“What are you moving to Kolkata for? All you’ll get there are Rosogolla and Rabindrasangeet.” - that was what my boss said after I had told her of my decision to move. By then, of course, the toothpaste had already been un-tubed --- our landlord in Mumbai informed, my husband settled into his new job, our child enrolled in a new school.
I was making the mental switch from a fulltime employee to a fulltime fighter of fires (read mother, daughter, wife and errand girl). I didn’t mind switching cities so much. But I was positively depressed about my career, hiding my alarm behind brave smiles and stories I cooked of a great family reunion back in Kolkata. And I promised my girlfriends that I would not sit and rust. I had slogged a good 12 years, and now, telling my colleagues rosy tales of family time felt as stupid as lighting the wrong end of a cigarette in front of a bunch of smokers.
Leaving Mumbai was a conscious decision. A brave decision? Yes. A foolish move? Time will tell. But to my mind, it was the right decision. It just seemed the thing to do. My father was 82 (though he, sweet fellow, never once asked me to move back) and my in-laws in their Seventies. Now was the time to stand by them. My husband and I, we didn’t want guilt and regrets.
We, my son and I, left Mumbai around end March and arrived in Kolkata to a royal welcome. For three months, life was indeed all Rosogolla and Rabindrasangeet. By August, though, I was feeling the itch to work. I wanted work on my own terms and time, just so I could give my son more attention. Which is why, I never bothered to check with placement agencies. Instead, I reached out to a friend or two. They were generous with assignments, but pay was shocking. So much so, that every time I saw my son munching on peanuts, I felt it was a personal affront to me. My savings flew out, and with it, my confidence. I avoided visiting ATMs and never looked at my bank statements for fear of sliding deeper into the morass of self-imposed unemployment. The son, cranky and complaining, never failed to remind me of good old Mumbai, his school, the nine friends he had in our Mumbai building and how much fun we had had nearly every weekend --- mostly a ceaseless cycle of eating out and buying.
It’s November now, nearly eight months since the return, and I feel much calmer inside. Things are looking better. There’s nothing too exciting about my freelance assignments, but I have taught myself to be happy. We’ve made several weekend trips to my in-laws’ home in Durgapur (a three-hour journey from Kolkata), often taking my father along. In Kolkata, we’ve visited relatives more often, have had more sweets, made more friends and met more people in a week than we’d meet in months in Mumbai. People are happy to see the four of us. My father smiles so much more. My husband does not have to climb a 100 steps at stations, work the rush at Kurla, switch two trains and arrive (panting) at work. Ambitious as I am, these days I don’t have to put in 12-hour workdays, deal with capricious clients or work to five different briefs on a single assignment. My son, doesn’t go to sleep at night, thumb stuck in mouth, wondering when Mummy and Baba will return home. We are rushing nowhere.
My husband, I must say, is very supportive. He stoically foots my parlour bills and most of my impulse buying ---- lipsticks, shoes, bags, clothes plus decent gifts for relatives of whom there are so many these days that I get stressed at the mere mention of birthdays, weddings, anniversaries, pujo, bhaiphonta, naboborsho and so on. He’s stoic in other ways too, putting up with my father’s no-lights-in-the-morning rule, nosy relatives and the countless requests for favours.
I have lost my fancy designation, a good pay package, and probably a shot at fulltime work (at least in the near future). But what we as a family have gained is a chance to step back and savour life. Personally, I have learnt to cherish the simple treasures that life gifts me every day: sharing an evening cuppa with my father, breakfasting with hubby or greeting my son upon his return from school --- things I hadn’t done in years. Life is not just Rosogolla and Rabindrasangeet. Instead, it’s as rich and wholesome as a slow cooked recipe.
Would I, dear reader, urge you to take such a leap? Take a good hard look at your priorities and go for it if you have the means and the will.
Contributed by Debjani Banerjee
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