As a teen of 13years I used to be pretty angry all the time! Everything around me seemed to overflow with flaw including my own self. There were times, I would write down all my anxieties and “angerlogues” in a diary which had a particular quote on every page. Few days back, while looking for a really old picture I rounded up on this particularly small backpack. Of course immediately I recognized it, it belonged to me! Rather I should say it was my precious at one time. I could have killed for it. But now it just lay there all covered in dust. So, I felt bad for it, I sometimes actually have a feeling that even non living things feel bad. Ok, so I pick it up, trying to take off the dust and falls off another of my long lost sweetheart from within. My diary-with-a-quote-on-every-page. By now I am completely excited and donot give a damn about how a sec ago it looked “it’s too dirty too touch with a hand, let me get a hanger”. As I flipped through the red Velvet cover the first page had written on it in really huge fonts “DO NOT TOUCH”. I smiled at my own sense of privacy. As I went through the pages I didn’t know whether to laugh or shut the diary out of utter embarrassment. Particularly there was a page where I had made an illustration and planned how I would get back on my elder brother because he had eaten up my diary milk chocolate. So, my major plan was to hand him over the foam rather than the deodorant when he asks for it while going out, because both belonged to the same brand (AXE) and were in almost identical looking black bottles.
I know the plan had been successful because there was a huge smiley on just the next page where I had written “mission accomplished”😊
All these memories seem to have been locked away somewhere, hidden from the daily dozes of rush and frenzy!
The entire day I could not stop thinking about my diary, my self as a teenager,my thoughts.
Though some of them were out right hilarious, some where rather important statements. Regarding the discrimination I got to see all around me, how I saw children , who looked almost my age didn’t have to go to school because they ran the family by doing small chores in my house.
When I learnt about child labor I told my mom, “you people are doing a crime, she’s a child she cannot work here” , Sonali, ran to me and said, ‘ please don’t say this. If I don’t work we will starve and die. Me and my entire family”.
I had written these words in red in my red diary. Now having read them again, they almost seem alive. I don’t know where she is , I have lost track of her, but this was not my only memory of her. As a child, we spent quite sometime together, I taught her to write her name in Bengali, while she got me kooler anchaar (tamarind pickle) as my return gift. I like it so much that even while writing about it I get all watery in the mouth.
The fact that girls like Sonali still exist, is a truth we cannot ignore. The government ia showing a lot of ‘ responsibility taking' in this scenario nowadays but I don’t know why I can’t just see if helping. Maybe it’s time I need another eye checkup in a month already.
Getting so giddy about everything I thought of seeking relief in writing again, just as I took out my same diary-with-a-quote-on-every-page to scribble some more, my mom came home and she hurriedly gave me something in my hand and smiled. It was an entire jar of kooler anchaar. I drew a big smiley on the open page and digged in!