The Last Post

6th July, 2020

Hi Dad,

When I look back all these twenty eight odd years, some memories never seem to fade. You walking me to the bus stop that was far away from our house and then reading the newspaper as we waited for the school bus to arrive. As I grew up, I was embarrassed that you would still not give up this routine but always loved to see you outside the school gate when the last period got over and we would be rushing to get a seat in the bus. You would always buy me an orange ice stick and I would proudly lick it, showing off to the other boys. Then those dreaded parent teacher meetings where you quietly listened to almost all the teachers telling how bad my marks were and how much I needed to work hard to ensure promotion to the next class. Despite all these taunts and complaints, you never raised your hand at me. My repeatedly bad scores  would have made any other mortal give up on me, but you had an undying faith that one day I will prove the world wrong and make you feel proud. Was it your blind love for me that drove you to have such baseless faith or was it something you saw that others missed? How much trouble I would give you when ,after a long hard day at work, you returned home and I would ask for a new notebook or a geometry box that I had lost in school. You would immediately go to the shop and buy a new one for me without ever complaining.

You knew many a thing but overlooked them. You knew I was flicking coins from your pocket, you knew I would often fib about my illness just to skip going to school, you knew I would forge your signature on the school diary pages….I could go on Dad. How much I would trouble you over buying the bicycle or the football shoes….spoilt so many of your Saturdays. You wanted me to take up science but I knew I would never be able to get past those subjects. My class teacher called me a donkey for having given strange options of subjects for senior secondary- first being your wish of doing pure science which had PCBM and second was humanities which I wanted. There was no way the school was going to make a fool of itself by even thinking that in some distant day this idiot would turn into a doctor and so I ended up doing history and civics. Then you wanted to see me clear the civil services and made me join the Rau’s Classes but I had made up my mind and finally ended up joining the armed forces, much against your wishes. Yet you never ever said anything harsh to me. You would often tell Ma and other relatives, “ One day my son will make me proud”.

Dearest Ma,

You often complained that I write the inland letters to both of you but, on the cover, address it to Dad and not to you.  So today I have addressed this letter to both of you.

The food in the mess is good but no one can even come close to your mughlai paranthas, meat palak, fish curry and the yummy mishti you would make. My school friends would finish off the tiffin much before the intervals, on most days, and let me eat their sandwiches. On my birthdays god knows from where you would find time to cook so many things for my friends who were invited including the cake initially done over a kadhai with sand and later in the round oven. The trend continued even when I grew up and my friends would come in large number to our house for Bijoya, after the immersion of Ma Durga. You always loved to go to Pujas and get together in the neighbourhood and you never liked to miss marriages of friends and family. I remember how all your life you would get the things from the CSD canteen at cheaper prices for us and bottles of XXX rum for others.

I often wondered where you found so much strength to do so much work. Almost all your working life, we never had any servants and Baba would hardly do anything other than make the early morning tea while you would do all the cleaning, cooking, washing, get us ready for school with breakfast, tiffin and even keep food in the fridge for the afternoons when we returned home. And after a hard day’s work you would get back to the same back breaking routine. Now, let me tell you a secret Ma. I never felt any pain when you would slap me, something you did often, for doing the wrong things. The reason is that your palm was soft and fluffy and the slaps lacked any sting even though you were putting force behind them. Yes, the one time you used the belt that hurt. But I deserved it for Baba was too soft on me and I always needed your scolding and beating to instill some fear in me. Don’t worry Ma, what I am today, is because of all the beating and eating and love that you showered on me. Never forget to have your medicines and insulin shots for you are the person who keeps our house in order and together.

My Loving Chikki,

I was there with Baba when you were born and always found you a cute little baby. Ma told me that I have even washed your nappies in Delhi’s winter in cold water. Every night I would kiss you on your chubby cheeks and then go to my side of the bed to sleep. Whenever I went out for my school trips, I made sure I saved a little money and bought you a small gift. On one such occasion, I got you a beautiful bead necklace and you took it in your little hands and pulled the sting so hard that it broke and beads were seen flying all over the room. Ma had to collect all of them and she put them together again. I have seen your wooden box that you keep secretly behind your clothes shelf. The beads are still there and so are the small sequined purse and a picture of us together riding a pony at Manali with you in front and me sitting behind, holding you tight, lest my little sister fell down and hurt herself.

I often wonder how, as children of the same parents and having being brought up in almost similar environment, we were so different from each other. I was the playful kind while you were the studious type and our report cards were so different. I was loud, outspoken and had an army of friends while you were the quiet type and a lonely bird. You loved chocolates and cakes while I loved the Indian sweets more, you preferred continental food when we went out while I stuck to my desi variety. I think you never had any boyfriends because most of the boys would be mortally afraid of me and knew what would be their fate when I would come to know about them….you must be cursing me all your life for this my Chikki Chukki. Maybe, because of my over protectiveness you never thought it important to tie a Rakhi on my wrist knowing fully well that I would anyway do it so why the public display of affection. Do you know that I would buy the Rakhi every year myself and Ma would tie it for me? You always brought joy to the house from the time you opened your eyes. Your presence itself had a positive and calming effect on all and then your exam results were such a big thing. Ma had to always ask me to bring a basket of sweets even before you came home with your report card knowing fully well that you would have scored well and the mithai had to be distributed to all neighbours and friends as an annual ritual. Now that  you are a doctor, I know your patients will be in best of hands and shall bless you My Little Sis.

Dear Ma, Baba, Chikki.

I know you must be wondering what this letter is all about. Last night, our battalion got the orders to move to the forward post at Siachen where the situation looks grim. While the spirit is high and the there is great enthusiasm among the soldiers, there is an undercurrent of strange silence and unease. So some of us decided to pen a last letter for our loved ones and keep it in the pockets of our uniform as we face the enemy of the nation. If we survive, the letter will stay with us unread. If otherwise, the letter will reach the recipients along with our uniforms and remains wrapped in the flag we would have gone down proudly fighting for. Only one will reach- the letter or us.

The other day, one of my school mates, with whom I used to exchange stamps, shared one of a war memorials of World War 1, which I am sending along with this letter to add to my stamp collection. It seems strange and coincidental that he would send this at this hour. Maybe, next when you visit any of these sites, you will etch my name there forever. If not then I shall be up there as a cloud watching you all…sometimes white and bright, and at times, dark and gloomy, but I will always be there.

It is easy for me to say don’t cry, but I know it will happen. All I can say is that some of us have to face the bullets to make sure others in the country stay safe, sleep well and keep the flag flying high. Lately, I have been humming a song written by Manoj Muntashir which befits us soldiers in uniform…

Aye meri zameen mehboob meri
Meri nass nass mein tera ishq bahe
Pheeka na pade kabhi rang tera
Jismon se nikalke khoon kahe
Teri mitti mein mill jawaan
Gul banke mein khill jawaan
Itni si hai dil ki aarzoo

And finally, Dad, the day to make you proud of your son is here, so straighten your shoulders and put your chin up.

Will miss you all, as always. Love you all.

Sanjib

Captain Sanjib Chaudhury
32nd Battalion
56 APO

SS

 

The Savoy Bar

City of Joy

George Eggleston had just returned from Mumbai where he was working in an MNC. It was his dying father, Robert, who in his last wish asked his son to take charge of his bar at Park Street in Kolkata. Despite George’s resistance, the father said, “Son, this bar was given to me by my father and before that it was his father who started it during the colonial period. This is where the burrasaabs would come in the evening for their drinks, play bridge and listen to live music. We have seen the highs and lows of Calcutta….times when everything was good and money flowed. Now, things have gone bad but I can tell you, the joy of running this place, meeting people who love fun and feel the sweetness of home, is something no money can buy. You can also make more money than the so called bitcoins on days when wealthy old patrons come here. You give it an honest try for six months and if you feel cheated by your old man, sell it and go where your work and heart takes you.” Tonight would be George’s first night at Savoy Bar, established 1911, the year the Imperial capital shifted to Delhi.

People started coming in around 7pm and some of them spoke to George about his father, how they loved him and that they would miss him. The band had also assembled and they still seemed to wear the old tight fitting white jackets and bow as they started playing old songs….Come September lifted the spirits of the people in the room and some of the oldies took to the floor impromptu to do a gig and twist. As the merriment continued and spirit flowed, George noticed, at a table near him, three strange looking men….one a pure gorasaab and attired perfectly with a hat, the second looked an Englishman but wore traditional Indian clothes befitting a Bhadralok and the third seemed a mix between a gora and a desi. George got closer and tried listening to the men seated.

“Young man, get us the finest and rarest Scotch whiskey you have”…one of them shouted.

“I do have the whiskey but will cost a lot. You think you can afford it?”

The three men started laughing aloud. “Son, don’t worry about money. We shall fill up your coffers with gold mohurs. Just serve us and make us happy.”

George obeyed and poured them the finest whiskey in the bar and stretched his ears to listen.

“Stuart, you stop wearing these funny clothes. Wherever we go, people are watching you and mocking you.”

“Why should I change? These are clothes best suited for the Indian climate. I have written many articles on why even English women should start wearing sarees as against the western dresses.  There is no attire as beautiful as the saree draped well.”

“Why don’t you have your bath in the house where all amenities are there from shower to the bath tub. But you prefer bathing in the Ganges every morning. It is so unhygienic and does no good to your position.”

“Taking a bath in the holy Ganga cleanses your body and soul every day. And for those who say the water is dirty, it has been scientifically proven that holy the Ganges has special properties that kill all impurities and the water turns clean on its own. After my bath each day, I go to the temple on the ghats and chant mantras that I have learnt during my stay in India. Jay Sittaraamjee!”

George was amazed at Stuart….what a man! A foreigner and yet he is more Indian than most. No wonder Dad spoke highly of the people who visited Savoy.

It was now Stuart’s turn to question his friends.

“So tell me Henry, what are you up to nowadays. Surely teaching cannot be the only thing you do?”

“You are right Stuart. I am saddened at the state of Bengal and wish to do something. I am talking to my students to create a Young Bengal Movement. I have great hope on the youth of this state. They are well read and have fire in their belly. If their passion is directed in the right manner and for the right cause, change will happen.”

“You are just a teacher and should not get into the politics of this state. The way you are talking seems you are preparing the young students of yours for a revolution.”

George just could not hold himself back and went to the table occupied by the troika and raised his finger and spoke up in clear and stern voice…. “Gentlemen, this is a place where we want our patrons to come and enjoy. Talking of change, planning revolutions is not what this place is meant to be. You know how sensitive the establishment is to any talk of opposition and upheaval? They will not only put you behind the bars but they will also take me away for being an accomplice and arranging for the meeting place. Today is my first day at the bar and I just cannot allow this here.”

Henry looked up to see the angry expression on George’s face and gently smiled and spoke softly…. “Don’t worry George. No one will ever be able to put me behind bars and I shall make sure no evil ever falls on you. This is India and I care for the country and its people. This is India, my native land.”

George did not argue any further and moved away after pleading once more and showing his clasped hands, as if praying to the men to maintain order.

Henry changed the subject immediately and asked his third colleague….”William, why did you change your name to Yunus Uksfardi?”

“Ha …ha…I too, like you both, love this country and its wonderful languages. I have learnt to speak and write in Persian, Hindi, Sanskrit, Bengali apart from Hebrew, Latin, Greek and Arabic…..so I changed my name as they would pronounce in Persian…Yunus Uksfardi is nothing but saying Jones from Oxford.”

“That is really smart of you, William.”

“I am working on translating old texts of various religions. This land is so rich in culture, history and spirituality that I will never ever think of going back to England. I will create a repository of translated books so that future generations are proud of their country and do not blindly look towards the West for knowledge and material gains.”

George was quite impressed with the three gentlemen who kept drinking the finest whiskey he had to offer. They finished off two bottles in a couple of hours as they kept talking about India. How surprising that we Indians often look down upon our own country and here are three Europeans who love everything about this country. These old men show the true spirit of nationalism and patriotism which the youth in the country today lacks.

The three gentlemen now took out something from their respective pouches and placed a metal under their empty glasses as they walked out of the bar swiftly before George could react with Stuart shouting Jay Sittaramjee. George ran after the men but when he reached outside the door of the bar, the three gentlemen were not to be seen. Vanished!

“Oh no…I have been completely fooled by these crooks. Each of those bottles cost over twenty five grand. Instead of making money on my first day, I have been duped by three crooks for over fifty thousand rupees on a single night. Is this what Pappa had in mind when he wanted me to be here for six months? I will be gone in six days and surely with empty coffers should men like these come more often.”

He walked back to the table and saw the metal pieces glowing under the whiskey glasses…. “I have not tasted one drop of liquor and yet I seem to be imagining things”….he lifted one of the glasses and held the round metal piece close to his eyes…. “Is this a gold mohur….cheats…fooling me. Do I look like an idiot that they give me three pieces of fool’s gold and finish off two of the best and the most expensive whiskey bottles? I am ruined. Pa, sorry”…..George had tears in his eyes.

After wrapping up the evening, George counted the cash. It was over thirty thousand and three golden worthless metal pieces. He put all the money and coins in a box, locked it up before going home for what remained of the night.

Next morning, George went out of the house early as he had not been able to sleep even for a moment as he kept remembering the three crooks of Bengal, their looks, their conversation and their unquenching thirst for whiskey. Across his home was a place where his Great Great Great Grandfather had been put to rest…Captain Charles Eggleston. He wanted to see his tombstone for his father told him often about their lineage and their being of true Anglo-Saxon blood.  He carried with him a bunch of flowers that he kept on the base of the tombstone. He was definitely feeling better and proud now. He decided to take a walk around the cemetery to see who else in his family were laid to rest and to catch up with a bit of history.

George found huge tombstones, some kept well with the names legible, others were in bad state without any trace of who lay there. He was amazed to find some nicely crafted epitaphs….more in the like of poetry which showed the love the family and friends had for the departed ones. As he walked along the huge cemetery, George’s eyes fell upon a strange looking grave which looked more in the shape of a temple. He went closer and saw the inscription….it was Major General Charles Stuart (Known as Hindoo Stuart) 1758- 1828.

George walked further and his year fell on te only grave where a marble figure of the person whose grave was there and he saw the name….Henry Louis Vivian Derozio, teacher, poet and patriot, Mentor of Young Bengal and Friend of the People….Born 18^th April 1809, Died 20^th December 1831.

Things were now becoming clearer to George. Now he had to find William, the third of the night crooks. Having failed to trace his grave, he spoke to the cemetery keeper about the graves of famous people there. The man rattled off many names and he spoke of one William Jones and George asked him to stop. Who was William Jones and where is his grave? The man opened up a book before him to the page containing a picture of an Englishman on the right side and a big commentary written on the left….Sir William Jones FRS FRAS FRSE (1746-1794) a philologist, scholar of ancient India, found co-relation between European and Indo-Aryan languages which he called Indo-European and founder of the Asiatic Society of Bengal in 1784.

George went to the biggest and the best kept grave and admired the man buried therein. Surely a tall man by all counts and fully deserving of the biggest grave. Now the things had become clear to George and he started running out of the cemetery and he reached home and opened the box containing last night’s collection. He quickly pulled out the three coins and saw them against the sunlight….his eyes shown bright as he tried reading the impression on the coins written in Persian….he waited for the neighbourhood jewelry shop to open. He went there and showed one of the coins to the owner there. The jeweler looked in all amazement…. “Where did you get this? This is a gold coin issued by Siraj-ud-daullah, the king of Bengal in the eighteenth century.”

George quickly said that it belonged to his ancestor Captain Charles Eggleston. The jeweler knew Robert well and about his family who had been living in India for over two hundred and fifty years now.… “Keep it safely but if you ever need money and you bring one of these to me, I may just have to sell all the pieces of jewelry in my shop in exchange for it. But I will still do it for this one piece.”

George remembered his father’s last words… “You can make more money than the so called bitcoins.”

SS 

Love in Times of War

They are coming. I can hear the sound of the guns not far from here.

I am coming, dear. I am on my way. Don’t you worry.

Will you make it before they arrive?

Yes. I am speeding down in my Hummer and should reach you before dawn.

Do you have the papers? I am worried, for tomorrow at noon the last flight departs.

I have all clearances and papers with me. The ambassador has said he will wait till I arrive with you before flying out. Why do you worry so much?

You know what they will do to those who worked with the Americans. They call us traitors and for women they will show no mercy. In fact, they will be even more vindictive. 

Don’t worry so much. I will whisk you away before their dirty shadows fall on you.

Shahbaaz called today. He said he is coming with the Talibs.

Who is Shahbaaz?

He is the younger brother of my late husband, Masood. When Masood became bedridden, after stepping on a landmine, Shahbaaz used to help me a lot. He took good care of my son, Roshan. Soon I realized that Shabaaz was getting too close to me. One day he proposed to marry me but I refused. He was upset and angry with me. Then, one evening, finding no one at home, he pinned me down but fortunately my father-in-law returned home early and saw what Shahbaaz was up to. He broke open the door and thrashed his son and asked him the leave the house the very same day. Shahbaaz left but he would often make threatening calls to me. My father-in-law was a good man and he let me go to the nursing school and continue to work in the government hospital where I met you. Now, with Masood and his father no more around, Roshan and I are alone at home. Yesterday Shahbaaz said that, now, I have no one to protect and he will humiliate me in public and then give me away as a slave to the others. Jake, I am shivering. If he reaches before you, I will be gone for good and Roshan will be orphaned.

Rubina, my love, I am coming as fast as I can. I have loved you since the day I first met you lying in the hospital bed with a bullet in my neck. How you nursed me and saved me from death! Next when Shahbaaz calls, tell him Sarge Jake will protect Roshan and me and he will kick your ass so hard that you will fly away from Kandahar to Kabul and then over the mountains into the valley from where you will crawl on your limbs for the rest of your life asking for mercy from your Allah.

Jake, the gun shots are now very close.

I am also round the corner. Have you packed your bags?

Yes, I have packed a few essentials into one small bag and Roshan says he will only carry his football. He plays the ball well and wants to become a professional player in America. You remember the Afghan football player who fell off the aircraft trying to escape by holding on to the wing, Roshan was a big fan of his.

Ha ha…I like the kid as much as I love his mother. 

Jake, someone is knocking on the door. They are here. Shahbaaz is calling me continuously. I am sure he is leading the hordes to our home. This is where our story ends.

Rubina, just take Roshan with you from the back door and you will find my vehicle there. There is no time to waste….run, Rubina , run!

Rubina threw the mobile down, caught Roshan by the arm and started dragging him towards the back door just as the front door was blown away in the gun fire from the ravaging intruders. The boy, in the madness, did not forget to hold the football tight close to his body. He had won the ball as a prize for being the top scorer in his inter-school championships.

It was still dark but Rubina saw the Hummer with the lights on. She rushed towards it as Jake kept his gun aimed at anyone who tried harming his love and her kid. No sooner had Rubina and Roshan jumped into the back seat than a hundred Talibs emerged and surrounded the car in a semi-circle.

Jake fired his automatic gun…ratta tatta taaat…. But the firing from the other side was like a a hundred guns booming together. 

Jake knew there was no escape now….they were too many. His best bet lay in driving the bullet proof Hummer fast. Just as he was about to press the ignition key, the side door opened and a gun trotting Afghan sat down beside him.

Rubina shieked…Shahbaaz…have mercy on us. Let us go.

Shahbaaz looked at Rubina…pointed his gun at Jake and spoke in his native language….give me  your helmet and your gun and take my turban and gun. Just walk out of the car on the left side. My bike is parked behind that trees. There is enough fuel to take you till Kabul Airport. 

Jake asked….what about you?

I always wanted to dress up like the American soldiers with their smart helmets and guns. Today, I will become GI Joe. You take care of Rubina and Roshan. I loved her but I know she loves you more. Hope, after today, my Abbajaan and Allah will show mercy to me.

Go..go…go now!

Jake started the bike with Rubina behind and Roshan in between and roared away. Rubina turned her head to see the Hummer blow up in smoke as the missile landed on it. The victors fired their guns in the air to celebrate their victory of eliminating an American soldier and a fallen Afghan woman. 

In sometime, the bike reached the airport tarmac. The ambassador stepped out of his car and showed the trio the stairway to climb up before walking into the aircraft himself. As the plane took off, Roshan found the empty air force plane a good playground to knock the ball around. Rubina looked out of the window, her eyes moistened with the thought of leaving her country and people for ever and said a silent prayer for Shahbaaz…. May he find jannat.

SS

 

In Conversation

Late in the night in a small bar in Mumbai, there sat a man in a corner table with a bottle and a glass, both of which were nearly empty.  The lights had been put out and all the customers had left. The door was half closed as he slowly sipped the liquor, with eyes almost shut. The radio was playing some old Hindi songs when the door opened ajar. The light shone so bright that the man inside the bar covered his eyes with his hands. It was the brightest light ever he had seen and, as he lifted his hands over his eyes, he saw a man walking in. He shouted….. “The bar is closed. I will lock it up in some time. Find yourself another place.”

The intruder seemed deaf to what was being said and continued walking towards the drunken man after closing the door behind him.

I said the bar is closed. No more service for today.

The new comer just smiled and pulled up a chair and sat at the same table. Surprisingly, despite there being no illumination inside, the man’s face was glowing. He was wearing regular clothes, of average height and build, but there was something special about his looks, especially his eyes.

Bhai, if you are the police, let me tell you that sales are really down nowadays. Only a handful land up and, with no music and dance being allowed, I have nothing to give you.

I have not come to take anything from you. I was just passing by and entered your place. Every night I move around and meet people, talk to them and see if I can help them.

You help anyone? Then you must be God. And if you are God, you have come to the wrong address for this is a den of vice and is no place for you to be around. Bol Bhagwaan hai kya?

Yes, I am.

Gangu stood up, folded his hands, and bent his back…. “Bhagwaanji, I may appear to be drunk but I am not mad. Yes I have had a glass too many but I am not an idiot. But if you are really God as you claim to be, then prove it. Keep filling my glass from this empty bottle as long as you talk with me.”

Tathastu…so be it.

Gangu found the glass in his hand feel heavy and, as he looked down, he found it full to the brim. He put the glass down and rubbed his eyes hard, opened his eyes wide open and looked at the visitor in amazement.

Ok, then let me, for now, believe that you are God as you are fulfilling my deepest desire now. There is a question that has been troubling me for long and would like you to help me understand the true meaning of it. Hope you will not mind my asking you.

Yes of course.

When in school, I read a song by Kabir. I just mugged it up and reproduced it in the exam without understanding it. Then later in life, I heard the famous singer, Bhimsen Joshi sing the song at a music conference at Shivaji Park and I kept humming it for a few days. I liked his booming voice but when I tried understanding the words, I got confused. I never forgot about it and when I started my restaurant cum bar, I named it Moko TP Bar. These Mumbaikars thronged my place as they thought that TP stood for Time Pass but that was not the true meaning.  The song goes like this….

Gangu in his classical style touched  his ear lobe in respect to the Guru, possibly  Bhimsen Joshi, raised  one hand skywards and started singing aloud….

Moko kahan dhoondhere bande, main toh tere pass hoon

Na teerath mein, na moorat mein, na ekant niwas mein

Na mandir mein, na masjid mein, na Kabe Kailas mein

Main toh tere paas mein bande, main toh tere pass mein.

Gangu completed the song in one go and the visitor listened with rapt attention and clapped his hands in ovation.

So, now, you would have understood how I named my place…Moko Tere Pass Bar. If anyone else were to come to know of this secret, my business will completely wind up. So my big question to you is, if you…God… are within me always as Sant Kabir says in the song, then how come the God in me does not stop me from making mistakes, doing bad things and curb the evil in me? Maybe, you want me and my like to end up in hell.

Gangu, I am within you and within all. There is good and evil within you. Both keep fighting and one wins over the other. It is a continuous battle and if good wins once, evil fights back in the next and the cycle is endless. There is no one completely good as there is no one completely evil. There is an equal measure of both in all. I never decide who will win. I sit back inside all and see the fun. And who will go where in afterlife is the biggest uncertainty and I have no control over it. It is you who acts and chooses a path.

Ok, so you enjoy the fun as we mortals suffer…that’s not funny. Now tell me, if you were living within me, then how come you did not stop me from stealing money from my father’s wallet and sister’s piggy bank? Where were you when I was doing these bad deeds?

I was within you, Gangu, even then. Yes, what you did was not right but do you remember how you returned a wad of cash from inside the plastic carry bag with the muffin packet which the bakery fellow handed over to you by mistake. There was more money in there than you ever stole from your people at home, so your score card stands squared on that point.

But what about those small chits I made in school and college to pass the examinations. How many times I had to forge my father’s signature on diary and report cards. If you were there within me, you should have made me study hard and give the exams fairly. How sad my father would have been had he known what his son was up to. So how do you explain this evil act which should again put me at the gateway to hell?

Ha Ha… you are a funny man Gangu. The chits you made not just helped you pass the exams unfairly, as you put it, but when you shared the same with your other friends, you saved them the ignominy of failure as well. Think how many of your friends will be blessing you today. Yes, I too feel forging signatures was not something good and your father would have surely felt sad had he known about it then. But now when he looks down today, he must be smiling at you for, despite all your financial troubles, you ensured your son got the best of education and he is a scientist at ISRO today. You also have been paying for the education of your housemaid’s daughter. So you have squared off your past with the good you have done in this life.

Dear God, you are good liar as you make me feel good with your sugar coated explanations. Anyway, as long as you keep filling my glass from the empty bottle, I am very happy. But now I will ask you a difficult one.  I did not treat my mother well in later years. There cannot be any way this evil in my life can be squared off. So my path to hell is certain and the red carpet, if there is one, awaits me.

Yes Gangu, I will not find any solace for you on this point. You should have surely taken better care of her for she was dependent on you. What is done cannot be undone. But when go over your life, I can see that you rushed to so many sick people’s assistance whenever they needed blood. You took such good care of your aunt who lived with you…maybe you felt that what you were doing for her was something you were doing for your mother as repentance. I will not say that, on this point, you are squared and absolved but it isn’t as bad as you think it is.

I will get one more negative score for running this bar where men come, throw money on the women singing and dancing here, get drunk and then go home to create ruckus and pain there. So I am responsible for their misery.

Everyone is responsible for their own deeds. What men do with their money and family is completely accounted for in their books of life. However, if I were to go by your logic, your bar gives employment to so many women and people working here. For them, you are me. You also give these people yearly bonus, allow them holidays when they need them and give them two meals every day. So you and your bar have raised the bar of humanity.

Ok Bhagwaan ji, please tell me, are there separate lanes for rich and the poor up there? I was asking as, in many places of worship, the rich get to meet you quicker and easier. Even the prasad ka laddoo is special for them.

No. Up there, we have just one lane. There is no differentiation. Everything a man does in this life is settled here. If you do good, you get back good in equal measure and the evil you do is also paid back in this life. The response may not be immediate but, certainly, all accounts are settled here. What you take up there is simply nothing. You leave behind everything, not just your family and friends but all your good and not so good deeds. Up there is just one place….you call it H when you are happy and you call it H when not so happy.  So do what you can as long as the H beats inside you, where I reside….your heart. 

You mean the AB & Co will stand with Gangu, Mangu and other folks side by side….in case you have not got what I meant by AB & Co, it is Adani Ambani Bezos Buffet Bill and their like….

You are a funny man Gangu…it is truly a Socialist Democratic Republic up there. I will take your leave now…Bye Gangu.

Bye Bye God ji.

The visitor walked out and the door closed once again. He looked up at the shop board with its flickering red and blue lights….Moko TP Bar…. smiled and walked away.

Inside, Gangu again felt the glass in hand weighed less. He looked up at the noisy old ceiling fan rotating slowing, closed his eyes when the radio began to play….

Moko kahan dhoondhere bande, main toh tere pass hoon

Na teerath mein, na moorat mein, na ekant niwas mein

Na mandir mein, na masjid mein, na Kabe Kailas mein

Main toh tere paas mein bande, main toh tere pass mein.

SS

The Philadelphia Diaries: Menu United

Dear Diary 

I have tried several times to keep you but have failed miserably. My heartfelt apologies! As a peace offering, this is going to be my most sincere effort…so let’s start over, shall we?

 

                                                                                                                        August 21, 2021

Hola!

I’ve been in US of A for more than three weeks now and, honestly, I have been having a great time :D! I will be here for a year and in you I shall jot down- new things, fun things, not-so-fun things, strange things, bad things and everything that I find interesting and unique so that I never forget these 365 days. Let me forewarn you, I won’t write every day, don’t get your hopes up, you know me, and I am here to work, study and learn…but I will, from time to time.

Everyone I have met have been warm and friendly and it’s a beautiful weather here. I’ve been to New Jersey, New York and Philadelphia and each place is unique. But I shall come to that another day…today, it’s all about food! From the time that I knew I was going to come for the fellowship, I was mentally preparing myself that I will have to cook. I actually started watching people cook while at home, for the first time, with interest. I transferred all my PayTm balance to my mother. I deleted Swiggy and Zomato once I landed here. And before moving into the hostel at Philly, I bought several ingredients to cook. I arranged everything very neatly here on the kitchen shelf and my family was quite proud of me. But alas, all my good intentions are yet to be executed! 

They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. I personally feel that the way to any city’s heart is through its food! And I am charmed and disarmed…the food here is amazing and I will tell you about some of the best that I have had till now.

 

Ethiopian Eats

Looking for food, flavour and friends, well it’s Ethiopian food for sure. I tried it for the first time at New Jersey and absolutely loved it. At the heart of it lies the injera, a massive flat bread over which are served different curries and stews. You circle around it, eat together and use your fingers to dig in. You can imagine the injera to be like a thick fluffy dosa, laid flat on a large dish with an assortment of sides over it. Injera is made out of fermented tef, a grain indigenous to Ethiopia. Not only is it healthy but has a unique tangy flavour to it. The stews (wats) are infused with a variety of herbs and spices, a conglomeration of Middle East, Asian and Mediterranean influence. The result is…well, delicious. You can choose to eat with key wat (beef stew), doro wat (chicken stew), tibs (lamb, goat or beef cubes stir fried in niter kibbeh, a spiced infused form of ghee), kitfo (raw ground beef), misir wat and mesirkik (lentil and split pea stews), or shiro (chickpea stew), they are all different but equally delectable. The berbere is the secret ingredient, ground semi-spicy chilli peppers mixed with multiple other spices including garlic, cumin, coriander, ginger and fenugreek, that adds the unique taste to all the dishes. At the end, you are sure to end up licking your fingers to let the taste linger on.

S’mores and More

A cool night, a fireplace and old friends…what more can one ask for? Well some more…a sweet treat to add to the magic of the night! In ancient Egypt there grew a mallow plant near swamps or marshes and was simply called marshmallow, which was used as food for the Pharaohs. The roots and leaves of this plant exuded a gooey substance which was used by the Greeks for its anti-inflammatory property to soothe cough. Then came a French candy maker who added sugar and eggs to this sap and made small balls out of them to soothe the throat. Today, the sap has been replaced with gelatin, but the name has endured and endeared. Chocolate has always been the food of and for the Gods dating back to the Aztec God of Wisdom, Quetzalcoatl. Derived from cacao bean in probably 350 B.C., it has travelled the world and lived to see the rise and fall of civilisations, all enjoying it in every form. In 1893, Milton S. Hershey, an entrepreneur came in possession of a chocolate press left over from the Worlds’ Columbian Exposition in Chicago and he began using it in his factory to make simple bars of one of the most popular brands of chocolate today, the Hershey’s chocolate bars. Come the 1800s, Sylvester Graham, a minister from New Jersey, was committed to promoting healthy lifestyle including a bland diet, thus creating a cookie, the Graham crackers, made of wheat bran, wheat germ and ground flour.

It was no Willy Wonka who put these three ingredients together even though it seems straight from his chocolate factory, but a group of young girls from the Girls Scouts of America who came up with this unique recipe. It was first published in a guidebook called Tramping and Trailing with the Girl Scouts with easy recipes for food to cook in an open campfire. Toast marshmallows till you are satisfied, sandwich them between two Graham crackers and a chocolate bar and let it melt your world! I cannot thank my friends enough for introducing me to s’mores and I will always want ‘some more’!

My Big Fat Gyro Wrapping

New York + Food truck= Gyro

Greek version of shawarma of the Arabs and doner kebab of the Turks, bread rolled with chicken or lamb chunks in Mediterranean milieu is as satiating to the taste buds as the country is to the eyes. Gyro, derived from the Greek word ‘gheereezo’ means ‘to turn’. It is essentially a stacked pile of meat, being roasted upright on a rotating grill. It is cut off in slices and wrapped within a pita roll with tomatoes, lettuce, onions, parsley, Tzatziki (Greek yogurt), fried potatoes with a hint of paprika or cayenne pepper. Its origin can be traced to the Armenian refugees in Greece in the early 1920s. A second theory is that it originated at the time of Alexander the Great. The soldiers in his army would skewer cut meat on long, sword like blades, rotating them over fire. But it was only after World War II that gyro came to the west of the Atlantic. It soon became one of the most popular global fast food. In New York, it became popular in the 1970s with the New York Times declaring, “The Gyro, a Greek Sandwich, Selling like Hot Dogs.” But as easy as it is to eat, it’s equally difficult to get the pronunciation right! While Americans call it “jai-roh”, the Greek pronunciation is “yee-roh” with a characteristic twist of tongue and roll of ‘r’. But I got the best advice from a Greek friend, “It’s better to just say ‘jairoh’ correctly than ‘yeeroh’ incorrectly!”

This is the only image taken from the world wide web because I was too busy gobbling the gyro to take a picture. With a National Gyro Day coming up on September 1st, I cannot wait to try one at Philadelphia.

The Cheesesteak Mistake

To be honest, I had been looking forward to this more than my fellowship in Philadelphia. And it did not disappoint. Philadelphia has two famous, must-try rival joints, Pat’s and Geno’s, both across the street from each other. The day I reached Philly, I went to Pat’s King of Steaks. I was greeted with a sign instructing how to eat a Philly Cheesesteak. It is exactly how it is described in ‘visitphilly’, “a long, crusty roll filled with thinly sliced sautéed ribeye beef and melted cheese”. Cheesesteak is more of a misnomer; it is a sandwich. Fried caramelized onions, sautéed mushrooms, ketchup and pepper can be added as toppings. 

Pat Olivieri, the son of an Abruzzi government worker who migrated to America with the rise of Mussolini, was a hot dog vendor. In 1930, Pat’s brother brought thinly-sliced ribeye and Pat frizzled it with onions, putting it in a bun and creating the original version of cheesesteak. A regular cabbie happened to try it and suggested Pat to start selling these instead of hot dogs. The aroma drew in taxi drivers for the new ‘steak sandwiches’. Later, he opened his shop and went around local theatres bringing his sandwich-with-a-twist to the stars and then luring them back to his shop. The pictures of the celebrities enjoying the cheesesteaks adorn the shop wall that overall has a very ordinary look to it. His creation on the other hand is simple yet extraordinary. “Cocky” Joe Lorenzo, an employee at Pat’s is believed to have added provolone cheese to his own sandwich and inventing the present version of the cheesesteak, although Joey Vento, the owner of Geno’s, claims to have added the cheese to his sandwiches. Whatever the case may be, ‘it’s wit cheese’ for sure! Cheesesteak has now become synonymous with Philadelphia, an icon of the city, an integral part of its culture. People from the city, however, do not add the prefix Philly, it has always been theirs. Just keep plenty of napkins, let the fat drip, forget about the health and calories and slip into food coma!

I Love Cheesecakes and I Cannot Lie

New York Style Cheesecake is believed to be the true, unadulterated cheesecake. But here’s the truth, this sinful dessert was created in Greece with excavated moulds dating back to 2000 B.C.! Cheesecakes were in fact served to Olympic athletes as a good source of energy. It’s hard to imagine cheesecake being in the menu of Olympic Village today! But originally it was made simply from flour, wheat, honey and cheese. The oldest recipe is attributed to Athenaeus of Greece, in 230 A.D. With the Roman conquest, the recipe passed on and crushed cheese and eggs were included in the recipe. The baked pastry was served warm on special occasions. Great Britain and Eastern Europe also modified the recipe in the years to come. It was only in the 18^th century that cheesecake arrived in America. Cream cheese is an American addition to the original cheesecake. Cream cheese was accidentally made when a New York Dairy farmer was attempting to make the French cheese Neufchatel. The classic New York Cheesecake is just the cake with no fruit or flavour added to it. 

Being in the city centre and a walker makes everything close enough including The Cheesecake Factory. It was not long before that my solitary walks traced their way to The Cheesecake Factory! Here, it’s a massive restaurant with more than just cheesecakes. I would have had the original one, but I gave into temptation and ordered the one with fresh strawberries. I had the most enjoyable time instigating my tastebuds and all I remember was going ‘mmmmm’ with every mouthful of the dessert!

While I would also like to write about Western Chinese, Mexican and Turkish cuisine in America, I have started feeling hungry with so much of food for thought and I shall continue later.

 

Signing off for tonight…

 

Philo in Philly

MS

 

Into the Wild

It was sometime in early October of 1993, a man sitting on the window seat of Rajdhani Express Chair Car compartment was busy with a set of simple felt pens and scribbling and drawing something on what looked like a drawing book you would find in any stationery store. While the other passengers were busy chatting and enjoying the food that was getting served at intervals, the man seemed to be in a world of his own, looking out of the window, putting the pen to his head and tapping and smiling as he carried on with his work, filling up the pages. After getting off at New Delhi Station, he headed home to meet his parents and the very next day he was off to work. In between work, he stepped out to go to the main post office at Parliament Street where he handed the drawing book which was neatly wrapped in a brown envelope to the window where registered posts were being accepted. This was the first of the three handmade story books the man made in a period of two months for his little daughter who loved listening to his unending tales and was still at Kolkata while the father had been posted to his home town in Delhi. No prizes for guessing the father and the daughter duo but today, after almost twenty eight years, when I find that the reverse has happened….she has flown away to a new and beautiful world  across the oceans and the continents ….here I am sharing a freshly baked kiddo story for her….with the hope that she likes it.

They were the best of friends

Poopie, Shubham, Piyu and Archish

Always to be found together

Seemed friends forever.

Off they went on an excursion

To explore the forests and the wild

Landed in the Tigerland of Ranthambhore

With school friends, teachers and more.

 

Met by a friendly forest guide

Who promised to always be on their side

He said his name was Salman

Promised to show the kids tigers and bison.

 

The kids sat in a mini bus

That drove them round the forest as in a circus

In search of wild animals

But found none and saddened were the pals.

 

Determined to see the real wildlife

With little munchies in backpacks, torches and water

The foursome slipped out of the lodge at night

Out went the brave hearts into the moonlight.

 

Holding hands they moved ahead

Saw some animals in the forest bed

The elephant herd lay quietly on the ground

Clicking pictures without a sound.

 

So many animals they saw that night

But the tiger was nowhere in sight

Wanting to see the King of Ranthambhore

Deeper into the forest went the fearless four.

 

Suddenly they heard a blood curling howl

Surely the pack of hyenas were on the prowl

The kids for once showed fear on their face

And ran faster than in an Olympic race.

 

They found the entrance to a cave

Entered the place that looked so safe

As they heard the howling hyenas at the gate

Soon to enter and mayhem they would create.

 

With nowhere to run and hide

And no guns and sticks on their side

The end at the hands of hyenas seemed imminent

When they got from behind a whiff of a dirty scent.

 

Turned around to see His Majesty

The big stripped tiger, high and mighty

Looking at the frozen to death children

Walked towards the front of his den.

 

The hyenas saw the entrance blocked

By the biggest tiger who roared

They were ten and the tiger was alone

But still they fled as the tiger’s eyes shone.

 

The tiger sat at the entrance in guard

As the kids now waited to be devoured

They heard strange noises as if the tiger was in pain

Noises subsided as the sun came.

 

The kids with their heads turned down

Suddenly felt some soft furry brown

Opened their eyes to see before

Tiger cubs one two three and four.

 

They looked so cute and loving

Kids could not hold back their patting

The cubs started loving and licking

The fear of the night gave way to gentle giggling.

 

Then they saw the tiger…nay the tigress… come their way

The cubs left the kids, went Mama’s way

The tigress lay down flat

The cubs sucked milk from Mama cat.

 

By now Salman reached the cave

Saw the sight and was amazed

He knew Rani the tigress well

He too fearless entered her dwell.

 

The cubs and the kids played again awhile

They gave the cubs names before bidding bye

The chubby was named Cheeku

The toothless one was called Tootsie

The lazy was named Sloppy

And the fastest was called Footsie.

The friends returned home happy and safe

With endless stories of their adventures

Salman Bhai kept in constant touch

Sharing pictures of Rani and her cubs

 

When one day he mailed

Tootsie had gone missing

Rani was out searching

Failing to find her cub

She would just sit and sob

She was becoming sick

Ignoring the other three who were growing big

Salmaan’s last mail said

I want the Famous Four

To return to Ranthambhore

And help me search Tootsie

The loving brother to Cheeku, Sloppy and Footsie.

Will the Awesome Foursome go?

Darling Poopie, I cannot draw on the machine, so have added pictures. So finally, I must say, no matter how many years you add to your age, no matter how many degrees you add to your right and left, your Daddy will still remain your story teller Number One….kal bhi..aaj bhi…kal bhi.

 

SS

War & Peace

How long must a man go on

Till he finds some time to rest

Must he go on and on and on

Till he’s fully put to rest.

 

How long must a man run

From early morning till late at night

Must he go on and on and on

Till his body’s put alight.

 

How long must a man run

To reach from poverty to richness

Must he go on and on and on

In the endless pursuit of happiness.

 

How long must a man run

To escape from all his fears

Must he go on and on and on

Till the eyes go dry of tears.

 

How long must a man run

To be a man for the world to see

Must he go on and on and on

Till you realize what you wanted to be.

 

Stop!

Enough!!

No more!!!

So I want to wave the flag today

The white flag of surrender

Let the victors take the spoils

For I wish to end my war

Put an end to this endless, mindless running.

 

I no longer want to be a winner

For I have realized this is a never ending race

Endless running takes its toll

Physical and mental

And I no longer wish to be drawn

Into this battlefield anymore

There are runners more able and fitter than me

It is okay for me to just walk along a bit slower

Let glory be to those who deserve more

The daily grind of numbers

The constant ups and downs of graphs

Often in sync with your troubled ECG

Losing of a good night’s sleep

No, not any more

For I wish to be at peace with myself

For now I wish to take it easy

Take it slow, take it one step at a time.

 

I no longer want to change the world

Let those who eat green eat more greens

Let those who go to this temple or the other

Let the right be right and left be left

For I have realized

I just cannot change the world

I just cannot stop the world

Let it go round and round

All by itself, in its own motion

For I am just a speck of dust in the universe

For I am just a drop in the ocean

And I refuse to fight another man

Get drawn into endless debates

Lose my calm, lose my health

Turn into a demon now and then

Stalk, troll, blame, shame…

No, not any more

For I wish to be at peace with myself

For now I wish to take it easy

Take it slow, take one step at a time.

 

I no longer wish to have more and more

For how much is enough

Is a question that remains unanswered

When I see a man in tatters

Why do I feel guilty

When I see a boy selling pens on the road

Why do I feel guilty

When I see a hungry girl outside the eatery

Why do I feel guilty

And why do I just turn my eyes away

Avoid looking at these souls

Living in hunger, pain and poverty

Their state is not my doing

My enough is enough

Their enough is not enough

So I must accept today

That I cannot change this all

My war of guilt within must end

But not the desire to do my part

To sprinkle a little happiness

To spark a little hope

For those who cross my path

For now I am at peace with myself

For now I wish to take it easy

Take it slow, take one step at a time.

 

"You may say, I’m a dreamer

But I’m not the only one

We hope someday you’ll join us

And the world will live as one.”

 

SS

PS. This piece is inspired by the songs of my all time favourites, Bob Dylan and John Lennon