Nostalgia is one of the most common feelings in the world, which makes us feel a certain way, whether it seems good or not. It reminds us of our roots and our belongings. Being at my age, nostalgia is just an emotion to name. But for my father, who is around 54 years old, it is not just a term; it is about the memories he lived through and the transparent comparison he can make in his mind about life then and now.
My father belonged to a very poor farmer family from a very distant village, and that sums up the environment he grew up in the culture, the involvement of everyone, no real distinction of families, rather being a collective identity (though there was jealousy and all). And today, we live in one of the popular cities in India, Kolkata, in a two-storeyed modern home with enough space for everyone in the family.
We have a dog, and somehow my father loves him much more than his own children. He is allowed to sleep wherever he wants, and no one is allowed to restrict him, whether it’s our beds where we sleep or the sofa (which is his own space to sleep in, and no one is allowed to touch it, or he will bark at you). My point is, even though he has so many soft and good places to sleep, he chooses to sleep on the floor during the summer.
I live on the second floor with a single room dedicated to me. My room has four windows, two in a pair, and they are very humongous in size. Two windows face the east, and the other two face the southwest, while the door is in the northeast position—not exactly diagonal, but I guess you get the idea of how suitable it is to sleep here, as there is very good airflow in my room, and most of the time it is the coolest place compared to the other rooms. Both sets of windows are welcoming to the air, as in front of them there are barren lands. It’s not like the main areas of Kolkata with that much hustle and bustle; it is very quiet, though the road passing from the east, right in front of the window, is one of the important roads and a landmark of the area. Though there are vehicles all day, it remains quiet.
So, the dog sleeps on the floor in front of my door, even though he could sleep right under the fan on my bed. But he chooses to sleep in the line of my door, with half his body outside towards the dining area and half inside the room.
One evening, after closing the shop downstairs, my father came upstairs, eating fruits and all. He sat on the floor to adore the dog, and the dog ran away to the window after hearing some sound. For some reason, my father spread his whole body on the floor where the dog sleeps. He then suddenly said to me that it was so good to sleep there, the air from the window was coming straight in, along with the breeze from the dining room and the cold temptation of the marble or tile flooring. That’s why Sheru, our dog, sleeps there, adjusting to the perfect spot.
He kept lying there for a few more seconds silently. Then, with a little smirk on his face, he said something directed at me.
It should be mentioned that my father was a poor farmer while growing up and had joined the Border Security Force while studying because of his financial conditions. Most of his friends are still farmers living in the village. Talking about his personality, he does not share much with us, whether it is his emotions or his feelings. So, feeling nostalgic about something is obviously not one of the qualities I would normally associate with him.
He said:
“You know, when we were children, we had no fan because electricity was a luxury for us and was not considered an amenity at that time. So we used to have hand fans when we slept at night inside the mosquito net. As we slept in pairs or collectively as a family, one person used to wave the hand fan for everyone to get the breeze, and everyone would eventually fall asleep, leaving the one doing the waving asleep with the fan fallen over his face in the morning.
But it was different during the day. We had a mud house, and it was mopped with cow dung water (it is very common in village households with mud houses), which worked as a disinfectant and also acted as a cooling agent to keep the floor a bit cold.
So, when we returned from farming under the scorching sun, we used to spread our bodies on the mud floor of the alley and relax there for some time. The slow breeze could be felt even through the scorching heat.
Sounds strange? But it’s true.
We have fans today which have a loud sound, or air conditioning, but real breeze has a sound and a feeling. We could listen to our heartbeat through the floor and could feel the vibration through it.”
I replied, “That was nice to remember, wasn’t it?”
He said, “Yeah, it just popped into my head with a strange feeling, sleeping here like that.”
He then went silent and kept sleeping for an hour or two.
The whole time he was sleeping on the floor as calm as I had ever seen him with a body position that might look to someone like he was hugging the floor, with hands outstretched to the outside.
Though he had slept in very difficult positions and beds while being in the force, after retirement he usually slept on a bed with cushioning. But I guess I had never seen him more comfortable than he was now lying on the hard marble floor, not caring about anyone or the fact that he was blocking the path between two rooms leading to the dining area.
Seeing him made me feel both good and detached.
The feeling of owning something after years of hard work owning a home with his own money and credibility might feel nice, safe, proud, and most importantly, like it was his own.
Merging the tangible with memory feels to him not like a comparison, but a relief—that yes, he has done everything right after so many problems, hurdles, hard work, and perseverance which I have seen.
I felt relieved seeing him.
On the other hand, it made me wonder what I am contributing or doing in my own life. Will I ever have this feeling of achievement or relief that yes, I have done my part?
Do I feel any discomfort in the comfortable atmosphere he has provided me, every time keeping his own comfort aside?
This is making me uncomfortable.
Could I ever give him the level of comfort or relief that he has given me?
Do I have the same amount of resilience and perseverance that he never showed off but silently carried within him?
I kept my peculiar feeling of comfort yet discomfort looking at him sleeping for hours on the hard, pitched marble floor.
I don’t know when I will see that again.
