Sisyphus (2/5)

Previous entries:

1. Jajabara

The myth of Sisyphus speaks about the futility of life, the absurdity of existence, and the struggle against the inevitable. Growing up, looking for the purpose of life, turning twenty-five, exploring existentialism and quarter-life crisis. Sisyphus, the king of Ephyra, was condemned to roll a boulder up a hill, only for it to roll back down each time he reached the top. This endless cycle of moving to reach a destination that always eludes him mirrors my human experience. Growing up, I found myself packing and moving every couple of years, always searching for a place to call home.

Growing Up

The company quarters we moved into were located in a sprawling colony, and my house number was B2/2. The colony was huge, a little universe of its own, with its own customs. It was a mix of people from different backgrounds and cultures, mostly from South and Central East—West Bengal, Jharkhand, Bihar, and Odisha. We traded homemade dishes, celebrated festivals together, and played until the sun disappeared—or until our parents dragged us back home, whichever came first.

I was lucky enough to meet many kids around my age. Together, we formed a large, rambunctious group, though most of them were four or five years older than me. That age gap meant I often served as their errand boy, fetching items or doing other grunt work, but I was happy to be part of the group. Two rival groups prevailed: the men versus the ladies. Each group had four to five members, and we played hide-and-seek, football, badminton, and all sorts of games together. I was one of the younger members and was at the mercy of the older ones. The women bossed me around, always using me in their battles. Men were simpler, but equally provocative in wars. I was the weapon of choice for both sides.

We still had harmony for most of the time. We went to tuitions together, watched TV, shared comics, went on long walks, exchanged game disks and comic books, played IGI, and had fun. Us boys were more focused on comics, sports, and video games. We played badminton, football, and cricket, and usually, the cricket ball would end up in someone’s house, and we would have to beg them to give it back. Every evening we would dash out of the house, knocking and ringing doorbells to bring everyone out to play—without fail, every single day.

On weekends, the colony would come alive with house parties—usually arranged by the girls in our group. All they needed was a little food, some snacks, and a place to sit, and they would plan a host of games I never quite understood. Birthdays were also a big deal; everyone would show up to celebrate, regardless of how well they knew the birthday kid. We played badminton and hide-and-seek frequently. These games were gender-neutral and thus played by everyone.

My family and relatives often visited us. In this new world, where the invisible boundary of the colony defined my universe, my family and relatives were always a joy to have. They brought with them stories, laughter, and love, filling our home with warmth and joy. Their arrival meant less studying, more roaming around, and some petty cash to spend when they left. Now, years later, their memories make me want to rush back home. The memories accompany me making my subway rides a bit more bearable, and my nights a bit more peaceful.

Beyond the colony, there wasn’t much exploration of Asansol itself. Unlike Kolkata, we didn’t go out much; the colony truly was my whole world. At eight, I was starting to understand that there was a larger, more complex society beyond our boundary walls, but the extent of my daily life revolved around my friends and our home. Now, at twenty-four, I watch days pass by, and nights go white with the snow and the world outside—a place where I am yet to find my place.

My school was far away. I remember the bus rides taking an hour to reach the school. My school was like stepping onto a different dimension. It was a Christian Missionary School, Assembly of the God Church, deeply invested in sharing biblical stories and holding long, reflective assemblies. The institution’s strictness was jarring to me at first. It was also huge, boasting two expansive playgrounds and a canteen that sold amazing spring rolls. Academically, I was doing well, scored a 100% in my math exams. I was always good at Math, Science, Grammar, and Literature and terrible at History, Civics, Hindi, and Arts.

My parents put a lot of emphasis on scoring well. This somehow slowly started to shape my life in a way that I would not have actually wanted. I feel children should be left alone to be children, constantly failing and succeeding on their own merit—paving their own way in the world, and not be burdened with the weight of expectations. A lemon now I know what to do with.

Vacations were mostly spent back home. Asansol—and indeed most of West Bengal—came alive in October and November with Durga Puja festivities. Durga Puja has always been the most joyous time for me throughout the years. In all the cities I have lived in, life has always been kinder to me during these few days. We would roam the streets at night, visiting brightly lit pandals and paying our respects to the idol of the goddess, returning just in time for community dinners at the colony tents. In November and December, the winters were chilly, and we couldn’t sleep without a heater. That was also the year we bought our first car—a cherry-coloured Hyundai Getz Prime. We often drove the 500 km to Bhubaneswar, weaving through scenic highways, pausing at roadside stalls, and listening to stories from my parents’ own childhoods, oblivious to what awaited me in adulthood.

Looking back, I realize how simple everything was back then. The world felt small, and the days stretched endlessly. The transient inevitability of the non-linear passage of time was yet to dawn on me. I still don’t truly believe in the concept of linear time. I don’t feel Asansol was just two years of my life. It feels like much longer. Days were longer. Surrounded by family and relatives, life never felt lonely. My sister, who once fit snugly in my arms, is nineteen now. Back then, the world was a playground, and I was the undisputed king of my castle.

Yet, like every chapter before, the boulder couldn’t stay perched on that hill forever. This journey from one hill to another—the ultimate Sisyphean truth—hurt this time. My friends in the colony were gradually being uprooted too—their parents worked in the same organization, which meant one by one, they all had to move on, and I realized the inevitability of this journey. Again, back to square one, we found ourselves with our bags packed. After five odd years of living in a different state, my father got a chance and thought it would be nice to go back to Odisha and live near home. Those years in a different state had raced by. It was time to start over, to push yet another boulder up another hill. But even though leaving Asansol stung, I found solace in the understanding that such is the nature of life: a Sisyphean cycle of endings and beginnings, each one layered with memories, friendships, and lessons I would carry forward.

Back to Roots

I was nine years old now, in 2009, and my parents seemed happy. Moving to Jajpur, a small town in Odisha, meant we were closer to Bhubaneswar, making frequent visits to our extended family much easier. My grandparents were overjoyed; they could see us more often, visiting every weekend and sometimes staying with us for extended periods. This was a welcome change for all of us.

Our new move was peaceful, and we gradually started settling down. I was in fourth grade now and attended Harrow Public School. The school was small, with a playground that was more of a dust bowl. The school itself was housed in a large, unfinished two-story building. The first floor was divided into two sections: a vast hall accommodating four different classes without any partitions, and a smaller room designated for the primary grades—first, second, and third, separated by walls and curtains.

I was introduced to my native Odia language in a more raw form. The prayers, scripts, and literature were a bit difficult for me to grasp since other students had been learning the language for a long time. Despite this, the culture felt personal and heartfelt.

The exciting part was witnessing sixth and seventh-grade students getting disciplined by the teachers. Beating students until they turned red was an essential discipline technique in a rural town. The teachers were strict, and the students were rowdy. The school was a mix of different backgrounds. Some were from the town, while others were from the nearby villages. I was excited since the school allowed students pens in the fourth grade, and that is what mattered to me the most; pen users were the elite, and being able to scribble with a pen instead of a pencil was a significant rite of passage.

Jajpur life was slow, peaceful, and simple. The town was small, with narrow, muddy lanes and small shops, enveloped by paddy fields and empty grounds. The air was rich with the scent of fresh earth and filled with the sound of birds. The evenings were cool, filled with the chorus of crickets, children playing, and temple bells ringing. Nights were serene and quiet. The town was a world away from the hustle and bustle. We rented a house and settled in, making it our home. The weekends were a ride to Bhubaneswar, and the weekdays were spent in school and solitary confinement.

Transitioning from a place where I had countless friends to a new home with hardly any children nearby was a strange and emotionally difficult adjustment. It’s not that I had zero friends, I did have a lot of friends in school, and a couple near my house. There was a disconnect, though, not palpable then, but slightly more evident now. It was my first real encounter with loneliness. The few children who lived near us attended a different school—a more polished institution. In the evenings, I spent most of my time alone, watching TV, playing on computers, or just wandering around the house. The loneliness was palpable, a constant companion that followed me everywhere. Afternoons and evenings passed by, blueish violet skies, and the sun setting in the distance. I would often wait for the sun to set completely and listen to the sounds of the temple prayers blasting on the speaker in a loop. Mostly lucid, I would sit on my bed, just reminiscing about the past, overthinking about the future, and wondering what or where would I be, in 15 years. New York, the US? Careful what you wish for.

I spent most of my time reading and watching TV soap operas. I have read countless books. From comics to Dickens and Tolstoy, I was a voracious reader. I do not remember popular books or prominent series that I read- never read Narnia or Harry Potter, was more into the classics. Tolstoy was a nice read but too polished for my taste. Dickens had this amazing grounded writing style, exploring the human condition much like Sisyphus. I was fascinated by the way he portrayed the struggles of his characters, their resilience in the face of adversity, and their quest for meaning in a chaotic world. These stories resonated with me, lost in pages and in worlds far away.

Other times I was invested in Soap operas, an addict. That was what primarily kept me entertained. And my computer. We got a new computer after moving to Jajpur. I still remember my dad weighing in the pros and cons of assembling a PC and buying a pre-built one. We went ahead with an assembled one. Actually, the loneliness didn’t affect me a lot, unlike how in adulthood it slammed right on my face, anxiety creeping up my spine. Childhood loneliness was a happy loneliness. My mind wandered off to places I had never been, and I was happy to be lost in my own world. Maybe I don’t completely understand this, and although not the most ideal situation- having to spend most of my time alone, I was happy, and at peace. The weekends were a relief, back in Bhubaneswar with all my extended family and cousins.

My favourite memory has to be the journey back home. We would travel in our Hyundai Getz Prime, taking the four-hour drive to Bhubaneswar. The route was picturesque, winding through lush green fields, quaint villages, and increasingly wider roads as we crossed cities. The journey was a time to bond with my family, to talk about lives lived in the 70s, 80s, and 90s, to laugh, and to share stories—a time to reflect and plan for the future, a time to dream, to imagine, and to create. The soundtrack to these memories was the Odia songs from the CD my father bought, featuring the soulful music of Akshaya Mohanty. The same one who sang Jajabara. I still remember the order of the songs and the lyrics, each one etching itself into my memory.

There always felt something profoundly liberating about being on the road, in motion, part of a journey. Roads are a metaphor for life itself—a journey fraught with constant change and uncertainty.

However, our time in Jajpur was brief- a year. Settling down proved difficult, and concerns about education and livelihood began to outweigh the town’s tranquil allure. My parents decided it was best to move to Cuttack, as enrolling in a school in Bhubaneswar mid-year seemed impossible. The following year was spent with me, my mother, and my sister in Cuttack, while my father stayed back in Jajpur to wrap up his term. A new beginning awaited us, a new boulder to be pushed up a new hill. The Sisyphean cycle continued, and I was ready to embrace it.

Leaving Behind the Rural Life

Mother, sister, and I moved to Cuttack. Jajpur and Cuttack weren’t that far apart- a four-hour drive. The move to Cuttack restored a sense of belonging. The city was vibrant, with a rich history and culture. Cuttack is an old city with a diverse population. People from all over India lived there, a melting pot of cultures. The streets were lined with ancient lanes, bustling markets, and the scent of fresh flowers. While Odia was the main language, I also encountered Bengali, Marwari, and other influences daily. The school introduced me to a bunch of new friends and perspectives, and my tuition classes were fun-filled. I was in fifth grade now, and I attended DAV Public School, CDA Sector 9.

Funnily enough, fifth grade was when my lady luck started to change. This girl had a crush on me, and I, the comic book geek, was completely oblivious to it. My bench-mate was her best friend and we quickly became friends. My move from Cuttack was devastating for her. She was a bit too loud and obsessive, now that I think of it. Weirdly, she made me promise not to talk to any other girls from the other section, and foolishly, I agreed. I had no idea how to deal with this newfound attention. It is now hilarious that I think of it.

Cuttack introduced me to people more my speed. I made some amazing friends, whom I am still in touch with. We spent our days playing cricket, attended tuition classes, and went on school picnics. There was a radical change in the sixth grade. Although we moved to Jamshedpur once my fifth grade was over, before the summer, I spent a month or two in Cuttack. Sixth grade was spent in Sector, was a new ballgame. Sections spanning up to I or J, each holding sixty to seventy students. The school was huge, with a sprawling campus, and multiple playgrounds. I didn’t have a lot of time to explore before we moved. It had these amazing food stalls outside the school, and I remember asking my mother to spare some change every day to get food from there. She obliged because she knew I wasn’t an avid eater, yet, and wouldn’t be able to stand and eat food from the stalls. I took an absurdly long time to finish my food.

Our life in Cuttack was beautiful, always filled with family and relatives, and more than half the time was spent back at home in Bhubaneswar. I made many friends, and living in a city made perfect sense to me. We were there for just another year before my father’s office decided it was time for another ascent, a new life to be built. Bags packed, trucks loaded, sitting in a car watching the city pass by, we found ourselves in Jamshedpur. The year was 2011, and I was in the sixth grade.

---