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A Symphony of Memory and Change
The bleak, rickety kothri was obliviously untrodden for decades but not cursed to eternal sleep. You awaken the stiff, creaky door from years of mundane rest. The cobwebs on the pale yellowish wall are dimly visible. Thick layers of dust devoured the cemented floor. The broken showpieces stand as faceless spectres of dark, unknown territories. The old brass lamps and porcelain dolls take notice of your presence. The wobbly wooden chairs and rusty furniture whisper an old, forgotten song. You are not unfamiliar with them. You vainly flip the switch of the long-dead bulb, knowing the impossibility of its resurrection. This cramped, antique room sends a chill down your spine. The musty smell of the time-locked place reminds you of the stories of hidden ancestral treasure buried somewhere furtively. The key to unlock the treasure is shoved in the untouched darkest corner.
The white fluffy clouds float over the snowy hills like white cotton candies. The golden sun hangs in the soothing blue sky. The mountains with greyish slopes stretch along the rim of the horizon. The lush green carpet of tea bushes lies peacefully in rough strokes. Women in vibrant salwar suits, warm fabrics, and colourful scarves are plucking tea leaves with scrupulous care. Their faces are carved in an immature hand. “This place seems too far from the real yet too close to my heart. Baba finally took us on the trip to Darjeeling during that summer vacation. How much nagging I had to do to persuade him! The very place always pulled me ever since reading Feluda’s adventure in ‘Darjeeling Jomjomat’,” Neetu murmured to herself.
A small street puppy with brown fur sits on a lush green lawn, its eyes filled with a loving gaze. His tiny black nose and short, thin whiskers are delicately crafted. In front of him lies a small, round red ball. A little hand with tiny fingers pats its head endearingly. A tint of warmth occupies the surroundings. “Sheru was my best friend. Whenever I went outside, I would meet him, play with him and cuddle him. How many times have I stolen food from home to feed him! Whenever I felt sad, seeing him run to me with his small, little paws and wagging tail made me happy. If only he could always be with me!” Sighed Neetu.
A little girl in a floral-printed frock is holding the hand of a young woman in a red saree and of a man in blue panjabi and pyjamas. The girl has two small ponytails tied with purple ribbons and a giant smile on her face. The air is bathed in bright, colourful hues, as if it is celebrating the festival of colours – a happy family. Yet, the charcoal-black scribbles all over fights to strangulate the joy, invading their kingdom of happiness. “Alas! Those bygone days! Days full of innocence, laughter and love. The homely smell of Maa’s saree lingers around me whenever I think of her. And how Baba used to bring my favourite sweets while returning from his tiring work!” whispered Neetu adrift in a tsunami of thoughts.
A blank. Nothing. The brown spots cling to the sick yellow skin. A blank. Perhaps, its throat was slit before it could utter his name. Possibly, its journey went unheard among the giant legends of the artificial world. Perhaps, its mystery was left buried at the bottom of the chasm where nothingness hovers in the air. Or possibly, the creator, in a hurry, turned to his next creation with a few careless lapses. A subtle, dry, earthly aroma has filled the surroundings. Fingers caress the brittle old skin. Perhaps, this blankness is the possibility of the genesis of a native tale.
The purple bicycle with mossy patches bears a bunch of guavas in its basket. It waits, friendless and gloomy. The road is wet, and the small potholes are filled with rainwater. Dark, scattered clouds sail through the sky while tears from heaven lash on the soil. “I remember the day clearly. I was playing in the park with Mala and Amal. We decided to steal guavas from Rabin Kaka’s garden. When Kaka shouted at us, two of them ran away, leaving me alone when I fell from my bicycle. I waited for them, but they did not return. I came back home crying,” muttered Neetu, “yet, Amal told me that they did come back to take me with them. He is a big liar.”
The round, wrinkled face of a woman carries a tender smile. She is wearing spectacles with thick lenses. The brownish frame of her spectacles spills onto the upper portion of her nose. The soft gaze of her uneven eyes is quietly endearing. The greyish hair on her scalp is half covered with the white end of her saree, bordered with a thin blue line. A gold chain adorns her neck like a garland. There is a mole beneath her right eye. Her ears are almost draped by her saree. “Thammi had always been very close to me. How she saved me from Maa’s scolding after I broke the jar of aamer achaar while trying to steal it! During the afternoons, she used to tell me colourful stories to make me fall asleep. The Birbal stories always intrigued me,” uttered Neetu, caught in a mist of nostalgia, “And what were the lines of the song she used to sing to herself during her last days…”
Three big snowballs are stacked upon one another, the largest at the bottom. An orange scarf with pink stripes is wrapped around its neck, and a red hat sits atop its head. A carrot sticks out as its nose with two black eyes above it. A brown stick sprouts on each side, splitting into three at the ends. “A snowman! But, I can’t remember building a snowman in my life or any special memory with one.” Neetu mumbled confusedly.
A little girl in golden armour clasps a sword fearlessly in one hand, with a silver shield in the other. She fights giant creatures with bulging red eyes, fang-like teeth and long, sharp nails with vigour. But what is the fissure ripping the world apart? “When I was a child, I owned a world of my own- filled with dreams. I dreamt of being a saviour fighting monstrous giants. Yet, with each passing year, dreams seem more distant,” Neetu murmured to herself, lost in a reverie, “I still remember the happiness and excitement of playing Rani Lakshmibai in the school drama. The heartfelt applause of the crowd overwhelmed me. But who cleaved the rift?”
Memories flashed by one after another. Time curled back on itself like a river drifting away from its natural course, flowing backwards for a moment. Her unfettered feet, wild and eager, raced through every dusty alley of the long-forgotten civilisation, a rush of emotions: joy, wrath, fear, nostalgia…memories…the unearthed treasure…with each turn of the page.
Neetu laid aside the sketchbook. The sketchbook was gifted to her by Sudha Mashi on her tenth birthday. Since then, it had become her canvas of life. She captured each fleeting moment on its pages, with lines and colours of her novice hand. But as she grew up, time pulled them apart, dust heaped over the sketchbook, and the new replaced the old. Today, after a lapse of twenty-three years, Neetu discovered the key to her childhood memories, hidden in a lonely corner of the kothri beneath the piles of discarded papers. This kothri belongs to you, to me and to everyone. There is a string that binds us together – memories of the past.
“But who dared to deface that painting? To tear another apart? Why the blank page in the lane of my memories? Does that snowman really belong to me? Why so many contradictions? So much dust…” she hurled those words into the air.
A voice whispered, “A few gems are lost, a few are counterfeits, a few have lost their shimmer. Yet, the heart of it belongs to you.”
Subhashree Ghosh is an undergraduate pursuing her degree in English Literature under West Bengal State University. She has completed sixth year in painting under Bangiya Sangeet Parishad. She is passionate about writing short stories and poems with a psychological and reflective edge.
