অনেক মাস ধরে পিছিয়ে পিছিয়ে শেষমেশ কলকাতা যেতেই হলো। মার্চ মাসে বাবা চলে যাওয়ার পর কলকাতার প্রতি মোহ তা কেটে গেছে বলা যায়। ২০২১-এ মা যাবার পরও কলকাতার বাড়িতে বাবা থাকতে দুজনকে-ই একটু খুঁজে পাওয়া যেত। আলাদা হয়ে গেলেও, দুজনকে একসাথে ভাবা যেত। এইবার যখন বাড়ি ফিরলাম, সেই কৃষ্ণচূড়া গাছের তলায় পাতলা গলিতে, মনে হলো সব কিছু আগের মতোই আছে—কিন্তু তবুও একটা অচেনা জায়গা। বিদেশ-বিভুঁয়ে, কাজের চাপে পড়লে কিংবা মন খারাপের সময়, "বাড়ি যাবো" বলে যে কাল্পনিক আশা ছিল, সেটা বাকি জীবনের জন্য অকেজো হয়ে দাঁড়ালো।
As if the real me wasn't proof enough...
Showing posts with label First posts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label First posts. Show all posts
Sunday, December 28, 2025
बाहरवाला a.k.a The Outsider
देहरादून में आए हुए मुझे भी अब 8 साल हो गए और मैं उस मुकाम पे पहुंच चुका हूं कि मेरे आने के बाद कितने बदलाव आए हैं, उन पर अपने विचार रख सकूं। यहां के जंगल, पास के पहाड़ और लुभावना मौसम इसे खास बनाते हैं और मेरे रहते-रहते ही इनमें मैंने काफी बदलाव देखे हैं। जो पहले से ही देहरादून में हैं, उन्होंने तो और भी ज्यादा फर्क देखा होगा। बाकी स्थानीय लोगों के बातचीत में अक्सर इस अनचाहे परिवर्तन की सारा जिम्मेदारी "बाहरवालों" पे ठोप दी जाती है और इस पर कुछ हद तक सहमति भी की जा सकती है। लेकिन जरा और सोचूं तो ख्याल आता है कि मैं भी तो बाहरवाला ही हूं। पर्यावरण से जुड़ा काम जरूर करता हूं पर इस दोषारोपण के खेल में मैं भी दोषियों के कटघरे में ही खड़ा हूं।
Friday, September 5, 2025
Offline
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| Annie Spratt/Unsplash |
It is a secret learnt quite late in life. Endless fruitless arguments, particularly of the online kind, should have provided me a clue. As should have that long-ago read article in the New York Times about a man who quit reading the newspapers a few months into the first Trump presidency and focused on only what was immediately visible to him. In an inter-connected world dependent on daily attendance and keeping-up-with-the-Joshis, disconnecting seems to be a privilege granted to an exceedingly small number of people. But that thought may be stemming out more from a fear of missing out rather than any real hindrances. Particularly to those of us who have lived in a fully functional, interconnected world well before the Internet, the possibility of carrying on with our lives without it cannot be such a revelation. Brief forays into it have only enhanced the revolutionary charms of the offline life. The main reason that I do not commit to it fully is that like an alternative sort of addiction, it could be too much to give up on if ever the need arose.
[https://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.com/2025/09/offline.html]
Thursday, April 15, 2021
Hard Copy
It has been a little over 3 months since a standard component of my life has returned after a 4-year hiatus. Getting a newspaper in print is outdated and unnecessary. The inquisitive news-seeker has more than enough options online, saving a few trees along the way. The reason I am drawn to holding my paper in my hands, beyond the nostalgia, is the offline nature of it. A team of editors who I trust, Indian Express in this case, serve me the news they thought was important 12 hours ago. Yes, there is curation and there is filtering here too, yet it is the permanency of their choices that makes it seem more reliable to me. No one can get on a server to tweak the words or make the link disappear altogether. There is no chorus of clashing voices in the comments section assigning the news their chosen flavour of interpretation. Just facts and me. The editorial opinions too seem to be personally delivered and not having a space to immediately react to them allows me to process them that much more slowly. Slowness in an age of near instantaneous Internet may be a botheration to most but to me, it’s a luxury I scarcely believe I deserve.
[https://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.com/2021/04/hard-copy.html]
Monday, March 28, 2011
'Ghar gatta'
Image via WikipediaRemember that irritating game which I am sure anyone who has had a close in age sister in the house knows about. The whole mini house-hold set-up thing with tiny pots and pans, gas cookers and plastic vegetables where your sister could pretend at running a house for her dolls was called "Ghar gatta" or "House" in its international avatar. To top it all, your sister would have the nerve to invite you to join in and you would run away to stand in the verandah with a foul expression on your face wishing that you had a brother instead with whom you could play "Chor police" with your toy guns. This behaviour unfortunately gets back to you one day as you will find out, an unavoidable reality in a time bound assignment based job like mine.
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The greatest thing about being a working tourist like me is that you have all the weekends to yourself; to look forward to, to travel, to explore your surroundings and be footloose in general free from the chores & maintenance planning that a permanent resident of the area is subject to. The worst part of being a working tourist is that you are still bound by social conventions to plan for your rented accomodation such that you can survive there for the 5 days of work which finance your wanton weekend wanderings.
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So once again I found myself in an empty, newly refurbished apartment enjoying the feeling of huge unutilized spaces. The carpeting is brand new and the rooms still smell of fresh paint. There is a sense of a new beginning in here. So far so good. Then I discovered that the house is infested with cupboards and shelves which I knew somehow need to be utilized, and that is where the stress starts to build up. I realized that I need cooking utensils, crockery, a table and some chairs, a table lamp, an Internet connection, a mattress etc etc - the list grew beyond the line of my eyesight within a few brief seconds. Sadly it seemed that I needed to make notes now and sat down to put down my requirements on paper. The monetary part of the new settlement was only a minor issue, the major pain was that to fulfill my needs, it was time to go - horror of horrors - shopping!
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Our neighbourhood Super Walmart is an intimidating place with massively long aisles packed with an infinite variety of goods in a mind boggling combination of prices. My method of shopping involves looking at my list and then grabbing the first brand I see of that category. Admittedly a very flawed technique but there's only so much patience I can show when it comes to hanging around in a shopping mall wasting precious weekend travel hours. Fortunately there was expert help at hand in the form of a female colleague who marches through the super-market like she owns the place. Her husband and me trail along dazed and disinterested as she darts about from one corner of the huge product filled spaces from here to there. She was truly in her element. "You need salt, right?" she asks all of a sudden. I look at my super well planned shopping list to find it missing and answer with a sheepish "Oh yes, salt!" Then she enquires "Sugar?" Yes, that's not there on my list too, so another "Oh! Sugar!" is due. "Coffee, surely?" she goes and a quick check to find it absent means that I am on the verge of tearing my hopeless list up and handing my wallet over to her to buy what is called for. I somehow restrain my impulses and smile.
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But it's hardly over yet. There is stuff that I pick up from an aisle or two and the relevant advice from the expert turns out to be "Don't buy vegetables from here. We'll go to Trucchi's next. It's better quality there." or "Why buy this? You can get this stuff from the Dollar Store!" and such like. What, so there's Trucchi's and the Dollar Store to go to after all this??? You can almost see the rising shopping fever in her eyes! Sometimes you feel like even though you are saving many a dollar in this manner; after you turn 40, the high blood pressure medical treatment that all this is leading to is going to cost you a hell of a lot more. I should have thought about it before I invited female company to go shopping. By now it was too late.
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The day of dread was finally done and giving credit where it's due, the expert advice has made my new apartment a completely equipped and livable place without breaking my bank. I also have the raw materials, resources and instruments to cook anything now (on paper) but the fall-back on Maruchen Ramen & home delivered pizza is inevitable. For the majority of the week, I play this obnoxious game for which I have had a life long aversion so that I can be that kid in the verandah again for those two glorious days of freedom which follow the work week. Here I am, living through the cruel joke that the regular life pulled on me, playing "Ghar gatta".
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Welcome to my world
I keep getting these snail mail letters posted by Google's AdSense department every two months to "use the power of Google to attract new customers", all thanks to the little advertising bar which appears on the right of my blog page. They seem to be obsessed with the idea that my website is selling something which needs more buyers and therefore more visitors. A part of me finds that amusing and the other makes me curious, really really curious. What if my blog were indeed a real life shop? What if I had a 40,000 square foot of air-conditioned space to showcase my 'products'?
Keeping with that logic, that would make my thoughts the items for sale lining up the shelves of my shop and all the readers who stumble across my block of virtual real estate my 'customers'.
So how can I can help you today? Would you like this mildly humour inducing product, ma'm? Click on it and it'll tell you all about my pet bird, my dear Tweety, of how she literally fell from the sky and into my life.
There are lots more animal stories for you if you liked this one and have grown up addicted to Discovery and NGC!
Ok, maybe not. Perhaps then, you'd like this serious, nostalgia powered product on how wonderfully sad yet beautiful my last day in college was or maybe even yours was.
More funny/sad college stories then?
No, you say! You want them in red, the colour of romance?!! How about a poem then? Surely you'd like a poem about a grey day at work turning into a bright and sunny one! Here we go.
Oh, all right. I now see that you are the serious type. Then you'd love to know how much I hate corruption.
Just in case, you are feeling a little patriotic...
What? Too serious for you, you say. Hmm, let's see. Try this one then. No one seems to have noticed this one before even though it remains one of my personal favourites. Maybe you'll like it too. Inside info all of this, I tell you.
Or how about you, sir? Do you need something really really unique? Does a poem about my motorcycle qualify?
If you are as car crazy as I am, sire...
You say you need a cure from the travel bug bite. Sorry, I don't have a cure yet but here's a solid product which will tell you why you shouldn't be looking for medicine. All of this is this salesman's humble opinion, of course...
Day-dreaming of travel ain't so bad, eh? :)
Sky diving might just do the trick for you, wouldn't it?
No! :(
Childhood! Come on. Don't tell you didn't love your childhood! Sample this product, a tale of infantile naughtiness? I am sure you have many of your own too.
Want to go back to school? Sorry, I am no plastic surgeon or time travelling scientist but I do have a few recordings of my version of those golden days.
Sheesh! Nothing to your liking yet. You need some more time to think and analyze, you say? Wow, you ARE very difficult to please. But somehow that inspires me to work even more on my shop. Be my guest. Feel free to roam this huge collection of the most random thoughts you'll probably come across. I sincerely pray that you'll like something. The floor, all of it, is yours.
My shop is still a work in progress and it may never be complete. Some items may be on repeat display while some a one-off custom creation; some may be yawn inducing while others may be thrilling but they all are copyrighted products of my unnecessarily crowded imagination. So if you did not find anything of interest, please do come back. You see, I have a warehouse too and some folk call it my mind saying that I am always out of my warehouse. But I do venture into it once in a while, to capture, coax or drag out a stowed away thought or two. Welcome to my world. I hope you enjoy your stay whether you be here for business or pleasure!
Friday, February 12, 2010
The 10 minute post
It has always been a dream to utilize my time better. At work, a million ideas run circles in my head but by the time I get back home, they are really tired and go sulking in a corner of my mind where my typing hands can't reach. So it is that the corners of my mind are getting a lil' bit too overcrowded and setting time limits on ideas is the best way to get them out of my system.
10 minutes is not too much time but that's all I can really spare at the end of another gruelling day at work. Time enough to venture beyond the headlines, time enough to actually make both sides of the argument and time enough to say something significant it might not be yet a biased opinion makes for much more interesting reading than the boring old middle path. I am not giving up on the middle path yet though. It's just that sometimes in life, you've got to cook something up real quick. It may turn out a little raw or over-spiced, but it still satisfies a very primal hunger. Be it food or thoughts or food for thought, there is some joy to be had out of the quick quenching of desire.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Pulsar song
Deep in an Calcutta alley, lies the den of the beast,
Blue is its hue and darkness brings its feast,
Empty roads, desolate bridges
All so neglected, all easy meat.
The timid world has felt itself choke,
On the snarling engine and through the glowering smoke,
Pass as it must, by gently sleeping homes,
Never a trace of peace where the creature roams.
Tram tracks glint in the yellow sodium light,
Potholes await in vain to trap the surging might
The wind is an adversary persistent and curt
The road is a ribbon waiting for the spurt.
A motorcycle but it is to the eyes of the world,
Yet are jealous looks cast, and swear words hurled
What if anything could provoke such animosity?
It's because on a motorbike, you ride away from reality.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
A fairytale for grown-ups??
I watched "Pan's Labyrinth" yesterday and felt that it'd serve as a good enough reason for this new label on my blog. I had read it's review which said that this movie was a fairy tale for grown-ups. I was mystified by what such a thing could possibly mean.
The movie has a level of violence so visceral that it is definitely not for kids. Yet how a movie with fairies and satyrs in it cannot be meant for children beats me. The sets and scenes of the little girl's adventures are so imaginatively constructed, but the creatures that she encounters are equally gruesome in a way that offsets the childishness of the concept. The sadistic step-father of the girl Ofelia only adds to the overall grittiness of the movie as he continues on with his blood curdling ways. The haunting lullaby playing in the background as Ofelia's blood drips into the well of the Labyrinth is a typical example of the conflicting worlds routinely brought together in the movie.
I really liked the movie but I scratch my head in vain to figure out the intent of the story. In some sense, it is about a childish hope that a violent death in this world is only a step into a wonderful new life in another world. But if a story is to be made about hope, why not go the whole hog, instead of wallowing about in a sea of conflicting emotions. It's the director's call at the end of the day, and there is no doubting that he made a great movie.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
She fell from the sky
How do I that she is indeed a 'she'? Well, for that I depended on my 7 year old nephew who came up with the information that male budgerigars (Or love birds as they are commonly called) have gray or blue beaks. So by virtue of having an orange beak, my pet is a girl or a rather old lady I should say. Don't know what her original name was, but in her new home she was promptly christened Tweety in keeping with the wishes of my cartoon loving family. Having escaped from some cage in some neighbouring house, she had fallen battered and bloodied on my house's roof and if it hadn't been for my domestic help's timely intervention, the crows would have finished the job. But luck was on her side and she landed in what would definitely be the most animal friendly house in the neighbourhood!
Having a long standing specialization in treatment of injured birds, my aunt and my mom set about fixing Tweety up and soon enough she was chirping her heart out much to the dismay of my grumpy, disturbed early in the morning self. Night time requires her cage to be plonked inside the top floor room where I sleep and it takes only the first ray of sunshine to invade the room and she is chirping at her highest pitch and her birdy language "Put me outside! Put me outside!". Muttering in rage, it invariably turns out to be the first task I have to perform in the morning. And in contradiction to popular notions about bird-brains and their lack of cubic capacity, Tweety is a pretty smart chick. The first task that she carries out is to shake her bird-feed dish a little so that some of the seeds spill out. This ensures that she has the company of her sparrow friends who chit-chat and hop around her cage all day long.
People tell me that the quintessential definition of love-birds is that they live in pairs, so I should get her a partner. If I had it my way, I'd have set her free as I detest the idea of a beautiful creature like a bird imprisoned in a tiny cage. But out here in the big bad city, she probably wouldn't make it to the next street with the dark hordes of crows keeping a hungry eye out for her. And to her credit, she seems to have adjusted pretty well to her lonely existence. She only gets to see in the morning when I set off for office and then late at night when I return to put her cage inside the room. As I catch all the late-night football matches, I frequently find her hopping down from her perch for a midnight bite. And then all through the day, she has the company of her sparrow friends who are casually ignorant of my existence on weekends and holidays, even if I stroll by them. Tweety is great company on lonely days with her crazy antics like hanging upside down from the top of her cage, rock climbing around her cage with her beak and claws or doing a rapid back-and-forth dance routine on her perch bar. She is an fully independent function- pretty, cheerful and demands very little attention, but it wouldn't be unfair to say that she commands it. Succinctly put, she is my kind of girl!
Having a long standing specialization in treatment of injured birds, my aunt and my mom set about fixing Tweety up and soon enough she was chirping her heart out much to the dismay of my grumpy, disturbed early in the morning self. Night time requires her cage to be plonked inside the top floor room where I sleep and it takes only the first ray of sunshine to invade the room and she is chirping at her highest pitch and her birdy language "Put me outside! Put me outside!". Muttering in rage, it invariably turns out to be the first task I have to perform in the morning. And in contradiction to popular notions about bird-brains and their lack of cubic capacity, Tweety is a pretty smart chick. The first task that she carries out is to shake her bird-feed dish a little so that some of the seeds spill out. This ensures that she has the company of her sparrow friends who chit-chat and hop around her cage all day long.People tell me that the quintessential definition of love-birds is that they live in pairs, so I should get her a partner. If I had it my way, I'd have set her free as I detest the idea of a beautiful creature like a bird imprisoned in a tiny cage. But out here in the big bad city, she probably wouldn't make it to the next street with the dark hordes of crows keeping a hungry eye out for her. And to her credit, she seems to have adjusted pretty well to her lonely existence. She only gets to see in the morning when I set off for office and then late at night when I return to put her cage inside the room. As I catch all the late-night football matches, I frequently find her hopping down from her perch for a midnight bite. And then all through the day, she has the company of her sparrow friends who are casually ignorant of my existence on weekends and holidays, even if I stroll by them. Tweety is great company on lonely days with her crazy antics like hanging upside down from the top of her cage, rock climbing around her cage with her beak and claws or doing a rapid back-and-forth dance routine on her perch bar. She is an fully independent function- pretty, cheerful and demands very little attention, but it wouldn't be unfair to say that she commands it. Succinctly put, she is my kind of girl!
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Sachin ala re
Some people say he's a selfish player playing only for personal records and sponsorship money, some people say that he can relied upon not to perform in crunch matches and some people relish every chance to brutalize him on even the slightest dip of form. Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar may not have led his team to glorious victories worthy of his extreme talent, but that is only a poor reflection on his team rather than his personal failure. For someone to soldier through 18 years of international cricket and perform at the stratospheric levels that he has, cannot be possible without love for the game and his team. That a World Cup trophy is not among his list of honours is merely because fate is a big player in all sport whether one chooses to acknowledge it or not.
After bearing the burden of millions of hopes every time he walks out to bat for these many years it must really hurt to hear two-bit commentators or even the man on the street advice him on what to do or worse insult him for a variety of made-up reasons. Forget about his die hard fans like me but every unbiased cricket lover will have to accept that the sport will never be the same without Sachin. The diminutive but distinctive frame taking guard, and then the flash of the blade as a booming cover drive takes shape, or the solid thunk of the middle of the bat striking the ball sending it speeding ramrod straight past the bowler's despairing hands or Shane Warne's look of despair as the batsman moves away from the wicket, comes down the pitch and puts a glorious shot out into the stands. The thought of Sachin at the wicket brings into so many lives an intense happiness, a ray of delight on even everyday tasks. Every time a school kid takes guard at his local ground facing a critical ball, he is concentrating not on the name of some God in a distant heaven, but on a chant inside his mind that he knows will make him rise to the occasion. The chant which goes "Sachin..Sachin......Sachin..Sachin". And to be able to achieve that kind of devotion and awe from people around the world, is a glorious achievement that no criticism in the world can ever tarnish.
After bearing the burden of millions of hopes every time he walks out to bat for these many years it must really hurt to hear two-bit commentators or even the man on the street advice him on what to do or worse insult him for a variety of made-up reasons. Forget about his die hard fans like me but every unbiased cricket lover will have to accept that the sport will never be the same without Sachin. The diminutive but distinctive frame taking guard, and then the flash of the blade as a booming cover drive takes shape, or the solid thunk of the middle of the bat striking the ball sending it speeding ramrod straight past the bowler's despairing hands or Shane Warne's look of despair as the batsman moves away from the wicket, comes down the pitch and puts a glorious shot out into the stands. The thought of Sachin at the wicket brings into so many lives an intense happiness, a ray of delight on even everyday tasks. Every time a school kid takes guard at his local ground facing a critical ball, he is concentrating not on the name of some God in a distant heaven, but on a chant inside his mind that he knows will make him rise to the occasion. The chant which goes "Sachin..Sachin......Sachin..Sachin". And to be able to achieve that kind of devotion and awe from people around the world, is a glorious achievement that no criticism in the world can ever tarnish.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Wanderlust
There are few words in English more evocative of their meaning than the title of this write-up and then its not even English, its German! But the sheer simplicity of the word and the feeling that it captures make it my favourite word. The urge to travel comes on with such an intensity sometimes that its difficult to differentiate it from its more carnal cousin. With every picture I see of an exotic far-off place, a sharp regret stings me. And watching travel programs on every possible channel do not help matters much, only inciting what in Hindi would be called the travel-'keeda' (That's the Hindi equivalent of 'being bitten by the travel bug'). The mere sight of an open road or a packed suitcase is enough to send my mind on a joyride.
The haunting ruins of Machu-Pichu nestled in the lap of the Andes, the mysterious gigantic statues of Easter Island in the middle of nowhere in the Pacific Ocean, the majestic Pyramids of Giza rising incongruously of the desert sands, the technicoloured world of Tokyo's Electronic district, the remnants of the Parthenon atop the hill point blank in the centre of Athens, the glow of the yellow coastal town on the Mediterranean, the lone tree in the African Savannah as the golden sun sets in the background and millions of other images so frequently seen in photographs and documentaries continuously inhabit the back of my mind. And then these are only the well-known ones. So many unique adventures await those who venture out beyond the confines of their drawing room. I try to shake them off as I work on my aquamarine green CAD/CAM models on my computer screen, but am hopelessly unsuccessful! But then that's only because I don't want to. For when a thought grips your imagination so unsparingly, its a crime not to bring that thought to fruition. And I find it a very pleasant thought indeed that even if I am cursed with immortality I'll never run out of things to do! For me, even immortality would not give me time enough to satisfy this craving. After all, what's the fun in visiting Easter Island only once in a lifetime!
The haunting ruins of Machu-Pichu nestled in the lap of the Andes, the mysterious gigantic statues of Easter Island in the middle of nowhere in the Pacific Ocean, the majestic Pyramids of Giza rising incongruously of the desert sands, the technicoloured world of Tokyo's Electronic district, the remnants of the Parthenon atop the hill point blank in the centre of Athens, the glow of the yellow coastal town on the Mediterranean, the lone tree in the African Savannah as the golden sun sets in the background and millions of other images so frequently seen in photographs and documentaries continuously inhabit the back of my mind. And then these are only the well-known ones. So many unique adventures await those who venture out beyond the confines of their drawing room. I try to shake them off as I work on my aquamarine green CAD/CAM models on my computer screen, but am hopelessly unsuccessful! But then that's only because I don't want to. For when a thought grips your imagination so unsparingly, its a crime not to bring that thought to fruition. And I find it a very pleasant thought indeed that even if I am cursed with immortality I'll never run out of things to do! For me, even immortality would not give me time enough to satisfy this craving. After all, what's the fun in visiting Easter Island only once in a lifetime!
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Ho hum.. How humdrum!!
Crib! Crib! Crib! How long will this last I don't know. When I get free time on the job, I complain of how stagnating that feels and when I am overloaded its the work that is taking the juice out of my life. The sheer repetitiveness of the tasks to be performed gets me so depressed and then when I am really down in the dumps I decide again all by myself that it ain't so bad after all!
The machine you see above with all the trash that surrounds it is all it takes to earn a comfortable salary with relative ease and that should for most reasons suffice as reason for happiness. But I frequently find myself riding this Sine wave of happiness and sometimes justified-sometimes unjustified gloom. Its a complicated feeling and so impossible to express appropriately. Its only once in a couple of weeks that I find something interesting to work on and to think that I might have to continue in this vein for the rest of my life fuses my brains. And then faced by the risks and effort involved to break free, I shy away from covering any serious ground in this regard. Indecision has killed a number of dreams yet but I am praying that I don't just add to the numbers.
The machine you see above with all the trash that surrounds it is all it takes to earn a comfortable salary with relative ease and that should for most reasons suffice as reason for happiness. But I frequently find myself riding this Sine wave of happiness and sometimes justified-sometimes unjustified gloom. Its a complicated feeling and so impossible to express appropriately. Its only once in a couple of weeks that I find something interesting to work on and to think that I might have to continue in this vein for the rest of my life fuses my brains. And then faced by the risks and effort involved to break free, I shy away from covering any serious ground in this regard. Indecision has killed a number of dreams yet but I am praying that I don't just add to the numbers.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
Motomania
Its 10 p.m. on a Saturday evening and I am back at my preferred Net-surfing destination, the cramped little cyber cafe that is the best of the lot surrounding my house. Here I am writing something for my blog after nearly a month but I really know that this is rather a huge climbdown from what I really want to do right at this moment.
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You see, my house is right in the heart of Central Calcutta, known for its typical narrow cramped lanes and aging houses looming over them keeping them in permanent shadow. Also infamous for a number of things primarily extreme poverty and those universally derided menaces- the motorcycle riders. A minimum of three helmet less heads on each bike, speeding through crowded lanes with maniacal speed, jumping red lights with utter disregard, eve-teasing at the slightest oppurtunity and congregating at every street corner for a 'gang' meeting if one may call it so. Detestable specimens of the human species you would think and 99% of the time I am their most vehement critic.
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But then there are moments like this one today, when I am actually envious of them. I envy them for one, and one reason only! Its for those machines which they ride and bring so sadly into disrepute. Obviously this is not Colaba or Marine Drive in Bombay, so the bikes we are talking are not imported Kawasaki Ninjas or Suzuki Hayabusas. Just plain ol' Indian bikes-the Pulsars, the CBZs and the aged yet magnificent Yamaha RX-100s. Hate them if you want to, but when in the dead of the night, the growl of a speeding bike rips through the silence which engulfs the meandering, interior streets, it really sets my pulse racing.
-
A motorbike has always seemed so much more than a machine to me and that love is a special extension of my affection for anything with wheels even a cycle!! When astride a motorbike, especially if a powerful one, every growl of the engine, whether the mutter of impatience at low speeds or the scream of velocity when going top notch carries an intense meaning. The road is an able ally of the bike rider with every smooth bend and curve aiding the amalgamation until it is final and complete. The amalgamation of the bike and its rider such that the bike is the rider and the rider is the bike.
-
That is what I really want to do right now. To wait for the signal at Moulali crossing to turn green and slot in that first gear of my blue Pulsar 200, toe up through top gear past the Entally market. The wind blowing into me and the speedo needle rapidly turning clockwise and the yellow street lights of the broad, deserted AJC Bose Road blurring past. The engine's ecstatic howl beneath me and the rush that you get when you know that one wrong twist of the handle bar or shifting of weight is all it takes to bring a rapid end to all that joy. Its a addictive mix of concentration and freedom that can be equalled by none. With the Corporation office flying behind, then past the vast grounds of the St. James church. Then a sudden deceleration with the bike's disc brake, as the turn to the lane in which my house is located approaches. The LED brake lights glow a bright red, like a creature angry at its free run being broken.
-
Dangerous, yes! Unnecessary, absolutely! But sometimes in life, it's essential to speed up even if only for that short stint so as to bear the killing slowness of normal life. Snapping back to reality now, no, I don't own a bike yet but since I am earning my own money now, owning one is not too distant a reality. So when people ask me "Why are you planning to buy a bike when you don't have a girlfriend yet to ride behind you?", I simply flash them a look which says, "You just don't get it, do you?"...
-
[Do not be foolish enough to consider everything stated above as an incentive to speed. Drive and ride safe. Reach home. Alive. With all limbs in their respective places. Let others on the road do so too. Please.]
-
You see, my house is right in the heart of Central Calcutta, known for its typical narrow cramped lanes and aging houses looming over them keeping them in permanent shadow. Also infamous for a number of things primarily extreme poverty and those universally derided menaces- the motorcycle riders. A minimum of three helmet less heads on each bike, speeding through crowded lanes with maniacal speed, jumping red lights with utter disregard, eve-teasing at the slightest oppurtunity and congregating at every street corner for a 'gang' meeting if one may call it so. Detestable specimens of the human species you would think and 99% of the time I am their most vehement critic.
-
But then there are moments like this one today, when I am actually envious of them. I envy them for one, and one reason only! Its for those machines which they ride and bring so sadly into disrepute. Obviously this is not Colaba or Marine Drive in Bombay, so the bikes we are talking are not imported Kawasaki Ninjas or Suzuki Hayabusas. Just plain ol' Indian bikes-the Pulsars, the CBZs and the aged yet magnificent Yamaha RX-100s. Hate them if you want to, but when in the dead of the night, the growl of a speeding bike rips through the silence which engulfs the meandering, interior streets, it really sets my pulse racing.
-
A motorbike has always seemed so much more than a machine to me and that love is a special extension of my affection for anything with wheels even a cycle!! When astride a motorbike, especially if a powerful one, every growl of the engine, whether the mutter of impatience at low speeds or the scream of velocity when going top notch carries an intense meaning. The road is an able ally of the bike rider with every smooth bend and curve aiding the amalgamation until it is final and complete. The amalgamation of the bike and its rider such that the bike is the rider and the rider is the bike.
-
That is what I really want to do right now. To wait for the signal at Moulali crossing to turn green and slot in that first gear of my blue Pulsar 200, toe up through top gear past the Entally market. The wind blowing into me and the speedo needle rapidly turning clockwise and the yellow street lights of the broad, deserted AJC Bose Road blurring past. The engine's ecstatic howl beneath me and the rush that you get when you know that one wrong twist of the handle bar or shifting of weight is all it takes to bring a rapid end to all that joy. Its a addictive mix of concentration and freedom that can be equalled by none. With the Corporation office flying behind, then past the vast grounds of the St. James church. Then a sudden deceleration with the bike's disc brake, as the turn to the lane in which my house is located approaches. The LED brake lights glow a bright red, like a creature angry at its free run being broken.
-
Dangerous, yes! Unnecessary, absolutely! But sometimes in life, it's essential to speed up even if only for that short stint so as to bear the killing slowness of normal life. Snapping back to reality now, no, I don't own a bike yet but since I am earning my own money now, owning one is not too distant a reality. So when people ask me "Why are you planning to buy a bike when you don't have a girlfriend yet to ride behind you?", I simply flash them a look which says, "You just don't get it, do you?"...
-
[Do not be foolish enough to consider everything stated above as an incentive to speed. Drive and ride safe. Reach home. Alive. With all limbs in their respective places. Let others on the road do so too. Please.]
Sunday, July 1, 2007
Someplace Else
It was a Friday night and first impressions were not much to write home about, when I stepped into the tiny corner of the Park hotel, that is Someplace Else. True, it looked like a stereotypical pub, with dim lights and that haze in the air, a sure reminder of all the injuries to my health that awaited me. The music was appropriately retro, but I was expecting something grander! After all the recos that I had read and received from acquaintances, this place was in my imagination a vast cavern where rock lovers congregated to pay homage to their dear, departed gods. Seeing a little room which could hardly seat 30 odd people, I felt a little short-changed.
Since we were already there, we decided to stick around till the band showed up. It was around ten when the band started to tune their set-up and a steady stream of people poured into the pub occupying every last inch. The stereo system phased itself out and let the band take over. And as the rhythmic strums of "Have you ever seen the rain" built up, the charm of the place took hold!
Rock is an ideal breeding ground for "phoneys"( Borrowing that exquisite term from Holden Caulfield), for those long-haired, black T-eed chappies who think its cool to scream f**k every alternate word, and repeat "Rock rulez" like a mantra, but in reality would be hard pressed to tell the difference between Linkin Park and The Doors. Not to say that all similarly turned out fellas are "phoneys", but the ones that are, spoil the reputation of the others!
But here was a place that appreciated CCR as much as it jammed to the grunt of Audioslave. Where the Beatles came head-to-head with Van Halen, and walked out in peace. When Knopfler was enamoured by the charms of Avril Lavigne, and even Pink Floyd's grim reality seems to carry a positive vibe. Its the canvas where the entire palette of colours that encompass rock comes together and forms a masterpiece. The band on-stage assumes the role of a tour guide through the rock-n-roll hall of fame, and this guide is not averse to breaking into an original song or two.
As the guitars scream, and the drums thump their martial beat, everyone sings along only to have their own voice overshadowed by those who are better off doing the singing (i.e the musicians on stage) . Somehow the crowd does not matter anymore, and there is that feeling of being part of one common mass. Yet there is a powerful emotion as you connect and identify with the song at a personal level, that its just you and the music. As every carbon-copy week at the office draws to a close, there is only one place you want to be. Come as you are, come away to Someplace Else.
Since we were already there, we decided to stick around till the band showed up. It was around ten when the band started to tune their set-up and a steady stream of people poured into the pub occupying every last inch. The stereo system phased itself out and let the band take over. And as the rhythmic strums of "Have you ever seen the rain" built up, the charm of the place took hold!
Rock is an ideal breeding ground for "phoneys"( Borrowing that exquisite term from Holden Caulfield), for those long-haired, black T-eed chappies who think its cool to scream f**k every alternate word, and repeat "Rock rulez" like a mantra, but in reality would be hard pressed to tell the difference between Linkin Park and The Doors. Not to say that all similarly turned out fellas are "phoneys", but the ones that are, spoil the reputation of the others!
But here was a place that appreciated CCR as much as it jammed to the grunt of Audioslave. Where the Beatles came head-to-head with Van Halen, and walked out in peace. When Knopfler was enamoured by the charms of Avril Lavigne, and even Pink Floyd's grim reality seems to carry a positive vibe. Its the canvas where the entire palette of colours that encompass rock comes together and forms a masterpiece. The band on-stage assumes the role of a tour guide through the rock-n-roll hall of fame, and this guide is not averse to breaking into an original song or two.
As the guitars scream, and the drums thump their martial beat, everyone sings along only to have their own voice overshadowed by those who are better off doing the singing (i.e the musicians on stage) . Somehow the crowd does not matter anymore, and there is that feeling of being part of one common mass. Yet there is a powerful emotion as you connect and identify with the song at a personal level, that its just you and the music. As every carbon-copy week at the office draws to a close, there is only one place you want to be. Come as you are, come away to Someplace Else.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Kulti Capers
The whole thing was a set-up! Right from the beginning to the final boarding of the train to Howrah, the story played to a script, and a very interesting offbeat script it was. Marriages are usually occasions when the most well planned things beautifully fall apart; an invisible law guiding the smooth disintegration. The occasion in this case was Putli Didi's (My cousin sister's) marriage. But this marriage was destined not to play by the rules.
Consider first, the primary groups donning leading roles. The bridegroom's side with a group of boisterous Haryanvis, whose simple and down-to-earth nature I have comprehended almost completely, during my four year stay at good ol' REC Kurukshetra. Add to that, the bride's side (my family) of mellowed down Bengalis, plus the American friends of Jiju and Didi who looked overwhelmed enough by their first taste of India, let alone a cross-cultural marriage of epic proportions.
Then consider the setting. The "continent" of Kulti, the hometown of the bride and also the place where my father, uncles and aunts had been brought up. The steel plant where my grandfather had worked had long since shut down, succumbing to the inefficiencies that plague most state run industries. The little town sustained itself through the requirements of the people who continued to live there. It was a golden place where golden people reigned in a golden age, if you sided with my fathers' family point of view, or you could join the cynical smiles of which too there was no shortage.
9th March '07 :
My arrival at Kulti station was an achievement by itself. It involved making an all out sprint through a packed Howrah station crashing into dozens of people without having the luxury of even saying a "Sorry" to board the train just in the nick of time. From Kulti station, it was a ride in Ashim Kaka's amazingly well maintained Amby (1961 First edition!) to his beautiful, old house all spruced up for the wedding. The last time I had been to his house, I was of a negligible age and the sprawling gardens surrounding his house had my imagination working overtime with impenetrable forests and giant pythons a distinct possibility. This time around, 18 years later, the place still impressed with such a vast expanse of space. Accompanying me was Mumun who promptly joined forces with Rupli Di, building 2/3rds of the fearsome triad of "saalis" that harangue every Jija who dares step into the Roy family. The trio would assume full strength with the arrival of my sister the next day.
Overworked that I was in the office that day, and as a result of the exertions of the dash to make it to the evening train I fell asleep turning a deaf ear to the accusations of my cousins. The accusations were in the vein of "You're so lazy! You come here to work for the marriage and sleep instead." Though it is a matter of mystery to me how by chit-chatting through the night, and labeling that as work, one adds value to the marriage as my cousin sisters claimed to have done.
10th March '07:
The next day was spent in wrapping up presents for the "totto"(Gifts sent between both the parties at the marriage), and trying to get friendly with Bhuli, one of the two pet dogs of Ashim Kaka. For some inexplicable reason, she remained immune to my charms throughout the wedding. Dogs have always liked me and vice versa but this one seemed intent on barking, growling and cringing away in fear whenever I approached. But sometimes in life, you've got to accept things for what they are! So was my acceptance of Bhuli's dislike for me. My efforts at packing the gifts took their toll, and I slept through the afternoon, leading to more accusations of that "lazy" nature of mine.
Sunday, 11th March:
The pre-marriage hullabaloo reached a crescendo. High pitched voices shouting conflicting instructions, dazed looks, people tripping up on strewn luggage, kids seeking desperate ways to grab attention (like going full pelt for the stairs), hyper excited dogs, a million people tramping in and out of the house, the arrival of the bridegroom's group and similar events kept everyone involved in the wedding on their toes. The day saw the entry of almost all the invited guests, and led to a flurry of trips between the various guesthouses and the house.
On the same evening, the big ticket event of the marriage, the DJ night disguised under the traditional name of "Sangeet", apparently a staple of all Haryanvi weddings. Enter DJ Ramandeep Singh with his crew, who had to be instructed approximately 10 times on the phone for directions to reach Kaka's house. Some politically incorrect sources put his confusion down to his religion!
Well, he finally arrived and set up a great set of speakers, strobe lights and we had an awesome dance-till-you-drop session from 7 to 11, enjoyed thoroughly by both the young and the young-at-heart. The sheer energy of the visiting team on the dance floor initially stunned the home team into a corner, but by the end of the evening the home team was matching the visitors step for step. The sweat dripping off everyone by the end bore testimony to the hard work involved. Once again stretched to the limit, I popped off to the guesthouse and as usual dropped dead.
12th March, D-Day:
D-day was here, and for me it had started before it was scientifically correct to call it a day. There was a top secret pick-up to be made in the wee hours of the morning from Asansol station, and this all important task was entrusted to the usual suspects, P. K. Da and me. Bleary-eyed we turned up at Asansol station to pick up Jhumpi Di who had the time off her tight schedule at IIT Kanpur, to just make it to the wedding. The pick-up was a completely smooth job with us entering the station just at the same time as the train, and we delivered her to the guesthouse just as ordinary mortals were stirring out of their slumber. While Jhumpi Di was being swamped by a pleasantly surprised horde of relatives, I like all good heroes was hoping to fade into the background, and catch up with my old friend, Mr. Sleep. But no such luck! I eventually got up with a scowl on my face, the kind you see when you've been lying in bed, for 2 hours and haven't been allowed to sleep (A special thanks to Didi and Dada for that). The rest of the day before the marriage ceremony was like a film in fast forward with the action only slowing for some great grubbing sessions. I was in the right place at the right time to sample the delicacies of the dinner beforehand, and prepare myself accordingly. Even the sampling session ended up in something like a second lunch.
Evening saw me dressed in a 'dhooti', that garment where every step is a potential disaster story. Thankfully it stayed in the place it was supposed to and later I was lighting big firecrackers wearing that very same blessed garment backed by some newly found foolhardy courage. The bridegroom arrived in Kaka's grand old lady, the Amby, and his party kept dancing for what seemed forever before he arrived at the 'mandap'. The dhol's beat was infectious, but I had 'dhooti' considerations to keep in mind. Putli Di was then air-lifted to the 'mandap' and the usual games of who's higher- the bride or the bridegroom saw a tough fight between Haryanvi muscle and Bengali presence of mind. The matter was settled by the fact that presence of mind is of no help for lack of sheer muscle power in some cases! Though the losing side continues to claim "We let them win, 'coz eventually they had to exchange the garlands!" Hmm… Whatever!
As the ceremony continued another professional hit job was carried out and the bridegroom's shoes disappeared into thin air, with yours truly playing the major role in the heist. This operation was to yield great monetary dividends later. The marriage ceremony was completed without any major hiccups, with the purohit's all-too-frequent reference to the book of 'mantras' a cause for mild amusement and confusion. The food which followed was just too good, and even the Americans were spotted hogging away at spicy Indian food; after-effects early next morning be damned! And all this while, a 'shehnai' player, who many claimed was imprisoned on top of the 'pandal' gate with the ladder which had taken him up put away, performed his job to the best of ability. No tempatation on earth could have taken him away from his task of continuously piping out tunes whose quality was strictly debatable. Nonetheless, he deserves a special mention for his sheer dedication to the cause!
Ceremony done, the time had come for Mahesh Bhaiyaa to withstand the real trial by fire. He had to survive a night with his bride's cousins and obtain his missing shoes without any heart-attack inducing financial losses. Supported only by two of his brothers, the prospects were grim, especially for the second condition to be fulfilled. The ransom was fixed and as usual the kidnapped shoes' owner feigned a total lack of interest in them. As we waited for the inevitable to happen, we killed time by playing a strange mix of 'obscure word' Antakshari, Dumb-C and also has an impromptu Shiamak Davar dance workshop led by Mumun. Two heavyweights from the bride's side switched their allegiance to the other side (Case in point, my sis and Rupli Di). Unable to withstand the shock of this treachery and the absence of P.K Da due to his tough travel plans the next day, the bride's team was creamed well and proper in all the above mentioned contests. As the Antakshari moved from obscure words to completely weird ones, and the songs that both sides were coming up with seemed suspiciously like on-the-spot creations, there came about a general confusion as to the purpose of the night. So led from the front by the bride herself, majority of the populace fell asleep just as dawn was breaking, including the so-called 'active' people. From then on in, it was sheer 3 rd degree torture as Rupli Di assumed the role of police interrogator and Mahesh Bhaiyaa unwillingly the role of the accused. The crime: Not paying enough money for the shoes. After a superhuman struggle, the accused accepted all charges leveled against him, and looked tired enough to admit to any crime at all. End result: The kidnappers were 5K richer.
13th March-14th March, '07:
Daylight saw me more on the road between Kulti and Asansol than the home itself, as I bounced to and fro from the house to Asansol station, first to see off the bridegroom's party and Jhumpi Di in the morning, and in the evening to bid goodbye to the newly wed couple. Sleepless as I was for almost 2 days then, I would have put a zombie to shame. When we returned post the departure of Putli Di, the house was quiet again and the 'pandal' almost completely dismantled. There was this overbearing sense of completion and emptiness that follows all great events, like this marriage surely was.
Then time again for some laidback chatter and well earned sleep, and after putting mom, dad and sis on the train to Gujarat the next day, I took the train back to Calcutta. Back to a humdrum existence and the killing monotony of office life. But now I had all the memories of this incredible marriage to turn back to, which never fail to bring a smile to my face time and time again.
Consider first, the primary groups donning leading roles. The bridegroom's side with a group of boisterous Haryanvis, whose simple and down-to-earth nature I have comprehended almost completely, during my four year stay at good ol' REC Kurukshetra. Add to that, the bride's side (my family) of mellowed down Bengalis, plus the American friends of Jiju and Didi who looked overwhelmed enough by their first taste of India, let alone a cross-cultural marriage of epic proportions.
Then consider the setting. The "continent" of Kulti, the hometown of the bride and also the place where my father, uncles and aunts had been brought up. The steel plant where my grandfather had worked had long since shut down, succumbing to the inefficiencies that plague most state run industries. The little town sustained itself through the requirements of the people who continued to live there. It was a golden place where golden people reigned in a golden age, if you sided with my fathers' family point of view, or you could join the cynical smiles of which too there was no shortage.
9th March '07 :
My arrival at Kulti station was an achievement by itself. It involved making an all out sprint through a packed Howrah station crashing into dozens of people without having the luxury of even saying a "Sorry" to board the train just in the nick of time. From Kulti station, it was a ride in Ashim Kaka's amazingly well maintained Amby (1961 First edition!) to his beautiful, old house all spruced up for the wedding. The last time I had been to his house, I was of a negligible age and the sprawling gardens surrounding his house had my imagination working overtime with impenetrable forests and giant pythons a distinct possibility. This time around, 18 years later, the place still impressed with such a vast expanse of space. Accompanying me was Mumun who promptly joined forces with Rupli Di, building 2/3rds of the fearsome triad of "saalis" that harangue every Jija who dares step into the Roy family. The trio would assume full strength with the arrival of my sister the next day.
Overworked that I was in the office that day, and as a result of the exertions of the dash to make it to the evening train I fell asleep turning a deaf ear to the accusations of my cousins. The accusations were in the vein of "You're so lazy! You come here to work for the marriage and sleep instead." Though it is a matter of mystery to me how by chit-chatting through the night, and labeling that as work, one adds value to the marriage as my cousin sisters claimed to have done.
10th March '07:
The next day was spent in wrapping up presents for the "totto"(Gifts sent between both the parties at the marriage), and trying to get friendly with Bhuli, one of the two pet dogs of Ashim Kaka. For some inexplicable reason, she remained immune to my charms throughout the wedding. Dogs have always liked me and vice versa but this one seemed intent on barking, growling and cringing away in fear whenever I approached. But sometimes in life, you've got to accept things for what they are! So was my acceptance of Bhuli's dislike for me. My efforts at packing the gifts took their toll, and I slept through the afternoon, leading to more accusations of that "lazy" nature of mine.
Sunday, 11th March:
The pre-marriage hullabaloo reached a crescendo. High pitched voices shouting conflicting instructions, dazed looks, people tripping up on strewn luggage, kids seeking desperate ways to grab attention (like going full pelt for the stairs), hyper excited dogs, a million people tramping in and out of the house, the arrival of the bridegroom's group and similar events kept everyone involved in the wedding on their toes. The day saw the entry of almost all the invited guests, and led to a flurry of trips between the various guesthouses and the house.
On the same evening, the big ticket event of the marriage, the DJ night disguised under the traditional name of "Sangeet", apparently a staple of all Haryanvi weddings. Enter DJ Ramandeep Singh with his crew, who had to be instructed approximately 10 times on the phone for directions to reach Kaka's house. Some politically incorrect sources put his confusion down to his religion!
Well, he finally arrived and set up a great set of speakers, strobe lights and we had an awesome dance-till-you-drop session from 7 to 11, enjoyed thoroughly by both the young and the young-at-heart. The sheer energy of the visiting team on the dance floor initially stunned the home team into a corner, but by the end of the evening the home team was matching the visitors step for step. The sweat dripping off everyone by the end bore testimony to the hard work involved. Once again stretched to the limit, I popped off to the guesthouse and as usual dropped dead.
12th March, D-Day:
D-day was here, and for me it had started before it was scientifically correct to call it a day. There was a top secret pick-up to be made in the wee hours of the morning from Asansol station, and this all important task was entrusted to the usual suspects, P. K. Da and me. Bleary-eyed we turned up at Asansol station to pick up Jhumpi Di who had the time off her tight schedule at IIT Kanpur, to just make it to the wedding. The pick-up was a completely smooth job with us entering the station just at the same time as the train, and we delivered her to the guesthouse just as ordinary mortals were stirring out of their slumber. While Jhumpi Di was being swamped by a pleasantly surprised horde of relatives, I like all good heroes was hoping to fade into the background, and catch up with my old friend, Mr. Sleep. But no such luck! I eventually got up with a scowl on my face, the kind you see when you've been lying in bed, for 2 hours and haven't been allowed to sleep (A special thanks to Didi and Dada for that). The rest of the day before the marriage ceremony was like a film in fast forward with the action only slowing for some great grubbing sessions. I was in the right place at the right time to sample the delicacies of the dinner beforehand, and prepare myself accordingly. Even the sampling session ended up in something like a second lunch.
Evening saw me dressed in a 'dhooti', that garment where every step is a potential disaster story. Thankfully it stayed in the place it was supposed to and later I was lighting big firecrackers wearing that very same blessed garment backed by some newly found foolhardy courage. The bridegroom arrived in Kaka's grand old lady, the Amby, and his party kept dancing for what seemed forever before he arrived at the 'mandap'. The dhol's beat was infectious, but I had 'dhooti' considerations to keep in mind. Putli Di was then air-lifted to the 'mandap' and the usual games of who's higher- the bride or the bridegroom saw a tough fight between Haryanvi muscle and Bengali presence of mind. The matter was settled by the fact that presence of mind is of no help for lack of sheer muscle power in some cases! Though the losing side continues to claim "We let them win, 'coz eventually they had to exchange the garlands!" Hmm… Whatever!
As the ceremony continued another professional hit job was carried out and the bridegroom's shoes disappeared into thin air, with yours truly playing the major role in the heist. This operation was to yield great monetary dividends later. The marriage ceremony was completed without any major hiccups, with the purohit's all-too-frequent reference to the book of 'mantras' a cause for mild amusement and confusion. The food which followed was just too good, and even the Americans were spotted hogging away at spicy Indian food; after-effects early next morning be damned! And all this while, a 'shehnai' player, who many claimed was imprisoned on top of the 'pandal' gate with the ladder which had taken him up put away, performed his job to the best of ability. No tempatation on earth could have taken him away from his task of continuously piping out tunes whose quality was strictly debatable. Nonetheless, he deserves a special mention for his sheer dedication to the cause!
Ceremony done, the time had come for Mahesh Bhaiyaa to withstand the real trial by fire. He had to survive a night with his bride's cousins and obtain his missing shoes without any heart-attack inducing financial losses. Supported only by two of his brothers, the prospects were grim, especially for the second condition to be fulfilled. The ransom was fixed and as usual the kidnapped shoes' owner feigned a total lack of interest in them. As we waited for the inevitable to happen, we killed time by playing a strange mix of 'obscure word' Antakshari, Dumb-C and also has an impromptu Shiamak Davar dance workshop led by Mumun. Two heavyweights from the bride's side switched their allegiance to the other side (Case in point, my sis and Rupli Di). Unable to withstand the shock of this treachery and the absence of P.K Da due to his tough travel plans the next day, the bride's team was creamed well and proper in all the above mentioned contests. As the Antakshari moved from obscure words to completely weird ones, and the songs that both sides were coming up with seemed suspiciously like on-the-spot creations, there came about a general confusion as to the purpose of the night. So led from the front by the bride herself, majority of the populace fell asleep just as dawn was breaking, including the so-called 'active' people. From then on in, it was sheer 3 rd degree torture as Rupli Di assumed the role of police interrogator and Mahesh Bhaiyaa unwillingly the role of the accused. The crime: Not paying enough money for the shoes. After a superhuman struggle, the accused accepted all charges leveled against him, and looked tired enough to admit to any crime at all. End result: The kidnappers were 5K richer.
13th March-14th March, '07:
Daylight saw me more on the road between Kulti and Asansol than the home itself, as I bounced to and fro from the house to Asansol station, first to see off the bridegroom's party and Jhumpi Di in the morning, and in the evening to bid goodbye to the newly wed couple. Sleepless as I was for almost 2 days then, I would have put a zombie to shame. When we returned post the departure of Putli Di, the house was quiet again and the 'pandal' almost completely dismantled. There was this overbearing sense of completion and emptiness that follows all great events, like this marriage surely was.
Then time again for some laidback chatter and well earned sleep, and after putting mom, dad and sis on the train to Gujarat the next day, I took the train back to Calcutta. Back to a humdrum existence and the killing monotony of office life. But now I had all the memories of this incredible marriage to turn back to, which never fail to bring a smile to my face time and time again.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Guilty pleasures
12th February, 2007
Much as I hate getting nostalgic about childhood like a doddering 80 year old, there are times when I just can't resist it. Today was just such a day, a day which wouldn't have been out of sync with my life 12 years ago. I bunked office today on a very flimsy premise of being slightly ill, and as if "rest" as prescribed by the doctor was the only thing that stood between me and death due to common cold.
Cycle back in time to a point when I am still in primary school and huddled under a mountain of blankets on a bright winter morning. It's Monday, as blue a time for me then, as it remains today. The exertions of a hectic weekend spent in video-gaming, terrace cricket and lots of purposeless running around had taken the mildest of tolls in the form of a lukewarm forehead. I complain in the most innocent, pure-as-driven-snow kind of voice that I am not feeling too well, and that's enough for Mom's piety to spill over. One or two quiet admonitions by Dad, on how one should take care of one's health, and how going to school is so very important later, the matter is settled. There was never any doubt over who was going to win in this emotional see-saw battle. The court always ruled in favour of "He's so ill. How can he go to school" side of things.
Covering myself with the blankets, I smile the most secret of happy smiles, one which no one would ever witness. All this while, I sense my sister's eyes drilling through the blanket, seeing through my sham, as she grudgingly got ready for school. Nowadays when I read articles about how kids are becoming more and more manipulative, I laugh! Tell me about it, you would be hard pressed to find a kid half as scheming as me!
Mom and sis off to school, while Dad leaves for office at 9'o'clock. So what does the sick boy do? He's off his bed in a flash like a wound-up spring, dividing his time between those rarely watched weekday morning cartoons and that video game monster that was crying to be vanquished. Come afternoon, and it's back into bed at about 1'o'clock, 'coz its time for Mom to return, and an appropriately saintly look on my face. In the evening, amidst a storm of protests and rebukes, I pop out of the house cricket bat on my shoulders, grinning in glee. The scam now stands exposed for all to see, but the bird has flown the coop!
Much as I hate getting nostalgic about childhood like a doddering 80 year old, there are times when I just can't resist it. Today was just such a day, a day which wouldn't have been out of sync with my life 12 years ago. I bunked office today on a very flimsy premise of being slightly ill, and as if "rest" as prescribed by the doctor was the only thing that stood between me and death due to common cold.
Cycle back in time to a point when I am still in primary school and huddled under a mountain of blankets on a bright winter morning. It's Monday, as blue a time for me then, as it remains today. The exertions of a hectic weekend spent in video-gaming, terrace cricket and lots of purposeless running around had taken the mildest of tolls in the form of a lukewarm forehead. I complain in the most innocent, pure-as-driven-snow kind of voice that I am not feeling too well, and that's enough for Mom's piety to spill over. One or two quiet admonitions by Dad, on how one should take care of one's health, and how going to school is so very important later, the matter is settled. There was never any doubt over who was going to win in this emotional see-saw battle. The court always ruled in favour of "He's so ill. How can he go to school" side of things.
Covering myself with the blankets, I smile the most secret of happy smiles, one which no one would ever witness. All this while, I sense my sister's eyes drilling through the blanket, seeing through my sham, as she grudgingly got ready for school. Nowadays when I read articles about how kids are becoming more and more manipulative, I laugh! Tell me about it, you would be hard pressed to find a kid half as scheming as me!
Mom and sis off to school, while Dad leaves for office at 9'o'clock. So what does the sick boy do? He's off his bed in a flash like a wound-up spring, dividing his time between those rarely watched weekday morning cartoons and that video game monster that was crying to be vanquished. Come afternoon, and it's back into bed at about 1'o'clock, 'coz its time for Mom to return, and an appropriately saintly look on my face. In the evening, amidst a storm of protests and rebukes, I pop out of the house cricket bat on my shoulders, grinning in glee. The scam now stands exposed for all to see, but the bird has flown the coop!
The wind of yesteryears
It was the evening of the 25th of May. Engineering was all over but for a little slip of paper in our folders which would say "B. Tech, NIT Kurukshetra". Four years of mismanagement and brutish survival coming to a much awaited end. The hostel was nearly empty as most of my friends left behind their eventful RECK life with hardly a backward glance. I, assuming my usual place amongst the stragglers chose to extend my stay a day longer than my friends had chosen to.
As I sat enjoying my final evening at the "khokha" pondering over a cup of tea, out of the blue, there awoke a powerful wind. The sky darkened with approaching clouds, as they were dragged along by the persistent wind. The dust twirled along with the wind, as though it was drawn to its mournful wail. Walking back to the hostel, I could feel the wind exert itself as it rushed along to get to who knows where. The handful of people who were still in the hostel were all out on the grounds or in their verandahs, responding to some unspoken agreement. They laughed and talked aloud, but only to hide their anxiety for the bitter-sweet bits of their lives that the wind was sweeping away.
The wind howled and slammed its way through the now empty corridors, knocking on the occasional unfastened window. For sure in a couple of months, a new batch would move into the hostel and there would be life once more in that quiet place. But not the same persons that I had spent such precious moments with over the past 4 years, not the same jokes that we had laughed to and not the same fears that we had faced in moments of adversity. The sum of hostel life will probably never change, but the substance surely will, with every new batch. The comfortable pillow of familiarity that the hostel had provided us with was being ripped in to shreds.
The wind was intent on its purpose. Puff out the old, ring in the new! Abandoned posters, neglected clothes, forgotten photographs, all rustled along in a rush to get out of the way, as the circle of our lives turned yet another revolution.
Third time lucky maybe??
"We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars"
- Oscar Wilde
As far realist quotes go, it's quite difficult to beat this one with its wistful mix of both optimism and pessimism, also none more appropriate for my state of mind right now.
This happens to be my third attempt at starting a regular blog, and I sincerely hope that it does not meet a premature demise like its predecessors. Friends and strangers who may lose their way here, please bear with me. Writing has always been a passion with me, especially during periods like the four year incarceration at REC Kurukshetra, but never an activity which shakes out of the deep-rooted laziness that inhabits me. I'll try to be as regular with posts as I am genetically pre-disposed to be( Sorry for that one, Dad! Must be some mutant genes :) ), and you can hope to see a post a week!
What will I write about? Even I am not too sure. It may be some sappy nostalgic tale out of my childhood or a RECK misadventure, it may be a rant against the sheer monotony of a 9 to 5 job, a travel tale, a story of my menagerie of pets over the years or it may just be an abstract piece about how the rain pitter-pattering outside makes me feel!
This blog is my shrink, my clinic where I cut out out of the straitjacket of an office job, out of the reach of those engineering models, drafts and tolerances that keep me swamped 5 days a week! The metaphorical run through the fields, out to a spectacular view of the sea from a high cliff, with the surf breaking below and the wind in my face.
And as for writers who say that they write only for themselves, well, I ain't one of them. Hope that there will be regular visitors to my blog, and give me the ego-massage :) that'll keep me writing! Comments are what blogs are all about. Criticisms are welcome, even though I don't take to them too kindly and that is why I need them even more. Anger is something that might stir me out of my stupor. Virtual In'k'sanity, the online edition of my rambling thoughts is now in business!
- Oscar Wilde
As far realist quotes go, it's quite difficult to beat this one with its wistful mix of both optimism and pessimism, also none more appropriate for my state of mind right now.
This happens to be my third attempt at starting a regular blog, and I sincerely hope that it does not meet a premature demise like its predecessors. Friends and strangers who may lose their way here, please bear with me. Writing has always been a passion with me, especially during periods like the four year incarceration at REC Kurukshetra, but never an activity which shakes out of the deep-rooted laziness that inhabits me. I'll try to be as regular with posts as I am genetically pre-disposed to be( Sorry for that one, Dad! Must be some mutant genes :) ), and you can hope to see a post a week!
What will I write about? Even I am not too sure. It may be some sappy nostalgic tale out of my childhood or a RECK misadventure, it may be a rant against the sheer monotony of a 9 to 5 job, a travel tale, a story of my menagerie of pets over the years or it may just be an abstract piece about how the rain pitter-pattering outside makes me feel!
This blog is my shrink, my clinic where I cut out out of the straitjacket of an office job, out of the reach of those engineering models, drafts and tolerances that keep me swamped 5 days a week! The metaphorical run through the fields, out to a spectacular view of the sea from a high cliff, with the surf breaking below and the wind in my face.
And as for writers who say that they write only for themselves, well, I ain't one of them. Hope that there will be regular visitors to my blog, and give me the ego-massage :) that'll keep me writing! Comments are what blogs are all about. Criticisms are welcome, even though I don't take to them too kindly and that is why I need them even more. Anger is something that might stir me out of my stupor. Virtual In'k'sanity, the online edition of my rambling thoughts is now in business!
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