The Cow and All Humans- Great & Small

My encounter with cows started when very young. The first phase saw repeating mindlessly the nursery rhyme.

Hey Diddle Diddle, The cat and the fiddle

The Cow Jumped Over the Moon

The little dog laughed, To see such a sport.

Grew up a little and the English teacher asked us to write an essay on the cow which inevitably read, The Cow is a domestic animal. It has two horns, four legs and one tail. The cow gives us milk. When the Hindi teacher would ask us to write a nibandh, the joke was, “Gaye hamari Mata hai; Aagey kuchh nahin aata hai.” Of course the teacher’s response would be, “Bhains hamara baap hai; Number dena paap hai!” which literally translated into English reads, “The Cow is our Mother; Beyond this don’t know a line. The Bull is our Father; Giving you any marks will be a Crime.”

Then came the historic General Elections of 1977 and the Congress Party had their famous symbol of the Cow and a Calf. So going to rally after rally, we collected the plastic and tin badges of the Cow in dozens. The cow was thereafter seen grazing on Manjit Bawa’s canvas, the cow’s dung was used as Gobar Gas to light up rural kitchens while the political parties fought over Mandal and the Mandir.

So far it was so good till suddenly the cow came to the front pages of the newspapers and headlines of news channels for all the wrong reasons. Here’s taking a leaf from the pages of history and literature on the Holy Cow in two different places and phases.

It was July 1857 during the First War of Independence. Sepoys of the British East India Company had revolted against the British Goras and had rushed to Delhi from all parts of northern India. An old, weak and reluctant man was propped up as the Emperor of India, Bahadur Shah Zafar, from the House of Taimur and lineage of Babur and Akbar, The Great. His writ ran no further than the Red Fort and someone had once exaggeratingly quipped:

Kingdom of Shah Alam,

Runs from Delhi to Palam.

The revolting sepoys were also joined by the riff raff and fanatics who took upon the situation as jihad and a religious war to take to arms and liberate the Muslim empire of the firangis. The feast of Bakri Eid was approaching, the jihadis went out of their way to offend the Hindu feelings by declaring that they would kill a cow in front of Jama Masjid on the day of the Eid as against the normal practice of sacrificing a goat or a sheep. They went on to say that if Hindus offered any opposition to this, they will kill them first and then settle accounts with the firangis. The situation was aggravated when some Hindu sepoys cut the throats of the five Muslim butchers they accused of cow killing.

A full scale crisis was in the offing as the city was divided equally between the Hindu and Muslim population. This was something Zafar had always dreaded. Zafar who had a Hindu mother and had always followed many Hindu customs understood that he could not rule a city without the consent and blessings of half of his subjects. For once the Last Mughal rose to the occasion. On the day the butchers were killed, Zafar banned the butchery of cows, forbade the eating of beef and issued a diktat that anyone found killing a cow would be punished by being blown from a cannon.

Zafar next issued an order saying that all the cows in the town should be registered with the chaukidars and the sweepers of various mohallas were to report to the police all cow owning Muslim households. The police were to make a list of such households and send the same to the Royal Palace. On the 30^th of July, the Kotwal Mubarak Shah was instructed to proclaim loudly throughout the town that anyone even harbouring thoughts of defiance of government orders would be given severe punishment.

The next order followed promptly commanded that all registered cows should be given shelter in the city’s central police station. But for want of space this order was dropped instead bonds were taken from the cow owners that they would not permit the sacrifice of their cattle. Finally, Zafar sent out the most respected Muslim intellectual and a friend of Mirza Ghalib, Mufti Sadruddin Azurda, to mediate with the mujahedin. Azurda was able to successfully persuade the mujahedin to forgo the pleasure of slaughtering cows and eating beef on Eid.

Zafar, the Emperor of Delhi, for once acted and acted decisively. Eid passed peacefully on the 1^st of August. The British, who had spies in the city and aware of the growing communal strife, were eagerly awaiting a communal riot but were bitterly disappointed.

My next stop on the cow after the Medieval Indian History is from the brilliantly captured life of a veterinarian in Yorkshire County, James Herriot, before World War II when modern medicines and instruments were not yet known and the countryside was a huge challenge for a city bred and trained doctor. In one such instance, he had to do some inspections of cows in the farms for TB. He drove down to the first farmer in his rickety car, got delayed and was greeted by a farmer with a scowl.

“This isn’t one o’clock, Maister!” he snapped. “My cows have been in all afternoon and look at the bloody mess they’ve made. Ah’ll never get the place clean again!”

I had to agree with him when I saw the muck piled-up behind the cows; it was one of the snags about housing the animals in grass time. And the farmer’s expression grew blacker as most of them cocked their tails as though in welcome and added further layers to the heaps.

As the vet goes onto another farm, he encounters a thin rangy cow with a narrow red and white face. “I had barely touched her udder when she lashed out with the speed of light and caught me above the knee cap. I hopped round the byre on one leg, groaning and swearing in my agony. It was sometime before I was able to limp back to have another try and this time I scratched her back and cush-cushed her in a wheeling tone before sliding my hand gingerly between her legs. The same thing happened again only this time the sharp edged cloven foot smacked slightly higher up my leg....Switching her back end round quickly to cut off my way of escape, she began to kick me systematically from head to foot. Since then I have been kicked by an endless variety of cows in all sorts of situations but never such an expert as this one. This cow measured me up before each blow and her judgement of distance was beautiful....I am convinced she hated the human race.” 

All things bright and beautiful,

All creatures great and small,

All things wise and wonderful,

The Lord God made them all.

Last Word: Caught between the three worlds of Decisive Zafar, a Riotous Herriot and a Confused Me, I feel that it would be better to let the cow live its life grazing, dirtying and making itself comfortable in the middle of the roads as we honk and sweat behind the wheels. The Emperors of Modern India should go out and stand at the ramparts of the Red Fort as Zafar did 160 years ago and issue a fatwa to blow up with cannon all those people found playing with sentiments and raising religious rant in the name of the cow. This Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy or commonly known as the Mad Cow Disease that is affecting the brains of many of my countrymen must be arrested with the strongest of actions.

Source:

The Last Mughal by William Dalrymple

All Creatures Great and Small by James Herriot

SS

Running Away to Glory

One evening, as I switched on the television set, I saw an old man running. He looked more than 75 years old but was running with ease. Funnily, he was running with a formal suit. Wondered why…was he running after someone who had stolen his wallet or running after his errant randchild.

Rewind

The year was 1945. In the African continent a young lad of five was on his way to school. There was no school bus and no cycle and the boy would run everyday after kissing his aunt, who took care of him, for he had lost both his parents when very young. Later he told someone, “When I started at primary school, I ran barefoot miles to school in the morning, came back for lunch and again in the afternoon ran back to school and then was back home again in the evening. I did this everyday until I left school.” Only sixteen miles a day for over 10 years in Kenyan heat.

The boy grew up and joined the police as an instructor with interest in rugby. It was much later that he realized that he could run well and run fast. Thus began the story of Kipchage Hezekiah Keino or Kip Keino as the world knows him. At this point in history Kenya was not known to be a middle and long distance powerhouse winning almost all medals in all competitions. Kip Keino is the man who began this trend that has continued till date. Keino is also best known for his training at 1800 metres above sea level which helped introduce high-altitude training as a technique to improve running.

Although Kip Keino participated in 1964 Tokyo Olympics, his first moment of real glory came in 1965 when in the All-African Games, he broke two World Records in 1500 metres and 5000 metres. In 1966 Commonwealth Games he won two gold medals. Kip is however best known for his feat in the 1968 Mexico City Olympics. During the Games Kip was suffering from crippling gallstones. While running the 10,000 metres race, Kip collapsed while he was in the lead with three laps to go. He was so overwhelmed with pain that he stepped off the track, but determined to finish the race he stumbled on to the track and despite the pain managed to do the final laps. Naftali Temu of Kenya won the race and became the first Kenyan to win a gold medal, an honour that almost went to Kip.

Two days later, despite the doctor advising him against competing, Kip ran the 5000M and won a  silver medal, just a fifth of a second behind the winner. Next, he went on to qualify for the finals of the 1500M race. Jim Ryun of the USA was the undefeated champion in the event and he was not participating in any other event unlike Kip who was doing almost all the middle distance races one after another. Five gruelling races in all for Kip with heats and finals.

On the day of the 1500M finals, he decided to sleep and thought of skipping the race due to gallstones. However, an hour before the actual event, Kip hopped out of bed and headed for the games. The bus ferrying him got stuck in bad traffic and realising that he was going to be late, Kip got off the bus and ran the remaining two miles to the Olympic stadium carrying his equipment on his back. He finally registered for the event with just 20 minutes to spare. No sooner had the race started than Kip went ahead and won the Gold Medal outpacing the second placed runner by 20 metres which possibly remains the longest distance anyone has won by in this event even to date.

In the Munich Games of 1972, Kip Keino went on to win gold medal in 3000M steeple chase and a silver in 1500M. Kip retired from athletics in 1973 and in a glorious career won over a dozen medals more than half of which were gold.

There was much more to come from this remarkable Kenyan legend. Kip and his wife purchased a farm in Eldoret which they converted it into an orphanage. “We started with two children, then it went on to six, then ten. Now it’s up to 90. We give them shelter and love. Many of these children, who lived with us, have gone to the university, some are doctors, and when you see them with their own families living well in society, I feel very happy,” he had said some time ago. Now the school has more than 300 children.

Fast Forward

It was 5^th of August 2016, the suited man went up the podium at the Macarana Stadium at Rio to receive the first Olympic Laurel, a distinction created by International Olympic Committee to honour an outstanding sportsman for his contribution to education, culture, development and peace through sports.. While receiving the award, Kip said, “We come into this world with nothing…and depart with nothing…it’s what we can contribute that is our legacy. Join me and support all the youth of this world to get the basics of humanity: food, shelter and education. Education not only empowers our youth to be better citizens and leaders of the future, but it will also help them make a positive change and a mighty difference.”

The Unputdownable!

Have you heard about a man called Karoly Takacs? Not many have but here’s a short story about another champion who defied all odds and disability to win and become a legend.

Karoly Takacs was born in Budapest and joined the Hungarian Army. By 1936, he was a world class pistol shooter but he was denied a place in the Hungarian team for the Berlin Games of 1936 as only commissioned officers were allowed to compete and he was just a sergeant. This discriminatory ban was lifted in Hungary after 1936 and Karoly got ready for the 1940 Tokyo Games. But as luck would have it, during an army training in 1938, he badly injured his shooting right arm when a faulty grenade exploded.  Any other man would have been devastated as his sporting career looked over. Not Karoly.

Karoly spent the next one month in the hospital, depressed at his Olympic dreams having been shattered. Takcas, rather than fall into depression and self pity, did the unthinkable. He decided to learn shooting with his left hand. He simply asked himself, “ Why not?” Karoly practised in secret and when the Hungarian National Pistol Shooting Championship was held in 1939 he registered. All the participants had no clue and were generally sympathising for him. Karoly surprised everyone and won the championship and qualified to be a part of the 1940 Olympics squad.

Wait, said fate, as both 1940 and 1944 Olympics were cancelled due to World War II. Karoly went on practising with the same determination and his time came in the London Games of 1948. By now he was 38 years old but neither age nor change of hand could stop him from winning the Gold Medal. He not only beat the favourite Argentine, Carlos Enrique Diaz Saenz Valiente, who was the reigning world champion but also set a new world record. Karoly then went on to represent his country in 1952 Helsinki Games and won a Silver Medal but missed winning at the age of 50 at the 1956 Melbourne Games.

Karoly Takacs later went on to coach his countrymen in pistol shooting.

Last Word in the words of Jesse Owens, “We all have dreams. But in order for dreams come into reality, it takes an awful lot of determination, dedication, self-discipline and effort.” 

SS

HOLY GAMES

It was midnight at Rio. The  Games Village where the participants were staying had gone dark as there were no more events for the day and all needed to catch up on their sleep for the gruelling days ahead. In one part of the Village, however, the lights were on. A set of athletes, in their complete match attire with their racquets, bows, guns, hammer and all, quietly stepped out of their rooms and assembled on the ground outside. One of them, with a gun on his shoulder, even took a tricolour flag in his hands. All went into a silent march as they had done at the opening ceremony. The contingent walked to a small temple in the heart of Rio and started singing aloud…

O palan hare, nirgun aur nyare,

Tumhre bin humra kaunno nahee,

Hamre uljhan, suljhao bhagwan,

Tumhre bin humra kaunno nahin.

Far away where no spacecraft has ever reached before, the Gods and Goddesses were taking their siesta when their sharp ears caught the song sung in the only planet from where they often got SOS calls. They listened carefully and realized that this was no ordinary call for help. An emergency meeting was called by Supremo Brahma.

“Respected Ladies and Gentlemen of Brahamalok, we have a problem. Over a billion people pray every day but they ask for selfish favours. We grant some boons, we defer some but their faith in us is beyond question. Today we have a small set of people who are feeling dejected and depressed as their great nation, which falls under our jurisdiction, is unable to win any medals. They seek our intervention, they seek our help and I strongly recommend that with all the powers in our hands, we need to do something and do it quickly.”

The God Sports Team (GST) motion was passed with unanimity, something rarely seen in the Upper House. While all the Super Powers were ready to go for gold, Brahma cautioned them.

“All hundred thousands of us cannot descend and play because all sport persons have to be registered well in advance. Some of us will have to get into the spirits of the already registered Indian contingent. We also have to ensure that we don’t win all the events from tomorrow, which I am sure you will do it with ease, or else they will run dope tests and for certain, some of us will get disqualified and the country will get a bad name.”

Shiva standing there jumped, “Hey, I am clean. I am off grass in case your remarks were pointed at me!”

Anyway after a lot of discussions, argument and sparks flying, the Gods decided to send a small contingent down to the Amazon forest in a Uran Khatola, the Chariot of Gods created much before men knew how to even walk on two legs. Each one of these Champions selected was a master of universe in his or her discipline. Coach Krishna was additionally sent to manage the Dream Team to make sure that someone would keep things under control. As they entered the Village, Krishna blew his conch shell and said, “Vijayi bhava!”

The athletics events had commenced and Suresh Kumar was entered as a participant in javelin throw. His best throw was 81 metres as compared to the 90 metre plus mark by a majority of East Europeans and Scandinavians. No one gave Suresh any chance. As he slowly started his run, something came over him and he picked up mad pace and threw the javelin which started flying and appeared going beyond the stadium. It needed Coach Krishna’s mystic powers to curb its flight and ensured it dived down after crossing 99 metres. Wow…everyone was stumped…it was a new Olympic and World Record. Suresh started jumping with joy and his jump turned into a rhythmic dance of Tandava. With the spectators giving him the cheer, Suresh danced beautifully and wouldn’t stop till Coach whispered in his ears, “Hey Bholenath Jatadhari, control yourself.”

In the archery competition, Atanu Das was pitted against the much fancied Korean World Champion. The young lad folded his hands and said a quiet prayer as he entered the box. As he took aim, a glow came over his face which showed his confidence. Atanu stopped, removed the string from the bow and then put it back again, then lifted it up over his head and broke the bow. Coach Krishna intervened and said, “Hey Purushottam stop doing that. This is not Sita’s Swayamwar. Just take aim and shoot.” ”Oops…I forgot. Just can’t forget that fateful day.” After that, arrow after arrow flew in quick succession from Atanu’s bow and each one of them was hitting the bull’s eye…it was perfect ten points on every shot. The Korean was completely stumped and knocked out with ease.

The action shifted to another part of Rio where fencing competition was going on. A lone Indian woman, Kabita Das, had entered into the fray. One after another Kabita easily beat the opponents and reached the finals where she was meeting the five times Olympic Champion from France. Before the finals, the judges told Kabita’s coach that they might have to disqualify her. Coach Krishna went down to her, “Hello Ma Kali, please stop this habit of yours of showing your tongue after you beat any of the opponents. Plus curb yourself from trying to reach for the opponent’s neck as if you want to chop it off….this is a game and we don’t want any bloodshed. Play clean.” “Ok Chief…I will remember your advice but you know it is so difficult.” Needless to tell you what happened that day in the finals. History was made as Kabita stood up with pride on the podium while the Jana Gana Mana played.

It was 3000 metres steeplechase, an event dominated by the Kenyans and Ethiopians since the time memory serves us right. A lone Indian, Gulab Singh, was standing on the starting line. His best time was a far cry from that of most other people standing in the line. Coach Krishna whispered softly, “Hey Pawan Putra control yourself. You are supposed to jump over each hurdle and over the water patch one after another and not all in one go. Forget what you did while going to Ravana’s Lanka by flying over mountains and sea. Don’t give anyone a chance to suspect who you are.””Ok Boss but do me a favour. Just let me run with my gada , the mace. It makes me feel real good.” “Ok, but it will be invisible to all others. All the Best.” As the race started, Gulab Singh started slowly from behind but by the first hurdle he was up there in front and after that what happened left everyone gaping.  Gulab jumped over the hurdles and water patch with ease and his run was smooth. Running barefoot, he looked quite a sight with his right hand bent holding the invisible mace and the other swinging wildly, he won easily with the second placed Kenyan runner behind by a couple of laps. Of course it was a new Olympic and World Record.

It was the last event planned. Diminutive Dipa Karmakar was the last ranked to qualify for the finals of the Gymnastics Vault competition.  Three Chinese, two Russians, one American and one Romanian were ranked ahead of her in the qualification round. Her reaching the final itself was a success story for the Indians as no one had even qualified in Gymnastics before. She had told her parents that morning that she will give her best and leave the results to God. The stadium was packed with the Chinese making the most noise. They were confident of their victory in this event. All the competitors had done their vaults twice and scores were almost close to 15 points whereas Dipa’s first score was a mere 11.22. She started her final run, picked up pace and did a perfect Prodonova Vault and with an extra flip to the original to add to the risk factor. She even made a super landing on her feet rather than the usual butt grazing style of hers. The stadium erupted. All stood up in admiration of this little Indian who had defied death. None of the other seven even attempted the Prodonova Vault for it was called the Death Vault, one small error and you could die or be a cripple for the rest of your life. Here was a girl in her first Olympics not only attempting it but doing it even better. Not only did she get the Gold but the vault was named thereafter, Dipa Vault. Coach Krishna smiled and patted Yama, the Lord of the Death, for having done his part today.

The detractors were silenced. India was shining. Five Golds, Five Records and a style named after one of their athlete. The tricolour fluttered in a breezy Rio.

In God We Trust and He Shall Deliver.

Happy Independence Day.

SS

CLOSE ENCOUNTERS

Of Birds, Beasts and Relatives

The Infiltrators

The rains have been continuing relentlessly in Mumbai and on days when it just pours and pours you have little to do other than be alive to all the sounds and sights around you. Some of you, who have read my earlier blogs, may be familiar with the little visitors-the pigeons, parrots, crows, ravens and mynahs –to my window garden. Well, they are still around in spite of all the rain. The pigeons can’t be seen so much since they remain huddled together in some nook and corner, feathers all puffed up, looking like round grey balls. However, their destructive habits continue unabated. They still nibble at my plants, tearing away at the tender branches and freshly sprouted leaves, unashamedly.

This morning, however, I saw them a little miffed with something. All sitting quietly looking askance with big, round eyes; their eyes betrayed anger and jealousy. Had some other specie encroached on their territory? Then I heard their screeches and next saw them- the parrots. These days I see quite a lot of them. Whenever the cloud gods hold back the rain for a while, they come out and can be seen on the sunshades, the railings, or the window sills before they take flight in a group. And what a fabulous sight that is! Today, three or four of them were gnawing at the air conditioner cable- wonder what fascinated them! May be, they got the taste of the latest flavour of kurkure. Who knows? Obviously this crossing of the LOC and encroachment into their marked territory was not seen in good light by my pigeon friends. After all, the sun shades, the nooks and crevices, the air conditioners and all the potted plants belonged to them by right.

 My little tailor-bird, Tuntuni, too came for a short while in the morning and mesmerized us with her song but she is too swift and you just cannot capture her in your lens!

The Predator’s Predicament

This was our first evening at Kabini. The forest lodges on the riverside are worth staying in and we fell in love with the place at the very first sight. We were to spend two days and two nights in this forest. After a sumptuous lunch and a brief orientation about the Nagarhole National Park, we went on our first evening safari to the sanctuary. This was to be followed by two more the next day, early morning by boat and again in the evening by jeep.The board near the assembly point showed the sightings in the past one week and what we read was enough to set our adrenaline pumping. Six vehicles set off around the same time but after entering the forest each followed a different track. In our open jeep there was a British family of five along with their Indian friend, the two of us-mother and daughter- along with the guide and the driver. We were fortunate enough to see herds of elephants, chitals, sambars, barking deer, jackal, wild boars, gaurs or the Indian Bisons and several other smaller rare species like the Crested Hawk Eagle, Stripe-necked Mongoose ,the White- bellied Woodpecker and the Malabar Giant Squirrel. We saw a number of pug marks but the tiger eluded us even though the tourists who had gone there the evening before had been lucky enough to see one. The driver took us to all the possible sighting spots following every track in this dense forest of teak, rosewood, sandalwood and silver oaks but it was just not our day.  Our time was running out and we knew that before dusk fell we would have to move out of the forest.

We had left the main forest behind and moved into the periphery. Dusk was falling. We saw a few huts nearby and two tribal women returning home with some pots of water balanced on their heads. We saw a stray village dog and a small boy make their way back towards the huts. Just then we saw a small animal leap from the bushes on the left and cross the path in front of our jeep with lightning speed. Our guide shouted in a muffled voice, ‘Leopard, Leopard’. Yes, all of us had seen him. No one could have missed him. He had leapt and dashed off right in front of our jeep. Was it the boy or the dog that he was after? Next we heard a yelp and a cry and were sure that the village dog we had seen a few minutes back had been attacked. Within seconds, however, the soundtrack changed. We could hear the barking of a dog and soon saw one chasing the leopard. In a flash of a second this barking animal was joined by six or seven of his companions. The guide asked us to be still and under bated told us, they were the dholes or wild dogs, one of the four deadliest predators of this forest. The scene changed before we could even blink once. The hunter became the hunted and there we saw him climbing up a tree. He was no small cat, a full grown leopard. The dholes were howling in unison at the bottom of the tree.

By now the cameras and binoculars in the jeep were all out. Another jeep had now stopped behind us but they had missed the moment. Also,daylight had faded considerably. The sun had set some time back. The driver said we could not wait any more. As the engine roared we took one last look at the predator hanging for his life from the branch of a very tall tree. The dholes kept up their barks and were in no mood to give up on their prey. The little village dog had escaped for the day. He still lived to tell his tale for at least that day. We had to leave the forest at that moment. We shall never know what happened to the leopard as we left him hanging for his life from the topmost branch of a tree. Did he fall to his death? Or did his Maker hear his prayers for life?

This image has remained etched in my mind for two reasons- one, a very rare sight where destinies changed  in seconds and the hunter became the hunted; two, do we also not turn to our God only when we are in such a predicament, in a life and death situation, when luck fails us or  life hangs by a thread?

The Monster Man

This tale takes me back to my childhood when I was seven or eight years old. Another summer vacation was being spent at my maternal grandmother’s place in a suburb near Kolkata. An independent, brave lady who used to stay alone in a huge house with a compound that had in it gardens, several orchards, ponds, out-houses, cattle shelters. Also there was a strange smaller house, if it could be called a house, between the residence and the main gate.  This was occupied by a gentleman who happened to be my grandmother’s younger brother and we called him Gattu Dadu. Why he lived there I have no clue but he was very much a part of the landscape as well as memory of my grandmother’s home even though he maintained his own independent existence. He had never lived in the main house. He had instead converted what was actually an old and abandoned pillbox, a military construction used during the Second World War as a shelter from air raids. This piece of war remnant was about to be demolished and its existence obliterated from the land, when he took it upon himself to convert it into a house.

From what I gathered from the family elders it was reconstructed single handedly by him. He fitted it with a proper door and some small windows, even made himself a made-to-measure bed and a desk. He constructed a flight of steps from outside that led to the open roof and below the staircase he made himself a mini kitchenette which even had shelves, a stove, a huge drum that had a tap fitted to it (to remind my readers that when he had built this house the concept of overhead tank was not there) for his supply of water. Later, he even got himself an electrical source of light. To us it looked like a miniature house with very small doors and windows, a bed that was just enough for him, a small desk and a tiny stool to sit on. It was like Bilbo Hobbit’s house in the Shire though in those days we had not heard of the hobbit’s tales. Actually, we never dared to go into that house, we just peeped into it through the windows whenever he was away. He once caught us prying near his house and he did everything short of shooting us down. He was a terror and nobody in the neighbourhood ever dreamt of trespassing. Everyone was scared of him though he was scared of only one person- his sister. He even had a licensed gun which he kept hanging from a hook in the wall.

He was like the ‘giant’ from the fairy tale in all ways except for his size. When we saw him he was a shrunken, stooping old man who was in size closer to a dwarf. May be living in the house had shrunk him. He had a good job once, though, when we saw him, he lived off his pension. He had forgotten to speak, he simply growled. Rather barked. As children we were told by our mothers and aunts not to go near his house or disturb him. Strange tales were heard by us about him from the servants and neighbours- how he had performed caesarian section on a goat, how he had helped to deliver puppies and calves and how he had once killed a cobra in his tiny room with his gun. He was an animal lover and we often saw him, accompanied by his dog, wandering about in the orchards with a battery operated transistor in his hand and a gun on his shoulder. He cooked his own meals though we saw that on most days goodies from his sister’s kitchen reached him in tiny bowls. As children we were so terrified of him that walking from the main gate to the main house meant passing his lair and that itself was quite an ordeal for us. His own strange behaviour coupled with even stranger stories about how he hated little children, especially girls, made him nothing short of a monster to our young minds.

That particular day all the families, who had gathered together for the summer vacation in that house, went on a day trip. I was the only child left behind in my grandmother’s care as I was convalescing from some illness of which I have scant memory. I spent the whole morning indoors in the old lady’s company, played all known games but by the time afternoon came, I was quite bored. When my grandma was taking her afternoon nap, I thought of venturing out into the verandah and playing some self- invented game on my own. While I was engrossed in my activity, I saw Gattu Dadu calling me. My heart stopped. I thought my end had come. That morning I had seen him carrying some thick ropes. I was sure he would now hang me from one of the many trees in the garden and nobody would come to know of it. May be, he had come to know that a few days back while he was away I, along with some of my cousins, had gone up the side staircase to the roof of his house to pick some ripe mangoes from the branches that were pressing against the roof . Now I would have to pay with my life. He was beckoning to me. There was no escape. If I did not go, he would come after me with his gun. I slowly walked across the garden towards his house. He took my hand and walked me to the back of his house. There he had put up a tiny one-seater swing from one of the branches of the big tree. With a sack he had even made a little cushion for the wooden plank. He made me sit on it and told me I could swing on it whenever I felt like.

That day I realized that he was no monster who hated little girls but just a lonely, old man.

DS

MY BEST FRIEND'S WEDDING

Dear Shibu,

Please come to Gurudwara at Sector 5 at 12 noon sharp on the 5^th of August. You have to come for sure.

Signed, Sumit

Those were the days of handwritten postcards and the MTNL phone had not reached our doorsteps. Sumit was a childhood friend since school and, if he had invited, there was no way I could miss. But why was he calling me like this instead of coming home and talking to me directly? Got in touch with some other common friends and a few of them had received similar invitation. They were as flummoxed as me. 5^thof August was a Sunday and Sumit was no Sikh to be inviting us for a puja there. It was then that one of the friends said, “ Jyoti is a Sindhi, which means they are getting married that day.”

Sumit was a Jat staying in the government quarters with a large garden in front, allotted only to senior officials which his father was. He also had an elder brother and a sister. I used to frequent their house almost on all days- on weekends and holidays I would land up early morning and on other days in the evenings to play with him and others near his place. Jyoti was staying in a smaller quarter diagonally opposite Sumit’s place with her parents and two younger sisters. We knew about the two of them and often teased him. They started off by looking at each other through their windows with books in their hands. From books to smiles and smiles to talking took long and had to be done outside the colony area. Soon they started meeting often and everything seemed just wonderful.

The problem with gaining the ‘perfect couple made for each other’ tag, however, lay elsewhere; it was at Sumit’s home. He came from a strict and highly educated family where all the children had studied in the best public schools and reputed colleges of the city.It was, therefore, quite a blasphemy for them to even imagine their son in a relationship with someone from Kendriya Vidyalaya who had later gone to some vague College to do her graduation in Arts. Added to this was the fact that Sumit’s father was a senior government functionary while Jyoti’s dad was an Upper Divisional Clerk in another government department. This was a complete mismatch for Sumit’s family. By the time Sumit graduated from an engineering college and landed himself in a reasonable job, he mustered the courage to speak to his mother and sister first who threw a fit and said a firm No.

The synonym of Jat in casual lingo is someone who is adamant and sees little rationale. He does what he thinks is right and that is what my friend Sumit was…a blue blooded Jat from Haryana. With the girl’s family more than willing and urging the two to take the final step together, it was just a matter of time before Prince Salim rebelled against the fatwa of Emperor Akbar and diktat of Jodha Bai.

Early morning on the 5^th of August, I packed my bag with my football kit to go to Jawaharlal Nehru Stadium to play an important match in the Delhi Football League. While our team played for fun,we hated to lose. So almost all the college team members playing, ours was not the strongest team around but this tournament helped us get good match practice for the college competition against the best that Delhi had to offer. That morning, we played Delhi Tigers, a team from Old Delhi. The match was a real tough one, more so playing in the sweltering Delhi summer and we lost it as well. For once,I was more interested in getting over with the game and played quite badly.  As soon as the referee blew the final whistle, I rushed home, took a bath and changed into a set of fresh clothes- nothing fanciful.

I went to the Gurudwara well in time and saw a couple of other friends hanging outside. Inside, of course, there was a flurry of activity with a lot of ladies decked up in bright clothes and men in safari suits with pink pagris on their heads. After a while we heard a motor bike coming and saw Sumit sitting on the back seat wearing a nice grey coloured suit. Prithviraj Chauhan had arrived for the swayamvar in 100 cc horse power….it was quite a sight. Together we went inside the Gurudwara and, after tying handkerchiefs on our heads, sat down in one corner of the hall. At the centre was the sacred Guru Granth Sahib and the granthi was reading out parts from the text which we understood little. Sumit and Jyoti were seated together near the sacred book and all others inside the Gurudwara were family members and friends of Jyoti. There was none from Sumit’s family except eight of his friends.

No sooner had the granthi finished the path than he raised his voice to say, Wahe Guruji  da Khalsa and all in the hall in unison said, Wahe  Guruji di Fatheh. This was repeated a couple of times. We now knew the ceremony was getting close to being over and food would be served. Having eaten little since morning, I was looking forward to a dawat with lots of puri, halwa and other vegetables cooked in pure ghee. It was then that the priest asked someone from the bride’s side to come and sit next to her. The father being the head of the family stepped forward and sat down with his head bowed in obeisance. Next the priest asked Sumit to call an elder from his family….Sumit turned, looked at me and made a hand gesture inviting me.

Paagal  hai kya….I protested but the Jat was not one to be put down. He smiled and again insisted that I come forward and sit by his side. What came over me, I obeyed and went ahead to be seated as the priest asked the couple now to stand up and exchange garlands to solemnize the marriage. I was quite oblivious of what was happening by my side as my mind started racing…I am supposed to be the father of the groom….I am taking the place reserved for Sumit’s father, a man whom I respected and loved so much. We then walked out of the hall and were offered prashaad of halwa with boiled kalachana. There was so much ghee added to the halwa that there was a common towel hanging nearby which looked dirty. On normal days I wouldn’t have touched that piece of cloth on which, no one knows, how many had cleaned their hands but today was different. I followed the crowd and despite rubbing hard the ghee just wouldn’t go off.

Just as I thought the ordeal was over, Jyoti’s father came towards me with folded hands and said, “Aap ko meri beti de raha hoon, uska khyal rakhna! (I am handing over my daughter to you, do take care of her). He then put his right hand inside his shirt pocket and pulled out some currency notes and put them in my hands saying, “Please take all the friends for a good meal somewhere.” “Why me?” I protested but the old man again folded his hands as if praying and I could actually see his eyes water. I accepted the money and said, “All right. Don’t worry. She will be well taken care of by our Sumit.” Wow! What a dialogue! Even Salim-Javed would have been proud of me.

We hired an Ambassador taxi. Sumit and Jyoti sat in the rear seat and I sat next to the driver. Other friends had their bikes and drove off, I was left along with the newly-weds waving to the bride’s family, many of whom including the mother and sisters were crying. As soon as we moved, I turned around to Sumit and asked, “What have you made me do? How will I ever face your parents? They love me so much and now when they come to know how I took the place meant for Uncle, they will feel completely betrayed and let down.” Sumit just smiled and said, soon everything will be normal. Don’t worry.

We reached Kanishka Hotel at Connaught Place where Sumit had booked a room for the two of them. When all the other friends arrived, we had a sumptuous lunch at the restaurant there. Of course, I paid the bill from the money Jyoti’s dad had given. The remaining cash I dutifully handed over to Sumit and walked out. I lost touch with the couple as they moved out of the country to Vietnam and Laos. Later came to now from some common friends that the family had reconciled with the son and the daughter-in-law and they were living happily together after a couple of years.

I never stepped into Sumit’s house again even when he had returned to India. Just didn’t have the heart to face his parents ever. Now after nearly thirty years the time is not long before I shall have to reverse my role from the father of the groom to the father of the bride but hope the man sitting next to the groom is slightly more mature.

Child marriages in India are not uncommon but suddenly finding yourself to be a father to a boy your age makes you hum the immortal song from the movie Sagina in parody…

Aye Saala Main Toh Baap Ban Gaya.


SS

Ziddi

 “No, I have to go.”

“How can you go today?”

“If I don’t I will be caned by the teacher.”

“I will write a letter for your teacher and surely she will understand.”

“You don’t know her. She just needs a reason to cane me. Plus I can’t let my team down. I am the Vice Captain and this is our first match. I can’t let them down.”

The boy was about ten years old. Never good in academics, he faced the flak from all his teachers for either not doing his homework or faring badly in exams. The only classes he enjoyed were art and games but these never counted in school curriculum. Now in standard 4^th, this was the first inter class cricket match, something which was prestigious for students and the class teachers. For once he had got his chance to be chosen into the cricket team and he wouldn’t let go of this chance to showcase his talent and he a hero in school for once. 

The mother soon stepped in and shouted at the boy, “We have enough trouble already and we don’t want any more. One more time you insist on going and I will give you two tight slaps.”

The father reversed his position and came to the child’s rescue, “Let him go. Anyway he’s far too young and I will only have to do everything.” He asked one of the family elders for help, “Dilip, when you go to Gole Market to get the materials for the puja, drop him at his school. After the match he will come back on his own in the DTC bus.”

The boy was happy for he could now go to the school ground to play. Quickly he changed into the whites and sneakers and went out in an auto-rickshaw. He reached just in time and played the first big school match of his life. He scored 24 runs and picked up a couple of wickets as his team won the match. No, he wasn’t the Man of the Match but the important thing was that the team had won and he had an important role in the victory. Tomorrow morning his name will be on the class notice board with a shining gold star instead of the usual black that he got for his scores.

He caught the DTC bus home. Being a Saturday, he got a window seat. As the bus started moving, his mind went into a rewind mode. He remembered the old man who had passed away that morning. He was his father’s elder brother, Jethu as he would fondly call him.

The boy remembered him from the time he opened his eyes. This man was always around the house when his mother and father went out to work every day. Every afternoon Jethu would be there at the bus stop with a big black umbrella when the boy got off his school bus and walked him home. Never a day passed when he missed this part. On days when the boy would sleep in the school bus, the old man would frantically go to the bus depot which was a couple of stops away to wake up the young lad and bring him back.

It was Jethu who would quickly take the boy to the dispensary when he would get hurt while playing. Often the boy would get into fights, the same old man would even go to the other children’s home to complain to their mothers the boy returned home bruised and beaten. One such regular tormentor was Lovely, the skinny Sikh who would run away with marbles and hit people with his hockey stick. One day when the boy returned home crying with a cut under his left eye, Jethu asked him, “What happened? Who did this to you?” “Lovely beat me up!” the boy cried to which Jethu asked, “Okay, I will go to Lovely’s house now but first tell me is Lovely a boy or a girl?”

Jethu always wore white dhoti and long shirt. The boy did not know much about his education or the work he would have done in the past. To him the old man with his white unkempt white beard was the one who was always at home smoking his daily quota of beedi. Once a month Jethu would go to the barber and get a good shave. This was also the day when he would treat the boy to ice cream and goodies of his choice. Maybe he would get some monthly pension which he would spend almost completely on day one. For the rest of the month, his younger brother gave him small monies and he never demanded more or complained. 

With no family of his own, his world revolved around the young lad. The old man's innings had come to an end as he lay still on the bed while the boy went out to take guard for the start of a new innings.

Today, as the bus whizzed past, the hot Delhi wind blew on the boy’s face as he turned teary. The whole episode struck him late and hit him hard. He wondered, “How could I do this? One match and that was all. Anyway, I am quite used to the teacher shouting and caning me, couldn’t I have done this much for the man who took so much care of me. How many times my father pleaded that I had to do mukhagni (put the pyre to flame), but I refused heartlessly and selfishly and put a school cricket match before this cause. How will I face Baba today?”

Many a question kept coming as he wiped his eyes. The coward returned home in silence.

Almost thirty years later, the scene shifted to Delhi’s Ferozeshah Kotla where a Ranji Trophy semi-final match was going on between Karnataka and Delhi. Delhi faced an uphill task with Karnataka having piled up over 500 runs. That day around 10am the match resumed, with Delhi reeling at less than 100 runs and three top order batsmen in the pavilion, a young 18 year old lad walked into bat. By the time he got out on a personal score of 84, Delhi was safely placed. He opened up his pads and gloves and saw the replay of his getting out many times over. It was then around 3pm when he left the stadium for home to do the last rites of his father who had passed away the previous night.

This man went on to Captain Indian under 19 team and is now the Captain of the senior team scoring runs by the ton, breaking one record after another. You’ve guessed it right, he is none other than  Virat Kohli, the young man who showed courage and passion which have remained his hallmark and reasons for his success. Today he is an icon and a legend. This story of his is oft repeated as a tale in many a management school as an example of highest level of commitment and passion.

History is funny and success changes the way we look at people. The difference between heroes and villains is thin. No one knows how many men have lived a life of ignominy before a Virat is born.

SS

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.

Courtsey: Times of India- Internet

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.

Courtsey: Times of India- Internet

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 mishti 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.

DS