This Monday morning (evening in India time), July 9th 2018, my Boro Pishi passed away. Boro Pishi in Bengali translates to Eldest Aunt (father's sister). It was a quick one they said, heart attack/ cardiac arrest. She suffered less than three to four hours. Which is quite okay considering the hard life she has had to endure. She was 73.
The last time I saw her was in March of 2013, when I had made a day trip to our ancestral village/town of Jayanagar-Majilpur, where she lived almost all her life. This is the sad part of living so far in the US, we cannot meet our family as often as we like. My trip in 2013 was very delightful, I got to meet two sweet daughters of my cousins for the first time, and reconnect with their wives too. Today, as I reflect back, I wish I had more opportunities like this to hang out with family. But what to do, we need to learn to be happy with what we have, and what we get.
When we were kids, our summer, Durga puja, and winter holidays used to be around Kolkata, mostly in the suburbs of Kolkata where my extended family lived. We spent a lot a lot of time in Barrackpore (my paternal grandparents' place), and in Bansberia (my maternal grandparents' place); both on the banks of the beautiful serene Hoogly River (Ganges) with picturesque ghats. Often, especially during Durga Puja, we'd visit my Boro Pishi in Jaynagar-Majilpur. It was a long two to three hour journey by two local trains. Sometimes the travel time was even longer. If there was a power failure, the train would sit on the rails for quite some time. Or if two opposite direction trains had to cross over at a station, we had to wait too, for there was only one rail line for two way train traffic. In the summer, we'd be very hot and boil in the train, for there was no air conditioning. There still isn't on most local trains. The air was thick with humidity and the resulting sweat on the scores of bodies in the crowded compartments, made everything sticky and smelly. But if we happened to score a spot on by the window, it was great joy to watch the green fields and rail-side ponds go by, the wind blowing through our hair, and fresh breeze off the paddy fields. And there was pat-phati, a indigenous soda water that was sold by the hawkers on the train, cold, in clear glass bottles, that made a "phat" sound when they uncapped the bottle, a cloud of CO2 formed in the humid air, and the fizzy water would delight and quench everyone who drank it. Who knows what water they used, but we did not care. We looked forward to that drink. And there was the hawker's sonepapri, telebhaja, jhal-muri, spicy sweet-n-sour lozenges, and so on. When we reached the J-M station eventually, our cousins would be at the station to receive us. Sometimes we would get on their bicycle carry-back and ride with them home, while our parents walked or took the rickshaw. But if we had luggage, we would take a "van-rickshaw". It is a fabulous way to travel. It is a flatbed rickshaw that can take six to eight people. I loved it and would plead my parents for permission every time. The village roads were narrow and torturous, many old buildings with ivy, some dilapidated, some newly built with fresh whitewash, the tall palms, the huge banyans, the backyard ponds in each home, the cuckoo calls, the chatter of the birds, cows hanging around blocking the roads, the soft smell of cow dung in the air emanating from the wall patties, the cool breeze from the fields and orchards, and above all there was a sense of serenity everywhere.
The sight of my Pishi's house would lift my heart. She'd be standing outside the door waiting for us. She had the biggest and widest grin ever. Her face bright and happy, she'd hug each of us. My paternal family is not the hugging kind, they do not demonstrate affection very well, the most they do is let out a strange grunt. And when they had to show any feelings of love they were super awkward. But Boro Pishi was the exception to the rule, she was extremely affectionate and would squeeze each of us tight, shower us with kisses. I loved that very much. I usually would get all teary eyed when she did that and that was also another reason why I loved visiting her.
Once the loving welcome would be done, she'd insist we wash our train filth away using cool tube-well water, change into "house clothes" and get comfortable on the bed or chairs. Then started the food. Tea for the elders and non stop sweets and snacks for us. My dad is usually the iron man around, and his rules were always to be followed. We used to shiver and cower under his strong personality, he was the Royal Bengal Tiger. But at his Didi's place, he had no power whatsoever. She was The Boss - a kind, loving, affectionate, caring, and most benevolent elder there can be. And in her house, she let us have all the fun in the world. My cousins and I would take the bicycles out and ride all over the village, sometimes as far as Nimpith, we'd sit by the neighbor's ponds and chit-chat all afternoon, we'd eat all the singhara and Jaynagerer Moa that we could stuff our face with, we'd take long late afternoon naps on the tall beds under the big brown slow ceiling fans. It was indeed bliss.
Memories of her loud loving voice and hearty laughter brings great joy in my heart still. She had a very difficult life, but she had the most persevering attitude. She used to be a very good and promising student, but my grandparents married her off way before she could complete her studies and get a job. Those were the times when being a daughter was considered a liability and parents looked to get their daughters married off as soon as they could find an eligible prospect. I don't think I ever met my Pishe, her husband. If I did, I do not remember. He passed away quite early in his life, he had stomach or colon cancer. She was left to raise three young kids, a daughter and two sons, all by herself as a single parent, on his meager death benefits from the government. How she did that while being so cheerful and peaceful, only she knows. It was probably not easy, but her exuberant attitude towards life was probably what helped her maneuver through the difficult trials of life. Her three kids grew up to be very proficient young people, each with secure careers and beautiful families of their own. I love them to bits.
Pishi remains in my heart entangled with some of my best memories of my childhood. She was very dear to me and will always be. I wish that in another lifetime I get to be near her again, to experience her loving caring presence once more.
 |
| My Boro Pishi |
When we were kids, our summer, Durga puja, and winter holidays used to be around Kolkata, mostly in the suburbs of Kolkata where my extended family lived. We spent a lot a lot of time in Barrackpore (my paternal grandparents' place), and in Bansberia (my maternal grandparents' place); both on the banks of the beautiful serene Hoogly River (Ganges) with picturesque ghats. Often, especially during Durga Puja, we'd visit my Boro Pishi in Jaynagar-Majilpur. It was a long two to three hour journey by two local trains. Sometimes the travel time was even longer. If there was a power failure, the train would sit on the rails for quite some time. Or if two opposite direction trains had to cross over at a station, we had to wait too, for there was only one rail line for two way train traffic. In the summer, we'd be very hot and boil in the train, for there was no air conditioning. There still isn't on most local trains. The air was thick with humidity and the resulting sweat on the scores of bodies in the crowded compartments, made everything sticky and smelly. But if we happened to score a spot on by the window, it was great joy to watch the green fields and rail-side ponds go by, the wind blowing through our hair, and fresh breeze off the paddy fields. And there was pat-phati, a indigenous soda water that was sold by the hawkers on the train, cold, in clear glass bottles, that made a "phat" sound when they uncapped the bottle, a cloud of CO2 formed in the humid air, and the fizzy water would delight and quench everyone who drank it. Who knows what water they used, but we did not care. We looked forward to that drink. And there was the hawker's sonepapri, telebhaja, jhal-muri, spicy sweet-n-sour lozenges, and so on. When we reached the J-M station eventually, our cousins would be at the station to receive us. Sometimes we would get on their bicycle carry-back and ride with them home, while our parents walked or took the rickshaw. But if we had luggage, we would take a "van-rickshaw". It is a fabulous way to travel. It is a flatbed rickshaw that can take six to eight people. I loved it and would plead my parents for permission every time. The village roads were narrow and torturous, many old buildings with ivy, some dilapidated, some newly built with fresh whitewash, the tall palms, the huge banyans, the backyard ponds in each home, the cuckoo calls, the chatter of the birds, cows hanging around blocking the roads, the soft smell of cow dung in the air emanating from the wall patties, the cool breeze from the fields and orchards, and above all there was a sense of serenity everywhere.
The sight of my Pishi's house would lift my heart. She'd be standing outside the door waiting for us. She had the biggest and widest grin ever. Her face bright and happy, she'd hug each of us. My paternal family is not the hugging kind, they do not demonstrate affection very well, the most they do is let out a strange grunt. And when they had to show any feelings of love they were super awkward. But Boro Pishi was the exception to the rule, she was extremely affectionate and would squeeze each of us tight, shower us with kisses. I loved that very much. I usually would get all teary eyed when she did that and that was also another reason why I loved visiting her.
Once the loving welcome would be done, she'd insist we wash our train filth away using cool tube-well water, change into "house clothes" and get comfortable on the bed or chairs. Then started the food. Tea for the elders and non stop sweets and snacks for us. My dad is usually the iron man around, and his rules were always to be followed. We used to shiver and cower under his strong personality, he was the Royal Bengal Tiger. But at his Didi's place, he had no power whatsoever. She was The Boss - a kind, loving, affectionate, caring, and most benevolent elder there can be. And in her house, she let us have all the fun in the world. My cousins and I would take the bicycles out and ride all over the village, sometimes as far as Nimpith, we'd sit by the neighbor's ponds and chit-chat all afternoon, we'd eat all the singhara and Jaynagerer Moa that we could stuff our face with, we'd take long late afternoon naps on the tall beds under the big brown slow ceiling fans. It was indeed bliss.
Memories of her loud loving voice and hearty laughter brings great joy in my heart still. She had a very difficult life, but she had the most persevering attitude. She used to be a very good and promising student, but my grandparents married her off way before she could complete her studies and get a job. Those were the times when being a daughter was considered a liability and parents looked to get their daughters married off as soon as they could find an eligible prospect. I don't think I ever met my Pishe, her husband. If I did, I do not remember. He passed away quite early in his life, he had stomach or colon cancer. She was left to raise three young kids, a daughter and two sons, all by herself as a single parent, on his meager death benefits from the government. How she did that while being so cheerful and peaceful, only she knows. It was probably not easy, but her exuberant attitude towards life was probably what helped her maneuver through the difficult trials of life. Her three kids grew up to be very proficient young people, each with secure careers and beautiful families of their own. I love them to bits.
Pishi remains in my heart entangled with some of my best memories of my childhood. She was very dear to me and will always be. I wish that in another lifetime I get to be near her again, to experience her loving caring presence once more.
