The Kolkata Collection: Flip Flop
The Kolkata Collection
The stories and poems in this collection are a tribute to my home away from home. (I found them in the crawlspace of my childhood bedroom when my family was moving.) The pieces were written for assignments during my senior year of high school and freshman year of college. Aside from grammatical and syntactical edits, they are reproduced here in their original form. Read more from the collection here.
Flip Flop
I pressed my nose against the icy storm door, trying to get a better view of the snowy street. I could hear the rumble of the school bus turning onto my cul-de-sac. I looked down to quickly fasten the last hot pink button on my winter coat; I looked up again in just enough time to see the bus drive by my house.
I do not remember if I was upset when the bus driver forgot to pick me up. I do know that I was five-years-old and jet-lagged, so I hardly registered anything going on around me. Ma and I had just returned from our trip to Calcutta and it was my first day back to kindergarten. After the two-month stay visiting relatives, nothing pertaining to home made sense. Adjusting to the New Hampshire weather was especially difficult. I felt odd in my puffy parka. It was too big; it did not fit right at all.
I felt disarrayed even before I left for Calcutta. Although I had visited as an infant and toddler, I did not remember anything or anyone from those earlier stays. A week before leaving, my older sister made me play a few rounds of her version of Guess Who. Didi would point to a relative in a photo, and I would have to name the person. I was very bad at the game. I was especially frustrated when I saw myself in the pictures, sitting on someone’s lap. I remember thinking, I don’t know these people, but I’m supposed to love them?
I did not fret over the naming problem for long. Soon I had other things to worry about. I can still picture myself sitting in the plastic airport seats at Logan, crying because Daddy and Didi were not crossing the terminal’s glass partition over to Ma and me. I knew Daddy had work and Didi had school, but I did not fully understand why they were not coming with us. After lingering a while at the gate, they waved goodbye and left the terminal. When they did, I turned to Ma and held her hand. I did not let go the entire journey.
For the first few weeks I clung to Ma. Wherever we went I hid behind her thigh, clutching her large hips for support. When I refused to greet my aunts and uncles they would comment, “Such an odd girl! From America, yet so shy!”
Weeks passed until I finally accepted Calcutta as my temporary home. I gradually let go. I started inspecting the insects under the mango tree with my cousin; I let my aunts feed me clumps of spicy fish and rice; I imitated the Bollywood dance videos my older cousins watched on television.
I even got my own pair of Bata flip flops. I initially wanted a pair with pink thongs. Then I saw everyone in the crowded Garia marketplace wearing the classic blue sandals, and I insisted mine be blue as well. I refused to wear anything else once I had them. With those sandals on my feet, I went everywhere and did everything. I belonged.
I tottered behind Neal in my new sandals. My cousin was always two steps ahead of me. He did this on purpose, and I did not blame him. I knew I was slow and could not keep up.
I was careful crossing the road. It was dark outside – maybe eight or nine at night – and there were no streetlights in this neighborhood of Calcutta. I had to watch out for the crater-like potholes and broken bricks embedded in the path. I stumbled on the same brick I had tripped over earlier that day when playing with the other children on the block. The blood trickled down my ankle as the neighborhood bully pointed and laughed and rolled in the dirt. I shuddered at the memory of his face as we passed through the rusty iron gates that interrupted the low stone wall.
Pairs of Bata flip flops littered the shallow cement steps leading to the side entrance of the flat. Neal threw off his flip-flops with two quick jerks of his feet, then made his way into the drawing room. I followed.
I could not see anything when we first entered. The smoke of incense stung my tender eyes; the only light in the room came from the moon and the flickering candles by the altar. I could, however, sense the presence of the whole block crowded in that one room. The smell of sweat and Ponds Talcum Powder overwhelmed me. I reached out and grabbed the back of Neal’s t-shirt.
Once my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, vague shadows took on more shape. The men of the neighborhood looked like a row of ghosts against the far wall; they loomed in front of the window in their white cotton tees and loose pajama pants. The women all sat on the cold cement floor, fanning babies with the ends of their saris to shoo away the mosquitoes. I looked around and spotted the boy who had laughed at my fall earlier that day. His mother cradled his head in her lap; he was sleeping.
The only way I could get to the altar was to play hopscotch with the empty cement spaces between mothers. The game was over when I reached the prasad – the offerings of sliced mangoes, apples and bananas on brass platters. The priest sat to my left. He swayed slowly, back and forth, as he chanted the Sanskrit mantras.
Entranced by the low murmur of his voice, I did not even notice the lady of the house thrusting the bell into my plump right palm. Her red bindi glared at me through the darkness. She could tell I was confused, so she wrapped her rough hand around mine and began ringing the bell with me.
Soon enough she let go, and it was just Neal and me standing in front of the altar. He beat on his tin gong with a rhythmic force. I tried to keep my tinkering in time with his but I soon fell behind. I gazed at the idol of Saraswati, the goddess of learning, before me. She was pristine white, dressed in a gold-embroidered peacock sari, and she was smiling at me.
I loved India. I loved my relatives, the markets, the mosquitoes, the dirt. I did not realize I had grown so attached until it was time to leave. Although I wanted to see Daddy and Didi, I was not ready to let go of my new world. I remember crying in the airport: now my uncles, aunts and cousins were the ones lingering behind the gates. Familiarity abandoned me once again.
Ma slapped her palm to her forehead as she sunk into the sofa. The act reminded me of my uncle: he always did that jokingly when I would refuse to drink my goat milk.
“Oh my goodness,” she said in Bengali, shaking her head. “They forgot we’re back. Now I have to get ready and take you to school.”
Ma set down the plate of sliced bananas she was feeding me. At every meal she made me finish my food, no matter how long it took her to put that last spoonful in my mouth. But today, even the bananas kept slipping from her fork. There were no aunts around to take over. It was past eleven and she was still in her nightgown. She was battling the jet lag and abandonment as well.
After she got dressed, Ma drove me to school. My teacher, Ms. Janet, was standing outside the double doors of the classroom when we entered the building. She smiled warmly and opened the door. As I trudged through in my bulky winter boots she announced to the class, “Everyone, look who’s back from her trip!” The class responded with their usual in-unison greeting, “Hiii Shelly!” I did not hear them. I was behind Ma’s leg, crying.
