I have a confession to make . Firmly entrenched in the aunt zone of middle age, my heart does a secret summersault ,unknown to family and friends , as Valentine’s Day arrives with its usual.
Okay, I am under no illusion . My aching knees and deepening laugh lines, my greying hair and spreading middle keep jolting me out of such illusions even if I so much as daydream a.
Have you thought of archiving memories like books in a library , under categories like ‘happy’, ‘sad’, ‘romantic’ or even ‘pornographic’ ? I tend to think that people of my vintage in any case, unconsciously.
Once upon a time, when I was young, the Bengali obsession with Durga Puja or ‘Pujo’ as we insist on calling it ,overriding limitations associated with a particular deity, was something the rest of India.
The anxious questions. The doubts and debates. The Ms know- it- all answers. The awkward giggles. Bodies changing. Feelings changing. Relationships changing. Are we eavesdropping on a sleepover of adolescents where the atmosphere is charged.