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.

Goshtha-baboo’s Portrait

Here is another translation


Goshtha-baboo’s portrait had come from the Englishman’s house in Kolkata. There was excitement and pandemonium in the house. The manservant, the washman, the cook and the barber called out in unison, “Rush, rush, let’s all go and see the portrait.”
Whosoever came commented, “What a lovely portrait! It has been done by an Englishman!” Sarkar-moshai, an old man, said, “The best part of it is the smile on the baboo’s face―it is as placid as he is.” On hearing this, the surprised audience commented, “Never mind, the sahib’s smile is really great!”
Uncle Bishthoo said, “The very eyes have been done in a way that demands a thousand rupees—the eyes remind one of Goshtha’s grandpa.” Twenty-one men agreed to this comment with great enthusiasm.
The washman laid down his stack of clothes and admired the portrait, “An excellent portrait. It seems that the dress has been ironed by Redho, the washman.” The barber played with his bag of razor, and said, “I have been shaving the baboo and trimming his hair for nineteen years. The style of the hair tells me that it is indeed a fine portrait. The baboo looks equally pleased when he sees his haircut in the mirror.”
The baboo’s favourite servant, Kenaram, said, “What should I say, my brother? It is such a lively portrait! I entered the room and touched the feet and then realised that what I had in front of me was not my master but a portrait!” Everybody started scrutinising the portrait, looking at every pore on the image, till the baboo came and stood by the picture. By then, all and sundry had agreed that the portrait resembled the baboo to the tee. He said, “There is a problem. They have informed me from Kolkata that this is someone else’s portrait which has mistakenly been dispatched to me. We need to return this.”
On hearing this, Sarkar-moshai said, “See, they think that they can cheat on me. The moment I looked at it I had wondered at who the frowning man with a strange smile was.” The uncle said, “See how the eyes are turned inwards. It seems as if he is on his way to the Ganges for his last rites.” Redho the washman said, “The man in the portrait is wearing his clothes in the fashion of a farmer. In all his seven lives, it seems, this man has never been able to dress properly!” The barber butted in and said, “It seems from his haircut that someone has done his hair with a sickle.” Kenaram shouted with mad rage, “The moment I stepped inside the room I thought that there was a thief inside. I was about to hit the fellow till I was told that it was our baboo’s portrait. I was in a huge mind to crush his face.”
Everybody agreed that they had known all this while that it wasn’t their baboo in the picture. After all, was the baboo’s nose so flat and were his ears like those of a duck? And, was it their baboo who was sitting, or was it a bear dancing?
― Sukumar Ray

The Tales of Abdul Majhi

This is my translation of Abdul Majhir Galpo done especially for this blog


Abdul Majhi had a pointed beard, a shaven head and no moustache. I know him quite well. He would get hilsa fish and turtle eggs from the Padma for dada. He had once told me a tale.
It was the end of spring—the month of Chaitra . He had gone with his dingy, fishing in the deep waters of the Padma. Suddenly, there rose a nor’westerly. It was a terrible storm. The boat tossed and turned and almost drowned. Abdul clasped the rope between his teeth and jumped into the waters. He swam to the shore and pulled the boat back with the rope.
The story finished too quickly and I didn’t quite like it. I wish I had heard a little more about the storm. After all, the boat didn’t drown. It just got saved—how could this be a good enough tale? I kept prodding him, “And then, what happened, after that?” Finally, Abdul said, “I saw a leopard with a really big moustache. During the storm, it had gone to the village on the other side. That village was called Pakoorgunj. A sudden gust of wind pulled a tree down into the Padma. And, along with it the leopard too was flung into the river. It drifted off into the river, struggling against the high waters, and somehow managed to reach the bank and get up on its feet.
The moment I saw him, I tied a noose with my rope. The mighty beast rolled its eyes and stood in front. The swim had worked up quite an appetite in him. The moment he saw me, he rolled his deep red tongue out and started drooling. He knew a lot of folks within the village and a few outside. But he knew not who Abdullah was!
I called out to him, “Come, my dear one, come”. He lifted his fore legs up and was ready to pounce when I threw the rope at him and put the noose across his neck. He wriggled hard to free himself and the more he wriggled, the more did the noose tighten around his neck and his tongue kept rolling out.”
At this point, I got a little worried and asked, “Abdul, did he die or what?” Abdul reassured me, “Well, how could he? Even his father wouldn’t have been able to take him to the throes of death. There was a high tide in the river and would one not have to come back to Bahadoorgunj? I tied the leopard to my dingy and used his weight to pull me through a hundred miles. The moment he would start groaning, I would nudge him with my oar. In an hour and a half I could cross a distance worth fifteen. Now, if you want to know what happened after that, I would really not be able to answer.”
I said, “Well, then, now that you’ve told me about a leopard, what about a crocodile?” Abdul replied, “I’ve seen his nose popping out of the river many a times. On the sloping banks of the river when you see a crocodile warming itself on the sand, it does seem that it is guffawing in a rather ugly way. I would have fought him, had I had a gun. But, the license had gotten over a long while back. Yet, something interesting happened.
One day, Kanchi, a nomad-girl was sitting by the river and chiseling a bamboo pole with a sickle. A kid was tied beside her. From nowhere did the crocodile come and pull at the legs of the kid. It dragged the little goat into the river. The girl jumped onto the back of the crocodile and sat on it. She used her sickle to scrape off the neck of the reptile over and over again. The crocodile let go of the kid and dipped into the waters.”
I asked, “And then? What happened after that?” Abdul said, “The news of the thereafter has sunk deep into the waters of the river. Fishing it out would take some time indeed!”
Rabindranath Tagore

Love in the time of Christmas

I have often wondered about why people fall in love. And, I have been told that unlike in animals, humans look for more than sex. They redefine sex as sexuality, that is, one's sexual abilities are recast as constituents of one's identity. One dresses 'up', one looks 'pretty', one is 'coy' and a host of other things. Soon even in non-sexual spaces, one gets an opportunity to express ones 'mating' behaviour. This leads to attraction and courtship and soon what is primarily sexual becomes socio-cultural. The institution of marriage is an excellent case in point. Therefore, people talk of the sense of humour, honesty, intelligence and a host of non-sexual attributes as the criterion for loving each other. In banal terms, we call them 'turn ons'. Why do we hunt for these attributes? Are we too embarrassed to admit our primary drives? Are they absolutely irrelevant in the course of 'falling in love'? I guess not.

Over a period of time human activities expand beyond hunting and gathering food, cooking, nursing family and procreating. With resources, machines and civilization we have leisure and activities that fill up our leisure. We read, watch plays, paint, play games and talk and listen to each other. Increasingly, these activities assume significance in our lives and they inform our 'basic' activities.
Soon, we replace eating and food with the notion of 'cuisine', 'work' increasingly incorporates 'play' and sex is aestheticised in art. As all of this happens, 'love' becomes a complicated affair. Or, we pretend that what is basic to be evolved!

I think we need to re-phrase the question? What sustains happiness between two people when they do not procreate? Many relationships break because people do not focus on being happy in togetherness. Instead, we build our own fairy castles in the air and look for their realization through others. Love becomes the oppressive heat of May.

Where is the love that we have lost to living, to honeymoons, fine-dining and Pattaya and Venice? O love why is so much labour lost? Let us not revel in the spirit of poor Orsino and say: "Let music be the food of love". Let us instead, learn to give, care and be happy in the 'other's' world.