A perfect day for the beginning of a new decade. After years of trying to avoid my birthday, my thirtieth was definitely worth the recognition – besides I think somewhere deep inside I had never expected to reach what had previously seemed to be such a huge age. But time comes and goes in a seamless ribbon of events, rippling from one to another as we ride the short length of the stream of infinity. Time carries us along with each breath, until age has worn the body, and experience battles with the forgetfulness of the mind.
I had tried to remember each year of my past birthdays; Thailand, Oxford, Palestine, Nepal.....but the memories are not clear and recollections of celebrations have become clouded with the criss-crossing of events and friends. My memories are faded with only certain smiles remaining: The smiles of snowboarding for my twenty first; or dancing in the streets of Darwin for my eighteenth, a friends parents taking me out for dinner on my sixteenth, the three flavours of ice-cream that I would have to choose to share with my boarding house as friends would line up with their mugs at the ready. I remember when I turned six, and it felt like I had reached a milestone of childhood – waiting for my little friends to arrive for cupcakes and pin the tail on the donkey games as well as the overwhelming stacks of presents which preceded them. The first birthday I think I can remember, although I can't remember how old I was, definitely involved a magician...magic birthdays...
My first Indian birthday involved copious amounts of music, noise and dancing – all at the orphanage. Even the walk to Shishu Bahavan involved an escort by a brass band, the members of whom where wearing bright pink shirts and joking with the crowd as they danced into waiting pedestrians amused at the cause of their delay. Behind them chugged an old van, filled with people and smiling children. On the front there was a polystyrene heart proclaiming the marriage of two veiled faces. I stopped to collect the one hundred misthi which I had ordered from a sweet stall tucked between the butchers of Alimuddien street. The Bengali sweets consist of mouth sized balls of soft deliciousness soaked in syrup which effortless melts in the mouth as escaping liquid needs to be rapidly licked up. The workers joked with us as we took photos of them peeking out of the roof and then proudly standing next to their collection of multi-coloured freshly made trays of sweet treats. Free samples were distributed, and I found my new favourite – a warm mixture of sweet thick curd served on a crispy brown leaf, shaped into a bowl with the help of a tooth pick.
In Sishu Bahvan I handed the clay pot full of misthi to a massi who swiftly removed them for later consumption – which I hope won't be too late. Meanwhile, a friend from Modern Lodge - a Swedish sitar player – tuned his hand crafted instrument in the stair well, while I tried to coax the active kids into the inactive section, so all would be able to listen. The Swedish musician with his Indian sitar sat on the floor as the kids began to edge around him. He began to pluck the delicate strings with his taped fingers (a sure sign of his commitment to mastering this beautiful instrument). The temptation was too much for the children and as soon as the Wide Eyed Boy had broken the imaginary barrier between performer and audience, little hands were every where. The children were drawn to the sitar like bees to honey. The Swede and his sitar began to retreat backwards in a slow bum shuffle, and eventually the concert had moved across the entire floor of the orphanage. Trying my hardest to protect the sitar and fight for enough space for the Swede to actually move his arms, but it was like trying to pry super strength magnets from super charged steel. The Little Chinese Boy with his low vision eyes even climbed on his lap hugging his arms around the sitar. The closer he was the more the source of the sound was revealed. Eventually the brave Swede surrendered and sitar was hidden. The replacement calvary included the blasting beats of popular hindi songs which crackled out of the speakers. Armed with a packet of face paints we began to decorate the faces of the kids, who soon were piling on top of us, in front of us and rolling over our backs, pointing to particular colours and body parts which they demanded should be painted. Protecting the paints required immense concentration as fingers appeared from no-where trying to take ownership of the treasures. The Little Chinese Boy crept up and blew some of his famous raspberries on my arm – a sure sign of appreciation.
Meanwhile, the sitar-less Swede was dancing with Racki – a little autistic blind girl who I think must believe that all volunteers are toys for her amusement. She was holding the Swede's hand and twirling and turning around and around and around as he stood next to her like a needle from a record player. Bruno was sitting face to face with Deepa cradling a baby 'Gibtone' guitar. Deepa was tapping out the tunes onto the guitar while Bruno strummed – two pairs of hands on one instrument. I watched as she leaned closer and closer until eventually she had placed her lips on the strings...delicately feeling each vibration as the sounds flowed through the surrounding air.
A group of kids had gathered in front of class room door. The door is 'protected' with a large plastic sheet. The kids were dancing so that they could watch their reflections and more specifically their newly decorated faces – as they pointed to their moving shadows temporarily disguised as tigers, cats and butterfly's. Giving me inspiration I picked up the Girl with the Most Beautiful Smile in the world and took her over to the mirror. She clapped her hands together and flipped her body forwards and backwards as her face spread even further across her face.
The Sister in charge was surprisingly miffed that I hadn't told her it was my birthday, and insisted on adding to the celebrations by decorating me with a pink plastic garland and then presenting me with an enormous stuffed tiger. Meanwhile, the massis and active kids sang Happy Birthday followed by an enthusiastic rendition of 'God Bless You', sang in both Bangla and English. The Little Chinese Boy came to grab the birthday tiger, but was shooed away by the Sister who insisted he would rip it...but I have a suspicion that a Tigers den will soon be lurking under the cots. Deepa won the packaging – a plastic bag which she crunched and crushed, twisting it as she listened to the sounds and felt the slippery texture.
I left feeling incredibly elated, full of childish energy, and happy that I had an excuse to have a party with the kids. Walking back down the street with my face painted with a green foliage and two '30's one on each cheek, while a tiger peaked out of my bag. On the way home The Man Outside found me, and when presented with the Gibtone began to play a tune – always full of surprises – just like the time when handed the keys to a bicycle he jumped on and peddled off, leaving no trace of his belief that he was kidnapped from London and brought to Kolkata by a helicopter. We went for dinner in the Taj Continental. The waiters discussed whether the tiger was Bengali or African. The Man Outside watched warily as the waiters insisted on posing for photos with what was eventually decided to be a foreign tiger. As I walked home the taxi drivers contagiously sang 'Om Namah Shivaya' – presumably mistaking the '30's for sideways 'OM's but unwittingly singing the mantra of Anusara yoga. I walked home stepping into the flow of the currents of Grace – the beautiful ribbon of life which time accompanies us through year after seamless year., brushing over the past with faded memories and reminding us of the importance of living fully in the present.
No comments:
Post a Comment