Ki Mishti...On a Sugar Trail

My Hindi teacher in school, Mr. Yadav, would often repeat a joke that the easiest subject you could choose to do your PhD would be on Abuses in Bengali for they have a handful…tumi sh..la boka ch.. a, har..m jada and shuorer bachcha…and of course the most difficult PhD would be to do the same in Punjabi.

So when you hear the term Sweet Bengal, is it the sweetness of the language or the multitude of mishti that you can get here, is difficult to say but for me a walk around the city of Kolkata tells me that this is undoubtedly The Diabetic Capital of the World.  Having some time in hand in the evening, after a series of tough meetings with insurance agents, did a quick search of Mr. Google to find out the most famous sweet shops in Kolkata. Now this was not difficult for Mr. Google to answer but for me to select from the four million options, it sure was. So I zoomed in on the top rated and common to all searches, four of the shops. And so began my mishit trail on bus, metro, tram and my ever so loyal and loving two legs that never fail me.

Stop No. 1: Bhim Chandra Nag

Took a Metro to Central…I must say that even after over thirty years now, the pan spitting Bhadralok has kept the Metro as clean as ever. As is usually the case, I, too, walked out of the exit which was the wrong one and so had to walk longer to the shop but it took me via an interesting place…Firingi Kalibari set up over 500 hundred years ago by a European called Anthony who became a bhakt of Goddess Kali.

Established in 1836, Bhim Chandra Nag’s sondesh is supposed to be the ultimate. In the picture below you can see the 6^th generation of the Nag family and next to it is the famed Cooke & Kelvey clock which was manufactured in Britain about 160 years ago with the dial in Bangla and is still working fine.

Stop No. 2: Girish Chandra Dey & Nakur Chandra Nandy

Asked an old man about the bus to take to go to Ramdulal Sarkar Street where the shop is situated. He told me that all buses will go there but ask the conductor to help you get off one stop before ( aagey) Beadon Street. So I jumped aboard the blue bus plying on Kolkata streets with the conductor shouting…aastey (slowly) and tara tari (hurry up) in the same breathe….bought a ticket and asked Mr. Conductor to let me know “ Beadon Streeter aagey”. The bus moved picking up people at every stop and hurrying when our man would call out to the driver, “Sargent aachey” meaning the Police Sergeant is around so don’t stop. Anyway, he showed me the bus stop and I realized the conductor took me to be a Khotta or Meyro… these are Bong colloquials for someone from the North or Marwadi and ‘aagey’ for this section was ‘after’ and not ‘before’ unlike us Bengalis. So my walk became longer. Asked a few people about the street but they all seemed unaware of it but the moment I said I wanted to go to Nakur’s mishti shop, surprisingly everyone knew the way….shoja, porey daan dik (go straight and then turn right). Indeed this city is unique where names of streets do not matter but mishti shops are the landmarks here.

This shop, established about 80 years ago, got its name from the father-in-law (Girish Dey) joining hands with son-in-law (Nakur Nandy). This famed shop resembles the wine shops in Kolkata with grills all around. You need to order and pay across the grilled façade….not very much like a welcoming mishti shop but the people don’t mind it, they love it. The sondesh here again is the thing to die for and they have over sixty varieties at any given time. While buying the sweets here, I heard the mellifluous voice of Manna Dey and so turned around to see a memorial built in his name with  a bust and fountains  around it and his songs playing round the clock….Kamaal Kolkata.

Stop No.3: K.C Das

Everyone has heard about this sweet shop of the best rosogollas in the world from sponge to diabetes variety. So took a tram going to Esplanade but midway when the conductor shouted Than Thania Kalibari, I jumped off to see this Kali temple. Built in 1705, the place looks like having undergone some renovation, and is abuzz with the devotees praying with folded hands, burning incense sticks and doing the shashtang pranaam which is lying flat, face down with arms extended forward and fingers clasped in complete surrender and obeisance mode. There is something good about the place and felt nice visiting it. Said my small prayer as well.

Walked out of there and saw lots of book stores. All right! This was the famous College street where you could find every book ever published in the world. Today, however, the demand is for entrance exam compendiums than for the classics of old. Here I saw the famed Presidency College which recently completed 200 years. Sent a Whatsapp picture of the entrance to my only wife, Debi, who felt nostalgic about her alma mater. Stepped across the street to hail the next tram but felt thirsty and so went out to look for some place to buy a cold drink.  Couldn’t find any for there were book stores and more book stores. Then suddenly my eyes fell on a place called Indian Coffee House….Aa ha…another part of history and so I walked up the winding staircase. Whoa…it was full of people, young and old, with waiters in colonial pagri atop their heads. Sadly my thirst wasn’t quenched as here they stop taking fresh orders after 8pm. Took a couple of pictures of the place famous for Bengali adda where many a paper Che Guevara and many a revolution were born.

Took a long walk to Bow Bazar Chowk and clambered onto a bus for Esplanade or ‘’Splanade”, as the bus conductors call it, to reach KC Das’ famous shop at the cross roads of this place now called Dharmatala. From the outside it was apparent that the owners had done up the shop recently. The manager inside asked me not to take pictures of the shelves containing the sweets…it was their closely held family secret recipe and style quite alike the Coke XXX formula…khoob bhaalo…Ate the largest rosogolla in sight worth kingly Rs 35 a piece but was worth every bite of it and every drop of its sugary syrup.

By now it was 9pm and my health meter on my phone said that I had done over 20,000 steps for the day. Hence, decided to do the fourth and the last mishti shop on my list the next day. Now my legs started walking in an auto mode towards a roadside joint called Hot Kathi Roll on Park Street. For the last 30 years since I joined National Insurance at Kolkata, I have always made it a point to eat here at least once every time I come to this City of Joy. Enjoyed my oil dripping egg-chicken roll with kashondi (mustard) and then walked back to my hotel room on Ho Chi Min Sarani. After a leisurely bath went off to a round of loud snoring and woke up next morning at 6.30am…ready for the last mishtir dokaan.

Stop No.4: Balaram Mullick & Radharaman Mullick

Hopped onto a cab which in no time took me to Paddapukur Road and from there I walked to Jadubabur Baajar where stood a cottage like structure of the famous Balaram Mullick & Radharaman Mullick Sweets which, arguably today, is considered The Best and often is the first name to appear on any search engine. Picked up some sweets for home and felt a sense of achievement…completed my mishti trail.

On my way back to the airport came across another famous shop at Park Circus with such an apt name…Mithai…but left it for tasting its wares for another day. The urge to visit the city again became even more as Debi sent across a short video on Whatsapp on ’10 Best Things to See in Kolkata’…and among them were the St.John’s Church, St. Paul’s Church, a boat ride on Hooghly, Dakshineshwar Temple and ,of course, a place where as a student of history I should have entered long time ago…The Indian Museum.

No wonder someone sang in praise of the city comparing it to his beloved…Prothomo-to Ami Tomake Chai…Shesh Porjonto Tomake Chai…All I want is you, from the beginning till the end. With all its problems, squalor and disease there is no place like Sweet Bengal and its throbbing heart at Kolkata…Ami Tomake Chai.

SS

BOWLED OUT

The world was at its brink. Two nuclear powers were at loggerheads, each blaming the other for the secessionist problem being faced by them. While one was limited to stone pelting and sporadic armed attacks, the other nation was besieged with frequent cases of bombs going off, be it in the mosques or at school. Pressure was mounting on both sides wanting a full scale war and armed forces at both ends were on full preparedness. The Heads of States knew the cost and repercussions of a war and sat uneasily on their thrones when, one day, one of them decided to break the ice by dialing directly to the other…”Nawaz, how are you?” Taken aback by this informal call, Nawaz reciprocated by saying, “Shukriya Bhai Jaan, all is fine.” Both knew they were both lying. “Nawaz, we need to put an end to this madness. We need to build bridges and concentrate on development in our respective countries. The people have to be told that there is a world beyond hatred and they need to live like good neighbours.”

“Cricket is the common religion for the two nations and people on both sides of the Indus love the game and adore the players. So I propose a one- off test match between India and Pakistan. We could host the historic test match at any venue in India. The minds of the people will get diverted and can even help in demilitarization, once tempers are down.”

“Ji Bhai Jaan. Good idea but the match should be played in Pakistan, in my home town Lahore. Only then the impact will be there for all to see.”

“Ok Nawaz. Let me get the things organized at my end and you do the same. Safety and security of players, their families and guests who will travel with the team from India must also be the responsibility of the Pakistan government. "

“Ji Bhai Jaan. You can be rest assured they will all be my personal guests and no one will harmed a wee bit. That’s my word to you Brother.”

“Nawaz, there is just one more request. Make sure that one person is not invited into the stadium when the match is on…Dawood. We do not want any adverse publicity for the match which will make it difficult for me to get the approval from my own party leave alone how the press and opposition will tear me apart.”

“Ji Bhai Jaan. Zubaan diya humney my word that D will not be invited or sighted in the stadium.”

Next morning the BCCI convened a special meeting at PM’s office where over breakfast of poha and upma the committee was told, in no uncertain terms, the decision to send the Indian Cricket team to Lahore in the next 2 weeks. The Board protested about lack of security and loss of revenues as the players will have to be pulled out of the on-going IPL. The PM kept smiling as he poured tea in the cups for the guests who knew that this was not a request but a diktat which had to be followed. As they walked out of the meeting, a hurried press conference was convened when the Board President announced the decision of a one-off test match at Lahore. Everyone was taken aback just as they had been a couple of months ago when some currency notes were withdrawn…sudden and shocking to many. But this was not going to be easy as many in the ruling party and their allies were strictly against any sort of relationship with Pakistan. The government, which supported people banning Pak film artistes into the country, was today agreeing to send their Superstars to play there….unthinkable but the die was cast.

Indian cricket team probable were quickly called up and the best of the lot got named in the final sixteen. Led by the brilliant Virat, the team looked good in every respect and a world beater. With their status as number one cricketing nation, the team looked happy to board the plane to Pakistan. Among the other passengers on the flight were cricketing legends, their families and enthusiastic fans who were going to view the match and enjoy the much spoken of Pakistani hospitality. The team and the other visitors were given a grand welcome at Lahore Airport and, all along the way, people stood with flower petals to be showered on the road where the bus passed. Suddenly the tensions at the border seemed a thing of the past. Both the nations were anxiously waiting for Virat vs Amir, Younus vs Ashwin. The battlefield had changed and the bat and the ball had suddenly replaced the stones and the bombs. Was this cricketing diplomacy truly happening?

The action moved to Gaddafi Stadium, Lahore which had been decorated alike a Big Fat Panju Wedding…streamers, balloons, scarves, festoons…you name it and it was there. Tickets had been completely sold out within minutes of being put on sale. The stadium started filling up on Day One right from 7 am onwards even though the match was to commence at 9 am. Sharp at 8.30am the national anthems of the two countries were played and the spectators stood up in respect…for once Aman ki Aasha seemed working. The Indian fans consisting of players of yesteryears like Sunil Gavaskar, Kapil Dev and Sachin and many more were given a place of importance in a special box which also had Pakistani players like Imran Khan, Abdul Qadir, Inzzy and others. The other fans who had flown were allotted an exclusive stand where they came dressed in tricolours with the Indian flag in almost every hand.

It was 9 am and the two captains walked into the field with the umpires for the toss. A silver coin made for the occasion was spun and Virat called it right and decided to bowl first. They shook hands and walked back into the pavilion. Pakistan lost a couple of early wickets to the speedsters but the old guards Younus and Misbah stood the ground and carried on cautiously to lunch time. Post lunch, as if flood gates had opened up, they started playing freely, scoring fours at will and taking singles at will. The famed Indian spin attack failed completely and the day ended with Pakistan at 323 for 3 with Younis getting out on the last ball of the day to a brilliant catch by the keeper Saha. As the day ended, the spectators, especially the Indians thronged the streets of Lahore for the lazeez kebabs and exotic dishes. They found it better than the five star hotel food. The tourists roamed the streets and by-lanes and reached places where normal people would not venture on holidays. Everywhere they were being welcomed as if brothers and sisters of old had returned home.

Day 2 started with a bang. Bhuvaneshwar Kumar got a hat trick in the second over of the day which had Pakistan tottering and slowly the team collapsed to 411 all out. Indian team’s strength lay in its batting right from the opening till almost the very end….each one of them could hit a century when required. By close of Day 2 India had replied strongly at 238 for 4 with Virat batting at 85 not out. On Day 3 India scored 388 all out and post tea, Pakistan with a slender lead, went in to bat. The see-saw battle continued till day 4 when Pakistan, with great difficulty, managed to set a gettable target of 255 for the Indians to win in the last innings. Ashwin’s magic worked and he spun a web around the Pakis and got 8 of the 10 wickets. The stadium went all quiet knowing fully well the match was all but lost. Indian fans were buoyant and went for a night out on a special open bus around the city.

That night a special Indian Air Force plane landed at Lahore Airport. Breaking protocol, the Pakistani PM went to receive the guest who was a diminutive lady draped in fine silk saree. The India Foreign Minister had come to see the final day’s play. The two dignitaries drove away in a black limo with the flags of the two countries fluttering.

Before Day 5 began, the Indian Coach Anil Kumble spoke to the boys. “Victory awaits us. We will not get another such opportunity. Go out there and win for yourselves and the country.” After this the batsmen padded up and went to the pavilion as the last day’s match began. The stadium was all quiet. Only one stand seemed to be happy while the rest of the 70,000 strong crowd prayed to their God for a miracle. Pakistani PM and Indian Foreign Minister sat in the VVIP enclosure and the otherwise silent section of the crowd also gave the two people a standing ovation.Indian opening pair scored briskly and by lunch time they had scored 105 without loss. Obituaries and eulogies were getting printed in the press and social media.

During the lunch break, Sachin went to the Indian dressing room and spoke to the boys and to the captain and coach in particular. The team looked happy and charged. When play began, even though the writing was on the wall, the local crowd stayed back to see the historic match. Little did they know on a Friday afternoon, the game changed on its head. Wahab Riaz and Mohammad Irfan ran riot. One Indian wicket after another started falling. It more looked like a procession of sorts and reminded viewers of the Indian team of 70s when the tail was long and weak. By tea time India were reduced to 178 for 8. The atmosphere in the stadium changed immediately from tragedy to euphoria. The Indian section was completely dumbfounded not knowing how the story had changed all so suddenly.  One of them complained of severe chest pain and was rushed to the nearby hospital. In the second over, post tea, the Indian innings came to a halt and Pakistani players ran to pick up the stumps and whatever they could lay their hands on. This was a memorabilia they would treasure for the rest of their lives. The Indian FM and Pak PM gave away special medals to both the team members and a trophy was handed over to the victorious captain.

The whole of Pakistan erupted. There began a phase of wild celebrations with crackers and bombs. The streets were jam packed with people cheering on the road. The Indian crowd mingled with the others and enjoyed the neighbour’s happiest hour. The players and state guests were invited to a state dinner where a lavish feast was laid out. As the party was coming to a close, the Indian FM got a call on her personal number. She turned serious and walked up to the Pakistani PM. “Sir, one of the Indian fans, who hospitalized, needs to be rushed to Delhi. He happens to be Sachin’s close friend. Sachin has requested if I could take him aboard my flight as the players and the other Indian fans were to fly out to Hyderabad directly for the IPL Finals. Your help would be much appreciated.” The Pak PM immediately made a couple of calls and readily agreed to the change of plan for the sick person.

  

As the Indian FM’s car made way to the airport, Sachin sat in the ambulance with his friend in the back. As soon as the ambulance reached the airport gate, the guards on duty came to know who the person, accompanying the sick man, was. They could not believe he was there right in front of their eyes! They were so overjoyed that they insisted on getting their pictures and selfies taken with the God of Cricket. They asked him to sign autographs on whatever piece of paper they could lay their hands on. Without any verification they gladly cheered Sachin and the ambulance as it went past them straight to the parked air force plane. The crew slowly lifted the patient on board. By now the Indian FM too had come aboard. In another part of the airport, the Indian fans and players too were ready for take-off around the same time. The two engines turned on simultaneously and started moving.

In another part of Lahore there was another chaos happening. The prisoner in the high security prison was missing. When the victory celebrations were happening, some people passing by had left some crackers and bombs near the prison gates which the guard outside quickly brought inside the compound. They had begun putting fire to the crackers when a strange smoke from the crackers engulfed the prison putting all who inhaled asleep. By the time they came around, it was around 8.30pm. Alarm was raised and almost the entire Pak Special Forces went on high alert and search parties were sent all around the city. A quick look at the CCTV film showed two people entering with gas masks and carrying the prisoner in cell 101 on a stretcher in an ambulance. Frantic calls were made and the Police Chief and the Head of ISI asked all roads to be blockaded and no flights were to take off. The two Indian planes were to be checked but it was too late. The two planes had taken off and were gaining altitude when the ground control asked the pilots to return. They did not heed the request and continued their journey. The bird Kulbhushan Jadhav, the Indian spy, who was sentenced to death penalty by the Pak Army Court, had flown away.

At Delhi Airport, as the Air Force Plane landed, a black limo awaited. As the aircraft door opened, the first person to be seen was the lady in saree, followed by what appeared to be Sachin and the third person was a bald headed man who looked sick and walked very slowly. As the three came down the staircase and walked towards the limo, the bearded passenger stepped out and greeted the trio. He hugged the Naval Commander and patted the Indian Batting Maestro. This truly was an Escape to Victory.

SS

Snakes & Ladders

I have a serious problem with you God!

Why? What happened? He asked.

It is early morning on a Friday and a father is off to work travelling from Mumbai to Pune on a official trip. Before boarding the train, the father texts ‘Good Morning’ to his sons, something he has been doing for years now. The elder of the sons is in Delhi studying engineering and the younger one is at a boarding school in the hills. The mother, too, is well placed in the academic world. Four parts of a perfect square in four different parts of the country yet what binds them is their mutual love for an easy life, travelling to many parts of the country and a spirit of adventure which is something that may be in their DNA because of the father who feared nothing. From cycling to Khardung La, the highest motorable road on a simple cycle to managing a VIP security pass and watching the Republic Day Parade from the VIP enclosure when he was just eighteen.

No sooner had the father stepped down from the rail car, when a call came. The father rushed to Delhi with a heart broken mother in tow. After completing the formalities, they left for Haridwar to spread the ashes of their elder son who, the night before, wrote a long letter before ending a young story abruptly. He called me up to inform me and I had nothing to say. The letter said that the boy was upset with his poor scores in the college examination and that he had failed his parents and his loved ones. No one will ever know the real reason why a friendly and happy boy would take such a step but the family he left behind is completely shattered. Sometimes the mother goes into the gloom, at others, the father. One evening after a week or so I got a call from the mother who sounded disturbed and said that your friend is gone into a shell and is refusing to eat and come out to meet people…can you speak to him. Took courage and spoke…we spoke for long and in between even recollected some funny incidents of life….idiot was I trying to joke at this hour but in some time got a text from the mother saying your friend has come out of the room, looks fine and is feeling very hungry…thanks.

Why did it have to be them O God? They were such good people, the father is like a brother to me and never has he done any harm to anyone living or dead. Yet this is how you treat him? When everything seemed going good for the family, you change their fate and story completely…why, God, why? And this is not the only reason for me questioning you and your benevolence.

They were two youngsters who had slogged their way into the science stream, got admitted into the best of college on sheer merit and worked their way through the tough three years of grueling hard work in libraries and laboratories. He was kid faced, a kid at heart and loved gorging food. She was mature, confident and brave, never afraid of any situation. Two very different people but as they say opposites attract and so they fell in love in the corridors of the heritage college and its famed canteen. Every day they would meet, at times with other friends and at times alone but always together. But both kept up with their passion for science and got their post graduation seat in India’s finest college for science at Bangalore.

Some time ago, the girl complained of a twitching sensation on her arms. She ignored it initially but when the frequency increased, she consulted the specialists. From one doctor to another, one consultant and specialist to another, one test after another and they concluded that she had a rare ailment. By now the girl’s parents who lived in another town came down and met the doctors. Test reports were shared with friends abroad but they all were unanimous, the ailment was there for certain. The illness is not life threatening but the girl needs to take some special medicines which have  side effects which brings down the  immunity levels drastically. The boy has stood firmly by the girl and when asked by her parents, will you still marry her…Yes I will said he.

Why would you do it God? A girl of no more than twenty five, just when her career and life seemed taking-off, you put a spanner. She wants to live life but you won’t let her…Why? Life seems to be like playing the game of Snakes & Ladders where we move up sometimes slowly and at times get an elevator called ladder but then there is you lurking with your fangs out…a slip here and down your poison brings us tumbling down. Wonder why we pray to you? Are you really good as we all believed or you are evil and will ruin lives just at anytime….Getting more and more convinced of you as you are the cause of most deaths, people dying to make your temples or killing others to spread your words….stop playing this dangerous game O God!

He was the brightest boy in the class if not in school. When we were struggling with Enid Blytons and comics, he was reading classics like Gone With the Wind. Almost in every subject be it Maths or Hindi, he would always be right there on top. From school he went to the best of engineering institutes, IIT, Delhi and from there a flight to the US of A was but a natural choice. I had lost touch with him but a few others had said he had made quite a name for himself in the tech world and also made tons of money by selling his patents. After working for many years, he felt the urge to return to India. With his two kids and wife, he landed on the Indian shores and decided to settle down in Bangalore where he took charge of a global internet service provider as its CEO.

Thanks to FB and Whatsapp, a school reunion was planned in 2005 and since then the tradition has continued with us meeting once every year around November end at Delhi with folks flying down from various destinations including from abroad. About five years ago we came to know he had taken charge in India of the biggest name in the technology world. We all felt happy and proud. It couldn’t have been better and happier times for the family till one fine day the daughter of 9 fell sick. What started off as a mere fever ended in her becoming bed-ridden and unable to manage her daily chores. The father initially took a six month sabbatical from work to ensure his loving daughter got the best treatment in India and abroad. All efforts failed to completely cure the girl. Last when I met my friend he said he had given up his job and nowadays just spends time with his daughter at home, cooking for her and taking care of her.

Here was one little soul caught between life and living life. Do you still want me to have faith in you? Do you still want me to light an incense stick before your picture? Why do you wreck such a perfect picture in an instant? All these are people I know so you need to answer me for sure.

No matter how hard you shout, The Master keeps quiet. He never justifies anything. Everything in this world that happens must be understood by us mortals in our own way. That no one is forever happy is the first fundamental truth of life. Take the richest men and the most powerful people, they have their share of sadness and tragedies. On the other, even the poorest and powerless have sparks of joy. The world and life is a mixture of good, bad and the ugly and everyone has his or her share of it. Scratch a surface and you’ll find everyone without exception carrying his cross and halo at the same time.

That He is the Creator, the Destroyer and Preserver is also a fundamental truth. You love him for being the creator of life, you praise him for being the preserver and giver of joy and also hate him for destroying everything that is yours. One whiff of air and all your beautiful castles and riches go up in air. But life goes on with all its pain and agony.

The Ultimate truth of life is that He is the Grandmaster of the Game of Life. Whether you find similarity with Snakes and Ladders where he gives you space to walk at normal pace, then gives you a ladder to speed up your progress which makes you happy. But just then He puts a snake around to bring you back, throw all your advances to tell you how small you are in this whole big Universe and in his play of things. You could also compare it with the game of Chess which has Black and White blocks everywhere signifying if there is good, there is bad as well, if there is happiness, there is pain around. Every person on the board moves differently and for moving ahead you either find open spaces or defeat someone. He lets you win sometimes but not always.

Get reminded of a couplet from an old hindi song which says:

Kabhi kisi ko mukammal jahan nahin milta,

Kisi ko zameen, kisi ko aasmaan nahin milta.

So be happy with what you have. Praise him for what he has given. Find the reasons to be happy till you can. Leave the rest to The Grandmaster.

SS

Romeo Must Die

This was my first encounter of sleeping on a cold floor in a prison cell in the Holy City of Benaras. I had come to visit the famous temples and see the much famed Ganga Aarti when my world changed forever. My ever concerned wife asked me to show my palm to a roadside astrologer, someone in whom I had no faith yet put forth my palm diligently and asked him to read my future. But the idiot of a soothsayer started from the past and after muttering about my birth and growing up days suddenly stopped reading…he put his lens in front of my face and with big round eyes looked at me and said….mmmm Romeo thay aap? Before I could protest and walk out, the tilakdhaari pandit pulled out a whistle from his jhola and blew it loud. In no time I was surrounded by four sturdy men in khakhi. 

I was walked to the closest police thana, not walked but escorted to the place like a petty criminal and then made to stand with men younger to me by a few decades, some of whom were chewing paan, some had cheap shades on their eyes and others with handkerchiefs on their collars. And here I was a man in his mid-fifties, being made to stand in the queue with these roadside guys, as the policemen took one of us at a time inside what possibly would be the Dark Hole. I couldn’t understand the language being uttered inside clearly but some Guruji there was definitely not reciting the Upanishads to his Shishya who was crying out loudly and shouting….chhod do mujhe…ab kabhi nahin karoonga…After a while the battered specimen would tumble out, barely being able to walk in his torn and tattered clothes as the next fellow was pushed for the cleansing or shudhi-karan ceremony.

Finally, my turn came and despite my protests and pleadings, the policeman caught me by my collar and pushed me to a room which was dimly lit. There were wooden sticks, a bucket of water, electric wires and many other contraptions the possible use of which were not difficult for me to understand. There also sat on a wooden chair a man with a handle-bar moustache and he welcomed me by repeating the Gabbar’s immortal dialogue…Aaao Thakur, Aaao…Bangali Babu you look like a bhadralok and yet you do things like this? Bahut yaranna lagta hai….

What have I done?

You’ve made a mistake, a mortal mistake. Ab goli khao…

No. I have not done anything wrong. I was with my wife…my legally wedded one and only wife on a pilgrimage when your people picked me up. It’s a mistake, Sahab.

Ha Ha Ha Ha….The jailor started laughing just like Gabbar before he pulled the trigger on Kalia and his other two cronies. After laughing for a good ten minutes, he signalled to his junior to call in someone and in walked the astrologer- cum- palmist.

“Tell him Pandit, why this baldy Bangali is here and why we will make sure that Romeo must die in our land of Ganga- Jamuna Sanskriti.”

 It was then when the skeletons tumbled out of my closet as the Pundit ji put the crystal ball on the table and as the scene went back in time…thirty five years ago.

Durga Puja for us Bengalis is the most revered time of our annual calendar. It is that time of the year when Ma Durga comes to her parental home for five days and the frenzy of the Bongs is to be seen to be believed. The fervour is never about the puja, listening to devotional songs or fasting but it is about non-stop eating the oily egg-chicken rolls and kosha mangsho with luchi and for young boys and girls this is the best time to romance, falling in love at every turn, at seeing every girl you meet. We used to roam around in hordes of six or seven. We just waited, watched and admired every Bengali beauty who walked into the puja pandal. Often these encounters were no more than a meeting of the eyes but sometimes they went beyond to embarrassing moments and even disasters.  Rarely did they go on to taking wows of life and death.

She walked in wearing a pink salwar kameez. She was not the typical Bong Beauty, the round faced big eyed one but slim, tall and very elegant….never saw her eyes in the first few meetings for she always had a dark shade. The moment I saw her, music started playing inside me. She’s the one for me, it was love at first sight as it had always been. She came to the pandal with a friend of hers. But as in any love story there are bound to be problems galore and so it was with ours. Another tall handsome and fair man in our group was Partha and he had quite a reputation with girls. He was the first to announce to us friends that he had fallen for the new chick in town and this puja he will devote all his energies and, of course, charm to make the girl his. I kept my feelings to myself but couldn’t stop admiring the girl. So the next few days of puja were very purposeful.

Partha, openly, and me, silently, would follow the girl everywhere, watching every step of hers and trying to get close to her while taking the bhog prasaad, standing at the morning aarti or watching the evening cultural programmes. But the best part was that both of us never had the courage to ever utter a single word to the lass but our love for sure was as deep as the ocean’s depth, or so we believed. The handsome Partha took a march over me as he was a champion dhunuchi dancer and he had even perfected the art of dancing with one dhunichi held between his teeth as he balanced two in his out stretched arms. He was dancing in perfect rhythm of the dhak beat as she watched him not missing even a single step. I had my eyes both on her and saw her smile in admiration for Partha’s dancing ability. I felt like picking up a couple of dhunuchis myself but then, fortunately, stopped which saved me from any further embarrassment as my dancing was limited to a few bhangra steps and the famous nagin dance which would surely have been most inappropriate here. I was losing out to my friend so sought for divine intervention as I closed my eyes, folded my hands in full devotion to Ma Durga….Help me O Mother. I don’t want anything but this girl…please make her mine. I don’t think Mother Goddess heard my honest and loving prayer in the din of dhak and dhol playing out loud for neither did Partha’s dhunuchi fall out of his hands nor did he step on the falling amber sparks to get off balance as I watched the girl’s smile go wider with every step he took. My faith in the Goddess was in shambles.

The last and concluding day of Durga Puja is the immersion when the Goddess and her four children are put in trucks and taken to Yamuna river front. The truck with Durga’s idol is the most important and the key organizers and VIPs alone get a place on this otherwise uncomfortable rickety truck. So next time if you notice the number of Durga Pujas mushrooming, the cause is often some Dada got miffed at not being allowed in the same truck in which Durga’s idol was kept on this important day and would end up in starting another Sarbojanin Durga Puja in the vicinity. The younger boys and girls would get to sit on the trucks following the main truck. And that is where I found Shilpi…by now we had come to know her name. What luck and it got even better to see Partha missing among the motley crowd in the truck. But as they say good things and good times in life don’t last long…there came Partha in his Yezdi bike with a red looking chunni tied as bandana on his head. Both Shilpi and Partha wore their dark shades over their eyes to beat the sun. She looked beautiful, he looked cool and handsome and me, a Hanuman.

Hanuman was a Super Man for who else will allow his tail to be put on flame and for what…someone else’s wife. Hanuman, for another reason, for during the immersion drive, Bongs display their dancing skills and no matter how lousy they are at this, they dance like monkeys as if they are in a state of trance and Ma Durga has given them her consort Shiva’s Tandava boon, even if it were for a day. So it was with me and I danced and danced hoping to get her attention knowing well it was an impossible to beat a macho Bong on a bike. Who cared? You could never guess anyway from behind the shades if she was at all looking at me or Partha. A Brave Bangali never gives up. Born Fighter!

The Durga Puja passed and then came a phase which was lull for she was not to be seen. Along with Buddha, my friend, we took out our bicycles and started roaming the streets searching for the elusive Juliet. After many a failed reconnaissance just when I was about to give up on her and look for another love on the roads, she appeared out of nowhere. While playing football in a ground one evening we saw her standing on Ghosh Kaku’s balcony overlooking the playground. She was a friend of Ghosh Kaku’s daughter. The moment I saw her, my game improved and I took it upon myself to keep the ball on my feet without passing to anyone and ensuring every goal scored was by me. Now every evening I would go to the playground at the same time hoping to find the girl standing there. And it did happen a couple of times and seeing her once in a while was enough incentive to be there waiting every day.

We lived in the times of Amitabh, although since then three decades have passed, the AB dominance never seems to fade away. Around this time, the movie Namak Halal was about to be released. We came to know that the God himself would be coming to the cinema hall nearby for the premiere. Having lived in the government colony for long and seen many a movie there, we had made friends with the men behind the ticket counter and more importantly the people selling the tickets in black were no other than friends who played with us in the evenings and shared the warm cup of chai that followed. So the first day, first show tickets were managed and so were tickets for the next show….we just could not take a chance if Bachchan Saab came late. After all AB would have other premieres to attend and what if he came for the second show? The movie was wonderful, songs were amazing and Bachchan added a few inches to his stature. Though God never came but we had no qualms as the movie made up for everything.

Buddha knew the Ghoshs well. A perfect plan was hatched. Buddha convinced the daughter Ghosh that Namak Halal was a great movie and that she and her friend must see immediately. He has contacts and can help them get the tickets easily despite the halls being full for every show. They fell for it and showed inclination to see the movie. We quickly arranged for their tickets, not two but four…two for the girls and one for Buddha and one for Romeo, that was me. Trimmed my slightly sprouting moustache, took out a fresh and ironed pair of trouser, a new shirt and with an extra Rs 10 in the hip pocket just in case we got a chance to treat the damsels during intermission. Every contingency was planned for to make this a big day. We reached the theatre an hour in advance and were delighted to see the girls come in…the look on their faces, however, revealed another story…unimpressed and unhappy seeing us and when we went into the hall inside and sat down one after another, got a feeling as if we were committing a most heinous crime. She sat on one extreme and me on another. While her eyes were on the screen, mine were on her all the time. When she for once looked my way, I realized it was time to make a hasty retreat. No sooner had the intermission bell rang than Buddha and I walked right out of the cinema hall, never to return again.

What happened to Shilpi thereafter is something I am not aware of but, today, watching history roll by the crystal ball, waiting for the ugly cane to strike me hard, I smiled at the policeman wielding the stick. The muchchad police was taken aback as I shouted aloud, “Romeo must not die. He lives in all of us. Romeo must live to make life and world an interesting place, he adds spark to the otherwise dull life. Rok sake toh rok ke dikha,” and walked out, free.

SS

PROJECT DOCTOR: SAVE THE DOCTORS

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.   –Robert Frost                          

                   

For the past few days the newspapers have carried several stories about attacks on doctors in various parts of Maharashtra and about Resident Doctors, who are also post graduate or super speciality students, going on mass casual leave as a mark of protest. Their demand is Safety at Workplace, which is a matter of concern for all. My question is if every worker has a right to it, why not the doctors? Are they any different?

Certain other questions came to my mind while reading about the incidents in various newspapers:

A doctor in a government hospital in Dhule is so badly beaten up that he is likely to lose his vision. Another, polio afflicted doctor is attacked in a Mumbai civic hospital.  In a third incident, a lady doctor is beaten up by a child patient’s relatives. It left me wondering, if this had happened to any other professional in any other field of work would the activists and the venerable media not have taken up the cudgels for them?  Then what is the reason for this apathy towards the doctors?

A judge pronouncing- “They (doctors) can resign and stay at home, if they are so scared.”

I am left wondering if it is wrong to fear for your life.

On a social media site, a defiant Resident Doctor wrote:

“They said they’ll throw us out of the hostel…but those people don’t know we live in ward side rooms.

 They said they’ll cut our 6 months pay….but again they don’t know we hardly get time to spend that

  money.

 They said they’ll cut water supply but again those innocent people don’t even know we hardly get  time to take bath.”        

    

 No one can miss the sadness in these lines.

Nearly forty years ago when my brother was a junior doctor in a Government Hospital in Calcutta similar stories had flashed across the newspapers. We, at home, would pour over these stories and empathize with them. We waited with bated breath as we heard of suspension letters being issued and termination or eviction letters being typed. The Government’s trump card has always been invoking the ESMA. Ultimately the doctors bow to the Hippocrates’ Oath that they have sworn and return to work.

In the last four decades these stories get repeated after every couple of years or so. Today is no different. I see the pictures of many of my daughter’s friends holding placards saying “Save Doctors, Stop Violence”.  Nothing seems to have changed.

Many of these doctors, who are on “mass casual leave” for the past few days, are known to me. Some of them, who have been pouring out their hearts in anguish, on the social media with the hash tag ‘ab ki baar aar ya paar’ have come to my house on several occasions. They have grown up before my eyes from happy, carefree, fun loving teenagers, with dreams in their eyes and determination to do the impossible, to responsible, hardworking, conscientious doctors. The dreams are still very much there… only the reality checks ring in a harsh note.

As eighteen year olds they had lots of options before them since each of them had graduated from high school with flying colours. Most of them were toppers in their respective schools. Many had secured seats in the best of science and technology institutes in the country. With their perfect scores in high school as well as innumerable competitive examinations, they had to just name any institute of repute in the country and they could have secured admission there.  Many came from affluent backgrounds with good scores and grades in the eligibility tests and had the option to go abroad to pursue higher studies. They were, in fact, spoilt for choices. And they made a choice. Right or wrong is open to debate since nothing is absolute. To this day they stand by their choice, they have no regrets.

They chose to pursue Medicine. Some of them were encouraged by their families to do so, some were not. They chose the more difficult path, the path less chosen. And that has made all the difference.

As students, from the very first year it was made clear to them that they were treading a difficult path and the very first thing that they would have to forget were vacations. The only ‘vacations’ that they knew of in their five-and-a-half-year curriculum were the fortnightly study leave that they would be given. When the rest of the world were enjoying annual vacations they were burning the midnight oil and pouring over innumerable books. As interns they were told to forget about public holidays and Sundays too, to give them a taste of what they would be truly in for from then on. As residents, too, they have to forget about their families- a sick or dying parent is no excuse for taking leave. I know of one boy who could not be with his father while he was undergoing treatment for cancer and I have heard of another Resident Doctor who was allowed to go only for a day to see her father who had suffered a cerebral stroke and come back the next day without even knowing whether she would ever see him again. As for not being well, that is inexcusable. A friend or a cousin’s wedding, better learn to give it a miss. They have to be happy enjoying the photographs and videos on social media. They are probably the only ones who cannot expect even the friends they work with to be present at their weddings. As it is, these unfortunate doctor friends have to cover up for all their emergency and OPD duties -how can they attend the wedding celebrations also?

They themselves never complain. We, as family, feel bad for them.

 Perhaps, many would like to say they knew what they were in for when they chose the profession. That is undeniable. True. My point is, though true, it is not easy. These are young men and women in the prime of their youth. Like all young people their age they, too, fall in love; they, too, like music and dance; they too have to deal with broken hearts and broken families; they too have talents which, most often, remain unnoticed and stifled because they have chosen to deal with death, disease and morbidity. They have their own way of finding vents- may be a very late night party to celebrate a successful operation or catching a late night show in the nearest theatre after having had the most harrowing day in the EMS.

Still, they never complain.

But when the very people they serve beat one of them up  so mercilessly that the doctor is likely to lose his vision and an even more inhuman court proclaims that if doctors are so scared, they can resign and sit at home, they are bound to raise their voices in concern. Perhaps, the Honourable Court has forgotten that everyone has a Right to Safety.

From the many doctors I have encountered, I have got the feeling that nothing gives them a greater high than curing a patient and sending him back home. Not being able to heal is perhaps their biggest fear, their greatest defeat, their ultimate failure. Perhaps, it is this pride in their work, this joy of healing and this confidence in their specialized knowledge that keeps them going. Whenever I speak to these young doctors who have chosen a specialized area to work in, they are happy doing what they are doing despite the odd hours and heavy work load. Many of them are meritorious students who could have gone to the USA or UK to do their residency or pursue their specialization but, once again, they chose not to, unlike some of their friends. They chose to remain back since they felt they were required more here keeping in mind the imbalance in the doctor patient ratio. What they, probably, forgot to see is that this country fails to give merit its due recognition.

I seriously do not believe a doctor would deliberately not try to do good to the patient. Competency can be questioned or even human errors might creep in under the stressful conditions they work in. Sometimes, these Resident Doctors are working continuously for 36 hours. On an average a Resident Doctor works for 14-18 hours every day without break and he has to do so keeping all his faculties alert. Most of the time he is also on the move, on his feet.

Though I am digressing, I wish to share an experience with my readers. Recently, I went to a reputed multi-national bank with my husband to get my name added as a joint holder. Despite there not being anyone in the queue ahead of us, it took the executive, sitting in one of the swankiest offices in one of the posh suburbs of Mumbai, exactly four hours to get the application registered. Even after a month we heard nothing from the bank despite having completed all the formalities and documentation on that day itself. Finally, only after a reminder and complaint was the work done. In four hours, on an average, under the most trying conditions, a junior doctor in a public hospital would surely have attended to at least 20-30 patients, if not more. Otherwise the public would, surely, have lynched him! Strangely, it is always the public sector workers who get blamed for inefficiency though I am sure even a nationalized bank employee cannot afford to move at a speed of one client in half a day!

As for all doctors not being diligent or ethical is perhaps as true as it is in any other profession. Only their dereliction of duty affects human life directly unlike in others. Hence, they cannot be pardoned easily either. But then every profession has its share of evil, corrupt, unethical people. You find them everywhere- in bureaucracy, in legal and even in the corporate world. I am not writing in support of them. They have to reckon for their own misdeeds.

My only appeal is to have a little patience and empathy for these overburdened Soldiers of God who try their best to alleviate our pain, to give us a respite from our suffering. They are human and sometimes errors or mistakes do creep in but should we not also remember that in many of these cases the doctors have little hand in their deaths. Sometimes the patient’s condition is so critical that little is left to be done, at other times they are rushed in at the very last moment or there may be underlying conditions which complicate the cases. Before beating up another human being, who is trying to help us, should we not once stop to think about the conditions under which the doctor has to perform his duties. As a layman, I cannot go into the exact doctor-patient ratio in our country or the infrastructural or other competency issues since I am not qualified to do so. But before beating up a doctor mercilessly should the relatives of the patient not remember for once that this person was only trying to do his best to heal.

Or do these young men and women, who chose to serve humanity, have to remind us like Shylock, the Jew, in The Merchant Of Venice:

If you prick us, do we not bleed?

If you tickle us, do we not laugh?

If you poison us, do we not die?

And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?

If we are not careful, very soon we may need to protect another endangered species - the Doctors!

DS