to accompany the leftovers. I finished meagre chores and got ready to read.

Drawing the curtains of the larger bedroom window, I left the smaller window curtains aside to create a light-and-shade effect. The ceiling fan ran at 5, making the curtains flutter gently. Our bed has fresh linen and my favorite corner is empty and inviting.

Sprawled across the bed on my belly, elbows propped up, specs in hand, I am all set to start the works of one of my beloved authors. This legend is revered across the globe, almost worshiped by Bengalis. With great joy, I start the collection of Rabindranath Tagore’s short stories and novels.

Amidst the chaos inflicted by corona virus and hardships because of the lockdown, I hope to read at least one page every day. Hopefully, so will you. Happy reading, friends! 😊