Jamai Raja

Famous Hindi humourist Kaka Hathrasi once wrote about the son-in-law:

बड़ा भयंकर जीव है, इस जग में दामाद
सास - ससुर को चूस कर, कर देता बरबाद
कर देता बरबाद, आप कुछ पियो न खाओ
मेहनत करो, कमाओ, इसको देते जाओ
कहॅं ‘काका कविराय', सासरे पहुँची लाली
भेजो प्रति त्यौहार, मिठाई भर - भर थाली

But to us Bongs, the SIL is a revered person. We, possibly, are the only people on the planet who celebrate a festival in his honour every year. Sharing a couple of incidents of such a festivity encountered in this lifetime, first as a collegian, then as a father and finally as a father-in-law.

It must be about thirty-five years ago, I was on a train going to Calcutta from Jamshedpur where I had gone to visit an uncle. It was an early morning train and it had started pouring in the Steel City since the previous evening due to a low pressure belt in the eastern part of the country. I put my almost new VIP suitcase beneath the bunk as other passengers trooped in and it was good to see loads of Bengalis. I was surprised to see a majority of them well dressed…the women in bright coloured silks and crisp new tangails with a big red dot on every forehead. Children accompanying seemed to be wearing new clothes but the boring men were in their regular shirts and trouser. One thing was common to all the families, they had a big mithai box and an earthen pot in their hands which I guessed would be either rosogolla or mishit doi.

Despite incessant rains, the train pulled along in good speed. The Indian Railways has a rule, very much like international football, where the referee will not stop the game in the heaviest of downpours until the ball floats on the field. Similarly, the iron wheels also never stop until the tracks are completely submerged. As the train got closer to Calcutta, a couple of men sitting got up and went towards the loo which by now must have been utterly dirty and stinking. They returned in some time but now they were all in crisp white dhotis and nice fancy embroidered kurtas.  The men got a smiling nod from their better halves and some even stooped down to ensure the length of the dhoti was just right.

All this seemed strange to a Dilli-wala like me but it was fun watching the people do the changing act in a moving train oblivious of the falling rain outside. We ran out of luck and the train stopped somewhere at Santragachi. Like the other passengers, I went to the door to see what was going on, only to learn that the tracks near Howrah had been submerged. The railway referee had blown the whistle…Match Abandoned! We waited in the train for some time and then saw people getting off. It seemed the buses on the roads were plying. I took courage and with the other dhoti-saree clan, jumped off the train and headed towards the nearest bus stop. The buses were badly packed but having had my guerilla warfare training in the much dreaded DTC buses, I managed to get onto the foot-board of a packed bus, with my VIP suitcase hanging outside. Some of the dhoti-kurta clan also joined me again on the next leg of my journey. Somehow I reached Howrah in one piece but before de-boarding quickly bought a couple of the tasty jhaal lozenges…tok, jaal, mishti…I never miss these little things in life especially when they come cheap.

From Howrah I boarded a mini-bus which dropped me off near Southern Avenue. The city was in deluge and only hand pulled rickshaws were available but these saw the opportunity and asked for very high charges which I refused to shell out. So I put my suitcase on my head and started walking towards Dhakuria Bridge to reach Jodhpur Park, my final destination. There were many decked up families who were also making their way through the knee-deep water. I decided to take the shortest route available but after a while found myself lonely on the track, the soil getting softer and the water level rising higher with every step I took forward. Suddenly it dawned on me that I was walking straight into Rabindra Sarobar Lake. I retracted my steps slowly and had a narrow escape. On reaching the solid surface of the tar road saw flowers and even a few clothes floating in the lake. I thanked the Lord for saving me from a watery grave and walked ahead.

Finally, I reached my aunt’s place where I was told that it was Jamai Shashti that day, a day celebrated in honour of the sons-in-law who are invited to their homes and treated with best of food and given new clothes and other goodies. This is one day when the son-in-law is treated better than monarchs and the food served will put the best buffets of star hotels to shame. I smiled, as I remembered the men in the train…surely some of them would have reached their in-laws’ homes with or without the dhotis, which might have come off in their long walk in knee-deep water and some of those must be floating in the lakes all over the city.But they would have ensured the safety of the mishti and doi by keeping them atop their heads, after all, it would be a matter of shame for the Bangali Jamai to come to the in-laws’ house without the sweets, especially on such a big day.

The next incident happened ten years later while living in Salt Lake in Calcutta. It was a Saturday morning and,as usual, with a bag in hand I had gone for my weekly bajaar to the CA Block Market. When I went to the regular fish monger, I asked the price of hilsa to which the fellow asked for an exorbitant amount. Startled, I asked the person, why are you charging so much today, and he said in the best Hindi he could manage, “Aaj Jamai Sashthi haai…Bangali logon ka bada parab, iss ka liye daam jaada haai!” (Today is Jamai Shashthi which is a big festival for the Bengalis, that is why the rates are so high).

I frowned at the guy from whom I had been buying fish for the last two years and had always spoken to this person and other vendors in Bengali and here this person thinks I am a non-Bengali and is speaking to me in Hindi. Bengali,despite being my mother tongue, has never been my strong point. Hindi was always for me the language I could speak best. During summer vacations, at my maternal uncle’s home, the house maid would almost daily tease me by calling me mero which is slang for Marwari. She always thought my Bengali sounded like the accent of the Marwaris. I used to fight with her then and today I was terribly upset with my fishmonger for raising doubts on my lineage. From that day onwards I made it a point never to buy fish from that person.  I had learnt my second lesson of Jamai Shashthi  that on festivals, especially Bengali ones, no matter how rich or poor you are, you splurge on food mostly of non-vegetarian kind by paying a bomb and then talk with people, including strangers, about how much you spent and how well you treated the Jamai Raja, as you travel in the bus and local trains, the next seven days.

Life today has come a full circle.  I, too, have a Jamai but unfortunately we could not celebrate this great festival of Jamai Shashthi this year thanks to the lock down and containment regulations. My wife was very sad that she would not get a chance to treat our ‘Malang’ Jamai to the best traditional Bengali dishes. So all she did was to send her blessings through Whatsapp with an assurance that his maha-treat remains intact. The moment the lock down is done away with, I shall rush to Salauddin for the best fish and Rehman for the tender meat and Sweet Bengal for mishti and have the Great Indian Food Fiesta at our Goregaon abode. While we were brooding over the missed opportunity, a friend of mine added salt to our misery, by sending pictures of his Jamai eating so much food that could possibly have fed a football team for a couple of days. Here’s the menu of the fest at Delhi which Sashuri Ma had prepared for her Jamai Babu for his big day:

Lau Chingri (prawns with bottle gourd)

Prawn Curry (no transaltion required)

Bhapa Ilish (Steamed Hilsa)

Katla Maacher kaliya (Carp fish curry)

Potoler dolma  (Parwal with poppy seeds filling)

Dal plus brinjal fry

Green mango chutney

Rosogolla

As if this elaborate menu served on kansha (bell metal) utensils was not enough, in a picture that my old buddy shared, I could see a traditional hand fan (haath paakha)in the hand of a lady which he clarified was his loving wife gently waving it to ensure that the monarch of the day ate in peace with no flies hovering around or the sweltering heat not coming in the way of his relishing the delicacies….by the way, all this was happening in the precincts of an air conditioned room,.

Would you believe that the West Bengal Government, nowadays, also gives Jamais an official half day leave to celebrate this big day!! Being a Bengali Jamai has its own share of perks.

I almost fell off my seat reading this and D was in tears at the missed opportunity. Heartbroken, I asked my friend, “Bhai, how did your Jamai come to your place in this lock down period?” He laughed aloud and said like the Magician PC Sorcar would say, “I conjured the Great Indian Vanishing Trick! I pulled a few strings and was able to get diplomatic passes for my daughter and Jamai to travel and come to our place.” To me, as a student of history, it almost seemed more like Subhas Bose’s great escape from Calcutta to Germany in 1941 dressed as a maulvi. Surprisingly, both, Bose and Jamai Babu had to create diplomatic passes to escape and both got it with a little help from friends at the right places.

Right now, this Gumnami Baba is waiting for the lock down to open up to welcome his Jamai Raja home.

SS

Helpless

These are strange times...of chaos, uncertainty and maybe even despair. Most of us would have felt a number of emotions, including helplessness. This is something that I had written in the initial period of lockdown. While we were still working in the hospital everyday, things were definitely not the same, and they still are not. Contrary to all that may be said, we all know, that it will be some time before things become 'normal' and they will definitely never be the same again...for better or for worse.

She was cured, 

Following up regularly,

Never missed an appointment,

Never failed to smile pleasantly.

A scar was what remained of her battle,

Lost an eye to it as well,

I can only pray that it does not recur,

As I push back the thoughts, try not to dwell.

He was responding,

Last cycle of chemo, laser the rest,

He has no car, train, plane, a village with no drugs,

Wait…just wait and hope for the best.

She cannot fly, she would go every month to treat,

Seemed just next door till yesterday,

Now all locked, all barred, no way to reach her kids,

She unpacks, folds her apron, counts each day.

He finished his five years,

The fresh lot, the young guns,

Ready to enjoy before residency began,

Order issued, stay back, duty beckons.

Her home is in the same city,

Her baby with her in-law,

But she must not go, holds herself back,

And puts on the surgical mask to hide her clenched jaw.

She waits for a call, or just a message,

As she switches from one news channel to another,

With flashing dates, figures, rates and predictions,

Under house arrest, but without her daughter.

He must wait in the city, food will come,

They said it would be over soon,

He did not walk with the rest who left four days ago,

Listened to the urges, prayed it would not be his doom.

He stopped another car, checked the ID,

Nodded, essential services, go on,

Happy to not raise his lathi again,

Sorry to see a brethren, another pawn.

She lights a lamp, he kneels and bends his head,

In their houses, within four walls,

Do not be angry, we still have faith in you,

But where are you, as the world falls?

It is going to be a long night, a long winter,

Or call it whatever you fear,

Helpless, you watch the drama unfold,

A deafening silence is all you get to hear.

Maybe it will be a war to end all wars,

Maybe in a world full of prejudices and divisive religion,

Of racial superiority and unprincipled politics,

Maybe fellowship will be restored in the cavalier population.

And while our hands are bound,

Hope signals and thoughts form an unscheduled train,

Maybe, something will come out of all these maybes,

And all the helplessness will not be in vain.

MS

Kabuliwala

It was a dimly lit room and a stocky man with a beard was sitting behind a small table as a group of people surrounded him. “Everything is in place and it is fool proof plan, so you decide, if you are coming along,” said the man smilingly to others with worried looks.

“Are you sure it will be safe and we will reach home in two days? There is too much of checking going around and the police are checking every vehicle and every person on the road.”

“Look, I have a road permit to drive my truck to Gorakhpur for a road project and my contractor has given me the letter along with the police permission. It cannot get any safer,” said the man as he showed the original papers.

“Our factories are shut for over a month now and we have very little money left. Please reduce your charges, God will bless you.”

“I do not know about God, whether he will bless me or not, but till the time I am here on earth, I need to survive. So, no haggling! I can take with me sixteen men and at Rs 5000 per person, I will hardly make anything for myself. You know the police will be there with outstretched hands at every crossing and if I were to get caught, I will lose my job for ever. So, you decide now. If you think I am asking too much, let me know. There are so many more people willing to pay double the money.”

The men looked at each other and took out money from their trouser pockets and some from inside their shirts. They counted every note carefully for this was a fortune they were giving away for a ride back home. Living in the city had become difficult since the outbreak of the pandemic. Every day waiting for someone to come and distribute some packets of food, hiding inside their dingy rooms with six to eight of them cramped in…even the air inside smelt foul. Maybe, this was their only chance to go back home and live under the blue sky, working in their small fields but with honour, dignity and freedom.

The night before the journey, the men did not sleep well. There was excitement about seeing their families in their villages, there was nervousness about the illegal mode they were taking to reach home and uncertainty about the success of their escape plan. They packed few clothes, made paranthas, packed chutney in bottles and hid the small cash that was left on them in the insides of their trousers what they called chor pocket. And of course took their mobile chargers which were more than a lifeline to them. The whole day they kept playing with their mobile phones messaging people back home, sending selfies and even jokes, at times.

As the sun set, they went to the appointed place where Iqbal was waiting for them near the cement mixer. He walked close to the sixteen men and said, “I can only take fifteen of you. One of you must stay back and I will return the money for the person who will not go.”

 All were dying to go but then Chandu raised his hand and agreed to drop out. He was always skeptical about the success of the escape plan but had agreed to follow the other friends, all of whom belonged to the same village, and had come to the city looking for work together. Chandu, hugged all his fifteen friends as they climbed up truck and went into the hole of the cement mixer. He shouted aloud, “Tell my people, I will also come home soon,” as he turned back, rubbing his eyes dry and the truck started moving.

Inside the mixer it was all dark and the fifteen of them were told to keep complete silence lest anyone outside heard them talk and then they would all end up in a prison. They were also told not to use their phones. Everything had to be done in total secrecy. And after driving for about five hours the truck stopped. Iqbal shouted, “It is time for you to come out and stretch a bit. Get some fresh air and eat something for soon it will be daylight and then you will be holed up inside for the next fifteen hours.”

As they came out of the dark hole, the friends realized there was one more person with them inside. Iqbal announced, “That is Shoib, my younger brother. After you all reach your village, I will drive the truck to the project site and Shoib will go to our native village.” The others were not amused. Iqbal had cheated their friend Chandu from reaching home along with them. On another day they would have fought and beaten up the cheat but not today. Today was the day they had a more important mission, mission to reach home anyhow. After a while, they hopped inside the mixer but fuming with anger.

Without uttering a single word, they looked at Shoib as if he was the virus in their midst. They abused him silently but the movement of the lips and hand gestures were easily recognizable as to what cuss words were being said. Shoib felt uneasy but what could he do other than face the fury of the fifteen angry men. As the abuses went on unabated, Shoib lost his cool and lunged at Dharma who was sitting closest to him and brought his fist down under his eye with full force. That was enough for the other fourteen to pounce on the boy and start thrashing him. Iqbal could feel the commotion at the back of the truck and he pushed the brake pedal and stopped and got off to check. He sensed there was a big fight going on inside. He climbed up and pulled the people apart. He had an iron rod in his hand which he never used. Shoib was bleeding from his nose and Iqbal was shivering in anger, but he controlled himself. He pressed his towel hanging from his shoulder tightly on Shoib’s nose till the bleeding stopped.

Iqbal said something into Shoib’s ears and went back to his driver’s seat and pressed the mixer button slightly. The big mixer moved a little and Shoib went to one side where he saw a large gunny bag with ropes tied on both sides. Iqbal moved the mixer button again and Shoib found himself lying on the bed of gunny bag hanging from top like a hammock as the other fifteen sat below looking up at him in awe. The truck started moving again and as the morning turned to noon, the heat inside became unbearable. But the fifteen friends sat silently, happy that they were getting closer and closer to their destination. As the sun set for one last time, Iqbal stopped the truck again and asked the people inside to come out for one last time. He maneuvered the mixer in a manner that Shoib, too, managed to come out and stretch.

Iqbal, trying to patch up, walked the lot to the nearby dhaba and they ate roti, dal and sabji. Before they went back to the mixer, the friends also bought some desi liquor to enjoy inside to celebrate their escape to victory. Shoib went up to his hammock, as the bottles were opened. Friends made dancing poses while enjoying the drinks straight from the bottle in the excitement of reaching home in the next couple of hours…home, far from the madding crowds to which ,they promised, they would never ever return. Dharma’s eye still hurt and it did not let him forget the blow mighty Shoib had given him. He was still fuming with anger and he pulled out his mobile and sent a text to Chandu, “We are about to reach home soon. The driver is a cheat and he gave your seat to his brother. It would have been so much better had you come along with us.”

Chandu read the message. It was almost 2 o’clock in the morning. By 5 am the truck was to reach their village at Rampur. He got up, not in anger but more in jealousy that his other people were reaching home and he was stuck in the city for who knows how much longer. He went to the police station at Seemapuri Colony and opened up…”Sir, there is a mixer on way to Rampur with sixteen people inside. The driver Iqbal has taken money from all for this illegal transportation.” With the vehicle details in his possession, the Sub-Inspector called up UP Police.

Iqbal was happy that his plan had worked and had even raised the volume of the FM radio playing an old Hindi film song, “Aye mere pyare watan, aye mere bhichade chaman, tujhpe dil qurbaan…” Another two hours and all will be done….just then he saw twin headlights beaming straight at his eyes. It was a police jeep in front with two policemen signaling with their arms to stop. He stopped and even before he could show them the papers and tell them about the project work, the policemen walked to the mixer and with a lathi they banged at the opening….”Saalon sab bahar aa jao…we know you are inside. If you do not come out on your own, we will pull you out and beat you up!”

The terrified men inside came out one by one, all except Shoib. The policemen counted…One, two, three…fifteen. We were told there are sixteen of you. Where is the last man?

The friends kept quiet. One policeman went inside the mixer and also looked at the floor carefully with a torch. “There is no one inside!” Unhappy to have caught one less escapee, the Inspector ordered Iqbal to roll the mixer real hard for five minutes. Iqbal pressed the mixer button and slowly the drum started rotating…slowly at first and then with great speed. When he stopped, the policeman again went inside to check and came out shaking his head. All the prisoners were less than fifty kilometres from home and with Iqbal, they were made to walk to the police station.  

When it had gone all quiet, Shoib came down, still dizzy from the absolute shake he had encountered while holding on to the gunny bag tight. He peeped outside. Seeing no one around, he jumped down and started running. He kept running till he reached Mominpur Gaon and almost collapsed near the well. When he came back to his senses, he was in his grandfather’s house and all the people in the family looking at him in awe. He put a hand inside his chor pocket and brought out a small cotton bag and handed it to Iqbal’s wife. “Bhaijaan has said he will surely come. You start the preparations with this.”  The woman burst out crying. Iqbal had sent money for their daughter’s nikah that was to take place in a week’s time.

SS

PS. This is a fictonal account inspired by a true incident reported in the newspapers.

LIFE IS A BALL

Pass the Ball, Kuttey

How can anyone have a Whatsapp group with such a weird name? This is a new group where I suddenly found myself included and when I realized what this group was all about, I just could not exit. These are members of Hindu College, Delhi, football team which won the Inter-College Championships in 1987. While I was not a member of the victorious team, but having played with most of them, they added me to the group. It was a dream achievement for the team for whom I played so proudly for four uninterrupted years but could never win. And in all the four years, I never scored a single goal in the inter-college championships while I was a prolific scorer in other tournaments. This has remained the greatest failure of my sporting life and a regret that still gives me nightmares even after 35 years of passing out of college.

Photo Shoot

This is where it all began when my father took me to a studio about 56 years ago….my first picture had a ball in my hands. Neither the father nor the son knew that the picture would not change over the years and the ball would become the most important link in his life.

The Anklet

I always loved to play football even as a kid and often played barefoot with boys much older than me. I would have been no more than six or seven when I saw a boy who played well wearing something on one of his ankle. It looked nice and I felt that wearing this magical footwear will help me play like the champion. So next day when my parents left for work, I took out my school socks and with a scissor cut the top end and then the portion around the ankle. Feeling proud of my creation, went to play. Don’t remember if I played well or not but surely the socks were gone for good in just one day’s play.

Ambedkar Stadium

My father would wait for me at the school gate and take me to see football matches whenever East Bengal was playing. And that is where the love of the game grew stronger. Watching players like Monoranjan Bhattacharya and seeing them lift trophies was something that I carried forward as I grew. My friend Buddha and I would make sure we never missed a single match of DCM and Durand Cups from quarter final onwards. Every day, we would reach the stadium, buy the cheapest stand tickets and eat a kulcha-chholey before enjoying the match. Of course, there was trouble whenever the Bengal clubs were playing against sturdy Punjab teams like JCT and Punjab Police and there was a rowdy crowd which would be partisan against us….but we were no cowards and matched them in vocal cords and abuses. Much later, I had the great satisfaction of playing on the sacred field at Ambedkar Stadium for the Delhi Football League.

School Days

When it came to playing for the section, I sometimes would play in the forward line but more often than not I preferred being a goalkeeper. This was not because I was better there but because all others would be wearing nice football shoes and I had none. With Bata canvas shoes, I would slip on the wet grounds and hence preferred to stay back. So all my pictures of inter class tournaments that we won had me sitting on the first row with the ball in hand…almost the same way as my first brush with the ball. I was good barefoot and never tried playing for the school team till I was in the final year in school. I had borrowed the football shoes from a friend and had gone for the trials. The day I first went for practice, the legendary coach of the school, Joginder Singh, asked, “Are you new to the school?” “No, Sir. I have been around for the last 13 years?” “Then why did you not come for trials in earlier years?” I could not tell him the truth. I could run fast, dribble well and shoot with both the foot and so my place as left-winger was sealed in no time. Winning the Inter School Pentangular Tournament and playing an important role in the victory was a high point in the life of a budding footballer.

The Golden Age

In the first year at college, I was determined to study hard and achieve my goal of joining the Civil Services. And as luck would have it, my first year results were so disastrous that I turned to football to seek some joy in life. Again, I got into the team with ease…a forward with a good left foot and speed were an asset for any team. This was the glorious phase and if history books were to be ever written with me as a character, it would be called the Golden Age. Second year in college meant attending minimal classes and by the time I reached the third and final year it was almost zero attendance. By now having been elevated as college team captain, the day in college would start on the football field and end in the canteen with not so healthy refreshment of samosa, vegetable burger and on good days, an omelette made of 4-5 eggs in a burger bun. Post-graduation was the biggest academic farce. I attended six classes in two years, gave sixteen exams and yet managed respectable marks!  Won many a tournament during this golden period and playing for Delhi University was the pinnacle of achievement.

All Work No Play

My friends joked that I will easily get IFS while trying for Civil Services….Indian Football Service. Though the Civil Services dream took me up to the interview stage twice after clearing the Prelims and Mains, the trophy remained out of bounds. Believe it or not, I even had to make an effort to clarify that I had got a job for myself in National Insurance Company Limited, a subsidiary of the one and only General Insurance Company in those days, after clearing an all India exam followed by interview, purely on merit and not on sports quota. Anyway, soon after joining, I went for a trial at the company’s selections in Kolkata, but was prevented by my first boss from wasting valuable office time in playing so the desire to showcase my talent at the Maidan was, sadly, never realized .

It was much later, in my early forties that I played cricket and football for Tata AIG and also won many a victory. This was also the time when I got hooked to watching English premier League on the television and the Indian games now looked so pale and drab. This was  when Arsenal were unbeatable and I loved seeing Wenger’s team dominate…Henri, pronounced as Onri, was God and never missed the match of the Gunners. Then I defected to the other Red club as AIG became the sponsors of Manchester United and Sir Alex’s team of Rooney, Ronaldo, Vidic and Giggs were champions of England and Europe. I still have the calendar of 2009 with the team what was unstoppable. Guess what, I even asked the AIG Chairman, who had come to India, when all others in the room were asking serious questions…”Sir will we get to see ManU in India?”

I completed ten years in Tata AIG and a huge celebration was organized. Two things I still remember was the office organized a huge cake with the Man United logo and one of the boys there got a picture of me playing sketched by a friend of his. I have told my wife that if ever you need a picture of me after I am gone, put this picture and place a ball with a garland… that would be the greatest respect and love for me.

Fifty Five Not Out

One Sunday, last monsoon, the office organized an Inter Department Football Tournament. As I had been warned by my Orthopedic Surgeon and also made to promise by my wife and daughter that I will never ever play again due to a bad slipped disc problem, I went to the field as a manager of the team. But when the youngsters pleaded that I should play, I was ready with my shorts and shoes and took to the field. We stood no chance against the fitter and younger teams so I told my wife that I would be back by noon. We surprised ourselves and went into the quarter finals and so I called my wife to tell her, “I will be back by 2 pm, we’ll have lunch together.” We won again and my time of reaching home was announced as 3pm. “You eat, I will be slightly late.” We beat the favourites and reached the finals and won the championship….finally reached home in drenched condition around 6pm but possibly the winners medal hanging from the neck saved me from the Guns of Navarone.

Bonds Forever

But the most romantic story you would have ever heard of would be of a guy meeting a girl in office and asking her out for a date….and guess where? To see a Super Soccer Match! The complimentary ticket is preserved till date for that soccer match! Though the hair has gone grey and patchy and the game may not be anywhere near its peak, but bonds that were made on the football fields are truly forever…be it the woman at home or  a group of Whatsapp friends called Kuttey.

So that’s my life…it’s a ball!

SS