On 17 October, Sir's Birthday.

I refrain from writing here primarily because I do not think I have much to say and also because I do not think that many people want to hear me (and the fault is mutual--I must admit). This one is about times and things I miss--things that come to memory only faintly. This one is also about people and the way they were. Needless to say, it is largely about how I was.

I have a new job--a plush room with a nice chair and books all around. I remember my first office, up a staircase walled with soot, leaving behind the ground floor kitchen of a Chinese eatery on 17 Central Avenue. I remember a store room given to me for keeping marketing things--banners, coasters, pens, pads, pencils and there I found a beautiful book called Chhotoder Omnibus by Leela Majumdar. After a long hiatus, I called up Suvro Sir and got back in touch. I sent him the book. I remember going back to Durgapur and staying with him for the first time. I remember the Buransh he treated me to. Sir was older and much mellower and I as a student regretted it. I secretly thought that this is what marriage and shonsar does to a firebrand revolutionary. I had heard of Santosh Rana and Charu Majumdar, I had seen hordes of turncoats, but Suvro Chatterjee was the only revolutionary we had seen 'live'.
I will get married and am far far away from Sir. I will never again travel by an SBSTC bus with the wind and the rain lashing through the window.
I miss the Coalfield Express and the second class ride from Howrah to Durgapur. The train speeding through green rice fields, whistling through stations and stopping dutifully at Bardhaman. They used to serve chicken cutlets on Black diamond in the evenings. Recently, I got a taste of something similar on Ispat Express. Food on Rajdhani is such a dampener. And, they don't let vendors come on board.
As a little boy I had the pleasure of sneaking into my father's 'dark room' where he used a Swetlana enlarger to develop his photographs. That enlarger will never be used again. Nor will the Agfa projector be used ever again. It was through this projector that I had seen the Pir Panjal in Manali. This was long before any internet and long before any of my friends had seen a projector.
My father was very possessive about his books. He had lost many to friends. He was a reluctant lender. It was in 1997 that Suvro Sir needed a volume of Tagore's works. He was working on an anthology for the OUP under the editorship of Sukanta Chaudhuri. I lend him a volume. That was one of my proudest moments--Sir borrowing a copy from a weak student in class. Years later when Sukanta Chaudhuri became my teacher, I wondered how he could have ever edited my Sir. And again, when I saw the book, I was loathe to see that the hack who edited the book could not get rid of typos in the credit page even after several reprints.
In Delhi, I'll never forget Aaaksh and my discovery of the Khan Market. It was the only place we ever went to. In fact, we spent years in Delhi roaming about the city together and could visit the Safdurjung Tomb only last Saturday. But, we had been to Bahari Sons and Khan Chacha. I even made Aakash buy a copy of Steve Mcurry's Monsoon.
My first date was in C R Park over fried fish. I just remembered that I've never gone back to that shop ever again. God alone knows if we can go back over there before we tie the knot this December.
My first sight of the Himalayas was in Mussoorie. We had taken a state bus from Dehra Doon. Clouds drifted into the bus. Clouds hung low over the mountains. It was misty when we reached there. Father and I walked up to Lal Tibba, up above Ruskin Bond's cottage. My father will never climb up to that place. In fact, Baba will never go to Mussoorie again. But, I will keep going back to Mussoorie.
I have never done Darjeeling with Baba. This time, he and I will board the Darjeeling mail together. It is on 8  December. It will be a first class coach and for the first time we will be on a first class coach, together. He will go with me to get me married. But, we will not do Darjeeling together. Will we?
But, this post is not to brood over gloom. It is to cherish, people and memories.
Travelling with teachers is a luxury. I have travelled with two of my teachers and those have been extremely rewarding experiences. the first sojourn was not with Sir. It was with Professor Da Silva in Darjeeling. Yes, I have done a vacation with Beriie and Suvro Sir, both. I have thrown scare to the winds and done as much. All those Xaverians who have been lucky to see these two mavericks in their life time will know what I mean. But, there are flip sides to things as well. I being portly and rotund find it difficult to keep pace with these extremely agile men, especially Sir. And, Sir does not 'love' food. He just reads or walks. In Chakrata, there was a steep climb from the bungalow where we had put up. After doing the climb at a rabid pace, we climbed further up into the petite bazaar. I was enticed by the jalebis and gulab jamuns. I could not garner the temerity to suggest a food break. But, then Sir was mellowed by Boudi's mediation. Uff!
I also remember taking him to Khan market and Choco La. We had a very strong chocolate drink. I was severely reprimanded for ordering an 'extremely expensive' fare and also for ' so much of strong chocolate' that led to 'migraine' and ' surfeit'. Poor Pupu and me!
This time, it will be different. We will start right from the Station. But, that will be another blog....

My Sundays

‘Twas  on a Sunday,

In the bright month of May,

I woke up at nine

And felt rather fine

I put in my bag

Which looked like a rag

Kittens and muffins and blueberry scones

Pencils and sharpeners and scaly pine cones

Wombats and fairies and lilies and squirrels

Sun drops and maggots and shiny icicles

All of a sudden my mummy was there

All of a sudden my daddy got a scare

All of a sudden  I wanted to run

Out in the rain or out in the sun

But now on a Sunday

In the month that is May

I sit in the house

Quiet like a mouse

I eat my crisps and munch my books

Never mind the mites who give me looks.

Acknowledgments: Ken Nesbitt and Dipanwita Shome

Happy, hurt and amazed

Many things have been happening around us and for quite some time. These come down to us in snippets and it is often impossible to see it all as a part of a single canvas. It is no painting and I probably went overboard with 'canvas'--let's use the word 'page'.

Rajat Gupta is close to being imprisoned and D Raja and Yedurappa are in deep trouble. I am delighted! Money making, as we Indians are in error in conjecturing, is not the sole purview of the politician. Corporate corruption goes hand-in-glove with political corruption. In fact, what politicians receive is a puny cut--the business men are the ones who who mint the real mullah. And, this is one of the greatest gifts of post-liberalization India. Liberalization has meant quite a few things to the middle class. You can buy a house, a car or a television far more easily than when your world was quite close to "Wagle ki Duniya.' You can transfer and withdraw money easily and air tickets are cheap and you can carry a cell phone even if you manage to starve most of the days. But, hang on. Are these markers of change in opportunities or a publicity driven change of your consumption basket? In other words, has our Marginal Utility maths gone for a toss?
But more importantly the larger maths, the maths of social utility, has indeed gone for a toss.
On 18 July 2011, The Economic Times carried a report on Narayanamurthy's take on India and its Human Development Index ranking. He said that we ourselves are to blame for our 119 rank. As if we needed Infosys to know as much! One of the reasons why we have not done our due to the millions who go hungry (except for trying to redefine the poverty barrier so that we have fewer poor to show!) is that the government has nothing better to do than dupe Kashmiris, free bandwidth licenses, nuke neighbours (or at least claim to do as much) and fend extremely fishy reformists like Anna Hazare. What are the things that capture our imagination? In Delhi, people are really angry that Metallica cancelled its show, really excited that India has been a fantastic host to Lady Gaga, F1 and all that jazz. The other thing that people talk about is 'corruption' of the likes of politicians and civil servants. I am amazed that none of us ever bother to question the real crooks. When was the last time that we saw a business man on the docks? Well, it was right when reforms had started and our businessmen did not know how to hide, and we had caught Harshad Mehta. Politicians face tax-fraud raids, land in jail, and die in anonymity but nothing happens to Subroto Roy who has no business to show but all the money to host F1 races. The race track cost us ten billion rupees, cost farmers land and livelihood and generated only ten thousand jobs!
Ponty Chaddha, inebriated drivers mowing down people on the street with Lamborghini at 200mph, Kingfisher fishing for public money for a bale out, the list is endless the scams scarier than ever before. Bofors pales before the Bhopal and yet fewer politicians bother. How many strikes has the CPM called for Bhopal or for that matter illegal mining in India? This is indeed a paradise for Lutherans. I mean, come on, can we not spare the pope and catch the money laundering pirates who set up colonies and turned nations into slaves with impunity? Can we shift our protests from Ram Lila ground to Dalal street and silicon valley in Bangalore? Not really.
Well then, take a hike.

My evenings, of late

My evenings have become more vulnerable to emptiness. Hence, I mingle in the crowd, try to retain the dying nip of the last winter breeze on my skin and in half-lit alleys find sights and smells so lost on me for many years.
She and I walked together in an evening bazaar looking for little things—nimki, gods with mountains in their hands, tungsten bulbs, stuff from a frail tailor--and I see this sweet shop in the corner. Mother and son sit together and the son dotingly gobbles kachouris. The shop is poorly lit, the walls and the staff are greased with soot, the wooden benches would creak if a fly moved on them, but people thronged it nevertheless. Once upon a time, even I looked forward to radha ballavi and chholar daal from ‘Bardhaman Mishtanno Bhandar’ when Ma and I went to get veggies from Benachity Bazaar in the evening. Dashakarma Bhandar , vegetable chops, vegetable sellers at Ghosh Market, my father’s scooter parked at Salbagan—memories rushed in Bergsonian style. I am no Eliot, I am no Pound and I write a blog with dreary irregularity. I loved it all. After many days, I felt outside the ‘here’ and the ‘now’. It was so light, the wind so sharp, the shadows so endearing.

The World Book Fair is in town. That evening she had left early and I was with my friends, two of them. They are a couple and they walked ahead. They had been friends for long, very long. I’d always wished that each of them had someone to love, someone to go back to. Now they are together—hand in hand, quiet and whispering, mature and thinking. Later we go for dinner. In the meanwhile, he smokes a cigarette and I gobble some mishit—in secrecy that lasts less than a quarter of an hour. But, I remember those days at Patparganj. Again, I am somewhere else and I feel happy as I drift.

She and I sit in a cafe. It is upmarket stuff. It is at Cafe market and we sit on the terrace overlooking yellow lights and a white Audi. The white walls wear a worn look. Cheap lights wired to a net on the terrace blink . Cigarette smoke and full-throttled political bull shit abound. The corner becomes warm and nice as I look into her eyes. The food is bad but we love the place. We take an auto after that. It is pretty cold. Cars rush on NH 24. A bespectacled greying man drives past us . He drives a badgered and much battered Maruti 800 oblivious of time and speed. He is the gentlest man I have glimpsed in this city. I see the wheels of a lorry roll ferociously and I keep looking at the wheels. It wheezes past us. A man is cuddled on the cardboard box wrapped in a blanket oblivious of time and speed. I wish I too could sleep such a sleep.