Loose Change

Travelling for a few weeks, it made perfect sense to have someone house sit. How it turned out, has forced me to define the words in my title.   Friend - someone with whom you share values, conversations and similar interests Stranger - someone who was a friend at point in your life. And with whom you now have nothing in common Alcoholic - one who comes in as a friend, whom you discover has become a stranger and is now an alcoholic One to whom you entrusted your home and who has invaded every part of this home searching for alcohol. One who has gone through treasured home made gin that was left to mature. One who has slept through the day with no connection with Kimble. The one creature you were so sure he would find time for.  One who has left you feeling a loss of space in your own home. And grappling with the thought of people whose addictions have made them beings you no longer recognise.  And where you are re learning deep breathing as you walk about your home a...

This last month has been strange in so many ways. Beginning of the year should mean new beginnings, but the mind shrunk away from that thought. How can it be only 1 year since I lost the man? Has it been just 380 days since the man is no longer a physical part of my everyday life? Seems longer...so much longer...  So what has really changed in this last year? - I have become quieter. The excitement of sharing anything and everything with him...that is gone. The chatterbox has become quieter. A long trip away with so much seen and experienced - and the mind kept telling me that once I reach home, I won't have Manosh to share it with. - I miss speaking in Bangla. Ma would always talk about how much I love the language and how I would miss speaking it if I married a  'non Bengali'  - and I would dismiss it all. Sheer coincidence then that we fell in love and loved speaking in Bangla with each other. So many words, phrases and emotions in a language that don't come through ...

There's an unexplainable connection between the mountain skies and the man When do you stop his phone number? When do you delete the mail id? When do you…. Stop thinking about all of this? When do you stop looking at a hot guy and wanting to share it with him? Because, after all, he was your best friend and understood and indulged all your idiocies. When do you stop wanting to share a recipe that you have nailed to perfection?  When do you stop looking out of the window of the moving car and then look towards the passenger seat to smile at him? When do you stop saying ‘we’ and switch to ‘I’? When do you….

There is this strong independent woman inside me, who sometimes feels it to be unreal. I have a full life, contributing to the society, doing my own bit. Can drive, cook, do basic first aid, can manage finances (reasonably well)...how is it that with all these positives, the only thought that is always always overriding all this is how much I miss the man.  The other half, the one with whom my thoughts and sentences were complete. Who made me laugh, who understood and noticed small details that would fool everyone else.    The man did love the winter light     Jotting down a list of things (in no particular order), that I miss about him - His hands - the man had the most beautiful hands that I have seen till date. Long artistic fingers that bore truth to his love for working with them - be it the sourdoughs that he learnt via YouTube or his leather work or the ferments or the photography or the hand-crafted diaries or his cooking. - That broken tooth in the fron...

We have had a long weekend break for Diwali. 6 days where I had planned to catch up on all work in the first couple of days. Then read those books that I have been itching to reach, for the next 2 days. And of course, go for long walks and resume my yoga.  That was the plan.  What I hadn't planned for, was the grief.  Making marigold garlands to string across doorways was left midway. As I remembered how Tonmoy would not celebrate anything, but participate in everything that I'd do. So the garlands would not be strung on ordinary thread, but the one he used for his leather work. The waxed string would hold the shape better. I would then use the same threads to string up the flowers to dry, which would then be powdered and kept for Holi.  Diyas were washed and dried and wicks made with cotton. And both were left separate. The urge to light a lamp was overshadowed with the sadness that surrounds me like a cloud. One that holds me in a space where the heaviness wears me...

Days pass by and it seems like yesterday, but also aeons since I lost my partner. My best friend. How do you explain this grief that refuses to go away? Grief that seems to have made a home in a tiny space in your heart? Grief that 'allows' you to laugh, but also makes you feel strange about that laughter. Just when you think you are  figuring things out, taking one tiny step forward, and feeling like you are moving ahead...wham! The paperwork starts... Sending his death certificate - over and over again - looking at his age stated on the certificate - 53 years 10 months 6 days, and having it committed to your memory. Letting people know that yes, you are  the only surviving member who is still alive... And then doing it all over again.  And again. And once more. Days when the pain in your leg is outweighed by the pain in your heart. Pain that doesn't allow sleep to help your body run away from that pain, even for a moment. Days when you would like to join your yoga class...