When I was small

When I was small,
when I was very small indeed,
so small that everything little seemed immensely my own—mine—
I remember trying to understand the unknown world
through the space between my tiny fingers. Closing my left eye just so and setting my right eye
at a certain distance between two fingers,
seeing the world through a small person’s eyes. This
was a game I played with myself. I did it often. Into the gap between two fingers came
distant buildings, ancient trees standing
stock-still and struck dumb,
a bird or two of childhood, lovely and flying across the sky. Sometimes even the dense trail of smoke
left behind by a jet that had whooshed past and vanished with a tiny thud
would surrender itself to the little ones—right there in the space between two tiny fingers. Mother would watch,
and smile. I would tell her,
“Ma, look, look! The sky is right here!” I would pull Mother along
to the open window, and through the gaps in the grille show her
the childhood world trapped between my fingers. The most beautiful thing about childhood is that you can stay small in childhood, no one objects, no one forces big things on you, you can be wonderfully happy with small joys.
What kind of small joys? Like this—one day when I felt unwell, Mother didn’t make me study. Then
it seemed life is
beautiful.

Childhood is
a kingdom of wishes left behind in that little time. In the sky of that kingdom flies only one kite—
the kite of desire. This kite defeats all other kites. There was another game,
the game of thinking whatever I wished in my mind
and becoming happy. If you stare fixedly at emptiness, something like jelly
begins to fall very slowly from above
into the space before your eyes. It descends in thin, winding lines,
moving downward and gradually disappearing. It seemed that around whatever I was staring at, a rainbow came from somewhere,
slowly and gently touching me,
touching me,
touching me. This isn’t easy—
you have to fix your eyes on an object
in such a way that your mind isn’t on that object. Coloring is difficult,
whether yourself or someone else; for this you must become accustomed to infinite patience. Eventually
both eyes grow blurry. The eyelids snap shut, the game can begin again from the start, coloring myself
however I wish, as much as I wish,
in the rainbow of imagination’s colors. Alas! Those colors
are lost now! They no longer come when called. I’ve grown up, you see! Growing up is a terribly
awful thing!

In the morning Father
would go to court. I’d rush to the door first
and stand there holding Father’s briefcase. My little brother and I would fight every day
over who would hand the briefcase to Father. Father would take both of us in his arms and kiss us, and give us some pocket money too. In those days you could buy
a spicy chocolate for four annas, singharas were sold for eight annas, and for one rupee you could get a packet of sweet balls (bird eggs). Then we two brothers would run back
and sit on the bed. Our building was
right near the main road. There was a cot beside the window that opened onto the street when you opened it. Both of us brothers would shout at the top of our voices, Baba! Baba!! And
stretching our tiny hands as far as possible through the grille across the window
we’d call out, Baba, bye-bye, bye-bye!! Father would wave from the rickshaw, smiling, and even after the rickshaw had moved beyond our sight, Father would keep turning back to wave. Seeing all this, Mother would giggle with delight. Whether that laughter was at our mischief
or looking into Father’s smiling eyes,
or both,
is hard to say, of course. We
would drop our pocket money into clay banks. Those were the days of saving money in clay banks. I remember
we would wait eagerly
for when we could break the bank. Mother would say, “Let me see whose bank fills up first.” A competition of saving money would go on; unlike adults who steal others’ money and then compete with them, children weren’t like that. Children have more self-respect than adults. Breaking the bank was genuinely thrilling. The thrill of small childhood joys. The jingling sound of breaking the bank still rings in my ears. In intense excitement
we would count the coins, then gather them all together
in a bag and take them to the grocery shop below to exchange for big paper notes. How much could it be! Maybe 150 rupees, 200 rupees! Then
I felt like a very rich man, a rich man indeed.
That was a time when you could become rich with little. How sweet that time was. Father would add some more money to that amount
and deposit it in a post office savings account.

All day long
I would wait for Father to return.
Sometimes the three of us—Mother and we two brothers—would sit and play ludo, call bridge and carrom. Sweet sunlight would come into the balcony; we’d spread a mat there
and play until the last light of evening faded. If the dice didn’t fall right,
Mother would overturn the ludo board. Sometimes she would somehow cleverly hold onto the ludo piece while throwing and then release the dice. We learned this trickery later too. If she couldn’t ‘eat’ enough pieces in the kalakash game, she would scatter the carrom pieces as well. Oh my! How childish Mother was! (Thank goodness Mother isn’t on Facebook!)
Father would return before evening. He never came home empty-handed. He’d bring interesting
snacks with him. Different kinds on different days. In our house we all sat together for breakfast, evening snacks, and dinner. No one ate without the others. They still don’t. In the evening when the call to prayer sounded, Father would tell us to be quiet. Mother would mute the TV. Father would say, “This moment
is a sacred moment. There is prayer, evening lamps are lit. During prayer time you should either pray, or remain silent.” During Ramadan, Father brings iftar every day, and never eats before the call to prayer; he arranges the iftar on the table
and waits for the call.
After evening snacks, when Father was resting, I would pester him,
Baba, I want to ride a horse, let me ride a horse. Even after working all day, Father would laughingly
become a horse and give both of us brothers rides. Now I think, how was it possible! Even the completely restless, impatient boy
becomes possessed by infinite patience when he becomes a father! I would tell Father about who said what at school, which homework got me a ‘good’ in my notebook (if I was made to stand holding my ears in class, I wouldn’t mention it—
Mother would tell him about that),
and so many other things! Mother
would smile quietly. Even now Mother looks very beautiful when she smiles.

Father would go
walking every morning. We two brothers went with him. Our house was on Ice Factory Road in Chittagong. On both sides of the road, toward the Collegiate School field, there were many flower trees. We would pick flowers for worship
and keep them in a flower basket. Returning home, we’d freshen up, finish breakfast, and get ready for school. We had no sister. So we had to help Mother
with household chores. I still do, though my younger brother does more. In those days
we also had to perform worship. Mother would teach us, holding our hands. Thursday’s Lakshmi puja was the most troublesome task. With such care and attention we had to keep
the goddess of wealth pleased. The Lakshmi panchali became memorized from reading it with melody. I still remember it.
…… The night of Dol Purnima, the sky clear and bright. Gentle and soft blows the southern breeze.। …… In the evening
we two brothers would sit beside Mother and perform evening prayers. Mother would sing in a beautifully sweet voice with melody,
Hare Krishna Hare Krishna,
Krishna Krishna Hare Hare. Hare
Ram Hare Ram, Ram Ram Hare Hare.
Tears would flow from Mother’s eyes. Tears of devotion. Mother would also sing evening songs. Make me pure, bring good fortune, wiping away the stains of my heart॥ Let your sacred rays
drive away the darkness of my delusion.
…… Sound again your conch, O wielder of the discus. Lord, come, come, Hrishikesha, bearer of earth’s burden.। ……How emotionally she would sing, O charioteer of Partha, sound, sound, the conch of victory……….. That melody, that emotion,
that yearning I still feel
very deeply today.

I was quite the little devil too. I’d stick my head out through the grille of the balcony window and spit on passersby below. Then I’d quickly duck my head back inside and slip away so they wouldn’t see me if they looked up. When I did this, Ma would tap me sharply on the lips. I’d cut paper into tiny pieces with scissors and scatter them all over the room. I’d take strips of paper out to the window and cut them into parallel shreds—snip, snip, snip—and thousands of paper confetti would flutter down around the building. At school, if I found any worm-eaten parts on the high benches, I’d poke at them with my ballpoint pen to extract more wood dust, then blow it all into one pile. Sometimes I’d dust this powder onto my friends’ black pants. We didn’t have a cable connection at home. Whenever I saw cable lines outside the window, I’d turn the TV antenna toward them to see if any channels would come in. If not, I’d give the TV a good whack. Kids today have never seen cassette tapes. In our childhood, cassettes were all the rage. Back then they seemed like something magical to me. I used to wonder: how do songs get trapped inside this thin ribbon of tape! I’d rub the tape, trying to understand. It was such fun to stick a pencil into the two notched gaps of a broken cassette and spin it around! Then I’d pull out a bit of tape from the top of the cassette and slowly extract the entire ribbon. The peace that came from doing this—there’s no way to describe it. After achieving this blissful state, I’d receive some decidedly unpeaceful beatings from Ma. I’d use screwdrivers to take apart toys to see what was inside. I was mainly attracted to magnets and motors. I’d cut stiff paper into fan shapes, attach them to the motor head, and connect a battery to create my own breeze. I’d tell Baba, “Baba, Baba, look, I made this fan myself. Isn’t the air nice and cool?” I wasn’t old enough yet to understand like and unlike poles of magnets. Ma had a little garden on our balcony. Some plants were in pots, others in tins. The plants that were potted in powdered milk tins—when I held a magnet near the bottom of those rusty tins close to the soil, lots of iron filings would stick to the magnet. Then I’d put them on white paper and place the magnet on the other side to make the iron filings dance. If I placed two circular magnets with opposite poles side by side and tried to bring one close to the other, it would race away. That’s how I played car-car. Ma had taught me both these games. Our childhood was about imagining ourselves as MacGyver. I can still hear the MacGyver theme song in my head. Just thinking of that tune back then made me feel so grown-up. If I couldn’t open toys with a screwdriver, I’d just break them. All the happiness in the world lay in breaking toys. Anyone who never broke a toy never truly had a childhood. Ma would scold me when I broke toys. Baba would say, “Why are you scolding him? Toys are meant to be broken!” I’d twist wires together with toy car motors, ICs, pencil batteries and all sorts of random electronic bits to create my ‘childhood bomb.’ The plan was: if Ma scolded me or beat me, I’d set this on fire and blow up the whole house. Later, thanks to Ma’s beatings, all my latent potential for becoming a skilled bomber in adulthood was destroyed in its very bud. What a tragic death of genius!

On holidays I’d go out for evening walks with Baba—not for the walking, but because whenever I went out with Baba, he’d buy me lots of things to eat. While walking, Baba would talk about many things. He’d ask: “Have you finished reading ‘The Tiger and the Jackal’? Let’s see, which poems do you know from ‘Abol Tabol’?” He’d recite verses from ‘Russian Folk Tales’ and ask, “Tell me, ‘Sivka Burka, magical steed, swift horse, come and stand before me’—which story did you read this in?” My familial relationship with Satyajit’s Feluda was established in that very childhood. Our childhood was spent growing up reading Chacha Chaudhury, Handa Bhonda, Nonte Fonte, Bantul the Great, Tintin, Billu, Pinki, Raman, Shrimati-ji, Phantom, He-Man. Later came Teen Goyenda (Three Detectives). The excitement of saving up tiffin money bit by bit to buy one such book—even if I could buy an entire bookstore now, it wouldn’t match that feeling. Baba would take us to church on Christmas, to the pagoda on Buddha Purnima. He’d tell us to watch how they pray. He’d buy us colorful picture books with myths from different religions. In the evenings when Baba sat us down to study during breaks from his work, I’d keep reading while waiting for MacGyver to start. And there was so much more! The Fall Guy, The Wizard, The Raven, The A-Team, Mysterious Island, The Pathfinder, Tarzan, ThunderCats, Popeye, Tom and Jerry, Captain Planet, The Three Stooges, Notun Kuri, Arabian Nights, Akbar the Great, The Sword of Tipu Sultan, Robin Hood, and so many others. I still remember feeling some secret excitement watching the scantily clad women in the Hercules series, so I’d really hope no one would be around when I watched it. Most TV serials started at 9 PM. I’d start pretending to doze off right at 8:45—children are very punctual about maintaining their mischief schedule. Baba would understand perfectly, but still say, “Don’t sleep, eat your rice first.” He’d call Ma and say, “Listen, Bappi is falling asleep. Give him his dinner.” Ma understood this trick of mine. She’d say, “Fine, send him to me.” Then I’d tearfully tell Baba, “Baba, I want to watch a little Alif Laila, today they’re going to kill the demon. I’ll never watch again. I’ll study at night. Please tell Ma.” I knew crying wouldn’t work with Ma. So I’d get Baba to speak for me. I thought Baba was the kindest person in the world, and Ma was the enemy. I still remember when Shahrukh’s first released movie ‘Deewana’ came out, I was in Class II. We had a VCR at home. CDs weren’t common then; we watched movies on video cassettes. There were video cassette rental shops in every lane where you could rent popular Bengali-Hindi-English movies for 10 taka for two or three days. I had my first crush in that very childhood—seeing Divya Bharti in Deewana. I thought: Oh! If only I could fall in love with a girl like that! I’d even tell this to God when I prayed! Back then my devotion was earnest, without any pretense. Now I understand why the wise have said, “God helps those who help themselves.” Truly divine trickery!

Another wish I had in childhood was to vanish. I really wished: Oh! If only I could disappear like Mr. India whenever I wanted! This desire would grip me even more fiercely when I went to chocolate shops or toy stores. Another favorite pastime was whistling familiar tunes. I learned this skill from Baba. I still do this. It’s quite fun! Take ‘Wind of Change’—it has whistling in it. When you whistle it, doesn’t it sound wonderful! Here’s another one: arranging many matchboxes in a long row and giving a little tap to one end—how beautifully they’d knock into each other one after another and fall down! The joy you get from this game without spending a penny—I couldn’t buy that with several months of my current salary. I’d play pen-fights with my little brother and school friends. The infinite joy of making all the pens fall off the table! Here’s another I remember: burning and melting the tip of a ballpoint pen, then holding it and pulling while blowing on the other end would create many little balloons. This was a very common game. I burned my hands many times playing this and, as expected, got thrashed by Ma. When Bengali mothers’ precious darlings get hurt while showing off their talents, they first hurt them more, then tend to them. How peculiar is the Bengali woman’s mind! We’d spin tops, play marbles, and show off various tricks with yo-yos in our hands. I was very good at marbles—I’d accumulate heaps of marbles I’d won at home. Back then they seemed like treasures of immense value. My mother would very carefully throw out all the marbles I’d ‘earned’ through my gaming prowess, tossing them out the window one by one. Alas! All my achievements mixed with dust! I’d grit my teeth in anger and sorrow, but couldn’t even cry for fear of getting beaten. I was so hurt! I wanted to grab Ma and throw her out the window too.

I had countless stamps and coins from various countries. We kids would compete over who could collect the most. I learned thievery while collecting these. I’d steal unused stamps from friends—unstuck stamps had special value. Sometimes I’d draw stamps, cutting jagged edges around them to make them look real, or cut stamp pictures from magazines and glue them in my album next to real stamps. I thought no one could tell the difference between real and fake, so both my collection and prestige were growing. When looking at others’ collections, I’d pocket countless stamps and coins—there’s no counting how many. Whenever anyone came to our house, I’d drag them around showing off my collection until they were thoroughly annoyed. I’d steal books too, without any conscience or consideration. All the books in the world seemed to belong to me. The indescribable joy of making someone else’s book your own—I don’t get that anymore. Now I’ve become a complete gentleman. There’s no happiness in becoming a gentleman, only un-happiness. These days I really miss the joy of not being able to buy as many books as I wanted. The absence of the joy of not-having hurts more than the pain of not-having itself. Now I neither borrow books nor lend them. People borrow books for two reasons: One—to read them. Two—to not return them. I miss both terribly now.

As a child, I was terribly penny-pinching by nature. I would water down the ink in my fountain pen inkwell to make it last longer. I’d get scolded for this too. From the notion that running the fan on slow speed would reduce the electricity bill, I would set the room fan to the lowest setting. We had a two-in-one at home. I loved to channel-surf and listen to strange, wonderful songs in different languages. I would record my favorite songs from TV onto cassettes using the two-in-one. Later, I’d listen to them while staying up all night doing math. My parents have always been cultured, refined people through and through. Even before I could speak, we grew up listening to modern and classical music from the Rabindra-Nazrul-Atul-Rajani and Lata-Kishore schools at home; we were raised on those melodies. I think one could live just listening to those childhood songs.

At the start of each year, my father would always buy me several books in addition to the school textbooks. The number of non-textbooks he bought was proportional to my final term results from the previous class. My love for books was inherited from my father. I remained small for a long time. Small, meaning those who don’t have much money in hand. Whenever I asked for money to buy books, I could always get it from my mother. Women’s money and the paste in a toothpaste tube are alike. Even when everything seems finished, there’s always something left. Somehow, if you ask women, you can always get money. Mother never said ‘no’ when I asked for book money. Actually, asking father repeatedly felt somewhat embarrassing. I asked mother more often. I never had to struggle to read story books in secret. My parents always encouraged me. Sometimes mother and I would have reading competitions. Mother would often let me win. Father would just smile. How sweet the meaning of that smile was—I understand now; I smile too. How effortlessly fathers and mothers become fathers and mothers! It’s truly amazing to think about!