Snapshots
Neel Sandell
Sunday evening -8:30 p.m- I work furiously at my homework trying to finish the mountain of assignments that is due the next week.My mother appears ,framing the doorway and with a disapproving shake of her head berates me “if only you would stop procrastinating and start your work earlier, life would get so much better”. I am about to retort, Hamlet-like that ‘there is a method in my madness”. But wisdom dawns luckily as I escape the upcoming lecture that would have descended upon my pitiful, procrastinating self and look away at this red wall and with re frames.The faces of my ginormous extended family look at me ,smilingly and perhaps a little more indulgently than my own mother. My mind goes back a year ,to another Christmas break ,to another holiday in India.
As I go through the customary immigration procedures ,my ears are killing me .I can't imagine why we would have to go through a day's journey, a ton of money and innumerable inconveniences to see the masses of relatives.The boldly emblazoned Nike logo on the billboard screams at me ‘Just do it’.Of course ,I will, dear Nike - I will do it ,.with purpose and positivity .I will impress every single one of my family with my brushed up Bengali language skills,I will smile till my cheeks hurt and ,I will bend down and touch their feet till they shower me with the right amount of blessings so that the procrastination is replaced with true eastern discipline.
Our first event is a wedding we have been invited to. Dressed in our finery and regaled by stories of a distant aunt who tries desperately to give us a synopsis of her last thirty years, we try to find the venue.I smile politely and hopefully at the right places even though I am only guessing at her lyrical Bengali expressions. In the middle of her reminiscences she interjects “So, what would you like to be, a doctor, an engineer, or an accountant?” When I say neither, she looks at me puzzled and looks back at my mother for an explanation to this inexplicable phenomenon. When we finally arrive at the venue, I am fondly inspected by all the aunties and uncles from head to toe, and I am barraged with the litany of comments “Look how thin you are, your mother must not be feeding you” “You look just like your father when he was a baby” “I hope you get married to a suitable Indian girl one day” I somehow managed to free myself from their loving scrutiny to get to the one thing that only made sense to me - the heavenly goodness of Butter chicken, kababs, and naan. After I had had my fill of the mouth watering delicacies, I took a seat in front of the marriage proceedings. See, the thing is, unlike the Western world, it takes three days, a million people, and countless ceremonies to finally say’I do’.
Wedding done -We are headed now to a more distant place ,to the spiritual city of Haridvar at the foothills of the Himalayas. As I descend onto the platform of this “bustling with life” railway station, I see humans, cows, and goats amicably making their way to the exit. I walk in trepidation next to the cow with large horns before being engulfed by the sudden outpouring of love from two highly energetic and warm eighty year olds. The zest, curiosity and boundless energy of my two grandmothers remind me that age is after all a number and an ailing body can hardly curb the human spirit.I am taken down their memory lane, to the early parts of the last century ,to the times that were and the times that have been, to the faded black and white photographs that showed me my roots.
Back to Kolkata, my parents hometown ,I meet with more relatives and friends, enjoy a thousand stories and a million remarkable moments that I can later map, cherish, and revisit.The family get-togethers had been such a treasure trove in spite of me not being able to fathom or connect sometimes. It has given me a sense of warmth and belonging that I could never have found in my usual everyday experiences. A year later, the wall of frames is so meaningful. In moments of anxiety and stress,t hey make me smile; they make me happy.
As I go through the customary immigration procedures ,my ears are killing me .I can't imagine why we would have to go through a day's journey, a ton of money and innumerable inconveniences to see the masses of relatives.The boldly emblazoned Nike logo on the billboard screams at me ‘Just do it’.Of course ,I will, dear Nike - I will do it ,.with purpose and positivity .I will impress every single one of my family with my brushed up Bengali language skills,I will smile till my cheeks hurt and ,I will bend down and touch their feet till they shower me with the right amount of blessings so that the procrastination is replaced with true eastern discipline.
Our first event is a wedding we have been invited to. Dressed in our finery and regaled by stories of a distant aunt who tries desperately to give us a synopsis of her last thirty years, we try to find the venue.I smile politely and hopefully at the right places even though I am only guessing at her lyrical Bengali expressions. In the middle of her reminiscences she interjects “So, what would you like to be, a doctor, an engineer, or an accountant?” When I say neither, she looks at me puzzled and looks back at my mother for an explanation to this inexplicable phenomenon. When we finally arrive at the venue, I am fondly inspected by all the aunties and uncles from head to toe, and I am barraged with the litany of comments “Look how thin you are, your mother must not be feeding you” “You look just like your father when he was a baby” “I hope you get married to a suitable Indian girl one day” I somehow managed to free myself from their loving scrutiny to get to the one thing that only made sense to me - the heavenly goodness of Butter chicken, kababs, and naan. After I had had my fill of the mouth watering delicacies, I took a seat in front of the marriage proceedings. See, the thing is, unlike the Western world, it takes three days, a million people, and countless ceremonies to finally say’I do’.
Wedding done -We are headed now to a more distant place ,to the spiritual city of Haridvar at the foothills of the Himalayas. As I descend onto the platform of this “bustling with life” railway station, I see humans, cows, and goats amicably making their way to the exit. I walk in trepidation next to the cow with large horns before being engulfed by the sudden outpouring of love from two highly energetic and warm eighty year olds. The zest, curiosity and boundless energy of my two grandmothers remind me that age is after all a number and an ailing body can hardly curb the human spirit.I am taken down their memory lane, to the early parts of the last century ,to the times that were and the times that have been, to the faded black and white photographs that showed me my roots.
Back to Kolkata, my parents hometown ,I meet with more relatives and friends, enjoy a thousand stories and a million remarkable moments that I can later map, cherish, and revisit.The family get-togethers had been such a treasure trove in spite of me not being able to fathom or connect sometimes. It has given me a sense of warmth and belonging that I could never have found in my usual everyday experiences. A year later, the wall of frames is so meaningful. In moments of anxiety and stress,t hey make me smile; they make me happy.