Flighty love affair of balloons
I have always thought of balloons as a merging point for dreamscapes and reality, like candies from my imagination put on a blue summer sky canvas — their translucence lending the belief that there’s more than just air holding them afloat.
The red ones are straight from my memories of "Le Ballon Rouge," and when they bounce unexpectedly, a corner of my heart always hopes for sentience, a loyal helium filled friend to protect against slingshots and sharp edges.
There's undeniably magic in the sight of a child who has come in possession of a balloon; their glee making them skip on spot, the sugar rush-like excitement vivid on their face, attention phasing in and out of this world, and adventures in the palms of the tiny tot visible to any passer-by paying attention.
Many parties throw them on corners for the perfunctory appearance of fun, but it really shows when someone does so. In a world with award winning art and photograph from the same props, what a disservice it is to be dismissive of them.
The quest of friends blowing up balloons for a surprise party, a date with a bundle in hand, or someone happy with a balloon in one hand and an ice cream in the other cannot be mimicked without effort or thought.
A proper fair has to always feature blue and pink candy floss and an uncountable number of balloons.
There is an expression in Japanese, "fuwa fuwa," which is used to express the feeling "light and airy." And that light-heartedness is carried by balloons all around the world.
I once saw a girl cry from just looking at a room full of airborne balloons with cards attached to them, with little regard to what happened to her mascara and all the adoration of the world for her significant other. It was one of the sincerest efforts at a birthday party I had ever seen.
Just how we accept the possibility of heartbreak, we brace ourselves for the tragic fall of balloons or their deflation, or of an annoying uncle at a party popping one for attention.
Maybe we fall in love with balloons as kids and carry remnants of that onto adulthood, and rarely do we stop to get some, but the love for them follows us around whenever we pause to look at them.
Shuffling through my memories, I find they are quintessentially Bengali in how I have seen flocks carried in one rickshaw by a romantic hero silhouette, or vendors on random streets of Gulshan or Banani, beside the fuchka stands and tea stalls.
Photo: Collected