One afternoon in May
In my armchair as I lay
Heavy rain rushed down in fright
Hugging the windowpane tight
Lightning struck the pole
Wind shook the trees in galore
Soon, sky was shrouded in black veil
My sorrow too began to wail
Silent, dark, and dead
My house was the graveyard
In this vibrant and bustling boulevard.

Quickly, I lit up a candle
And slipped into an old pair of jeans
Something familiar
Something comfortable
Slowly, I opened my suitcase
Reached for a diary
To meet my family.

A dried red rose
And a black and white picture
In page number twenty
Jogged my sleepy memory
Of a joyful laughter
Over a fine Sunday dinner
While adults whined about their lives
Gulping their angst with red wines
We, cousins, gathered in dark corners
To whisper secrets into each other
Giggling and flushing, we took turns narrating
One talked about how a boy made her day
Other recited a tale of heartbreak
Another boasted of dating the beauty queen
I too flashed a red rose from my first kiss
Suddenly, our marbles slipped from our pockets
The red, blue, and yellow shiny balls
Bouncing off the peeling wood floor
Raced ahead to tickle big bare bones
Of feet dangling from chairs
Of bodies swinging from side to side
“You little ras…cals, go out and playy.”
Devil surfaced in our parents’ red eyes
Tonight, goodness in them all seemed like lies.

When a serving of happiness
Was a part of every dinner
Heart was satiated
And soul was hungry no more.
Those were the glorious days at Granny’s
Wrapped up in love and warmth in Darjeeling.

My little home
Upon the white mountain
Still makes my heart weak
Chocks my throat with happy memories.

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Silence is hesitation
An insecurity
An understanding
When lips shake going into a sensitive terrain.

Silence is absence
An emptiness
An insatiable thirst
When heart pines for the loved ones who are no more.

Silence is retreat
A little hideout
A quick escape
When the load becomes too much to bear.

Silence is realization
A nudge
A wake-up call
It’s the morning rooster to remind us tomorrow is now today.

Silence is boredom
A state of mind
A dullness that sets in
When life stops to entertain.

Silence is meeting point
A desperation
A yearning
A rendezvous with God when we feel all alone.

Silence is graveyard
A punishment
A price we pay
When the heart forgets to sway.

Silence is nothing.

Silence is everything.

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i walk
on a path of rose
my base firm and safe
no thorns to prick
even an inch
of my skin

i shop
pretty things
and fill my cart to the brink
worry free
about the bill
and what might
you think

i laugh
hard and often
to your jokes
and silly pranks
lift my spirit up
send the worry down

i speak
a few words
to convey it all
words travel
even through silence
reach your end
in perfect sentence

i bask
in the sunshine
of your love
i revel
in the glow
of your laughter
my slice of summer
you keep me warm
when i am far
and
cold

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Fear is to love the past
a little too much.
When stuck in a time and place
where you once belonged
You lose your time and place
where you now belong.

Fear is an abstract art
that hangs over our mind
and heart.
When dark clouds raid
Thoughts don’t travel straight.

Fear is saying no
to opportunities galore.
Watching a new life go by
As you sit on a bed of old.

Fear is to crawl
on the race
of life.
Where every slow step
delays the success
Waiting at the end
of life’s every bend.

Image courtesy: Stefano Pollio on Unsplash

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Nothing is wrong about Irving. The city has in fact expanded in extraordinary measure in these past seven years, and time and again, has been voted as one of the fastest growing places in the country. Promising housing market, steady job economy, low cost of living, and low crime rate are a few perks of living here.

I am the wrong person in the right place. Irving is simple and straightforward, dipped in sugar syrup, and gold. But, perhaps, it is too perfect, too good for me…a flawed individual with a complex and chaotic mind, and foolish theories of life. I have an emotional brain, with my heart, sixth sense, inner voice, intuitions and what I am feeling at the moment, showing me the way and helping me make decisions, whether trivial or important. Irving, on the other hand, is practical, has a rational brain with a realistic approach to life. I am an impulsive and carefree person; Irving darling is calculating and too cautious. My life is like an incomplete sentence and I find joy in reveling in the mystery of what’s next. My Irving, to me, looks like a perfectly framed picture, of self-assured, contented, and perpetually happy adults basking in the sunshine of their dream homes and children’s love. Comfortable – I shun the word and like to stay away from it. Irving likes to wrap up in a cozy, comfy blanket and stay warm and safe. Even from an aesthetic point of view, we are a complete mismatch. I am a lover of beauty and art and anything creative; Irving is a place devoid of beauty and art, extremely bland, banal, and barren.

People have their own path to follow, their own story to write, their own ways of looking at life. I like to, or perhaps choose to, look at life through a camera lens. Color palettes, shapes, textures, symmetry, synergy, and design fascinate me, along with its underlying emotional order and disorder, the chaos as well as pure silence. After all, life, if you notice closely, is a collection of short stories. Life is a fine poetry, also.

Before Irving, I was in a relationship with Delhi. Being a copywriter and coming from an advertising background, my life was an interesting mix of many things, and creatively satisfying. Cracking headlines and punchlines. Conceiving radio spots and television ads. Writing copy for brochures, hoardings, mailers, and websites. Collaborating with designers and proof reading artworks. Life was stimulating too, outside office. Attending international film festivals, watching plays and streets dramas, strolling along Hauz Khas Village and Delhi Haat, visiting art exhibitions in India Habitat Centre, pirouetting to waltz and merengue and tango, hanging out with people with common interests and gabbing about designing and writing and philosophy and the infinity of life mixed with absolute nonsense stuff, over rum and laughs and humor.

If Delhi stimulated my mind, Gangtok moved me, emotionally. Gangtok was not only home, but also a delightful artistic haven. Whether it was snowy peaks of Kanchenjunga, the gentle stream of river Teesta, the fluttering of prayer flags, or creative minds turning their passion into purpose – there was, and there is, a great story hidden around every corner, waiting to be told, lived, felt, and translated in prose and poetry.

A love-hate relationship is an odd, funny, imperfect, and an exciting bond, one that constantly keeps you on the go. Maybe, I am still looking for my past in my present. Maybe, I now need to try hard, to love and understand you. Maybe, I haven’t been able to appreciate all that you have done for me. Maybe, I need to open my eyes wider, and see more. Maybe, I need to try to accept your version of life, and edit my script of what life is. Maybe, you are right and I am wrong. Maybe, I am right and you are wrong. Maybe, I just need to hang on a little longer. Or, maybe, Irving, I have to let you go, move forward, move on…

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Love is space
to paint your dreams and create.

Love is comfort
of a piping hot soup on a cold day.

Love is light
of a million stars to ignite your heart.

Love is sweet fragrance
to breathe through when life begins to smell.

Love is home
to come back to if you lost your way.

Love is you.

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Chandra Niwas is perched atop a small hillock; a narrow cobblestone road runs to the main entrance of the house. The house consists of two wings – the old and the new. The old is a two floor, wooden, ranch-style house built in the 1960s. The new block was added later in 1980s; this one is a two-floor structure made of concrete and brick. Both the houses have enough rooms, their own bathrooms, and previously, their own occupants. Grandmother stayed in the old wing. Grandfather lived in the new block.

Houses often reveal the minds, even eccentricities of people who construct them and live in them. Houses are like sponges; they gradually imbibe the owner’s likes and tastes, even attitudes and feelings. Thus over a period of time, they often become an extension of our own selves. Every nook of the old house reflected my grandmother’s tastes and every cranny of the new house bore my grandfather’s characteristics.

The old house was torn and tattered, but like a brave soldier, it still had the muscle and the grit to withstand many a nature’s wars. Completely made of wood, this house was the main house, primarily because it had the kitchen and the puja room. Grandmother’s things – her saris, sweaters, coats, jewelry, knitting yarns and needles laid all over the place. A display cabinet, stockpiled with a whole lot of “foreign” items, stood in the middle; this was the main attraction of the house. Things Phupuji brought from her England trips or gifts given by her now half-Brit daughter. Like us, local folks who came to meet granny were also in awe of those silverwares, lavender mists, potpourri, Scottish bagpipers in skirts, porcelain plates, and dolls. Those dolls always wore gorgeous attires, all thanks to Phupuji’s great fashion sense and her knitting skills. Black and white family photos adorned the walls, along with a wooden clock that rang every hour. Grandma rented out the lower floor to Lalit and Bharat daju decades ago; they still run a medicine and shoe shop respectively.

The new house, my grandfather’s station, was right next to the old house. Newspapers, men’s clothes, telescope, army trunks, world maps, globes, papers, and a whole village of books occupied the first floor. Apart from sitars, harmoniums, and other musical instruments, no one lived in the second floor; it was mostly empty. With a terrace built on top, house members had a free access to the lovely view of the village and the valley. The sunrise was an added bonus. A row of roses, marigolds, and orchids covered the verandah area, with a couple of hanging plants in the front and a big tree in the background. Doors and windows of both houses were always open for fresh air, warm sun, the street dogs, and visitors.

Every year we went to Takdah to celebrate Dasai (Dusshera festival). Along with my family, my “Baral” and “Karki” cousins also came and we all stayed together for four or five days; this trip was an annual ritual and something we have been doing forever. Dasai was a breather in our lives, like a picnic break from the rut and routine of the everyday life. Similarly, it was a welcome change for the house itself; from two, now a total of sixteen people (and their dogs) lived under its roof. Takdah vacations were pretty hard for my mom since she had to bear the responsibilities, especially of the kitchen department, of an army of people.

A state of utter chaos, confusion, and clutter, such was life for the rest of the stay. Because my grandparents stayed alone and also had two houses to maintain, thus things were a bit messy and disorganized. It was difficult to work out sleeping arrangements. There were enough beds, around five or six, but with sixteen people in the house, this was not enough. Things worked on a first come, first serve basis. Early birds, who reached Takdah early, chose the best bedrooms whereas latecomers slept on floors, few in the old and others in the new house. Fortunately, Phupuji kept extra mattresses, bedsheets, and blankets. Bath time was also rough because both houses had only two bathrooms and those were old-styled and without water heaters. Boiling, over the wood fire or gas stove, was the only way to get hot water. Mealtime was tumultuous, but definitely fun. For a very long time, Takdah house had only one matho ko chulha (mud stove); gas stove was installed much later. When organic vegetables, desi gheu (ghee), wood fire, and my mom’s hands worked together, the result was pure magic. The food was scrumptious, nutritious, and simply delicious. The fire from the chulha also kept the house warm. Afternoons in Takdah are normally sunny, but evenings and nights especially in the Dasai month of October can get really cold. An angithi (mud heater) also provided extra heat; drinking chiya (tea) and eating murai (rice puffs) around the fire was an event for a city girl like me. A jharna (stream of water) just behind the kitchen provided water for drinking and cleaning purposes. Shalu didi and I often helped mom wash the dishes and clean the messy kitchen. It took at least two hours for us to wind up everything!

Playtime was unique. With no toys in the house, children settled with stones, shells, told stories to each other, enjoyed the view from the terrace and occasionally went for walks. Himul dokan, a depot that sold milk, was one of the destinations. Adwitya, Bittu, Shalu didi, my sister, and me walked about two kilometers with empty cans to fetch that “pure” cow milk. Along with milk, we brought home bunches of wild ferns and flowers, our pick of the day. We also played dice (street gambling) in the bazaar and sometimes also in the house, at night.

Night was colorful, noisy, and truly sinful at Takdah house. Children and adults played cards all night long, mostly rummy and flash. Few folks, like Bhaiya baje (my uncle) always got rich and few wallets, like mine, were always empty at the end. Rakshi (alcohol) and pakku (a mutton speciality) was a part of the package, and the generous adults even allowed the kiddos to take a sip or two of those wines and vodkas! After a few hours of merriment, eyes reddened, mouths stammered, and people argued and tripped over each other. Inside, the climate was hot and intense. Outside, the night air was cool and crisp, with nature showcasing a Beethoven-like performance. Croaking frogs, buzzing fireflies, chirping crickets, and howling foxes provided a perfect background score to our performance on the verandah. We, children, sang and danced, and watched the sky. The night sky was always beautiful – a big moon and a million stars always smiled upon us.

After Dasai, people packed their belongings and kids, and left, one family at a time. The spare mattresses and blankets went back to their secret caves. Bedsheets and pillow covers hung up to dry in the sun. Extra plates and utensils, carefully tucked away in the storeroom. The kitchen and the entire house now moped for a final time. Group photos clicked for one last time. Hugs and kisses exchanged, and the vacation ended with promises to return to Takdah next year. Oh! dear, hellos are sweet, goodbyes, always bitter!

Promises were kept, and the following year Niraula, Baral, and Karki pariwar again met and continued the merry making with more rakshi and pakku. This tradition, of going to Takdah to celebrate Dasai, continued for about 30 years! Even after grandfather expired, we kept going to the house for grandmother up until 2011. She expired in 2016.

Chandra was the name of my grandmother’s mother. Niwas means a house where a family lives together. Today, Chandra Niwas is empty, with its kith and kin tucked away in various corners of the world and busy with their own lives. People may have gone, but a few things stayed back. The sounds of laughter are forever trapped within its walls and so is granny’s perfume; it still lingers on her sweaters and coats. The lovely dolls still wear her knitted sweaters. You may notice traces of footprints hiding on those aging floorboards. The wall clock may not chime every hour, but it tells time. The brown rarri (woolen blanket) on which we sat, year after year, for tika ceremony might have a few holes, but it will keep you warm.

And the two peas in a pod, Phupa and Phupuji, continue to live…in my heart, in my memory, and in my stories.

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The woman…

When my friends returned from their villages and grandmothers’ homes, they came back with “things” and a whole lot of moral lessons. Some gained cooking tips. Some brought pickles and homemade delicacies. Some flaunted new clothes. Some showed off their newly acquired embroidery skills. Few others learned puja rituals. And many would narrate tales of how their grandmothers hugged them and cried a bucket on the last day of their visit.

I always came back empty handed, barring a few times when I received lessons on Revolt of 1857 from my grandmother.

On the surface, it is easy to label my grandmother as strict, hard, and somewhat inconsiderate and standoffish. People often misunderstood and couldn’t comprehend her because she was such a different person. Like them, even I could not understand my granny especially when I was a little girl. But now that I am grown up and perhaps a bit wiser, I understand her and appreciate her qualities much better.

Once upon a time, there lived a bold, fierce, hardworking, and an extremely independent lady. This is her story. This is the story of my grandmother who we fondly called her Phupuji.

My grandmother was an interesting lady; she was unlike anybody I have ever known. Being the only child of her parents, she was pampered and spoilt or this is what I always assumed about her. Even though she belonged to the 1920s era, she had a solid education and work history. Holding a Bachelor of Arts degree, she served as a high school teacher in Darjeeling for almost 30 years. She started as a History, Geography, and Nepali teacher, but later retired as the Vice-Principal of her school. Phupuji shifted back to Takdah, probably in the 80s, when her children were adults and all married. She continued working till 90s, and commuted from Takdah to Darjeeling, which was a good four hours round-trip.

Without a doubt, Phupuji was pretty progressive and truly unconventional for her times. When her daughter fell in love with a British, she allowed her to marry Uncle Ray and happily send her off to England. One of the most unconventional aspects of her was, she was sort of an atheist. My father tells me, “In her earlier years, she was not at all interested in religious activities.” It was much later that she started showing interest in pujas and religious rituals. It was perhaps due to the influence of her good friend and colleague, Shanta aunty, who a highly spiritual person.

My grandmother was a fine weaver; she loved and excelled in knitting. Whether it was sweaters, caps, socks, baby clothes, or shawl, she weaved it all and continued her passion till her passing days. One of the most vivid images I have is that of Phupuji sitting on a bed surrounded by colorful wool balls and yarn needles, and a pile of “pattern” books. Phupuji was so adept in her craft; she could easily pick a pattern, decipher the abbreviations, and incorporate it in her knitting projects.

My granny was also a movie buff, and my father says she used to read a lot of novels written by Gulshan Nanda in her early days. Incidentally, many of the super hit Hindi movies of 60s and 70s were based on his novels. During those days, a lot of Bollywood movies used to be shot in Darjeeling, when Darjeeling was still the undisputed Queen of the Hills. I assume she visited a lot of these film shoots because I have seen photos of her with Joy Mukherjee, Dev Anand, Shammi Kapoor, Asha Parekh, and many other stars. One fun (and cool) fact is she knitted a sweater for Joy Mukherjee, which he graciously accepted and even wore it in one of his movies!

My grandmother was a bit fanciful and indulgent, and liked to dress up. She wasn’t a big fan of “loud” colors; she preferred subtle and western shades. So her wardrobe had lots of black, white, gray, beige, bottle greens, and mostly muted colors. Phupuji always dressed to impress; she wore pure silk saris and heel shoes, a scarf around her neck, and a sweater or fur coat on top. Her coat always had a brooch pin. She loved gold and gemstones and used to wear them everyday. With diamonds in her ears and multiple gold chains, rings, and bracelets, we often teased how she looked like Bappi Lahiri. Except that Mr. Lahiri liked chunky and ornamental jewelry, whereas my grandmother loved delicate pieces.

If she wore silks and furs to work, she was just the opposite at home. Infact she was like the unfortunate Cinderella who had to do a lot of chores. With her silk sari tightly draped around her waist (like a lungi) and plastic chappals on her feet, she was ever ready to do her “other” jobs. Whether it was cooking, cleaning, washing clothes, gardening, chopping woods, grocery shopping, going to bank and post office, paying electricity and other bills, Phupuji took care of her business without her husband’s or anybody’s help.

Phupuji was a workaholic, in the sense that she “kept moving” and working until her death at age 87. Infact, she lived alone in Takdah house except for last few years when she was not keeping well. She did not have a maid or a helper to take care of her and the chores. Even in those biting cold winters, Phupuji kept her hands and feet busy; she cooked and cleaned and kept doing what she always did. She never stopped.

In life we have moments that help us create memories. I still remember some of those exciting moments with my grandmother. I remember those history lessons. I remember the two of us gardening, going for strolls, and walking up to Tinchulay to meet Bhuwan dada’s family. I also recall a funny drinking incident that happened when I visited her during my summer vacation. I was in high school then. After a long day of gardening on a blazing afternoon, we decided to have a refreshing drink. The “drink” was a cocktail made of passion fruit juice and vodka. Soon after gulping down two glasses each, our cheeks turned all red and eyes started closing down. We decided to take a quick nap, but when we finally woke up, sun had already set and our house was all dark. Phupuji and I slept like a log for almost six hours!

I also vividly remember how we used to take the bus and go to Darjeeling – either to her school or the bank to collect her pension money. After we were done with our work, we would often stop at restaurants in and around Chowrasthra for steaming momos. After that, we would buy cookies and “puff” biscuits from a popular bakery shop near the bus stand. We would normally take the last bus, around 4 pm, so that we had enough time in Darjeeling to do our things. Inside the bus, cramped with people and their shopping bags stuffed with vegetables, fruits, meats, clothes, and breads, Phupuji would greet familiar faces. The hill roads are often narrow and uneven, with unusually sharp curves, so we would reach Takdah jumping and bumping till our heads touched the roof. Oh! what a jolly good ride it used to be!

From afar, Phupuji had a seemingly ideal life, but from close, it was not a smooth ride. With the responsibilities of her three children, her parents who lived with them, a full-fledged career, and a house to run, she had a pretty demanding life. To top it all, she had a husband who was completely consumed with his own hobbies and lived a rather unconventional life. Maybe she was not born tough. Maybe life made her tough.

Like Phupa, I learned many a lessons from Phupuji as well. Not that she ever gave us moral lessons or told us how to live our lives, but just by observing her and now by remembering her and the kind of person she was, I did learn a lot about life from her. Phupuji taught me how important it is to be self-reliant and independent, especially as a woman. Or, how important it is to keep moving and continue working even in those alarming silver years. Last but not the least, she taught me that a woman does not need a man to buy her diamonds.

On the third part, I will give you a tour of the house where my grandparents lived and also introduce you to Takdah where an eerie fog envelops the place all year long.

A glimpse of Takdah…

Takdah photo gallery sources: Featured, On cloud nine, Alone in Takdah,  White Takdah,  Takdah: the road less travelled,  Sunny after rainy,  On the way to Tinchuley,  Tea gardens of Takdah,  Bungalow no. 12, Mountain calling,  Take me home, country roads,  Chiya bari ma…

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Nostalgia is like a savings account where we keep stock of good moments to use whenever we feel low or simply to escape life for a brief period. Today, I am borrowing a few moments from Takdah collection. Not that I am sad, but because it’s been a while since I have travelled this particular road, literally!

Takdah, a quaint little Himalayan village, occupies a quarter of my memory bank. It is a colossal amount considering that I used to visit the place only once or twice a year; have never lived there permanently. My paternal grandfather and grandmother lived in Takdah house.

This post on Takdah will appear in three series: The man, The woman, and The house. Below is its first installment.

The man…

Gautam Buddha left his palace in search of the truth. My grandfather did not exactly leave his humble abode, but he did not follow the traditional family path either. Being a restless and phenomenally curious person, he was always in search of something, as if he was trying to reach some place, or perhaps he was running away from life.

Thulobaba (grandfather in Nepali) was this tall, intelligent, handsome, and a westernized man. He wore plaid shirts, read Shakespeare plays, he liked his bread with marmalade and ate his meals with a spoon, and he talked about the world as if he’s seen it all! Maybe his love for reading (and curiosity) made him a worldly person. He was an atheist; he didn’t believe in idol worship and going to temples, nor did he conform to the norms and rituals of society. He was indeed a free and unfettered man. His intellect, artistic abilities, and army background made him look formidable, but in reality he was a simple man with a few basic needs.

When I think of Thulobaba, the first picture that comes to mind is that of a man sitting on his bed reading a book or working on a complex mathematical equation. His pens, pencils, compass, magnifying lens, and papers neatly organized on his side table. The window of his room always open, and a white curtain dangling and dancing in the wind. He occasionally watched TV or listened to the radio. Outside his room, there was a small lounge area with tons of books neatly piled up in shelves and bookcases. Books were his best friends. He was an avid reader and had books on varied subjects, from psychology to philosophy to astrology to civic history to Bernard Shaw to Oscar Wilde. As a little girl who was fond of reading, his collection always fascinated me. During every visit I would browse through his library, pick a new book, and let my mind wander away to faraway lands. I would ask him if I didn’t understand anything, and he would explain with such passion and great details as if he had read the book a hundred times!

My grandpa was a multi-faceted personality who had a thirst for knowledge and a drive for learning new things. He was a gifted individual, who excelled at most hobbies he tried, whether it was photography, astrology, directing plays, or even learning languages. He spoke in English and Nepali, and was mesmerized by Bengali – a language he did not understand. However, he picked it up…not only did he learn how to speak, he also taught himself how to read and write. Later on, All India Radio would regularly invite him to give talks in Bangla, especially during Rabindra Jayanti. With a bachelor’s in Philosophy and a master’s degree in English Literature, he served in the British Indian Army and later worked as a teacher. He was a fine and popular teacher! Additionally, he was excellent in Mathematics, and used to provide coaching classes to high school children.

My mother says he was a popular astrologer and he would regularly cast horoscopes for people and predict their future. I reminisce him drawing charts, talking about astrology houses, and calculating the position of planetary objects. Apart from astrology, Phupa, as we fondly called him, was interested in astronomy. He would frequently work on coordinates on a world map, infact he had even made a sundial of Takdah! Because of his love for stars and celestial objects, we would regularly go to the terrace and watch the sky through his telescope. Up there he would give us discourses on Milky Way, Orion, Jupiter, and Dhruva Tara. He would excitedly point to some dots and lines and say, “Mithu, look there…that’s the seven stars…that is you.” My name, Krittika, is a part of a cluster of seven stars. If the night sky charmed him, the morning sky enticed him. I have this memory etched in my mind where we would wake up really early and go for morning excursions. All his grandchildren walking to Tinchulay, a good 3 km walk, to witness the sunrise. Its timing perfectly calculated by him. He would wear layers of special glasses to look at the sun, and as children we would giggle looking at them!

Apart from Tinchulay, we would also go on long walks to different places in Takdah. I remember going somewhere near Rungli Rangliot where we would walk into the cedar and pine forests, and pick katoos (pine nuts). As we would walk on those steep and meandering roads, we would marvel at the British bungalows and tea gardens, and have a little stop at an orchid garden. The orchid center near Club House had an amazing collection of unique Himalayan orchids.

Like the rest of my family, Thulobaba loved dogs. In my mind’s eye, I can still see him basking in the sun and feeding glucose biscuits to the local dogs. When we visited Takdah, we would bring our three dogs – Browny, Bruno, and Guffy along, and so did my other cousins. So whenever there was a family gathering, Takdah house would be alive with barking dogs and screaming children.

Another hobby he liked and topped was photography. He had a crude box camera and even a makeshift dark room where he used to develop his own films. One of his photographs, which he famously titled, Upon the Tiger Hills, is my dad’s favorite. He shot and developed this picture when my dad was seven or eight years old. Always in search of new angles and lighting sources, he would also try clicking his own picture or taking a selfie, as we now call it!

Phupa even tried his hands in music, in his 50s. He started with violin, later he learned to play sitar and other instruments like tabla. I still have a vivid memory where he is playing the sitar or cleaning the veena, fixing his violin strings, or singing ‘sa, re, ga, ma, pa’ on a harmonium. Sometimes he would make his grandchildren recite after him. He wanted us to learn a few of these instruments, but I never got beyond choosing harmonium as my main instrument in music class and playing it a couple of times a month. Like me, my other cousins also never learned any kind of music.

My grandpa passed away when I was in college, in 1998, and even though it’s been 20 years, yet I have such strong memories of him and our times together. Also because I shared a special bond with him and always believed that I was his favorite among his six grandchildren. I still remember those letters I wrote to him in pretty letter pads, designed and decorated in red, blue, and green by my little hands. Whenever we visited Takdah, the first thing I would do was, go and hug him; I was very fond of him. During the rest of my stay, I would keep going to his room – his room soaked with knowledge, wisdom, information, and a whole lot of mystery. Every day was a different day with him. If today was about Sigmund Freud, tomorrow he would narrate tales of Romeo and Juliet. Some days we would play harmonium. Other days, he would talk about cities and countries scattered on his globe.

Even as a child with no mind of her own, I knew Phupa was different. Indeed he was, unique, elusive, and miles away from the actual world. My grandfather lived in his head and as my dad rightly says, “He virtually lived all alone in his own world of knowledge and hobbies!” I believe that everyone we meet has something to teach us. One valuable lesson I gained from Phupa is, we must always keep our books, eyes, and mind open for knowledge is an important and interesting asset to have. Another lesson is, we don’t have to live in a big city or go to a fancy university to learn things. All we need is a couple of good books and a solid drive, and then we can teach ourselves a thing or two! I see glimpses of my grandpa in me. Like him, I am a restless soul, an observer of life, and there is a deep hunger in me – to read, to write, and ever so greedy to do different things. And I can be a recluse too. I always thought I was a bit loony, but now I wonder if I inherited this trait from him.

Bikram Kumar Niraula, my dearest grandfather, was a special man. He indeed lived a rich and nourishing life; his life filled with reading and learning, all the way to the end.

The second part of Takdah Diaries will feature my grandmother, an equally interesting and a unique person. So watch out this space for the second installment, The woman…

A glimpse of Takdah…

Takdah photo gallery sources: Featured, On cloud nine, Alone in Takdah,  White Takdah,  Takdah: the road less travelled,  Sunny after rainy,  On the way to Tinchuley,  Tea gardens of Takdah,  Bungalow no. 12, Mountain calling,  Take me home, country roads,  Chiya bari ma…

The post Takdah Diaries – Part 1 appeared first on www.iamviwa.com.

Folks, welcome to my life.

I always knew I was not utilizing my time properly. Deep inside, I always felt that I could be more productive. So after a lot of thinking (and whiling away my time), I offered myself two choices. The first and the easiest was to enjoy what I had. Watch movies, browse the internet, have beauty sleeps, do online shopping, chat with people, click selfies, and laze around in luxury. The difficult choice was to ignore everything and turn these 10 hours into the most productive hours of my life.

I chose the latter and started giving it a serious thought. This also made me see things from a different perspective. I realized that apart from the power of choice, I also had a wonderful opportunity to do something constructive and make my life more meaningful.

So, here’s what I have been doing in the past few months.

1 THE WRITE SEED
I have been wanting to start my own business for a long time. Something where I could decide the work hours, call the shots, and use my love of writing. I used to give writing lessons to a girl, but never gave this job a serious thought. Last summer, I decided to focus on this tutoring business and see how it goes, and to my surprise, the response was quite good. In just two months, I managed to get eight students, apart from a couple of other interesting business propositions. My classes are in the evening, so in the morning I keep busy creating lesson plans, checking homework assignments, scheduling, and planning.

2 SOUP FOR THE SOUL
I have a strange relationship with food; I like to eat but do not like to cook. So my husband and I keep venturing around town scavenging for food. But now after seven years of marriage, we have run out of good and mostly, healthy options. Moreover, I think eating out so much is not a viable deal for life. So, out of sheer necessity and crisis, I started taking interest in cooking and trying different kinds of culinary. The experiment was a success. From eating out five times a week, I’ve progressed into cooking five times a week! Also, in the process, I fell in love with leafy greens and vegetables!

3 BACK TO SCHOOL
From time immemorial, I have wished to join a writing course, but each time there was a barrage of excuses to defend its rescheduling or shelving the idea altogether. I needed this course to learn the nuances and to refine my writing skills. Finally, I took the plunge and went deep. Not only did I complete three courses on essay, academic, and business writing, but also enrolled in two more. Besides the joy of learning something I’m passionate about, it also gives me pleasure knowing I am able to implement the lessons in my tutoring classes.

4 PEACE OUT
My husband and I created a “creative” room; it is also the most pious corner of our home. First, this is the puja room, which has various deities and idols blessing us. Second, this is where Saraswati Maa – the Goddess of books and knowledge – is stacked up and shoved on shelves and baskets. This area also has my oil paintings and travel photographs (courtesy, my husband) hooked on the walls. When we were designing this room, I told myself that I would maintain the sanctity of this room and will do something worthwhile whenever I am here. So what do I do here? Well…I read books, scribble down ideas for blog posts, play word games, pen poems, or just wear a beauty mask and meditate.

Many more things are in the pipeline. Hopefully, next time when I write a part-2 of this blog post, I would have accomplished a few of those tasks.

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