WALK THROUGH MEMORY LANE (Memoir series – Story 2)

A Serene Escape to the Church with Mom in Bustling 1964 Calcutta

It’s 1964. Calcutta is bustling and vibrant.

Saturdays are special for us. It’s the day when I have Mummy totally for myself.

I’m almost 4 years old. And it’s the day we take a stroll to the Church in the morning.

I’m holding her hand tightly as we navigate the streets. With rickshaws, bicycles, and buses jostling for scarce tarmac space.

So off we go. I’m dapper in a shirt and shorts. Mummy, elegant in her crisply pleated saree.

Oh boy, walking! It’s great for the first few minutes. I’m all charged up with “Yes, let’s go explore the world!” but after a few minutes it’s more like “Oh boy, when are we reaching!” So yeah, you could say I’m not exactly a walking enthusiast.

On the other hand, my Mummy is a walking encyclopaedia. She’s the smartest person in the whole world. How else can she know the answer to every question I can think of?

And she explains it all in such detail that I feel like I’m getting both entertained and illumined in whatever topic I’m fascinated by. And she doesn’t just stop at answering. She looks right into my eyes to make sure I’m satisfied with her response. Of course, I always am – she’s a genius! It’s like she’s on a mission to make me the smartest kid in the world.

We eventually reach the stretch of the street where the sounds get quieter. Not many more street vendors.

After a multitude of those faceless vendors, I am approaching my favourite place. The textile shop of Sardarji Uncle. We’ve never bought anything from his shop. Yet, Sardarji Uncle is never too busy to wave his hand when I wave at him. He’s always seated on his elevated perch surrounded by bales of colourful cloth.

Some people touch your heart so effortlessly even with a casual acquaintance.

Removed from the noise and chaos, the church is located in a pocket of beauty and calm. A paragon of serenity and peace. A haven of meditative calmness.

We spend some time in silence, kneeling in prayer. I share some thoughts with God. Things that I think he better know. And very soon run out of topics.

I prefer talking to Mom. I steal a glance at her from the corner of my eye. She is in deep prayer and thought. And I dare not interrupt such moments of silence.

After a while, she is showing signs of finishing her prayer. Her smile indicates that she’s contented. She’s happy about my not interrupting her session with God. And her loving smile embraces me.

Mom has a way with words. She’s often talking about God through stories and examples. And I love those narrations and descriptions. Yet for me, my Mom fulfils the profile of God. All that I ever want, I could receive from her. All that I need, as if by some kind of sixth sense, she would provide me even before I realise it myself.

I like God because Mom likes God. I respect God because my Mom asks me to. I am happy in my little bubble, oblivious to anything beyond that. Because I know that my Mom is always there for me, no matter what.

Just that there is no way I can see that fate has made a booking on an exclusive rollercoaster experience of turmoil and pain, a few years from now.