Skip to main content

Swiping Cobwebs

 Read this poem about spider webs and the concept of home the day I was clearing cobwebs that festoon my front door. Earlier while at the gym the same day I was reading Tagore's Glimpses of Bengal where he says this of nature and man:

Where Nature is ever hidden, and cowers under mist and cloud, snow and darkness, there man feels himself master; he regards his desires, his works, as permanent; he wants to perpetuate them, he looks towards posterity, he raises monuments, he writes biographies; he even goes the length of erecting tombstones over the dead. So busy is he that he has not time to consider how many monuments crumble, how often names are forgotten!

A home is not a monument for posterity. It is ephemeral as the spider-web just a little different time-scale. My grand-aunt used to live in a beautiful home as part of a joint family. Her husband and his three brothers had contributed to building it. A widowed sister had arrived at some point and found shelter for herself and her two children. The home overlooked a pond and had plenty of natural light. Everything was clean and polished to a high-gloss - wood, granite, brass and marble. Over the years,  her husband, his brothers, their wives and the widowed sister all died. 

There was a point when my grand-aunt lived their alone - everyone else had either left to other cities and countries or deceased. She was no longer able to upkeep the place even with a lot of help. Her daughter decided this way of life was not viable and took the mother to live with her. My grand-aunt's dying wish was for the house to be taken care of - not abandoned. A few years ago it was demolished to make may for an apartment building. So much like a spider-web I swiped away from my door - like it never existed. It had been a monument in its own way - a testament to the grit of four refugee brothers who did what it took to give their families a decent life, a home to call their own.  But as Tagore says, the fate of monuments is to crumble - and not everyone is kind like the little girl who did not touch the cobweb in her bicycle.



Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Cheese Making

I never fail to remind J that there is a time and place for everything. It is possibly the line she will remember me by when I am dead and gone given how frequently she hears it. Instead of having her breakfast she will break into a song and dance number from High School Musical well past eight on Monday morning. She will insist that I watch and applaud the performance instead of screaming at her to finish her milk and cereal. Her sense of occasion is seriously lacking but then so is mine. Consider for example, a person walks into the grocery store with the express purpose of buying detergent because they are fresh out of it and laundry is only half way done. However instead of heading straight for detergent, they wander over to the natural foods aisle and go berserk upon finding goat milk on sale for a dollar a gallon. They at once proceed to stock pile so they can turn it to huge quantities home-made feta cheese. That person would be me. It would not concern me in the least that I ha...

Part Liberated Woman

An expat desi friend and I were discussing what it means to return to India when you have cobbled together a life in a foreign country no matter how flawed and imperfect. We have both spent over a decade outside India and have kids who were born abroad and have spent very little time back home. Returning "home" is something a lot of new immigrants like L and myself think about. We want very much for that to be an option because a full assimilation into our country of domicile is likely never going to happen. L has visited India more often than I have and has a much better pulse on what's going on there. For me the strongest drag force working against my desire to return home is my experience of life as a woman in India. I neither want to live that suffocatingly sheltered existence myself nor subject J to it. The freedom, independence and safety I have had in here in suburban America was not even something I knew I could expect to have in India. I never knew what it felt t...

Under Advisement

Recently a desi dude who is more acquaintance less friend called to check in on me. Those who have read this blog before might know that such calls tend to make me anxious. Depending on how far back we go, there are sets of FAQs that I brace myself to answer. The trick is to be sufficiently evasive without being downright offensive - a fine balancing act given the provocative nature of questions involved. I look at these calls as opportunities for building patience and tolerance both of which I seriously lack. Basically, they are very desirous of finding out how I am doing in my personal and professional life to be sure that they have me correctly categorized and filed for future reference. The major buckets appear to be loser, struggling, average, arrived, superstar and uncategorizable. My goal needless to say, is to be in the last bucket - the unknown, unquantifiable and therefore uninteresting entity. Their aim is to pull me into something more tangible. So anyways, the dude in ques...