There’s something very nostalgic about sisters staying up late at night, giggling and gossiping, that brings back memories of growing up. I think it’s a sister-sister thing; only sisters with sisters will get it. The last many nights have seen us indulging in decadent gossip, from the whereabouts of the paara’r jethima-pishimas to eccentric friends and relatives we are better off not knowing (in life) but knowing (on social media).
There’s little Maya trying
to sleep, flanked by two gossip mongers incessantly chatting. Our chats are occasionally
punctuated by a restless group of birds outside, or Maya’s shrill cries when
her chomping spree has been prematurely interrupted because the overworked teat
has unceremoniously slipped out of her mouth since her mom and aunt were
giggling uncontrollably. This is usually followed by our mom’s sharp rebuke
from the other room for being the careless Ma and mashi that we are, up and
chatting in the middle of the night. “Tora ghumo ebaar! Bachcha jege jachche!”
I sometimes wonder if she says these things out of decades of habit of
disciplining us, or simply because she is experiencing FOMO.
Maya goes back to sleep
peacefully once she has found her chomping device again, hanging like a
half-monkey, half-kangaroo from her mom’s pouch, occasionally getting restless,
turning on the other side to punch my chest with her little fist. She sidles up
to her mom, a tiny human with simple, non-gossipy needs.
We go back to looking at
social media profiles of people we consider as “odd.” Kamalika from Keshtopur who
is Kami(nee) from Kansas now. I am looking at people and I have no idea who
they are, what they do, or how did they come to occupy my attention. The nyaka
boudi from Gurugram with baggy arms, Mampi and Tampi posing in front of the
temples of Hampi, the new mom posting a dozen baby pics everyday with an emoji
stuck on the baby’s face (why show when you don’t want to show?), the ex of the
ex’s ex whose spouse is currently friends with some other ex (it’s a small
world!), the crush from school who is a bald-headed, pot-bellied catch (me not)
from New Jersey, Ranga mashima’r meye being married to Poltu kaku’r bou er
bhaipo, and the more recent scary Halloween costumes of more Putanas from Durga
pujo.
“Ei dekh Ei chobi ta. The
caption says, ‘Dressed to kill!’”— my sister remarks.
I look at a woman I do not
know, dressed in tight hunting clothes, her hair making her look like a cross
between Sheeba and Kimi Katkar.
“Dressed to kill what?
Mosquitoes?” I observed wryly.
We giggled in spasms. The
baby got startled again. This time, she rightly turned around to kick my lower
abdomen. I gasped audibly. The voice from the other room with the impending
threat was back!
Ghumoshna tora. Oshobhyota
kor. Bachcha ta keo ghumote dish na!! Kalke dekhchi toder!
sunshine
