To Wendy

D-E-B-A-D-I-T-Y-A are you?

Many moons ago we were assaulted by a pint sized rice cake from mainland china. Where she came from exactly, no body knew but one fine Presidency morning saw a bible carrying Wendy enter our sanctum sanctorum (read the union room). There amidst the general rubble of elections won and lost ,towered our very own Debaditya. I wasnt there at that time but I have on good authority that when rice cake met our errmmm chicken legs it was love at first sight.

Thus began the hours of Bible lessons.No Englissss , she spoke none, understood even less.Within days she had been catapulted into instant stardom. College tours started mentioning ...'ei dekho, eta baker lab, ota promoder canteen, oi boshe acche Bhetki da, ar ei amader Wendy!" As rice cake invaded promoder canteen I remember a desperate Chicken Legs with ' you have got to help me!!!' and i did , with my best practiced Cantonese I went up to her evilness and said..' hello, thank you, pass me the salt, no snakes please..we are Buddhists" ( Translated ) She looked up at me with trusting eyes and said ' Soyee, oni speeeeeek Mandarin'.I gave up, dont be surprised.. have given up for much less.

She would often be seen in the room next to the canteen ..difficult since all grave political discussions would be carried out there, the future of Presidency College and we believed the whole of Bengal was at stake. My cynical senior came into the room and said ' ebar ki chairman Mao er shatheo IC korte hobe?' Chicken Legs would wish that the ground would open up and he could do a Sita on everybody.
Almost half a year, thats how long she lasted.No mean feat, considering she had even called up his father and asked ' D-E-B-A-D-I-T-Y-A are you?' the shocked man , i believe, said ' ki oshhobhhotami hochhe???' and slammed the phone down. I dont blame him.

She left almost as suddenly as she appeared. With no forwarding address. All that was left was a Wendy inspired Chowmein ala Promod da. There was a sense of relief for a while ' phew !! the spy has left us' Then we did miss her, in a place where everyone says that they understand you , it was a relief when someone didn't . Chicken legs missed her I am sure, and even in Delhi while at Paratha Gali he would dunk his parathas in Chings chilly sauce and think of her.

Amen..

One year later ...in loving memory

Our yearly sojourn took us to McLeod Ganj last year. This had become a ritual with us sisters, planning getaways for months, adjusting calendars, taking off from work all for a weekend of doing nothing. Leaving Delhi in June is bliss. After an uncomfortable bus ride Kangra dawns on us. A steep gut wrenching climb later we are there. At 5 in the morning it’s peaceful. I can see why they would set up shop here.

We learn our first lesson early enough. Reservations are a must. Still, Buddhists are kind souls. They never turn kindred spirits out. We get a room, a view and a guard dog. Monks as neighbors...this was bound to be safe. We settle in. My toothbrush, forgetfully abandoned in Delhi, Batteries I forgot to buy and band-aids that are a necessity with me, lead me out to explore.

“Wandering re-establishes the original harmony which once existed between man and the universe.” I wander and promptly lose my way. In some towns the roads that take you down are not necessarily the ones that bring you back. This town is no different. It’s a surprise to find the Mama-Papa shop open for business at such a godly hour. They are a hard working bunch. Armed with a toothbrush and a faux pass for the day, I walk back conquered. 

We have an agenda. I am told. Shop, eat, shop. I like traveling with her. She reads my mind and shares my devotion to food. There are advantages of sharing a gene or two. We step out into a different town. It’s difficult to believe that anybody could come here for peace. Mamas’ and Papas’ and their entire families have something to sell. A man assures my sister that her one of a kind earring was designed by his wife. Three shops down, we see the same earrings again. The wife sure does get around. It is a universally acknowledged truth that tourists are gullible creatures. I hunt frantically for half a dozen Free Tibet stickers. One still graces my door; the rest chained me down for a year.
And we walk. 

Exhaustion is a privilege. It is also an excuse to rest our soul/sole. We take a detour to one of the many ex-pat owned eateries. Conversation is kept to a minimum. It is blasphemous to talk in the presence of cheese. Gathering our wits and our shopping bags we start again. We walk to the Monastery now. I have never seen so many tourists in a monastery before. My cousin pretends to be a guide and misleads a hapless tourist. “Yes of course, that’s the very same cloak that the Dalai Lama wears when he preaches. “ The holy robe in question turned out to be a loose cover for a chair. Never a dull moment.

The hotel boasts of an eatery. As always I am a disaster with the menu. Our kindly hosts jump in to help. Boro Kyala as we like to call him is charmingly clueless and Choto Kyala will eventually grow up to become charmingly clueless as well. We come to a consensus. We shall move here and marry or adopt these two. Then we never have to leave. Someone tells me it’s going to rain tomorrow; the first rain of the season .Who wants to leave?

We retire to our room. A TV in a place like this is esthetically jarring. That does not stop us of course. The king is dead after all. We rewind to memories of MTV International, Moon walks and posters taped to our walls.

At night, I wait for a phone call as always. It’s disenchanting when I don’t. Minutes of mundane pass. I wonder where this is going again. Physical distances don’t work. Spiritual distances work even less. The phone rings unsettlingly. I look forward to going back again. If only for now.