So, the elder sibling left for XLRI, Jamshedpur today. First time that all four of us in the family will be based out of different cities. Feels strange as I witness the long-lost childhood blurring into a tinier speck on the horizon.
Showing posts with label kolkata. Show all posts
Showing posts with label kolkata. Show all posts
June 24, 2014
December 22, 2013
For the Love of Delhi
When I returned to Delhi in June of this year, I had old memories of the city coloring my vision, just as much as the anticipation of a new life. It took me a little bit of convincing myself to learn to be objective about the city, and not let my past seep into my present or (what was going to be) the future, in any way, positive or negative. I was, after all, making a much required escape from my home town, after feelings of claustrophobia and an over familiar terrain, along with sudden estrangement from a majority of people I had held dear, had begun to take over my being, after six years in the city. I needed out, and I was getting a way out, and I needed to make the best out of it.
Cities are like people. They greet and interact with different people differently, leading to a variety of opinions being formed about them by outsiders. Some are more universally loved, like New York, others are more frequently dissed, like New Delhi. Speaking of New Delhi, most outsiders complain of the unfriendliness, primarily. They say that the men are boastful, obnoxious and lustful, and the women are loud and snobbish. The dominant popular opinion is that the city is unsafe, it is dishonest, arrogant and non-inclusive. They speak of the ridiculous amount of power held by some, who could go around making everybody else's life a living hell. Even with a nod acknowledging that some of those things are certainly true, to an extent, I say, one needs to look beyond the obvious, and acknowledge the ways in which the city is worth celebrating.
Delhi, to me, is a beautiful city. The roads are wide and clean(er than the rest of the Indian cities). There is no offence to the olfactory senses like what one has to suffer in Kolkata or Mumbai. The roads, at least in South Delhi, are clean, and the metro, is almost sparkling(despite the commuter-load). There is almost as much beauty in the chaos of the North, as the order in the South, with the resplendent lanes of Chandni Chowk, and the maddening chatter of KamlaNagar. Also, the people of Delhi look splendidly beautiful. It is not just the tall, fair version of Punjabi beauty one would normally associate with the city I speak about though. Sure, the dazzling dames and the bewitching boys are a treat to the senses, but strangely enough, even the average auto-rickshaw driver or the old man travelling in the metro- they all look beautiful, going about their life, with indomitable energy and spirit- something that Delhi seems to infuse into everyone.
Again, how can you ignore the contradictory charm the city possesses? The city is as new as the pomp and parties of Sainik Farms and the extravagance of DLF Emporio, as it is rooted and timeless in the magnificence of the Qutab Minar, or the endless lushness of Lodhi Gardens. It is as much grandeur as the bungalows of Vasant Vihar as the comfort in the close-knit community-lives of Janakpuri. There is as much power concentrated around Lutyens' Delhi, as there is hopelessness and discontent at Savda Ghevra.
The Delhi I once knew was the city of someone very close to me. The city I know today, is the city that is mine. Yes, I am an outsider, as I have been to every city I have ever been in, but if I feel at home anywhere apart from around Ballygunge in Calcutta, it is in Delhi. Not even for a day after returning did I feel even slightly out-of-place, it was almost like I was assimilated right in. From the upbeat euphoria at Safdarjung Enclave to the eventual quiet seclusion at Vasant Kunj, the city made me fall in love, over and over again.
For me Delhi has been therapeutic. It has been the auto journeys to and from college, where I see the city pass by, bustling, and indifferent to my existence - making me feel secure in being a stranger to everyone around me - the kind of security that typifies every individual, who like me, is perpetually on the run. However, the people I got to know in college, at the same time, make me feel as much at home, as a stable, sane, secure individual appreciates feeling- therein exemplifying another contraction.
Delhi for me has been the evenings at SDA Market, the lunches at JNU, the Diwali at Lajpat Nagar, the Metro rides to and from Connaught Place, the maddening crowd of Rajiv Chowk, the evening walks at Barakhamba Road, the getting drunk at Hauz Khas Village and the getting stoned at Gurgaon(not really Delhi, but you get the gist). It has been the best friend suggesting Al Bake shawarmas, it has been Aunty momos at Amar Colony with somebody very close to my heart, it has been North Campus and Mezban with the little pixie, and the evening coffees with Karol-Bagh-ki-Auntyji. It has been two jokers from Noida- one exasperating, and one entertaining, one girl who loves Emraan Hashmi too much, one unclejee from Bangalore, one girl who advised me to stop running from my past, a South Delhi bimbo, a theatre actor, a girl with who face-to-face Hi's were too mainstream, a perpetual-tourist, this Himachali who became my husband, among many, many others. I have met people from Bombay, and Lucknow, and Dubai, and Pune - representing some of the regions that influence the culture of the city- a condensation of people from all over India. In that, Delhi is to India what the USA is to the World- a colony of outsiders, with a culture formed out of links to everywhere. Delhi to me is as much the Banoffee Pies and Mississippi mudpies at the Big Chill Cafe, as the evening chai at the National Institute of Immunology, or the cheap Chinese from Hawker's at Vasant Kunj. It is as much the photography walks at Hauz Khas as the food hunting at Sarojini Nagar. It is as much the heat of June as the chill of December ,as much the Luchi Mangsho at Chittaranjan Park, as the Malleshwaram Cross Dosa at Carnatic Cafe, as much the Diwali lights at Khan Market as the creepy darkness at Lado Sarai... and I could go on and on.
It is December, it is winter - my favorite time of the year. The city is deliciously cold, and there is a poignant fog that looms over the city in the mornings. The nights are noticeably colder, and sometimes, here in Vasant Kunj, it becomes a little difficult to even venture outside of the room with just one sweater on. There is absolute joy in basking in the winter sun on the terrace, and even in lying all cosy and comfortable, underneath the blankets, cuddling up with oneself.
With a possible move to Pune on the cards, I do not know how much longer I have in this city, or how frequently I shall get to visit, either. Delhi has given me too much to treasure, too much to love, and too many fond memories to look back at. It has been integrated into my system- an even more indelible part than before. I am departing for a while, tomorrow, with a heavy heart. But, I shall be back. I do not know exactly when, but I know, it shall be soon. And no matter where I go, this city, with all its lights, and scenery, and people, and color, and love and madness, shall travel with me, a fragment of my mind, a faction of my soul, a follicle of my heart.
So, before you judge Delhi, or hate it without having been introduced to the place properly, based on what everyone says, give the city a chance. Rapes and scams might keep happening here, but from what I have seen, love and longing for more happens more often.
July 16, 2012
Of Farewells and Monkemons
Well, it is nothing new for me, really. Change town, change school, change friends, change everything. And just when the new structure stabilizes forming a roof above my head, the bricks near the base are pulled out only to have me witness the complete crumbling and falling apart of that which had begun to feel like home to me. Move on, this chapter is over, find a new home, write a new chapter, life goes on.
This is the end of another chapter. Once again, it is all too difficult to give up, and even the thought in itself is haunting. Everything is happening at such a pace, that the inevitability of all these changes and the irreversibility of the consequences is hardly sinking in now. The support system around me has begun to give way, brick by brick, and I must prepare myself for yet another fall.
You guys know for me you guys exist in every little by-lane, every dingy nukkad, every shopping mall, every movie theatre, every restaurant, every festival, every experience in this city. And to survive the city, without you all, is going to be *some* task.
I don't know how to round this off. You all know who you are. I am selfish. And I'm not willing to let go. I will miss you all. :(
May 23, 2011
The Hundredth. 7/Z/5.
This very nook, the one where I am sitting right now, was where I was when Dadu had charged at us with a wooden chair, holding it up with his two hands, under one particularly violent fit of Alzheimer’s-induced rage. Tebu was six months old then. I was all of seven years, and Buiya nine. Trembling out of fear, we had all rushed out of the room, Tebu carried by the domestic help, and out into the gully. Dadu had, after calming us, signaled us to come in, but had ordered that Mana, the domestic help, whose forcing medicines upon him had caused him to get enraged, stay out.
Dadu died a year and a half back, after suffering from the Alzheimer’s disease for almost one and a half decades. Tebu has learnt and un-learnt Canadian English and is almost in high school, and has a nine year old brother himself. Buiya is almost done with a Masters degree in English, and I’m in sophomore year of College, desperately trying to figure out the intricate nuances of Economics. The Powerpuff-Girls poster has been scrapped off the wall behind me, and the editions of ‘Desh’ and ‘Anandalok’ stacked up on the racks are there no more. But after almost twelve years and many cities, apartments, schools and life-altering experiences today, we’re permanent residents of 7/Z/5, Picnic Garden First Lane, again.
How much do renovations change, really? The set-up within each room has received drastic make-overs, but each corner is still painted with indelible memories. This,and 5-Ballygunge Place were the two homes I spent my earliest years in. The place I came home to right after I was born, the place where I learnt to stand up, to talk and walk, the endless humid-summer evenings spent on the ‘chhad’, the Tents-and-Adventures games with Tebu, Mongolamashi coming to work every morning, and engaging in squabbles with Thammu, Protima bringing us small-little souvenir toys from the fairs, the ‘mela’ near their slum, , Lebu’s birth, countless family gatherings. Within the walls of this home, my years of growing up have been kept preserved carefully.
Of course, once we moved out of Calcutta, and got acquainted with other towns and their people, the strings connecting me to this place began to grow weak. Sure, there still would be the coming-back-and-spending-the-vacations here, but that too got divided between here and Jodhpur Park, Lav-Kush, Abhyudoy, Salt Lake and all those other places. Eventually, there would be entire vacations when I’d not visit here even once. The walls lost their glow, the plasters and wall-papers were eroding away, the rooms got messier, and Dadu and Thammu older. The Nidharias moved to their own home, and then to Canada. Dadu got increasingly immobile, and soon, I had no reason to spend my time here any more.
After Dadu and Thammu had moved to Salt Lake, and Dadu’s demise in 2009, 7/Z/5 was left nothing more than a lot of rooms and old rickety ‘bonedi’ furniture covered with dust. Hence, not without reason, after its having housed us for twenty two years, Baba decided to sell it off, earlier this year.
The very next month I fell fifty feet, from a window of the Rajarhat apartment. I survived, but was ‘scarred’ enough to reject any ideas of going back to the fourth floor apartment where we were staying, or the one where we were to move to. Ergo, an entire make-over for 7/Z/5, and moving back here. Life has strange ways of mocking us and our plans sometimes. Today, I’m learning to walk all over again, in the same house where I learned to walk first, twenty years ago. Very few things have stayed the same. The ‘aangan’ behind the house is where it was, though it looks so much smaller today. The name-plate on the front door still bears the name of the 5 original-Goswamis. The Maxim-Gorky and Kafka novels still lay stacked in the drawing-room book-rack. But the single-houses lining the lane then, have given way to apartment-blocks today. Today, Shilpa Shetty no longer gyrates to “Jawaani Ka Alam” on television. Today, tears do not start flowing over one missed episode of Scooby-Doo. Today, the cabinet housing all of the ‘Shuktara’ and the ‘Sandesh’ issues, or the ‘Sinhasan’ with the idols and ‘nokul-danas’ are there no more. Today, I’m no longer convinced about the prospect of the existence of a fantasy-world infested by perilous ghostly-lions (all of it cooked up by my sister), just beyond the guava tree behind the ‘aangan’. Today, the guava-tree itself doesn’t exist. All that exist are fading memories of events of Not-So-Long-Ago, the rooms exactly where they were, and midnight-musings such as these.
Dadu died a year and a half back, after suffering from the Alzheimer’s disease for almost one and a half decades. Tebu has learnt and un-learnt Canadian English and is almost in high school, and has a nine year old brother himself. Buiya is almost done with a Masters degree in English, and I’m in sophomore year of College, desperately trying to figure out the intricate nuances of Economics. The Powerpuff-Girls poster has been scrapped off the wall behind me, and the editions of ‘Desh’ and ‘Anandalok’ stacked up on the racks are there no more. But after almost twelve years and many cities, apartments, schools and life-altering experiences today, we’re permanent residents of 7/Z/5, Picnic Garden First Lane, again.
How much do renovations change, really? The set-up within each room has received drastic make-overs, but each corner is still painted with indelible memories. This,and 5-Ballygunge Place were the two homes I spent my earliest years in. The place I came home to right after I was born, the place where I learnt to stand up, to talk and walk, the endless humid-summer evenings spent on the ‘chhad’, the Tents-and-Adventures games with Tebu, Mongolamashi coming to work every morning, and engaging in squabbles with Thammu, Protima bringing us small-little souvenir toys from the fairs, the ‘mela’ near their slum, , Lebu’s birth, countless family gatherings. Within the walls of this home, my years of growing up have been kept preserved carefully.Of course, once we moved out of Calcutta, and got acquainted with other towns and their people, the strings connecting me to this place began to grow weak. Sure, there still would be the coming-back-and-spending-the-vacations here, but that too got divided between here and Jodhpur Park, Lav-Kush, Abhyudoy, Salt Lake and all those other places. Eventually, there would be entire vacations when I’d not visit here even once. The walls lost their glow, the plasters and wall-papers were eroding away, the rooms got messier, and Dadu and Thammu older. The Nidharias moved to their own home, and then to Canada. Dadu got increasingly immobile, and soon, I had no reason to spend my time here any more.
After Dadu and Thammu had moved to Salt Lake, and Dadu’s demise in 2009, 7/Z/5 was left nothing more than a lot of rooms and old rickety ‘bonedi’ furniture covered with dust. Hence, not without reason, after its having housed us for twenty two years, Baba decided to sell it off, earlier this year.
The very next month I fell fifty feet, from a window of the Rajarhat apartment. I survived, but was ‘scarred’ enough to reject any ideas of going back to the fourth floor apartment where we were staying, or the one where we were to move to. Ergo, an entire make-over for 7/Z/5, and moving back here. Life has strange ways of mocking us and our plans sometimes. Today, I’m learning to walk all over again, in the same house where I learned to walk first, twenty years ago. Very few things have stayed the same. The ‘aangan’ behind the house is where it was, though it looks so much smaller today. The name-plate on the front door still bears the name of the 5 original-Goswamis. The Maxim-Gorky and Kafka novels still lay stacked in the drawing-room book-rack. But the single-houses lining the lane then, have given way to apartment-blocks today. Today, Shilpa Shetty no longer gyrates to “Jawaani Ka Alam” on television. Today, tears do not start flowing over one missed episode of Scooby-Doo. Today, the cabinet housing all of the ‘Shuktara’ and the ‘Sandesh’ issues, or the ‘Sinhasan’ with the idols and ‘nokul-danas’ are there no more. Today, I’m no longer convinced about the prospect of the existence of a fantasy-world infested by perilous ghostly-lions (all of it cooked up by my sister), just beyond the guava tree behind the ‘aangan’. Today, the guava-tree itself doesn’t exist. All that exist are fading memories of events of Not-So-Long-Ago, the rooms exactly where they were, and midnight-musings such as these.
February 12, 2011
Ujaan- Festival for the Sunderbans
Bengal's lost out on being parent to the national capital city. She's lost Bose, Dada as the cricket team 'kuptaan' and Ray and Ghatak. One glorious thing about her that remains as lustrous is her identity in the name of the Royal Bengal tiger(Panthera tigris tigris).
Home to this species is the largest mangrove forest in the world-The Sundarbans. The forest lies in the vast delta on the Bay of Bengal formed by the super confluence of the Ganges, Brahmaputra and Meghna rivers, and is a home to huge reserves of biodiversity, and is also recognized as a UNESCO WORLD HERITAGE SITE.
However, as is known to most of us environmentally aware citizens, the Sunderbans is under irrevocable peril due to the rise in global sea levels.'Ujaan- Festival for the Sunderbans' is an attempt by some concerned urban young adults to raise awareness for the conservation of this extremely sensitive geographical region.
Date: 11th- 13th March, 2011
Venue: Frazergunj-Bakkhali, West Bengal
Be there, Sons and Daughters...
May 28, 2010
Epiphany, another.
The fact that I wanted to get out of Calcutta for undergrad-college had probably more to do with the fear of getting too attached to Calcutta than with my being ambitious. Surely, it was a lot of the latter, but in all probability, now that I think of it, a bit more of the former.
And I can see now that it will happen again. After two years, when I shall leave this city for good, I shall have to suffer another heartbreak, another 2007-esque disaster.
I have cleaved in too well in this city probably. Deny korar cheshta kora ta aar ucheet noy...
And I can see now that it will happen again. After two years, when I shall leave this city for good, I shall have to suffer another heartbreak, another 2007-esque disaster.
I have cleaved in too well in this city probably. Deny korar cheshta kora ta aar ucheet noy...
January 23, 2010
November and December 2009, and January 2010
To start with, my sister just knocked on my door asking me to leave the door open. Flustered by the prospect of a sudden, random intrusion into my privacy, I asked her the reason behind the demand/request. She said, she was feeling scared in the other room, alone. It’s 2 in the morning, and my twenty-one year old sister with a chin piercing and death-metal inclinations is feeling scared of being alone in a room.
Of late, I’ve been going out quite a lot. Birthdays, festivals, random socializing occasions, movie-marathons, I’m doing them all. Well, studies was supposed to attain ultra-importance right from the beginning of 2010, but that, I guess, is not happening soon. So, on one hand I’ve been keeping the company of culturally-inclined Bangali kids, the ones who love World-Cinema, and indie music, folk-rock and Bob Dylan, the ones who understand theatre and can perform an autopsy of Orhan Pamuk or Franz Kafka’s style and body of work, and get high on marijuana under the moonlight, while on the other, I’m finding myself around Marwari and Gujarati kids, in little black dresses, and expensive black shirts, ones that ‘chiggy-wiggy’ to Hindi music at ‘raat ke dhaai baje’ and drive around the city in expensive and huge cars, and choose to watch ‘Chance Pe Dance’ over ‘A Christmas Carol’ and garnish their vocabulary with ‘like’ and ‘yaaa’…
I mean no offence to anyone though. I’ve grown up with lots of different kinds of people around me, and so, these little limitations of both clans never bother me much. I derive the best of both(or more) worlds.
At the birthday party I hosted along with Aritri and Nisha, at my uninhabited Rajarhat apartment, a lot of spilling happened. I was scared about the walls, but thankfully, the freshly painted ones didn’t get too badly stained, and I didn’t really un-build the ones I construct for my own privacy. What was extremely strange was, seven-and-a-half(one of them- a ‘patiala’) pegs of ‘Magic Moments’ did almost nothing to me. I remember speaking with a hushed voice, and serving food to the guests after the intake. Having a high capacity is one thing, and not getting affected after seven-and-a-half pegs is something at an entirely higher level. Scary, much.
Strangely enough, among the people I’ve been regularly meeting of late, are some guys from my batch of St. James’, ones I’d never ever spoken to for more than five-minutes-at-a-stretch while in school. While the closest friends from De Nobili continue to fizzle out(interactions with even Aritra and Anindita have dropped drastically, blame it on my non-acceptance-of-phone-calls-policy ;the others having disappeared from my life even before), the ones from St. James’ continue to grow more-and-more prominent in my sphere of school-friends. It’s strange, really. I’d honestly never thought that I’d pursue communication with anyone apart from Ajju and Ikshaku after school, but these things, I guess, just happen.
There has been another satisfying turn in the flow of events. I’ve got myself involved in LOK- a forum created with a vision to help promote young talent in Calcutta- help unravel precious talent in the fields of dance, theatre, movie-making, music, elocution, painting, photography. The idea was conceived by a friend, Soumyajit, and he invited me to be a part of this hugely ambitious venture. The official inauguration was held on the 3rd of January. For the event, the team got a folk-theatre group from Chhattisgarh to Calcutta. Apart from a performance(Raja Phokalwa) by the group, a myriad of talent was up on display in the form of a photography exhibition, some live skits, songs and dance sequences, live-painting, self-composed poetry recitation done by friends from LOK itself. The modus operandi of the entire event was maintained strictly at ‘constant-interaction-with-the-audience’.
Also there has been a series of deaths this winter. This winter(2009-10) has by far been the coldest winter I’ve ever experienced in Calcutta. It reminded me strongly of the ‘interior’ majestic winters of North India, the six-degree celcius mornings in Maithon. The temperature dropped to ten degrees one day in December 2009. Apart from Dadu, Himumashi(Ma’s only sister)’s father-in-law, a very healthy man(as opposed to Dadu’s fifteen long years’ suffering), the winner of the Mr. Calcutta pageant a few decades back, passed away to a double heart-attack. He was fit enough to enjoy a normal game of cricket one evening, and the next morning, he had gone up in smoke. The others that breathed their last were a classmate’s grandmother, an old lady in a neighboring building, an aunt of a friend from LOKtheatre, and the illustrious, longest serving chief minister of any state of India, the man who was betrayed by his party from becoming the Prime Minister- Jyoti Basu.
I have, as of now, despite several rounds of planning and yearning, not yet watched the evidently mediocre movie ‘Pyaar Impossible’. Well, of course, I understand and appreciate good Cinema, but there are times when the content doesn’t matter and this movie is one such movie for me. I know that there is nothing novel or innovative about the movie, but I still feel this immense desire to go and indulge myself because of the mere presence of the utterly-edible, the perfectly-awesome, totally-and-phenomenally-gorgeous Priyanka Chopra in the movie. Among the movies I’ve watched recently and loved, however, is the magnum-opus, the path-breaking movie, which took more than a decade to be created, the first-of-its-kind, entirely 3Dimensional movie ‘Avatar’. It was a totally new experience, watching this movie. I also enjoyed ‘Chungking Express’, ‘Juno’, ‘Rocket Singh’ and the predictable-from-start-to-finish-yet-thoroughly-enjoyable ‘Three Idiots’.
Other memorable events in the last three months include the annual fest of Presidency College, ‘Milieu’, that was held in the last week of December. For the ‘Impact’, our team, consisting of Biaas, Kaushik, Shahana, Taniya and me, had a winner right from its very conceptualization, with ‘Khoon Bhari Shaam’-a Indian version of the International tear-jerking, hormone-cycles-upsetting melodrama of a novel, ‘Twilight’. Also, the ‘Indian Ocean’ performance and sneaking in all of my non-Presidency friends into the Presidency enclosure for the same is something I’m not going to forget in a hurry. Also brilliant was the Christmas Eve, which I spent with some of my best friends, having an amazingly memorable time at various places.Another important event that happened in November was the mid-term exam. For the first time in my life, I found myself at the bottom of a class, academically. With a meager thirty-eight out of a possible hundred (and only five students below me in this chronology), I’ve obviously become one of the most scorned students of my department (Well, at least sharing a sour relationship with teachers is nothing new for me). I do not know whether my cataclysmic downfall was because my present classmates are more in love with text-books than any previous set of my classmates (quite justifiable, they are after all, students of the most esteemed Economics department of the sub-continent, their attachment with academics is sacrosanct), or whether I have sailed farther out in the dangerous ocean of ‘non-association-with-course-material’. I am hoping to make a come-back in the ‘toppers-of-class’ list, but the chances of that occurring appear to be very, very bleak. This fact should be clearly evident from the reality academics found mention at the very end of this post, after everything else. Which is to say, this note, ends right here, abruptly, like all of my other life-update notes
Of late, I’ve been going out quite a lot. Birthdays, festivals, random socializing occasions, movie-marathons, I’m doing them all. Well, studies was supposed to attain ultra-importance right from the beginning of 2010, but that, I guess, is not happening soon. So, on one hand I’ve been keeping the company of culturally-inclined Bangali kids, the ones who love World-Cinema, and indie music, folk-rock and Bob Dylan, the ones who understand theatre and can perform an autopsy of Orhan Pamuk or Franz Kafka’s style and body of work, and get high on marijuana under the moonlight, while on the other, I’m finding myself around Marwari and Gujarati kids, in little black dresses, and expensive black shirts, ones that ‘chiggy-wiggy’ to Hindi music at ‘raat ke dhaai baje’ and drive around the city in expensive and huge cars, and choose to watch ‘Chance Pe Dance’ over ‘A Christmas Carol’ and garnish their vocabulary with ‘like’ and ‘yaaa’…
I mean no offence to anyone though. I’ve grown up with lots of different kinds of people around me, and so, these little limitations of both clans never bother me much. I derive the best of both(or more) worlds.
At the birthday party I hosted along with Aritri and Nisha, at my uninhabited Rajarhat apartment, a lot of spilling happened. I was scared about the walls, but thankfully, the freshly painted ones didn’t get too badly stained, and I didn’t really un-build the ones I construct for my own privacy. What was extremely strange was, seven-and-a-half(one of them- a ‘patiala’) pegs of ‘Magic Moments’ did almost nothing to me. I remember speaking with a hushed voice, and serving food to the guests after the intake. Having a high capacity is one thing, and not getting affected after seven-and-a-half pegs is something at an entirely higher level. Scary, much.
Strangely enough, among the people I’ve been regularly meeting of late, are some guys from my batch of St. James’, ones I’d never ever spoken to for more than five-minutes-at-a-stretch while in school. While the closest friends from De Nobili continue to fizzle out(interactions with even Aritra and Anindita have dropped drastically, blame it on my non-acceptance-of-phone-calls-policy ;the others having disappeared from my life even before), the ones from St. James’ continue to grow more-and-more prominent in my sphere of school-friends. It’s strange, really. I’d honestly never thought that I’d pursue communication with anyone apart from Ajju and Ikshaku after school, but these things, I guess, just happen.
There has been another satisfying turn in the flow of events. I’ve got myself involved in LOK- a forum created with a vision to help promote young talent in Calcutta- help unravel precious talent in the fields of dance, theatre, movie-making, music, elocution, painting, photography. The idea was conceived by a friend, Soumyajit, and he invited me to be a part of this hugely ambitious venture. The official inauguration was held on the 3rd of January. For the event, the team got a folk-theatre group from Chhattisgarh to Calcutta. Apart from a performance(Raja Phokalwa) by the group, a myriad of talent was up on display in the form of a photography exhibition, some live skits, songs and dance sequences, live-painting, self-composed poetry recitation done by friends from LOK itself. The modus operandi of the entire event was maintained strictly at ‘constant-interaction-with-the-audience’.
Also there has been a series of deaths this winter. This winter(2009-10) has by far been the coldest winter I’ve ever experienced in Calcutta. It reminded me strongly of the ‘interior’ majestic winters of North India, the six-degree celcius mornings in Maithon. The temperature dropped to ten degrees one day in December 2009. Apart from Dadu, Himumashi(Ma’s only sister)’s father-in-law, a very healthy man(as opposed to Dadu’s fifteen long years’ suffering), the winner of the Mr. Calcutta pageant a few decades back, passed away to a double heart-attack. He was fit enough to enjoy a normal game of cricket one evening, and the next morning, he had gone up in smoke. The others that breathed their last were a classmate’s grandmother, an old lady in a neighboring building, an aunt of a friend from LOKtheatre, and the illustrious, longest serving chief minister of any state of India, the man who was betrayed by his party from becoming the Prime Minister- Jyoti Basu.
I have, as of now, despite several rounds of planning and yearning, not yet watched the evidently mediocre movie ‘Pyaar Impossible’. Well, of course, I understand and appreciate good Cinema, but there are times when the content doesn’t matter and this movie is one such movie for me. I know that there is nothing novel or innovative about the movie, but I still feel this immense desire to go and indulge myself because of the mere presence of the utterly-edible, the perfectly-awesome, totally-and-phenomenally-gorgeous Priyanka Chopra in the movie. Among the movies I’ve watched recently and loved, however, is the magnum-opus, the path-breaking movie, which took more than a decade to be created, the first-of-its-kind, entirely 3Dimensional movie ‘Avatar’. It was a totally new experience, watching this movie. I also enjoyed ‘Chungking Express’, ‘Juno’, ‘Rocket Singh’ and the predictable-from-start-to-finish-yet-thoroughly-enjoyable ‘Three Idiots’.
Other memorable events in the last three months include the annual fest of Presidency College, ‘Milieu’, that was held in the last week of December. For the ‘Impact’, our team, consisting of Biaas, Kaushik, Shahana, Taniya and me, had a winner right from its very conceptualization, with ‘Khoon Bhari Shaam’-a Indian version of the International tear-jerking, hormone-cycles-upsetting melodrama of a novel, ‘Twilight’. Also, the ‘Indian Ocean’ performance and sneaking in all of my non-Presidency friends into the Presidency enclosure for the same is something I’m not going to forget in a hurry. Also brilliant was the Christmas Eve, which I spent with some of my best friends, having an amazingly memorable time at various places.Another important event that happened in November was the mid-term exam. For the first time in my life, I found myself at the bottom of a class, academically. With a meager thirty-eight out of a possible hundred (and only five students below me in this chronology), I’ve obviously become one of the most scorned students of my department (Well, at least sharing a sour relationship with teachers is nothing new for me). I do not know whether my cataclysmic downfall was because my present classmates are more in love with text-books than any previous set of my classmates (quite justifiable, they are after all, students of the most esteemed Economics department of the sub-continent, their attachment with academics is sacrosanct), or whether I have sailed farther out in the dangerous ocean of ‘non-association-with-course-material’. I am hoping to make a come-back in the ‘toppers-of-class’ list, but the chances of that occurring appear to be very, very bleak. This fact should be clearly evident from the reality academics found mention at the very end of this post, after everything else. Which is to say, this note, ends right here, abruptly, like all of my other life-update notes
December 22, 2009
Dadu, hues of sepia, and dusty old photographs...
Dadu passed away three days back, leaving behind an even more mitigated proportion of males in my close family. For, I’ve never had any uncle, and I never had the other grandpa. My mom and dad have a sister each, and both my grandmothers are very healthy and active. And also, I have a sister, and I was always closer to Ma than Baba. Even with this humongous amount of feminine presence in my family, I always had Baba and Dadu. Now with Dadu gone, I find my gender representation in my family at irredeemably serious peril.
Also, Baba wanted a photograph of Dadu for the Sraddho ceremony. Thus came tumbling out of the racks, the old, thick, ‘original-full-version-Oxford-dictionary-ko-by-great-margins-beat-karnewaale’ family albums. Well, I had forgotten about the existence of most of those photographs – we were leafing through the albums after that long. I was four, I was two, I was one, I wasn’t born yet, my sister’s birth, my parents getting married. Jodhpur Park, Picnic Garden, Ballygunge Place. Bokaro, Delhi, Ferozepur, Amritsar. Army camps and parties, Bangaali bonediyana , Jharkhand small-town tranquility, the Raybahadur Kumarnath Bagchi legacy, all the great family ethics and values, all the aristocracy-which my ancestors certainly do not hope to see surviving through me...
Despite the fashion sensibilities having arrived and departed in cycles – (Floral prints, khadis, checks), the times only moved forward. My weirdly round face chiselled down, my sister now has straight hair instead of the ‘hujoorbujoor’ curls, Ma and Baba’s black tresses and glowing skin have been replaced by salt-and-pepper, and wrinkles. So many of the distant relatives smiling out from those old photographs have since, moved over to the other side. We lost some to accidents, some to diseases and some to old age, the latest being Dadu.
It is the same end which awaits us all. The Inevitable. Only we do not know when it is going to thrust itself across our paths. It is not scary really; rather there is something very poignant about it. And in those old photographs, people look so happy. They all look younger and better than they do now. Some have been married off, since. They all have their own kids- those aunts that were present for my mom’s baby shower( ‘shaad’) before I was born, they are mothers themselves now. Quite some of the people in the photographs have had messy divorces. And there were even a few who spelled their own ends.
Well, THIS wasn’t intended to be a sad and depressing note, but I’m afraid, it is turning out to be one. What I really want to highlight is, Change, truly is the only constant, so, despite cynics and elders and professors telling me off about my lack of a sense of responsibility, or about my immature and unconventional-and-disturbing way of life and thought processes, I am not going to fret about what will happen and when and blaady-blaady-blah. Everything will change, everything will fall in place. As Hagrid had said,”Whatever will come will come and I will have to face it when it does…”
Also, Baba wanted a photograph of Dadu for the Sraddho ceremony. Thus came tumbling out of the racks, the old, thick, ‘original-full-version-Oxford-dictionary-ko-by-great-margins-beat-karnewaale’ family albums. Well, I had forgotten about the existence of most of those photographs – we were leafing through the albums after that long. I was four, I was two, I was one, I wasn’t born yet, my sister’s birth, my parents getting married. Jodhpur Park, Picnic Garden, Ballygunge Place. Bokaro, Delhi, Ferozepur, Amritsar. Army camps and parties, Bangaali bonediyana , Jharkhand small-town tranquility, the Raybahadur Kumarnath Bagchi legacy, all the great family ethics and values, all the aristocracy-which my ancestors certainly do not hope to see surviving through me...
Despite the fashion sensibilities having arrived and departed in cycles – (Floral prints, khadis, checks), the times only moved forward. My weirdly round face chiselled down, my sister now has straight hair instead of the ‘hujoorbujoor’ curls, Ma and Baba’s black tresses and glowing skin have been replaced by salt-and-pepper, and wrinkles. So many of the distant relatives smiling out from those old photographs have since, moved over to the other side. We lost some to accidents, some to diseases and some to old age, the latest being Dadu. It is the same end which awaits us all. The Inevitable. Only we do not know when it is going to thrust itself across our paths. It is not scary really; rather there is something very poignant about it. And in those old photographs, people look so happy. They all look younger and better than they do now. Some have been married off, since. They all have their own kids- those aunts that were present for my mom’s baby shower( ‘shaad’) before I was born, they are mothers themselves now. Quite some of the people in the photographs have had messy divorces. And there were even a few who spelled their own ends.
Well, THIS wasn’t intended to be a sad and depressing note, but I’m afraid, it is turning out to be one. What I really want to highlight is, Change, truly is the only constant, so, despite cynics and elders and professors telling me off about my lack of a sense of responsibility, or about my immature and unconventional-and-disturbing way of life and thought processes, I am not going to fret about what will happen and when and blaady-blaady-blah. Everything will change, everything will fall in place. As Hagrid had said,”Whatever will come will come and I will have to face it when it does…”
November 13, 2009
Walks. Through City Roads.
I walk. Long distances.
Presidency to Ballygung Phari. Or Kalighat Metro Station to Ballygung Phari. Or City Centre to Hyatt Regency… and those countless other routes.
I walk whenever possible.
Walking is my most favorite means of conveyance.
It also gives me the feeling that I’m not depending on anyone else to transport me elsewhere. I’m independent.
Walking lets me soak in so much of the city.
I walk past so many people.
Some look lost. Some look determined. Some look too pleased with themselves.
Some walk alone.
Some walk with another person. Just one. A friend. A parent. A lover. And sometimes, even a stranger.
Some walk in huge groups.
Some walk as a cluster of a few-similarly clothed individuals.
However, something, most unfortunately, is common among all of them.
They, (almost) none of them, really look around to See. To absorb the world around.
They do not pause to look at the careless wall-graffiti on the walls on both sides.
The incessant wars being waged through those ‘dewaal-likhons’.
They do not pause to admire the delectably marvellous sight of sunrays seeping through pauses and recesses between those hundreds of tree leaves, that could have otherwise formed a green dome overhead.
They do not perceive the sheer bliss in the smiles of the children that call the roads their home.
They do not look at how every alternate manhole is left uncovered in a certain central Calcutta street.
They do not enjoy the aroma of the scented flowers on those trees the names of which they mightn’t know.
They do not derive the immense sadistic pleasure from kicking the small pebbles lining the pavements, from being able to dislocate them from where they had been resting peacefully.
They do not experience the wrath unleashed by the rain-gods on the little kittens that try to desperately find shelter and end up meowing relentlessly, in tones that evoke terrible sympathy.
Hence, they lose out on an extreme variety of potentially motto-of-life altering experiences, encounters, events and/or episodes.
Presidency to Ballygung Phari. Or Kalighat Metro Station to Ballygung Phari. Or City Centre to Hyatt Regency… and those countless other routes.
I walk whenever possible.
Walking is my most favorite means of conveyance.
It also gives me the feeling that I’m not depending on anyone else to transport me elsewhere. I’m independent.
Walking lets me soak in so much of the city.
I walk past so many people.
Some look lost. Some look determined. Some look too pleased with themselves.
Some walk alone.
Some walk with another person. Just one. A friend. A parent. A lover. And sometimes, even a stranger.
Some walk in huge groups.
Some walk as a cluster of a few-similarly clothed individuals.
However, something, most unfortunately, is common among all of them.
They, (almost) none of them, really look around to See. To absorb the world around.
They do not pause to look at the careless wall-graffiti on the walls on both sides.
The incessant wars being waged through those ‘dewaal-likhons’.
They do not pause to admire the delectably marvellous sight of sunrays seeping through pauses and recesses between those hundreds of tree leaves, that could have otherwise formed a green dome overhead.
They do not perceive the sheer bliss in the smiles of the children that call the roads their home.
They do not look at how every alternate manhole is left uncovered in a certain central Calcutta street.
They do not enjoy the aroma of the scented flowers on those trees the names of which they mightn’t know.
They do not derive the immense sadistic pleasure from kicking the small pebbles lining the pavements, from being able to dislocate them from where they had been resting peacefully.
They do not experience the wrath unleashed by the rain-gods on the little kittens that try to desperately find shelter and end up meowing relentlessly, in tones that evoke terrible sympathy.
Hence, they lose out on an extreme variety of potentially motto-of-life altering experiences, encounters, events and/or episodes.
October 23, 2009
September and October 2009
I think I’ve fallen in love, yet again. This time it’s an Icelandic band called ‘Sigur Ros’(Victory Rose). The band was formed in 1994 in Reykjavik by singer and guitarist Jón Þór Birgisson, bassist Georg Hólm and drummer Ágúst Ævar Gunnarsson, and I discovered it only days back, following a status update by Mayukh where he’d proclaimed that he loves the band. Now since I generally relate with Mayukh’s taste of music, I downloaded it, and was totally swept off my feet. Mayukh had said, “(Listening to the band gives you the feeling of) being under the blanket on a very rainy day.” Comfort and luxury epitomized. It’s like an Icelandic Simon-and Garfunkel, he’d said. And I can’t agree more.
I’m very happy because Ajju is coming back to Calcutta on the 2nd of November, and hence the CCD/Mamma Mia visits will become the order of the day once again. We’ve a lot of catching up to do, and am really looking forward to his return. Anindita too, will be visiting Calcutta some time in the next week. What terrible excitement! Two of my best friends are coming home at the same time...(Oh, my bad! Calcutta isn’t exactly the place Tiku would call home, but whattheheck?)
I have also been procrastinating the act of sanctifying my Fbook friend list. Last checked, it stood at 405, and I need to clear the mess and bring it down to 200, at the most. One more thing I’ve been putting off is watching new movies. I’ve got several tempting new(ly downloaded) movies lying unwatched… ‘Rear Window’, ‘Pierrot Le Fou’, ‘Antichrist’ etc. And I need to watch them soon. But each time I intend to do the same, I end up watching an old episode of F.R.I.E.N.D.S.
Diwali was fun. We got drunk on Rhea’s Hiland Park chhat(eh, no, not totally sloshed, but just mild boozing) and later, had a crazy, crazy, crazy dance session in her drawing-room. Her antique-piece-loaded drawing room reeks of old Bengali bonediyana(aristocracy), the sort I associate my grandparents and great-grandparents with, the thing that many of those first-generation-rich families totally lack. I loved the old pipes and hookkahs and grandfather clocks, and pianos. There was a very odd faith-ant stuffed toy on one sofa, which despite its undoing effect on the entire ‘bonedi-baari’ feel, was claimed to be a great favorite of hers by Rhea.
The mid-term exam is scheduled for mid-November, and well, as always, my preparation is close to nil. What’s funny(well, not really, it has always been an old habit) is that I’m not even striving towards the completion of any minuscule percentage of the syllabus). Sid won’t wake up, ever, I guess.
September was great. I was the Presidency College ‘rep’ at the Loreto College fest, ‘Samagam’. We also had our Departmental Fresher’s(where I was crowned Mr. Fresher’s :D) and Student Union Fresher’s(which was fun mainly because of the disco we made out of the Derozio-Audi). September also was about a lot of hanging out, here and there, randomly, and the masterpiece was made in Taniya-and-Roli’s birthday party-cum-sleepover. The entire circle was there(barring obviously the outstation-candidates) and with the subtle and not-so-subtle undercurrents that kept flowing, the crackling chemistry between some people, and the damp-squibs some others made out of themselves, it was one helluva night.
Then the Punjab-Delhi-Haryana-Himachal tour I took with my family was refreshening. It re-established my North India connection, and made me fall in love with the North all over again. Also, in the last four months, owing to an ever-increasing requirement of proficiency in Bangla, I’ve forgotten the little nuances of a Delhi-Hindi totally. This tour helped me scratch off the surface-rust to an extent, and rediscover myself.
All in all, life’s okay. The winter’s come in quite early. The weather’s starting to turn chilly though October hasn’t faded away yet. Rudrani thinks I write like females do, and I can’t really disagree. She also insists on calling me ‘Tokai’ despite my claiming that I’m the Kolabou. Also hilarious is how Chitrangada Singh says “Signs of aging, leave them behind, Take Care!” in the new Garnier advertisement. The trailers of ‘Kurbaan’ look very promising, and Vivek Oberoi, finally, looks back in form. It has a very international feel to it, and looks straight out of some Hollywood studio. Kareena- I fall in love with over and over again, and this time’s no exception. The song 'Kurbaan Hua' is remarkable in the way it's both sympathy-evoking and also coarse,rough,and adrenaline-rush-stimulating at the same time. I’ve been making frequent visits to the Joo, but they’ll soon be no-longer possible once classes at Presidency re-commence.
Enough for now… Oh and yes, well, bleh, nevermind…. Someone looks so cute, but so what? I’ll shut up.
I’m very happy because Ajju is coming back to Calcutta on the 2nd of November, and hence the CCD/Mamma Mia visits will become the order of the day once again. We’ve a lot of catching up to do, and am really looking forward to his return. Anindita too, will be visiting Calcutta some time in the next week. What terrible excitement! Two of my best friends are coming home at the same time...(Oh, my bad! Calcutta isn’t exactly the place Tiku would call home, but whattheheck?)
I have also been procrastinating the act of sanctifying my Fbook friend list. Last checked, it stood at 405, and I need to clear the mess and bring it down to 200, at the most. One more thing I’ve been putting off is watching new movies. I’ve got several tempting new(ly downloaded) movies lying unwatched… ‘Rear Window’, ‘Pierrot Le Fou’, ‘Antichrist’ etc. And I need to watch them soon. But each time I intend to do the same, I end up watching an old episode of F.R.I.E.N.D.S.
Diwali was fun. We got drunk on Rhea’s Hiland Park chhat(eh, no, not totally sloshed, but just mild boozing) and later, had a crazy, crazy, crazy dance session in her drawing-room. Her antique-piece-loaded drawing room reeks of old Bengali bonediyana(aristocracy), the sort I associate my grandparents and great-grandparents with, the thing that many of those first-generation-rich families totally lack. I loved the old pipes and hookkahs and grandfather clocks, and pianos. There was a very odd faith-ant stuffed toy on one sofa, which despite its undoing effect on the entire ‘bonedi-baari’ feel, was claimed to be a great favorite of hers by Rhea.
The mid-term exam is scheduled for mid-November, and well, as always, my preparation is close to nil. What’s funny(well, not really, it has always been an old habit) is that I’m not even striving towards the completion of any minuscule percentage of the syllabus). Sid won’t wake up, ever, I guess.
September was great. I was the Presidency College ‘rep’ at the Loreto College fest, ‘Samagam’. We also had our Departmental Fresher’s(where I was crowned Mr. Fresher’s :D) and Student Union Fresher’s(which was fun mainly because of the disco we made out of the Derozio-Audi). September also was about a lot of hanging out, here and there, randomly, and the masterpiece was made in Taniya-and-Roli’s birthday party-cum-sleepover. The entire circle was there(barring obviously the outstation-candidates) and with the subtle and not-so-subtle undercurrents that kept flowing, the crackling chemistry between some people, and the damp-squibs some others made out of themselves, it was one helluva night.
Then the Punjab-Delhi-Haryana-Himachal tour I took with my family was refreshening. It re-established my North India connection, and made me fall in love with the North all over again. Also, in the last four months, owing to an ever-increasing requirement of proficiency in Bangla, I’ve forgotten the little nuances of a Delhi-Hindi totally. This tour helped me scratch off the surface-rust to an extent, and rediscover myself.
All in all, life’s okay. The winter’s come in quite early. The weather’s starting to turn chilly though October hasn’t faded away yet. Rudrani thinks I write like females do, and I can’t really disagree. She also insists on calling me ‘Tokai’ despite my claiming that I’m the Kolabou. Also hilarious is how Chitrangada Singh says “Signs of aging, leave them behind, Take Care!” in the new Garnier advertisement. The trailers of ‘Kurbaan’ look very promising, and Vivek Oberoi, finally, looks back in form. It has a very international feel to it, and looks straight out of some Hollywood studio. Kareena- I fall in love with over and over again, and this time’s no exception. The song 'Kurbaan Hua' is remarkable in the way it's both sympathy-evoking and also coarse,rough,and adrenaline-rush-stimulating at the same time. I’ve been making frequent visits to the Joo, but they’ll soon be no-longer possible once classes at Presidency re-commence.
Enough for now… Oh and yes, well, bleh, nevermind…. Someone looks so cute, but so what? I’ll shut up.
September 26, 2009
Flavor Changes, Love Remains
As we grow older, the sugar-coatings and the gift wraps start coming off until the innermost skeletons of life start showing. The flavors change and everything starts smelling, looking and tasting different. Not everything attains bleakness or takes a turn towards the worse, but the ‘feel’ of everything changes.
It’s a Durga Pujo Saptami evening. Despite not having essentially been a Calcuttan throughout my life, I’ve always been in the city at this time of the year(apart from in 1998 –the year my family had insisted on touring the Garhwal and Kumaon hills). Exhaustive pandal-hopping to visiting relatives, scaling heights and attaining elevation with friends to donning those new-colorful attires- I’ve had a taste of everything that Pujos in my city are famous for. Yet some of the flavors of the yesteryears are no more. No dhaaki at Maddox Square, no Pirate-ship at Deshopriyo Park, no long queue at Bosepukur Sitala Mandir can replenish the certain warmly cosy and stomach-and-heart-churningly happy feeling in the crevices and recesses of my mind anymore. I wonder why? I’ve not undergone any major tragedy nor have I come to derive immense pleasures from any other quarters of my life. The various puja committees still contend for the position of the ‘Best Pujo’ of the city but the entire excitement surrounding the diversity of themes on display, like in the past, is no more. People still wear those new black tees, and girls still get their faces made up, and hair straightened, and cling to their boyfriends(and their potbellies) while riding pillion on their bikes, and the rains still come and wash off the decorations off some pandals, and the puchka-wallahs still make the extra profit, and the Pre-pujo sales still happen, but what the heck?? The flavor is different.
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It’s like it was a different Pujo-time me then, and the me of 2009 are entirely different people. I hardly go out with my parents anymore. The memories of the Pujos of the past come back to visit me like visions of another life. These memories are generally lined with inexplicable silver coatings and red hues in my mind… I also terribly, terribly miss the car journeys that we would make from Maithon to Calcutta on Panchamis every year, after school would give over for the vacations. The music playing inside the car, the numerous small-pujas dotting the highway-sides, the awesomely cool(although sometimes smoke laden) air would keep streaming into the car when we would keep the glass-panes open. The highway-dhabas, the occasional tea and aloo paratha halts, the cold-drinks and the Anjan Dutta/Mohiner Ghoraguli or the corny Hindi songs, the plans surrounding the celebration of the festival- all of this would be enough to transform me to a different realm altogether… I fail to understand why I never derive joys from such little thrills anymore. Big city life, maybe?
Having said all this, this season still stays one of my favorite phases in the entire year. And Bijoya Dashami is still the day that makes me feel like I am losing someone very close to me. The wait of one more year-the newspapers say. The year will fly past without your realizing it, they add. “Yeah right!”, I say. A WHOLE EFFIN’ YEAR. Yet, indeed the year whizzes past. Birthdays come, exams come, depressions come, desires to go jump off the terrace come, happiness and excitements come, crushes happen, heartbreaks happen, differences arise, drifting apart from close ones takes place, patching up with certain other people happens, Diwali,Christmas,New Year,Summers,Monsoons go by, until it’s Pujo again. Flavors have changed, but the love remains. I know that even today if I happen to be compelled to stay this time of the year in anyplace other than this city of mine, I will suffer immense mental ‘monkemon’ and trauma-related-to-missing-the-festive-Calcutta…
P.S.: I know I’m an atheist, but sometimes I like to believe Ma. Durga and her family is a real concept. Not because I depend on her to resolve my life-issues, but somehow the entire concept of her family is very cute, especially in these times of fragmented families, where one constituent hardly has time for any of the others(and no one complains).
It’s a Durga Pujo Saptami evening. Despite not having essentially been a Calcuttan throughout my life, I’ve always been in the city at this time of the year(apart from in 1998 –the year my family had insisted on touring the Garhwal and Kumaon hills). Exhaustive pandal-hopping to visiting relatives, scaling heights and attaining elevation with friends to donning those new-colorful attires- I’ve had a taste of everything that Pujos in my city are famous for. Yet some of the flavors of the yesteryears are no more. No dhaaki at Maddox Square, no Pirate-ship at Deshopriyo Park, no long queue at Bosepukur Sitala Mandir can replenish the certain warmly cosy and stomach-and-heart-churningly happy feeling in the crevices and recesses of my mind anymore. I wonder why? I’ve not undergone any major tragedy nor have I come to derive immense pleasures from any other quarters of my life. The various puja committees still contend for the position of the ‘Best Pujo’ of the city but the entire excitement surrounding the diversity of themes on display, like in the past, is no more. People still wear those new black tees, and girls still get their faces made up, and hair straightened, and cling to their boyfriends(and their potbellies) while riding pillion on their bikes, and the rains still come and wash off the decorations off some pandals, and the puchka-wallahs still make the extra profit, and the Pre-pujo sales still happen, but what the heck?? The flavor is different.
.jpg)
It’s like it was a different Pujo-time me then, and the me of 2009 are entirely different people. I hardly go out with my parents anymore. The memories of the Pujos of the past come back to visit me like visions of another life. These memories are generally lined with inexplicable silver coatings and red hues in my mind… I also terribly, terribly miss the car journeys that we would make from Maithon to Calcutta on Panchamis every year, after school would give over for the vacations. The music playing inside the car, the numerous small-pujas dotting the highway-sides, the awesomely cool(although sometimes smoke laden) air would keep streaming into the car when we would keep the glass-panes open. The highway-dhabas, the occasional tea and aloo paratha halts, the cold-drinks and the Anjan Dutta/Mohiner Ghoraguli or the corny Hindi songs, the plans surrounding the celebration of the festival- all of this would be enough to transform me to a different realm altogether… I fail to understand why I never derive joys from such little thrills anymore. Big city life, maybe?
Having said all this, this season still stays one of my favorite phases in the entire year. And Bijoya Dashami is still the day that makes me feel like I am losing someone very close to me. The wait of one more year-the newspapers say. The year will fly past without your realizing it, they add. “Yeah right!”, I say. A WHOLE EFFIN’ YEAR. Yet, indeed the year whizzes past. Birthdays come, exams come, depressions come, desires to go jump off the terrace come, happiness and excitements come, crushes happen, heartbreaks happen, differences arise, drifting apart from close ones takes place, patching up with certain other people happens, Diwali,Christmas,New Year,Summers,Monsoons go by, until it’s Pujo again. Flavors have changed, but the love remains. I know that even today if I happen to be compelled to stay this time of the year in anyplace other than this city of mine, I will suffer immense mental ‘monkemon’ and trauma-related-to-missing-the-festive-Calcutta…
P.S.: I know I’m an atheist, but sometimes I like to believe Ma. Durga and her family is a real concept. Not because I depend on her to resolve my life-issues, but somehow the entire concept of her family is very cute, especially in these times of fragmented families, where one constituent hardly has time for any of the others(and no one complains).
August 19, 2009
The Month(And A Half) That Was...
There is a certain way in which I lust after things- Randomness, Shampoo, Nike shorts, Simon and Garfunkel and Economics, among others. Well, a month and a half into an undergraduate course in Economics in the best Economics department in the country (barring a certain St. Stephen’s College, New Delhi), as a student of the most prestigious college in India- Presidency College, Calcutta, I’m clueless. I am doing what I wanted to do for my under-grad course, but I’m yet to figure out the course content, and which professor is entrusted the responsibility to explain which discipline of economics to us. New York Times had described Steven D. Levitt(author of the overwhelmingly flabbergastingly delicious book ‘Freakonomics’) as a representative of “something that everyone thinks they will be when they go to grad school with Economics, but eventually they have the creative spark bored out of them by endless math”. That is exactly what is being inflicted upon me. Endless Math. Something I never was too fond of. Something I never recognized as part of Economics.
Yet there is something else that is keeping the myselfness alive in me. I’m meeting a lot of people- People from an eclectic range of societies- people from the suburbs, from the city proper, people from other states, friends of friends, people separated by varying degrees of separation- usually between three and five. The company or the momentary presence of some such people have also led to some of the most bizarre experiences of my life in these one and a half months- I was introduced to an adventurous shuttle cock, leered at a couple who were making out in the row behind me during ‘Harry Potter-6’, displayed my Bhashan-dance skills to the world while watching ‘Love Aaj Kal’ with eighteen friends, met seniors that slap their juniors when their girl friends get offended for having been captured in a photograph by the junior’s friend, befriended a girl that thinks every guy is a bisexual, got told off by a professor for having attended only sixty lectures out of a hundred, and received my school farewell diary back from a friend, eight months after school ended, and fell in love with the roof of a friend’s home. Oh yes, I’ve also been introduced to two absolutely lovely girls from a different college, who are exactly on the same mental plane as I. One recommended Wong Kar-wai to me, the other is a proficient user of the term ‘Gandu’.
I’ve been bidding goodbyes to lots of friends that are leaving the city and the country, one by one, to pursue higher education. Well, however Stoic I might be now, however much I might proclaim that I’ve learned not to hold on anymore, to let go easily, there is always a lump in the throat, always a bitter pang somewhere every time someone goes off. Well, yes, I accept the inevitable with much greater ease than before. It’s equally amazing how like a packet of cards being reshuffled ,my old friends from several sources are coming together as each others’ friends in different parts of the country.
New friends- College hasn’t been particularly disappointing in that regard. Though I’d consider only some four of five people from college to be really close to me, there are several others with whom I’ve come to share a good rapport.
A few days back, on the sixty second anniversary of India’s Independence, while surfing channels on the television, I happened to come across a show about how badly the weak monsoon this year has affected the poor farmers in Bihar and Uttar Pradesh, and how they have to go without food for long. The next channel was interviewing a child of fourteen about what his favorite gadgets are, and why he would prefer a PS-3 over an iPhone. The very same day, within the difference of an hour, I came across another show where a man in his thirties, with a proud ‘Hindu’ tilak on his head, was explaining why the Delhi High Court’s reading down of Article -377 is against the Indian Culture, how homosexuality is a choice people make, how the Western society is responsible for the society going gradually gay. He also spoke about how Maharashtra is the singular example of nationalist-sentiments in today’s Ungrateful New India, and why Biharis aren’t welcome in Mumbai. He also spoke vehemently against Bengalis, who he said are hypocrites and the proficiency they depict in being Bilinguals, in juggling Bengali and English with equal panache is mostly fake. Well no one could persuade this man to speak in Hindi, though his English made Rakhi Sawant sound eloquent.
Speaking of Rakhi Sawant, this last month saw her choose Elesh Parujanwala as her life partner. Here’s wishing the lady all the happiness that there is.My photography skills have also been receiving immense praise. I have also fallen in love with an odd assortment of things –like Feist’s ‘We’re All In The Dance’, my Black Reebok shirt, Wong Kar-wai and the Kaminey-characters. I’ve developed a crush on a girl who, I think, knows of my existence but isn’t too greatly enthusiastic about knowing me. I love the way she dresses. Yes, and I hate girls with chubby babies or Katrina Kaif or teddie bears, and guys with Cristiano Ronaldo or nameless muscular dumb studs or some Hindi 'teenage' soap guy with an irritating smile as their dps. I also feel Lola Kutty and Semi Girebaal have a lot in common, though this realization has been there in me for the last four years. I have also fallen in love with unknown people’s hairstyles and hope to be successful in aping them soon. I discovered Mayukh Bose is a brilliant Usain Boltism inventor, helped in the development of a relationship between sparrows and pizzas. A short synopsis of a very eventful month and a half is what this thing was.
Yet there is something else that is keeping the myselfness alive in me. I’m meeting a lot of people- People from an eclectic range of societies- people from the suburbs, from the city proper, people from other states, friends of friends, people separated by varying degrees of separation- usually between three and five. The company or the momentary presence of some such people have also led to some of the most bizarre experiences of my life in these one and a half months- I was introduced to an adventurous shuttle cock, leered at a couple who were making out in the row behind me during ‘Harry Potter-6’, displayed my Bhashan-dance skills to the world while watching ‘Love Aaj Kal’ with eighteen friends, met seniors that slap their juniors when their girl friends get offended for having been captured in a photograph by the junior’s friend, befriended a girl that thinks every guy is a bisexual, got told off by a professor for having attended only sixty lectures out of a hundred, and received my school farewell diary back from a friend, eight months after school ended, and fell in love with the roof of a friend’s home. Oh yes, I’ve also been introduced to two absolutely lovely girls from a different college, who are exactly on the same mental plane as I. One recommended Wong Kar-wai to me, the other is a proficient user of the term ‘Gandu’.
I’ve been bidding goodbyes to lots of friends that are leaving the city and the country, one by one, to pursue higher education. Well, however Stoic I might be now, however much I might proclaim that I’ve learned not to hold on anymore, to let go easily, there is always a lump in the throat, always a bitter pang somewhere every time someone goes off. Well, yes, I accept the inevitable with much greater ease than before. It’s equally amazing how like a packet of cards being reshuffled ,my old friends from several sources are coming together as each others’ friends in different parts of the country.
New friends- College hasn’t been particularly disappointing in that regard. Though I’d consider only some four of five people from college to be really close to me, there are several others with whom I’ve come to share a good rapport.
A few days back, on the sixty second anniversary of India’s Independence, while surfing channels on the television, I happened to come across a show about how badly the weak monsoon this year has affected the poor farmers in Bihar and Uttar Pradesh, and how they have to go without food for long. The next channel was interviewing a child of fourteen about what his favorite gadgets are, and why he would prefer a PS-3 over an iPhone. The very same day, within the difference of an hour, I came across another show where a man in his thirties, with a proud ‘Hindu’ tilak on his head, was explaining why the Delhi High Court’s reading down of Article -377 is against the Indian Culture, how homosexuality is a choice people make, how the Western society is responsible for the society going gradually gay. He also spoke about how Maharashtra is the singular example of nationalist-sentiments in today’s Ungrateful New India, and why Biharis aren’t welcome in Mumbai. He also spoke vehemently against Bengalis, who he said are hypocrites and the proficiency they depict in being Bilinguals, in juggling Bengali and English with equal panache is mostly fake. Well no one could persuade this man to speak in Hindi, though his English made Rakhi Sawant sound eloquent.
Speaking of Rakhi Sawant, this last month saw her choose Elesh Parujanwala as her life partner. Here’s wishing the lady all the happiness that there is.My photography skills have also been receiving immense praise. I have also fallen in love with an odd assortment of things –like Feist’s ‘We’re All In The Dance’, my Black Reebok shirt, Wong Kar-wai and the Kaminey-characters. I’ve developed a crush on a girl who, I think, knows of my existence but isn’t too greatly enthusiastic about knowing me. I love the way she dresses. Yes, and I hate girls with chubby babies or Katrina Kaif or teddie bears, and guys with Cristiano Ronaldo or nameless muscular dumb studs or some Hindi 'teenage' soap guy with an irritating smile as their dps. I also feel Lola Kutty and Semi Girebaal have a lot in common, though this realization has been there in me for the last four years. I have also fallen in love with unknown people’s hairstyles and hope to be successful in aping them soon. I discovered Mayukh Bose is a brilliant Usain Boltism inventor, helped in the development of a relationship between sparrows and pizzas. A short synopsis of a very eventful month and a half is what this thing was.
July 1, 2009
"Au Revoir, School Life"
College is going to start this week. School life ends here, finally. I had a most marvellous school life, totally free from bullying, problems like inability to fit in, like getting lost in the crowd, being not able to perform brilliantly in academics. I never really had problems in school, apart from my teachers never being too pleased with my antics, my clowning around in class, my unstoppable blabbering, my hanging around with girls, my not being adequately respectful towards them etc. And yes, I’ve also been let down by several friends, cheated on, manipulated, lied to, hated by many, envied by many more(several people have complained that I’ve done the same to them, and some of these allegations were definitely very true)…. And though these had really hit me hard towards the end of Class 10(and had caused me to sober down totally in Classes 11 and 12), I decide to forget all of that today. I will carry forward all the good memories (they are the ones that dominate), and will never regret anything about this part of my life. For every blunder I made, every person that tricked me, everyone I befriended, every Physics period I spent trying to take over school-journal-distributio
April 9, 2009
Rains...
Yes I wish it would rain, rain down on me now
Yes I wish it would rain down, down on me
Yes I wish it would rain on me” : Phil Collins
I have always loved the rains and have never been able to quite understand why all poets and singers and normal people associate ‘Rain’ to distress and despair. For me however, it has been one thing that has made me happy. Maybe it has got a lot to do with staying in a particularly hot, humid, over-populated yet brilliantly resplendent country, that I love the rains so much. It washes down the yellow, orange and red hues of this tropical country, and mellows down the ambience to soothing shades of blue, green and purple. It washes off the dust and SPM from the air , and the accumulated filth from the city trees, making the leaves appear lush green and fresh. I am seriously of the opinion that the smell of the wet soil after a rain is one of the best fragrances in the world.
I think the first rains I remember are the Jodhpur Park rains. I was five I guess, and I can still remember that the verandah and the terrace of our flat on the eighth floor would be flooded every time it rained. I would be playing scrabble (mostly sitting beside my grandma,rather than playing) with my sister, grandma, mom and great grandmother when it would rain. Or rummy. Some other times when my mom would be away, my sister and I would erect a tent and would get my grandmom to play ‘Trekking’ with us, while it would rain outside.
The North India rains are pretty much the same wherever you go. They cool down the cities and are a welcome relief from the heated up city buildings. It, however, rains in winter in Punjab, so people there don’t like it much. It brings down the temperatures to one-digit figures. Delhi Rains from a Hauz Khas bungalow verandah are the only ones I remember of the capital.
The Bokaro Rains wash down all the coal particles from the air. The suffocating city air would freshen up and give us space to breath.. Dhanbad and Asansol rains are pretty non-descript, and hence I wouldn’t really recall them with any particular affection.
Then there are the North Bengal rains… On every visit to Darjeeling/ Gangtok/ Kurseong I have encountered this variety. It, in a way, spoils all the travel plans. Yet there is a romantic aspect about this variety of rain that makes one want to fall in love… not just with the rain, but with North Bengal, and Sikkim. A cup of hot espresso coffee, with a delicious burger at Keventer’s and the rain outside… These are some memories I’ll cherish forever.
There is a small town called Rabangla in Sikkim. The town is nothing to write home about, but the road along which one journeys, from Gangtok to Rabangla is one of the most haunting beauties of Nature I have ever seen. Add to it the rain, and the hot soup, the fear of leeches and the Army ambience of the Army Guesthouse that had been provided by Major Bakshi for our lodging made the Rabangla Rains totally unforgettable. If I ever shoot ‘Dark Truth And White Lies”, I’ll shoot the first half of it in Rabangla, for sure.
Of course no one can deny the existence of the Durga Pujo rains in Calcutta. It takes off most of the decorations from the elaborately done up pandals, and floods the city streets, making traffic conditions all-the-worse (and subsequently the Telegraph-Metro to rate the traffic conditions during pujo as 2/10 in its post pujo edition). It spoils the red sarees and the black shirts, the new cars and the crowds’ moods… Some wise people choose to stay at home and relish the Pujo over beer,vodka and shredded shuntki, or Aloo Paratha and Dahi(Punjabi Taste buds love this dish). However my darling parents have chosen to stay in Calcutta for every pujo. And not just that, we also go exhaustive-pandal hopping every Pujo… So the kadaa(wet mud) stains on my new dress and the hours spent holed up inside the car, watching it rain outside, and new lovers cozying up while walking, while listening to Anjan Dutta go “E Kolkata Sholo Amaar”… Despite these, I love the pujo rains too, and I was a tad disappointed when it didn’t rain last year during Pujo
I saw it rain from my Class 11 classroom in St James’ Calcutta. At that time I knew nobody in the school, and nobody knew me, so I would spend all of my time sleeping in class. Nobody bothered to notice, so it was fine with me. The rain outside would cheer me up however, and despite my loathing the grey sky, the grey buildings and the inability of the rain to make its way all the way to the ground, or the classroom window-sill due to the claustrophobically small distance between the school building and the surrounding buildings, I would be happy nevertheless. There was a garbage dump on the street beside the school,which would spoil the effect of the rain, but still…
I enjoyed the rain that transformed Calcutta into Venice in my 2nd week of St James’. I hated my new school so much that I was glad the rain gave me an excuse to miss school for four days.
I have enjoyed the rains sitting in Ballygunge Circular Road CCD with my friends (two of them mainly). I have enjoyed the rain in Park Street, from Bar-B-Q, Flury’s and KFC.
My favorite rains have been, no points for guessing, the Maithon rains.
There would be the school-time rains. It would make the school appear very much like the Hogwarts they show in movies. The lush green trees, the huge playgrounds, the dark corridors lit by light-bulbs, the rain drops coming into the classrooms through the huge windows. And there would be Parents’ Night or Sports Day practices, or Extempore or Debate practices. So I’d just skip classes at length and enjoy the storm and the wind outside. The nice thing about school and the town together was it was a huge school in
a small neighborhood, that wouldn’t even classify as a town, and hence it was very much like Hogwarts. The ChotaNagpur hillocks would give it a very Alpine/Scottish Highlands’ ambience, and the rains would make it appear like a place straight out from the fairy-tale books, a place in the surrealistic realm a la Narnia, Rhye, or Heidi’s grandpa’s cottage on the Swiss Alps..
And how can I forget the home ground rains. Every distant thunder would be a signal for us to get ready to go mango-collecting. The Kalboishakhi would get the yet-to-be-ripe green April Mangoes to fall to the ground, which we had to retrieve before the children from a nearby village had come and collected them. So the Mango-collecting(this sounds weird, I’d rather settle for ‘Aam-kurono’) sessions would occur while it would be still raining. We would make our way past the snake-holes and scorpion-dens, get down in knee-deep accumulated water, and collect the mangoes in our backyard-wood. When it would be dark(it mostly would be-kalboishakhis generally attack in the evenings, after a hot and humid day), we would even have to brave the prospect of meeting a few local ghosts and evil spirits.
Maithon rains would always mean opening of the dam flood-gates. Maithon would never be flooded, for it was hilly, but the West Bengal and Jharkhand districts surely would, when all the DVC dams let their flood gates open. While this action of DVC would invite a lot of criticism from state governments and newspapers, it would be a gala event for us, small towners. The release of the dam waters (sometimes the bridge connecting Mazumdar Niwas to the mainland would drown when the dam would be too full-much to the inconvenience of the Rao Parivar) would mean a local Niagara for us… Ooh! That would be fun! Pointing at the gushing water from the school-bus, politely asking the driver to stop the bus, and relish the view…
I have also enjoyed the Car- journey rains(the variety I would meet in some of the National highway journeys from Maithon to Calcutta or vice-versa, given that two such journeys would be made every four months). Stopping the car, and enjoying the tea/ snacks at a Roadside Dhaba would be immensely pleasurable…
I have always loved the rain for one more reason. There are beautifully picturised Bollywood rain songs… from Raj Kapoor and Nargis in Shree 420 to Saif Ali Khan and Rani Mukerjee in HumTum, I have loved them all and so the Rain songs bring a smile on my face-ALWAYS!
I have always loved the rain, and will always do so…Right now, sweating profusely in this hot summer afternoon in Calcutta, I have only one prayer… “Aay Brishti Jhenpe… Dhaan Debo Mepe..”
April 7, 2009
Ek Bachpan Aisa Bhi
I am in a playground. It is huge, with very many trees. My friends are frolicking all around me. I am not at all interested in the games. Is it not ‘Hide and Seek’ they are playing? Yes, they are… I busy myself in looking up at the next building’s terrace. The building is much taller than my two-storey school building. There are some faces I love, looking down at me, waving at me. Gargi Ma’am asks “Those are your parents, aren’t they?” I nod and reply in positives, with my chest broadened and my eyes glistening with glee. I am sure not many have the privilege of attending a school right next door to their homes. “Dola Ma’am surely has none of her parents so close to her at the moment”, I note with some amount of self-satisfaction. My pained heart is soothed at the very thought of this very misfortune of the lady who had minutes ago told me off for dropping water in the classroom.
My sister and I don’t get along with the children of our colony. We think we are much too superior for their standards, which we are… We both have our perfect playground just at the back of our home, within the bungalow territories. It is our Enchanted Wood, a wood with bonmurgis, squirrels, goat kids(the occasional one that has strayed into this territory), peacocks(common in the early mornings) and foxes(once in a month?) The only things that prevent it from being our perfect Enchanted Wood is that the trees don’t go ‘Wisha Wisha’ here, neither does any of the mango, jam, jackfruit, guava, or the numerous other trees have Lands visiting its top. We don’t complain though. We are satisfied with the serenity, the tranquility of this part of our home. The only disturbance is the ‘Kaho Na Pyar Hai’ songs from the just-released superhit movie coming from the distant outhouses.
I am sitting under the ‘kaamini’ tree. The dew on the grass all around me glistens under the small-town December morning sun. The garden is not very maintained really. Its quite dangerous and is infested my numerous poisonous representatives of my garden ecosystem, especially during the rains. The kaamini flowers have the notoriety of attracting the snakes with their aroma(probably the best smell in the world) and hence I can hear my mother warning me not to choose that spot for myself. I don’t pay heed. The (bungalow-type)quarter is quite far away, anyway. I know Ma can’t see me from there. I lose myself, far away from the ‘real’ world with the possible perils of reptile-fangs piercing into my skin. I am transported to the world of Georgina Kirrin. I prepare myself to meet three new kids. Julian, Dick, Anne they are… Very soon we become good friends. Not after long, I am exploring weird ship-wrecks and discovering ingots of gold in some hidden dungeons in a tiny island called Kirrin Island. I think I hear a bell. Is it Anne’s alarm clock? Couldn’t possibly be … The ‘Famous Five’ have just hit their beds after solving a mystery and earning accolades from the local police. I look up. It is the lunch bell ringing.
Sir Fernandez ,our Class Teacher,and Geography teacher is the art-director for Teacher’s Day. He is not going to come to class. Rahul Aggarwal doen't have to tell me what we are to do. We rush out of class. Our classroom is the classroom in a secluded corner of the school, just beside the bookstore. So it doesn’t really come under the surveillance of the school administration heads coming on rounds. Today it is raining hard, and the rain water has created an artificial stream that leads straight out of the school premises. We tear pages out of our Science notebooks. Fifteen or twenty sheets. Then we create paper boats. (Leeza helps me with mine). We choose the unusual colors out of Rahul’s 101 color felt pen set… We use them on our boats… the Magenta, Cyan, Holly, Plum, Straw etc color boats are divided equally between us. We set them sail on the artificial stream. My first boat sinks even before I can wish it ‘Bon Voyage’. Almost similar fates make my other boats their victim. However, I see ‘Malena’ sailing smoothly past Rahul’s boats, most of which are still floating. It wheezes past them all and soon becomes the first one to go out on the streets. I jump up in joy, and Leeza stands beside me clapping at my victory. Rahul, with a pained expression on his face, explains the circumstances under which his ‘Magellan’ slowed down at the last moment. Leeza booes him. I suddenly notice how beautiful she is..
The Chemistry class is on. Mrs. Bhattacharya is explaining to us the circumstances under which the anode sludge settles down at the anode, and the pure silver rod, acting as cathode, goes on thickening. She is a strict ,but an expert teacher. I am not paying attention though. Sneha Kedia is holding up an interesting looking box and waving it at Nancy Rakhroy. I can’t understand what could be inside the box, and why Sneha wasn’t showing it to me(with her having the habit of presenting one gift to me everyday, all ‘Best Friend’ ones). I take it from her hand, almost by force and open the lid. I find numerous colorful easily-put-onable rings inside it. I get working. I put two rings on my lower lip, three each on each ear,one each on each eyebrow, and one on my nose. To avoid attracting Mrs Bhattacharya’s attention, I hide my face behind the ICSE Chemistry Part I book, and start making weird faces at my classmates. Rohit, Kunal, Ria, Mohana and Kankana break into suppressed giggles. I try desperately to make them stop. It’s too late. My favorite teacher throws one of her favorite students out of class. I stand on the corridor. My dearest mom is teaching Biology in the next classroom.
The Economics teacher asks the other students, “Does he smile all the time?” A mousy looking classmate, whose name I don’t know, replies, “Yes sir, Always. Even when he’s being shouted at. Or being made fun of.” Some intrigued eyes turn towards me. I feel uneasy. I’m not enjoying my time in this fifth school.
It is three in the morning and I am recollecting random moments from my eighteen year old life, not necessarily the most favorite or most important. My school final exams are over and I have absolutely nothing to do. I am severely bored, and hence type down these thoughts. Who says people can’t predict the future? I can! I know what character of the PC keyboard will be used after three words? A full-stop.
My sister and I don’t get along with the children of our colony. We think we are much too superior for their standards, which we are… We both have our perfect playground just at the back of our home, within the bungalow territories. It is our Enchanted Wood, a wood with bonmurgis, squirrels, goat kids(the occasional one that has strayed into this territory), peacocks(common in the early mornings) and foxes(once in a month?) The only things that prevent it from being our perfect Enchanted Wood is that the trees don’t go ‘Wisha Wisha’ here, neither does any of the mango, jam, jackfruit, guava, or the numerous other trees have Lands visiting its top. We don’t complain though. We are satisfied with the serenity, the tranquility of this part of our home. The only disturbance is the ‘Kaho Na Pyar Hai’ songs from the just-released superhit movie coming from the distant outhouses.
I am sitting under the ‘kaamini’ tree. The dew on the grass all around me glistens under the small-town December morning sun. The garden is not very maintained really. Its quite dangerous and is infested my numerous poisonous representatives of my garden ecosystem, especially during the rains. The kaamini flowers have the notoriety of attracting the snakes with their aroma(probably the best smell in the world) and hence I can hear my mother warning me not to choose that spot for myself. I don’t pay heed. The (bungalow-type)quarter is quite far away, anyway. I know Ma can’t see me from there. I lose myself, far away from the ‘real’ world with the possible perils of reptile-fangs piercing into my skin. I am transported to the world of Georgina Kirrin. I prepare myself to meet three new kids. Julian, Dick, Anne they are… Very soon we become good friends. Not after long, I am exploring weird ship-wrecks and discovering ingots of gold in some hidden dungeons in a tiny island called Kirrin Island. I think I hear a bell. Is it Anne’s alarm clock? Couldn’t possibly be … The ‘Famous Five’ have just hit their beds after solving a mystery and earning accolades from the local police. I look up. It is the lunch bell ringing.
Sir Fernandez ,our Class Teacher,and Geography teacher is the art-director for Teacher’s Day. He is not going to come to class. Rahul Aggarwal doen't have to tell me what we are to do. We rush out of class. Our classroom is the classroom in a secluded corner of the school, just beside the bookstore. So it doesn’t really come under the surveillance of the school administration heads coming on rounds. Today it is raining hard, and the rain water has created an artificial stream that leads straight out of the school premises. We tear pages out of our Science notebooks. Fifteen or twenty sheets. Then we create paper boats. (Leeza helps me with mine). We choose the unusual colors out of Rahul’s 101 color felt pen set… We use them on our boats… the Magenta, Cyan, Holly, Plum, Straw etc color boats are divided equally between us. We set them sail on the artificial stream. My first boat sinks even before I can wish it ‘Bon Voyage’. Almost similar fates make my other boats their victim. However, I see ‘Malena’ sailing smoothly past Rahul’s boats, most of which are still floating. It wheezes past them all and soon becomes the first one to go out on the streets. I jump up in joy, and Leeza stands beside me clapping at my victory. Rahul, with a pained expression on his face, explains the circumstances under which his ‘Magellan’ slowed down at the last moment. Leeza booes him. I suddenly notice how beautiful she is..
The Chemistry class is on. Mrs. Bhattacharya is explaining to us the circumstances under which the anode sludge settles down at the anode, and the pure silver rod, acting as cathode, goes on thickening. She is a strict ,but an expert teacher. I am not paying attention though. Sneha Kedia is holding up an interesting looking box and waving it at Nancy Rakhroy. I can’t understand what could be inside the box, and why Sneha wasn’t showing it to me(with her having the habit of presenting one gift to me everyday, all ‘Best Friend’ ones). I take it from her hand, almost by force and open the lid. I find numerous colorful easily-put-onable rings inside it. I get working. I put two rings on my lower lip, three each on each ear,one each on each eyebrow, and one on my nose. To avoid attracting Mrs Bhattacharya’s attention, I hide my face behind the ICSE Chemistry Part I book, and start making weird faces at my classmates. Rohit, Kunal, Ria, Mohana and Kankana break into suppressed giggles. I try desperately to make them stop. It’s too late. My favorite teacher throws one of her favorite students out of class. I stand on the corridor. My dearest mom is teaching Biology in the next classroom.
The Economics teacher asks the other students, “Does he smile all the time?” A mousy looking classmate, whose name I don’t know, replies, “Yes sir, Always. Even when he’s being shouted at. Or being made fun of.” Some intrigued eyes turn towards me. I feel uneasy. I’m not enjoying my time in this fifth school.
It is three in the morning and I am recollecting random moments from my eighteen year old life, not necessarily the most favorite or most important. My school final exams are over and I have absolutely nothing to do. I am severely bored, and hence type down these thoughts. Who says people can’t predict the future? I can! I know what character of the PC keyboard will be used after three words? A full-stop.
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