ADIEU, DEAR CALCUTTA (Memoir series – Story 5)

FUTURE-PULL OF OUR NATIVE PLACE

The doorbell chimes. And I am jolted. Shaken back into the real world from my storybook world.

Mummy stops knitting and walks across to open the door. We know it’s Daddy coming back from work.

I run across to Daddy and hug him. And I’m greeted by the warmth of his big wide smile and the smell of cigarettes. I take care not to crush the pack of Berkeley Cigarettes in Daddy’s shirt pocket. I need them in good condition once they are empty. For my collection. 

My stack of cigarette packs is neatly organised on my window sill. Everyone who comes into my room is impressed. But somehow Mummy doesn’t get it.

Daddy is always exhausted when he reaches home. Mummy says Daddy’s job is very tiring. She isn’t too happy with Daddy not becoming a lawyer. 

Daddy studied law but doesn’t want to practice law. Recently, Daddy has been advocating the advantages of starting a business in Kerala, our native place. And Mummy though not studied in law has become a pleader. Pleading Daddy not to resign from his job. 

Mummy loves Kerala but only wants to visit. She likes living and working in Calcutta. And cannot imagine getting uprooted from here.

I’m on Mummy’s side. Because I too don’t want to leave Calcutta and lose my friends. 

Life here is full of wonder and excitement, and I am blessed to have so many friends to share it with.

It’s always one birthday party after another. All of us get to meet each other so many times for our birthdays.

I’m happy and loved. And surrounded by so much celebration and joy.

And in between all these good times, I cannot understand why Daddy is longing for a change.

When it comes to Mummy, stability is everything. Everything she chooses for herself and her family has been run through her mind with clarity of purpose.

It is always long-term benefits for Mummy. Nothing fancy. Never swayed by fads and trends. 

For instance, her shopping list is ironclad and with very limited scope for flexibility. Cinthol soap, Forhans Toothpaste, Cuticura powder, and so on. These are what we use and these are what we buy. Nothing more, nothing less.

I once attempted at getting her attention to a magazine ad for an attractive red and white striped “Signal” toothpaste.

She listened to my point of view without interruption and then gave me a firm smile. And explained why our Forhans toothpaste was the best for us.

I tried grumbling that it didn’t foam and that it didn’t give a fresh and tangy feel like other toothpaste. But I knew better than to persist in messing with her well-thought-out choices.

And I am wondering how Daddy’s disruptive plans can ever be acceptable to a person like Mummy. Clearly, there are some things that are beyond my comprehension.

After a while, Daddy comes after a bath smelling of, of course, Cinthol soap. And we nibble through dinner without anyone uttering a word.

That night, Mummy explains to me during bedtime that we must always be in a state of gratitude to God for the good friends he gives us at each juncture of our lives. And that nothing lasts forever.

And I’m startled at the bland finality of having to leave my birthplace.

And one day in December 1964, we say goodbye to Calcutta and take a train to Kerala. We’re leaving behind many friends with whom we share great memories. 

Daddy says we’ll be back someday. Mummy shrugs half-heartedly while staring out the window lost in thought.

The train chugs loudly as if to fill the silent emptiness in our hearts.