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CITIZEN CONTRIBUTOR

From my dusty attic… Often harsh memories and gentle dreams are wrapped up in little boxes and stored away in dusty attics. And one day you bring it all out, to lose yourself in the shadowy memories that are left behind. And as I pause a while and move back.…… ……… ‘Chowrasta’! Here’s where my memories begin. One tiny crossroad lost in a labyrinth of a million roads that make up our world. And yet it tells the tales of souls who might have wandered on its course at some point of time. It is in fact one of those busy haunts in Darjeeling; owned by my thoughts! The name itself spells an enchantment that seems to steal into every creek and crevice that defines Darjeeling. There is some passion in the cold winter winds that blow. It seems to break open locked up seals of nostalgic rendezvous’ that life is made up of. While the heart of the town lies softly breathing beneath the rough ragged patches of urbane life trapped somewhere along the sharp twists and turns of partially lighted dark alleys. And, one of these alleys, lanes or crossroads whatever you might call it is- ‘Chowrasta’. Once upon a time I had walked through it; gripped by wanderlust, breathing in every sight and sound, scared that the hours might pass away unnoticed. Ah, those long walks at twilight! Somehow the memory pains. As if the dying day was drawing to a close a lot more that was to die with it. And what was dying were the min-

utes left to turn Chowrasta to just another crossroad in my thoughts. Chowrasta- You know you have reached it when you pass along the rows of people selling interesting caps and gloves and purses and colourful lingerie. And hiding behind these rows are exotic eateries. And then you have stores. Stores of all kinds. Some of tea, herbal or otherwise from different gardens; some of home-made ground spices, tucked away in a little corner; some of treasured trinkets- supposedly antique; and further up a bookstore with forgotten classics. And far, far away from all of these is an old church, a perfect replica of its age, as gothic as ever. But what a lane! One that has more life than most of us walking around like zombies in this world. And then to tickle your taste buds, you can feel the smell of hot steaming ‘momos’ and soup filling up the air. You can taste hot ‘pakoras’ served with dust from the street, spiced up with the strange smell of horses from the dark dingy stables along the other side of the road. A little puddle here and a little puddle there. And the picture is complete. A touch of commercialization- so raw, but better untamed. And upon this lane I had fallen in love, so many a times. Sometimes with the sunset, sometimes with the evening that dragged on to eternity, sometimes with the approaching dawn, sometimes with the lost moments that Chowrasta cried out for. The moments that could have been encapsulated in tiny corners of the heart but remained a failed memory. It is indeed a mystery to me that the bits and pieces of so many lives may begin and end on such unaccounted for lanes in our lives. But alas the last link I have of it is dead and gone. The last link, that was but a piece of time lost in the crossroads of my mind - just another dusty attic, where I wrap up the memories of the yesteryears. By Rosemary Ishorari