I must have been 6-7 years old and we were visiting some relatives in Calcutta. They had a big house on the outskirts of the city. After the first few days, when the novelty of the big house had passed, we decided to go to the city. My enthusiastic uncle said that it was time we did some touristy things. He said we must go explore the city. Go take pictures at Howrah bridge and at Victoria Memorial and eat puchkas later.
We piled into the back of his old Fiat and set off on our little journey. There were way too many people to fit in and I had to perch onto my mom’s lap. The ride was very interesting. My uncle kept pointing out buildings that had been built in the British era; their structures subtle yet sturdy. My mother and aunt made a couple of stops to look at saris. I remember that there was a cow there that had very pretty eyes. It’s funny how tiny details always stay with you.
As we began to approach our destination, the excitement grew. Everyone started talking in loud voices. My uncle had to juggle driving and making animated gestures to spice up his anecdotes. In the middle of all this we didn’t see an oncoming car. My uncle hit the brakes at the last minute. The car made a loud screech. Thankfully, the two cars didn’t collide. The other driver shouted at my uncle in rapid Bengali. My uncle apologized and turned to see if we were all okay. We weren’t. At least I wasn’t. Since I was sitting on my mother’s lap, I had hit the front seat with the sudden jerk. My lower lip had a slight cut. But when you are 6, a slight cut is like having a fracture. I started crying and my entire family attempted to pacify me. My uncle apologized a hundred times and made promises of pastries and sweets. My mother told everyone, in a strangely high pitched tone, what a brave girl I was. “Isn’t she brave?” My mother asked the others. I continued crying. To make matters worse, my cousin pointed at my lip and said, “Look Ma, balloon!” what he was trying to say was that my lip was beginning to swell. That scared me more and my howls became too loud for my family to handle. Finally, resorting to being stern, my uncle asked me to stop crying if I wanted to see Victoria Memorial with everyone else. That did the trick, but only just. I switched over to whimpering.
The swelling however had begun to worry my folks. My uncle started driving towards an ice cream man to see if he had some ice. My sister, in an attempt to cheer me up, began to tell me a story to make me a laugh. It was a story about a king who had to stop a battle to go to the bathroom. I remember laughing a lot. The ice cream man didn’t have ice. He also cheerfully informed us of some massive power cut. He told us that finding ice now would be difficult. Then he saw my lip and my tear streaked face. He smiled and pinched my cheeks and said he had a solution. He handed me a cold pack of Frooti. It was semi-frozen. He told me that I could hold it to my lip for a while and then drink it.
Those were strangely simpler times. We saw the Howrah bridge and ate the puchkas, amidst all the other things. But my favourite part of the Calcutta trip was the semi frozen Frooti.
We piled into the back of his old Fiat and set off on our little journey. There were way too many people to fit in and I had to perch onto my mom’s lap. The ride was very interesting. My uncle kept pointing out buildings that had been built in the British era; their structures subtle yet sturdy. My mother and aunt made a couple of stops to look at saris. I remember that there was a cow there that had very pretty eyes. It’s funny how tiny details always stay with you.
As we began to approach our destination, the excitement grew. Everyone started talking in loud voices. My uncle had to juggle driving and making animated gestures to spice up his anecdotes. In the middle of all this we didn’t see an oncoming car. My uncle hit the brakes at the last minute. The car made a loud screech. Thankfully, the two cars didn’t collide. The other driver shouted at my uncle in rapid Bengali. My uncle apologized and turned to see if we were all okay. We weren’t. At least I wasn’t. Since I was sitting on my mother’s lap, I had hit the front seat with the sudden jerk. My lower lip had a slight cut. But when you are 6, a slight cut is like having a fracture. I started crying and my entire family attempted to pacify me. My uncle apologized a hundred times and made promises of pastries and sweets. My mother told everyone, in a strangely high pitched tone, what a brave girl I was. “Isn’t she brave?” My mother asked the others. I continued crying. To make matters worse, my cousin pointed at my lip and said, “Look Ma, balloon!” what he was trying to say was that my lip was beginning to swell. That scared me more and my howls became too loud for my family to handle. Finally, resorting to being stern, my uncle asked me to stop crying if I wanted to see Victoria Memorial with everyone else. That did the trick, but only just. I switched over to whimpering.
The swelling however had begun to worry my folks. My uncle started driving towards an ice cream man to see if he had some ice. My sister, in an attempt to cheer me up, began to tell me a story to make me a laugh. It was a story about a king who had to stop a battle to go to the bathroom. I remember laughing a lot. The ice cream man didn’t have ice. He also cheerfully informed us of some massive power cut. He told us that finding ice now would be difficult. Then he saw my lip and my tear streaked face. He smiled and pinched my cheeks and said he had a solution. He handed me a cold pack of Frooti. It was semi-frozen. He told me that I could hold it to my lip for a while and then drink it.
Those were strangely simpler times. We saw the Howrah bridge and ate the puchkas, amidst all the other things. But my favourite part of the Calcutta trip was the semi frozen Frooti.
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