Crash Landing

Social media is a cruel, cruel thing. In it being unflinchingly kind too, it is cruel. Lives are numbers and facts are updates. I write this because in an entire lifetime of flying regularly, I had never been as upset as I had with the last two flights to and from Chennai, in a matter of ten days. The day we were flying into Chennai, in fact, felt so bad on me that I almost refused to return by air. And then there was yesterday. Even with the panoramic Bay of Bengal and the gorgeous red skyline at landing, my palms were wet, my heartbeat was uneven and I was generally in a state of panic.

Of the many things that I tried to combat, one was that of the utter helplessness of uncertainty. Like drowning in sea, or catching fire. Or being trapped in the stratosphere with guns being pointed at you. I thought of the passengers in the ill-fated 9/11 flights, and those that crash due to technical traumas. After I got back, I decided to study all about aeroplanes, and discussed it with the twins. As luck would have it, they (much to my dismay) began confessing about their various fears regarding height and flights too. And, to speak of regularity, between the three of us, one of us most certainly flies once a month. I went to sleep studying about lifts and force and wings and engine and slept sound to a lovely 8 30 morning.

While I was spending the day with the cousins again, the news of the Russian aircraft crash broke in. The three of us found it extremely disturbing, and discussed levels of uncertainty as is present in girls over thirty and boys who aren't yet twenty four. Death is a dear thing I assume, or is it life, that we hold it so close?

We were planning a trip back to the Delhi winter this December, this morning. We travelled to Chandigarh-Shimla-Manali as well. Then detoured towards Mussourie and finally rested at Kasaul. It crash-landed. Reasons ranged from impossible cold to possible budget restraints. Reason, as the three of us exchanged later over our drinks this evening, was also the flight we had to take.

As characters of habit, we will outgrow this fear too, I am fairly certain, yet, the timing of this crash could not have been more inappropriate. I am deeply saddened thinking about the families of those departed. I hope they have flown well to the next world.

Travel Diary: Southbound, 2015. (Part II)

The South of India is a nice place. I have been here earlier too and having travelled to China, realised, the best way to bridge a language barrier is to speak in your own. It works. Trust me, reader, it does. So, armed with couple of Tamil words to keep us company, we reached Kodaikanal amidst beautiful plain highway roads giving way to winding getaways. The drop in temperature was exactly why we had headed for the hills in the first place. The bungalow we moved into, brimmed with the contents of L's black bag. You name it, and it was there -- salt, sugar, tea leaves, khakra, butter, spices. We sat down to unroll the rest of the plan parchment over Yippee noodles.

L would head for Chennai in two days' time on Monday, while M and mine tickets were done for the same on Wednesday, from Madhurai. Now this was one place I had never been to and really wished to see the Meenakshi Temple. Some faint idea governed within me that it was a place lit up daintily in the evenings. We were slated to visit it on our return from Munnar on Wednesday. The day in Chennai we would visit Mahabalipuram. This was thus the plan. Having finished up the dinner, the three of us retired early to cave in the energy for an active day-out in Kodai.

L was stunned to find the roads packed. The extended weekend holiday had brought everyone to the streets, in spite of which, we managed our 7 kms cycling and walking up and down the not so quaint town. The normal shopping and visiting curio shops later, we returned to cook a fabulous pasta. We built the appetite for which with backyard grown corns. Local vegetables have a calling. Some chopping and card games later, we took in the chill of the night. The next day too, we spent in the town after visiting the Kurunji Temple. Boating in the lake was a delight and we discovered the magic of local fruits in butterfruit (avocado) and passion fruit. As you would get from the tone of this paragraph, it was a very eased out stay at Kodai. Till the last night brought about in me a sudden apathy towards Munnar. I was literally crying that I would stay back in Kodai and L and M didn't know what to do!

Cutting short on the dramatics of the last night, I take you reader thus to Madhurai (http://www.hotelrathnaresidency.com), where we decided to visit Meenakshi Amman Temple with L, and put her on the train, and then leave for Munnar the next morning. This deviation of plan was a regular by now for our driver and we thoroughly enjoyed the temple. In the town we met L's friend who was cute and warm and took us out for lunch. Early next morning, M and me left for Munnar. The drive, as usual, was brilliant and I was not quite ready for the sudden elevation in the Western Ghats. It actually took a toll on my health as did the TN and Kerela checkposts on our driver's! He was harassed, and deeply embarassed. I must add a thank you to the TN police at the check-post for not, yes, NOT, recognising West Bengal as a part of India. I have never felt more foreign in my own country! As we entered God's own terrain, we were stopped because seven elephants had suddenly crossed the path. Ever since, the drive got narrower and greener in patches. There were endless Tata tea and coffee and spice plantations, yet, it was no where close to the drop in temperature as it was in Kodai.

We checked into this lovely place (http://redsparrowmunnar.com) which lured me with its bathroom more than anything else. Like bridges, I have a thing for great loos! The rest of the Munnar day was spent not so well in that the body gave way. I was queasy and unfit and achy all over, feverish too. So having visited the other side of Munnar already, in a look out for a proper place to check-in, we decided to stay put. The next morning, we left for the Attukal waterfalls. Needless to say, I missed L. As we were approaching towards the dairy farm, it started raining heavily and we went in to the lovely CSI Church instead. What it gave was a beautiful view of the valley, flowered in colours that one from the city could never imagine flowers could wear.

As the rain turned into a drizzle, we took the road to return to Madhurai, and were greeted farewell by the similar greens and yellows and oranges and purples and maroons. Veridian and rustic, this stretch remains special because like us, it is distinct in its individuality. I battled the queasiness on our way down too and finally like G had breathed a heavy sigh of relief having crossed the two Kerela and TN checkposts, I too realized, many be this time, the mountains were a tad bit too strenuous on my age. What happened next was no where near to where any of us could have imagined. Read on!

The mountainous hairpin bends ended at a place called Munthal (http://www.onefivenine.com/india/villages/Theni/Bodinayakkanur/Munthal), where I requested G to give me the wheels for the next five minutes. It was five to three pm. Our train from Madhurai was at eight thirty pm. We were well within time and having finished about 75 curvy kms, it was a continuation of NH 49 on plains. As I took to the steering, I felt fitter. This was my first highway driving and the five minutes soon extended to Theni, where we met the monsoons (as sudden as our plans), complete with stormy air and waddling people on the waterlogged roads. I drove on. NH 49 felt like home. I was overtaking trucks and buses with indicators and lights. I have never felt more rush in myself before (may be I did after I wrote The Kitchen Knife). We clocked the rest of the 100 kms to Madhurai with me at the wheels and making it at around 4 35 pm. G requested to drive within the city. As I parked diligently to pass him the driver's seat back, he said in his broken english "Sooo-paah!" and added a thumbs up. Compliment for life that would remain.

We walked into Meenakshi Amman (http://www.maduraimeenakshi.org) and retraced our steps from the day before the last. The live carnatic music of the priests and the travelling of the gods in their palkis was an ocassion to devour! Having done everything on time, we returned for dinner at Rathna Residency and boarded the Pandian Express to get back to Chennai. I was utterly disgusted to find our seats were on the side berths (on ac-two-tier, they are a 'criminal waste'). So, I wrote Part I of this Travel Diary last night on the train. We reached Chennai Egmore early this morning to be recieved by L and get to her home, where I am writing this now.

It is a pleasure to be in Chennai without switching on the fans. We did bring the rains. We return to Calcutta tomorrow where I must find a way back to my thesis. So reader, you must have understood we dumped Mahabalipuram and stayed true to our indecisive planning thorughout. What have I learnt on this trip? Perhaps this that sometimes, the reassuring familiarity of city lights and living is more inviting than bends and plains are, and that as humanbeings, we are only, forever changing, evolving.  I have travelled well. How I wish I were in Punjab this December!

PS: Waiting for that to change too :) 

Travel Diary: Southbound, 2015. (Part I)

Why do I go silent sometimes? Silent enough to not pen down my words? There is a high chance that all of it is because I am seeped in sorrow, and wouldn't it be absolutely wonderful and giving to the artistic cause were it so? Yet, it seems possible because joy has doubled. That risks are at every bend and because daring is what daring does. Good Morning reader. This travel diary is going to be something different from what I have written. At least in the last one year. All my travels have found shape in the form of letters or developed into something more intricate in the grander theme of things. Yet, I tell you, when I flip through those glossy pages of old magazines in fine hotels, the travelogues interest me the most. After premium endorsements, of course. There are those invaluable inputs on where to go, and how to reach, things to do and things to eat, and I wish I were the one bulleting those to-do's.

Ever since I have begun earning considerably so as not to be answerable to anyone, I invest in travelling. Nature has so many stories to unfold that it makes me feel puny, at the same time alive. In the truest sense, what is a vacation, a holiday? I am not one who retrives meanings from dictionaries, hence, I would go by a generalized understanding -- that which is a break from the daily. That which makes me lose track of days and dates. That which refreshes sometimes and saddens often. But surely, surprises always. Reader, here is a view into what I have been upto for the past few days.

This journey began with plannings in excel sheets which I am not an expert in. It was meant to be one of prim and proper exactness. With two of the most unlikely friends to come along to form this holy triangle of southbound sojourn. The two of us ran away from the city's artsy deitification madness to join the third in Chennai, after a palpable flight, mostly through air pockets. All's well that ends well though. The homemade food that greeted us put us back on track with the travel. My birthday-sake, equally mad, mountain buddy had the arrangements of an entire kitchen in her black bag. Treasuring it the most amongst the three of us, we boarded an ac-sleeper bus to Thirunelvelli. It was exciting because it was luxurious, to say the least. The individual screen yielded an array of blue butterfiles in Bahubali which glued us to its insane majesty. We reached the destination after a good night's sleep, couple of hours late to be picked up by the retired Professor of English in his white Polo VW. We brought along the rain he said. We drove two hours into what I believe is the end of civilisation (in the name of wilderness) into the heart of nowhere, in the midst of thick forestland, a place called Manimutharu (http://www.rkvadventure.in). We stopped at a shack which would serve the best, I repeat, THE BEST idlis and vadas I have had in the entire trip. It is called The Coffee Club, and is hardly what the fancy name suggests. Raindrops pouring in through the top and two benches, that is it, that it is. But, reader, what steaming idlis and what crispy vadas!

The founders of RKV propagate about the healing powers of the plantations while telling us of wild animals ('cheetahs, pythons and wild boars') casually, yet we weren't prepared for what a night it would be. Before the night though, came the lovely and generous drive to Manjolai TE, a misty drive into the tea gardens, perhaps a curtain raiser of what the rest of the trip would be like. We were put up at the only cottage, a little away from the main villa. It is a round structure, claimed to be hand-built, with dried cocunut leaves for a beautiful but heavily unsafe roof and a bathroom which was surprisingly modern in housing a WC and a hand faucet, yet complete in the wilderness agenda in having toads for companions. The roof was not attached in any way to the wall (for natural air circulation), which of course did not help in our joint safety versus fear project. Fear won of course. M kept awake for most of the night, while L woke up around 4 am to put her to sleep. I gave her company (bullied and ragged her) till about 12. Why were we scared? Well, readers, this is a thick, expanding, descriptive paragraph, precisely because it intends to highlight how ill-at-ease we are with nature. The sound of silence is deafening, the thought of having absolutely no connection with no one for miles (the owner had sent off his helps thinking I would drink, which would scandalise them), and of stories of cheetahs taking away twelve dogs from the farmhouse is well, a little too much to live with, when out of pages. I did not drink and it was truly intense, that night. The three of us were done and in our cottage by 7 30 pm and the minutes stretched into eternity. The night seemed too long to end. I would end by saying it is best forgotten. 

The morning next, the owner showed us around his not so well maintained air-strip and other activity grounds, which frankly looked too unused to be true and we were introduced to our driver for the next seven days, Ganeshan, in his ac-Indica for the following week. We were relieved to leave the god forsaken place and were heading towards Kodai, where we would put up in L's aunt's bungalow, on our own. As the three of us finally found civilisation in curly handwriting shop boards and bright red Vodafone ads and huge NH green markers, L, from the from seat suddenly said, 'Girls! Kanyakumari is 220 kms away!' To which I added, 'how far is Rameshwaram?' The rest as they conclude, is craziness. Poor M, a perfectionist, an OCD, and purely sleep-deprived, could not believe what the two of us were up to. The car was made to u-turn to take us to Rameshwaram. 'I want to see the Pambam Bridge! Shahrukh Khan drove on it!' this was my driving factor. Plus the fact that I would be on a bridge over a sea. Plainly put, it was unbelievable. The excel sheet which had our initial plans, had Rameswaram towards the end of our trip initially, and cancelled finally. It returned in the form of the daring I spoke of right in the beginning. It was the weekend of Dusherra and there were absolutely no rooms available. The next fifteen minutes were a series of no's from all the hotels we called in. I called someone we know back from my neighbourhood who own a fabulous place (http://daiwikhotels.com/daiwikhotels/) in Rameshwaram, but they too could not give us a room. But they did made us promise to have all our meals with them. Nothing deterred us still. The drive to Rameshwaram, in one of the best. We were enamoured by our impromptu decision still, to take in the sights. And just like that the tender coconuts gave way to sideways of the sea! We made G enter a 'virgin beach' (I use the quotation marks because my chicas enjoy my choice of words), and dipped our feet into the high tide while we were originally meant to be in the lap of the hills. As we prepared ourselves to sleep in the car if the worst came, the General Manager called to inform us that one room was magically vacating that night and we could check-in. This news made us go mad and while G managed to keep the car on the road, he could not understand our shrill shrieks when he said 'Bridge-aa!'

Bloody bridge, yes what a bridge (https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pamban_Bridge)! I have always had a thing for bridges and no amount of explanations, or self study has been able to convince me how they are constructed over the seas. We stopped and enjoyed the blue of the Bay of Bengal in a way blue never pleases in Bengal anymore. And voila! The train, in the track parallel to the road bridge, ushered in. Well, not exactly ushered, so much as lulled by. No words, no capturing by camera can ever articulate my joy. 'My life is complete!' I yelled. 'Throw me into the sea and I won't die with a regret.' I was talking too much, I was overjoyed till I was wondering what would happen if the bridge gave away and I was actually in the sea. This feeling did not last too long as L and me got busy in voicing our joys and M in internalising hers (it is here pertinent to point out that L is older to me by a good six years, while M is younger to me by five). The long ride of more than 2.2 kms on the bridge finally finished. We were captivated and completely content. For us, our Rameshwaram trip was complete. Yet, it was not to be. The temple was shut down because of some special puja while arrangements were made for visiting Dhanushkodi (in the guise of I cannot disclose that). The next morning began at dawn and temple-run was game-over as a matter of our dedicated unananimous decision. We drove to Dhanushkodi (https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dhanushkodi) to meet the dangerous, unvisitied sea and witness the past in broken down structures and the future in its political colour clad construction. By ten we left for Kodai. This time, certainly.

One Day, One Life

Once upon a time in the land of no great opportunities, lived an ordinary man named Surojit Banerjee. With no ambition of either serving the country, or reaching corporate heights, he was complacent in his managerial position with a local shoe-company. His parents lived in a town with their older son, while he lived life with his wife, Mrs Banerjee. Oh yes, he called her Ranu. They had a daughter, who was in standard eight, and a son studying in class six. "Life cannot be better for Banerjee!" he often heard people say. 

Yes. Everyday, he woke up by the alarm to read the headlines and make tea. Everyday then, he went out for a walk and returned to get ready for the store. He had a scooter which guaranteed his travel in relative ease. The daughter was secretive and the son, outgoing, while Ranu, what could one say about Ranu? She was the quintessential Bengali, desirable neighbour who created a whir of gossip wherever she went. Her life centred around the proper raising of her children and tending to her husband. She was suitably educated to impart tuitions and earn herself a saree once in while.

If not fairy tales, certainly their lives were like lessons out of fables. There was hardly any controversy, or any difference of opinion. No dissent towards a unanimous decision and the family looked in complete sync with each other. Thus said, they lived sadly ever after.

Rosy Rockstar

"The Return of Rosy Rockstar" announced the papers. "Book your tables now!", "Early bird wins a date with Rosy and a complimentary glass of rose wine", "Rosy in Roxy!"

Who does these headlines? Rosy could not believe the sleaziness of the bar owners in promoting her return. She was trying on the costumes for the rehearsals. Have I taken the pill? The whole of last week was a lucrative, lubricated one. She slept with everyone, well almost. With Christmas around, a lot of shopping had to be done after all. Her son Praveen (she was born Radha Kumar) would be so happy when she would gift him the yearly membership at the cricket coaching centre. He knew of her avatar. You couldn't hide your very tailored curves from a growing boy, could you?

She adjusted the waistline of her skirt, two inches southwards. Tomorrow, tomorrow I will say 'yes' to Abraham Sir. Rosy stuck her legs to the pole and balanced herself seductively between the pole and her guitar. Subtlety wasn't exactly her middle name. She wore a flimsy throng underneath, flimsy enough for as many as four proposals for this one night. Cyrus Sir is back from UK. His tip will be the highest. Calculatively, she went back with Cyrus. 

Rosy's night was to begin in half an hour. Praveen was delighted with his Christmas gift. The hoots from the bar could be heard from the artist's room. Drunk howlers' hoot. No, this is a hoot of chaotic urgency. "Rosy! Run! Fire on the first floor!" Quickly, picking up her bag Rosy took to the streets in her costume. As the people gathered on the other side to watch the building be gobbled by the flames, they could not but turn their attention towards Rosy. All heat was centred there. All eyes focussed.

Abraham emerged from the bar, and Rosy ran to him. Now was a very good time. He needs comforting. "Oh, Abe!"

"Get inside the car."

They jumped into the sedan and while Abraham made urgent phone calls, Rosy managed his nerves. Stroke after stroke. Like many years ago, Rosy returned to Abe. This time to lap up his lust. Two years later, Mrs & Mr Arnold Abraham booked newspaper space for more headlines. They were re-opening the bar that was burnt to ashes. Rosy took special attention to finetune the headlines. Praveen was handling the wholesale transactions and she sat at the cash. Poor Mr Abraham smiled beside, from his wheelchair. He boasted it was caused because of a fall from the bed while Rosy Rockstar was at it. Men did not know whether to be envious of him, or pity him.

Noel's Evening

The stage was set alive with a rich production. The seats were brimming in a posh, preview capacity. Leela Mistry could not have asked for a better beginning for her auditorium after the renovation. Her family owned the ever so renowned 'Mistry Assembly' and her brother, Noel was playing the lead. Secretly, she had thanked Ismail Khurshid for having selected Noel for the role. He doesn't know the bloody B of business. The sky was clear, like Bandra skies are, interspersed by rare, coffee coloured clouds. It was August. One of the monsoon days that called off the rain.

Noel was nervous all his life. He was born into a legacy of starry business acumen, and genes that professed art. His dust coloured hair and bark coloured eyes put him at a distance with others while at college in Bombay Scottish. The otherwise shy Noel, was a natural performer once the curtains were pulled apart. Most of his memorable moments have been those resounding with applauds. He was nervous. Leela was a go-getter. She scared him. And Mumtaz was not going to be present for tonight. Oh, Mumtaz. They scared him.

The lights went out, and the maroon of the pulled curtains marooned Noel on the center stage. This is it. This one's for you Leela. My best. The following nineteen minutes were enough to finish Noel's career. The preview seats were still full after the intermission out of courtesy and curiosity of how worse he could get. Grab me by my throat, you critics! I am yours.

The headlines splashed with the failure of the debut theater actor -- "Business and art do not meet!", "Space cannot buy one stardom!", "An ASS-embly", "Sister, Share your Stock". Noel had a deep sleep and the breakfast platter seemed complete with that last headline. Mumtaz had been right. Life was the greatest stage show. Belgium for honeymoon and then back to business.

Who Lives in Your Wallpaper?

Over the years, I have given out this idea that 'anger' is a sub-standard feeling, which certainly does not require my attention. Earlier, I used to be this dependent, 'I-need-your-shoulder' person. A heart-breaker shattered it. Another bully rubbished it. I started voicing my views, by when, it was too late for the receivers to accept it. No, I was still not practicing anger-outbursts, but saying 'no', and prioritizing according to 'my' wants and needs. Gave me very many labels. More than any set of birthday gifts in which they were stuck with signed names. More than I was ever 'recognised' for willingly subduing myself. I am now 'obsessed', 'selfish', 'high-handed', 'mad' and oh (my favorite) 'celebrity-like'. By the millions of Goddesses on the roads now, I bloody am! How I bloody wish I were indeed.

It is incredibly tragic that on a festive occasion, I am writing this. Not that I care for the festivity, but because, the break from work means I can put more into the work I like. It is tragic because I have extrapolated from a very astute observation that I found my 'calling'. And, not my 'friend'. When I was undergoing my divorce (a neat game), a wise someone had commented to my very concerned mother, 'Do not bother. She loves reading. She will never lack companionship.' Reading, writing, drinking (coffee late at night and alcohol right in the morning), eating, lazying, working -- whatever be it, go! Find your calling! Before you need to call out on a friend, before you fall out on another. Before you believe that you are selfish, believe that your calling awaits you. Eagerly.

I feel better. Having defeated anger. I am too pricey for it. One day, without regrets, I will leave and not return. Roots are not very good things when you have wings. 

My wings are coloured in an urge to explore. Often it kicks off with an intoxication, not necessarily external. My desires know their limit. I am ordinary but would love to win the Nobel Prize, or the Man-Booker. This pattern of disorder is my wallpaper.
I  s k y w r i t e  ...

Who lives in yours?

A Love Story

How do you know you are different from your mother? When you use the word 'love' with your daughter, and, not just in the signing off address on a card, you sit and you tell her what it is. My daughter, C, as we know her, is a year older. How I wish she were taller instead. As much as she understands the feelings of jealousy very well, she is generous too. She belongs to an unreal world where her set of upbringing-values differ much from mine. C lives with a single mad woman she calls Mom and a golden Labrador (with whom her mom is still not very comfortable around being alone with) called Tucker, or, Tucks for short. 

I would like to believe she ain't spoilt yet, which, unfortunately, is wrong. Her various well-wishers and grans and fans shower cuddly-gooey words at her and save her skin from me, on the rare occasion that I am upset with her. No, homework unfinished, or attended to, is hardly my concern. It is rather always some strange lineage of madness that she would exhibit, which scares me -- she would accidentally keep books in the fridge, and deliberately 'forget' her tiffin box in the shoe rack. C would demand a story sitting on my back, and tickle me till I wiggle out one, and just as I would be embarking on a fantastic plot, she would snore off softly, posture in a loving mess. She knows she has to keep a little bit of discipline on Saturday mornings when Momie is at the laptop station, yet her excited squeals, at having successfully managed to splash a mug full of ice-cold water on (very) poor, old Tucks, is capable of stirring up a storm.

Thus, different from our mothers, when in spite of all such silly events worth sillier reprimands, C gets none. We spoke on 'love' last night, I asked her actually. Here is an extract from our conversation:

'C! Please calm down.' C was jumping from the commode with its top down. You can imagine the echo like victory howls rushing in from the bathroom. Finally, I had to grasp her hands together behind her, pull her to me, switch off the light and show her my You Don't Wanna Mess With Me Now expression, and ask her to finish her sad and cold cup of neglected Bournvita. She looked hurt. I felt guilty. The bloody deadlines were getting on to me. I could have handled this madness gently! She finished her drink, looked quite miserable and went off to sleep, next to me. I decided to call it a night too and slipped in. Pulling her to me, I said, 'I love you, idiotbum.'

Well, one need not go on to elaborate on how a child's smile can melt one's heart. The moment C did that, not only did she do that, she also regained her madness from the bathroom. 'How much you love me, Momie?' Her tiny teeth are rice-pearl like.

'Um, more than Tucks. Why?'

'More than coffee and whooo-iss-key?' she continued. I hadn't a clue where this was heading.

'Yes, slightly more. Why?'

'More than laptop?' as she counted on her fingers.

She certainly meant my writing, but I loved how she asked that precisely. 'Yes.' Pause. 'Why?' No answer. Guessing she was satisfied for the night, I decided to nag her now. 'What did you count, C? Marks? How much did I get?' I must have sounded so lame. 'Please tell me!' Giving up, I tried another question, 'what is love, C?'

Then she turned to face me and giggled. I was really caught in the suspense. 'Momie, when I shampoo with Dove, it is love.'

'What?' What does that even suppose to mean?

'Yes Mom. Now sleep. Tomorrow is Sunday, and you will shampoo with Dove. Love. Hahahahahahahahaha. Dove-Love. Love-Dove.'

'Good night, C.'

What that meant, I still have no idea. I will never have. Except that love could actually mean that -- divine meaninglessness.

PS: She has a calling either in poetry or in advertising. Neither of us shampoo with Dove by the way.

Facelift

I live in a city, once called Calcutta. And I reside in Salt Lake, one of the ex-exteriors of the city, now an up-market residential area. Having shifted here from the tea-land of Dibrugarh, Assam, bred in convent education, breathing in the finest of organic air around, I landed here at a time where the mind is perhaps, most impressionable. Kolkata, as it is in the books now, was only a land of relatives and cousins for me. Slowly, as I began residing here for good, it turned out to be more. Like pages of a thick, undusted book, it began opening up to more light, more misery.

The first shock came in the addressing of every peer as 'tui', and making each middle-aged person your own by calling them the endearing 'kaku-kakima'. In doing so, I struggled. Heavily. It just did not come naturally to me -- the daaks -- so, finally, after intending to try for about three weeks, I gave up. I resorted to Uncle-Aunty. Well, the greater shock awaited me. The people, who, according to Vir Sangvi's much loved article on Calcutta, make Calcutta the city it is, have this gaze, which I daresay, is not comfortable. They could not understand Uncle-Aunty, in spite of calling their school teachers Aunty! This was the inauguration of a cultural gap I am afraid I have not yet been able to bridge. 

The next came in with the newspapers. Again, Sangvi's article points out how even a lower income group family would have subscribed to at least two newspapers and go on to opine about the day's headlines while they travelled to work. Yes, I find it problematic. This over-intellectualizing, over-articulating, over-sympathizing and absolutely under-doing Bengali. S/he is enriched with a point of view where every finger points at others, while not choosing to look within oneself to begin with. Speaking of gazes, a Delhi or Mumbai actually has higher rates of rapes and sexual violence, but they also offer higher rate of 'open' comfort. A woman in sleeveless is not so much glared at, to be made sufficiently uncomfortable here, as in any of the other metros. And that is where the complexity begins. The gaze is befitting of hundreds of lustful emotions, and pro-violation feelings, yet it does not end in the act. It ends in, once again, 'the right opinion'. "Women these days! How they come out to streets and in such clothes!" Yes, women in Calcutta smoke more than anywhere in India, but where? Which circle? Either the humanities section of a premium educational institution, or in clubs or the lavish living rooms of the privilege classes. Which brings me to another thing about this city. Why are people here so angry with the rich?

I named the article 'Facelift' because I am having a difficult time on the roads these days. It is almost Durga Puja. Everyone has become unmaad. A collective frenzy has captivated the city. While inside my auto, stuck to the odoured arm-pit of a co-passenger, I was wondering what would happen if the people one year suddenly decide to have only x number of puja pandals. One each borough. Or something. Or, even better -- nothing. Like a typical Calcuttan, even I am only thinking. But reader, I differ because I act. Since I detest this madness, I leave the city.

I leave you wondering how the city would be if there was to be no celebration next year. The roads would take in the nip of the October air, and have travelers ply like every other day of the year, their new clothes could be flaunted at family or friends' gathering, which could be reached inside a human-time, and nobody would get the 'right' to claim more money, because it is Puja.

Some age gracefully. That is their natural facelift. Unfortunately, I do not see Calcutta doing so. It will have wrinkles, and sagging skin, yet, people will glorify the annual twinkle in the eye. Next year, I will visit Europe again, may be.

Autobiography of a Hashtag

My memory serves to remind me that I was first noticed in what were ancient gadgets called 'Landlines'. I am pretty sure, as I am well reminded, that I must have served some purpose in Mathematics, but as life would have it, short term memory has a long history in me. Not only in Mathematics, I do not even remember to what effect I was used when on those telephones. Perhaps I acted as the redial button? Pass. I do know of my role in the mobile phone generation though. I am a part of the code which enables a command. Does that make me feel special? Not even insignificantly. Hanging on as an extra key, after the more important numbers! In fact, these irrational, insensitive manufacturers, in their bid to save space, sometimes assigned me to a character or a number. The disgrace! I had to be long-pressed to function. May be that is why they started calling me 'special' character. Huh, as if being polite meant you have respected the difference. Users, losers! One-up, yo.

While naughty speakers fingered my boring lines when whispering love into the telephone wires, there would be poets who would be shaping lyrics from emotions. There would be a species called 'writers', I mean. And they would be epic -- in explaining and expressing, in their overall stature. I took to their madness. Coyly, I used to snuggle up to the loving words these writers would unfurl from their pens. The words seemed to dance and float on paper. They were cunning little enticers, one in a chain with the other. Their being together denied me, or anyone, the charm of a relationship with any one of them. I was sad. My life was useless. I watched in wonder and sighed shapelessly. One-all.

And then, on a day like any other, I became a revolution, virtually. Really. Listen, how.

These writers, their madness was curbed into commercialism by the attention-span of the readers. They were now made to write only the core of a concept. Exaggeration, apparently, is an art not many could appreciate. Sigh (too many sighs around my petty life). Elaboration became a passe. Readers became lazy and to cater to them, an even lazier policy-maker uprooted me from my source and flung me at the words to see their end. My edges would cut them through, he believed. It was pointless.

I was, by then, madly in love with words. I picked up the opportunity to finally find a voice for myself. Seeking the blessings of The Assembly of Mad Writers, I achieved a special magnetic power by virtue of which words would cling to me like nobody's business, like a relationship, like life could not be elsewhere. I now have intense magnetic prowess where a single word stays stuck to me and attracts all entries linked to it. Procreation.

My life has found a new meaning in multiple meanings -- my possibilities and popularity are not less than legendary. Yet, I remember, I suffer from short term memory loss! Sometimes my own children cannot identify their parent codes, and vice-versa. Such is life. I cannot decide whether I won or lost. My love spreads to a lot of lives and this is my autobiography. I am one with many.

#LifeOfAHashtag #Autobiography #Blogging #Hashtag #Trending #Writing

Brine Escapades

The distemper on the opposite wall was telling of neglect. She touched it as if it were a lover’s body, revisited. Next, she took in the smell. As she moved about, the layers exposed themselves further. Abandonment, dirt and rodent extracts gave it a very haunted essence. Yet, as Nalini moved into the colonial styled house and pulled apart the heavy curtains to open the window, a flush of air and soft dusk sunrays hit the floor of the living room with the warmth of life, of a time belonging to the past. On the flight, as she eased out of her seat-belt, she longed to get back to her past. She used up all her leaves for the year to come to Candolim. The call had said rather pointedly that her sister was found dead. 

Tarini. She was two years younger to her, and the more flighty, wilder one. Having chosen to remain in their hometown in Candolim to pursue bartending, Tarini bagged the offer at the Taj and was doing really well. Ma and Baba could never understand her flair, and distance from intoxication. If anything, you were all about consciousness, Tarin. What, then, went wrong? Pieces of school memories, cycle rides, first love letters and disco dances returned to throw her in a slumber. The incessant in-flight announcements woke her up. Their parents were long dead, and Tarini had decided to live single. ‘No one understands a woman at a bar, Null, forget being behind it’ she would say. True. Wouldn’t have anyone call me Null anymore.

Lingering relatives have the reputation of being a pain, but at the time of death, they rise to power. They impose, they suppose. Nalini thanked the lord that she would not have to face any of these. Yet, there were the neighbours. Unwanted, self-appointed guardians. They would expect her to breakdown and breakaway and be dramatic. None of which she was capable of. All of the last night, after the phone call, she immersed in the depth of the red wine and did not know when she almost finished it. She drank herself to sleep. Her little sister was no more alive. How happy she was the first time when Ma-Baba brought her home. She woke up, packed her bags and left for her office. From there she went straight into the airport after that and took the first available flight out from Delhi to Goa. Once in Candolim, she had to settle the last legal rites of Tarini at the Police Station, and signed her body which was already assigned for donation. She refused to have a look. From the staff-quarter in which Tarini lived, Nalini picked up her things and the key to their house and headed towards Elgin Street.

This was the house they grew up in. The rooms only housed memories now. Tomorrow I would visit the graveyard. The Mariam Paul parents lay there, aloof from the lasting pain they left behind. When Nalini had decided to go to Florence to gain her degree in Architecture, the parents concluded that she was being a rebel in her libertine ways. She then settled with an excellent job as the Chief Architect at Synchromats & Co., and when she told them of her living in with Saeed in New Delhi, her parents cut off all ties with her. She did not cry. Only Tarini remained with her as the living link with Candolim. After Baba, Ma died too. Yet again, she did not cry. Not once. Not even last night, when the news of Tarini’s death reached her. This morning as she was packing her bags, she did not cry.

She was now in the kitchen and had to use a lot of strength to open the back door. Rusts aside, it needed a lot of attention. The distraction was because of what lay ahead. She finally stepped out to the veranda opening to the backwaters. Memories flooded in. Little Nalini, and even tinier Tarini were playfully swimming. Ma-Baba sat watching them from the verandah. They would race till the DeCulpa’s bungalow stairs. Robert would time himself by the first floor window of their palatial house to see the girls. Where are you, Robert? Why didn’t you follow me to Florence? Even with your limp, you could have, you know. And just like that, she felt a lump in her throat.

Nalini Mariam Paul finally teared apart. She could not understand whether it was Robert, Ma, Baba or Tarini who brought it about. Maybe it is just the backwaters. 

Letter to Goddess II

Dear, dear Goddess,

I return to write to you right at the eve of your visit to this frantic land, you call home. How do you? My last letter to you, last year, was one in which I wished you a happy vacation, but from the sight of it, I hardly believe you have one anymore. From the graphic mountainous range when you descend, do you not feel the immediate difference that awaits to engulf you in the name of celebration?

You call this home? Where banners garland your welcome in uncouth, distasteful arrangements? Where roads are packed with plastic happiness and loud lights of unmanageable debt? How much has changed since the first time for you, Goddess? I find it hilarious that the live effervescent sound of the dhaak is replaced by cheap recorded tracks out of movies, and people still insist that such grandeur is all for providing employment. Really Goddess, your devotees need a lesson or two in moderation.

You have been impressively kind to me for the longest time that I can remember. You are the face of strength that I sometimes wish to hand-hold. In fact, you are most intimately mine, more than ever. Yet, I cannot but feel immensely sad at the thought of your plight in the frenzied sea of faces. Well, if you can manage to see them past their camera-phones anyway. Smart, Goddess. Smart is what has happened to this age. We are so smart that we fail to catch the nod of disapproval you may hint at us. We are overjoyed with the power of the 'instant'. Why, even you took ten long days to demolish demons! How do we then dare to believe in the longevity of anything which is a product of the 'now'? It is foolish. It is extremely naive. And it is pathetically tragic. In spite of the legend of 'smart' this is what we are reduced to -- unthinking, insensitive blokes.

Or, like me, terribly impassioned to do something about this carnival of civil insanity, yet managing nothing but an escape. This time too. Goddess, as your arrival approaches, my departure nears. I go to the quaint hill stations to refill my system with some peace and comfort that the last two weeks have assaulted. I think of you. You, on a truck full of drunkards, headed by a lead of even more drunk dancers. It is sad. Your newspaper-ed back, unattended; your familial attribute overexposed and left unfelt to, in the hands of the 'seasonal art'; and your clay-clad costumed being -- one with the water, forgotten in ten days' time.

I, on the other hand, will come back to the vacant lots of post-celebration, full of love. What is this, but your kindness?

Should you feel out of place this vacation, feel at home in my heart,

K.

Many Lives

The sound of the ignition felt like a song. Shekhar chose the mercury-plated sunglass, put it on, stiffened his collar and shifted the gear to second. The Elantra slid down the underground parking space. He parked it perfectly between a black big car he could not identify the brand of, and a red Mercedes. He opened the glove compartment and looked for something, almost urgently. Without much luck, he kept back the sunglass, beeped the car lock and walked up the stairs. He returned to something he would not do often. He opened the car and burst one of the red balloons lurking harmlessly in a bunch in the back-seat.

As he walked up the stairs, the logo of The Windsor Group glittered bright through various nooks and corners. Yesterday, he came out of a white Porsche and could not pronounce it clearly. Saying he rode the 'Posh' was enough. He found way more than what he was looking for in the glove compartment there. Four sticks off a Benson & Hedges, an ironed white handkerchief and a silver pen with a white dot. These people will never find out. They are way too carelessly rich for it, he thought to himself to justify the act.

Each dawn, Shekhar would religiously manage to wake Rekha up with sloppy greetings of such tender sweetness. That was all that his purpose in life was. He would often get a warm embrace in return, as she left the bed to begin her day at Rita Kamani's studio. She would slip into delicious slumbers as she helped put on bridal costumes on probable brides. As one after the other slumped on the floor, failing to touch the bride's heart -- "Oh it is too pink! I want an onion shade", "Naani would kill me if I settle for such an ill-fit!", "The self-embossing is bit too subtle" -- Rekha would pick the clothes and put them in their respective corner waiting to be ironed back. This habitual smile of affectionate understanding, and caressing the silks and georgettes felt like evenings of events unfolding unto her. She would be draped in one of Miss Kamani's creations and Shekhar would come to the occasion in one of the big cars, in clothes that grooms are shown wearing in glossy magazines. They would exchange heavy rings under soft lights and the celebrations would involve white tiered cakes and green bottles of champagnes, none of which she could either pronounce, nor spell. Sometimes, his phone would ring to inform him of an immediate decision he must make, so she would wait at the venue. She went back to Shekhar only on Fridays nights. On Saturdays, they found a joint off-day after two years of waiting.

The first miscarriage made them more ambitiously ingenious than ever. They enrolled for Spoken English classes and sped up their service career. The second one brought them closer. They slipped into a location of permanent improbable moments. The saving grace perhaps, was that they slipped into it together. Once a week they would be alive and living, in the presence of each other. All the many lives they led alongside, could not erase the one common sorrow in their togetherness.

Writing a Letter

'It is your forte', said one, while the other agreed with, 'it takes a special flair. Perhaps in your case it is genetic.'

Hell yes. I write letters. And that is what I do best. Fictional, metaphorical, categorical, even creative. What is it about writing a letter that makes it so special? It is after all only a conversation, and often one-sided at that. Or, at the most, an imaginative response to a reaction.

Distance asked for a letter. Technology deleted its essence. Love called for it to indulge in. And then, one day, it plummeted into a passion, which over-lookers said was actually an obsession. How the hell did it matter. It did not deter my constant addressing of name-place-anything but an animal-thing. We grew onto each other, without a pen or a paper. It became my voice. A voice that so long would often tremor in indecisiveness. The letter allowed such discrepancies. It was, after all, personal. Even though hundreds of unknown numbers went on to read them. Some, very saintly, even proposed the voyeuristic element of doing so, and stopped reading. I deliberated a closure too. Yet, the letter writing returned. Like I was on a train track I could not get off, it was my journey, not the end-point of where I reached.

While it is only a casual conversation, and not the skeletal models of learning found in grammar books, a letter, unlike a conversation, demands attention. The halo that invisibly hangs over it, is pious, even infatuating. It benumbs the recipient to believe in the sanctity of words, however sinful or deceiving. Not the bill asking for an emptying of pockets, nor the application which wishes for a positive response, the letter is predictable in that it unfolds surprises. The accomplishment of having someone who would listen patiently, and keep the opinions to himself for the moment is a rare bliss. Yes, what a letter does is lets you have the last word.

Till such time a reply is received. And in that gap of not receiving the reply, I become the Omnipotent and Omnipresent narrator of shared instances. Writing a letter -- for self, or for someone else -- is an isolated picnic, between me, my feelings and my words. It isolates to remind me how complete I am, selfish too, but content. The last word after all belongs to the one who signs off, doesn't it?

Old Roads, Old Reads

"It was the last day of last year, 31st December, 2012. I left my house sharp at 9 20 am, a crispy semi-wintry morning and took a direct rickety-blue-tin-bus ride to Shyambazar from Salt Lake and walked the Sunday special pet-bridge (now lovingly called so by me) and reached Women's College, Baghbazar under half an hour.

Up on wrapping up my three hours teaching assignment, I switched on my mobile phone to find out that I was expected at yet another educational institution post 2 pm. This one was located in the complete opposite end of the city. I wondered which way to take -- tram to somewhere then bus and an auto? No, that would be too many breaks. How about a walk to the tube-station to tube it to almost-there and then an auto...aaargh, I was way too lazy for the tube station stairs. I kept walking as I was calculating the most resourceful means of indulging in my laziness, when I found myself in the cacophony of conductors yelling to themselves about their lunch session.

I had stumbled upon the 240 bus-station. It must be here mentioned that from the time I came to Calcutta (yes I still cannot bring myself to call it Kolkata), I always desired (along with my friend Shans) to take a complete tube-ride, which would mean something like travelling from Dumdum to Tollygunge (the overground metro wasn't constructed then) and back, with no purpose! The purpose would be undertaking and completing the ride itself. It hasn't yet been, sadly.

Anyway, so I stumbled upon the 240 bus-station and almost as if it were always meant to be, I ignored the back-pain it could entail and hopped on and sat in the last seat (an eternal favourite), to begin my journey from North to South! And no changes mid-way. I was so happy that I completely forgot to inquire how long the journey would take.

The bus began rattling along with the music from my ear-phones. It turned right from Manindra Nath College and my series of I-AM-SURPRISSSSSSSEDDDD started when my eyes set on the once-I-had-heard-of 'Boroline House' on Girish Chandra Avenue which wouldn't be an event to record unless of course its walls weren't acrylic painted, and the spotlessly clean shop of (at least from outside) and called Nobin Chandra Das 'inventor of rossogolla'. I conditioned to open my eyes w--i--d--e to drown in more interesting sights and sounds. And then the next lightning struck when I found out that Jaipuria College was on the same stretch. It wouldn't be quite that enlightening unless I hadn't been advised to reach Women's College via Girish Park, something which I could from Shobhabazar itself! Huh. And then the bus reached the famous kosha-mangsho five-point crossing.

My 240 next treaded upon the Hatibagan/Bidhan Sarani road, with trams trolling an inch apart and people selling their wares the other inch apart, crossing Scottish Church College, Bethune College and Nokur (the GRAND sweetshop). It then took a left and I then realized the lo---oong route it was going to undertake via all possible corners of Calcutta. I geared my patience to its best standards and smelled in the familiar smell once the bus turned right into Amherst Street/Maniktala. The smell was of familiarity, of bulging stomached men sitting on raised white mattresses, surrounded by iron and steel bars. This went on for sometime till I crossed North City College on my right and after about a minute crossed St Paul's College on my left, to turn left. The bus then got up on the great Sealdah Bridge. The 'Sealdah' bit of it was screaming out from the station's hoarding. It is monumental, the queue-the energy-the time showing on top. The constant crowd too. 

For some weird unexplained reason I always believed that Moulaly-Entally cannot be availed by anything other than mini-buses. I was obviously wrong as my 240 zoomed in by the curvy lanes of Moulaly past Sealdah and I saw this fair of shoes drooping down to the street -- shoes, sandals, belts, wallets -- to take me into Entally now (without wearing a pair). And having passed a cancer hospital with people smoking incessantly and buying fresh cut-fruits served in leaf-plates outside it, I realized I was approaching CIT Road's Ladies Park. This I mentioned because I always wondered what were the stories behind the nomenclature of institutions like 'Women's College', 'Ladies Park' etc. I still haven't found mu curiosity quenched. And suddenly, the haloed-handsome DBPC (Don Bosco Park Circus) circle was turned towards the snooty Lady Brabourne College stop. The bus halted for the maximum duration here, Park Circus.

Till here the observations were very, very unique, everything had something to speak, something of its own. I next got onto APC Road and the language changed. Constructions, tall scrapers, offices, and well-lit branded shops led onto Ballygunje Fnaari, a borrowed identity, I can see anywhere in the world! We went past South Point School's unimaginable narrow lane and onto Gariahat Bridge. Now then, I did manage to look below into the serpentine stop of coloured cars, buses and autos waiting at Calcutta's happiest-signal, and many-many banners, perhaps the most bengali ones -- this saree shop and that, to land into a sudden peace brought over by the imposing RKM Institute of Culture's building. I have forever loved its colour. Grey.

South City College was left behind and I got up on the Dhakuria Bridge intently looking at the AMRI site. By now I was trying to finger count the number of colleges I saw courtesy one bus-ride when the bus had to stop mid-bridge owing to a jam in a manner in which I could look out of my window directly into the remnants of broken windows and an achingly silent hospital premise. Any hospital is not a happy-feeling. This one, particularly, reminded me of a known demise. But the weight of the sorrow seemed to be present in the unknown demises too. Something happened and I could not focus on the rest of the journey across Dhakuria-Jodhpur Park-Jadavpur PS anymore.

I found the city celebrating the coming of a new year starkly contrast in to the AMRI incident. Some deaths are so deadly. If one lives one must die, yet, sometimes the most tragic ends come as accidents, which could be avoided. I pray for those families, there is nothing else I can possibly do. I also wish to somehow spread consciousness about safety, cleanliness and tolerance. I guess peace and happiness would naturally follow. But like most things I know not, this too I do not.

My one long cherished desire of completing one full ride was over in the next 5-7 minutes. But the journey somewhere effected me in layers. My city survives every single assault it faces -- of dangerously dilapidated houses to fire mishaps. It perhaps survives it all with the renowned sweetness of simplicity that is spread over the city in sweet-shops, or with its passion rolled in roll-shops, or with the ease with which tea is available at every nook and corner at less than two bucks, or the education once again not concentrated on one part of the cityscape.

It was such an enriching ride, in directions of the roads, and thoughts.
January 3rd, 2013."


I had tried to essay the wonder of a simple bus-ride couple of years back. On returning to read it earlier this evening, I was tediously overjoyed to find that the roads have remained the same, even though I have graduated into someone who would hardly board a 240 now. What does a memory do? Wake one up into the present, after a sound feed of lived past. Amidst all the dissatisfaction I have for my city, I like its character. It is aging and old. I teach at Scottish Church College now, and the roadside tea costs more than five rupees per cup and I do not drive to college in order to avail the tram - receding the pace of life all around it. A deliberate pause to take in all of life - faces, stories, journeys. The road is ready to give more than you can sometimes take in.

Letter to Chhuti XVII

Chhuti!

It is October! How can there not be a one to you? All day through, all I do (with all my heart), is either write mails, or think and plan about leading a life as a Lady of Letters (hence, writing/typing letters/mails). I am about to confess something rather arrogantly now -- I absolutely delight in the epithet. As thirty three arbitrary things-to-do unfold their seemingly harmless claw, I fail to fathom the allied danger. On the complete contrary, I bask in the satisfaction of conveying in precision what I perhaps, could not even think of. Letters complete me.

As do you. How many days has it been, months exactly, that we haven't met? Do they matter anymore? I meet you sixteen times over through the letters written and each feels as adventurous as new. Yet, it is, as I began with, October. A month ushering in categorical insanity in the city. Roads are outright narrower and people flock out with unmitigated enthusiasm. The high point, however, remains you. The reason to run away from this certainty of celebration -- to find my own. This time it will be the forests and hill stations and seaside and a lot more of unplanned travelling. I am thrilled.

Bags, they say, pack our belongings. For what is the use of all those distance covered and miles measured if at the end what remains is the nagging thought of the obligation of returning? Only with you the deadline evaporates. How nice it would be, instead, to engineer winged possibilities -- of a life punctuated with a regular dose of you, and not such hurried, rushed ones. Some more you, and many more letters. Occasioned by the impossibility of desires. No, bags hardly pack our belongings.

Basking in the glory of your premeditated flavour and my unpremeditated little joys,

K.

Anupam's Letter

Abhijit,

I am now a retired bank officer and I hope my savings has helped you more than given you a chance to complain about. When I intended to begin this letter, I thought to address it as 'Dear Son', as in grammar books model pieces demonstrate. I refrained. That is pretty indirect and impersonal as I have never indulged in those excesses. You have probably housed a grudge that I am not your 'Daddy' with whom you played cricket and discussed football goals and had heart-to-body conversations with. Like with my father, I believe, I too moulded up in the manner of traditional fathers. This is my first deviation. I hope it does not embarrass you too much.

You have gifted us quite a hefty amount this festive season. Perhaps, it outdoes the cumulative amount of what you were given till the last to last year. Thank you Abhijit. More than the amount, the gesture is genuinely generous (I may not be able to spend it all what with my calculative nature). Your Ma, on the other hand, insisted I take her to buy the 'medical-shoe' which costs 'the bonus of all our three servants put together'. Since it is your money, I could not convince her otherwise. I took her to Bata, for the Hush Puppies Body Shoe. She selected a model which comforted her senses and soul more than her sole, and thank you once again. The smile on Ma's face, coupled with the pride 'My son's gift' was precious and rare (I did not tell her that).

While we spent a considerable amount of time at the store ('We must not rush into such a decision, it is quite an amount we have come to spend after all,' Ma had warned), I overheard a conversation between two girls who were trying on various shoes. 'I want heels!', 'Ma-Baba must not know of the price!', 'The colour is not feminine!', 'This is like putting my feet on a loaf of bread!'. Women can really come up with a range of adjectives and phrases of precision in order to articulate their praise, or condemnation. Ma was busy too, 'I want the navy blue shade'. As the cornucopia carried on I noticed how one of the price-tags slipped off a pair of shoe that the girls were trying. They had already selected two pieces. The salesmen were really egging them for more. And you would know from the look of them they were not the kind to just come and go. They meant to buy. The price-tag was picked up by one of the salesman and returned at the cash counter to notify the computer generated bar-code, or something to do with the digital noting down of the piece. This was where I slipped back to my past, and what I never shared with anyone, I wish to tell you today. You must be bored of the length of the letter, but don't worry, the main matter itself won't take too long.

Abhijit, as Ma has told you many times, I began my career as a Bata salesman even as I was only fifteen. There were no issues of  'child labour' in those days and I got the job on the grounds of wanting to learn English from the Manager-Babu at the store. I guess he could not shudder away the pride of bringing up a native in his way. After the whole day of being on my feet and at everyone's feet, I used to return home to your Thakma and her wholesome dinner of boiled rice and potatoes. Dal would come once a week, and eggs, once a month. I remember the approaching festive season of that year. I helped the sales soar. People liked my childlike enthusiasm and youthful zest. It was contagious, not persistent. Such heavy words have remained with me from Manager-Babu, who at his lunch, would go on to describe me. As the festivities drew closer, my wish to bring home a pair of slippers for Thakma increased. But I could not afford one. And then one day, like yesterday, one of the customers, while trying on various pairs, accidentally tore off the price tag. In the rush, I immediately took it back and pushed the pair into by tattered school bag. How many times would you have someone do that to a slipper of the same size that Thakma would fit into?

There was no software billing those days, but manual stock taking. The pair of course made its mark under 'Missing and/or Misplaced'. That night after dinner, I gave Thakma the slipper. An overriding lack of display of affection runs deep in your bloodline, Anupam. As the slipper fitted her perfectly, quite unforgettable with the simultaneous glow in her face, she took a second to realise how that could have possibly been hers. She opened the one on her left and gave me a solid thrash with it. 'Do not do this ever again!' she had said. And wore it back.

I had a very good sleep that night, once I did. My petty theft was never caught and in the next two years I became the Assistant Manager of the store. It was Manager-Babu who insisted I pursue something more intensive with my persuasion skills and suggested banking. I did quite well even though I took sometime to understand accounts. Thakma wore a lot of comfortable shoes thereafter.

Anupam, I never had anyone to share this story of theft with. Your Ma would never understand and other people would focus more on the growth from Bata to Bank. I considered myself very smart night to have outsmarted Manager-Babu. Yesterday, the return of the price-tag to the cash-counter brought back this piece of memory and this wish to tell it to someone. Surprisingly, I thought of you. Thank you for reading and thank you for the gift.

PS - I bought a black Pringle t-shirt with the money you sent. There is of course more. I will buy a Teacher's 50 with it. 

PS 1 - I hope Malini is well. Ma likes her. I always did.

When you return from your vacation in Hampi, I hope this soleful letter (persuasion is a lot about using language) finds you in the best of mood!

Stay well,

Baba.

Crosshair

Her white cotton saree was threadbare. ‘Costumes would determine the appeal and hence the plainness’, she had been explained by one of her teeth-clattering, in white hair and saree, in-law. It didn’t matter whether she wore the wedding red, or the casual blue, the grave white, or nothing at all, she was just one of those who were meant to mesmerize. External elements of palette, fabric or ornament did not matter. Everyone would end up reducing this charisma to the ‘air’ around her.

Losing a husband was one of those things that came her way like the match had, in the first place. Straight out of stories that one grew up on, a poor farming history, an ambitious move into the nearest town, and a resulting failure at a business into which all of life’s savings had been invested, Janak Ram only had his daughter remaining to trade-off. Narayani Ram, schooled till books could no longer hold her interest and she could somehow manage a signature, was thus eventually married off to Seth Akash Nath, also a struggling Seth. A month of distant nightly adventures later, he was found death one morning, not responding to his bed tea. Doctors confirmed an orgasm caused it. They did not have any other medical terminology and concluded politely that too much excitement must be the reason.

Narayani cared not a bit, nor had she teared up. She was used to too many things happening around her. And she was but in her late teens. The only thing which interested her ever was the town’s parlour that she was sent to once a week by her in-laws, for a facial and a massage. They say even when money runs out on a zamindar the ego does not. The new bride had to keep shining. The parlour walls were stuck with posters of Madhuri Dixit and Sridevi and Juhi Chawla. And Mithun Chakraborty and Amitabh Bachchan and Salman Khan. As her face was in their hands, Narayani slept into a world of living with the stars.

Four months after her wedding, she was once found in her threadbare white cotton saree. By the parlour man who came asking after the welfare of the Missus. He was instantly smitten by her raw, wild beauty. While she brought him a cup of tea he confided how she had the making of another star. ‘One photo shoot and you could become the next Madhuri Dixit!’ She smiled, delighted. The death of her husband had brought upon her no other lack but that of the touch with the stars. She asked back, ‘Really?’

‘Yes, Madam.’

‘What do I have to do?’

The next Saturday at an hour when parlours are generally infused with lethargy, Narayani made it to New Look Beauty Parlour. She was given a welcome drink. No, it was not mixed with any intoxicated secret potion, nor was she made to strip. In fact, Joginder gave her a change of clothes and was quite nice to her, allowing her the privacy of a closed room for changing. It was, however, Narayani, who, once the first ten shots were taken, was unable to restrain herself. The dark room and the man’s kind and friendly words led her to take off her blouse. Joginder was beside himself with shock. ‘I think we could use one without this for more effect.’ She knew what that would entail.

Joginder came near her to set the saree and found himself locked in her lips. Each hair on their body alive with attention. The teenage desires choreographed for the first time in a dark room, with clothes. Once they were done, Narayani left the studio, the exposed roll of his camera in her clutch. ‘Shoot me soon.’