A Cup of Joy : Troublemaker in the snow

 

Jurie sat in her cozy suburban New Jersey living room, wrapped in a soft knitted blanket. The scent of her freshly brewed coffee filled the air, mingling with the faint aroma of cinnamon from a nearby candle. Outside, snow blanketed the neighborhood, transforming it into a winter wonderland. The world beyond her frosted window felt quiet and still, interrupted only by the occasional rumble of a plow truck clearing the streets.

At her feet, a whirlwind of energy came in the form of Scooby, her six-month-old German Shepherd puppy. His oversized paws slipped comically on the polished wooden floor as he lunged after a red rubber ball. With every bounce, Scooby let out playful yips, his ears flopping in all directions.

"Scooby, calm down!" Jurie laughed, setting her mug on the coffee table. Her voice was gentle, but it carried the bemused exasperation of someone used to the chaos of puppyhood.

Scooby paused, tilting his head at her, his amber eyes full of mischief. He bounded onto the couch without hesitation, landing beside her in a flurry of snow-damp fur. His tail wagged furiously, thumping against the cushions.

"You're not supposed to be up here," she scolded, though the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her.

He responded with an exaggerated lick across her cheek.

Jurie wiped her face with a chuckle, her other hand instinctively stroking Scooby's soft ears. "Fine, you win. Just this once."

With the snow outside acting as a serene backdrop, Jurie took a slow sip of her coffee. The warmth of the mug seeped into her fingers, a stark contrast to the chill she knew awaited outside. Scooby settled beside her, his head resting on her lap. For a moment, his wild energy gave way to calm as his eyes began to droop.

Jurie gazed out at the snow-covered yard. The white expanse glimmered under the faint sunlight, and the bare trees stood like skeletons, their branches heavy with powder. Her thoughts wandered, reflecting on the simple joys that made winter mornings bearable: a warm cup of coffee, a playful companion, and the beauty of nature’s silence.

As Scooby let out a soft snore, Jurie couldn’t help but smile. She scratched behind his ears and whispered, "You’re my little troublemaker, aren’t you?"

The snow might have kept her indoors, but with Scooby by her side, the day felt brighter, warmer, and full of life.

Kabita's World ( A day in the life of a special child)

 

I see the world through different eyes. Colors are brighter, sounds are louder, and movements are slower. My mind is a whirlwind of thoughts, but my body struggles to keep up.

I try to speak, but words get tangled in my throat. My parents look at me with sad eyes, wishing they could understand me. They think I'm trapped inside this body, but I'm not. I'm free in my mind.

Scooby, our labrador, is my best friend. He doesn't care that I'm different. He wags his tail and licks my face, and I feel happy. My parents smile when they see us together, and for a moment, their worries fade away.

But the world can be overwhelming. The sounds of the city are like a never-ending storm in my ears. I cover them with my hands, trying to block out the noise. My parents think I'm being stubborn, but they don't understand. It's too much for me.

At night, when the house is quiet, I lie in bed and think about all the things I want to say. I want to tell my parents that I love them, that I'm sorry I'm not like other kids. I want to tell Scooby that he's the best dog in the whole world.

As I think about my life, I wonder if it's indeed a poetry. My name, Kabita, means "poetry" in Bengali. My parents chose it carefully, hoping I would grow up to be a creative and expressive person.

But life had other plans. I was born with autism, and my words got trapped inside my mind. Yet, as I think about it, I realize that poetry is not just about words; it's about rhythm, melody, and harmony.

My life may not have words, but it has its own rhythm. The way Scooby wags his tail to greet me every morning is a symphony of joy. The way my parents' faces light up when they see me smile is a melody of love.

But like any poetry, my life also has its discordant notes. The sounds of the city are a cacophony that hurts my ears. The struggles of my parents to understand me are a harmony that's often out of tune.

As I drift off to sleep, I realize that my life is indeed a poetry – a complex, messy, beautiful poetry. It's a poetry that's still being written, with every moment, every breath, and every beat of my heart.

As I sleep, I dream of a world where everyone understands me. A world where words aren't necessary, and love is the only language. In my dream, Scooby is by my side, and we're running through a field of flowers, laughing and playing.

But when I wake up, reality sets in. My parents are struggling to understand me, and the world outside is still overwhelming. I feel trapped, like I'm living in a cage with no key.

That's when I remember the poetry of my life. I think about the rhythm of Scooby's wagging tail, the melody of my parents' smiles, and the harmony of our love. I realize that even in the midst of chaos, there is beauty.

I try to communicate with my parents, to tell them about the poetry of my life. I use my hands, my eyes, and my smile to convey the emotions that words can't express. And slowly, they start to understand.

They see the world through my eyes, and they realize that it's not just a place of darkness and silence. It's a world of color, sound, and beauty. They start to appreciate the little things, like the way Scooby snuggles up next to me, or the way the sunlight filters through the windows.

As they understand me better, our relationship changes. We start to connect on a deeper level, and our love becomes stronger. We become a symphony of three, with Scooby as the conductor.

And I realize that my life, though imperfect, is a masterpiece. It's a poem that's still being written, with every moment, every breath, and every beat of my heart.

The last laugh

 

It was a cold evening in New Jersey, and Saurabh sat in his small apartment, staring at his phone. The room, though warm, felt hollow, much like his life had become over the years. His wife had passed away some years ago, and his only son, busy with his tech start-up in California, rarely called. Saurabh couldn’t remember the last time they’d had a conversation longer than a few minutes.

His fingers hovered over the phone. He knew the voice on the other end would bring him comfort, even if just for a little while. He dialed.

“Hello, Saurabh! What a surprise!” Pradip’s voice burst through, warm and full of life.

Saurabh smiled faintly. “Hello, Pradip. Thought I’d check in and see how things are on your side of the world.”

“Oh, you called at the perfect time! We just finished a feast for Magh Bihu. You remember how it used to be, don’t you? The bonfire, the games, the food…”

Saurabh closed his eyes, letting the memories wash over him. He could almost smell the roasted rice cakes and hear the chatter of the villagers. It had been decades since he had experienced anything like that. In New Jersey, his winters were spent in silence, the snow falling outside his window a stark contrast to the warmth of his childhood.

“How’s everyone?” Saurabh asked, his voice softer now.

“Doing well, doing well,” Pradip said cheerfully. “My youngest daughter got married last month—it was a celebration like no other! The whole village came together. Even the old tailor pitched in, sewing outfits for half the guests. And, of course, the musicians played until dawn.”

Saurabh couldn’t help but feel a pang of envy. Pradip’s life seemed so rich, so full. It wasn’t about wealth but about people—about being surrounded by those who cared, who showed up without being asked.

“You must be busy with your son,” Pradip said innocently. “How is he? Still in California?”

“Yes,” Saurabh replied, hesitating. “He’s doing well. Very busy with his start-up.”

“And what about you? How’s life there?”

Saurabh’s throat tightened. What could he say? That he spent his days fighting the silence? That he often called young Assamese families in New Jersey, hoping to feel a fraction of the connection he had once taken for granted? That even in their warmth, he felt like an outsider in their busy lives?

“It’s fine,” he said instead. “Different.”

Pradip laughed. “Different, of course. But don’t you miss the chaos? The noise? The people?”

“I do,” Saurabh admitted, surprising himself with the honesty in his voice.

“Then come visit,” Pradip said, his tone light but earnest. “We’ll sit by the river and talk about old times. You can stay as long as you like. The house is always open for you.”

Saurabh stayed silent, his heart heavy. The thought of returning to Assam filled him with a longing he hadn’t allowed himself to feel for years. It wasn’t just about nostalgia; it was about belonging. The West, for all its opportunities, had left him isolated. His success—once a source of pride—now felt hollow without someone to share it with.

“I’ll think about it,” he said softly.

“Do more than think,” Pradip replied with a laugh. “Life here isn’t going anywhere. And neither are we.”

After they hung up, Saurabh sat in the quiet of his apartment. The hum of the heater was the only sound, a stark contrast to the lively chaos Pradip had described. For years, he had convinced himself that he belonged here, in this land of opportunity and individualism. But what had it brought him in the end? A lifetime of achievements that now felt meaningless in the absence of connection.

His mind drifted to his wife. She had loved their life in New Jersey, but she had also loved Assam—the festivals, the people, the simplicity. Would she have wanted this for him? This empty apartment, this life of solitude? He didn’t think so.

For the first time in years, Saurabh allowed himself to imagine retiring in Assam. He pictured the fields, the tea stalls, the warm embraces of old friends. He thought of the bonfires and feasts, the sounds of laughter, and the knowledge that no one was ever truly alone.

As he stared out the window into the cold New Jersey night, a tear slipped down his cheek. Perhaps it wasn’t too late. Perhaps happiness wasn’t something you found but something you returned to.

He made a decision then, not with words but with his heart. Assam wasn’t just a place; it was a feeling. And it was time to go home.

Shopun shopun haan laagchi (It seems like a dream)

The early seventies in Assam were a time of serenity, a world untouched by the chaos that would come in later years. Ramphalbil, a quaint village near Kokrajhar, lay close to the Terai forests near the Assam-Bhutan border. The air was alive with the rustle of bamboo groves, the chirping of birds, and the gentle murmurs of a stream winding its way through the fields. It was here that I spent a magical year of my childhood—a year that remained etched in my heart like a dream I never wanted to wake from.

I was six years old when my mother had to leave for Guwahati to complete her teacher’s training. My father, was a deeply respected man who wore many hats. He was immersed in teaching and deeply involved in social and cultural activities, especially the dramatics in *Bitorai Afad,* a cultural organization that had sparked a renaissance in Boro theatre. His days and evenings were consumed by meetings, rehearsals, and lectures. With both parents unavailable, my family decided it was in my best interest to stay with my father’s eldest sister in Ramphalbil for a year.

My aunt, a strong and kind-hearted widow, worked as a weaving instructor at a government school in the village. The school was part of an initiative to teach local women the art of fine weaving, giving them a means to earn a livelihood. Her little campus, with its neat cottages, clattering looms, and shaded courtyards, became my home for that year.

It was there that I met Geetanjali.

Geetanjali was the daughter of another staff member at the school. She was just a few months younger than me, with quick, mischievous eyes and a laugh that could brighten even the gloomiest day. From the moment we met, we were inseparable. Together, we turned the simple, rural campus into a world of endless adventures.

Our days began with the soft light of dawn spilling through the bamboo groves. We would race barefoot across the grass, laughing as the dew clung to our feet. The litchi tree near the stream became our fortress. Its sturdy branches bore witness to countless hours of climbing, daydreaming, and the occasional scraped knee. Once, when I tried to climb too high and lost my footing, Geetanjali, standing below, cried out in panic.

“Bapi da, get down! You’ll fall and break your head!” she yelled, her little hands stretched out as though she could catch me.  

We spent hours crafting banana-leaf boats, setting them afloat in the stream, and imagining grand voyages to lands far away. On rainy afternoons, we turned the puddle-filled courtyards into battlefields, splashing each other until we were soaked and breathless with laughter.

One day, we discovered a hollow in the trunk of an old tree and decided it was our secret treasure chest. We filled it with little trinkets—a shiny pebble, a colorful feather, a piece of candy—and promised never to reveal its location to anyone. “This will always be ours,” she whispered solemnly. I nodded, feeling as though we had made the most sacred pact.

At night, under a sky crowded with stars, we sat on the school steps, counting fireflies. Geetanjali would point out constellations, her tiny finger tracing imaginary lines. “That’s the Big Bear,” she said one evening, though I had no idea if she was right. It didn’t matter. To me, she knew everything.

But like all beautiful things, that year came to an end. My aunt was transferred, and so was Geetanjali’s family. I was sent back to Kokrajhar, leaving behind the little kingdom we had built together. Life moved forward, as it always does, and the magical days of Ramphalbil became a cherished memory—a dream I clung to as I grew older.

Years turned into decades. I pursued my education, traveled far, and eventually moved to the United States. Life became a whirlwind of responsibilities and achievements. But even as the world around me changed, the memory of Geetanjali and those days in Ramphalbil stayed with me. Every visit to India rekindled the longing to know what had become of her. I asked around whenever I could, but with my aunt and father gone, the connections had frayed. Geetanjali seemed to have vanished into the folds of time.

Until last year.

An old acquaintance from those days reached out to me—a woman who had also spent time in Ramphalbil. When I mentioned Geetanjali, her eyes lit up with recognition. “I’ll try to find her,” she promised. Weeks later, I received a WhatsApp message: *She’s in a village near Nalbari. I found her.*

This year, I made the journey.

The drive to her village was long and bumpy, the roads winding through dense greenery and scattered settlements. When I finally reached her house—a modest structure with a tin roof and a small courtyard—I felt a mix of nervous anticipation and joy.

An elderly woman stepped out, her frail frame wrapped in a mekhela chador. Her face was lined with the marks of a life lived through hardship, her hands calloused from years of labor. Yet, her eyes held the same spark that had once lit up my world.

“Geetanjali?” I asked softly, unsure if she would remember me.

She looked at me, her brows furrowed in confusion. “Yes?”  

“I’m Bapi,” I said, my voice trembling. “From Ramphalbil. Do you remember the litchi tree? The stream? The banana-leaf boats?”  

Her eyes widened, and then, slowly, tears began to fill them. “Bapi da?” she whispered, her voice quivering with disbelief.

I nodded, my own eyes moist with emotion.

For a moment, she stared at me, as though trying to bridge the decades that had passed. Then, her lips curved into a trembling smile.  

“Shopun Shopun haan laagchi,” she said in her soft Kamrupia Assamese accent. “It feels like a dream.”  

We sat together for hours, talking about Ramphalbil and those golden days. She spoke of her life—of losing her husband, of raising her children in the face of hardship, of the simple joys that had kept her going. I listened, my heart heavy with both joy and sorrow.  

Before I left, I gave her a small envelope with money, slipping it into her hand. She resisted, her pride evident, but eventually accepted it with quiet gratitude. As I turned to leave, she placed her hand on mine.  

“Thank you for coming back,” she said, her voice breaking. “I never thought I’d see you again. Truly, it feels like a dream.”  

That night, as I lay in bed, her words echoed in my mind. *Shopun Shopun haan laagchi.* It truly did feel like a dream—those golden days in Ramphalbil, the innocent bond we shared, and the miracle of finding her again.  

Life, in all its twists and turns, had brought me back to where it all began, reminding me that amidst the rush of time, some moments remain untouched—pure, eternal, and waiting to be rediscovered.