tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1710967425051113652024-03-13T02:33:45.704-07:00Homespun yarns"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.
23susanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01332392046655763011noreply@blogger.comBlogger52125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171096742505111365.post-8649363412104707792020-03-20T03:59:00.002-07:002020-03-20T03:59:32.933-07:00Theater review: Playhouse, an adaptation from Friedrich Dürrenmatt<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I watched Playhouse yesterday. Produced by the group Shailushik. At the Rabindrasadan auditorium.</div>
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Playhouse is a dark comedy or a problem play of five principal characters around the theme of justice. More precisely the justice seldom delivered in a courthouse of law. But that which is brought forth by a guilt ridden conscience upon itself after the layers of a carefully orchestrated pretence are peeled off one by one. To reveal a face scarred with the ugliness of sins gone overlooked by the world at large.</div>
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Indrajit Dutta's sparkling new red BMW breaks down on a rainy night in the outskirts of North Bengal. He seeks refuge in a house of a retired judge, Pinaki Samanta, which doesn't have a functional telephone. Indrajit plays the metaphorical double of both the epical hubristic Meghnad and the mythological Ares. As he also reminds me of the tragic hero Macbeth.</div>
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Ironically, he is the zonal manager of a firm that makes hephaeston, a binding polymer that is as strong and unbreakable as steel. Interestingly, the product name is a derivative of Hephaestus, the Greek god of smithy (think Vishwakarma minus the charm) who married Aphrodite, the goddess of beauty. Legend holds that Aphrodite was disgusted with the ugly lame husband and started an illicit romance with the handsome Ares. Coming to know about this affair from Helios, Hephaestus wraps his wife with a net of steel and takes her to Mount Olympus for justice.</div>
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The imagery of a noose or a steely mesh drawing close on criminals, who are off limits for regular legal proceedings, pervades the play from the beginning. The ominous undertone doesn't take too long to settle you in an expectation of an imminent doom. Only it is never overtly pronounced.</div>
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The stage quickly fills with three friends of the old judge - a jailor cum hangman, a public prosecutor and a defence advocate - a boisterous crowd of retired men of law, who seem to belong to a self imposed agency of bringing culprits to a deserving deliverence. Apparently however, they engage in frivolous evenings of single malts, listening to Chopin, singing Cohen and feasting on crab sizzlers finishing off with custard. All this while play acting scenes of make believe legal trials for merriment. They invite Indrajit to play and he agrees in good humor to enact the role of a convict, accused of corruption leading to murder of his erstwhile boss, Bijan Samaddar.</div>
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As the evening proceeds, effects of intoxication and a semblance of real life arbitration lead Indrajit to reveal his past, thanks to a persistent interrogation by the prosecutor. He is goaded into confessing the mindcrimes he had committed to climb up the corporate ladder. For an ambitious transition from driving an Alto to a BMW. While the defence counsel and prosecutor match their wits to concoct contrasting illustrations of Indrajit as a helpless pawn of hard times versus a cold blooded killer, the judge declares him both guilty and innocent but sentences him to death nonetheless. But then Indrajit is also given a choice. What is it?</div>
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Won't give away the plot, nor the ending but the play kept me hooked. Superlative histrionics from Padmanabha Dasgupta, Arjun Dasgupta and Sridip Chattopadhyay were totally worth every moment of attention. The music was also commendable, striking an intended balance between a contrived jollity and a jarring angst.</div>
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Indrajit's character, whose boundless ambition becomes his undoing, has undertones of the overachieving Macbeth. Remember how in Shakespeare's play, Hecate, the goddess of witchcraft orders three witches to congregate at a forbidding place where Macbeth will seek their help? In the fourth act the witches or as some read them, the Three Fates, gather as Hecate ordered and produce a series of ominous visions for Macbeth that herald his downfall. Play house has echoes of the witches in the jailor, the prosecutor and the defence lawyer - all progressively conjuring up a series of visions for Indrajit. Pinaki, the judge is Hecate's shadow without any sensationalized voodooism attached to the version.</div>
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I will not refer to Friedrich Dürrenmatt's story which inspired this play. Nor will I go to draw parallels with Edgar Wallace's Four Just Men. Simply because Playhouse goes the extra miles to make the stage a topical reference to the present day India. Director Kamaleshwar Mukherjee and script writer Padmanabha have both created a production that rings familiar with the contemporary audience. Allusions to chit fund, fascism, Nirav Modi on one hand and the aspiration-less communist middle class on the other, clarifies where the moral compass of the play points to. Dürrenmatt's distinctly left wing ideologies influence the treatment albeit shortly.</div>
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Do watch Playhouse. Please do.<br />Picture courtesy: Sridip Chattopadhyay's wall</div>
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23susanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01332392046655763011noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171096742505111365.post-90972339363645855332020-03-20T03:55:00.002-07:002020-03-20T03:55:34.781-07:00১০৬ বছরের পুরানো পাইস হোটেল (Bengali script)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">লেক মার্কেটের গা ঘেঁষে রাসবিহারী এভিনিউর মোড়ের দিকে চলতে চলতে একটা সরু গলির ভিতরে, একটা প্রায় এই বুঝি ভেঙ্গে পড়লো ধরনের বাড়ির একতলায় এই হোটেল। পাশ দিয়ে হেঁটে গেছি বহুবার, চোখে পড়েনি কখনো।</span></div>
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দক্ষিণ কলকাতার সব কিছুই হয়ত উত্তরের থেকে অনেক বয়েসে ছোটো, নবীন। ব্রিটিশ আমলে আপিস পাড়া বলতে ছিল চৌরঙ্গী আর উত্তরের কলকাতা। তাই অলিতে গলিতে গজিয়ে উঠেছিল ভাতের হোটেল। উত্তরে এখনো আছে আদর্শ হিন্দু হোটেল, জগদ্ধাত্রী আশ্রম, আরো কত কি। কিন্তু পাইস হোটেলের ক্ষেত্রে আমরাও কিন্তু পেছনে পড়ে নেই। আমাদের দক্ষিণী কলকাতার আছে তরুণ নিকেতন। এখনো স্বমহিমায় বর্তমান। কলাপাতা র দাম যেখানে দু টাকা। পাইস মানে যতটুকু খাবে, বাটি পিছু আলাদা আলাদা মূল্য ধার্য করা।</div>
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আমি মার্কামারা ভেতো বাঙ্গালী, সেজন্য বিশুদ্ধ বাঙ্গালী রান্নার স্বাদ আমার কাছে অমৃত সম। তার ওপর এই হোটেলগুলোর গায়ে লেগে থাকা ইতিহাসের মন কেমন করা গন্ধ। সবুজ প্লাস্টিক পেইন্ট করা প্রাচীন ইঁটের মোটা দেওয়াল, কড়ি বরগার ছাদ টিনের চালা দিয়ে ঢাকা। শ্বেতপাথরের চৌকো টুকরো দেওয়া কাঠের টেবিল, প্রতি সিটের আলাদা নম্বর। আমি বসেছিলাম ১ নম্বর চেয়ারে। ব্ল্যাকবোর্ডে দূর্বোধ্য হাতের লেখা দিনের মেনু, কলাপাতায় ভাত, নুন, গন্ধ লেবু, লঙ্কা। অচেনা লোকের সঙ্গে গা ঘেঁষে এক টেবিলে খাওয়া, কর্মচারীদের হাসি মুখে নামতার মতন মেনু আওড়ানো, রংচটা হেঁশেলের দরজার ওপর বিবর্ণ কালিতে "প্রবেশ নিষেধ" লেখা। আর খাবার পরে আঁচানোর জন্যে বাইরে উঠোনে একটা কলঘর।</div>
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আধুনিক কোলকাতার পাঁচতারা রেস্তোরাঁর হাতছানি ছাড়িয়ে এখানের চৌকাঠ পেরোলেই যেন টাইম মেশিনে চেপে সাদা কালো সিনেমার সেই ফ্রেমে ঢুকে পড়া। সবটুকু মুছে যাবার আগে গেলাম ফিরে কয়েক দশক পিছিয়ে।</div>
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হোটেলের বর্তমান মালিক শ্রী অরুণ দেব। তৃতীয় জেনেরশন মালিকানা। তার সাথে দেখা হয়নি, তবে তার নাতি ছিলো আজকের ক্যাশ কাউন্টারে। সপ্রতিভ ছেলেটি বেশ গপ্পি গোছের। বললো দাদুর ঠাকুরদা, শ্রী জগৎচন্দ্র দেব এই হোটেল স্থাপন করেন ১৯১৫ সালে। মানে বঙ্গভঙ্গ আন্দোলনের ঠিক এক দশক পরে।</div>
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বললো, আজও নাকি এই বয়েসে দাদু নিজে হাতে বেছে রোজ সকালে বাজার করেন। লেক মার্কেটের বাজারে নাকি এক ডাকে সবাই চেনে দাদুকে। বিশেষ করে মাছ বিক্রেতা রা। চিতল, রুই, কাতলা, চিংড়ি, ভেটকি, ট্যাংরা, পাবদা, পারসে, কাঁকরা, ইত্যাদি নিজে হাতে টিপে টিপে বাজিয়ে নেন। তারপর দাদু কেনেন টাটকা মরসুমী সবজি। দাদুকে দরদাম করতে হয়না। রোজকার খদ্দের। তায় আবার হেরিটেজ হোটেল।</div>
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এখানে ডিমের ঝোল মানে হাসের ডিম। পোল্ট্রি র ডিম রান্না হয়না। শুনলাম যে মাংস, ডিম আর মাছের কালিয়া ছাড়া অন্য কোনো রান্নায় পেয়াজ রসুন ব্যবহারও হয়না। এটাই এখানের রান্নার নীতি। মনে হয় কাছেই কালীঘাট বলে, তীর্থ যাত্রীদের জন্যেই শুরু হয় এই ব্যবস্থা। এখনো চলছে সেই নিয়ম।</div>
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প্রথম দু হাতা ভাত ২০ টাকা। তারপর হাতা পিছু টাকা। ধবধবে সাদা, ধোঁয়া ওঠা ভাত। দুপুরে নাকি ৮-১০ রকমের শুধু মাছের পদ থাকে। আমি খেলাম, পাতলা মুসুর ডাল, আলু পেয়াজকলি ভাজা, পাঁচমিশালী তরকারি, হাসের ডিমের ঝোল, খাসীর মাংস আলু দিয়ে, আর শেষ পাতে আমের চাটনি।</div>
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সত্যি বলছি এত তৃপ্তি করে অনেক দিন খাইনি। যেন বাড়ির রান্না। পাতলা হালকা। মার্জিত ঝাল, অশরীরী ঝাঁঝ। পাঁঠার মাংসে নেই কোনো গুঁড়ো লংকার রক্তকরবী। আপিস পাড়ার বাবুদের যেহেতু রোজের খাবার যোগান দিতে হতো, তাই গেরস্থ বাড়ির সাদামাটা রান্নার চলন। কিন্তু স্বাদ অটুট। এ খাবার সপ্তায় ৫ দিন খেলেও অম্বল হবার সম্ভাবনা নেই।</div>
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তবে বাড়িটা শিগগিরই ভাঙ্গা পড়বে। নতুন করে গড়া হবে তরুণ নিকেতন। প্রোমোটার কাজে হাত দিয়েছে। এই ধূসর ঐতিহ্য জলদি পাবে চাকচিক্যের মোড়ক। তখন হয়তো আর এই অমোঘ টান বোধ করবো না এখানে এসে পাত পাড়বার। নস্টালজিয়া মনের অসুখের চেয়ে কিছু কম না। আমি আবার সেই রোগে বিপুলভাবে আক্রান্ত।</div>
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খেয়ে হাত ধুয়ে বেরোচ্ছি, ছেলেটি দৌড়ে এসে হাতে এক খানা কার্ড গুঁজে দিয়ে বললো, দিদি একদিন দুপুরে আসুন। একটা ফোন করে আসবেন। যা খেতে ইচ্ছে করবে, লইটটা শুঁটকি, চিতল মাছের মুইত্থা, কাকড়ার ঘন্ট, পোস্ত বাটা, কুমড়ো ফুলের বড়া, সজনে ফুল ভাজা, একবার বলবেন।</div>
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গুছিয়ে খাওয়াবো।</div>
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এমনি এমনি কি আর কোলকাতা ছেড়ে থাকতে পারিনা?</div>
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23susanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01332392046655763011noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171096742505111365.post-89756535045220658012020-03-20T03:50:00.000-07:002020-03-20T03:50:01.950-07:00Film review: Thappad (2020)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Go watch this. Take your sons along. Daughters too.</div>
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Some spooky coincidence that I watch an awareness commercial on domestic violence, Bell Bajao from Little Lamb Films; and the same day I end up landing at the theater to watch Thappad. Although Thappad is not just a commentary on borderline domestic abuse. But a social study of the subtle gender divides that permeate our subconscious.</div>
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It addresses all that in the symbol of "sirf ek thappad", which lands on a wife's share bu<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">t only she cannot see any of it herself. Even if she does, she is conditioned to take it on her stride, as if she deserves it all. Seven women, whose lives entangle in a common narrative thread of love and loss play a collective lead in the movie. Tapsee Pannu holds your attention at the center stage. Sharing a slice of her life is her mother, mother in law, would be sis in law, her neighbour, her domestic help, and her lawyer. Each supporting character lends an aspect to a woman's struggle.</span></div>
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Without the Bollywood sentimental extravaganza, Anubhav Sinha does perfect justice to the story with nuanced frames capturing each shade of natural emotion. Almost every character is at a loss to figure out how a one-time slap unwittingly served in a moment of sheer frustration can lead to such brouhaha. What they, like everyone else overlook is that the slap is not just a slap. It is just the tip of a century old iceberg gathering generations of accumulated wifely sacrifices at the alter of marriage.</div>
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The casting is superlative, the script flawless and acting merits a standing ovation. Music could have been better. But that doesn't strip any of the film's excellence.</div>
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<a aria-describedby="u_fetchstream_34_1k" aria-label="Miranda House organises a special screening of 'Thappad' - Times of India" data-lynx-mode="asynclazy" data-lynx-uri="https://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=https%3A%2F%2Ftimesofindia.indiatimes.com%2Fentertainment%2Fevents%2Fdelhi%2Fmiranda-house-organises-a-special-screening-of-thappad%2Farticleshow%2F74416726.cms%3Ffbclid%3DIwAR39yBipWtvJIo_sh7lIwC3CgOpPdRXr_5ZcEQ5ZznRS9tkzSK0VfxyiOwQ&h=AT2_AMIeNEjQnpOsMyvhOk06oA3seaGmkwOJjwmnTkxyFJItiMVfzQRjnLsrbdYAVoIFFi8yVOUy2DqPVMEDmw3oPWT5Vv1RudTABeDU2ebdWkRy5G3GrWED-UmAK34ywDnOO2-nF0je4VmB5PUhruTo" href="https://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/entertainment/events/delhi/miranda-house-organises-a-special-screening-of-thappad/articleshow/74416726.cms?fbclid=IwAR39yBipWtvJIo_sh7lIwC3CgOpPdRXr_5ZcEQ5ZznRS9tkzSK0VfxyiOwQ" rel="noopener nofollow" style="color: #385898; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit;" tabindex="-1" target="_blank"><div class="accessible_elem inlineBlock" id="u_fetchstream_34_1k" style="clip: rect(1px, 1px, 1px, 1px); display: inline-block; font-family: inherit; height: 1px; overflow: hidden; position: absolute; white-space: nowrap; width: 1px; zoom: 1;">
Policy Centre and Gender Lab of Miranda House organised the screening of the movie Thappad</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Miranda House arranges a screening of Thappad for their students</td></tr>
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23susanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01332392046655763011noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171096742505111365.post-27878334616609911112020-03-20T03:46:00.003-07:002020-03-20T03:46:37.922-07:00Film review: 1917 (2020)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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A movie I was reluctant to watch. Wounds, gore, bloodshed don't quite agree with me. I have a delicate stomach and a frail disposition. But it is desperate times calling for desperate measures to keep one from worse imaginings. The plot really can be summed up in just one line. Remember that poem "How they brought the good news from Ghent to Aix"? Someone has to send a message of life saving implications somewhere, before daybreak, without which there will be defeat and death. That someone rides a horse, and the poem recounts the story of bravado in galloping meter. We are not told what the message was though.</div>
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1917 has exactly the same plot. Only we know the message. A message to call off a planned attack on the Germans by the British forces, which is a trap laid to annihilate 1600 soldiers - must be delivered before dawn by two British corporals. The troop at risk also includes the brother of one of the messengers.</div>
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How the film is shot demonstrates the kind of genius the cinematographer Deakins and the director Mendes have leveraged for the movie. I watched agape the seamless single shots spanning minutes on end, reinforcing the illusion that my eyes were watching the events unfold right in real time. And that there were no scene breaks. The narration is such that you become one blending within the frames. Miles of trenches were created, cameras were mounted on multiple cranes, with highly sophisticated handheld cameras being carried on shoulders by the crew, with Deakins following them. They rehearsed for days to get the perfect shots. For certain shots they had limited ammunition to show bombs blasts. They couldn't afford retakes. To create the perfect flare lighting for night shots, they even erected moving cranes carrying actual flares.</div>
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There is minimal dialogue. Much of the emotions are expressed through non verbal expressions. The ruthlessness of wars, the pathos of the times, the resignation of soldiers, and the commitment of some - all come alive. I was reminded of Owen, Sassoon, Brooke and Dylan Thomas and realised how lifelike were their poetic presentations. Colin Firth and Benedict Cumberbatch appear in cameos. The two foot soldiers are the real heroes, showcasing all that is good in the human world, yet helpless against the greedy aggression of mammoth political powers.</div>
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<b><span style="color: blue;">One poem that I wanted to read again after watching this is what I wanted to share with you.</span></b></div>
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"After every war<br />someone has to clean up.<br />Things won’t<br />straighten themselves up, after all.</div>
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Someone has to push the rubble<br />to the side of the road,<br />so the corpse-filled wagons<br />can pass.</div>
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Someone has to get mired<br />in scum and ashes,<br />sofa springs,<br />splintered glass,<br />and bloody rags.</div>
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Someone has to drag in a girder<br />to prop up a wall.<br />Someone has to glaze a window,<br />rehang a door.</div>
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Photogenic it’s not,<br />and takes years.<br />All the cameras have left<br />for another war.</div>
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We’ll need the bridges back,<br />and new railway stations.<br />Sleeves will go ragged<br />from rolling them up.</div>
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Someone, broom in hand,<br />still recalls the way it was.<br />Someone else listens<br />and nods with unsevered head.<br />But already there are those nearby<br />starting to mill about<br />who will find it dull.</div>
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From out of the bushes<br />sometimes someone still unearths<br />rusted-out arguments<br />and carries them to the garbage pile.</div>
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Those who knew<br />what was going on here<br />must make way for<br />those who know little.<br />And less than little.<br />And finally as little as nothing.</div>
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In the grass that has overgrown<br />causes and effects,<br />someone must be stretched out<br />blade of grass in his mouth<br />gazing at the clouds."</div>
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<span style="color: #1d2129;">- </span><b><i><span style="color: red;">The End and the Beginning</span></i></b><br /><span style="color: #1d2129;">By Wislawa Szymborska</span></div>
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<span style="color: #1d2129;"><br />Translated by Joanna Trzeciak</span></div>
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23susanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01332392046655763011noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171096742505111365.post-52899798880765001892020-03-20T03:44:00.003-07:002020-03-20T03:44:37.560-07:00Bengali Film review: Barun Babur Bondhu (2020)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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In "Barun Babur Bondhu” (Barun Babu’s Friend) - who is the friend after all? The Godot-like President? The old footballer pal Suku? Or Captain Nemo?</div>
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Director Anik Dutta had wowed the intelligent Bengali film goer with “Bhooter Bhabisyat”. While the audience rolled in belly aching laughter to the wickedly witty dialogues, it was a scathing satire of the first order, in the genre of Ray's Hirak Rajar Deshe. Known to have taken on a Government ban on one of his satirical films, Dutta is a free thinker and true to how art should hold up a mirror to prevalent sociopolitical foibles.</div>
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“Barun Babur Bondhu” has an upright octogenarian as the pivotal protagonist, who was involved in the Naxal movement during the 70s Emergency. The plot circles aspects of his extended family and friends and how everyone is tired of his uncompromising ideology of self-reliance. Especially when he can use his influences in the upper political echelons and pull a few strings here and there for his children's benefit.</div>
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The film is inspired by Ramapada Chowdhury’s “Chaad”. Of course, for those who have read it, Somnath babu reappears in the form of Barun babu in the film. One great thing about Chowdhury’s stories is that they come with almost ready-made screenplays in their detailed stage direction/description. There are recognizable facets of Chowdhury himself in the character of Somnath/Barun too. Chowdhury had settled in Calcutta in the 1940s, to study English in Presidency College. He was more of a recluse like Barun, infrequent in social spaces like the canteen, where among others, Satyajit Ray and Siddhartha Sankar Roy (who became the Chief Minister of West Bengal) would engage in endless addas over cups of infusions. India’s Partition, the riots, the famine and the refugee crisis deeply affected Chowdhury, and it reflected in most of his work. Chowdhury concentrated on the urban middle class and their inner contradictions in his fiction, often imbuing his novels with photographic qualities that led to screen adaptations. “Banpalashir Padabali”, “Kharij”, “Ekdin Achanak”, “Ek Doctor Ki Maut” were all inspired by his stories.</div>
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In “Barun babu r Bandhu”, Barun sounds oddly like Chowdhury himself. Like Chowdhury, Barun too casts a dispassionate but probing eye on human weaknesses and foibles of society. One of Barun's old friends, Sukumar in the film (or Rameshwar from the original story) is played by Paran Bandyopadhyay. The veteran Paran perhaps inimitably exhibits in his histrionics everything that Barun is not. But while the fiction had hinged on the concept of one’s roof or one’s own house, the film keeps its focus on the missing “friend”, giving the film an entirely new theme. And if I may say this, the film title really would have better suited for the short story as well.</div>
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Dutta has created magic in the characters, more so in that of the grandson, Nemo, who was hardly a visible version as Biltu in the original story. And every time Nemo came on screen with questions like: “Dadu dhymna mane ki?” the theater hall erupted with laughter. Not as comic relief, but these episodes added another dimension to human relationships where the spectrum ranged between 8 and 80 in terms of age. And like Barun held a mirror to a younger generation shrinking in its selfish outlook, Nemo holds a mirror to the adult world, an older generation, which to him is marked with conspicuous contradictions.</div>
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The film has an ensemble that needs no review. Ritwik is the ever natural, with the rest of the cast doing perfect justice to their roles. The best thing I loved about the characterization is that the retired Barun doesn't stir sympathy but commands solid respect. Barun is curiously solitary, with zero patience for useless gabble. His bedridden wife keeps him scant company, while he spends his time reading, solving crosswords and writing letters to the editor. Not for once is he portrayed as the helplessly senile doddering senior citizen waiting for someone else to help him.</div>
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Soumitra Chatterjee has essayed a wide range of fatherly/grandfatherly characters of late. But in this new film, his character outshines all others. He walks the stage with a kingly spine of stainless steel, but an absolute foil to King Lear, another father, who had raised his daughters to be his old age insurance. Barun is a citizen of a nation, rapidly changing its face, where innocence can be found only in the questions of a child, where hidden agendas surface in the guise of sudden affections in others. Barun redefines concepts like patriotism with razor sharp mind seeing through the veneer of all who surround him. But he holds no grudge. He is your father, your Dadu, your Jethu, your Mesho, your Pisho – every man you have idolized in your youth.</div>
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You should certainly watch the movie if you want to remember how these men used to be. Or maybe some still are.</div>
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23susanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01332392046655763011noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171096742505111365.post-32086157257781195482020-03-20T03:38:00.001-07:002020-03-20T03:38:25.381-07:00An Elegy written on a Spring Day in Quarantine<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: #1c1e21;">The old fridge is empty now, I observe</span></div>
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But the syrups and drops I must preserve.</div>
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The kitchen closet overflows with ration,</div>
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A wartime emergency warrants caution.</div>
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Hands feel dry, their knuckles and fingers itch.</div>
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All the oceans of Neptune’s a cheating ditch.</div>
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Out, damned spot! Fear won’t wipe its bloody stain</div>
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Beating the clout of the imagined pain.</div>
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Keep washing your hands, 20 seconds at least,</div>
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Lest the devil on your palm hold a fiery feast.</div>
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A sanitized world stares back from a window,</div>
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Hush! Softly speak, for I must be incognito.</div>
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Neighbors turn into ghostly absence,</div>
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Noisy elevator their only cadence</div>
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Of their guilty presence. Whispering footfalls.</div>
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Other times I see roaming antiseptic overalls.</div>
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It’s been a fortnight that a name and a number</div>
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Have surfaced with a deathly halo in my chamber</div>
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A nomenclature that makes not much tragic sense</div>
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But it’s vivid, livid, a crawling covid breaking defense</div>
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In an absurd world where symptom alone speaks</div>
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To masked medics looking like astronaut freaks.</div>
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My bed is my battlefield, blood leaks as sweet sticky sweat</div>
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But I must not go out, for I myself pose a violent threat.</div>
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The power! O the power in my breath, my saliva -</div>
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To annihilate the universe in a whiff like Shiva!</div>
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I will tell you this Covid guy is only 19 years old,</div>
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Yet look how he’s gotten the whole world on hold.</div>
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Where lungs are crying out aloud for help,</div>
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Where drugs induce a stupor-enabled yelp</div>
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Of listless living until ventilators run out of life,</div>
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Of a handful of isolated humans, who will survive</div>
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This attack as a measure to heal and regrow</div>
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And maybe all that was good will again flow.</div>
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It’s a pandemic, solemn news anchors on TV say</div>
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I hear my own gurgling laughter to my utter dismay.</div>
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Hunger is an epidemic that kills millions as well</div>
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Choosing its preys from the poor man’s cell.</div>
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Covid, such a good boy, doesn’t favor the poor alone,</div>
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He comes for the rich, makes them wail and groan.</div>
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But look, the fighting has stopped outside,</div>
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And no one asks what religion is your tribe.</div>
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When violence spreads like wildfire, you call it a riot,</div>
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Why not call it a ‘pandemic’ you pious moron, you fascist bigot?</div>
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You were born of this man-made epidemic of conformity,</div>
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Othering every ‘different’ face to classified deformity.</div>
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There’s time still to take that enzyme prescribed</div>
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The potion that quells greed, the syrup prepared</div>
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To kill your claim to superiority;</div>
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To immunize against feelings of legitimate authority.</div>
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Make haste, gulp it down in one long big swig,</div>
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And quietly go to sleep, before the cemetery is dig.</div>
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Disclaimer: I have not tested positive for Corona but I have written this poem from the perspective of a patient.</div>
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23susanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01332392046655763011noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171096742505111365.post-51875272608302680422016-09-06T08:57:00.004-07:002016-09-06T08:57:56.847-07:00Deities of a different order<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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If you have ever sat your ample butt on the front seat of an auto rickshaw in Kolkata, you would know how it feels like swinging half a cheek in the air. I was thinking of how dramatically I was hanging by a thread from life as I rode listening to Kumar Sanu singing through his nostrils “<i>Priyotoma mone rekho</i>”. </div>
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The auto driver was singing along. Tiny black sound boxes were making good music too. I was impressed with the interior décor of the tiny automobile. Stickers with hear<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">ts pierced with arrows on the front glass. The ledge along the windshield had plastic floral creepers. Bright red hibiscus peeked from the artificial shrub. Red gossamer cloths laced with golden tinsel were tied to the rear view mirror handles. The roof had imprints of Mithun da and Amitabh Bachhan lined up for attention. As the auto crossed Bagha Jatin, the driver stopped and did a brisk pennam (an act of touching your hands to your forehead as a mark of respect). I looked around for temples but found none. I couldn’t contain my curiosity.</span></div>
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“<i>Dada kake pronaam korlen?”<br />(Who did you offer your regards to?)</i></div>
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I am sure the genuine interest must have touched my face and hence his core, for he replied:</div>
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“<i>Oi je Bidyasagar, tarpore Bibekananda, statue dekhlen na? Ami thakur pronam kori na, eder kori. Kora uchit kina apni bolun? Aaj abar Guru Purnima kina.”</i></div>
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(<i>Oh, that Vidyasagar, then Vivekananda, didn’t you notice the statues? I don’t bow before gods, I bow before these men. You tell me, should I not? Today is Guru Purnima too.</i>)</div>
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So if you are in the city and ever pass the stretch of Raja S C Mullick Road, you must notice the sculptures along the boulevard or whatever remains of it. They are nothing life-size or impressive, but homely busts of two men from an era we have almost forgotten. I have passed them often without so much of an attention to them. Never cared to look to see if the likeness was commendable or if the humble tribute made any sense to pedestrians nearby. With my auto-driver friend greeting the busts with such reverence, I was rather shamed by my own indifference.</div>
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But the good thing is, I followed suit and did a baby salute to these stoned men of yore.</div>
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You never stop learning, do you?</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbhysr1_40Vja8EPJCrGmPBih6fTcfSoBcRs6-7OIhDL_Sm2wBdr29uPi17iTcpaHkhKGguJhdLqouOm9iceSxmrxmN908ww4H0dFHTzoRSDGN_3Rbk0L-L6L5CJZVJmmQhBmH6En9CE0/s1600/vidyasagar-univ_1291707733.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbhysr1_40Vja8EPJCrGmPBih6fTcfSoBcRs6-7OIhDL_Sm2wBdr29uPi17iTcpaHkhKGguJhdLqouOm9iceSxmrxmN908ww4H0dFHTzoRSDGN_3Rbk0L-L6L5CJZVJmmQhBmH6En9CE0/s400/vidyasagar-univ_1291707733.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy: Internet</td></tr>
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23susanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01332392046655763011noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171096742505111365.post-74125914784437478672016-09-06T08:48:00.000-07:002016-09-06T08:48:12.133-07:00Rain Swag Dashed<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Walking solo in the rain has a streak of the theatrical inherent in it. Or so I thought. Here I was walking, trying to save my steps from the muddy puddle traps that the dimpled road and the monotony rain had made. Come to think of it, every rain has a tone of its own - jhomjhom, tiptip, toptop. So today's tiptip rain had this tonality to make me super bored. With Ma and Babuji, there wasn't much action to be had indoors.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiazI73oX8VfmbnMKzV2w4NmWmZAA4kF2EVlL3bPvgE6jXjvOS1xg8jqp83y1c5VXtPnLxsXDrhjXVn4mlUXfd6V_CG6biiTKnWCT9UnVL3IDlbnzzLdfSmXJYKm9XfwoCtZqkHTFMOS1g/s1600/running-in-rain11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiazI73oX8VfmbnMKzV2w4NmWmZAA4kF2EVlL3bPvgE6jXjvOS1xg8jqp83y1c5VXtPnLxsXDrhjXVn4mlUXfd6V_CG6biiTKnWCT9UnVL3IDlbnzzLdfSmXJYKm9XfwoCtZqkHTFMOS1g/s400/running-in-rain11.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy: Internet</td></tr>
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Ma had snuggled up for 30 minutes of teletrash - <i>Ichh</i><span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;"><i>enodee </i>- a lachrymose bangla soap that hinges on preposterous family politics. Babuji had his bi-focals focused ardently on Shibram Chokkoti omnibus. Gorging on deep fried chocolate momos, I had the guilt quotient rising high on the calorie scale.</span></div>
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So here I was all set, in a jogger's habit, a pair of squeaky clean trainers, Apple music blasting Men's health jingles into my feminine ears, to rock the world of cardio. I did well for 4 rounds, which kind of measures up to 400m*4= 1.6 kms. The tiptip rain had managed to soak my flimsy sports vest and my curls had delicate rivulets running down their strands. Then I changed tracks on Apple to listen to 30 greatest hits of Ghulam Ali and Mehdi Hassan. Minutes later I found myself sitting on a wet bench. On a grassy patch.</div>
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A mongoose peeked out of a nearby shrub and looked at me before writing me off as a pathologically boring specimen of life and quickly leaving for more interesting pursuits. I remained stationed there and imagined listening to Hassan Sahab live. I am good at visualizing the impossible, mostly comical ones, so here I was, eyes shut, nodding virulently to the sonorous baritone until I felt a light tap on my shoulder. Looking up, I saw a concerned pair of eyes looking deep into mine. The bald pate shone with the garden lights reflecting on it. For a second I thought Hassan Saab had rejected the joys of Jannat to descend upon a rain drenched Ghazal aficionado. I felt my lips stretch into a smiley curve about to break into: <i>Arre aap</i>?</div>
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Then the T-shirt and the pair of denims caught my attention as did the closed umbrella dripping with water. I realised it was pasher barir kaku (next-door neighbour uncle). Kaku had obviously found me swooning to the singsong rain; he did not notice the headphones of course. He thought I was having some sort of seizures and had come to rescue me.</div>
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<i>"Thik acho toh? Bhijcho keno? Bari jao!"<br />(Are you alright? Why are you soaking in the rain? Go home!)</i></div>
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And I scooted into the rain, blushing a deep beetroot red. Like I said, life always refused to give me the little pleasures that I sought and gave me anticlimaxes like these instead.</div>
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Pasher barir kaku had robbed my rain of all drama today!</div>
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23susanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01332392046655763011noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171096742505111365.post-90254660677055467232015-11-06T03:34:00.000-08:002015-11-06T06:05:57.138-08:00Finding College Street in the Old Man's House Gate, Amsterdam<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">If you are from Kolkata and looking for a bit of the old College Street in Amsterdam, you have to visit the Oudemanhuispoort or the Old Man House Gate or simply The Gate. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">While our tour guide, Jacob took a sharp turn and disappeared into the doors between the Oudezijds Achterburgwal and Kloveniersburgwal near the Staalstraat, we stood looking deep into the muddy canal water - just to see if there was any sign of the drowned bicycles Jacob was mentioning. The group of tourists that Jacob was in charge of was a diverse set of humans with only two things in common – they were all very tall (excluding me) and all spoke English as their native language (again, excluding me). The fact that they were all intrigued by Amsterdam is a given, so I do not count that shared interest. Armed (?) with long legs, they all walked ahead of us. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Midget Bangalis, me and my friend had to run and catch up with them every time. And most of the times, we were too lost in our admiration of the sights and sounds to even realize that we had been left behind.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">So we ran after them again. Only this time, the scene that greeted us inside the large heavy doors was something slightly familiar. Bookshops. In carts, in cabinets, in makeshift stalls by the road. We had come to a unique book market inside a college square! A closer look revealed that most of the books were secondhand. Two steps ahead, we approached a covered alleyway smelling of weed and old paper. We had entered the Gate!</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">The Gate dates from 1602 and the building inside has been remodeled several times. The place served as a hospital for poor old men and women. In 1786, the walkway was turned into a covered alley (just behind the gates we entered) with eighteen little shops for rent to gold and silver smiths. They were called ‘winkelkasten’ (‘winkel’= shop and ‘kasten’ = cabinet) because they were too small for a shop and too big for a cabinet. In 1879 when the nearby ‘Botermarkt’ (Butter market) was shut down the book merchants from that place </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">restarted their book business in one of the ‘winkelkasten’ in The Gate. Since 1879 the Oudemanhuispoort is home to Amsterdam’s best known daily book market. And in 1880 the University of Amsterdam claimed it as its own.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Here, you'd rub shoulders with University of Amsterdam professors thumbing through volumes of Homer and Nietzsche. On week days you'd find students leafing through cheaper versions of revised latest editions. Some would end up buying, some just spend the day browsing. We saw a few locals buying. And the rest were tourists like us. Most books are in Dutch, though quite a few were English editions. Like we found and bought Salinger and Murakami (translated :) ). Five euros for a book. And mine was a present. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">The book sellers looked as ancient as the Gate themselves. Silver haired, wrinkles lacing their smiles and frowns, they looked like fairy god fathers waiting to weave their magic spell on you. And what magic theirs was!</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">There is an interesting but a sad story about one of the popular booksellers in the Gate, Barend Boekman (1869-1942). In 1939 he celebrated his seventieth birthday, along with his fiftieth anniversary as a book trader in the Gate with his fellow booksellers. But he was a Jewish Dutch at the wrong place and the wrong time. Along with 100.000 Dutch Jews, </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Barend Boekman and his wife</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"> were deported to the German concentration camps. Both died in the gas chambers of Auschwitz on September 14, 1942. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Menno Hertzberger(1897-1982), another Dutch Jewish bookseller, who survived the Second World War has written Barend's story in a small book, “Barend Boekman van de Oudemanhuispoort” (Amsterdam, 1955) to remember and celebrate the life and time of Barend.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">The book, I hear, is now a collector’s item. </span></div>
23susanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01332392046655763011noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171096742505111365.post-36677312132747317382015-09-26T08:57:00.001-07:002015-09-26T08:57:45.398-07:00A dead bird. A lesson of a life time. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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“<i>Ma, will he live?”</i></div>
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<i>“Let’s hope he sang his sweetest and flew high and free all his life. Something we cannot even imagine doing.”</i></div>
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<i>“Why do you say it like that?</i>”</div>
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How do you tell a hopeful child that a bird he had hoped to save had just breathed its last in the ball of your palm? How do you introduce death as a finality to a small person who is just starting out his life?</div>
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Well, you don’t. Because life is the smartest teacher of all and has a way of handling such unanswerable questions. So although mothers are supposed to know it all, sometimes silence is the best response to uncomfortable questions they cannot tackle. Like I did this morning, when I knew, our little bird was beyond help.</div>
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We were out on our morning walk today, when we spotted a bird, fluttering its feet up in the air, in a bush tucked under a tree. It appeared to be in pain and when I picked it up, a passer-by said: “<i>Shot kheyeche, bnachbe na</i>” (meaning, the bird had been electrocuted by a naked wire over the tree, where it was apparently sitting and will not live). Another guy, who was on a bicycle and had stopped to see what it was all about, said with a wise nod, “<i>Ektu jol deen toh, dekhun bnache kina</i>” (meaning, give it some water, see if it helps).</div>
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There was a tube well right next to where the bird had fallen. Ishaan pushed the handle hard and pumped out some water. Using my fingers I managed to drip drops into its tiny beak.</div>
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“<i>Let’s take him home, ma. We have a dropper, right, which we use to give Neopeptin to Gabloo? We can use it to give him more water. Once he gets better, we will set him free.”</i></div>
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<i>“OK, but we would have to break into a run then. We must be quick. Can you match my pace?”</i></div>
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As we ran, the bird cried out. A few times. I have never felt the tender warmth of a bird on my skin before. It was soft, fluffy, and I could still feel the life running through it. It was so tiny and so smooth, that you wanted to protect it. You wanted to shield it with all your might. As it chirped, our hopes rose. It must be getting better.</div>
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Soon afterwards, its head fell on one side and the eyelids drew into a closed yellow shutter. It was over. I knew.</div>
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I still ran. I never felt so cheated, so humiliated in my life. Helpless too. Here we were proud humans, pretending to act saviour to a dying bird. How dare he die on us, how dare he sneak past our efforts like that? How was I supposed to face my child? How would I tell him that I could not salvage the little bird’s life, he had so fondly rescued?</div>
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We reached home. I am sure death has a smell of its own, for Gabloo, who runs to me, every time I come home and begs to be picked up, stood still watching me carry the bird in.</div>
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“<i>Didi, pakhi ta toh more geche</i>” was Moonmoon’s verdict.</div>
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I watched my son’s eyes as they gradually welled up. Wordless tears rolled down his flushed cheeks. Despite all the ultimate conclusions being drawn around him, I saw him quietly pick up the plastic dropper. He tried to force the stiff beaks apart to dribble in some water into the dead mouth but soon realized that it was of no use any more. </div>
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He asked me if he could take a picture of the bird to remember him by.</div>
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Then asked me if we could bury him with dignity. I nodded a yes.</div>
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Together we went downstairs, hand in hand. We buried the little singing bird. Wrapped in a fresh clean tissue roll. Somewhere, where no one will ever trample him, no one will walk over his sacred grave.</div>
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I do not know if it was co-incidence or providence, but we had gathered a few Shiuli flowers in the early hours of our walk today. Never knew the flowers would come to such great use.</div>
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To honour our little guest. His visit was short. But he had made for some unforgettable memories for a mother and her child.</div>
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Eid Mubaraq, everyone!</div>
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Let’s celebrate the gift of life – as long as we have it.</div>
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23susanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01332392046655763011noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171096742505111365.post-77521875050620608302015-09-22T01:53:00.000-07:002015-09-28T22:34:26.250-07:00Hair colour, here she comes!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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There is a beauty parlour right outside my society gate. I have seen it grow from a modest single room affair to a three-cabin luxury, if you will. I am an old patron. I land at their glass doorstep for a random hair-oil massage, a quick pedicure or that odd facial. I am habitually slipshod about skin and hair care and my most frequent beauty treatment is a shampoo at their salon. Especially during the winter months. Feels nice to lean my head back, rest my shoulders on the padded backrest, shut my eyes and feel the warm jet of water caress my head before dollops of shampoo work up the lather.</div>
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The technicians have a way with their fingers, I must say. They press the right spots on your temples, pull the right strands of hair, twist them with the right pressure. And they have one more way of therapy available for those willing – they keep you awake with their constant chatter. As I told you, it is a humble haunt for women who aren’t willing to travel too far and wide for services locally available at affordable rates. Definitely not a place for posh socialites. And unless it is a month away from Durga Puja, and every woman wants to look her best, you won’t find the place too crowded.</div>
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I am an avid and shameless nosher of human conversation, not that I intentionally eavesdrop or anything. But when there are words flying around to catch and cuddle, I don’t let the chance slip. I think the same goes for them. They draw their energy from the women they have been trying to beautify for ages now. Naturally they ask a lot of questions. Unassuming, unpretentious, and unboring, they lack the typical sophistication of the beauticians at the classy spas who talk in whispers and never look into your eyes. They will ask you how long have you been married, was it a love marriage, how many kids did you bring to the world, where do you work, what do you do. I have always fuelled their curiosity with more than the information they have asked for. Indulging them to ask more. They have readily given in, with encouraged smiles.</div>
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The little salon is a stage set for drama of all kinds. Petty jealousies have unfurled between the girls before my eyes, professional rivalries breaking out - "Why does she sit all day when I work my ass off? Why can't she bring me the wax before I ask for it? Why didn't anyone shut the fridge door properly?" Sometimes I have heard unsavoury gossip about someone they commonly know, also witnessed a genuine camaraderie between some of them, smelled the home-cooked food they had brought for lunch in steel tiffin carriers, neatly arranged at the top of the little white refrigerator that stores gels and creams. Over a period of time, I have grown a strange sense of familiarity with the gang of girls.</div>
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After all, these are the women that you let touch yourself.</div>
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Hair, nail, skin.</div>
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And possibly your deepest sense of being women and belonging together to a tribe of workers.</div>
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So when my mother complained that her hennaed hair was all lacklustre after a long hospital stay and that her well earned greys were all showing, I decided to take her to the girls for a treat. I think it is good to mention here that my mother has never been to a beauty salon before. I must also quickly run to add that she was vehemently opposed to the idea that I take her to one for services, which would not only dig an unnecessary hole into her daughter’s purse but also infuse the world with deadly carcinogens. The henna that she has been using on her hair was all natural, she insisted, plucked from her own garden, mashed in her mixer and applied with a blue flat brush. With of course, my father supervising.</div>
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Also, having lost a lot of weight, she was suddenly conscious of strangers. But I stood my ground and took her in. The girls at the parlour were forewarned of her arrival and they were ready with all possible colour catalogues for the hair. After rejecting all the shades, declaring all as uncouthly garish, Ma sat down with a frown, silently fuming at my reflection in the mirror facing her:</div>
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“I told you, this is not a place for me”.</div>
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I saw panic in the girls’ eyes. I saw one of the senior technicians pick up a mobile and run out of the parlour. Shortly thereafter, walked in the owner of the place, sweaty and obviously hassled. She was busy preparing for the Janmashtami puja at her house, when she had got this SOS call from her assistant. With the patience of Job, she catered to my mother herself, asking Aunty-ji what exactly she wanted. My mother explained in broken Hindi that she wanted her hair to look as natural as possible, but not in any shade of black. Stirring in two different colours in a plastic bowl, the good lady had finally and confidently found a hair hue miracle.</div>
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My mother sat through the 40 minutes with a grimace. I was looking at the clock and telling my racing heart to stop acting up. After all, even if she hated the colour, she could never hate me, now could she, her last born? But with the Sanyals, you never know. We are a clan of raging ancients. We belong to an era when righteous anger was considered noble and an honest annoyance never disguised in phony smiles! So I was taking a huge risk and I knew it. All I said out loud was:</div>
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“Ma, we can always re-do if you don’t like it, right?”</div>
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Which was again greeted with a stony silence. The minutes hung heavy like wet clothes on a weak line. The good lady who had mixed the colour and supervised the application, was now standing near the wash basin to see the results. She was wiping her forehead repeatedly. Two air conditioners were fanning us with all their chilly might.</div>
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Soon, the colour had all drained away and there my mother sat with a wet mop of mane, trying to get a glance into the mirror and take stock of the disaster. She got ready to exclaim and chastise my foolish decision. I did not give her that chance. I screamed:</div>
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“Ma, you look so fabulous! Who would think you have been so critically ill!”</div>
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The girls knew their cue too.</div>
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“Mashima, bhishon bhalo lagche! The hair looks all natural too!”</div>
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They chorused in perfect unison. Suddenly the salon was filled with complimentary chatter and mother was looking all confused and unsure. Two of the girls flipped out a pair of blow-dryers and positioned themselves behind my mother’s chair. They attacked her tresses with the same alacrity with which James Bond aims his guns. My mother’s reaction:</div>
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“I don’t like it at all. It is too dark for my age.”</div>
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When she was leaving, the girls asked my mother the secret to her flawless skin at this age. My mother turned and answered:</div>
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"Coconut oil. All through the year. Not the stuff you sell here."</div>
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Well, friends, here she is, with her hair braided in a homely fashion.</div>
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A woman, who has never worn any make up, never had a beauty treatment in her life. Tell me honestly, would you say she has been fighting for her life in the ITU, pipes and channels dug into her body to help her make it through?</div>
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Isn't she beautiful, my mother?</div>
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23susanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01332392046655763011noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171096742505111365.post-39434127381475005712015-04-08T02:05:00.002-07:002015-04-08T02:08:33.620-07:00You don't need me<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">You need</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Sound of feet shuffling the living room</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Setting a house in order too soon </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Silk sari changing to satin pyjama </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Like costumes in a bedroom drama</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; display: inline; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br />Singsong shower drowned by a voice<br />Humming tunes of your choice<br />Pink toothbrush sticking out of toiletries<br />Red handbag brimming with vagaries.<br /><br />Clang of bangles gold and glass.<br />Some obedience, some sass.<br />A waist to fill your empty arms.<br />Breasts to claim your solitude farm.<br />Shampooed tresses to perfume your pillow.<br />A pleasing frame forever mellow.<br />A hand to serve homely dinner.<br />A trophy at parties, a clear winner.<br /><br />You need<br />A lover limitless like the sky.<br />A mistress penetrable like the earth.<br />A woman ageless like the seas.<br />A filler for your available voids.<br />A perfect piece to finish your puzzle.<br /><br />You don't need me.<br /><br />Loneliness kills, did you say?<br />Imagine how i could have died every day<br />If my mirrored nights hadn't brought me<br />Back to my self.<br /><br />Now, my Shams smiles at me,<br />And I smile back at him.</span><br />
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<span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; display: inline; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">© Sudeshna Sanyal</span></span><br />
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23susanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01332392046655763011noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171096742505111365.post-52707511303317274682015-04-07T01:51:00.001-07:002015-04-08T03:01:08.230-07:00My Barsey miracle with Soma's Camps<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Remember The Canterbury Tales? Pilgrims going to the shrine of Saint Becket in the Canterbury Cathedral from Southwark in England in the Middle Ages, who meet at an inn and spend the sojourn together taking
turns to tell stories? Well, no you don’t, of course. As for me, I had to read
Chaucer’s masterpiece as part of my post graduation syllabus, our professor, Dr. Sajni Mukherjee retelling it with her characteristic humour in our JU first floor PG classroom. Since then, I had often wondered how it would feel to travel as part of a motley clique and had also conjured up mental images of faces very similar to that of the pilgrims. Real life,
however, is different from fiction, but it did spring a surprise lately, when I joined a trekking expedition
with Soma’s Camps - to journey through the Rhododendron sanctuary of Barsey in
the Singalila Range of the Himalayas. The range forms a natural border with Nepal in
the West and is one of the most sought after trekking routes because of the views of the Mount Everest and the Kanchenjunga it offers. So though not strictly a religious pilgrimage like the Canterburians but definitely one of
a kind, if you consider yourself a worshipper of Nature. Nature there was – in abundance
– the flora and the fauna waiting to overwhelm you at every bend and corner.<br />
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Will come to that in a bit.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Red Rhododendron</td></tr>
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A chance encounter with a high school senior (Director of Soma’s
Camps) in the Gariahat Westside shopping mall. A hesitant confession from me with a sigh: “<i>You know,
I have always wanted to trek, but never got a chance</i>.” A reassuring pat in the back from Soma with “<i>Why don’t
you come with us</i>?” And then a squeal of delight and a resounding <i>YES</i>! A string
of correspondence and a house visit later, I found myself stationed at Sealdah
with a backpack stashed with a sleeping bag and antibiotics to ward off hill diarrhea.
It was pouring that evening and I thought maybe this was Nature’s premonitory
warning. I reached the station and was introduced to a number of new faces – none of
which resembled the Canterbury pilgrims.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our group</td></tr>
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There was an elegant school teacher, a
witty mathematician and a college professor with his sweet natured daughter. A software developer travelling with his son and his Canon 5D Mark III. A
peal of laughter drew my attention to a gang of three girls just past their
teenage – talking animatedly through their doe eyes. A very sombre school
girl, who was responding in monosyllables, only to reveal in due course what a
cheek she hid under that initial reticence. Our trek lead was ably assisted by
her two lieutenants – a post grad student of history, who never tired of
helping us through the trek; and her own son, who kept the prank quotient of the group high
all the time. And then there were me and my son. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the way</td></tr>
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We boarded the Kanchankanya Express at 9 in the evening and hastily polished a
home-cooked supply of cauliflower paratha and keema curry off our palms, eating
without plates. Soon it was time to turn off the lights and turn in for the
night. A seven-hour car ride to Hiley was waiting for us next morning. I have a
long history of motion sickness and the challenge for me was simply to not fall
sick in the drive up the winding terrain. At the NJP station we had a hearty
breakfast of aloo paratha and French toasts. Kids had already bonded well and
were fighting over a bottle of coke. Dreading the sharp hairpin bends ahead, I
popped a Zopher while praying to mother Nature to not let me down this
time. I do not know if it was the company or the medicine, but for
the first time in my life I did not feel the urge to puke the pristine mountains wet with watery vomit. Yes, you get the picture, right? Ugh!</div>
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After a few hours we stopped at Jorethang – a transit junction for tourists on their way up. A quick lunch of momos and thukpa later, we were in another car to Hiley. A talkative Sherpa who drove us shared his insights of the local life. The sight on the way was a treat no less. Quaint old cottages - some wooden, some concrete, some with pink curtains, some green, some flaunting a dish antenna, some with broken furniture visible on the porches made it clear that it was a mixed economic zone. Then there were apple-cheeked kids with snot lined noses in school uniforms smiling and waving at us. The flowers made for a Technicolor canvas on both sides – orange, yellow, red, white, cream, violet, pink – laced within the sylvan frame of lush green trees. The restless Teesta dashed across boulders. We also crossed Rangeet, a tributary, nonetheless tumultuous in its course. What struck me on the way was the beautiful contrast between arid and fertile slopes of the mountains. Some were really bare and fallow. Some as bountiful as an overflowing harvest.<br />
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We arrived at Hiley after sun down to be greeted by a team of jolly innkeepers. Four round shaped huts lining the ridge of a mountain formed
our haunt for the night. It was a nameless inn/hotel. Or a homestay of a
kind. One hut would house the men, the other, women. And the rest of the two
huts served as the kitchen and the dining room. Piping hot tea and biscuits welcomed
us in, followed by crisp pakodas. We crowded the kitchen in search of warmth since
a sudden drizzle had brought the temperature shockingly down. The story telling
session started in the Canterbury tradition as a modest dinner of roti, sabzi
and chicken was being cooked in the adjacent kitchen. One of us shared an
anecdote from his travels in Tadoba where he had a classic twin fall with a
friend right in front of a tiger. Another of us recounted how he had almost
experienced a ghost in one of the hostels of the Ramkrishna Mission. This, I
guess, set the tone for the <i>bhooter golpo </i>(ghost stories) that would accompany us for the rest
of our trip.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hut at Hiley</td></tr>
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We had a difficult night, finding the perfect posture in bed
for the maximum heat. For the first time, I had strangers as bed fellows that
night. Snuggling close to them, I drifted off to sleep dreaming of sharing a
cup of tea with some serious looking red pandas. And a voice much like Master Shifu’s was
asking me to wrap a scarf around my neck. At the crack of the dawn I opened my
eyes to a gorgeous sight of a sunrise backlighting a golden range of mountains.
All aglow orange in the soft first rays.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The gateway to Barsey</td></tr>
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The gateway to Barsey was right next to our stay. We had to
trudge across the forest for 4.5 kms to reach the Sikkim Government’s Trekker’s
hut, where we would stay the next two days. Off we set for the sanctuary.
Despite the sunrise, it was a damp day, the sun quickly hiding behind clouds
after a brief appearance, the vestiges of the previous night’s rainfall
still fresh on every leaf and moss of the walk. It was a welcome relief from
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The trail</td></tr>
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Clouds were creeping into our path, almost gagging us at
times. We went haltingly, admiring every lichen, every petal, every insect, every
tiny spider web on the way. The gravel road is canopied by trees and their
mossy branches. With the thick foliage shading the course, the road took a dark
mysterious look. The path isn't paved for regular traffic. At best two people
can walk side by side, and mostly it was a single file road with a leafy green
gorge on one side, and a hilly forest slope on the other. I had one consolation
that even if I slipped and fell, the rhodo roots would break it to preserve me as a
hanging human specimen to the hill monkeys. But on the other hand,
signboards warned us of Himalayan black bears and I could also turn fast food in a
matter of minutes. I mumbled to myself that bears and the pandas are reclusive by nature
and all I had to do was break into a song to keep them away. I made a mental note of the melody to scream if the situation demanded it.</div>
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By the time we reached the trekker’s haunt, my nose had
turned a brilliant red in the frost and I had lost sensation of the lips and the fingers. We
were at 10,000 feet above sea level and the incessant rain was not helping with the temperature. The high point of that day was the lunch the hosts served. Hot steaming rice, dal, papad, cauliflower curry and eggs cooked in the
Nepali way. And the wood fire lent a subtle smoked flavor to the spread.
Washing hands in lukewarm water after the meal, we crept upstairs into the dormitory – a polished
wooden thatch above a large rectangular hall provided with a window with a broken
glass pane. Beds of one mattress each were lined up one after the other on the floor. A bright red flower poster stuck on with red cello tape was trying
its best to shield us from the cold outside. After looking at live flowers all through
the trail in such great numbers, straining your eyes as its printed version was
kind of strange though. We realised there was no electricity and soon we would have to depend on the two slim candles that the hut manager provided. It was a perfect setting for a horror movie, the candle light creating eerie shadows of the most innocent stuff and lending a spooky touch to the huge hall. At one point I realised I was speaking in whispers, from under the borrowed blankets. And the ghost stories continued unabated - you couldn't figure if the goosebumps on your skin were because of the chill in the air or the thrill in the storytelling!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfZCKyRTwSCUqR3DoV-ibH82zc_B8P7ynbRlD80QWm1MDqEZq17xtcYHOs6GxfGV0l6jEmY96jN3Nd_pBe_P6jzfviQ4mU-u8KZVTKPZ2ULe5KKYGtDaZgSPrt305Y73rEmqJzDotNbOM/s1600/10981614_1090155517677936_7147834635065182946_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfZCKyRTwSCUqR3DoV-ibH82zc_B8P7ynbRlD80QWm1MDqEZq17xtcYHOs6GxfGV0l6jEmY96jN3Nd_pBe_P6jzfviQ4mU-u8KZVTKPZ2ULe5KKYGtDaZgSPrt305Y73rEmqJzDotNbOM/s1600/10981614_1090155517677936_7147834635065182946_n.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
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The kids had begun setting up their tents outside. Their
excitement at the prospect of sleeping under the skies without a solid roof was
kind of infectious. We cancelled the next trek to Gurastal because of two
reasons. One, it was raining hard. The uphill climb would be dangerously slippery. Two, the rare species of the purple and yellow
rhododendrons that grow up there, weren't in season this year. Instead we marched
to a bird watchers’ tower around 2 kms away. Just that our noisy giggly party seemed to
scare our winged friends away, for we saw none at all. All we could see was cloud and
the dark green forest as far as our sights went. On our way back we munched on khakras,
raisins and chocolate biscuits brought in by Soma's teams (no wonder even after all that walking and
climbing I lost not an ounce of body weight!). Kids enjoyed like never before,
sometimes jumping on one another, sometimes breaking into a mock fight with
bamboo sticks. At 4 in the afternoon we recorded the temperature outside – 8 degrees
it said. Someone said it would go sub zero in the night.<br />
<br />
I shivered in
anticipation.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzNJGuEbZ90oVWPnSn69hZLdrog8KsxBVSfVMkP-Fqibfd-M9sT-pGFDxFIKljf3oHV2QYN7xLG1wIxQDHPhtp7koMTICa48btnJgLNU45Jk6d14Bfp0_tBzxd2Ucce9Cs2nQuTg6kLbs/s1600/11133834_1090154971011324_7719276517206331303_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzNJGuEbZ90oVWPnSn69hZLdrog8KsxBVSfVMkP-Fqibfd-M9sT-pGFDxFIKljf3oHV2QYN7xLG1wIxQDHPhtp7koMTICa48btnJgLNU45Jk6d14Bfp0_tBzxd2Ucce9Cs2nQuTg6kLbs/s1600/11133834_1090154971011324_7719276517206331303_n.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></div>
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We met good people at the hut. Three families of three – a group
of nine. Then a team of four surgeons with a shared passion for photographing
the Kanchenjunga. The doctors had come hoping to capture the mighty peak in the moonlight. It was going to be full moon that night, so if all went well, and
the clouds dispelled, it would be a rare sight to remember. However, being seasoned
trekkers, they took a look at the sky and shook their heads sadly. “<i>There is no
hope. This cloud is not going anywhere. There is no point staying</i>.”<br />
<br />
And they
packed their bags and left. Their disappointment was contagious. Some of us
started feeling a little jaded with the constant rains and the dark skies.
Fierce winds had started blowing as well. A silent prayer went round my mind, as my teeth clattered in the freezing cold –
will the winds drive the rain clouds away tonight?</div>
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We turned in early that night after a dinner of roti, aloo-matar and chicken curry. At around 3-4 in the night, a small voice called “<i>Maa, I
have to pee</i>.” A friend volunteered to accompany my son to the toilet outside.
Soon afterwards, we heard the sound of boots running up the stairs as if in a
great hurry.<br />
<br />
“<i>Get up, you all. Look out the window! Right NOW!</i>” said a voice with tremendous urgency, which quickly rattled us out of our slumber party.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX-SFSgsGtiq8WuUkWlDnAeUfw0yr_ziVZLHUmF-2mxcd2Kfa69IRFY8OCTgDD8NO30na_YfrxMAe-xJRR5ztid5oZRHeBpcFgdudCau5C5CKzK6Z_v2bwFFQqaPGUAKWV8z1cSX-KUDo/s1600/11114275_1090157931011028_7108048258849861371_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX-SFSgsGtiq8WuUkWlDnAeUfw0yr_ziVZLHUmF-2mxcd2Kfa69IRFY8OCTgDD8NO30na_YfrxMAe-xJRR5ztid5oZRHeBpcFgdudCau5C5CKzK6Z_v2bwFFQqaPGUAKWV8z1cSX-KUDo/s1600/11114275_1090157931011028_7108048258849861371_n.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
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We rushed out of our sleeping bags, blankets and duvets to
reach the broken window. By then someone had opened the pane and we were all
staring bewildered at a silver Kanchenjunga! Never did I imagine that all along
the peaks were so close to us. It seemed as if we
could run and reach the peaks in a matter of minutes. The clouds were gone. The sky was clear. And
there stood the third highest peak of the world under a starlit sky. We ran downstairs and scrambled
outside in our windcheaters. Looking at the peak and the stars, I suddenly felt
so small, so inconsequential. We puny mortals with our Lilliput frames, our
petty egos, our unending complaints, wants and desires – all looked funny in
comparison. </div>
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All of a sudden it started making sense to me – the trek,
the rain, the cloud, the winds – as if part of a predestined design. This year, the Rhododendrons were almost half as much in bloom as some other years. I had
come expecting hills breaking out in multi-hue blossoms. I had visualized pink, red,
white, yellow rolling mountains and valleys around. I had heard stories of the sanctuary turning the hills into full-bloomed colour pots and here I was looking at the flowers alright, but not exactly in the magnitude I had hoped. Would I ever have the opportunity to be back here to witness the hills changing colours as the rhodos went full bloom in future? I wasn't so sure.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIeCgqu7rFFqnR9X3SXknK3NTegUwgzX_zoQIMXZw4gnxT2qh_1WooUgj8thw1iSgalmgW5Tv6VYJHeZSEA4zT2QAK6SVDwRln-52D4U0WIko8Rl7MFEGi4_0N1Mn4Ly87MX2SSk4IMo8/s1600/10436691_1090158164344338_6219180592838357819_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIeCgqu7rFFqnR9X3SXknK3NTegUwgzX_zoQIMXZw4gnxT2qh_1WooUgj8thw1iSgalmgW5Tv6VYJHeZSEA4zT2QAK6SVDwRln-52D4U0WIko8Rl7MFEGi4_0N1Mn4Ly87MX2SSk4IMo8/s1600/10436691_1090158164344338_6219180592838357819_n.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
I had no idea that Nature had planned a different gift for me. I had seen the Kanchenjunga on earlier trips too – once from Gangtok, and the other time from
Rishyap. But those sightings were of a distant kind. Never had the peak touched
me like this. Now as the sun came up, the stalwart stood close to us, letting the sun
touch its glory one by one with its rays. Orange, pink, yellow, white – the colours
took turns as the rays hit the snowy crown. The cameras were out, working double
shifts. Some were trying to identify which was Kabru, which was Pandim beside the Kanchenjunga. </div>
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I stood looking at the towering heads for a long time, perched on a stone wall,
trying to seize the moment for later. I knew my mission was done. In life so
many our goals are thwarted, so many hopes broken. And we are handed down things
we never asked for. It is only when you are close to nature, you realize the
divinity in its plans – plans so different from the human ones, so more
powerful than ours. You are never in control – no matter how hard you try to
imagine otherwise. I learned my lesson. It wasn’t ever going to be flowers for me,
but maybe a coarser terrain, a miracle carved out in rock and snow. </div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg300dG1uEtwTTlD5SedqxJ_57DuZ1uaVyZCckgspme9sQ2QnPMPSNGi-6GiYnF4tGpikSRo9EPdUyhjpoOEZCAiFuzNErfWzRqzuqST4-1Jjn-awT5hqsMCs5Ynvh3Yoo2St0aCUoT4bQ/s1600/11040172_1090148897678598_3232467564177733359_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg300dG1uEtwTTlD5SedqxJ_57DuZ1uaVyZCckgspme9sQ2QnPMPSNGi-6GiYnF4tGpikSRo9EPdUyhjpoOEZCAiFuzNErfWzRqzuqST4-1Jjn-awT5hqsMCs5Ynvh3Yoo2St0aCUoT4bQ/s1600/11040172_1090148897678598_3232467564177733359_n.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our trek leader, Soma Majumdar Paul<br />
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</tbody></table>
I had had my
miracle.</div>
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Thanks to Soma’s Camps for facilitating this </div>
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miracle for me! And taking such good care of first time trekkkers like me.</div>
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Note: I have not named any of my fellow trekkers in this story as I wasn't sure they would like that.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Photo courtesy: Debjit Biswas</div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">© Sudeshna Sanyal</span></div>
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23susanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01332392046655763011noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171096742505111365.post-30101347731721381752015-02-10T04:58:00.000-08:002015-04-08T02:20:51.179-07:00Writing herself<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A lost manuscript is a woman once loved.<br />
Once written.<br />
Caressed with chappy fingers.<br />
Nestled between sweat soaked pillows.<br />
Of the poor poet who lost it on the tram line.<br />
<br />
<br />
Now she doesn't know who wrote her.<br />
Doesn't know who loved.<br />
Crumpled in an old tin trunk<br />
She writes herself.<br />
Unpublished.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 17.4545459747314px;">© Sudeshna Sanyal</span><br />
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23susanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01332392046655763011noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171096742505111365.post-25018712941696402782015-02-10T04:49:00.000-08:002015-02-10T04:49:27.326-08:00The man undressed<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Come let me shave your beard<br />
Alumwash the cuts and burns<br />
Let us watch together<br />
The white and black<br />
Children of your chin...<br />
Run down the local drain<br />
Merge with memory of pain.<br />
<br />
<br />
Come let me undo that saffron turban<br />
That sacred thread snaking around<br />
Your fair fat body arrogant<br />
Remembrance of a quiet boy<br />
Initiated into top class convoy.<br />
And wipe off the sandalwood paste<br />
Your believer's forehead in haste.<br />
<br />
<br />
Let us fold aside the skull cap that sat<br />
Snug on your namazi head<br />
While the sun burns uniform your face<br />
Blackened brows now mere history<br />
The pride of grinding it five times on the floor<br />
That you wore so well, no more.<br />
<br />
<br />
Instead let me clothe you naked<br />
And play a game of 'guess who'<br />
Or let us just go as we like<br />
Undressing the raw man that lurked<br />
Behind the fez and the turban.<br />
For we are all going to die one day<br />
It makes sense to live today.<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 17.4545459747314px;"> © Sudeshna Sanyal</span><br />
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23susanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01332392046655763011noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171096742505111365.post-947716366513724072015-02-10T04:44:00.000-08:002015-02-10T04:44:00.657-08:00One for the road<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Sometimes do look back<br />
At a life almost lived<br />
And a death almost died<br />
Along the shores of forgetfulness<br />
Wilful or by chance....<br />
Roads once travelled<br />
Alone or holding hands<br />
Gently going on ash grey<br />
By-lanes.<br />
<br />
<br />
Remember names scratched<br />
On strangers' doors<br />
Metal and wood.<br />
That screamed to outlive<br />
Time's kind erosion.<br />
<br />
<br />
You have survived<br />
Scratches and bites<br />
And succumbed<br />
Slow to your own<br />
Rhythm.<br />
<br />
<br />
Keep going. Keep going.<br />
Until you become the road.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFddodrLzT3fChyphenhyphen_PdMwjByJb8LUN0eSELMM1OhlcD1R3qctbCtjffLBl7hxfVlo40YUEWvo-TJuPoNUBLoPQcLNdX_27ekaYT9JigCGcYril5bjtdY4eapEBPsi6lKnidl6g4uk3xkpM/s1600/DSC_0516.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFddodrLzT3fChyphenhyphen_PdMwjByJb8LUN0eSELMM1OhlcD1R3qctbCtjffLBl7hxfVlo40YUEWvo-TJuPoNUBLoPQcLNdX_27ekaYT9JigCGcYril5bjtdY4eapEBPsi6lKnidl6g4uk3xkpM/s1600/DSC_0516.jpg" height="366" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In Milan, Italy</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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© Sudeshna Sanyal<br />
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23susanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01332392046655763011noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171096742505111365.post-48147148784789507952015-02-10T04:39:00.002-08:002015-02-10T04:39:58.245-08:00On being deaf <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The red earth that was Kalinga<br />
Panipath and Plassey<br />
Is fiery Godhra today.<br />
Our Gaza Sudan Libya<br />
Passengers of death...<br />
We are.<br />
Stranded.<br />
<br />
Burn a church<br />
Shoot a girl<br />
Burn books too.<br />
Raze a mosque<br />
Flatten a temple or two<br />
You are scared<br />
Aren't you?<br />
<br />
A snake called Sabarmati<br />
Winds through tunnels of gore<br />
And green intestines of revenge.<br />
The yellow air fills<br />
With charred human smell.<br />
All in a day's planned fell.<br />
<br />
Where is your turf?<br />
Where do you fight your wars?<br />
How do you kill your hostage?<br />
Your neighbour, kin<br />
Shell shocked to silence<br />
Or locked in an iron cage<br />
While the camera rolls<br />
And the fire rage.<br />
<br />
I will play ghazal on the stereo<br />
Or some Tagore full throttle<br />
Oh drown the newshour now.<br />
The coffee is made, the cries grow.<br />
Or shall we play noisy monopoly,<br />
Who cares for so much human folly<br />
For I must master the art of pretense<br />
And carry on as if it all makes sense.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh64zRNX8wT92sAWSQsJn-yGAi-Yon0JM0WvksfUtuSRzhVVgEioc18_fZuRQTA_bS7tpsc-GZgx5xHae09dT_fNRgfw-JZB4ItksmreTIo28ZVl8sxp99riIWQZRxVZRJxoCWCwWgcAOQ/s1600/1643268.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh64zRNX8wT92sAWSQsJn-yGAi-Yon0JM0WvksfUtuSRzhVVgEioc18_fZuRQTA_bS7tpsc-GZgx5xHae09dT_fNRgfw-JZB4ItksmreTIo28ZVl8sxp99riIWQZRxVZRJxoCWCwWgcAOQ/s1600/1643268.jpg" height="250" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo: Internet</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 17.4545459747314px;">© Sudeshna Sanyal</span><br />
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23susanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01332392046655763011noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171096742505111365.post-40063888079832266712014-09-03T02:12:00.002-07:002014-09-03T02:21:53.893-07:00Life in a face<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">There are faces you misplace, you forget or lose.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">And then there are ones that stay with you. Forever.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">Faces that are sacred. That settle in the den of your mind. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">And claim ownership. And grow roots.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">There are faces that have crossed the by-lanes of pain</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">The winding staircases of joys too frail</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">Faces that make you wonder. Wander.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">Faces that hide. Faces that unfold. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">Faces like oceans, of stories untold.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">Some talk, some brood, some wait.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">Some just hold you in place.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">In an enchanting tight embrace.</span></span><br />
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23susanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01332392046655763011noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171096742505111365.post-24724450878787256792014-08-31T04:39:00.001-07:002014-09-03T02:22:50.001-07:00Chameleon unleashed<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">At first, you only see black and white.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">Like words on paper.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">Like dark and day.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">Then the grays unveil</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">The zones of what - ifs,</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">Of the red carpet of rage,</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">Of the yellow sun of doubt,</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">The brown of dried blood,</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">The blue doom of gloom,</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">The green leaf of disbelief</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">In happy endings.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">There is no happy ending.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">Endings are sad. Always.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">And then you know it's time</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">To bring the inner chameleon out.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">It's good to hide</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">In colors</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">Sometimes.</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDkdjE8mKjSPx0GyEE3obuex6cb62vM7-tTEcPrseo5EpDtaQJuCoCWAbK9CN9lW-ifxkwBgDk5K5OY2mW-q95XfLxx8BY01CDN21fiCg1mxfC-I7lZKqmhUqm-qaQCkMS3BWQRjDzfDc/s1600/10482599_10152720300323824_351051165490952100_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDkdjE8mKjSPx0GyEE3obuex6cb62vM7-tTEcPrseo5EpDtaQJuCoCWAbK9CN9lW-ifxkwBgDk5K5OY2mW-q95XfLxx8BY01CDN21fiCg1mxfC-I7lZKqmhUqm-qaQCkMS3BWQRjDzfDc/s1600/10482599_10152720300323824_351051165490952100_n.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
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23susanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01332392046655763011noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171096742505111365.post-59174099543923157532014-08-17T09:24:00.000-07:002014-08-17T09:24:21.348-07:00The bluest eye. Willingly blind.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">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 </span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">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?<br /><br />Well, I do.<br /><br />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. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisBxJ86M8B2_R4b2IIciAVY3MEKu_P3MueszqNVlnO6tyv2uWKCW0KUs1cJ6jV8AcdyEVT2Rho0bdacFJBRB3-TcKwoKA4AAiAKC2iW60tojcsZRlWjGRRdtcKeMATBQkOhb9VcHf6Gug/s1600/book-bluest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisBxJ86M8B2_R4b2IIciAVY3MEKu_P3MueszqNVlnO6tyv2uWKCW0KUs1cJ6jV8AcdyEVT2Rho0bdacFJBRB3-TcKwoKA4AAiAKC2iW60tojcsZRlWjGRRdtcKeMATBQkOhb9VcHf6Gug/s1600/book-bluest.jpg" height="400" width="312" /></a></div>
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<span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br />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.<br /><br />Call me a lousy coward. A selfish sentimentalist. A stupid one-eyed reader. But I will keep looking for make believe happy endings.<br /><br />For truth hurts.</span></div>
23susanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01332392046655763011noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171096742505111365.post-745091396399039992014-08-17T08:35:00.000-07:002014-08-17T08:39:04.399-07:00The day I met and lost Shibdas Choudhury<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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. </div>
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He would wipe his vast forehead with a clean white handkerchief and ask: “<i>Kemon achho tomra shobai? Dekho toh egulo pochondo hoy kina</i>” (“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.<br />
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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 <i>Boromashi</i>? A thin shriveled woman in a bedraggled white saree? A wraith of the plump cuddly woman we called “<i>Boromashi</i>”. 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 <i>paan</i> 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 “<i>didimoni</i>” by all her sisters and their husbands. She was a shadow of all the glory that was <i>didimoni </i>now.</div>
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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.</div>
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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 “<i>This daughter of mine is showcase stuff, she looks like Durga</i>”. 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?<br />
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As a testimony to the man he was, his wife said a thing I can ever forget::</div>
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“<i>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</i>” (“<i>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</i>”). </div>
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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.</div>
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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. </div>
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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.<br />
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23susanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01332392046655763011noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171096742505111365.post-68091025239690235642014-08-13T01:06:00.001-07:002014-08-13T01:06:11.235-07:00How I stumbled upon the oldest university of the world!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: #215868;">Did you read <i>The Treasure Island</i> 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.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #215868;">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!</span></div>
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<span style="color: #215868;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #215868;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #215868;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #215868;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #215868;">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?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #215868;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #215868;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #215868;">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. </span><span style="color: #215868;">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 <i>universitas </i>for the students and masters. It has 33 departments in all. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #215868;">And if you are interested to know more about the place, you can always count on Wiki: <i>http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/University_of_Bologna</i></span></div>
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23susanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01332392046655763011noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171096742505111365.post-73094497640402728182014-01-22T06:19:00.000-08:002014-01-24T06:08:28.745-08:00Jaatishwar: an unforgettable tribute to Bengal's Kabiyals<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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.<br />
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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 “<i>tumi jaaminee, ami shoshee hey</i>”. 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 <b><i>Jaatishwar, a Musical of Memories</i></b> evokes in the audience – or in me.<br />
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<b>The Kabiyal tradition and Kabir Suman </b><br />
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The film is sub-titled "<i><b>A Musical of Memories</b></i>". 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.<br />
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Many perhaps do not know that Srijit Mukherji's film owes its origin to a song by Kabir Suman - Jaatishwar!<br />
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Kabir Suman’s music is possibly the all-encompassing magic that defines the musical. While he has used Anthony’s <i>Durga bandana</i> played to show how a foreigner under trying circumstances could have mastered the Bangla Kirtan traditions, he has also used “<i>Jaat gelo, jaat gelo bole, eki ajob karkhana</i>” 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 “<i>Khodar kasam jaan, ami bhalobeshechi tomae</i>” 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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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Kabir Suman, who has directed the music of this '<b><i>musical of memorie</i></b>s' 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.<br />
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While the film owes its birth to Suman's song <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KbolOewaXyA">Jaatishwar </a>itself, without these 13 songs, and "<i>prothom aloy phera</i>" and "<i>e tumi kemon tumi</i>" 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.<br />
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<b>Anthony Heynsman and Kushal Hazra</b><br />
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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 <b><i>Baaishe Srabon</i></b> and <b><i>Aparajita Tumi</i></b>. 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.<br />
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<b>Narration and the narrator</b><br />
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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 “<i>optimally nyaka"</i> Sudeshna (played by the frail Ria Sen) and the “<i>chintita stree"</i> (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.<br />
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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).<br />
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The film is well-researched, bringing forth <i>kabi’r lorai </i>(poets' duels)<i> </i>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 <i>thakur-dalaan</i> of Shobhabajaar Rajbaari in a flash, where the Kabiyal repertoire is unfurled in front of your eyes.<br />
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<b>Reincarnation more believable now</b><br />
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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 <b><i>Banemonium</i></b>, 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 “<i>E tumi kemon tumi, chokher tarae aayna dhoro</i>” 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.<br />
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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 “<b>collective unconscious</b>” 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.<br />
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Prasenjit Chatterjee, Sir, yes, you are indeed the Industry!<br />
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Srijit Mukherji, Sir, take a bow!
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Kabir Suman, Sir, you have brought back the music of the lost Kabiyals of yore! Thank you!<br />
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23susanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01332392046655763011noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171096742505111365.post-2515245080235870882014-01-11T08:54:00.001-08:002014-01-11T08:54:24.938-08:00Human Hanuman<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Call it faith. Call it the opiate of the middle class. Call it misplaced care. Or undeserved service.<br />
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I choose to call this love. Simple.<br />
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Hanuman wrapped up in the warmth of human love.<br />
And in a brightly colored blue striped shawl. It's cold for the gods too.<br />
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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.<br />
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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?<br />
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I pass this small temple several times during my morning rounds. This is where the <i>kakus </i>and <i>kakimas</i>, <i>jethus </i>and <i>jethimas </i>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?<br />
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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?<br />
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23susanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01332392046655763011noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171096742505111365.post-21477599177747436972014-01-11T08:43:00.000-08:002014-01-12T05:56:03.301-08:00The girl I met at College Street<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Have been putting off a much needed visit to the College Street for quite sometime now.<br />
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I made it today. Am glad I did.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr60GQyVUG4igPJnc5xDnfAKEmSrXn4MBKv1qr9WW5I76rookx00oRi4fzZAdN6tPhHL7X1nfCwH2TCG55dAsXepxSxtDgWk4cnnrc-T3P9xlqG5YDPICcITJcTm3u6iUPfR8aXddVn44/s1600/cofeehouse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr60GQyVUG4igPJnc5xDnfAKEmSrXn4MBKv1qr9WW5I76rookx00oRi4fzZAdN6tPhHL7X1nfCwH2TCG55dAsXepxSxtDgWk4cnnrc-T3P9xlqG5YDPICcITJcTm3u6iUPfR8aXddVn44/s1600/cofeehouse.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The College Street Coffee House</td></tr>
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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 <i>bangals </i>and the <i>ghotis </i>- 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.<br />
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You may imagine the scene. Rather I urge you to.<br />
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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 <i>didi </i>and <i>dada </i>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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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?<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A tramcar on the Mahatma Gandhi Road, where the College Street ends</td></tr>
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23susanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01332392046655763011noreply@blogger.com3