GOOOAAAAAALLLLLLL!!!!

Sporting talent is something which I was never really blessed with but I tried to make it up by sheer enthusiasm, something like filling up the Mariana Trench with a bucket of water. And then there were those magic moments that happened once in a quarter century which provided me with false inspiration to persist with a particular sport, no matter what common sense and sheer respect for my dignity dictated!

It was a hot summer day and class was out for the "Games" period, a period much longed for through the week, a mid-week breath of fresh air from classroom imprisonment. With the FIFA World Cup fever in the air, football was the flavour of the day, pushing cricket to the background for a change. As with any organized sport played by a disorderly mass, this game was related to football only in the way that there was a soccer ball involved somewhere in the melee that was in progress at the middle of the field. There was a whole lot of 'foot' involved with kicked shins, bruised knees and sore hips, but the 'ball' part of the game emerged only for those rare few seconds into the open before the merry amalgamation of defence, offence and mid-field of both sides swallowed it up again. Which side of the field was ours and which theirs was a secondary concern, not half as important as getting that foot to the ball pushing aside all that interrupted.

As is evident when Pele's jogo bonito (beautiful game) became a joust for dominance, it was sheer hard work under the unforgiving sun. Sweat was now officially the 23rd player on the ground. And then at the most opportune moment, some one showed up at the ground gates with a bottle of water! All enmity and rivalry for that much-desired sphere suffocating under our feet was forgotten. It was an out and out race for the life providing liquid, the players were off for it like a storm. This was where I saw my opportunity. All this while, when the world was coming to an end over a mere ball, a few people were taking it easy. The two goalkeepers and the portly lazy bum of a defender (in the opposing side, of course) Vipul. Now the field was empty and all that stood between me and eternal glory were the opposing goalkeeper Sidharth and the aforementioned Vipul!

I am sure there must have been that proverbial glint in my eyes as I waltzed past Vipul who was thankfully blessed with the reflexes of King Kong in extreme slow motion. Sidharth was a good goalkeeper in all fairness to him but the long period of inactivity during the entire game had left him a little blunt. I footed the ball past him in a flash right into the corner of the goal and closed my eyes, arms upraised in silent acknowledgment of the cheering masses. A few moments later, I realized that the silent acknowledgment was to a silent crowd too. The period was not over yet but our sports teacher had blown the whistle and my fellow players were trooping back up to the classroom. And here I was reveling in the glow of my achievement with no one to witness it! Now you know why India never makes it to the World Cup... The real talent is never appreciated ;) Back to classes and life went on, but I'll always remember my first strike as clearly as if it were yesterday whether any one else chooses to commemorate it or not!

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.

Bliss

With every copy of Windows XP, there comes a standard wallpaper titled "Bliss". It shows a rolling, undulating green meadow, topped off with a picture perfect blue sky. Just one more expression of that indescribable feeling of contentment and peace. The very word carries with it a mysterious aura of calm. Bliss may be fleeting, in fact too short to get a proper taste of it, but it is there in everyone's life like an unseen phantom granting us an unexpected glimpse yet almost an illusion.

Bliss is the faraway strains of Floyd's "High Hopes" in the dead of a quiet and starry night. Bliss is the cool breeze that rustles through the grass on a sunny March afternoon. Bliss is the instant when the examiner takes the answer sheet of that "dangerous" subject and a voice inside your head tells you that you have passed. Bliss is when on a winter morning you glance with bleary eyes at the clock, and see that there's still half an hour of sleep to be had. Bliss is when a power-cut actually makes you notice the silver moonlight bathing the hostel grounds. Bliss is that final page of that great book that you have been reading, settling into your mind forever. Bliss is the final catch of India's match that has the common room jumping up and down, screaming in a chorus of joy. Bliss is the smell of mom's cooking as you drop your back-pack in the living room.

Life is indeed beautiful on God's earth, and these drops alone in the ocean of time are reward enough for a lifetime.

Paper-powered dreams

The school year was over, and primary school almost over too, but we couldn't care less. Jigar and I, two introverts of the extreme kind were working away on our yearly ritual. The dozen odd notebooks which had faithfully served their purpose through the year were now the target of undeserved sadistic destruction.

As page after page was ripped out and transformed into the latest flying contraption, our eyes were fixed on the horizon, more precisely the mosque far across the ground behind Jigar's building. It represented the farthest landmark that our eyes could see as only smoking brick kilns and the Narmada lay beyond.

Standing on the terrace of the building, all we ever wanted was this invention to fly "where no paper plane had ever flown before". As darkness fell, both of us were deeply engrossed in thought as to how to make that special fold in the paper, so as to design that "wonder plane". 

Not that it made too big a difference! Eventually it always came down to the cool evening breeze blowing down from the vast expanse of the Narmada, which was a benevolent spectator to our antics. A stormy day or a charitable gust of wind from the Narmada were the crucial factors in any record setting attempts. The "world" record stood when a plane of mine made an astonishing voyage and struck the top of the palm tree situated at the far end of the ground.

The days of manufacturing air-forces of our own were brought to an abrupt end, when a particularly strict neighbour took us to task for "dis-respecting knowledge" for trivial pursuits like paper planes. Now as Jigar is through computer engineering and me through mechanical engineering (Not that I can exactly explain how and why my planes flew like they did!), I still wonder at times where that pioneer plane would have flown, if it hadn't been for that darned palm tree.

Never really got a chance to stretch the limits after that, because within the blink of an eye, all that I was concerned with were big words like "marks", "careers", "crushes" etc. Old notebooks were strictly for the 'kabadiwallah' for some extra pocket money.

[http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.in/2007/06/paper-powered-dreams.html]

The goodbye game

What is it with goodbyes? Why is that when one bids farewell to a great friend or a beloved place, that it is never ideal? Why should it always be hurried, as you struggle for the right words and expressions to share your feelings? Before you realize it, that place or person is a distant speck, and the feeling of loss all the more powerful. Language seems to be such an inept tool then. A million memories flash through your mind like fireflies in the night, and you just cannot do justice to them all. Talking about them and reliving them all seems too superficial and overly sentimental a thing to do. The end result is a kind of embarrassing silence, when you know that there is too much to say and too much to be thankful for. Closest friends for years, but now parting ways, only to meet if ever fate plays a kind hand. But it so happens, that both parties settle for a quick hug, and an insignificant "All the best", and from then on an interminable wait for the journey to begin.

Embers of a Revolution

On my way back to Calcutta after a gap of nearly 7 years, I boarded the Jagannath Express at Bhubaneshwar station. Packed to the point of spilling over, the last minute nature of my travel plans had condemned to the usual crush of a General compartment. Amidst all the hullabaloo, a white dhoti-kurta clad Jat farmer lay sprawled along the length of the upper berth. Entreaties and threats from his co-passengers fell to deaf ears as he refused to budge from his luxurious horizontal position.

A woman, maybe 50 odd years of age, shabbily clad, someone who wouldn't look out of place amongst labourers in a construction site, stood up. She went up to the sleeping fellow and uttered in pure Bengali "This is a General compartment meant for the common man. No one, absolutely no one will occupy more space than he REQUIRES!" Though I doubt that the farmer understood a single word of what she said, the intent was clear, and the result immediate! He sat bolt upright and quietly shrank into the corner of the berth, hemmed in by the mocking smiles of his co-passengers.

Maybe this lady's belief in a doomed ideology hadn't brought her any benefit. She probably lives in the same squalor and poverty as she did when "privileged" people ran the government in her state 30 years ago. She still travels in the same completely uncomfortable coach as before, and faces a monumental struggle to get two square meals a day. But her faith in the dream was what was shining in her eyes that day.

The same horribly impractical dream that personal happiness rests in common happiness. That a man would not desire anything more than what his fellow men could afford. That equality would be the order of the day- rich and poor, powerful and weak, exploiters and exploited- all such words archaic forms in the dictionary.

And how appropriate it was that she was traveling to a city defiant on its deathbed, challenging the vultures of politics and sloth which encircle it ever so slowly, high in the sky. A city that sustains itself on lofty, philosophical hopes, and prizes idealism amidst penury.

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.