Aahista Aahista

Source: Internet- Pinterest

It was not long ago that we prayed to be at home and work from there. The long and painful travel to and from office would take away a minimum of three good hours from the day. Often, I would tell my friends that all those who had their homes close to offices in large metros like Mumbai and Delhi, were the happiest people for they could spend an extra hour at home with their families, an extra hour at work impressing the bosses and an hour to themselves doing things they loved like reading, playing and enjoying music. But the year gone by with its WFH has been an eye opener as this seems to a much more exhausting experience than the drudgery of daily travel of the past. You do not need the Big Four consulting companies to tell you the real reason for this burnout phenomenon among workers…..it is the speed that no longer thrills but kills. You may have sent a mail to your team and in no time your mail box starts flooding with clarifications and answers. Everyone is online 24X7 and responding sitting on commodes, running in the gym and I will not be surprised that they may be typing on mobiles, iPads and laptops even while making love.  The same thing happens when someone has sent you a mail, they seek the response instantly. If it is a complaint, even before you have realized, the person has already written to your Managing Director and is threatening to write to the Regulator. Some have gone even smarter by using the Twitter and other social media available to get their job done pronto. In short, there is no time to breathe, which implies you are exhausted. I long for days when things took some time…Aahista Aahista.

Let me transport you about thirty- three years back in time and tell you how it was then.

Office Office: One Act Play

Dramatis Personae:

Ram, the Record Clerk. He is one of the most important men in the office who keeps all the correspondence in a chronological and methodical manner. All letters have a date stamp and signature of the RC.

Somnath, the Typist. This man with a thick moustache is available infrequently at his desk as he is also a ‘neta’ in the trade union for clerical staff.

Gautam Bose, the mid-level Technical Officer. He is always smartly dressed in a tie and full-sleeved shirt and carries his neat briefcase to work daily.

Alok Sanyal, the Boss. He is the Department Head and claims to be more knowledgeable than anyone on planet earth. He is known to write long and flowery letters and has a caustic tongue.

Joy, the Intern. He is a direct recruit officer (in those days there used to be such a sub-specie), who has been given his first posting at the Head Office of an insurance company in Kolkata. He knows little, wants to know even less and is here just by chance. Till a few months back he was asked to only read only files full of copies of letters written by the Gautam da and the Ultimate Boss just to understand the art of writing office communication. The poor fellow would almost sleep reading the boring stuff but kept a smiling face lest the bosses were offended. Now, after three months, he has been assigned proper work like seeing claim files.

Scene I: Ram Babu puts a letter dated 13^th September 1988 before the intern on his table even before he arrives for work. The intern sees the letter, reads carefully. Someone has complained to the Chairman- cum- Managing Director of the company about a claim for sinking of a fishing vessel that had got inordinately delayed. The intern picks up his pen and writes on the blank space on the left hand side, “Ram file please”, and gives it to Ram and carries on with the other work on his table.

Scene 2: After a couple of weeks, the complainant writes again to the CMD asking about the claim and writes in bold, capital letters…Reminder 1 dated 15^th October 1988. Hell breaks loose! The CMD calls the General Manager asking him about the fate of the earlier letter. The GM in turn calls Alok Sanyal and fires him for not attending to the earlier complaint letter. A furious Alok Boss calls for Gautam Bose and the intern to his cabin. The latter is made to hear every possible verbal abuse in proper Queen’s English. Finally, he shouts in his mother tongue…Chitthi ta kothai? (Where is the letter?).

The intern asks Ram Babu for the letter. Ram quickly connects it to the subject matter and previous reference number and date and brings out the claim file where the letter has been filed properly.

The intern is made to carry the file and the Boss takes him into the CMD’s room to tell him who the culprit really is.

The CMD calmly asks, “Why did you file the previous letter?”

The intern softly says, “Sir, the letter was addressed to you and you wrote- GM, please attend. The GM then wrote on the letter- Manager, file please. The Manager wrote- Gautam, file please. Gautam da wrote, Joy, file please and I thought that if all of you, who had read the same letter, could write, file please, I being the junior-most officer should, similarly, write similarly- Ram, file please and our RC Ram dutifully filed it away.”

The CMD’s anger gives way to a giggle listening to the young man. “Will you now send a letter to the complainant and attend to the ‘file’ please?”

Yes, Sir.

Boss asks the intern to draft a letter which he will sign and send to the claimant.

Scene 3: The intern now opens the claim file which speaks for itself. He sees that the papers had been received in the office on 5^th June 1988 and on 14^th July a letter was sent to the Regional Office asking for additional documents and clarifications. Some documents had come on 30^th of July and the intern had again asked for some more clarifications and documents. These too had come by 10^th August. All this time, the intern did not do anything and just kept back the file and papers in the record room. Before taking the file to the CMD, he smartly removes the last covering letter from the regional office so that anyone seeing the file will blame RO for not doing their work and the root cause of the delay will, thus, lie with them and not our man. This was quite a common practice and if the lower office said they had sent the documents, all you had to say was, Sorry, we have not received, send it again and, thereby, you got another fortnight to reply.

The intern writes a hand written letter and takes it to Somnath to type. He then takes the draft letter to the Boss. The Boss edits almost everything in the letter except possibly an ‘is’ here and an ‘as’ there, a ‘this’ and a ‘that’ somewhere….rest is all his own language. The intern often questioned his knowledge of the language which he had learnt for years together in his Catholic School from the Irish Missionaries. He would, often, joke with his friends after office, Tujhe pata hai mera Boss kaun hai….Mera Boss, Wren and Martin ka Baap hai!

The intern then takes the edited letter to Somnath and requests him to type it again. Somnath asks him to keep the draft on his table and that he will do it in the evening as he has a union meeting to attend.

Scene 4: Next day, Somnath arrives and types the letter and the intern again sends it to his Boss to sign. The letter again comes back with a few more changes. The intern takes it to Somnath who simply says, “Na, korbo na! (No, won’t do it!). We are not fools doing the same letter ten times…and he throws the letter off his table. The intern decides not create a scene and goes away. After a while, he goes down to the nearby cigarette shop where Somnath is enjoying his smoke with his friends. Again, the intern requests Somanth to help him or else the Boss will make his life miserable.

So, finally, the letter is done on 28^th of October 1988. The intern initials the letter on the left-hand side and the Boss signs his name in full on the right side and the same is sent to the complainant on 20^th of November as the Dak (Despatch) Department staff is on leave. It is post Durga Puja and the group is touring from Kashmir to Kanyakumari.

Life was good then. Look what we have made of it. I ,always, loved the ride on the Kolkata tram….it moved slowly, meandering its way from point to point at its own pace where you could jump in and jump out at any time…you even had the luxury of First Class travel at the cheapest possible price. It is so nice to read your novel….you could finish reading a short story travelling from Ballygunge to Sealdah…..and if reading was not your forte, you could watch the Maidan, the roads, the people and the old buildings…. or could simply take a nice siesta and not be disturbed. Sometimes, I just do not want to be the hare, I want to be the tortoise and yet not want to win the race.....

थोड़ा ठहर जा
थोड़ा सा रुक जा
आहिस्ता आहिस्ता चलने दे
दुनिया को थोड़ी सी देख ले
जल्दी किस बात की है तुझे
कौन सी मंज़िल पानी है तुझे
थोड़ा ठहर जा
थोड़ा सा रुक जा
थोड़ा संभल जा
थोड़ी सी सांस ले ले
ज़िन्दगी के कुछ लुत्फ़ ले ले
दो घडी तो जी ले
भागता , हाँफता कब तक फिरे
बचपन , जवानी सब हैं जा बिछड़े
अब लौट के ना आएंगे फिर
संभल जा , और न अब गिर
आहिस्ता आहिस्ता चलता चल
जी ले ज़िन्दगी के बचे हुए पल.

SS

Get Out Now!

Sorry Monsieur Dumas for using the names of your immortal characters for my story today. The Three Musketeers Athos, Porthos and Aramis are names of three characters in three different times but finding themselves in similar situation.

Sketch by Maurice Leloir

Athos

Athos was studying in a good missionary school where indiscipline was punished severely. The Christian Brothers were more than capable of wielding the cane with great dexterity and finesse as they could pound the knuckles with the duster. Our man looked small and timid but had a wild streak in him and that would often land him into trouble.

It was the Winter of ‘80 and the class teacher was intensely involved in staging a big school musical which would make him miss the regular classes. The class room was entrusted to the prefects or monitors who were the bright students of the class. This is a mistake that is repeated in schools from time immemorial. If they were to ask the toughies and thugs of the class to be the prefects, there would be perfect law and order in every classroom, for the ‘learned ones’ are always easy to manage. No sooner had the class teacher left the room, Athos and a few others played a prank in the class. They shifted one boy’s books into another’s bag, someone’s pencil box into another and then there was the mixing up of the tiffin boxes which led to swearing and small fights all across the class. The ruckus from the classroom was such that the teacher in the next room went to the auditorium where the practice for the play was going on and reported the matter to the class teacher who was directing the play. The furious teacher ran up three floors and opened the door of the classroom to see her ‘Paradise Lost’. The moment the students saw the man in the white attire, they froze and there was pin drop silence.  It did not take long for the prefects to point fingers at Athos, the original sinner .

Get out now!

Athos went out and stood outside the classroom quietly. He had been similarly punished sometimes for not doing his homework and at other times for other mischiefs. This standing outside was generally for one period of forty minutes but this time it was different. The class teacher said that Athos would not be ever taken back into the class. Now, standing outside has its advantages like you do not have to study and avoid looking like a fool unable to answer the simplest of questions but, in the school that he was studying, it had its own dangers. The headmaster was a terror and, if he saw you outside during his rounds, he would cane you so badly that you would not be able to sit on your bums for the next one hour.  But the good part of such fearful people is that students were all so terribly mortified of him that they would run helter-skelter at the very sight of him. Athos knew the ‘tiger’ was on the prowl seeing the reactions of other boys in the corridor. A couple of times he ran inside the toilet to avoid getting caught by You Know Who. There was the Chemistry Laboratory opposite his classroom and in there was a kind soul, Mrs. Thomas, who after a couple of hours of seeing the boy standing outside took pity and asked him to sit in the safety of the lab.

One whole day went by and the class teacher did not relent. Each time he would step outside, Athos would walk behind him apologizing but all his prayers seemed to fall on deaf ears. Another day went by and the boy just stood intermittently outside the class room and the chemistry lab. On day three, the boy had tears in his eyes and the other students made an appeal to the teacher to allow him inside. After much persuasion, the teacher finally relented and Athos walked in with a smile and his friends welcomed him with a clap or two. Before he reached his seat, the teacher asked the prefects to move his desk from the current position in the rear of the classroom to a place next to the dustbin near the exit door.

That’s the right place for you!

And so Athos remained next to the dustbin for the next couple of months till he moved to the Senior School building but for those months he faced the missiles of paper balls and stuff other boys in the class would throw at him. He was truly a ‘rubbish’ student.

Porthos

It was the beginning of a new academic year in college. Porthos, along with his close buddy Ranjeev, was at the cafeteria enjoying the morning tea and bread pakora. Both were in the second year of their undergraduation in a well-known college in Delhi and their first year results were almost identical….roaring forties! But they would never let their dismal academics interfere with the carefree life in the campus where the canteen was like the fun-pole of their universe. It was here that they fell in love, almost daily, with a new girl. It was here that they could be themselves, not afraid, not ashamed and not liked.

While sipping tea, the duo saw a girl in a noodle strap top leaving little for the imagination. The two just could not stop staring at her with eyes popping out. And they were not alone. Almost everyone present there was simply bedazzled, including the girls. Being stylish was one thing but this was going too far by Delhi standards in the early eighties. Anyway, with a heavy heart the two reached the lecture room where the Department Head, one of the most senior and respected professors, was setting the tone for the new session. Porthos and Ranjeev were, as usual, perched at the far end of the class when our man showed his artistic quality and drew a sketch of the cafeteria girl in the dress on the last page of the new notebook. Ranjeev saw the picture and laughed and then both of them started giggling as the professor was equipping the students with the reference books on Medieval Indian History.

What is so funny? There you two, at the last row…did I say something funny?

No Ma’am.

Then either tell the class your joke or just leave the class.

Get out now!

Porthos wanted to apologize but before he could utter a word, Ranjeev, got up,  picked up his satchel and started walking out. As if he was hypnotized, Porthos started following Ranjeev with equal confidence as the professor and other students watched on. From that day onwards, the duo never came back to this professor’s class for they, in some time, started playing for the college soccer team which gave them a solid excuse to get official exemption from attendance. Porthos was truly an ‘outstanding’ player.

Aramis

Aramis was a young man of twenty-four and undergoing induction training a part of his first employment in the eastern part of the country in the late eighties. Life seemed beautiful with good food, lovely stay arrangements and good amount of fun apart from some boring lectures. One afternoon, during tea break, when all the other trainees had gone down to the cafeteria for hot beverages and cookies, Aramis took charge of the blackboard. Armed with a chalk and a duster, he penned a poem of about twelve lines on why no one should ever study Accounts. Satisfied with his literary creation, he went out for his hot cuppa and was late to return to the class. As he approached the lecture theatre, he could feel the heat inside. He walked in and could now see the Head of the Academy shouting at the trainees for their misbehavior in the previous class and the poem on the board made matters worse as the Finance Head of the company had come in to take the next session.

Who has written this? I want the person to stand up.

Surprisingly, the entire group stood up taking collective blame rather than pointing at Aramis alone.

Whoever has done this should at least own up responsibility and not act like a coward.

Aramis put his hand up.

Get out now!

Aramis walked out leaving the class in complete silence and walked towards the office.

After a while the Principal came to his room and called for the stenographer. Our man stood there as the Principal dictated a letter to the Personnel Department rusticating Aramis from the campus. It was not the digital age then and the letter had to be taken in person for approval to the Corporate Office   which some distance away. Till the time the approval was awaited, he was asked to go to his hostel room. With fear on his mind, he went in, switched on the ceiling fan and in no time fell asleep soundly only to be woken up by a loud banging on the door by security guard. It is now part of the folklore in the campus how the suspension and rustication of Aramis was collectively fought by the fellow trainees in true Gandhian style of satyagraha and fasting which forced the Principal to tear up the suspension letter. Aramis was reinstated, thanks to his friends who stood up for him.

d’Artagnan

All the three musketeers Arthos, Porthos and Aramis were asked to get out ingloriously at different stages of life….during childhood at school, as a sophomore in college and as a young man at work. How the old d”Artagnan will get out of the world is to be seen…..will he be crying like Arthos, stride out confidently like Porthos or go to sleep peacefully like Aramis, is something he cannot predict. In pensive moments, I too ponder over how this final exit will be for me. Even if I wish to go the religious way made famous by Anup Jalota in the bhajan….Jab praan tan se nikle… I will never qualify for such a saintly departure with all the things I have done in this lifetime. Having seen some sad, long and painful ends, all I want is a quiet final exit where I am not an ailing burden to my family. Maybe, the way Don Corleone passed away while playing with his grandchild in a garden would be a nice way to go. It would also be good to have a lot of old friends around me till the end with whom I can share jokes, fight over politics and meet once in a while to relive the glorious past and shout out loud….All for One and One for All.

SS

Double Ton

Last week got a couple of messages…

“I hope you are fine.”

When I asked why…. the reply was….”You did not send your blog. I wait for it every Sunday.”

It has been almost six years the Trio of MSD have been penning thoughts ranging from travel to food, from love to tragedy, from sense to non-sense….Today marks the 200^th blog and we take this opportunity to thank all our readers who read and often put their appreciation on the blog and WhatsApp. It has been a long journey but one that we have enjoyed. To mark this double century milestone, I share a double pack written sometime ago by M&D, the duo who, I wish, would write more often. Thoda lamba hai but ask Cheteshwar Pujara how long it takes to score a double and you will excuse us the length for the effort that went into it.

THE BONG PALATE

Some of the memories that I have preserved of my visit to Kashmir with my parents in the late seventies include the heart stopping beauty of the valley of Pahalgam, the rows and rows of chinar trees,the shikaras in the Dal Lake, the unforgivable beauty of the Kashmiri girls, signboards showing ‘Indo-Kashmir’ emporia and not to forget lots and lots of our Bong kindred from Kolkata. They had travelled miles just to be in that place about which it has been said “Gar firdaus, ruhe zamin ast, hamin asto, hamin asto, hamin asto” (If there is ever a heaven on earth, it’s here, it’s here, it’s here).

You cannot miss them anywhere. I mean us, the Bongs. They are everywhere, from the hills to the coast, in buses, trains, boats, shops, hotels and not to miss hordes of them on horseback or even in ‘dolis’ making their way to Kedarnath or Amarnath. As the Goddess Durga arrives on Earth from Kailash each year with her children in tow, the Bengali family too embarks on its annual pilgrimage. The only difference being that the Devi chooses one of these modes of travel – Ashwa(horse), Gaj(elephant), Nouka(boat) or the Palki(palanquin)- we Bongs choose Kundu or Banerjee Specials to help us criss-cross the country.

Actually you can spot them from quite a distance and you will never be wrong in identifying them. They usually move in groups- Pishima, Kakima, Dada, Boudi, Jethu, Thakuma, Sonamoni, Potla, Bonti- a strange medley. Occasionally, you come across a few honeymooners- dressed heavily in colourful silks and costume jewellery with the man invariably carrying the young missus’ handbag- and sometimes an all stag group consisting of office colleagues or college friends.

It is actually very easy to identify members of my tribe. Be it in Kashmir or Mount Abu or Udhagamandalam. The men, usually leading the group like flag bearers, will be armoured with mufflers, monkey-caps, brilliantly coloured sweaters and jackets, which would button up with great difficulty especially at the waist, and finally yards and yards of grey-brown shawls. Children, walking like robots behind their fathers and uncles, their movement restricted by the protective gear supplied by their much concerned mothers, and covered  from head to toe in such a way that, apart from their little eyes, not much is visible. Finally, the rank and file will be made up of lots of waddling ladies, with due respect to their generous waistlines, their sarees and shawls fluttering gaily in the wind. The mothers and grandmothers are usually armed with lots of ‘jholas’, water-bottles, flasks and goodies. The current generation, though, is more smartly dressed, thanks to the malls which have mushroomed everywhere and the television soaps, leading to some changes in their wardrobes whereby they tend to blend more homogeneously with the crowd. Even though salwars may have replaced the sarees, trousers the dhotis and backpacks, the ‘jholas’, the patented monkey caps and mufflers are still there. A closer look will help you recognize your Bong friends unmistakably. Now, coming to the point; the mission of one and all in the group is experimenting with gastronomic delights.

One of the most common sights, wherever you go, is that of a Bong mother running after a cantankerous child pleading with him to have a bite of something, the child irritably reacting “Aar khabo na !”(Don’t want to eat any more) and the father angrily coming out with a ‘fatwa’. This is usually followed by lots of angry outbursts, coaxing, cajoling with finally the child putting an end to it all by exclaiming, “Kheye kheye morbo na ki?” (Do you want me to die eating?). The case is put to rest.

On this Kashmir trip, we came across one such group who, having been away from home for quite some time, had almost gone berserk and were desperately on the lookout for some Dada- Boudi’s  eatery that could satisfy their dried up palates. “They make the most mouthwatering Aloo-posto and chochchori.” My father, who liked experimenting, instead suggested savouring the trout curry being sold at a nearby local joint but they were quite resolute about their mission. “No, no too much aloo parathas with dollops of butter have worked havoc in our tummies, so we want something light.”  Poor Dad backed out, even refraining from mentioning the ‘Gushtaba’ and ‘Rista’ , Kashmiri meat delicacies, we had tried out the night before. So our Bong friends continued their search for the much popular Dada-Boudi joint till they met with success and even gave us the directions to it in our next encounter with them. I salute their perseverance and indomitable spirit!

Perhaps, it is this spirit that takes us across the length and breadth of the country from Kashmir to Kanykumari, from Dwarka to Shillong. I am sure that we Bengalis constitute one of the highest number of Indian tourists, at least, within India. Despite ‘sambhar-rasam’ not really being our cup of tea, the Bongs’ favourite tourist destination still remains ‘South India’. Every Bong has definitely been there once, either with family or friends or on honeymoon. Idli-dosa-uttapam may not be our favourite cuisine and our stomachs may even revolt against them at times, despite each one of us carrying sufficient stock of Gelusil and Digene, but we have definitely braved the trio just to see the Temple of Meenakshi or the Forest of Periyar.

However, this weakness has not deterred us from moving or venturing out of our homeland or trying out and experimenting with the cuisine of other people and other cultures. You go visiting to any part of the country or even outside it, our Bong friend is there eating, enjoying, berating, suggesting and experimenting with all types of culinary delights. Everything may not suit his weak digestive system, his cravings for his machh- bhaat may resurface, but he will all the same venture out. In Kolkata you may even come across a simple middle-class guy, who may not have travelled much beyond the Puri-Digha-Darjeeling circuit, but he has in-depth knowledge of where to get the best Chinese, Thai, Mughlai and even Malabar specialities. I guess this love for travel and food has got something to do with our genes. Perhaps, another Bong, Dr Siddhartha Mukherjee, may throw some light on this in his latest book on the intimate history of genes.

Now with boundaries fading, Bong Bravehearts are touring the world – Dubai, Bangkok, Singapore, Hongkong and London having become favourite destinations. Though we start missing our maachh-bhaat and mangsher jhol after a week of travel, we do not hesitate to try out all the local cuisine. However, here is a note of caution -do not be surprised if, after trying out all the authentic Chinese ,Thai, Italian cuisines, on returning home your Bong friend concludes that the Chinese served in Kolkata’s Chinatown and  the Thai served in the neighbourhood restaurant are the world’s best!

As most of my readers know, most Bengalis, have a problem with ‘b’ and ‘v’. However this, like all our other handicaps, has never ever stopped us from venturing forth and leaving our footprints on distant lands. This brings to mind a little anecdote. A friend’s father, during his trip to Mumbai, joined us in trying the famed ‘Vada Pav’. Standing at the counter and, perhaps being  intimidated by the size of the pav, or the huge potato vada inside it or the red masala being drizzled on it, he quietly asked the vendor if instead of a ‘Bada Pau’ he could be given a ‘Chhota Pau’!!    

Though I have never been to the USA, my friends settled there often let me have a sneak peek into their lives through FB posts and pics. I am impressed, to say the least, that my Bong friends out there, resplendent in their Kanjeevarams and heavy duty gold jewellery, are celebrating all festivals from Dugga Pujo to Saraswati Pujo , from Jamai Shashti to  Poush Parbon in true Bong style with a touch of the ‘phoren’- champagne in their hands but eyes looking longingly at the Galda Chingris (lobsters) staring at them and the Smoked Hilsas beckoning them from the lavish spread on their tables. It only proves that the Bong’s gastronomic longings are actually insatiable and unconquerable and wherever he is, his quest will continue.

Yes, we are a fishy lot and we love our fish (and meat, a close second) delicacies. We think, stink and dream of fish. There may be a few odd ones but they do not count. Our neighbours may not like the smell which emanates from our house while frying fish but we could not care less. We become like fish out of water if we are deprived of its flavours and tastes for too long. Let me be honest, we are not wholly partial, we love our veggies too (like our friends in Kashmir who had become homesick for Aloo Posto and Chochchori) but up to a point. For instance, mark the expression on your Bong colleagues who come out of a wedding feast where only vegetarian fare has been served. They gorge themselves on all the veggie delights but their expression betrays that somewhere, something has gone amiss. There is in them a feeling of incompleteness. Even though they may have taken second helpings of the ‘Malai Koftas’ or the ‘Hariyali Kebabs’, a craving for something more is left in them. A wedding feast without fish kabiraji , chingri malaikari and kosha mangsho is unimaginable to a Bong no matter to what caste, creed or religion he belongs!!

For us all the three Ps- Pujo, Parbon and Parinoy ( Durga Puja, Festivals and Weddings)- are synonymous with good food. A visit to the Durga Pujo pandal without trying out the luchi-aloor dum, Mughlai parathas(our very own Bong creation), dal-puris, egg rolls, mochar chops, not to forget standing in the queue for the Bhog (Prasad), is unpalatable. In any puja pandal it is fun to see the mad rush to the food counters made by devotees the moment ‘Pushpanjali’(offering of flowers to the deity) is over. As the priest recites the mantra in Sanskrit, the hands remain folded and the eyes closed, but the minds of the fasting Bongs start wandering to another territory – malai chamcham or mishto doi ?

In Bong weddings, too, we do not care too much for ceremonies and rituals. In fact, they are getting cut short by the day with inter-caste, inter- community and inter- continental marriages rising in number. As I understand, though, the feast is getting more and more sumptuous and global. In fact Bong weddings are occasions when cousins and friends enter into gluttonous competitions with each other – who can have the most number of fish cutlets, steamed bhetkis or rosogollas .  Most pre and post wedding debates, too, centre around one topic- food.

With malice toward none and love for all, I hope I can safely say may our tribe increase and may we spread this love for eating and travelling to every nook and corner of this beautiful planet.

The Side Effects of Being a Bookworm

Reading is injurious to health

I was never warned nor cautioned…in fact I was encouraged. A new book for every birthday, train journeys, exam results, Durga puja and at least three to four during the summer and winter vacations. The drug was freely given and the addiction persisted and grew.

What follows here is a retrospective, observational study about the adverse effects of the pharmacological compound that goes by the brand name of ‘story books’ in the Indian population. The age group included in the study ranges from 5 to 60 years and it was conducted over a period of 20 years from 1996 to 2016. The sample size was not fixed. It was divided into the study group that included the people commonly referred to as ‘the bookworms’ and the control group that included ‘everybody else’. The aim of this study was to bring to light the harmful effects of reading story books on the personality of the study group. The results and conclusions have been summarized below as a first person account.

Bookworms are very busy during the vacation time.

We prefer to begin piling our stock much before the vacation actually begins, that’s when the hibernation starts. The books for the next semester can wait for the term to start but not the story books. We prefer to stay indoors during the day and stay up late at night to finish the chapters. It is bothersome for the other inhabitants of the house since we will not budge to help out with any work, we are not lazy but we just need to know what is going to happen next. We will clean our bookshelves, arrange the books according to authors but do not expect us to clean our desks.

Bookworms care more about the paperbacks than the paper notes.

We will drag our parents to stand in long queues, pre order the next book in series and end up buying hard bound new books even though we know that in a month or two the same book will be available at a much lesser price. However, we are an impatient lot, we cannot wait that long. As I said, it is an addiction and we get a high by getting our hands on the first set of copies.

Bookworms are unable to like English being taught in schools.

We do not like the fact that excerpts from plays or novels are kept in syllabus. We need to know why Mark Antony decided to address his Friends, Romans and Countrymen or whether Brutus was truly an honourable man or not. And so we end up reading the entire play and not just the famous speech even though we know that we will never be asked more than one question from it. We cannot limit the number of words in a letter to 100 and in an article to 250. We just cannot express ourselves and feel constrained and almost claustrophobic when such limitations are put. We often resort to unscrupulous means such as making our handwriting tiny so that the space occupied appears to be limited even though our flow of words is not. While some of us become rebellious against this unjust system of curbing creativity by not writing a few answers at all, others could not care less and continue to let the ink fill the pages and smudge the hands knowing well that they will never finish the paper.

Bookworms can be very prejudiced.

We might not respond if you begin an introduction with ‘Myself Chhotu, from Mumbai’.

While we can chatter nonstop about Bathsheba and Gabriel Oak, we might just end up completely ignoring you in the madding crowd if you say the novels you have read are Chetan Bhagat’s Revolutions. So we find it difficult to strike a conversation or to continue one after a point with the control group. We are a rigid lot. We prefer the feel and smell of rough yellow paper than kindle the desire to accept and adapt to the electronic world.

Bookworms can be oblivious to the world.

You can step on our feet, push us, squash us in the local trains of Mumbai, that’s alright; we won’t say anything to you while we are reading. We are more interested in whether Ralph de Bricassart reciprocates Meggie’s love or not rather than ‘Pudhil station Andheri’.

Bookworms can be extremely irritating movie companions.

We do not think any movie has done justice to the books. We will exclaim aloud time and again in the theatre “that is not what happens in the book” or “oh my God, they omitted the most important detail, the whole plot rests on that.” And no, you cannot have an opinion about the movie if you haven’t read the book.

Bookworms are pests when it comes to matrimony.

We can be a source of constant worry to our parents and grandparents when it comes to finding a suitable match. An ideal matrimony profile for us should read,

“Looking for a tall, dark and handsome gentleman with Sherlock’s brain and Darcy’s heart, as noble as Aragorn and as swashbuckling as Rhett Butler, with principles of Howard Roark, charm of Jean-Benoit Aubéry and the madness of Willy Wonka, as selfless as Sidney Carton who sticks with me through the best of times and the worst of times and who makes me an offer with The One Ring that I cannot refuse and for whom love means never having to say you are sorry.” Great Expectations. Period.

The perils of the world of fantasy are many; the study has been able to elucidate only a few. The data collected till now has shown that the benefits of reading far exceed the potential complications and adverse effects. It is thus justified, according to the authors, to expose the child at an early age to the drug. The research is still continuing but the progress has slowed down as the bookworms are an endangered species now. The world will soon be rid of them. But the question that remains unanswered is, ‘Do we want that to happen?’

Till then…Mischief Managed!

I am sure you would have guessed by the style of writing which blog was written by whom. We hope to continue his journey at our own pace. Thanks for inspiring us to go on and on.

MSD