It was a decade. In a 24 year existence, that is an eternity.
This blog has borne testament to a lot of briny outpourings. Without any such overtures, let us say this: a perfect moment.
Three old friends from the heady days of middle school had a reunion in the City that never sleeps. Of the perfect hosts, the crazy friend (and crazier 'sistren'), a caring touch and morning questions of "eijo, onek gobor kore ele?" Of mixing up the Bengali word for balls and grandmom ("tomar thammae emon lathhi marbo na"). Of a sumptuous Christmas dinner and Sinatra tracks. Oh yes, it was legendary. To be a part once more of their lives and loves, the comings and goings, the opening of eyes to a world so vast and so varied and yet people so heart-wrenchingly the same as in our childhood idyll . . .
All that I hoped for came to pass in this my "quest" into the West.
And the other thing? Of certain past allusions to a certain temple? Ah, yes.
I do not know how to write anymore. How to convey the sense of completion. Of having finally laid certain ghosts to rest that have dogged my written word ever since I first laid eyes on that amazing grace. Maybe this was the final step in outgrowing the boy and becoming the man. Or rather, of writing of dreams and instead now living them.
When you are in a distant land, to care and be cared for is something like a safe haven - that very knowledge is like a harbour to which you can return. A sense that you are not really alone. The life of a researcher, as anyone would say without an ounce of hyperbole, is to be married to that work. Honestly. It demands a certain splendid solitude, a certain detachment from the regular and an attachment to the cerebral.
The reassurance of human contact, in my humble opinion, is part of the price for this bargain. That necessary condition of solitude is made unbelievably bearable knowing this: you are cared for. As friends, bordering on a family which I, a single child, never had.