CHICKEN SOUP FOR THE BROKEN BONE

A broken foot has its share of advantages.This I have realized in the past four weeks that I spent hobbling around the house, devouring whatever I could lay my hands on (both edible and readable), watching movies and serials (without any disturbance) and watching life as it unfolded all around. Suddenly, there seemed to be a whole lot of time on my hands – truly a luxury these days. With it opened other floodgates too- of thoughts, memories and perspectives.

The most important one being that S and M have been particularly attentive to me, doing chores in the house they would otherwise choose to ignore, despite their truly busy schedules. Suddenly, I realized that they can both survive pretty well without me. So, now, I can literally and figuratively put my feet up.

S has been prodding me for quite some time to write for the family blog since I have ‘all the time’ at my disposal.  I am reminded of Margaret Mitchell, who wrote Gone With the Wind, while being laid up at home, nurturing a broken ankle.Her husband, tired of carrying loads of books from the library, decided to get her a typewriter and asked her to write a book instead of just reading them. At that time Margaret Mitchell used to work as a columnist for the local newspaper.So she delved into all the history and tales of the Southern States that she had grown up on and also into her own personal experiences to weave the unforgettable tale of love, war and fate against the backdrop of the Civil War. One published novel in her short life of 48 years, written by chance, won her the Pulitzer and the National Book Awards. No schoolgirl in our time grew up without having swooned over the passionate love story of Rhett Butler and Scarlett O’Hara. Though, sadly, times have changed and books, especially novels, are passé. I could hardly think of anything to say when a colleague once remarked that her husband thought buying books, meaning fiction, for their son was a waste of money.

Anyway, I am digressing. Lesser mortal that I am, I choose the more mundane stuff that our days are made of. I choose to write on the boon and bane of our modern day- the cell phone.

Even though I am not much of a fan, I have to admit that it has truly kept me going all these days. From ordering the grocery and gifts to booking tickets, from banking to business, from paying bills, to renewing AMCs, from shopping to keeping in touch with the world at large, it has served me well. Without it, I would have been truly lame and useless.

I know the world has come a long way and this is one of technology’s greatest boons. From deals to discussion, recipes to revolutions, proposals to breakups, all are taking place through it, but somewhere are we missing that human touch?

While I sit in the balcony, and watch the kids come out in the evenings, I am really impressed by the new age mothers. They are truly upwardly mobile. A little one in the perambulator kept vying for the mother’s attention for a very long time, but the young lady was so engrossed in her chat on the phone that she chose to ignore all his attempts at cooing and crying. And it happened in a flash – she just missed seeing the little one take his first turn! It was only when this confused little thing sent out a loud squeal, unable to understand what had just happened to him or turn on his back once again, that the mother, who was pushing the pram, finally noticed. As was expected, all her ecstasy continued to pour into the phone and the tiny human remained caught in the throes of eternal perplexity- to turn or not to turn!

My attention now shifts to an SUV making its way out of the gate, at quite a speed, on to one of the busiest roads of Mumbai. At the wheels was one of my neighbour’s daughter-in-law, a small town fledgling metamorphosed into another of Mumbai’s ‘upstart crows’ (incidentally, poet and playwright Robert Greene, one of the university wits, had coined this to describe Shakespeare).When she had landed in this city she had her face covered in a foot long ‘ghunghat’ but was now maneuvering the steering with one hand while the other, kept her mobile affixed to her ear. A toddler was sitting in the seat next to her while another, slightly older, was bawling in the seat behind. I could recognize them from my balcony since this was a much familiar sight. The lady in question moved around in her four-wheel drive for the smallest of chores. I know that we women are often applauded for multi-tasking but this was multi-Herculean-tasking. At least for me, whose attempt at learning to drive in the streets of Delhi, ages ago, had ended in one of those incidents which still generate much laughter and mirth for the family, and finally led to the most laudable decision of never attempting to drive again. I could not but stand up from my chair now on my one-and-half legs to give the young lady a standing ovation. Brave New World!

I was reading in the newspapers a few days back that, not just the celebrities, ordinary women, too, were obsessed with their make-ups and touch ups just before delivery so that the first Instagram photos with their newborns would come just right. And if, God forbid, the light or angle failed to come right, there were endless tools at their disposal to glam them up! Though, old school that I am, I always feel the glow and beauty, which are instantly bestowed on a mother on holding that tiny little bundle for the first time in her arms, need no photo editing.

Recently, at the airport lounge, I had a long wait, sitting on my wheelchair, and while looking around I noticed that in the chairs facing me everyone was busy with one thing – their mobiles. No one was aware of who was sitting next to him or her. Even the newly married couple- the mehendi and ‘chooda’ were a giveaway- had their noses buried into their respective phones. I wondered if the day is not too far away when couples in long distance relationships will say their ‘I DOs’ on mobiles too and, may be, an App for the ‘Saat-Pheras’ would save all a lot of trouble.I turned my glance in another direction and noticed that a toddler was sitting on the floor playing with a smartphone while her parents were engrossed in checking out merchandise at one of the airport shops. The lady sitting next to me, seeing the expression on my face, commented that even her grandson, nearing three, had not yet uttered his first words, but could switch on every remote and loved playing games on the mobile. I must say, I am impressed !

As I was wondering where the world would finally come to, in walked a woman in all her traditional attire. She was a village woman from Rajasthan- tall and well built with a large frame, head held high, wearing her traditional attire – ghagra-choli- odhni, her heavy silver/ white metal jewellery complete with bangles upto the arms, anklets, borla (maang-tika), bichhuwa (toe-rings). Her hands and feet were large and rough, which gave away that she was accustomed to hard labour. She had the traditional camel leather jootis or mojaris on her feet. Completely oblivious to all that was going on around her, she walked in almost regal majesty.She was the model of elegance and rusticity moulded into one. She was accompanied by her techie son, the laptop bag carried by him had the Tech company’s name embossed on it. Yes, mother and son were talking to each other for a change. You could make out it was the mother’s first trip by air- probably visiting the son’s place of posting for the first time. I wanted to take a picture of hers on my mobile. A voice within stopped me from clicking. 

The mother’s gentle smile on her care worn face and that look of pride in her eyes as she turned to talk to her son was like a breath of fresh air.  A while back I was feeling almost claustrophobic, but now I could breathe once again. It’s good to know some things do not change.

Surely no smiley of Emoji can ever beat that of a Mommyji. Happy Mother’s Day!

DS

The Fourth Candle

Eric Johansson is one of the richest men alive. A Swedish billionaire with huge fortune in shipping and real estate, had three of his four children killed in the mayhem on Easter Day at Colombo 2019 where they had gone on vacation.  A day after, Eric with his wife and surviving son, Elias, went to the local church in Stockholm for a prayer service. Surely deep in his heart he would be hoping that after Crucifixion of his children, for no crime of theirs, there might also be a Resurrection even if momentarily as it happened with the Good Lord.

This one is for Elsa, my eldest one.

Pretty, pretty as can be, My Love.

So gentle, so lovely.

Oh Lord, why did it have to be my Elsa?

She loved all and hated none.

On a holiday she had gone,

Never to return.

I light a candle for thee, My Love Elsa.

This one is for Emma,

Smart, smarter than most, My Love

So kind, so humble.

Oh Lord, why did it have to be my Emma?

She loved all and all loved her.

On a holiday she had gone,

Never to return

I light a candle for thee, My Love Emma.

This one is for Emil,

My Little Big Swede.

So small yet so strong.

Oh Lord, why did it have to be my Emil?

He had hardly seen the world.

On a holiday he had gone,

Never to return.

I light a candle for thee, My Love Emil.

I also light a fourth candle,

This one for the person I know not.

The person who blew himself

Taking my three loved ones.

With so much sorrow in my heart

Have no place left for hatred.

Why did you do it?

What cause could be so overwhelming?

To blow off yourself and other innocents,

Must surely be something personal and powerful,

As personal and powerful as my love for my children.

All I can say on Easter Day

Forgive Him O Lord, for he knows not what he has done.

I light a candle for thee O Unknown Soldier,

May you find in afterlife what you sought in this.

Amen.

Around the same time in the Cinnamon Island, the police got leads and almost all led to Suleyman Ahmed’s three storied mansion. Suleyman was one of the most respected and richest of spice traders in the country. His son, Yousuf, had been identified as one of the suicide bombers.  Yousuf’s wife Rashida heard the police sirens outside the mansion. She quietly gathered her three young sons and led them into a room. They knelt on their silk mats and Rashida led them in their prayers.

O Dear Lord,

We lived the life you gave,

Lived it the way you showed.

Every day was dedicated to you,

Every deed was as the sacred text said.

Never did anyone falter

Never did anyone think twice.

You are always right

Yours will always be right.

We lived for you

Lived for your cause

Now the time has come

To reach closer to you.

Accept me My Good Lord

Accept my family

As I light the Holy Flame now

Ameen.

As the prayer ended, the children closed in on Rashida who looked bloated around the belly. She was not only six months pregnant but also had a belt strapped around her. With arms wrapped around her children, she pulled a fuse….wroooooom…craaash!! The roof came crashing down and Rashida and her children born and unborn had their parts scattered all across the place as the police entered the premises.

Life is an uncertainty, death is not. It will happen, just that you don’t know when and how. Who is right, who is not is difficult to judge. But what makes you shiver is the faith that drives you to kill, destroy and seek Paradise in return for the eternal sacrifice. Which God shows a path, what text makes people go to such extremes and do the unthinkable and bring misery and death unto others will remain a mystery in this life. I would surely like to meet these bombers up there to write the next version of Freudian theory. However, the reaction to such fanaticism is always yours. Yousuf decided on revenge for killings of his brethren elsewhere. Eric took the course of forgiveness. Each to his own.

Meanwhile the ship MV Innocent ferrying people to the other world had started its voyage. On seat numbers 10 A, B and C were seated Elsa, Emma and Emil. On the other side on seats 10 D, E & F were Rashida’s three and half children. The kids on both side of the aisle smiled and waved to each other and sang in unison:

Michael row the boat ashore, hallellujah

Michael row the boat ashore, hallelujah

This old world’s a mighty big place, hallelujah

It’s got Satan all over its face, hallelujah

Jordan’s river is chilly and cold, hallelujah

But it warms the human soul, hallelujah

So Michael row the boat ashore , hallelujah

SS

NB. This is a pure work of fiction woven around and inspired by the recent happenings in Sri Lanka on Easter in April 2019. Names, characters and incidents are author's imagination and any resemblance is purely coincidental.

Der Berliners

Having walked almost 28000 steps on my last day of stay at Berlin, I needed a break, some rest. And so I sat down on the green grass between the famous Berlin Dom and the Altes Museum. I closed my eyes for a few moments to recollect those beautiful places I had visited in the city and suddenly I saw a short man with toothbrush moustache standing on the huge steps of Altes with his hand raised in salute and blabbering like a madman in German.

    

    

I decided to walk up the steps, took the man by his ear and walked him around the city to meet a few people who he may have forgotten. I took him first to Willhelmstrasse and asked…“Do you know what that is?”

Meekly he replied, “I used to stay here in Berlin, but what on earth is this piece of steel doing here? It wasn’t there in my time.”

“That is George Elser, a carpenter by trade, who later worked as a clock maker. He almost killed you in Munich on 8^th November 1939 when you had gone there to celebrate the Beer Hall Putsch of 1923 when, along with the communists, you tried to take power through an armed revolution. George had done immaculate planning and had fixed bombs on the pillars from where you were to deliver your speech. You, however, advanced your program and left the Beer Hall at 9.07pm after addressing a large crowd and after 13 minutes the bombs exploded bringing down the ceiling, killing 7 men and injuring many.”

“You were damn lucky. If you had blown off on that night at Munich, the world would not have seen the nightmare you brought upon it. George was caught, tortured by your men and died in a concentration camp in Dachau on 9^th April 1945, four weeks before the Allied forces defeated yours completely.”

I then dragged him to one of Berlin’s most iconic structures…the Reichstag or the parliament whereon it is written, Dem Deutschen Volke (For German People).

“Ja, I know this place well. We started a fire here in 1933 and blamed the communists. It was here that we forced President Hindenburg to give all powers to me and appoint me the Chancellor of the Reich.”

“But do you remember Julius Moses?” I asked. He looked lost. So I took him aside the Reichstag building where a strange memorial was kept.

“Let me refresh your memory. On 23 March 1933, the Reichstag met in Berlin. The main item on the agenda was a new law, the 'Enabling Act'. It allowed you, Mr. Hitler, to enact new laws without interference from the President or Reichstag for a period of four years. The building where the meeting took place was surrounded by members of the SA and the SS, paramilitary organisations of the National Socialist Party that had by now been promoted to auxiliary police forces. You had only 37% seats in the parliament and with terror tactics cowed down most of the opposition. With 444 votes in favour and 94 against, the Reichstag adopted the Act. These are those 94 brave parliamentarians who stood up for democracy and opposed you and your dictatorial plans.”

“These were the men like Julius Moses, who, you then had arrested and persecuted. That is why they are revered as protectors of democracy and their memorial stands outside the Reichstag to remind all what cataclysm dictatorship can bring about. All Dem Deutsche Volken.”

“Here, look at Berlin which is such an open city, there is but one building in one corner where a few windows are sealed.”

“Ja I know the place. My Propaganda Minister Joseph Goebbels was living there. But why are the windows sealed?”

“He was the man who created not just aura around you but ensured every bit of news including what common people spoke about would reach the police and voices of protest would be fast put to rest. A part of his propaganda was to control film censorship. They called his ministry Reich Ministry of Enlightenment and Propaganda. He ensured that only films that showed you in good light were produced. On a Christmas Day in 1937, Goebbels gave you 12 films of Walt Disney. Writing in his diary, Goebbels said, “The Fuhrer is very pleased and very happy about this treasure.”

“You were such a fan that you dreamt of creating a German version of Walt Disney’s studio, and instructed Goebbels to establish the ‘Deutsche Zeichentrickfilm GmbH’. The aim of the film company was to rival movies like Mickey Mouse while spreading the Nazi ideology and propaganda through a less aggressive entertainment source.”

“But Goebbels also ensured that no one ever spoke about one man in Germany…Charles Chaplin.”

“The reason is not difficult to guess. In the ‘The Great Dictator’, Chaplin played his trademark Tramp character, re-imagined as a Jewish barber in the fictional country Tomania. Chaplin also portrayed Tomania’s autocrat Adenoid Hynkel, a parody of you.”

“Ja, I saw the movie twice in my private theatre. I was heartbroken after this film and made sure no one uttered his name ever in Third Reich.”

“Had you paid heed to what Chaplin said in the movie even then, you could have averted so much bloodshed. In the famous speech, Chaplin goes on to say: ‘I should like to help everyone if possible—Jew, Gentile, black man, white. We all want to help one another. Human beings are like that. We want to live by each other’s happiness, not by each other’s misery. We don’t want to hate and despise one another.’

“Now let me also show some other places close to the Reichstag that might bring back some memories and maybe some remorse even after so many years.”

 “This is the memorial to the 500,000 Sinti and Roma victims of your genocide. These were the gypsy people who you felt were the weak who had to be wiped out. The memorial consists of a dark, circular pool of water at the centre of which there is a triangular stone. The triangular shape of the stone is in reference to the badges that had to be worn by concentration camp prisoners. The stone is retractable and a fresh flower is placed upon it daily.” The words of the poem "Auschwitz" by Italian Roma Santino Spinello are written around the edge of the water basin:
"Sunken in face/ extinguished eyes/ cold lips/ silence/ a torn heart/ without breath/ without words/ no tears."

“And who can forget what you did to the Jews not just in Berlin but all over Europe. This is one of many such memorials in the city.”

I finally took him to a place near Potsdamler Platz. He recognized the place well. It was the only sign of Fuhrerbunker today.

“Ja ja this is where I had my bunker in Berlin. This is where I married Eva. This is where I met my end.”

I lost him there. Just then there was a Whatsapp message in response to my earlier blog on Germany. Wow…Ally texting me, “Hey Mate, are you in Berlin?” Yes at Potsdamler Platz, said I. “My wife Elizabeth just got transferred to Berlin and we are staying at an apartment right where you are. Can we meet?” Ally was a school friend who I last met 37 years ago when we passed out in 1982. And now from nowhere in a new world we connected…Mahakumbh for me and readily I said yes to the friend’s offer. In our younger days we raced each other in sports, Ally was always a step or two ahead but still we would find ourselves on the same podium often. And then we met!

All the frights and tragedies of those dark days and years were washed away in the flowing River Spree as we said, East is East, and West is West, and in West twain shall surely meet.

SS

Reisetagebuch des Reisenden (Traveller’s Diary)

I saw the Freddie Mercury movie on my flight from Mumbai to Munchen and was under the impression that Bohemia was part of Germany and so wanted to name the blog Bohemian Rhapsody….maybe in history a large part of Europe was at times part of Germany or Greater Germany. But Googled to find that now it is an integral part of the Czech Republic and only Bavaria is Germany and Munich or Munchen is its capital. This is why I strongly believe that children should be taught Geography in school or they should go out and see the world as a traveller and write their diaries. For us who didn’t take school seriously and hadn’t travelled enough, often work takes you to newer lands and I planned to make the most of such an opportunity during my short stay at Germany which included Munich, Hamburg, Dusseldorf and finally Berlin where I am off to now. So here are some interesting snippets none of which are interconnected. I call them the Seven Golden Rules for Travellers.

Alstadt Lake, Hamburg

Matters of Heart

My wife had done the complete study and chalked out the entire itinerary based on books downloaded on the Kindle to exploring various websites, hotel booking sites and Trip Advisor feedbacks. And a true Virgo misses nothing and checks and cross checks every detail before preparing schedules. The Munich plan was ready in my hand starting from Marineplatz to Residenz but I had another ‘kida’ or virus in my head…coming to the city and not seeing the Holy Land would be such a disgrace. So the first thing I did after dismounting the plane was to rush to the Allianz Arena which is the ground for the famous Bayern Munich football team which has delighted the world over several decades. I could only see the wonderful stadium from the outside for that evening Bayern Munich were to play arch rivals Dortmund Borussia Dortmund. Later, however, during my visit to Miniatur Wunderland at Hamburg, I got my peep inside the stadium even if it was an artist’s impression. So Rule No.1 for travellers, plan well to the last point and time but never let go of where your heart wants to go. That’s what makes you truly happy.

Ebony & Ivory

Coming from a land where temperature of 40 degrees Celsius is quite normal at this time of the year and then seeing the television screen of the aircraft showing the outside temperature at 1 degree…that’s called a ‘warm welcome’.“Don’t buy anything for us but buy yourself a nice jacket. You will need it there.” No points for guessing whose famous lines I just quoted and so before seeing any historical site, walked into a mall. There were many smart and fancy jackets on display but the initial shock for the traveller is not the jet lag and time zone difference but the exchange-lag as I call it…Euro 200 is equal to how much Rupees…OMG! Since Her Majesty’s Orders were to be obeyed, I continued my search and after going through many a jacket, selected one, wore it and it was pretty loose so called for the storekeeper to find one my size. The man looked at me and said, “Our sizes start with XXL and you are too small to fit into them.” Gave him a foolish grin and walked out not in shame but totally amused…felt like Gulliver in the Land of Giants. Rule No. 2 is adjust to the land you are going to, accept reality, put your ego aside and enjoy the land of giants as much as the land of pygmies.

Oh, What a Wine Day!

Fifty five years is a long time not to have sipped some alcohol. So many chances have I got from youth to almost old age and every time I put it aside with a polite no. Debu, my friend of old, who often travels to Germany, said I must have beer in the land of its origin. My wife and daughter begged of me, “it will be cold there so a drink or two will keep you warm.” So on my flight to Munich when the lady offered the drink, I smiled and asked for some Sparkling Water and no more. But on the next flight I took from Munich to Hamburg, with a lot of confidence which a seasoned drinker would have, I said, “Red Wine, please!”  Tasted it and drank the glassful but still didn’t understand ‘what’s so great about it!’ And then at the big boat party at Hamburg, white wine went down my gullet. The taboo, the fear, the undoable was done. So Rule 3, when travelling, be brave and do the unthinkable…it is more fun that way.

While My Guitar Gently Weeps

If going to the football ground at Munich was a must, coming to Hamburg and seeing the place where Beatles first played and became successful was a Must Must! When young I would collect every piece of news that would be printed in the newspapers and a weekly tabloid called Sun. When John Lennon died, I cried. So it was a fitting tribute to stand with the Fab Four at the Beatles Platz and sing…Hey Jude, don’t make it bad, Take a sad song and make it better…Wow…what a feeling with Paul’s guitar in hand. Rule No. 4 is in a new strange land no one knows you so you can act funny  when you wish to like strumming a guitar and even singing aloud…it is ok if the strangers just smile at you and walk past.

Bachke Rehna re Baba, Bachke Rehna Re

The Beatles Platz is at Reeperbhan which is also the red light district of Hamburg. It was quite a sight to see the places with huge posters inviting you inside. I kept walking the street, enjoying the sight and stopping by wherever such shops were there to take a picture or two. Just then an old man, should be seventy-five plus, in a smart dress, walked upto me and showed me a card to say the girls inside were from Manchester in UK, Moscow in Russia…you name the spot on the globe and he had them inside and pretty cheap too. I felt like, “Main aisi waisi ladki nahin hoon, mujhe bhagwaan ke liye chod do,” and had to almost push him aside to save not my virginity, which was long lost, but to make sure ‘No means No’. But a visit to an Erotic Boutique was hmmmm….amazing stuff they have to re-write Kamasutra. So Rule No. 5 is while Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara it is wiser to stay within limits. Enjoy responsibly.

Rosogolla belongs to Me

Does Hamburg have anything to do with Hamburger? There are different versions and some say it originated in this port town of Germany. Others believe the Yankees have a patent of the food which in India we re-create as Alu Tikki Burger, Cheese Paneer Burger and even Chole Burger…Mumbaikars take pride in saying their Vada Pav is the local burger. The Germans may either die of disgrace or do an unstoppable laughter seeing such stuff being made of their specialty. I am sure Hamburg and Hamburger are linked as is Frankfurt with Frankfurter and Vienna with Wiener Schnitzel. Some of my German friends were happy to find an Indian who had no problem with anything served on his platter…beef burger, pork knuckle, ham sandwiches…So the Rule No.6 says that you must eat the food of the land you visit and not carry Khakhra, Thepla, Haldiram and MTR packets. Veggies too can find their bites almost everywhere. Bongs please do not just look for Dada-Boudir Hotel for maach bhaat, just enjoy the mashed potatoes instead.

 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

Hamburg is a port town and River Elbe allows even the biggest of ships to come inside. The city has more bridges than Venice and Amsterdam put together. You can view almost every kind of ship from containerships to fire fighters, tugs and barges all-round the day including the huge gantry cranes that work non-stop to make this Europe’s 4^th largest port and 18^th in the world in terms of traffic handled. The city also has one of its kind Maritime Museum which is a must go.  I explored most of the city on foot and sometimes in cabs. Talking to the cab drivers can give you wonderful insights that you would otherwise not come to know of like Hamburg Airport is closed between 11pm and 6am. There are no flights operating because the airport is within the city limits and the inhabitants would not like to get disturbed while sleeping after ‘a hard day’s night’. This is called truly a Welfare State…not just giving free doles and waiver of loans. So Rule No. 7 is to talk to the local inhabitants especially cab drivers and you will explore the city better to find what a regular traveller will miss.

As I travel from Dusseldorf to Berlin, you enjoy the weekend as I shall be back soon to tell you some more about the wonderful country called Germany. During this trip went to the Corporate Office of ERGO at Dusseldorf. The original company was called Victoria and they had a very apt tag line….Go Out And Talk To The World!

So next time someone tells you, ”Get Lost”, take the advice literally for it is time to discover the beautiful world.

SS

Going In Style

Do not ever think that having a Platinum Card of an airlines means that you’ve arrived in life. You are no better than the doodhwala who wakes up at 4am, milks the cows, puts the same in huge canisters, hangs it on the bike as he drives down from one housing society to another delivering fresh milk…all this he wraps up early to make sure the children get their fresh glasses of milk as they set out for school. You Mr. Airmail man are no better…you too tick a number of check boxes:

ü  Wake up before the alarm rings and wakes up others in the family.
ü  Switch on the geyser.
ü  While the water is getting heated, finish with the brushing, shaving and the rest.
ü  Take a quick shower.
ü  Get into the clothes.
ü  Stuff your pockets with business cards, cash and your lifeline called smartphone.
ü  By now the cab you booked last night has arrived and you get a missed call.
ü  Pick up the bag and rush out of the door, making a sad face as you wave past your sleepy wife.

Phew…if that’s not enough, you pray the CISF man at the security check point is good and you do not miss the flight before you make it past the metal detectors. If you are lucky, you have time in hand and you walk into the lounge swiping your card for a 6 am breakfast. I am certain the doodhwala is happier when the ghar ki sundar si malkin opens the door in her flowery nightie to collect the milk. Don’t know what the flying mail man is out to chase as he keeps adding to the mileage points…happiness no way…that he leaves behind every day and every time he walks out of the house at unearthly hours.

Happiness is something he left behind long ago when he had little to flaunt.

Happiness was to pack everything you had into a magical piece of luggage called ‘hold-all’ and applying your life’s strength to tie the leather straps round it after you made a big roll of the bedding, food packets, shoes and clothes all stuffed inside.

For us Bongs there is no time like the Pujas when the Goddess Durga with her children Lakshmi, Saraswati, Ganesh and Karti come to her parental home every year.  Same was with us. The Ma Durga of the house would somehow manage to get train tickets through some tout and she along with her two daughters and son would head every summer to Calcutta to her brother’s place…Mama Bari for the children. Happiness was to put the hold-all atop the taxi and troop into the big fat Ambassador, which incidentally was the only car ride we would get in a year, as we drove into Old Delhi Station.

Happiness was to walk quickly behind the coolie who carried the luggage to the platform, haggling with him and saving those few coins that would provide for some extra fun during the long train ride.

Happiness was the expression when the son would take the brown coloured tickets to check the reservation charts and no sooner had they been put up on the designated platforms than a frenzied crowd would gather around them, each trying to jostle with the other in the effort to find their names first. Seeing your names there and finding the coach number against them was more than a lottery win…Happiness@Unlimited.

Happiness was to stand on the weighing machines, seeing the round red and white wheel come to a standstill and then pushing your ten paise coin in the slot and waiting for the small ticket to emerge. Reading the weight was fun but reading your horoscope given behind the weighing slip was an absolute delight especially when it said that it matched with that of actress Saira Banu whose sketch would also be printed as you compared it with the stars on the slips of others.

Happiness was to board the train and finding your berths and quickly occupying them before someone else put their bums and claimed it to be theirs. Quickly putting all the luggage beneath the bunk was also an art. Then pulling out chains and locking the suitcases and trunks so that no one stole them while you slept was a must. And when all was settled, going out to get a surahi or an earthen pot which you would fill with the tap nearby was like carrying lifesaving stuff. The times of filtered and bottled water were yet to arrive.

Happiness was when you showed your ticket to the Ticket Checker who would come in his ill-fitting black coat and seeing around you some sly ones without the tickets. How they managed the pan- chewing man with some cash that would be tucked away by the checker in the chor pocket of his trouser was art of another kind.

Happiness was to order the oily train food and then getting off in the next big station to pick up sabzi-puri, guava and toys and jumping back onto the running train in the nick of time. No one ever got left behind at an intermediate station, for that only happens on 70mm screens. As the train trudged along the iron tracks, drying your wet handkerchiefs or gamchhaas (towels) by putting your hand out as the wind and sun would do their job for you.

Happiness would be to get the wash room free at the first instance when you went there and delight would be to find it relatively clean. Now the second part was not easy in Sleeper Class trains and often the women of the house would have to practise bladder control that only they could manage while the little ones were made to stand beside the open door and asked to shower the bushes by the tracks as the parents made weird sounds….and the obedient ones would gleefully oblige.

Finally, the fastest train in those days, aptly named Toofan Mail, which after 36 hours of huffing and puffing  would crawl into Howrah Station . Happiness was to find your Mama and Mami waiting for you there but unable to identify you for all the smoke and soot had added an extra coat of darkness to the already not-so-fair skin. Hugging them tight and standing in a serpentine queue to get into a yellow cab that would take you finally to the much awaited Mama Bari was fun always. Mishtidoi, shinghara, daab….Mamas are the Best.

How will the last journey of life be remains a mystery but who can stop me from visualizing.

As the wooden logs burnt in full fury beside the gently flowing Yamuna Ghat, the I Me Myself vanished into ash and dust. The omnipresent soul remained and was shifted to a nearby space shuttle base. With a report card of life in hand, I stood in the queue.  The lady at the counter did a quick glance and issued me a boarding pass. Happy to find my name there I checked the gate and seat numbers. The ticket was checked one last time and I was asked to board from the front gate. Wow… the seat was 1A and was promptly ushered in by a lady far prettier than I had ever seen in my mortal days to the premium seat. Huge seat with all amenities…a business class for sure. Oh then my Platinum Card and mileage points did have an advantage now as well…hmmmm…I thought. Next to me came a person in commando fatigue and as he sat down warmly shook my hand.

I am John…he introduced himself.

A pretty much jovial fellow, I thought. As he saw the pretty looking hostesses he remarked, “We are definitely going to Jannat now and there it will be good times for us. I know for sure for I’ve been promised.” Sitting like a king on my huge premium seat, I sure felt happy that my report card was not as bad as I thought it would be. “Heavenly Father above, here I come.” I was truly and happily going in style.

As the space hostesses announced,” We are now ready to take off. Requesting all passengers to tighten their seat belts.”  And then the countdown began…10..9…8…7..6…5..4..3…2..1…..and a huge screen opened up in front of us and  we saw the blast off…the biggest I have ever seen, as we took off. As the shuttle began to settle down, we heard some children singing nursery rhyme…Johnny Johnny, Yes Papa. Our heads turned towards the back of the shuttle and we saw hundreds of odd little kids in their colourful school uniforms. A couple of ladies, who looked like their teachers, were seen conducting this Children’s Space Orchestra with their eyes and smiles.

As the children raised their pitch higher, I suddenly saw John beside me turning his face away and taking out a small towel to wipe his eyes. Soon the moist eyes gave way to crying openly and ended with almost howling. Unable to control myself, I asked my friend beside, “John, what is the matter? Why are you crying seeing these lovely kids?”

He kept looking down, unable to see me in the eyes and spoke softly, “These are kids from Army Public School at Peshawar. I drove my bomb laden truck yesterday into their school!”

You are Jihadi John? I spoke in amazement and horror. And he nodded his head and kept crying, “I shouldn’t have done it, I shouldn’t have done it!”

The flight attendant announced at that moment, “We are now going to break-up. The two halves of the shuttle will now open up into two parts. Both will be going to two different destinations. You can see the spectacle on the screen ahead. Enjoy the last stage of this journey till it lasts.”

What happened thereafter was absolutely spectacular. There were sounds of giant locks opening up around the middle of the shuttle with us in business premium class in front and the singing and laughing children with their teachers in the other half. As the two parts split open, the bottom half of the shuttle with the children went into a terrific spin and then there was a loud bang, the bottom half of the shuttle vanished as it broke up into smithereens of colourful petals which first covered the sky above and then slowly descended on the earth below. While we could not see where these petals finally fell but surely wherever they did the place would have turned into a sea of a heavenly vibrant colours and fragrance.

Now the frontal and remaining part of the space shuttle picked up great speed as it headed to the dark side of the moon. I remembered the lines of a song which read…

Your head is humming and it won’t go

In case you don’t know

The piper’s calling you to join him

Dear Lady, can you hear the wind blow

And did you know

Your stairway lies on the whispering wind…

SS

Dear Mister Postman

While Diwali brings in happiness and boxes full of sweets and dry fruits, it also is the time when two people diligently knock at your doors- the postman who brings you normal dak and the other who brings you Speed Post. In the world of email, Instagram and Whatsapp, when the art of using the pen is almost on the verge of extinction, these two folks truly are relics of the past. Recently I did catch my office mail room people off-guard when I wrote new year cards and put them in envelopes to be sent to a few people I work closely with. The person asked me,” Sir, iss mein kya hai?” When I said, “Greeting Cards,” the person had his eyes popping out and was completely shocked. Surely he must have had a good laugh with his smart department colleagues, “Yeh Uncle poora mental hai!” as they got on by forwarding posts on their smart phones.

The Postcard

My maternal uncle in Kolkata was suffering from the Emperor of Maladies. A fighter, he was, but it was possibly late 70s when it got detected and slowly his fight was giving way. I was a favourite of his and so Mom would ask me to write to him once in a while. He would be overjoyed getting my postcards, telling him about my school and checking on his health and family.  My mother, like most women, could be very nagging at times. So she kept on telling me to write to her brother since I had not done it for quite a few months. While I kept protesting and finding reasons for not picking up the pen, she lost her cool and put a blank postcard in my hand and made a face, which today tells me, was where Nike got its tag line-Just Do It! And I did. But all I wrote on the postcard was the address in front and on the reverse…

Dear Bara Mama,

HELLO

GOODBYE.

Love,

Shibu

In no time my mother got a reply from her brother and in it was written how pained he was to have got my postcard. I could see the tears in her eyes and realized my mistake. Without saying a word I decided to send an apology letter to the man. But before I was able to get the postcard from the post office, there came a telegram from Kolkata.

Never got a chance to write my sorry postcard. Sorry to this day am I.

RIP Postcard

The Telegram

A telegram arrived at my office at Kolkata on a day when I was missing from action with a bout of flu, resting at my in-laws place. A telegram in our times was the bearer of sad news in most cases and in a few cases, congratulatory. The concerned people at office quickly opened up the telegram and in it was typed and pasted,

BABA EXPIRED

BUDDHA

Fortunately, my wife was in the same office and they took the piece of sad news to her. She quickly identified the sender Buddha who was my closest pal at Delhi. Soon the whole office at 3, Middleton Street, Kolkata knew I had lost my father but before the news was conveyed to the sick son, there seemed some confusion. Is it S’s Baba or Buddha’s Baba who was no more? As luck would have it in the year 1990, neither did Buddha have a phone number to contact nor did my people at Delhi.

STD call was made to the Delhi Office of National Insurance, if they could send someone to my Chittaranjan Park residence to get a confirmation of which Baba. Jagadish Das or Jaga Da, as we fondly called him, had his sister living in the same colony. He contacted her and asked her to reach out to my house. While all this investigative work was going on, D in a sullen mood, left for home to break the sad news to me. Jaga Da’s sister immediately reached my house and saw an old man sitting on a chair in the winter sun and enjoying an orange. She started talking to the old man in general terms and soon realized the mix up Buddha had done to save on the cost of telegram, where every alphabet was charged for. Had my friend added MY before BABA, the whole of National Insurance Head Office employees would have got an extra day to work instead going on a wild goose chase.

My boss gave me a call and told me about the ruckus and confusion that had happened that day. D returned home late in the evening in a heartbroken state and didn’t know how to break the news to me. The mood immediately changed when I told her that I was aware of Buddha’s telegram and all was well at home. Today, there are no midnight wake up calls from the postman but the smart phone on the bedside table keeps us awake and even before you get the news, the world comes to know and the box is full of Heartfelt Condolences…many of them simply forwarded. Tragedy of another kind.

RIP Telegram

The Inland Letter

One fine day I got a call on the office intercom from the Head of Facilities Department at Kolkata, Mr. Subir Sen. He asked me to come down to his chamber. I was wondering why on earth would this man call me. I hadn’t asked for a new chair or complained about having a separate Officers’ Washroom in an independent and equality ridden country of ours. With many a question in my mind, I knocked and walked into his chamber. He was a fair man and today looked somewhat reddish….what had he done to turn red, sitting in a comfortable air conditioned room?  He held an open inland letter in his hand and said, “S, I think this letter is for you. Your mother has written to you. I opened it and read it, thinking it was mine as the inland was addressed to S. Sen.” I took the letter from him and walked back to my work station.

My mother would write inland letters to me. When she was in a good mood, she would write to my residential address and write in Bengali. Then she would write to me in English and post it to my office address, whenever she was upset and angry at Baba and many a times at me. So I knew what the letter contained and what Mr. Subir Sen would have read. As I took a look at the letter, I realized what she had done…she had written her fury letter this time in Bengali… something which Subir Sen could read, but I couldn’t. So I took it home and asked my wife to read it for me….more embarrassment followed…as she read out para after para about how after marriage I had changed, how I would write so often to her and now I address all my letters to Baba. In short, I didn’t love her. It went on to say how sick she was and she would die soon. Someone in the neighbourhood would do the last rites since I was not getting my posting back home at Delhi. Of course she didn’t forget to write one last paragraph on how my father was troubling her and it was impossible to live with him anymore.

Subir Sen, that day onwards, would give me a sly smile whenever he met me in the corridors. The inland letter had gone outland and exposed my story. Subir Sen, I could avoid, but there was no escape at home…kyonki saas bhi kabhi bahu thi…That was my mother and her inland.

RIP Inland

Last word: While D still gives the Diwali bakshish to the postmen without fail, I find myself going to the philately division of GPO at Delhi to collect stamps and First Day covers. We, too, seem to have become relics from the past in times of ‘You’ve Got Mail!’

SS