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

Char Adhyay

Ek

Every Sunday morning I pick up my two cloth bags to go for my weekly shopping close to my house. Round the corner is a temple and outside the temple sits an old man with a few vegetables and, at times, some seasonal fruits. Often the man seems to be asleep in a sitting posture and at other times reading a thick book with his head slightly bent down. One thing that is very discernible about the man’s look is the soft and gentle smile that never seems to fade away. But even more surprising about the man is the number of strays that surround him at all times. They relax on the road when the old man is sitting and, when he gets up to walk, they all follow him quietly. All the dogs also have collars round their necks. 

I have never bought anything from him, don’t ask me why. It is just that I am so used to my regular fruit and vegetable vendors that I just don’t change people for no rhyme or reason. I was fascinated seeing this man during the peak Corona times sitting with no buyers around. I felt that I should do something to help him and offered him some money so that he could buy some food for the dogs whom he seemed to care for so much.

No, I cannot take money for them…he said pointing at the sleeping dogs….I can feed them.

I was taken aback. Why would someone refuse help in such difficult times? Was the man’s love and affection for the lonely and uncared stray animals so deep? What drives him to such devotion? Many  unanswered questions for sure. Nowadays, I just walk past him and both of us just smile at each other.

Do

The habit of reaching office early is something that I imbibed in my first year of employment in trying to please a tough boss whom I wanted to beat to work and impress him with my show of sincerity. It didn’t work much on him but this habit has held me in good stead over the next three decades, so have continued with it ever since. In less than a kilometer from my home is a traffic junction popularly known as Ratna Chowk named after the Udupi restaurant situated there. Early morning the traffic congestion is not much and motorists often break the signal and drive away knowing there is no one to fine them at that hour. The evenings are frightfully crowded and noisy. Usually, I slow down the vehicle when the signal is red, take a quick glace around to see if there is any traffic policeman around. On most days there are none, so I drive away like most other motorists before the light turns green. Even on days when I stop and wait for the right light, the people behind me start honking and the auto rickshaw fellows even shout expletives….C***** hai kya?

It is here at Ratna Chowk that you cannot miss the sight of an old man with beard and a hat, standing at times with a baton and at other times a flash light in his hand. This man is there throughout the day controlling the traffic. He even uses a whistle to make himself heard and is constantly seen moving his hands and head in all directions, catching the attention of the drivers as well as the pedestrians who, too, need to be controlled. I wonder why the old man stands daily on the road in the midst of so much noise and air pollution and tries to manage the most indisciplined crowd of motorists, most of whom want to drive away in the red. Surely, he does not get any remuneration for the work he does. It is doubtful whether the Mumbai Traffic Police even recognizes his immense contribution. Thanks to his efforts, the traffic moves but I wonder how his world moves!

Teen

Driving back from office on the crammed Western Express Highway is never a pleasant experience. It is perpetually bumper to bumper traffic, people cutting lanes, vehicles getting stalled and at times pile up happening when suddenly there is an opportunity to drive fast on a flyover. There is not a moment of happiness on the road. Added to it is the radio….you listen to one song and then the radio jockey talks unendingly and the advertisements go on and on….in short you have unlimited options of cribbing.

But during this ride, there is a stretch between the Hub and the Oberoi Malls where you will find some men trying to sell groundnuts wrapped in paper. These men have multiple packets in their hands and, in the slow moving traffic, they are able to sell the stuff to the stranded motorists who get time to choose, buy, pay for it, take the change from the men and then drive away munching. At times, you will find the men running behind the cars just to take the money or return the change. Among the men trying to sell are a few who are walking and running bare foot. When you see  such a sight in the twenty first year of the twenty first century, you press the brake pedals of your car for once……. your Hush Puppies give a screech of sadness.

When we were young, the sight of Imelda Marcos with her infamous collection of shoes was something we felt was so criminal in a country with so much poverty. Today, I am sure there will be innumerable Imeldas in every housing society of this Maximum City and, yet, there is such a stark contrast in what we see and drive away. Can these men not afford a pair of footwear? Selling packets of groundnuts of Rs 10 each would hardly leave the men with anything more than a meal a day. Everyday people in Jaguars and BMWs drive down the road burning the rubber while these young men burn their soles.

Char

There is an NGO near my house which works for the education of street children. Having been associated with the organization for quite some time, some of us old timers met recently. The pandemic had wreaked havoc on the education of the children whose schools are shut for almost a year now. They do not have gadgets to do online classes and neither are the municipal school teachers equipped to teach them.  The NGO used to employ some teachers and along with a volunteer force was able to give the required educational support to the kids that they could not have managed in their homes where parents themselves have little or no educational background of their own. For the last ten months, the NGO is unable to call the students for their daily special classes since social distancing and safety norms have to be maintained. Not just the classes but the kids have also lost out on another thing…one good nutritious meal they would get everyday. This was one major attraction for them to not miss a day’s class. Today, all seems to be lost. The children have not just missed their regular school and extra classes but a huge gap has been created in their education path which will possibly never ever be filled.

While talking to the main organisers, I came to know that some good Samaritans have been donating food packages off and on. The NGO had run out of funds to pay to the teachers and with no classes happening there was no need to keep them on the rolls any longer. The bigger worry is about ten of their meritorious children who had been enrolled into better private schools in an effort to give them quality education. The NGO still has to arrange for the school fees for these children every month and it is quite a sum to be paid. If the payments are not made, the children will be asked to leave the school and may have had to go back to the municipal schools.

At work, whosoever I speak to, has their children studying in Australia, USA or UK and here we have a paradox of a situation where basic education is getting denied to a huge mass of children. Who cares?

Goal Setting

Being the first month of a new year, we generally make resolutions. But I shall not make resolutions to break. I will make what HR in every organization calls Goal Setting…SMART Goals…Goals that at Specific, Measurable, Achievable, Realistic and Timely. More often than not these goals are made in the corporate circles but appraisals are at the mercy of the Big Bull, not one that runs amok at the Sensex but the one with a small hump. Small because there can only be a handful on the top of the curve and the rest are told why they are not fit for promotions and better incentives. The goals that I want to make are life goals based on these encounters of life. So here are my Goals for 2021:

Vision: To be a Better Me.

Actionable Goals:

a.       Love someone without expecting anything in return just like the old man and his dogs.

b.      Never miss a red light on the road no matter whether the traffic is heavy or not, whether some cop is there to fine or not….be a good law abiding citizen. Respect the man at Ratna Chowk.

c.       Give a pair of slippers or sandals to four people during the year. One per quarter and my Hush Puppies shall surely smile.

d.      Take up the cost of one student for the year. If some of us can do, “each one, teach one,” we will leave behind a better educated generation.

Wish me luck and join me to set some life goals of your own. Together we can surely make a better world.

SS

The Search

Exhausted…

Tired, burnt, broken, drained, fatigued,
Weary, weakened, depleted…
Searching for some rest
From the madness
From the never ending work
From the drudgery of the days, months and years
Yes I am searching for some rest.
Are you too?

Edgy…

With too many things constantly on mind
Feel edgy, anxious, restless,
Unsettled, fidgety, troubled
Searching for some calmness
From all the running
From all the responsibilities
From one fear to another
Yes I am searching for some calmness
Are you too?

Empty…

Seems the world’s getting so lonely
You often feel alone, lost, confused
Puzzled, hopeless, aimless, detached
Searching for love
Love of friends
Love of family
Love of life
Life of togetherness
Yes I am searching for some love
Are you too?

Tumult…

With so much noise and clamour all around
Racket, uproar, din, shouting
Commotion, clatter, pandemonium
Searching for some peace
A walk in the garden
Listening to the birds tweet
Getting drenched in the rains
Deaf to what the world may say
Yes I am searching for some peace around
Are you too?

Uncertainty…

There is an unpredictability, apprehensiveness, dilemma
Fickleness, unreliability, hesitancy, indecisiveness
Volatility in everything and everywhere in the world
Searching for some stability
The ship reaching the shore braving the waves
The soldier coming home from the battlefield
The doctor and the cure reaching on time
Yes I am searching for some certainty
Are you too?

Dishonesty…

Who do you trust all around
People slippery, deceitful, unreliable
Treacherous, unscrupulous, unprincipled
Searching for honesty
Not one with dagger to thrust
Friends and true colleagues unafraid of each other
When love is true
Where words mean the same to all
Yes I am searching for honesty
Are you too?

Greed….

There is a never ending race for more
More money, more houses, more cars
More clothes, more things to show
Materialism, money grabbing, gluttony
An unending appetite for more
Searching for generosity
To share bread with the hungry
To share smile with the sad
To share a blanket with the homeless
Yes I am searching for generosity
Are you too?

The End

In searching for the elusive rest, calmness, love, peace
Certainty, honesty and generosity
To bring back spark, smile and simplicity
Am I searching for the Unknown
Am I searching for the Elusive
Am I searching for the Unexplainable
Yes but not in the temples of brick and mortar
But within
He must reside within me
I must find him within me
My search is unending
My search must continue
I am searching
I will find him…
Bit by bit
Day by day
I am searching
Are you too?

SS

Shukran

As the clock struck twelve, MS posted a few lines in FB, dabbling in Urdu shayari, you might say.

Aye saal tu bhi ajeeb tha
Dooriyon mein bhi dastoor tha
Khamoshiyon mein bhi aahat tha
Lambe na the lamhe par
Lamhon mein bhi alam tha
Guzrey huey kal se na koi gila
Jo mila who naseeb tha
Aye saal tub hi ajeeb tha

Don’t know where she gets these thoughts from, after gruelling hours at work, but then it certainly made me think about the year gone by. Here are some random thankful thoughts.

Gratitude

They came from all corners of the globe…America, Africa, Australia, Middle East. They came from all over the country…Delhi, Kolkata, Chennai, Vizag, Bangalore and more. They came from school days, college times, work places and much more. They belonged to different generations. There were youngsters, middle aged , old and very old including nonagenarians. They were doctors, teachers, engineers and, of course, there were people from insurance.  They had all assembled for our ‘Chameli’ ki Shaadi. We could not have asked for more when almost all family and friends who were invited turned up to celebrate the wedding of the year. People came, people enjoyed, people returned safe and sound and then hell broke loose. Thank you, dear God, for giving us such happiness. What if we had decided on 16^th March instead of 16^th of February…masked bride and groom, an empty hall with a handful of guests to see, bless and celebrate? Muchas gracias, 2020.

Cheers to the Good Times!

Fear

Having seen many a death of near ones and having performed all rites from lighting of the pyre to carrying the ashes and, finally, bringing home the death certificates, I always considered myself brave till she came into my life wearing a black mask. Was she a Dementor whose breath would suck the happiness out of me? She would scare me all through the day and at night the ambulances going past with their unstoppable sirens would freeze my heart. For once I was really afraid. Where could I hide? I remember in the winter of 71, when I was no more than 7, some of us friends got together to dig in the playground near our houses with small tools. A passerby asked, “Bacchon, kya kar rahe ho?”“Uncle hum surang bana rahe hain. Pakistani jab bumb daalega, hum wahan chhup jayengey.”(We are digging a tunnel and will use it to hide and save ourselves when the Pakistani planes dropped bomb) Yes, it was the time of Indo-Pak War and often sirens would go off telling us of black-outs and warning us of imminent Pak air strikes on the capital. No tunnel to make this time so hid quietly within the precincts of the house. Yes, this time the danger was real and fear of life certain, so no taking any chances. Finally, when the year closed, thankfully all of us in the family and most among friends had survived, some scratched and hurt albeit, but generally safe. As they say, jaan hai toh jahaan hai…if there is life, the world exists…What more could we ask of 2020. Danke 2020, for reminding us that we are all cowards in the end, afraid of the ultimate truth of life, that is death, and making us want to live and love life.

Marie

DS and I always envied a couple who would sit in the balcony of their house in Chittaranjan Park in Delhi and enjoy their morning tea while reading the newspaper together while we were in a state of perpetual rush to do our chores at home and then make a dash for office. This time, after more than thirty years of marriage, we now found ourselves doing the same…no office to go to and just the digital newspaper to read, we started enjoying the morning tea together. Fortunately, there was this Darjeeling variety in those initial days that made the mornings so much better. And, of course, there were biscuits to dip and  savour. We have never been the hoarders so while many had stocked their kitchens with loads of food, we had limited things when the lock down was announced. As the lock down started getting prolonged, our stocks got depleted including biscuits. One morning, there was just one biscuit in the box. She asked me to take it as I am fond of them but I refused and asked her to take it instead. Truce was declared when she broke the single Marie biscuit into two and we enjoyed our tea time with half a biscuit a piece. That reminded me of an old Hindi song….thoda hai, thodey ki zaroorat hai….Grazie 2020 for telling us the value of those little things in life that we have often overlooked in the madness called career, prosperity and duty.

 Love

The morning tea went on to having the afternoon lunch and then the dinner together with some extra cups of coffee and tea in between. I do not remember when I had spent so much time with her. We have had our differences, we have had our fights but suddenly those seemed a thing of the past. WFH was a non-stop activity but still we found time to talk and spend together all alone. Doing the morning yoga with SD’s and RD’s music playing on Saregama and, then in later months, waking up early for those morning walks round the society and spending quiet evenings watching the Netflix and Amazon prime shows on our iPad while munching chaklis and bhakarwadis would mean the Beatles’ song had come true…

When I get older losing my hair
Many years from now
Will you still be sending me a Valentine
Birthday greeting, bottle of wine
If I’d been out till quarter to three
Would you lock the door
Will you still need me, will you still feed me
When I’m sixty four.

Merci 2020 for getting us closer together than ever before.

Vision

When we bought our flat in 2005, we could see the Malad Creek from the two bedrooms and I said we have rooms with sea view. After all, a creek is part of the sea which has found its way deeper into the city. So,to guests who would, in the early years, come to our house, I would proudly show them the view from the seventeenth floor window overlooking S.V. Road (though never ask a Mumbaikar what SV stands for because he will give you a blank look) and then take them to the two bedrooms to see the sea in the distance. Then, one day, during the lock down, the pollution levels came down drastically and we actually could see the real sea….with the sun shining bright on the waters, it truly was a majestic sight. Now I can proudly say that I have a sea view flat and not just a creek view, although it is another thing that many tall structures are mushrooming daily and,possibly, in the next couple of years, even the creek may vanish not just from sight but be filled with concrete. For now, though, let me feel happy about the sea view. Arigatou 2020, for this would never have been possible had the air not been so clean and sky so clear.

A Sliver of the Sea

Aye saal tu bhi ajeeb tha
Guzrey huey kal se na koi gila
Jo mila who kya kum tha
Jo nahin mila, woh bhi naseeb tha
Aye saal tu gazab ka tha
Tera Shukriya Do Hazaar Bees

 SS

Aye Mohabbat

Aye mohabbat tere anjaam per rona aaya

Jaane kyon aaj tere naam pe ron aaaya

Begum Akhtar’s ghazal was playing on the radio and how true were the timeless lyrics that said that love more often than not begets sadness and tragedy.

Kabhi taqdir ka maatam, kabhi duniya ka gila

Manzil-e-ishk mein har gamm pe rona aaya

Sometimes it is your fortune that fails you and, in other times, the world at large keeps complaining and resisting against your wishes. Love has always been a struggle from time immemorial and, more often than not, the two souls have to fight every inch of the way from family to society. It has been glorified and romanticized in our movies right from Mughal-e-Azam, where the heir apparent Prince Salim fought his father, Emperor Akbar, in a bloody battle, who disapproved of his love for a court dancer Anarkali, to Bobby where Raj Nath and Bobby Braganza fall in love and are almost driven to suicide to prove their undying love. 

In today’s world we have a new breed of moral keepers who wake up around Valentine’s Day and create a ruckus showing off their vigilantism. As if this was not enough, now strange and lop sided laws have been enacted to prevent inter-faith marriages which are being misused by the cops and the mobs. How ironical that the term the love between people of two faiths as ‘Love Jihad’ failing to understand that love is a jihad in itself irrespective of religion. Surely, if the people enacting such backward looking laws were to undergo a psychiatric examination, the results will show that these are the mad and sad souls who have either been spurned or have never known love of any kind in their lives and are hell bent on making lives of others painful. When all the religions of the world speak of love and compassion towards fellow human beings, how can these handful and hateful be allowed to run amok….all in the name of God?

Sharing with you something written long ago, but is relevant even today, about the struggle called love.

Same Old Tree

Do you remember, Amina

When the clouds would gather

How I would run and get the rope

And you would get the wooden board

I would quickly climb

This same old tree

And then we would swing

And when I would push you hard

You would start crying

No Raj, I never cried

I made shrieking cries

There were never any tears

But I liked it the best

When you would stand above and heave

The swing with your strong legs

How safe I felt sitting below

Together we would swing high

Together we would sing

From the same old tree.

 

Do you remember,  Amina

When you used to return from the madrasa

I would wait under this old tree

I would bunk school

Just to make sure I was here

Same time same place

Never wanted to miss a day

Never wanted to miss you

How much you would scold me

Then take out your books

To teach me

Sitting under this same old tree

Books never interested me

So just kept looking at you

Watching your lovely eyes blinking

Your tender moving lips

All of it and more

Sitting under the same old tree

 

Was this not the same old tree, Raj

From where you picked the flowers

So many of them

And then made a garland

It was so beautiful a garland

I thought you had made it for the temple

But then you gave it to me

I kept it hidden in my bag for many days

Till they started drying

Then just kept a flower in the Koran

And every time I bowed to pray

Felt a happiness beyond words

The flower still remains dried as ever there

But the fragrance of the flower

I can still feel even today

Happiness I can still feel today

Maybe the flowers are blooming, once more today

Up above on the branches

As we stand below, swinging

From the same old tree.

 

How many evenings

We sat below holding hands

Looking up at the dark sky

With twinkling stars

And the shining moon

Staring at us, smiling at us

As we dreamt

Dreamt of a beautiful life together

Dreamt of happiness in each other

All under the same old tree.

 

Why did they do this to us, Raj

Hang us from the same old tree

Raj, did you not say

Your God spoke of love, kindness, compassion

Taught love for all

So did my God

Love for all

Yet our love they said was against the Gods

How they forgot love and mercy

When they put the rope

That once hung the swing

On our slender necks

Pulled us up so hard

As we cried

And they laughed

For once, those who never agreed

Stood together as one

All religions surely must be the same

All Gods must also be the same

For look, how united they stood today

Those who were always at each others’ throats

Together they have pulped our throats

And left us swinging, hanging

From the same old tree.

 

Give me your hand Amina

Let me give you one last kiss

Ha Ha

Did we ever kiss earlier, Amina

No, not really

So many times I asked

But you would never agree

Raj, I too wanted you to hold me

Touch me gently

Kiss me…..

But remained a coward

Afraid of my people, your people

Till they caught us

Sitting under the same old tree

Here take my arm

Kiss me goodbye

Hold me tight, kiss me

One last time

As we, hang together

From the same old tree

One last time together

No fear of the swing today

Just the joy of the flowers above

And our loving togetherness below

And as we swing far away into the stars

It never will ever be

The same old tree.

 

Aye mohabbat tere anjaam per rona aaya

Jaane kyon aaj tere naam pe ron aaaya

 SS

The Road Less Taken

“Congratulations to Amitav Sinha for completing five years of service”, a message flashed on the laptop screen as the mobile phone started ringing. It was Amitav calling. Sharad picked it up.

“Thank you, Sir, for trusting me and supporting me. If it were not for you, I would never have achieved this milestone today.”

Sharad smiled and remembered the day he had interviewed Amitav for a role as a sales manager. He liked the energy the young lad exhibited in the short twenty-minute exchange and he had no hesitation in recommending him for the position.

After completing the paper work, Amitav got his appointment letter and joined work. In no time the boy was living up to the expectations of his seniors by recruiting a large number of agents and sourcing business not only from the existing ones but activating a large number of dormant ones.

All seemed pleased with his work. Amitav always seemed to be a man in a hurry for he would jump from one work to the next but a childlike, impish smile never left his face, no matter how hard a task he was performing. Sharad was much too senior in the hierarchy to have daily interaction with him but kept a watch on all the new recruits and their performance which included monthly sales reviews and meeting channel partners along with the sales managers.

Half the year went by and all seemed fine till, one day, the lady in Human Resource Department knocked on Sharad’s cabin and walked in.

“We have a problem with Amitav. While doing his background check we found this letter which is fabricated.”

Sharad took the paper in his hand and saw that the letter was from a multi-national bank where Amitav was said to have worked after quitting an earlier assignment with another financial services company. While the letterhead seemed fine and so did the contents but during the process of verification with the signatory and the bank, both had denied that Amitav had worked with them. They had confirmed that the letter was made up by Amitav on a letterhead which he, possibly, managed to obtain through someone working at the bank.

“This is an open and shut case. He has to go.”

“It took you people six months to do the background check and you finally managed to dig out something after we have confirmed the employee,” interjected Sharad.

“Sharad, we are sorry for the delay but it still is no reason for anyone to commit a fraud. It does not matter when such an act is discovered but we need to act strongly to send out the right signal to the other employees that these things will not be tolerated.”

“Please leave the letter with me for a day. I need to speak to the boy.”

Amitav was summoned and he arrived at Sharad’s cabin around seven in the evening when the rest of the staff had moved out for the day. Amitav had no clue about what was in store for him and was full of life and chirpiness even while shaking hands with Sharad who seemed tense and upset.

“Amitav, you need to be completely honest with me. HR has found that this letter you had submitted about your professional career is fabricated and false. I need to know the truth, the absolute truth, since the HR policies are very clear on such cases…..immediate termination.”

Amitav took the letter from Sharad’s hands and read it. For once the smile left his face.  He could not raise his eyes to look at Sharad yet, in a trembling voice, he spoke.

“Yes Sir. This letter is false and made up by me. I was doing well in my previous company when a friend in this multi-national bank told me about an opening there. I was interviewed and got a call from their personnel department who, after negotiating the terms, even sent me an offer. It was a big opportunity and the raise in salary was very good. I immediately resigned from my company in order to immediately join the bank. The bank, however, sent me a regret letter stating that they had offered my position to another candidate who had sent his acceptance of their offer before me. I begged of them but they did not relent. For six months I did not have a job. Every morning I would leave home as if I was going for my regular work and return home after spending time with friends and sitting at cafes sending resumes to a whole lot of places. How could I tell my parents that I did not have a job? Finally, the offer came from this company but to cover up the gap in service, I created this letter.”

Sharad took back the letter and asked the boy to leave for home while he sat down looking out of the window in his room at the illuminated multi-storied buildings decorated for the upcoming Diwali festival. He sat quietly for more than an hour and then drove back home, thinking all the while. He seemed caught between the boy’s story and the company rules governing such acts. As he parked his car in the basement, he called up the COO and the Head of HR for an appointment next morning at 9am sharp.

Next morning, he was sitting before the top bosses in the corporate office. On one side was Head, HR and on the other was Sharad seeking a bail for Amitav. The COO sat quietly listening to the heated and, at times, emotional conversation.

“While I admit the employee has made a mistake and a very grave one but, having seen him work so hard in the last six months, something makes me want to give him a chance and a lifeline.”

“You are making a big mistake. What if he were to fabricate any insurance document or underwriting paper, do you realize the financial implication it would have on the company? The company’s reputation would also be at stake. Sorry, on issues of integrity there can be no compromise. Amitav must go!”

“Sir, I do not know about you but I can speak for myself. Had my father at home, my teachers at school and seniors at work place not given me many a second chance, an opportunity to correct myself and improve, I would not have been where I am today. I would have been an utter failure forgotten in time. Today, if we take the severest of disciplinary action by terminating Amitav from service, he will never get any job after this is recorded in his service books. He will be completely shattered and his family ruined.”

“He should have thought of it when he committed such a fraud. We cannot have such people in our company. What message will it give to the rest? They will treat this as precedence and we will never be able to take action against any other offender. You may have your sympathies for the boy but this is not your home and he is not your child whom you will forgive and move on. We have rules and regulations which must be abided by all. Sorry Sharad, we cannot accept your request. Amitav must go!”

“The boy is just twenty-five years old. He has his whole life before him. After his confirmation, he booked a small flat for himself at Vashi and was engaged recently. This delay in background check and the subsequent revelation about the letter’s authenticity have led to his getting more involved in life from where he will find it impossible to retrace his steps without a job in hand. Who knows our one action will lead to the person taking the wrong path and doing more heinous crimes for the sake of survival. I have seen him for the last six months and, with my experience of knowing and understanding people, I can say with certainty that this man is not inherently bad. He deserves a second chance.”

“Will you take personal responsibility should he make any such mistake again?”

“Yes I am willing to take any such responsibility for Amitav.”

“You are putting your neck out on dangerous territory Sharad. Don’t do it.”

“No Sir, I feel strongly about youngsters. All of us have made mistakes of different kinds and just because someone was there for us to have our backs that we survived and, possibly, succeeded.”

The COO finally spoke up.

“Sharad, we will give Amitav a reprieve. He can continue his job with us for three more months during which time he must find a new one. His record will remain clean and he can have a clear exit.”

“Thank you Sir, but since you have said that Amitav is now my responsibility, I want you to give him six months after which you can evaluate his performance and take a final call.”

The senior man had a soft corner for Sharad and agreed. What was discussed that morning remained within the four walls of the meeting room and a handwritten note was kept in both Amitav’s and Sharad’s files with HR.

In the next six months, Amitav won many laurels and was like a super sales manager. The company decided to retain him and he moved up the ladder. He never forgot his benefactor. Whether it was his wedding or griha pravesh at his new flat or the birth of his child, Sharad was always invited and given a place next to his father.

Sharad was happy getting Amitav’s call today. He had seen many a colleague move ahead of him in officialdom. He often wondered if being successful at work and being a good man were an oxymoron. When Sharad completed twenty years in the company, one senior colleague remarked with a hint of sarcasm, “He is like the grandfather of this office whose grandchildren can do no wrong.”

SS