Mornings were not good mornings until one hears the clanking of the steel utensils falling down from the shelves and the fans were switched off to sweep the floor as a result the foreheads were filled with perspiration. It was the morning schedule of her grandmother who woke up early than the rest, believed in waking up before the sun reveals itself to the world. It was a blessing to sleep if one could wake up with burning eyes and lethargic body to drag itself to switch on the fan and doze off to sleep again. The headache reached its peak with the loudest alarm clock of the grandmother who clasp her hands together and in her distinct nasal tone accompanied by cries to pray the idols for the wellbeing of her family. Maa was Manu’s grandma but she called her mother influenced by her own mother. Manu was around six years old that time. During her summer vacation, Maa and Manu were going to her grandpa or Dada to help him with his sweet shop. He owned one in the narrow lanes of bustling rickshaws and lakes followed by the houses, nowhere near the city roads. The shop itself was small, filled with various shaped sandesh, rossogolla, gulab jamuns and samosas in the front glass shelf dividing the customers from the shop owner. The gate itself was narrow but the room was big enough filled with huge circular plates of dough waiting to be filled with potatoes mixed with spices, the different shaped moulds to create sandesh and long steel handles to stain the jalebis from the frying pan outside the shop. No wonder that Maa and Dada will work the entire day in a shop filled with customers demanding the previous day hit Rabri to fill their stomachs with delight. The afternoon was mostly the siesta time prior to having lunch of yoghurt and rice good for the health during summers. In the evening , Maa , Manu and her Mamma will go back home after a prolong period of their jobs to home and enjoy the daily soap opera of television series on big black box sets in early 2000s.
There was something about those days that were indescribable yet thrilling, at the thought of it with hardly any photos to remind her briefly the exact details, as she used to wait for her Dada to return home quite late at night. It was around 9:30PM, when Dada will return home with leftover sandesh and freshly made rossogolla. He would offer Manu a daily pocket money of only ten rupees as a token of appreciation. Manu used to fill her piggy bank with this money and break the earthen pot until its weight becomes unbearable. She always clinked to the television stubbornly, never letting her Dada watch cartoons when the latter was excitedly curious to get information about the world through Bengali news channels. Her Dada was a humble man who was tanned due to work in scorching sun and wore big round specs. He was blessed with a tummy almost big like a ball to be played football with on the park next door. He always walked miles rather than spending money on transport, not even bus with a heavy green bag filled with the next day’s grocery. Life was good and the special memories were always the precious jewels clung in Manu’s heart like a rarity forever. She will always cherish those especially handmade rasomalai, the small pieces of rossogollas soaked in thick milk made with saffron and pistachios. It was made for Manu’s birthday only. This rasomalai was more special because of the absence of sugar and the process of thickening milk with her Dada’s own hands were a source of delight too. He would commute to his shop with Manu on autos but he would never follow the same thing in case of his daughter and wife. His life was his Manu and Manu was the apple of his eyes. Manu even copied his breathing patterns while sleeping in between the snores of her Maa and Dada. As her Dada’s tummy went up, so did hers’ went up and when his tummy went down, so did hers’ went down. He was a source of great paternal affection and almost a father figure who fulfilled her visions of an ideal father. For Manu, a father was a person who brings extravagant amount of fried fishes, date jaggery late at night and feeds you with his own hands with her half-closed eyes while sitting on his lap.
The times were spend too quickly to realize that good things do come to an end when Dada fell ill all of a sudden, it was hard to know exactly what has happened but he didn’t sit on his sweet shop for days or probably months. Manu was only eleven years old when the thunders stroke her Dada who lost his football tummy within a month. His cheeks were shrunk , his clothes were triple his size but seeing Manu’s tears on the hospital, he said, “ Nothing has happened to me , see how delicious these fish curry is along with the rice”
Manu later heard through the conversation of her mother and her Maa that he vomited out the food also. The days and nights disappeared instantly as they took care of Dada. The food they had is only bread, toast, and walking out of hospital to bring his blood sample for kidney test. They were aware of the fact that he was diagnosed with cancer, his face was covered with oxygen mask , his tummy was connected with a pipe, he was about to slap Mamma in an instant until the nurses controlled him. He was hardly able to see anybody and his memories were blank except his Manu’s name parting from his lips while his hands were searching for her little palms. One day, while climbing up the wooden stairs Manu and her Mamma saw Maa sitting on a corner with silence as a statue. Nothing exists anymore outside Dada’s hospital bed. Mamma run to Dada’s condition to find his oxygen mask not in its place and his opened mouth was covered with a bed sheet. He was lifeless, Manu’s Dada was cold and he was stiff and heavy too. “Who would carry Dada down the stairs? That too such a heavy man.”, thought Manu, shocked by the state of her Dada.
Manu is walking down the road bustling with crowd where she sees some stores displaying yellow colored saris with red borders on the display. This yellow color bleeds her heart plunging her into a world of tears and unknown thoughts. The people were shopping for Saraswati Puja, the goddess of art with Veena on one hand and Swam as her means of transport. She is the fair-skinned goddess who used to be Manu’s favorite but somehow she never devoted the goddess anymore. Saraswati Puja was the day when her Dada used to bring the idol for her Manu and help her to arrange for the big festivity so that Manu passes her exams with excellence. There was a devotion instill into Manu that remained no longer. It was twelve years, many things came and went, smart phones replaced simplicity and lunches were replaced by health conscious food. Nothing remained the same , everything was forgotten into the lives filled with exquisite gold jewelleries, big houses but Manu's heart still craved for her Dada , his simplicity , his acceptance of not letting him watch television and his immense gratitude to have his only granddaughter , Manu hiding herself in a corner amidst the big celebration.
(The above story has been published in the anthology , Perfect Chaos by The Writer Order)
Wonderful 😊