Aam Pachak v/s Walter White

Blue meth's got nothing on this s**t.

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It looks so innocent on the outside.

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A yellow plastic tube with a friendly mango saying "Eeyah!"
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On the inside, is a darker, more malevolent force. Take a couple of tablets, it says. But my stomach is empty, my brain replies, I don't need digestive boosting. Never you mind... take a couple, it repeats.

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My arms revolt... obeying the dark side and guide the potent tangy sweet spicy contents towards my mouth again. And again. And again. Till the tube is empty.

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I feel helpless. Like I have felt before. In front of packets of Pachan Amla & Hawa Ban & Fatafat. In front of the stupendous selection of the drug cartel Jaina Silpa Mandir's stalls at the Pujo Pandals.

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Whatever it is that they put in there, pachaks, churans and aachaars [or as my Dad calls them 'tokktokiyaa'] are chemically designed for total domination over self-control. Strange circuits light up and on long, busy office days, my overworked brain keeps begging for more.

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Don't know about all the other stuff that they claim India invented "first" but I can guarantee at least this... that the slogan "No one can eat just one" sure wasn't originally coined for a packet of Ruffles Lays or anything sold in Albuquerque. 

Sorry, Walter... but Aam Pachak is the one who knocks.

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[http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.in/2016/01/aam-pachak-vs-walter-white.html]

Phanoosh

New Year's Eve. Close to midnight, the party at my cousin's is picking up pace.

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But I am not feeling it.

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Only a couple of days before, I was at the Nimtala Burning Ghat. The closure that the final journey and the all consuming flames seemed to offer then... doesn't feel as complete right now.

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Like so many times before. we had taken for granted that Kaki Dimma would return home from hospital all smiling and chatty about the latest pain & complications she had overcome.

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This time though, she gave us the slip.

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This party is peopled by my paternal side cousins & their families, with no connections to Kaki Dimma, the last of her generation from Mom's side. They obviously are in a completely different frame of mind.

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The rooftop of my cousin's building is dark. An ensemble group ranging in age from 8 to 50 tumbles onto it as all around the city skies light up. A spray of colour here, a boom of sparkliness there - all in celebration of what was and what will be.

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What was. Dadubhai. Dimma. Pishi Dimma. Kaku Dadu. And now Kaki Dimma. Wrinkly knobby slow moving hands, snow for hair, indulgent to a fault and never without a smile to spare - they occupied a unique shelf in my childhood cupboard of categorisations. 

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"How can anyone be so nice? Are they for real? If so, why can't everyone else be like them?" 

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Restore & double the lost money of a recently pick-pocketed 10 year old grandson; jump out of sick bed to fulfill the luchi-aloo bhaajaa demands of that same grandson; from his own shop's stock, pour out more brown and white wrappered Melody chocolates than a small pair of hands can hold - all legend establishing standards of care.

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The roof is abuzz with activity. Brothers, sisters, brother-in-laws, nephews and nieces have set about clearing the pooled firecracker stock. Charkhas whirr in duets and rang-mashaals blaze with no particular agenda. In the darkness beyond, I watch with borderline detachment.

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The 'cells' make an appearance, their heavy cylinders packed with surprises to be revealed a few hundred feet up in the air, with a flash of sound and light - if things go to plan. As it turns out, things do go to plan to everyone's relief.

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The bigger plan, the plan of plans, however, never goes to (our) plan. Fully aware that nothing is permanent, we, quite foolishly, cling on to the hope that it is. 

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Enthusiastic conversationalist armed with a girly giggly laughter and a wide-eyed concern for all, Kaki Dimma, of all people, the sweetest of all my Dimmas, had seemed timeless. 

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On our rooftop, it is phanoosh time, the closing act. Phanoosh - the funny sounding Bengali word for hot air balloon - also moonlights as the word of choice for Chinese sky lanterns. 

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After the manic razzmatazz of the 'cells', the careful unwrapping of the thin papered lanterns brings a dimension of calm to the proceedings, a thoughtfulness so far missing in the revelry.

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Careful planning and teamwork by us, cousins and brood, cannot prevent our first launched phanoosh from confidently sailing into a neighbouring building. There are no screams of terror that follow nor does the attacked building go up in flames soon after. In retrospect a minor mishap. 

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The phanooshes that follow the pilot launch are significantly more well behaved.

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It may be the near disaster of the first launch and the resilient cheerfulness of the launch team. It may be that other phanoosh that rushed groundwards, only to catch a breeze just in the nick of time, rising straight up into the sky, past a wildly cheering group of cousins. 

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Whatever be the reason, I am feeling significantly better.

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Come to think of it, the only flavour added to my life and to that of many others by people like Kaki Dimma through all her years is the flavour of happiness. Being morose on account of her is contradictory to how I want to remember her.

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The sadness will remain, no doubt, a gap never to be filled. Yet there is some comfort to be drawn from a constructed image.

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The analogy of a loved one becoming a star is, if I may say so, done to death. 

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It is much better to think of a phanoosh, the way it brings a group of people together under the flickering light of the flame. There's the wait for the hot air to fill up the delicate paper. There's joking around, there's impatience and finally there's the tug.

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Should we let it go? Is it ready? Are we ready to let it go?

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All questions answered as the phanoosh climbs, ever so slowly, leaving a glowing trail of smiles and cheer, a bright spot of familiarity in the endlessness of the dark night sky.

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[http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.in/2016/01/phanoosh.html]

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Dimmaar Baari

Coziness. Warmth. Immunity from prosecution by Mom.

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While Dimma fretted about how small her flat must feel for her restless grandchildren, we did not share her opinion. For us, G-5/6 was just right.
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The right size for Dadubhai to open out the folding dinner table for us to have meals and bring in the 'folding khaat', our passport to adventure story nights during load-shedding; just the right size to barge out of, run into Anushua Maashi's next door and play with her Pomeranian; just the right size to go one more door over to Chakraborty Dimma's and look at (for the nth time) the brochure of miniature city Madurodam, marvelling at the brilliantly detailed little toy buildings, canals with toy ferries plying and true to real life model trains running between stations carrying the make believe citizens of this make believe world to their make believe work.

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Greater adventures lay beyond. Down the road to Pinaki Dada's house where a treasure trove of Tintin comics awaited; further out to the Mother Dairy outlet where Didi and I would contest to be the one to put the token inside the milk vending machine and watch with amazement the cowless milk delivery. Even the boundary walls of Labony, their three striped walls with peepholes patterned on it like a fort, lent a special quality to the then quiet housing estate peopled with retirees like my maternal grandparents.
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Not to forget, "Nondolal". The grandfather clock in my grandfather's house. The pendulum never ceasing to tick along ever since he made the long journey from Czechoslovakia to G-5/6, a prize for Dadubhai's extraordinary bridge playing skills. The weekly winding that Nondolal got and the unmistakable noise that his springs made were as much of a ritual as Dimma's worship of Krishno Thakur in her little wooden mandir. The pujo had special significance for us as we grandchildren would get the 'remaining' baataashaa offered to the Lord once he had had his fair share of it.
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Dadubhai and Dimma have long gone to the place, where all things, good and bad, must fade but Nondolal marches on. Now on the wall of our Ripon Street home, he marks time, like he always did, partly because it is his mechanical duty, mostly because he represents the continuity that binds us all.
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People often talk, gloomily, of wanting to go back to the past as if it is something we left behind on the trail of time. Walking down Labony's leafy tree lined lanes, up the dimly lit stairs to the first floor and into a familiar flat, I see a flaw in that theory.
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This much is true. Gone are my Dimma's cool-er and tetul-er aachaar in their opaque plastic jars. Gone are the almirah full of crisply pressed white kurta pyjamas that were almost like Dadubhai's post retirement uniform. The rooms, empty and dusty, as late winter afternoon sunlight filters in, look so very different in the absence of those who made this place special.
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But this much is also true. The past is not locked away in a chest somewhere, only to be looked and polished once in a while. It's a real place, a real time that shapes and influences how we experience the present. What was once a happy place does not cease to be a happy place because time has moved on. In a strange twist, it remains forever happy because time has moved on.
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Dimmaar baari lives through everyone - daughter, neighbours, grandchildren touched by its warmth. Dimmaar baari lives through every conversation that fondly recalls a moment of spontaneous laughter within its walls. Dimmaar baari lives because no matter how hard the sands of time try to bury what we call the 'past', it always peeks through, a source of comfort, a reminder of gentler times and carefree abandon. 
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[http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.in/2015/12/dimmaar-baari.html]

Tuned in

Saturday, 19-December-2015, Nicco Park, Kolkata

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The gates will open only an hour later but you and a couple of friends are already in queue. 

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It's not like you haven't heard the songs before. Rupam Islam & the pleading guitar in "Aro Ekbaar"; the soft instant nostalgia of KK going "Arrey yaaron" is already hardwired, note for note, into your brain. Innumerable repetitions on the I-Pod, the radio and re-unions are to blame. If only you had revised your study course material as many times.

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Yet you are excited. Unlike the "too cool for old rockstars"/"too cool for Bollywood songs" juntaa, you still retain a soft corner for memories, for songs that meant the world to you. The times may have passed those songs and their singers by, but you... those songs make you smile.

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The doors finally open and you find yourself not so much of a minority anymore. The Fossils fans are here, the KK fans are here... in their thousands, waving to the drone hovering above, bending over inch by inch the metal barriers that separate the Silver from the Gold class tickets. 

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Then there are the quiet ones, not unlike yourself, here only for the music, overcoming their natural desire to stay out of the limelight, as is evident from their meditative poses as they wait for the stage to be taken over.

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And when it is, everything else ceases to exist. The guitars of the Fossils do the talking, the coaxing, the screaming, the philosophizing. Rupam plays the Pied Piper leading the masses down familiar paths of hope, rage and redemption. "Ekla Ghar", "Bishakto Manush", "Hasnuhana" course through your veins, a common drug injected from the speaker stacks. 

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An hour or so of Fossils' Bong style emotional manipulation later, KK takes over and the tragic power of "Tadap tadap ke" also overpowers. Emotional manipulation, you discover, is just as effective in Hindi. The piano on stage tinkles into "O meri jaan" and the crowd joins in, together but each wrapped deep in their own interpretation of the song.

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The final song you hear before stepping out into a (relatively) cold Kolkata winter night is about the fleeting moment. "Pal", an all time KK classic, nearly 20 years old but always fresh, especially coming from the very man who sang it.

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Live. A word with more than a tinge of magic to it. All the I-Pods and Boses of the world aim to recreate a perfect sound recorded in tomb like studios. What they lose in their quest for purity is the buzz, the hum of the audience as it latches on to the floating melody, the unheard but unmistakable chorus of shared sentiments.

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As KK sings in his divine voice about memory's foggy trails, never to be re-experienced in quite the same manner ever again, you dwell in the moment, thankful to whoever deserves the credit for this nearly supernatural force called music. An ocean of feelings beckons you to explore, all in this little boat called a tune.

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[http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.in/2015/12/tuned-in.html]

Song of the open road

Can you hear it too, this song quite old?
Its tune too clear for cubicles to hold
Long days at work, evenings stuck to a chair
The music... it's louder now, but at a screen I must stare.
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Swipe... 'cause there are stories yet to be told,
Misty mornings, mystery houses, chaa-singharaa in the cold
Swipe... 'cause of extra duties beware one must be,
Like brooks & birds, for once, glide without a care.
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This song is false, so don't get sold
The 'practical' me whispers
But there's mountains & forests & oceans
The wise man counters
You sure you don't have a weekend to spare?
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If you hear it... by now you do, let restless shoes lead the way
Live and dream and sing forever the song of the open road.
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[http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.in/2015/12/song-of-open-road.html]

Lights and dreams

Racing down the AJC Bose Road flyover on top of an open truck offers some unique opportunities.

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For example, the chance to produce some very rude noises. Using the long tube balloons freshly bought from Prinsep Ghat, looping them into a U and pinching together just right so that the rushing air in the gap produces some inappropriate soundtracks generally heard after heavy meals. Alongside the ear splitting toots of the dozen odd horns on the trucks and the thrumming of the dhaki's beats, it is a grand/hilarious way to return after our para's Kali Thakur visharjan.

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Having been volunteered, out of the blue, onto the visharjan party while I was busy chomping on a chicken roll, I had no reason to complain. Religion is not my kind of thing but festivals, especially visharjans, are a different matter. Riding, open-top, through the heart of the city, raising a ruckus for no particular reason feels like a prize which I had no part in earning. When requested, by the organizers of our neighbourhood Kali Puja to join in the goodbyes, there was no way I could refuse. Plus, I knew that there was mutton & rice to be served after.

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The city is alive this evening, the annual intersection of Diwali and Kali Puja on full display, even more so from my present mobile vantage point. Tired old houses lining Central Calcutta's roads are decked up in lighting, glittering with their original glory, despite the chipped walls and decaying doors, hidden away by the magic of this night. The teeming pedestrians, dressed to the nines, wander about under a spell of happiness, some in search of the ideal fireworks, others in the more immediate craving for some sort of tasty food. Their movements, chatter and smiles produce a happy hum, clear and distinct and impossible to mistake for anything else. 

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But for a brief moment, I take a step back - tune down the noise of the whistling rockets, gray out the showers of colours in the night skies and mute the turbulent social activity of Diwali - and something even more beautiful shines through. Something far more ancient. Something far more wise.

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It's really basic, the concept of Diwali. At its simplest, it is a diya in the dark, a message that there is no need to fear the unknown that surrounds it. For wherever it goes, the light will show the way. For however far you may be, you cannot ignore that brave little speck of hope. For no matter how cynical and practical and logical you may be, you believe in your heart of hearts that the force of peace and wisdom and goodness will eventually prevail.

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[http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.in/2015/11/lights-and-dreams.html]

Galiff Street

I felt relieved. My family was not the only crazy one.

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On a morning normally reserved for rest & recuperation, a street in North Kolkata was packed with seekers, from ages 8 to 80. Happiness & companionship by the truckload, occasional irritation and an eventual great sadness - these people had experienced. The Sunday Galiff Street Pet Market, as always, was the answer to their needs.

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Along this narrowish tram-lined street near the Tala Bridge sat and roamed pet sellers of every sort. Transparent water filled pouches with many tints of fishes floated temptingly through the crowds on hands whose owners were unseen in the crowd. A spectacularly happy looking couple passed by, holding the snowy powder puff of a Pom pup in between them.

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Birds - fancy pigeons, parrots, munias, budgerigars, finches - whose shades would shame many an Asian Paints catalogue sat in cages placed just at the eyeline of the milling junta - I took care not to look too long lest I follow up on my wishes. Cuddly baby rabbits, guinea pigs and hamsters in all their furriness looked out to their future. Not me, no, no, not me, I had to keep telling myself.

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Especially difficult to get away from, at a personal level, were the puppy stalls. Here an impossibly cute lil' Lab naughtily smiling and there the almost-paid-15K-and-brought-it-home Alsatian baby. A blur of tiny little tails wagging and the irresistible yipping that only puppies are capable of made me consider chucking my plans for the rest of the day and just stand there dazed.

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A week later, I took my mom to the Galiff Street market and realized that the tendency to stand dazed, looking at puppy stalls, refusing to move even when a tram showed up honking (yes, in true Kolkata fashion) was something that runs in the family. I blame my parents.

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I blame my parents for the way I turned out. For talking about dogs, unseen by us children, that passed away 50 years ago but still show up in family discussions ("Tiger! Oh, such a wonderful handsome dog!") more frequently than immediate ancestors; for adopting the turtle Michaelangelo brought in by floods from the river Narmada and eventually with broken hearts returned to it as his increased size required him to be; for being obsessed and observant of a world full of not only people but dogs, cats, birds, donkeys, pigs, cows, langurs, snakes, turtles, peacocks, mongooses - not human by definition but sometimes more human than humans.

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A giant billboard above the Galiff Street market prohibits the sale/purchase of wildlife as pets and promises stern punishment. That is, of course, a matter of vital concern as rapacious industrialization and demand for land push our thumbnail sized wild areas into ever smaller corners. The open is after all is where animals, especially birds, really belong. The wild must be fought for; every last inch of land retained and every species preserved.

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That said, keeping pets, of the non-exotic-not-a-lion-or-a-tiger type, serves a very different and special purpose, one that is at odds with some people's idea of the animal being "imprisoned" by the "human master". For most of us who have ever taken care of a non-human friend, it is not odd to have a conversation with something that clearly cannot reply likewise. Also, it is not very clear who is the actual master when X takes a dump wherever it chooses to and Y has to clean up after.

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The answer may come in the form of a woof or a purr or a chirp. The googly eyes of your goldfish as it swims up near the glass or the budgerigar's chirpiness as you approach has a lot to do with the food in your hand but also a trust that replaces the little critter's natural instinct to run away. That trust, earned by daily routine, does turn into responsibility when you need to get away from the house. 

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The addiction, though, is difficult to get away from. We have moved out of the jungle into brick, stone and concrete nests centuries ago. We moved out only because we wanted to stay "safe", but in the process left something of our selves behind. In the song of a bird and its gymnastics on its perch rod; in the serene glide of fishes in their pretty glass enclosed worlds; in the mad circling dash of the dog, unsure of what to do with the extreme joy it has discovered, merely by your coming home for the day - we find it again.

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Let's call it - an animal connection.

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[http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.in/2015/11/galiff-street.html]