As India Builds (Part 8)

In the front portico, several cousins assembled around Wall Street banker Ronti’s Blackberry and marveled. As I joined them, eyes darted to me. “You probably have one of these?” “Sure, I have a Treo,” I replied, my eyes glazing over the Blackberry, to focus on the marble staircase on which, at four, I fell and broke all my front teeth. I noticed cracks on the marble.

We gathered for music and poetry, Raja played the Piano, Aveek the Harmonium. They led the group through song after song from Tagore’s abundant repertoire – the songs of our childhood, the music of our culture. Deesha, bored, cell phone in her ear, sat at a distance, chatting with her boyfriend. Her body here, but only physically; in her mind she fled as I have all my life, been fleeing from Elgin Road. In many ways, this evening, for me, was a very personal celebration of loss. There is a primal cord that holds us all to what we knew as children. Is it this table full of delicious food that we have shared on so many occasions? Is it these antique mirrors that have reflected back at us both our growth and our limitations? Is it this staircase that we have climbed and descended, into and out of, the bosom of the house?

Much as I fought for twenty years to create my own identity that had absolutely nothing to do with my family, my own independent success narrative, that night I came to Elgin Road to acknowledge. I came to forgive. To accept. Even rejoice.

The spirits of our dead watched, as we made peace. They shook their heads. They smiled. Maybe they apologized.

And the House? Was it listening to this noise and rupture of family? Was it able to forget the demolition from all corners of Calcutta?

This segment is part 8 in the series : As India Builds
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8