"There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you” said Angelou. We live inside stories, as stories live inside us - some sad, some happy. I have found myself in stories told by other people. As my readers have lost and found themselves writing and rewriting my stories with me. Even then we are all untold stories that go generations beyond the 'here and now' and telling them is like rewriting mankind in the myriad hues of life. Here are some of mine for you to read/misread.
At first, you only see black and white. Like words on paper. Like dark and day. Then the grays unveil The zones of what - ifs, Of the red carpet of rage, Of the yellow sun of doubt, The brown of dried blood, The blue doom of gloom, The green leaf of disbelief In happy endings. There is no happy ending. Endings are sad. Always. And then you know it's time To bring the inner chameleon out. It's good to hide In colors Sometimes.
Does it ever happen to you, say when you are reading a good book and all of a sudden you notice it is drawing to a close, the pages unread are growing lesser in number, the right hand side thickness of the pages slimming down gradually and the left increasing in familiar abundance, disrupting the balance of the book's binding - and you get sore and panic? Do you suddenly feel empty in your gut at the prospect of a goodbye? Of an imminent closure that is at once satisfying and unnerving?
Well, I do.
Then, as a self induced therapy, I start making a mental list of the rest of the cool reads I still have in the pipeline. Just for some consolation. Sometimes I go back to the earlier chapters of the same book I am reading and reread. Just for prolonging the pleasure, you see. And then I quite self consciously unread what I have read already. I tell myself that this is a part I missed paying proper attention to and the author must have had a hidden purpose in dealing his tale this or that way. Which I had completely overlooked in my initial and cursory read. I think I tell myself a lot of rubbish to keep myself amused. I horse around a lot with my reading. That, I guess, makes me one helluva phony. But it works for me.
But sometimes I chicken out. I stop telling stories to myself. I stop rereading stuff. Like when I read The Bluest Eye. I couldn't dare a second read. And I have since then pushed myself away from the memory of the story so far that you may call it a willful suspension of belief. I lost my nerve. I loved it. I hated it.
I still don't know how to unlove Pecola. How to neutralise my outward gaze toward her lot. How to see her as she saw herself from within. How to anaesthetise my agony at her frailty, her supposed ugliness, her mad wish for blue eyes. How to exorcise her destruction from my memory.
I realise that I have pushed her story so hard into an enforced forgetfulness that I no longer remember the full story. I dare not pick up the book again lest it haunts my waking moments with the pain it once shot me.
Call me a lousy coward. A selfish sentimentalist. A stupid one-eyed reader. But I will keep looking for make believe happy endings.
A middle aged man in a white dhoti – nondescript, bald, slim, of average height, dark skinned, who always wore a smile and a pair of thick rimmed glasses.
Ever since I knew him, I loved that vision of him. He was mostly unkempt, buried under a heap of books, manuscripts and papers. He would momentarily look up from the pile of print and smile at me as I would shyly enter his room. I was a kid in a frilled frock with lots of mischief in my eyes. But he also knew I was fond of books and would always ask if I would like to see a few illustrated ones he had. I would nod a quick yes and pick up a glossy Span that would lace his desk. There were magazines from all countries, but the ones from Russia are what I remember mostly. There could be a special reason for that, which I cannot remember now. Maybe the color or the glossy feel of them. But he would watch me leaf through them with a twinkle in his eyes. Before he could find something suitable for my age, I would scamper away in a flash to the balcony or the roof to play. He would go back to his endless notes and theses – he was my Boromesho. My mother's elder sister's husband.
I was the youngest in a brood of nine cousins. And the most pampered. I was in a hurry to grow up so that my older cousins would take me in their circle of secrecy. But apparently no one noticed my desperate rush. Soma didi, didibhai, Mantu didi, Munni didi, Sanju dada, Sumit dada, Amit dada, Raja dada – would gather at Boromashi’s at CIT road, Park Circus. Mostly it would be Ashtami or Nabami during the Durga Pujas. Boromashi’s apartment is on the fourth floor. It had no lift, no air conditioner, no extra rooms for guests, no plush carpets. That made no difference to us. We were always dying to go there! It was a yearlong wait but worth every minute of it. The Pujas was the time of our lives.
When I was a kid there was no fancy mall to go to for Puja shopping. My mother had a knack for tailoring and had a score of DIY dress design manuals picked up from last year’s Boi Mela (book fair). The Usha sewing machine would wait in anticipation of late night labour in one corner of our house and I would hug myself in delight at the thought of hunching over Maa’s side watching her stitch my new dresses. The house that my father built before I was born was in Behala (still is!). It was a long way from Park Circus. In the 80s the EM Byepass had not yet materialized. Nor did many back then, have the recourse to the luxury of cabs. But one thing was guaranteed - while the Pujas were still a month away, Boromesho would come to our Behala residence carrying a plastic bag in his hand. I knew it.
Our Behala house had Burma teak chairs in the front verandah (sadly replaced with molded plastic ones now) overlooking the long road that leads to the front gate. Sitting on the chairs one can still see people walking down the road going about their daily business. I would wait for Mesho’s arrival with an eagerness with which nestlings wait for worms from their mamma birds. From the distance I would catch the first glimpse of his starched dhoti and most importantly the bags in his hand. His smile told us that he was as glad to see us as we to see him. I would run quick to open the gates for him and Maa would usher him in with a glass of cool water.
He would wipe his vast forehead with a clean white handkerchief and ask: “Kemon achho tomra shobai? Dekho toh egulo pochondo hoy kina” (“How are you all? See if you like these” It was as if my life hinged upon that cue and instantly I would snatch the packets off his hand and take them inside to inspect my prize. Orange, blue, green, pink – dashes of colors, abstract prints, flowers, dolls, teddies – so many motifs to marvel at. Glee had no bounds. My Saptami was going to be memorable. What would it be? So many options to choose from: a knee length midi, a two part frock or a mini? When I grew older, he would bring textiles for salwar suits. He knew.
This is one of my favorite memories from childhood. May of the rest came from his house at Park Circus where we would huddle during Ashtami. Life was simple, even simpler were the joys of it. The taste of Boromashi’s daal and fish, the smell of her sari that she always wore in a traditional way, the hoots of passing local trains, the dull drone of the heavy ceiling fans, the whisper of conspiring cousins, the cool of the cement floor where we would be bunched together for a midday nap and the sight of Boromesho stooping to pick up a book – all priceless. We all knew he was a learned man. He was synonymous with the Asiatic Society and he was one man who could start a discourse on anything – theology, Indology, culture, arts, religion, politics, history – and even the tritest of subjects like “you”. But what made him different was the way he blended inconspicuously with the surrounding becoming the only one solid thing you could surely lean on. The reason why no one noticed him was because he preferred it that way.
Why am I writing about him? I do not know. He died last week, peacefully, having lived a life blessed with love, respect, wisdom and humility. I never knew what he was to me while he was alive. I went to Boromashi’s house last night to pay my respects only to find Mesho gone. Good people die, good times pass. We write obituaries to deify dead people, because we feel obligated to speak words of praise for departed souls. I do not need my words to canonize Shibdas Chaudhuri. People who were blessed to have come near him, knows.
I had stepped in gingerly at their house last night. Death is unsavory. I am scared of bereavement, of people in mourning. I was greeted at the door by his son, Sanju dada. I was startled to see him in white. He had puffy eyes, maybe from crying or from missing his father. Everything else looked normal. How easily do we accept death and its aftermath. No wait, was that Boromashi? A thin shriveled woman in a bedraggled white saree? A wraith of the plump cuddly woman we called “Boromashi”. A woman who liked feeding hungry mouths with ladles of her exquisite cuisine. A woman who would chop betel nuts all afternoon and push that perfectly rolled paan into her mouth reddened by the betel juice. A matriarch who had the authority to shut my arrogant father up in a minute. She was called “didimoni” by all her sisters and their husbands. She was a shadow of all the glory that was didimoni now.
She broke down in a fresh outbreak of tears – the natural tendency of people to seek newer reasons to mourn the loss, to keep the loss alive. I stood away from the scene of tragedy. It was a private loss for me – I was jealous about sharing it with anyone else. Grief for me can never be social. I can write about bereavement but can never let it show. It was sacrilege for me to demonstrate it as a ritual. There were relatives present who by virtue of their characteristics could quickly change the scene. I was watching in silence their resilience, marveling at their expertise to quickly embark on hilarious exchanges even with death around. Also practical chores had to be taken care of: could someone talk to the cook? Could someone make some tea? Could someone dance in front of a grown up son or a granddaughter? Could a skinny cousin grow obese? Could one mashi still wear nailpoish at the age of 65? Considerations – all relatively significant, I am sure, to some.
Boromashi was telling Maa how Mesho had loved me specially. How when I had last visited him, he had told her after I had left “This daughter of mine is showcase stuff, she looks like Durga”. Is that how he saw me? Is that why every time during the Pujas he would touch my head and kiss my forehead and bless me like he never did to anyone else? Did he see Durga in me?
As a testimony to the man he was, his wife said a thing I can ever forget::
“Ponchanno bochor e ekta kotu kotha manush ta koy nai kono deen amare…amaar joto raag jhaal shob dhalchhi tnaar opor kintu uttore ekta o kotah shuni nai” (“In all our 55 years together he had not uttered a single bad word to me. I had poured my anger and complaints on him but he had always listened patiently never returning any of it”).
No one, not a single living soul has ever seen Mesho lose his temper or self control even for a single moment his life. His was an extraordinary soul.
I remembered myself. My petty ego, my bloated self respect, my false pride – how puny, how small I looked. Mesho was a man so big, so elevated, that he understood and forgave human follies. He forgave every weakness with a smile, he never took himself seriously enough to take offence from people. Or did he know his own enormity, did he know that no one could ever measure up to his wisdom or greatness? Did he realise he had to humour our inflated personas or did he know that only love and patience can bring out the best in ordinary mortals? Whatever it was, he stood tall amidst us midgets.
Boromashi asked me to sing a song and I sang a Rabindrasangeet. Would it be stupidly sentimental if I told you that I felt Mesho had unobtrusively come to the door of the room to hear me sing? He was fond of my songs, I know. Boromashi repeated it so many times last night that when I sang out of tune with a choked voice I saw him there. For the last time – in a blue lungi, his sacred thread hanging loose over his bare torso, wearing the same old smile.
Did you read The Treasure Island as a child? Nope, I didn't either. But I know that the plot revolves around some people searching for a treasure chest hidden deep inside a deserted island. Given the fact that ‘treasure’ means different things to different people, I will not venture to explain my reference to the classic text by Stevenson. But you must also know that we often stumble upon treasures accidentally, that is to say, even when we are not looking for it. You may call it a windfall, a lottery, or a chance visit to one of the oldest universities in the world.
I had no plan or intention of visiting Bologna on my recent trip to Italy. I wanted to see the popular spots, which the travel media has been systematically selling as must-visit holiday havens, such as Milan, Rome, the Vatican, Florence, Venice, and Pisa. Bologna featured nowhere on my travel itinerary. But since I was driving through Italy in a rented car, it made sense to lodge somewhere in between Venice and Florence, for a night to stretch my tired limbs. Looking at Google map, I figured that booking a hotel in Bologna was the best option to reduce the driving time between two geographically distant cities that I dearly wanted to tour. So off I went, and stationed myself at Bologna after a long drive from the Vatican, promising myself an early exit the next morning. I had a long drive to Venice the next day. After a hearty dinner, while I was almost ready to hit the sack, I had this sudden idle urge to check out the history of Bologna on my phone. Just for the heck of it. Bless these clever devices with roaming mobile data, for keeping you well grounded even on remote shores!
And what do I find? I find among many other interesting trivia, the piece of ancient academic excellence that Bologna is famous for - the University of Bologna. It is one of the oldest in the world. Older than even Oxford and Cambridge! The University was probably the first university in the western world and is even now the crucial point of reference in European culture. Over the years, as other seats of learning emerged in the scene of global culture, Bologna has modernized its teaching and research.
Founded arguably in1088 it has housed as students great personalities like Dante, Petrarch, Guido Cavalcanti, Guido Guinizelli, Thomas Becket, Pico della Mirandola, Leon Battista Alberti, Benjamin Franklin, Henry Cavendish, Marconi, and Umberto Eco, to name a few. Even today students from all over Italy and many from Spain flock to the place to seek the best of training.
As I parked my car and started walking toward the university campus, the deserted halls and parking struck me as peculiar, it suddenly dawned on me that I had chosen the wrong day to visit the campus – a Sunday! Not to be daunted by this faux-pas, I kept walking toward what appeared to me as the University center – a rectangular clearing marked by a church on one side and flanked brick red buildings on all the other. The path to the center was through a narrow alley laced with pillars on both sides and arched roofs. The central campus looked like an elongated courtyard surrounded by pillars and graffiti. For a university that was almost a thousand years old, the campus had a surprisingly urban look.
Like any other college in the world, Bologna looked like a hot seat of student politics with wall arts carrying slogans for and against parties. There was also chalked folk art on walls, vivid colors depicting legends from the past. My absolute ignorance of Italian pained me at that point as I had no clue what I was looking at other than familiar replicas of flags, the sickle, the hammer, rope. Impressions of unfamiliar faces looked back angrily at me, perhaps chiding me for daring to stand at a place, the immense significance of which, I had no clue of. Hand bills plastered the pillars, informing in advance of dramas and debates to take place. The stark contrast of the archaic red pillars to my right and the angular white concrete ones to my left was testimony to a culture that blended its history well with its present.
A scattered group of students hung around aimlessly on staircases by the side of the aisles, smoking cigars, drinking beer. A café stood open announcing their daily spread of Italian snacks in a standing black board. People sat in chairs outside, indulging in the Sunday relaxation. I crossed the main door to the University with a bold white marble plaque shouting Alma Mater Studiorum – the motto of the institute in black engraved font. The massive wooden doors were tightly shut. The Palazzo Poggi looked like an abandoned preserve of frescoes. Via Zamboni, the main hub of the faculties wore a similar vacant look. Bicycles and motorbikes were lined up beside the road. I spotted Italy’s biggest library, Biblioteca Sala Borsa. I was amazed to see it open with a few students thronging the doorway. I asked if there was anything worth viewing as a relic from the times of Petrarch or Dante?
The disinterested look in their eyes disappointed me – I was not fortunate to have bumped into people who cared for history as much as I did. After trying very hard to explain what I was looking for, I gave up. And instead decided not to run after the tangible treasures after all. Sitting down on the stone dices that lined the narrow alley in between the pillared corridors, I took a deep breath and tried to feel the vibe of a past that was so different from my own, yet so similar in many ways. I felt a calm descending upon me as I thanked the freak addition of Bologna into my Italian retreat.
Here I was sitting miles away from home, at a place, which had seen the stalwarts of science and arts pass by. Here was a place that could teach me a thing or two about European civilization and history. Here was a place that still throbbed with the presence of all this richness bundled into a time-travel only dreamers like me could undertake. I don’t remember for how long I had been sitting there, but suddenly the hunger pangs brought me back to reality and also nudged me to hurry up. For Venice was waiting for me. Venice with all its aquatic gullies and golden gondolas. I bid goodbye to the exquisite Bologna and set off.
As I was negotiating a sharp swerve out of the campus, a building emerged straight upfront – Hotel Academia! And I decided that Bologna was alright in cashing in the hotspot of its academic lineage. Even the hoteliers knew how to align their nomenclature. Before I sign off, here are some interesting facts about the University of Bologna: The University has about 85,000 students in its 23 colleges. It was the first to use the term universitas for the students and masters. It has 33 departments in all.
And if you are interested to know more about the place, you can always count on Wiki: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/University_of_Bologna
An impromptu visit to the theater. After-effect: I wasn’t expecting to change. But possibly, I will never be the same post Jaatishwar. And post my discussion with Kabir Suman, who so very kindly gave me insights to the long-lost Banga Kabiyal tradition.
There have been biopics on lives of poets/authors/musicians before. There have been period dramas merged with the present as a backdrop before. There has been the goateed Uttam Kumar serenading Tanuja as Anthony Phiringee, looking every bit the part with his broken bangla and Manna Dey lending his lilting melody to the hero lip-syncing “tumi jaaminee, ami shoshee hey”. There have been flicks on past life regression too, in the past. And musicals galore. But nothing compares to the experience the new Bangla movie Jaatishwar, a Musical of Memories evokes in the audience – or in me.
The Kabiyal tradition and Kabir Suman
The film is sub-titled "A Musical of Memories". And is about a Kabiyal, the legendary Portuguese minstrel of the 19th century Bengal, Anthony Heynsman. And his present day rebirth as Kushal Hazra. Anthony, the son of a businessman, had fallen in love with the folk music tradition of Bengal and had settled down in Chandannagore, the then Pharashdanga (French settlement in colonized Bengal) emerging as one of the reputed troubadours/minstrels of Bengal himself.
Many perhaps do not know that Srijit Mukherji's film owes its origin to a song by Kabir Suman - Jaatishwar!
Kabir Suman’s music is possibly the all-encompassing magic that defines the musical. While he has used Anthony’s Durga bandana played to show how a foreigner under trying circumstances could have mastered the Bangla Kirtan traditions, he has also used “Jaat gelo, jaat gelo bole, eki ajob karkhana” to show the influence Lalon Phokir's music had on him. The movie starts with a camera eye roving on the locales of rural Bengal with “Khodar kasam jaan, ami bhalobeshechi tomae” playing in Suman’s mellifluous voice as the journey culminates into the shanty of Anthony. You can barely see the hand grabbing the jholi with a lute-like instrument popping out. The transformation of Kushal into Anthony and vice versa is magical too – it happens so effortlessly that never for a moment the transition comes across as sudden. It is the music that connects the switch of the plots.
I am deeply indebted to Sir Kabir Suman for opening the door to our rich Kabiyal heritage through this film's music. No one has ever done through a single film's music what Suman has achieved in this film. Our standard Kabiyal repertoire consisted of Mathur, Shokhishongbad, Lohor, Jigir, chapan utor. In the early 19th century the decadent "babudom" and the culture of the plebeians helped set in khisti-kheur, which is mentioned in the film by way of an inferior genre in musical duel. Poets/Kabiyals would only take recourse to kheur to attack the opponent personally, when all other measures to defeat had failed.
What is interesting in the film is to watch great Kabiyals like Raam Boshu, Bhola, Gorokkhonath, Joggeshwori and Anthony use genres that didn't consist of merely attacks and counter-attacks, and was far away from Kheur. What Bhola and Joggeshwori played in this movie was closer to Kirtan. They are rich with lyricism and imagery and they deal with the Radha-Krishna theme, with emphasis on Radha's longing and then her union with Radhanath.
Kabir Suman, who has directed the music of this 'musical of memories' used Kirtan, ancient Shyamashongeet, Palaa-gaan, Tappa, Baul, Stage song melodies, Padaboli Kirtan, Dhop Kirtan, Folk melodies, Raga melodies for all the 13 Kabi-gaan. Never before have so many Kabiyal songs been so comprehensively presented in any Indian movie before. I am tempted to see what remains of the film if you take away these 13 Kabiyal songs. So the Kabiyals Srijit has portrayed in his film were not kheur-wallahs, but poets and musicians in their own rights. The Kabiyals songs you hear in this movie were not only melodious resonating with Padaboli Kirtan, Dhop Kirtan, Folk melodies, Raga melodies, Palagaan, and Tappa, but also had mythical and classical allusions made easy in popular lingo, without which the rural audience in those days wouldn't have accepted and enjoyed such heavy texts.The Kabiyals had to undergo rigorous training in Hindu and Muslim scriptures, in the Shastras and in mythologies. There are word plays that presuppose a sound knowledge of Bangla, Sanskrit and Persian. There is no notation or recording available to have brought these ancient Kabi-gaan to life and Kabir Suman had to recreate the melodies and music for all 13 Kabiyal texts that Srijit had hand-picked for his film. No one in India has ever undertaken such a musical feat.
While the film owes its birth to Suman's song Jaatishwar itself, without these 13 songs, and "prothom aloy phera" and "e tumi kemon tumi" the film would possibly not be as credible to watch and believe in. It is Kabir Suman who successfully creates a deserving salute to our great Kabiyal heritage.
Anthony Heynsman and Kushal Hazra
Prasenjit Chattopadhyay – who plays dual roles of Anthony Heynsman and Kushal Hazra – has proved again that he is indeed the boss of Tollywood. The man who had once frolicked with forgettable heroines under rains and around trees, had arrived long ago at the pinnacle of versatility and maturity with films like Baaishe Srabon and Aparajita Tumi. Here he is different material altogether. He is Kushal Hazra, the nondescript librarian of the Chandannagore central library. And our protagonist the Jaatishwar, hurting under the burden of haunting memories of a past life - as Anthony Heynsman. His makeup, with a receding hairline and a blotch of bald, makes it difficult for us to recognize the ultra-glamorous matinee idol that he in reality is. The slight limp in the walk, that hesitance in his gait, his left hand going to the left side of his chest - are proofs of the two cerebral strokes that he speaks to have undergone as a result of his mnemonic trauma. Kushal Hazra is a fugitive – trying to escape the torment of his memories of a previous birth - as Anthony. One day destiny brings Rohit Mehta (Jishhu Sengupta), a student of Portuguese studies, to him, in search of books on Anthony Heynsman. And Kushal finally can hope of a possible release from his agony in the eager listener.
Narration and the narrator
Jaatishwar is narrated via various techniques. And there is meta-narration or narration within/about narration. Like there are typed in names and descriptions of the characters in comic sans font designating stereotypes for “optimally nyaka" Sudeshna (played by the frail Ria Sen) and the “chintita stree" (as the perennially concerned mother played by Chaitali Dasgupta), there is also Rohit, who helps to tie in the two love stories – of Anthony and himself – his, with a happy ending and Anthony’s that ends in tragedy and loss.
There is another narration, and the most important one. Prasenjit’s narration of Anthony’s life – the visions that have been haunting him, threatening to dislocate his sense of self completely. Only reading yesterday that Wikipedia is losing readership, I chuckled aloud today when Kushal (Anthony re-incarnate) tells Rohit (who is writing a dissertation and hence looking for information on Anthony) that not everything, which Google says is true or right. The point where Kushal and Rohit merge as credibly of the same breed is where both being of non-Bong origin, display sheer love for Bangla music – Anthony for the sake of his love for Bengali folk music, Rohit for the sake of his love for a Bengali lass, Maya (assayed by Swastika).
The film is well-researched, bringing forth kabi’r lorai (poets' duels)of Bhola moyra, Heeru Thakur, into life. There is very little documented history available on Anthony for researchers. The film depicts a film within, when Rohit goes on a quest with a handycam to capture trivia on Anthony’s life in Chandennagore and finally draws a blank. Using unconventional camera techniques, the past and the present are juxtaposed within one single frame, where Kushal sits on the 19th century stage opposite Anthony, bringing in the time dilution into brilliant play. You are transported to the thakur-dalaan of Shobhabajaar Rajbaari in a flash, where the Kabiyal repertoire is unfurled in front of your eyes.
Reincarnation more believable now
The best part of the story is - although re-incarnation is a debatable issue, with not many believers in the concept; the film makes you feel the whole story is plausible, so real. Anthony’s life is well documented, interspersed with shots of Rohit’s life – parallels in a connected love story. Even the final fight for poetic supremacy in Anthony’s life with veteran poets in a public duel runs with a parallel of Rohit’s final battle in Banemonium, a band competition organized by Radio Mirchi. Such is the delight when you watch movies by intelligent directors, who are well-read themselves and are willing to go that extra mile to give you that additional touch of brilliance through their hard work and thoughtful craft.One complaint though – I would have loved it if the song sung by Rohit at the band contest was a song gifted by Kushal. Though “E tumi kemon tumi, chokher tarae aayna dhoro” is about births and rebirths, somewhere I was left feeling asking for a more direct connect between Kushal and Rohit as far as the song was concerned. But then again, wouldn’t that make the film too predictable and average? Well, yes.
We are not told if Rohit won the contest. We know he won his lady love. Ironically, as a foil, Anthony had won the public duel against Bhola Moyra, but had lost his wife Soudamini to a team of vengeful Hindu villagers setting their house on fire. The story comes full circle in Soudamini reincarnated as Maya – having ended Kushal/Anthony’s search for his lost Mini. Kushal is cured of his demons of the past, but chooses to play the fop till the end, so that he is allowed his final peace from intrusive gaze. It is amazing story-telling, stylish camera work, superb witticism in the script and awesome characterization all culminating into a movie that is must-watch. Maybe more than once.
And since “collective unconscious” is mentioned by way of diagnosis of past life regression, we may live in hope that movie makers of future will keep Srijit’s endeavor in mind, when they make biopics on little-known historical characters.
Prasenjit Chatterjee, Sir, yes, you are indeed the Industry!
Srijit Mukherji, Sir, take a bow!
Kabir Suman, Sir, you have brought back the music of the lost Kabiyals of yore! Thank you!
Call it faith. Call it the opiate of the middle class. Call it misplaced care. Or undeserved service.
I choose to call this love. Simple.
Hanuman wrapped up in the warmth of human love.
And in a brightly colored blue striped shawl. It's cold for the gods too.
Ten degrees and dropping.
I dressed my dolls in woolens during winters. Transferring my wish to care for a living creature to an imagined unnamed entity. Wait, I think I did name my dolls.
Yes, I was a child alright but where is the harm if a group of grown ups (mostly in their twilight age) decide to wrap this tiny figure up and give themselves a little credit for saving the bachelor guy from cold?
I pass this small temple several times during my morning rounds. This is where the kakus and kakimas, jethus and jethimas assemble for their evening adda and prayers.
I am not going to judge them for not showing an equal amount of cocern to the poor and unprivileged. Or maybe they already do, who knows?
I am not going to resent them that one community corner they call their own.
They have lived their lives well. So when they are left with empty nests, memories and weekly calls with grandkids, why can't they live a second lease of parenthood raising the naughty Hanuman?
Have been putting off a much needed visit to the College Street for quite sometime now.
I made it today. Am glad I did.
The College Street Coffee House
I haunt posh book stores of the city, sniffing crisp new pages for print fragrance, for newness. Like all book lovers, I like the smell of books hot off the press. I like to feel the stiffness of hard-bounds. As much as I like to caress the smooth gloss of the paperbacks with my fingers.
Sometimes I don't buy any books at all. I stand staring at the titles longingly. Or I sit, leafing through the pages, reading the beginning, allowing myself the luxury of spending an impolite number of moments on the small wooden seats meant for serious readers. Someone would courteously clear his throat, making his long-standing presence felt. I would mumble a quick "Sorry, please take this seat, I was leaving anyways" and rush to the exit. Of course, sometimes I go overboard with a spending frenzy and pick out all those books that have been reviewed and recommended by critics and friends alike. And then there's Flipkart, of course.
So why College Street? You must be kidding right? Who would jostle with unkempt teenagers? How would you barely keep out of old-book sirens trying to clutch at you? Plus there was prior warning of an anti-rape protest march from College Square to the Esplanade. On top of that today was the day of the big fight - mission Derby - between East Bengal and Mohun Bagan. Truckloads of yellow-red and maroon-green jerseys were already yelling and waving their way through toward the YuvaBharatiya Krirangan. Another iconic match to launch a spate of hot debate between the bangals and the ghotis - both claiming athletic and then by natural progression, cultural superiority. Undaunted by all the obvious deterrents, I pushed myself to take the trip. And lo, I landed myself right into a students' union demonstrating against an apparent anomaly in the recruitment exam of teaching staff.
You may imagine the scene. Rather I urge you to.
Students in white and black uniforms emerging with patient looking mothers from the heritage Hare School, un-uniformed ones from the legendary Presidency College. Angry people's rally in protest against Government inaction in various social/political spheres. Book distributors sending out cartons of their ware, bamboo carts carrying exercise copies and books suddenly jutting out of serpentine by-lanes and alleys that comb out of the main road. Book sellers crying their lungs out, calling every didi and dada to try out the worn out but precious old copies. Book buyers haggling over second-hand titles, Kolkata police wielding their batons in mock fierceness, young lovers walking hand in hand in complete oblivion of their whereabouts, groups of youths laughing with the sun in their eyes. Tram-cars, buses, taxis all almost threatening to run pedestrians over. Traffic snarl orchestrated and punctuated with all sorts of high and low pitched honks. Fruit vendors cutting open natural freshness for regular patrons. A daab-walla in a lungi deftly beheading coconuts and handing thirsty customers one each, making a neat little mountain of the husks by the road side.
Standing there for a moment in the bustle, I felt I have been cheating on who I am. I was once of this bunch, this breed. Hounding Saha babu for rare copies of "xeroxed editions". I was once that girl who didn't mind squatting on the footpath and getting her hands all dusty with second-hand treasures. Or sniffing old yellow pages imagining the hands they have passed through, fingers that had lovingly held onto those books once, eyes that must have moistened at the time of parting, for a few bucks. Or that girl with a pony tail, scooping the flesh out of a green coconut, even after the water was all over. She was all eager to squeeze out every little joy of life in jeans.
I am not much different now, but the places I look for joys have changed.
It is nice to have roots. Memories to go back to. Old paths to travel once more. Like I did today. Maybe I can never go back to where I was - once upon a time. But a visit now or then never hurts, what do you say?
A tramcar on the Mahatma Gandhi Road, where the College Street ends
Mornings and I have had a lasting love affair. Ever since I can remember, I have been a morning person, usually up by 5. And I mean literally up on my feet. Today was no exception. Only I lay awake earlier than usual, not caring to leave the bed or look at my bedside clock. I decided to give the slippers a slip this time. There was an invisible audience clapping their hands at my decision to stay put in bed as I fought a tremendous urge to switch on the lamp and turn to the unfinished book by my side.
I sleep with my windows slightly ajar in winter. Yes, I have strange taste in ventilation. Summers are when I am cooped up within, listening to the soiree of the air-conditioners blowing away to an artificial assurance of chill.
Winters are different. While I keep the house sealed off from evening visits of thirsty mosquitoes, I throw my shutters open at bedtime. So that I don’t miss out on the natural cool, the drift of a wintry mist invading my rest. And by then the six-legged vampires have given up trying to break into human realm. There is another reason though.
I like the winter morning sounds.
I like imagining a tiny woman in a white robe, with silver hair and silver stilettos running on my shutter ledge, picking up a sweet rhythm as she passes. And sometimes fancy her slipping indoors as I pretend to lie asleep. No Jack Frost for me. O boy, am I messed up?
What I mean to say is that I like the resonance and noises that travel through the silent foggy mist during winter. No silly ambient acoustics from droning fans or air-coolers shutting away the natural clamor – of life. Life abuzz at the end of a dark restful night. And I think the dawn is a whole new world altogether. My kind of world, so to speak. With silence in enough measures to distill the sounds you choose to hear.
I crane my neck to trace the source of light that falls straight on my pillow. I discover faint jangle of utensils coming from my neighbor’s kitchen window upstairs. With that the accompanying tinkle of glass bangles. I imagine wet hands bedazzled with red, blue and green caressing stainless steel pots and pans with lather. Someone is up ahead of me, it seems. I close my eyes. I try to focus on the sounds that come afloat from afar. Bollywood numbers wafting from a late night function at a neighborhood cultural club, which obviously has spilled over into the wee hours. The morning call to prayer in the local mosque – there is a strange peace to the bid, though I can never make out what they say. As if they summon believers to the house of god, to share the morning light together – the break of a new day. The sound of cooing pigeons flapping their wings, haunting the cornice of our identical houses, sitting aligned on the overhead tank after their ritual bustle is over. They chatter away as they wait for glass shutters to open and unknown hands litter window sills with their daily ration of cereals.
I sink my head back into the pillow, roll over and look at the sky. It isn’t yet blue but an inky grey. No sign of cloud too, or maybe there is, the fog doesn’t let me see through. I hear the sound of me yawning. Listen to the steady breathing of my son sleeping next to me. I pull the duvet closer, tighter around us.
A tap leaking in a washroom. Someone humming a love-song. There is a couple who live next-block, a flight of stairs below. I can see a square of their bed if I push aside my bedroom curtain and pry, which I assure you, I never do. There are exceptions, of course. Like when I want to see their toddler play with his teddy on the bed, his feet up in the air. When I want to listen to the young parents’ baby-talk, urging the little mite to walk on the bed.
- “We will catch your fall, baby, nothing to fear, sweetheart. Come try, walk right into my arms.”
I can listen to their entire morning routine from my bed. Of the child waking the parents up, the mother warming up water to make the formula, the father brushing teeth, talking illegibly through dental froth, flushing his pee down the toilet, and the whole family stirring back to business.
I time-travel back to when I was a new mother and although, we had little money, we had time enough for everyone in the family. We had similar cheerful mornings to wake up to. I smile at the memory – not too long ago in years, but somehow it seems like ages now.
Then there is my next-door kaku, whose snores permeate the thick walls of my en suite toilet. The snores have a surge and a drop – a peculiar resemblance to the rise and fall of tides. And come with an assertion that despite his age and ailments, he continues to defy the end. I offer a silent prayer in thankfulness. The old graying pair are substitute parents to me; oftentimes, dropping in at odd hours to complain about aching joints and rising prices.
Shortly afterwards, as the dawn breaks into day, there begins the dull upward-downward grind of the elevator. The domestic helps reporting to duty. The security guard turning off lights on corridors. The milkman arriving with his cart. Newspaper delivery boy pushing the fresh print-roll through each collapsible iron gate. The sun demanding that I face the day with my characteristic nonchalance and wait for another daybreak to soak in the daily echoes of living.
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