Kali rules the world while Bengal succumbs to Bollywood and Dewali make over

We find Kali in Mexico as an ancient Aztec Goddess of enormous stature. Her name is Coatlicue and her resemblance to the Hindu Kali is striking. The colossal Aztec statue of Coatlicue fuses in one the image of dual functions of Mother Earth, which is both a creator and destroyer. In her different forms Coatlicue represents, “Lady of the Serpent Skirts” or “Goddess of the Serpent Skirt”, Cihuacoatl – “The Serpent Woman”, Tlazolteotl -  “Goddess of Filth” and Tonantzin – “Our Mother” who was later sanctified by the Catholic Church as the “Virgin of Guadalupe, the dark faced Madonna. La Virgen Morena, La Virgen Guadalupana, the patroness and protectress of New Spain; and who is still the patroness of all Indian Mexico. Her statue represents her head severed from her body and from her neck emerges 2 streams of blood in the shape of 2 serpents. She wears a skirt of serpents girdled by another serpent as a belt. On her breast hangs a necklace sewn with human hearts and hands bearing a human skull as a pendant. Her hands and feet are shaped like claws. From the bicephalous mass, which takes place of the head and which represents Omeyocan, the topmost heaven, to the world of the Dead, extending below her feet – The form thus embraces both Life and Death. The embodiment of the cosmic-dynamic power which bestows life and also thrives on death in the struggle of opposites.

We find Kali in ancient Crete as Rhea, the Aegean universal mother or Mother Goddess, who was worshipped in a vast area by many. Rhea was not restricted to the Aegean. Amongst the ancient tribes of southern Russia she was worshipped as Rha, the Red One. Another version of Kali as mother Time clothed in her garment of blood when she devoured all the Gods. The same mother Time became the Celtic Goddess Rhiannon, who also devoured her own children one by one. This image of the cannibal mother was typical everywhere of the Goddess of Time (Kaal), who consumes what she brings forth; or as Earth who does the same.  When Rhea was given a consort in Hellenic myth he was called Kronus or Chronos – Father Time, who devoured his own children in imitation of Rhea’s earlier activity. He also castrated and killed his own father, the Heaven God Uranus. Kronus was in turn threatened by his own son, Zeus. These myths reflect the primitive succession of sacred kings being castrated and killed by their offspring.  It was originally Rhea Kronia, Mother Time who wielded the castrating moon-sickle or scythe, a Scythian weapon, the instrument with which the Heavenly father was “reaped”. Rhea herself was the Grim Reaper.

Scotland was once called Caledonia, the land given by Kali, or Cale, or the Cailleach. “Scotland” came from Scotia, the same Goddess, known to Romans as “a Dark Aphrodite”; to Celts as Scatha or Scyth and to Scandinavians as Skadi. Like the Hindus, destroying Kalika, Cailleach was known as the “Spirit of Disease”. One Manifestation of her was the famous idol, of carved and painted wood seen at Country Cork, and described as the “Goddess of Smallpox”. As diseased persons offered sacrifices to Kali in India, so in Scotland those afflicted by smallpox sacrificed sheep to this image. It can hardly be doubted that Kali and Cailleach were the same word. According to various interpretations, Cailleach meant either an old woman, or a hag, or a nun or a veiled one. The last apparently referred to the Goddess’s most mysterious manifestation as the future, fate and Death – ever veiled from the sight of men. In medieval legend Cailleach became the black queen who ruled a western paradise in the Indies, where men were used in Amazonian fashion for breeding only, then slain.

Spaniards called her Califia whose territory was rich in Gold, Silver and Gems. Spanish explorers then gave her name to the newly discovered paradise on the Pacific shores of North America, which is how the state of California came to be named after Kali.

The Black Goddess was known in Finland as Kalma (Kali Maa), a hunter of tombs and the eater of the Dead. The Black Goddess worshiped by the gypsies of Hungary was known as Sara-Kali, “Queen Kali” till this day. Sara is worshipped in the South of France at Ste-Marie-de-la-Mer during an yearly festival.

Some gypsies appeared in 10^th century Persia as tribes of itinerant dervishes calling themselves Kalenderees, “People of the Goddess Kali”. A common gypsy clan is still called Kaldera or Calderash, descended from past Kali worshippers, like the Kele-De of Ireland. European gypsies relocated their goddess in the ancient “Druid Grotto” underneath Chartres Cathedral, once the interior of a sacred mount known as the womb of Gaul, when the area was occupied by the Carnutes – “Children of the Goddess Car”. Carmac, Kermario, Kerlescan, Kercado, Carmona in Spain and Chartres itself were named after this Goddess, probably a Celtic version of Kore or Q are traceable through eastern nations to Kauri, another name for Kali. The Druid Grotto used to be occupied by the image of a Black Goddess giving birth, similar to certain images of Kali. Christians adopted this ancient idol and called her “Virgo Paritura”, which means Virgin giving Birth. Gypsies called her “Sara Kali” “The mother, the sister, the woman, the queen, the Phuri Dai, the source of all Romany blood. They said the Black Virgin wore the dress of a gypsy dancer, and every gypsy must make pilgrimage to her Grotto at least once in their life time. The Grotto was described as your mother’s womb. A gypsy pilgrim was told to shut his eyes infront of Sara the Kali, and he would know the source of the spring of life which flows over the gypsy race.

The Greek had a word Kalli, meaning beautiful, but applied to things not typically beautiful such as the daemonic centaurs called “Kallikantzari” relatives of Kali’s Asvins. The city of Kalliopolis, the modern Gallipoli was ruled by Artemis Kalliste. The annual birth festival of Eleusis was Kalligeneia. Translates as “Coming forth from the Beautiful One”. Or “Coming forth from Kali”.

Lunar priests of Sinai formerly priestesses of the Moon Goddess, called themselves “Kalu”. Similar priestesses of prehistoric Ireland were “kelles” the origin of which can be traced to a hierophantic clan who worshipped the the Goddess Kele. This was cognate with the Saxon Kale or Cale, whose lunar calendar or calends included the Spring month of Sproutkale, when Mother Earth (Kale) put forth new shoots. In antiquity Phoenicians referred to the Strait of Gibraltar as Calpe, because it was considered to be the passage to the western paradise of the Mother.

Some Buddhists identified Kalika with their “Prajnaparamita” the Perfection of Wisdom, conceived her as a multi armed Goddess of wisdom and energy. Buddhist tantrics viewed  Prajnaparamita as the original Buddha consort and over the time developed this vision further. They viewed her as saviouress Tara, “The Compassionate One”, “She who helps the devotee overcome suffering”. As the dark four armed “Ugra Tara, with the Dark Blue “Dhyani Buddha Aksobhya on her crown, she became the “wrathful saviouress”. Externally fierce to ward-off enemies and unbelievers but internally compassionate, “The Embodiment of Compassion”. Buddhists also knew the Dark Goddess or Shyama.  

Chapter 10 - 1991-93 High School Revolution

In year of 1991-93, a lot of great things were happening. Events that would eventually shape history of our world, and alter the way we think. Saddam Husain invaded Kuwait. A curfew was imposed on the black townships in South Africa, after fighting between rival political gangs had killed 49. Croatia and Slovenia declared their independence from Yugoslavia. Soviet Union was dissolved. The war was still raging in the Gulf. Politicians kept talking. People kept dying and no one seemed to know why. But, maybe because there was too much change or maybe, because it had caused too much pain, whatever the reason most of us managed to keep it at a distance and go on, with our everyday, normal lives. The world seemed to be changing. That’s it. That was the only explanation. These were growing pains which we must all endure. Still, among all that change, there was a common thread. One experience that had united us all. High School. This was one of the major events during 1991-93 that revolutionised in the hallways of every high school in Calcutta. Frankly to me there are 2 kinds of people in this world. One who went to high school during 1991 and others who didn’t. Those who did would surely understand what was so special about those years. 1991 symbolised years in our lives that were ruled by forces beyond our control - magic, romance, and destiny. Years, where love, revolution, motorbikes and Rock n’ Roll caught up with you by surprise.

The sights, the sounds, the smell of youth and freedom were all over. And also the drama, the insanity, the power, the fame, the intrigue and not to mention.. the humiliation and heartbreak. In a way, it was kind of a stage. And we all were its principle players. There were those who could never seem to find a place to fit. And those that no one wanted to fit with. Those with natural charm and talent, and those who had to work for it. But everyone was a part of this party and all in all...life was good.

1991-92 was the year of the Sheep. And naturally the people who were doing High School during this time were attracted to the Arts and many were highly creative as the Chinese calendar suggests. For them Art had to be functional and, conversely, everyday’s functional objects must also reflect inherent beauty. There sure was beauty everywhere. On TV. In the Rock concerts. And off course in the Girls High Schools. Modern High School. Loreto House. La Martiniere. Carmel High. Pratt Memorial School and many many more. These were the breeding grounds for the splendor of Calcutta’s 1991. Just as psychologically the Chinese Sheep needed peace and harmony, so physically they needed to be surrounded by beauty both in their living and working environment. Without pleasant or conducive surroundings these people could so easily become depressed and dispirited. It was beautiful times.

 Every culture has its own rites of passage. Ways of marking that leap from childhood to manhood. Complex rituals, weird dances, acts of courage and survival. These traditions are as old as civilization and also as recent as MTV. In 1991 it was the recent introduction of inter school festivals that was the socially accepted mating grounds for the Sheep folk and an induction to “dudehood”. It was the greatest academic move in the history of the Indian Academic systems. As the Chinese calendar predicts the High School people from 1991-92 were gifted craftsmen with strong artistic inclinations. The school fests were podiums where these were revealed. Saptarshi, Ratanjeet, Samya, Shekhar were the academically bent who excelled in the faculties of quizzes, debates and other academic competition. Neel, Charles, Vidul, Gora, Sukanti, Shamik, Ryan and to some extent me were more inclined to the finer form of arts – Rock n Roll. Now some of them have actually gone ahead in making a living out of it. Some of us like me vanished under the dragon wheel of social expectations. Karmayatra. Millieu. Caleidoscope. Josephstyna. Concord and many many many events that happened annually across those 2 wonderful years played a master hand at shaping the personality, fate and families of many of my generation. In those days’ people, youngsters had more faith in the real social arena than being subjected to a virtual social rink. So we went out and met and mingled. Got to make friends who lasted a lifetime, gained experiences that were unique and also had a chance to get into the same orbits as the fairer breed. The later was of greatest significance.  Common friends were insisted on helping to make acquaintances with a girl school beauty. Notes were passed. Phone numbers were exchanged and communions formed. And future rendezvous were planned over covert phone calls at Radhikas outside MHS, Rana’s at Jodhpur Park or at the coveted Scoops at the river side.

Introduction to the lady was a critically tactful event. What was even more critical was getting her phone number and then calling her up. There were several hurdles to that. The phone (It needs to free and working). The Time (No one should be around). Your parents (Must be at work or out). And most importantly - her Parents (Should be in Africa). The whole ceremony needed the precision of a torpedo bomber. Yeah, I didn't want to brag, but let's face it: I had it all: The reflexes, the instinct, the timing; the long hair. I also had friends like Pompy, Malini, Runa and Karabi who were ready to pass on the message in the enemy fortress like brave jehadi warriors. A small miscalculation would have meant banishment and death by humiliation. Still, with the proper amount of concentration, plus the old God given natural instincts and the sign of times, people excelled.

Love was in the air. Globe and New Empire were screening Whitney Houston and Kevin Costner’s Bodyguard and Indecent Proposal with the 90s goddess Demi Moore. Julia Robert’s Pretty Woman was drawing thousands to Lighthouse matinee. Bryan Adams was singing “Everything I do, I do it for you”. Such were the times. The settee was perfect. It was that time in your life, when romance was esoteric and absolute and was synonymous to freedom. You surrounded yourself with people who made you laugh. Forgot the bad, and focused on the good. Loved, the people who treated you right. Life then was too short to be anything but happy. Happy with that one special person who would make you hear harps in the middle of Gariahat fish market and Chemistry class.

 Everybody you saw was moving in couples. Arup-Ritaja, Bony-Sukanti, Monu – Diya, Arghya – Piu, Bonto-Kiran, Hirak - Mayuri well some lucky one like Neel were coupling with an entire girls school. Even the Golf Green tough guy Al Tapone seemed to have melted for a certain Tini of the same Block. Sunday Scoops, Saturday Club Carnivals, Lake Club Regattas and OAT Rock Shows were enthusiastically and surreally painted by these lovers. Archie’s Cards were exchanged for almost all occasions. They loved, they fought, they cried and they patched up. Misunderstandings were clarified quickly through close friends or trusted intermediaries. Integrities Established. Life Long friendships were formed. Friends, who fought off fearlessly all possible suitors of your lady love with blood and grit.  Love Letters were exchanged. Ahh Letters – this seem like a word from another century, was such a vital part of our romantic existence and the development of English Grammar. I guess we all had a bunch of these celestial certificates under our beds. To be held tightly in lonely desperate nights as Scorpions softly purred “Still loving you” on the stereo.

Even I had a small contribution to this 1991 romantic bandwagon. I guess I had to. Her name is not important here. I met her at one of the school fests. She was just the kind of woman who could turn a man around. I revolved. My head and my entire 15 year old longing towards her. It was evident that nothing short of miracle could ever bring us together. Now face it, who was I kidding? A girl like that with a nobody like me? But those days miracles happened. Over a glass of Ice Cream Floats at Josephsyna (St. Joseph’s college festival) my miracle happened and I was introduced to the most beautiful 15 year old girl in the world. The moon did look like a Pizza Pie. I was not walking anymore. I almost was dancing down the street with a cloud at my feet.  It was Amore’ all right. In other words I was happy and on cloud 19. Following social protocols introductions were mediated, glances exchanged. Phone Number procured. And with all those polite formalities out of the way, it was time for the main event. Time to play, the dating game.

Fact was that in the 1991 Calcutta, a boy's first steps towards manhood starts in the back seat of a friend’s motorbike- wishing to own one. Thus, for me, at sixteen, academics had given way to procuring something much, much more important: The drivers-license. It separates the boys from the men. It was imperative that the boy shows up outside the girl’s school gate leaning carelessly on a Yamaha RX100. The religion among men in 1991.This separated men from Teen Gods. I wasn’t so lucky. My parents wouldn’t give me one.  So my transportation in the initial wooing days was always dependent on a friend’s bike. The friends those days were always the embodiment of camaraderie. Never would anyone I knew later would part with something as precious as an RX100 so easily. Something that was bought with hunger strikes, nights and days of nagging, with maths scores and through many, many, many despicable Herculean tasks performed to please parents. Just for a friend to borrow for his date. Well friendship was not materialistic those days like now. It was more like a blood oath between two spirits.  I remember all those friends Arup Das, Subhajit C, Prantor C, Bobby, Hirak, Rajeev who had been rock solid support systems for me those days and have remained so till this date.

So on a borrowed bike and with the wind on my face and spirits soaring in us did we finally ride to Scoops and many many many beautiful and memorable sunsets. Pleasure, romance, and of course--let's not forget—freedom, was here. The Regatta dances then were the most acclaimed event of that time. The best bands belted out the best music. Being on the floor with amour de femme was a part of the ritual. A ritual that solemnly inducted you to the ambience of that generation. Now there was one slight hiccup. My Cinderella came from a tough house. She could rarely make it to these events due to family restrictions. But sometimes when luck and friends played favorably along. It made memories. There she would be in an August night, hair open, white dress flowing in the night air with me slow dancing to “I just died in your arms” belted out by Shiva or the 5^th Dimension. Time seemed to freeze during those moments. You were so happy and content that you could die. You are suddenly impatient for High School and College to get over so that you can get married. You were scared if her lies were found out at home and she’s jailed forever. And with all that we headed on for a night at the Regatta. But what mattered was that we were on the dance floor, head on shoulders. Soft breaths melting between us.  Whatever it was, it was crazy. It was confusing. It was dangerous and I really, really liked it.  

Romantic song after song went by till finally the moment was knocking on the door. And that's when it happened for most of us. The legendary First Kiss. Maybe not the way it happened to me. At that moment, all the feelings that she and I had been trying to bottle up finally came rushing out to the surface -  into the night air. We couldn't hide our passions anymore so I leaned closer... and kissed her ..right on the eye. And then she kissed me... on my eye. And the thing is, neither of us knew why. Maybe our aim was off. Maybe it was the rum. Or maybe it was something else. Maybe it was happening too fast. Maybe we wanted to hold on what we had. The time. The moment. The years. To each other. Or maybe we both knew there were other things we had to find, before we found each other. All we really knew for sure was, as we stood there, looking out over the lights of town reflecting on the still waters of the Dhakuria lakes where we had grown up together, it all felt right. It felt... perfect. I felt like a John Denver song. After all, this was the love of my life. The future mother of my children. Potentially.

During that time Sergey Bubka had broken the world record for men's pole vault. But more pressing leaps were expected out of me. An unpleasant leap into manhood. Responsibility. College. Career. A pre-requisite for happily ever after. Now these were important factors that I had completely overlooked. I was still soaking amidst the pleasantries of teen hood . But they say girls mature faster than boys and they have a soft nerve for security. Well motorbikes and Ice Cream parlors couldn’t give her that security that she deserved. Why? That’s something I could never figure out about women. The Goodbyes were inevitable. As I grew along those years I had wondered what wrong.  Was it the company I kept? Was it the Drugs and Alcohol that was a cornerstone of those times? Was it my inability to understand the importance of security for women – I could never figure out. All that remained was a 16 year old me mending a china-heart that was broken beyond repair being comforted by Garry Moore’s ballads. All I was left with was a bunch of letters and some wonderful memories that would comfort me for many nights to come. Sometimes I did reflect how things would have been if we could turn back the clock. I guess nothing would have changed and things would have turned out the same way. A 16 year old torn jeaned, long haired heartbroken me would still be found standing alone and lost on at the Radhika’s restaurant. For the choices that we made may be inappropriate for us ending up happily ever after. But they were certainly appropriate of that time.

Looking back at those 2 years I realised we change, we grow up, we fuck up, we love, we hurt and we heal. In 1991 we were allowed to do so freely for we were 16, an excuse we would probably never have. Parents, problems, friends, crushes, love, dating, responsibility, drama, heartache, failures, stress, happiness was all essential part of that time. But sure as hell time drags you out of those long hairs, fancy dreams and leather jackets whether we like it or not and places you into more humble surroundings.  We all needed to move on. For everybody and everything else have had. They Regatta dance and the band are now determined by DJs. The hallowed Open Air Theater that housed concerts and defined a generation is now roofed and restricted. Our Rock n Roll Gods are now making music for Tollywood. The Scoops have changed its name and feel and all its customers have suddenly grown up and grown out of their jeans. But I’m sure everybody who had ever walked through those years of wonder, have definitely stopped sometimes in their lives amidst husbands, wives, children, deadlines, taxes and cholesterols to look back in solemn times and silently relished at the wonderful mistakes they had made. 1991 was a place for Gods and Goddesses. It was where the fondest of dreams and aspirations of us as young adults had reached their zenith. It was place that draws a sigh and a tear of melancholy out of the most hardened of souls. It’s a place that would always remain inside us coercing us to ask ourselves the niggling “What if?” without ever expecting an answer.

There is a place, Where I can go,
When I feel low, When I feel blue.
And it's my mind, And there's no time when I'm alone

Engelbert Humperdink - The Last Waltz

Chapter 9 - She's like a Rainbow - Silk

Teenage is kind of a screwy time. A time of hope and confusion. Things were changing and changing fast. 1988 was a year of speed and magnitude. Carl Lewis won 5 Gold at the Seoul Olympics. The Last Emperor won 9 Oscars. Zia-Ul-Haq was killed in an air crash. Soviet left Afghanistan. But the biggest news was that cable TV was about to enter Golf Green. 1988-89 was an alarmingly decisive phase in the history of my formative years in Golf green. There was a race on. A race to excel at the WBCSE examination. A race to be inducted in the hallowed list of the B Block achievers.  It's a race to find out who you really are. Well at least the way your folks wanted you to know you. Sports was now been replaced officially by watching television and attending tuitions. Thereby the foot prints at the cricket field were getting sparser by the day. To a stage where we were forced to enter into a pact with the girls to initiate a sporting event.

One of the games that was getting infectiously popular was “piitu”. Here 7 stone chips were piled on top of the other at the center. Teams were divided into 2 and one team was supposed to break the pile with a ball and run. The same team was supposed to then put the pile back in place without the opponent team hitting you by the ball. By the spring of 1989 the women's liberation movement was in full force. Across India a revolution was in progress shedding old stereotypes... building new roles.  It was a time of raised conscientiousness and high expectations a fight for equality and freedom. Women everywhere were facing difficult and complex choices. It was social Darwinism at its cruelest. Now this game wasn’t an exception. The girls were severely organized whereas us guys naturally being bred in the staple diet of “they are the weaker sex” took the games lightly and nearly always lost. However there was a sense of cheer in that defeat which we couldn’t understand why.

Then one day an amazing thing happened at the B Block park or trot lot as we called it. There sitting on its railing we all witnessed the sweetest thing we ever knew existed in skirts. She seemed right out of a 1960s Dennis Hopper film. She had hair wild and open would have looked apt with flowers in them as she played with rainbows and butterflies in a field full of bright yellow flowers. I could almos hear Scott Mc Enzie singing “San Fransisco” in my ears. She was not like anyone of the girls we had around us at Golf Green Phase 1. She was not like anybody we ever knew.  Suddenly the women around us seemed like right out of “Frankenstein’s Bride” or “Pride and Prejudice”. She was following our game and laughing. Well I remember that afternoon all of us gave her lots of chances to laugh her lungs out as we made a complete fool of ourselves.

1989 was a complicated time. Full of passion. Excitement. The crazy joy of being young. At Golf Green, all that craziness came together in one word - “Silk”. For us, it was more than just a name. It was a spirit. An experience. A mind expansion without LSD. It was a romance and all of us were caught head over cricketing heels in that. I remember years later somebody had confessed that, on that afternoon if he had a camera, he would have captured her frame after frame after frame.  When you're happening you're happening. And when you're not, you're...everybody that was not Silk. This girl was definitely out of our league. Out of B Block. Out of this world.

She was different than all the rest of the girls at Golf green Phase 1. She was a tomboy. She came up to talk to all of us. I knew with all these inroads being made by women. It was time to accept the realities of the 20th century. It was time to act like a liberated man. And crawl like a dog. That’s exactly what we all did.  She opened us to the notion that “Guys doing guy-things. Chicks talking chick-things” sort of society has formally come to an end.  I realized it was time to accept just the way the big guy upstairs intended it. I mean no sense being pigheaded. The way I saw it, the world was big enough for all of us. And besides, so what if women could influence government, take over big business, alter domestic policy, dominate education, make the world and play time a better place…why not! So Silk became a Hit.

But already it felt like I had known her for...years. I think she felt that way, too. She had this ephemeral approach towards guys that was a hit with the men instantly. Well those days you were forbidden especially if you were a respectable girl to stand and talk to an unknown guy, well a bunch of unknown guys. You were allowed to speak to each other post gaming activities if you were from the same block, went to the same school, tuition or if your mothers were friends. And here she was completely unknown talking to all of us as if she was there all along and for hours. Because out there...in the world of the young... things were hopping. And we were all caught up in it. Silk was no ordinary romance. It was not the kind where you are expected to hold hands, talk clandestinely over the phone or with her friends waiting disgustingly  at the side or sending her cartons of cheap Archie’s cards. Silk was beyond all that. She mesmerized the generations around us. Me included. It was evident that we became astonishingly close friends. Guys older than us were oogling at her. Desperate to get a glance from her. Arup, Aveek, Rathanath, Krishanu and even Al Tapone sat scheming perched poignantly on the 11^th Street for a way into her orbit. I was her pal. Not that our relationship was all one-sided. I mean, she respected my opinion and I respected hers. OK, so we weren't exactly Butch and Sundance. So what? I was on first-name basis with a superstar. A guy who had the world at his fingertips. A guy who was by her bedside everyday when she was down with fever,  with an out of tune guitar playing out of tune songs – in the wrongest possible chords. But what egged me on was that she would find ways to explain how good I sounded.

I was especially touchy about her for no given reason. I couldn’t tolerate her being mentioned derogatorily, not that anyone did so. I couldn’t explain this feeling with my 14- 15 year old intelligence. There were times when I had questioned “Is it Love?” “Do I want to go on a date-date with her?” the answer had always been a stoic “No”. So what was it. Bollywood was screaming at my face that “A boy and a girl can never be friends”. I don’t know if she ever went through the same things, but I was making mistakes. I was making blunders. When you're fourteen... your sense of logic isn't particularly well-developed, no matter how much you wish it would. The fourteen year old logic was the logic of the silver screen. Bollywood was not the right coach for me. Destiny can turn on a dime... and cut like a knife.  It did.  Through a series of misgivings we moved apart. The worst was getting into a fight with Bison Busy over her completely drunk during a Puja eve with the social function going on in full throttle.

She was disgusted with me. She cried and told me that she never wanted to speak to me again. Which she didn’t for a very very long time. . It was a night filled with eggrolls and despair. The brightly lit streets of Phase 1 could not obliterate the darkness that was inside me. I began to feel shortchanged. I sat alone on the 11^th Street that night for a long time. I just wasn't ready to leave. I was not drunk enough. Somehow I just couldn't quite believe it was over. Things were pretty quite heading home. There wasn't much to say. Some people pass through your life and disappear in a flash. You get over it. But the good ones, the real ones, the ones who count - stay with you for the long haul. The thing is, after all these years, I couldn't tell for sure what started the fight. What I remember is...sitting in that dark flagstone missing a friend that I had known.

I was prepared to die now. I knew at that moment, that life was not fair. Sure... I'd never felt pain like this before in my entire life. It felt...wonderful. A lot happened on streets and around GG Phase 1 that autumn night in 1989-90. And of course, none of it was permanent. When you're fourteen, it's a long way to heartache. As I have grown older I realized nothing is of any real importance, anyway. But somewhere down I do crave for that one single night like that amidst a thousand other nights, just like that one. Stupid, ridiculous...and glorious.

I still pass her house on my way to the only supermarket in GG. Somebody mentioned to me that she was suffering from a long and painful ailment.  In 1989 I was broke, but today  a different kind of poverty upsets me. The poverty of not having the spirit to walk up to her room again with my out of tune guitar and sing out of tune songs to her.

 But a prayer does reach out to her everytime.

The Rolling Stones - She's like a rainbow

Chapter 8 - The Golf Green B Block - Underhand Cricket

Once upon a time life was simple. Cars were not fancy, gas was cheap front lawns were green. Music was confined to cassettes, LPs and showers. And everybody liked the Sunday movies and Enid Blyton. The good guys were good and the bad guys were bad. Every boy wanted a dog and every girl married of their dolls to the other girls’. Life was uncomplicated save the occasional report card that came thrice a year. Friends were genuine. Opinions were voiced in the playfield and the parliament. In nineteen eighty-six, something happened. Something big! I turned twelve years old. I entered the high school circuit. This meant full trousers and no more shorts. Going to school “ALONE” on public transport namely the Golf Green to BBD Bag mini bus, for the other modes was yet to ply those days. Getting Rs. 2 a day as transport and canteen money. My first wet neck in Economics and “Money Management”.  No water bottle slung on your neck. Confidence. Brilliance. Introduction to “Back brushed hair”. I’m finally out of my ugly caterpillar skin into the flamboyance of teen age. A budding James Dean. That was me. And these were my times.
The three years between nineteen-eighty-six and nineteen-eighty nine, I entered a particular stratum in the “para” social scenario. I was getting inducted into the league of the big boys. We were invited to play with them. Imagine! These guys were in the 9th or 10th standard who had normally shooed us of the field were joining hands with us collaborating with us – though in a very junior and executive trainee capacity.  These were an intrinsic portal in the years of my manhood. Through those portals lay a world the likes of which we'd never seen before. The world of higher social education. The advanced world of female anatomy and psychology. The world of the “the first cigarette”. The world of underhand cricket tournament. (Really!)
This was something never thought of, done, played before in the history of the game. The creativity in cricket may be perhaps blossomed and flourished under Mr. Kerry Packer. But this was our own league. We had our very own Kerry Packer-Mr. Nando Basu. He was my neighbor. We lived in the same building. Those days it was very essential for us to have a patron saint to survive in the playfield of 10th standard boys. Arghya had Deep Chaudhuri. Anil had his own brother. I sort of had Nando. The fact was these patrons we had at Golf Green ranged from the ridiculous “Japani Raja (whose underwear apparently were imported from Nagasaki” to the sublime Saibal (Daduda). From the exasperating Sunil V and Santanu B, to the intimidating Buntyda. From the ineffectual Tanushree di (who sang loudly every evening) to the indecipherable Rajuda. Not that I didn't learn anything from these patrons. It's just that, as with most adolescents my real education began at my own building B9. Nando had instilled in me a deep appreciation of the game of cricket. The man who'd taught me the intricacies of progressive cricket. Arup Das and Mimi Di taught me the concept of independence. All-in-all, I guess you could say B9 and B Block was kind of a proving ground for the lessons of life. I learned a lot of things from a lot of people. Too bad I never learned to deal with the opposite sex. Let's face it - women were an enigma. But, in a lot of ways so was life.
Well this Nando Basu was acclaimed as the “para - good boy”. He didn’t have anything from Bollywood in his wardrobe, religiously went for the weekend Rabindrasangeet classes (a must-do for all acclaimed good boys), was a good student as per the social grapevine and was rarely complained about by the neighbours. There were no romantic inclinations in Nando’s life, well we didn’t see / hear him being associated with any locality girls. Overall he was someone my parents felt safe to give my patronage to. Besides he had his own cricket bat. Having a cricket and the ball was like having the monarchy those days – in the cricket field. Now Nando had single handedly designed the UH Cricket tournament and did it flawlessly. Immaculate rules and regulations were designed and were shoved on the more humble ones.  They accepted it without much ado and the lack of a cricket bat.  
UH Cricket was played every afternoon from 4PM to 6 PM with rigor, religion and enthusiasm. The games were played carefully – I’m saying carefully as the arena was precariously perched between 3 buildings. It had the occasional hazard and eventual flee from the fields during situations when a Shantanu B or a Sunil V pull or straight drive landed crashing into someone’s window. The most affected was Prof. Bibhutibhushan of B8 whose daughter chose this time to train in her Indian vocals – which was quite unnerving for all in the surroundings. In such times a window being smashed by a straight six could be very disrupting to cultural endeavors. Then there was Mr. Gupta whose small garden was often mauled and marauded by Arup Das and Arghya in an effort to retrieve the ball. Mrs. Gupta’s howl and holler still rings out in my ears. Then there was the Roy’s of DT who along with his 3 daughters declared war on the cricket team openly by cutting a ball into two halves in front of a despaired lot. A war that carried on well during our times till he finally surrendered on account of mysterious occurrings like windows being smashed at night, or dead rats, garbage being dumped on his portico etc.
But all was not bad. UH cricket greatly enhanced our cricketing skills. Since you could hit in only one direction, the right handers had developed amazing skills in their off drives and cover drives. For us left handers our pull and sweep got amplified. Sirshendu P arose from these tournaments as the Spin guru who could make the batsmen do the tango on the pitch much before Ajantha Mendis had learned to spell. Nando was good too. UHC also had a subtle socio-romantic angle to it. Arup Das wooing Deepa C in the course of the matches, who used to amorously follow his performances from the 4th floor balcony or during her walks along the field periphery. Her giggles had a tremendous effect on Arup’s performance on the field. He won matches single handedly, caught the uncatchables, exclaimed the loudest even the fall of Bhemri’s wicket etc etc. Well years later I’m sure he reminisces on his emotional mercury rising on a glance of Deepa’s sight.
UHC B Block also had players coming in from other parts of Golf Green. Daduda was introduced by Nando. Arup Das introduced Rajan Kensworth (who came to B Block for more than just cricket). Later on we heard that Rajan and Arup split up due to the later’s lecherous intentions towards Deepa. We had introduced a few as well. Madan used to come from overseas that was outside GG with a bat that weighed more than him. Something we never figured out why. Over all it was quite a league of its own goofy merit – but with character. There were fights. There were arguments regarding decisions and deliberations. There were cheerleaders who captivated more than just libido. But there was this awesome unity which was reflected during external threats coming from the likes of Mr. Roy, Prof Bibhuti and Mr. Gupta. I never played UHC anywhere else ever since it stopped somewhere in 1988-89, but till today I hold it as one of the best form of the game that ICC probably would never realise.   
In the years between nineteen-eighty-six and nineteen-eighty nine a lot of people were tuning in, turning on and dropping out of the cricket field into outer worlds of college, university, preparation for IIT-JEE etc. As for me I was busy just trying to survive junior high school. And it wasn't easy. I probably wouldn't have made it without my best friends who are now scattered all over the Facebook. It was our first external relationship that was based on community and mutual support. Those years were like a long journey for me. Looking back, it was a time when we were still very small. And the world seemed very big.  And I think about those days again and again whenever some blowtard starts talking about the anonymity of the middleclass community or the mindlessness of the Campa Cola generation. Because I know I'll never forget those times. Those years of wonder. You start out life with a clean slate. Then you begin to make your mark. You face decisions, make choices. You keep moving forward. But sooner or later there comes a time where you look back over where you have been and wonder who you really are. The feeling is captured the best in the Beatles song “All these places have their meanings with lovers and friends. Some are dead and some are living. In my life I've loved them all”.
And these memories lose their meaning when I think of them as something new. Though I know I'll never lose affection for those people and things that went before. I know I'll often stop and think about them in my life …and Id love them more.

In My Life - The Beatles

Chapter 7 - SPHS - Class 8F - Mathemetitis

The transition from 7th Grade to 8th Grade is a tricky one. Especially, after the vacation was over. Moments were won and lost. Like astronauts returning from space. We had to re-enter the atmosphere of school carefully, so the sudden change in pressure wouldn't kill us. Still, the beginning of eight grade looked like it was going to be a smooth landing. We weren't the lowest men on the totem pole anymore. We were men...among the sixth and seventh-grade boys. More importantly, we were men among the sixth and seventh-grade girls. In social-studies, we talked about National politics. In History we discussed the Mughal Rule and Mumtaz Mahal. Yep - everything was looking A-OK. All systems "go".

 

Well until fourth period happened. An eerie voice coldly announced “take your seats and open your textbooks, to chapter one. Page sixteen. We will begin...with the introduction to variables”. So much for introductions and the social niceties. Mr. Gyanendra Dey – High School Mathematics Teacher. We'd never seen anything like him. He was a math machine. All math...all the time. With the chalk marks on his grey flannel trousers to prove “If the union of sets "S" and "T" is negative two and zero, what is the intersection” Faced with this implacable force. We were trying to get him to look at the other variable that was not on the blackboard – Life. “Mr. Dey, how did you learn to draw such neat circles”. Each in our own way. A stern reply came “It is not necessary to draw perfect circles to do these problems correctly - it will not affect your marks either way”. But nothing distracted him. Not rain. Not sun. Not the period over bell. Not even the cries of the tortured. We threw everything we had at him But we didn't have a chance. After a dismal few periods with him I had to talk to him. “Do you have a problem?” “Um... No”. “For tomorrow I would like you to do problems one through ten on page eighteen.” Boy, what's the story with this guy? He's going to kill us. Sure, he looked tough - but I wasn't worried. Not to brag or anything, but I was a pretty bright kid. Compared to the competition around.

 

Those days in the erudite middle class families, Maths score was given the same hallo as religion. A poor score can set you in the same ranks as felons, rapists the degenerates of the society. A staple conversation in any social get together would definitely circle around the Maths scores of the kids and how many sums they did every day. So I had responsibilities. Social responsibilities. To ensure that my parents don’t get eradicated from the social and family scene – with my Maths score. Besides it wouldn't be a bad idea to bone-up a little and start the year off with a 90% Or maybe a "80". "75", maybe. So it was the time for the 1st class test to be published. Mr. Dey in his Chamber of Horrors voice announced. “The results of your class test Deepanjan”. Ahh! The ovation. The accolade. The Disaster. It was horrible. I'd never gotten a "50" before. Not even in Sanskrit. There was only one possible explanation. This had to be a mistake I had to handle this with a little tact After all, the man was human. So I went to him after the period was over “Um...I have a question about my score”. Saying this I flipped my answer sheet toward Mr. Dey. He looked over the quiz nonchalantly, then at me “Yes?” I added “About the grade.” “Well, it's a "52.” “Yes, it is”. OK We'd made a start. “Well, I...think it might be wrong” I added with a smile and a slight shrug. “Well, let's take a look” He puts on his glasses, rests his forehead against his hand and studies my answer sheet. “You're right.” There - that wasn't so hard. “Number five should be...minus one-half...that's half off...this is 45. Thank you for calling that to my attention”. Now wait a darn minute, here. I thought you were going to increase that 45” If you're having a problem with Maths I run a help group after schools...on Tuesdays and Thursdays and you are most welcome to join.”

 

Whoa, whoa, whoa! This guy was getting entirely the wrong impression. I had to nip this in the bud, and fast. “No, it-it's just that...I don't think of myself as a "Bad" student. What I'm saying is that...I...wasn't as prepared as I might have been well...I don't think this is representative of the work I usually do”. He said “Then I look forward to seeing your results on future tests.” If that's how Gyanendra Dey wanted to play it sure - I'd get 'em. Fact was, I hadn't really studied for that first quiz. But now, I was serious I'd show Gyanendra Dey what I was really made of. And so I burnt the midnight oil. Even my parents noticed. Thus prepared I arrived for the “Next Test”. Then there was the “Next test Score.” This was nuts! This was crazy! This was… Another45. What was going on, here? Was I losing my touch? There had to be another answer. Over the next few days things went from bad to worse. The pressure was increasing. When my Dad asked about my Maths Tests I had to lie that I haven’t yet got the results. Now I was in bed, sulking, so I can only imagine what happened next... But you have to bear in mind, when it came to surveillance, the FBI had nothing compared to your parents. They would find out. He was an ace in Maths and would have died of a broken heart if he knew my results. I imagined my widowed mother, my uncles, and my friends all gathered around his death bed and screaming at me. “You killed your father”. Gosh! This was horrible. I was living a lie.It was only a matter of time before I was found out and become an orphan.

 

That afternoon... I just happened to pass by Mr. Dey’s classroom. By accident, of course! So, what was the big deal? Maybe I'd drop by, get a few tips from the old help-group. Wait a minute! this was the help group! Arunima Roy who thought the Revolt of 1857 was a dispute over salami. Somnath Halder had been in the eight-grade since the British Rule we called him Dadu. In the delicate ecosystem of Grade 8 these guys were - well let's face it - bottom-feeders. Seeing me standing with horror on my face Mr Dey asked “Are you joining us?” “Uh...no” was my only reply. I couldn’t have been seen with these guys. “I'm giving a major test next week it would be a good opportunity for you to bring up your grade.” Sheesh! Who did he think I was? Some kind of a Loser? I ran away on the pretext of an urgent errand from my class teacher.

 

Well the “Major Test” day was here. As I heard the clinical announcement of “Put your books on the floor” all I needed was... A miracle. If only I could pull off a "75", or-or a "60” OK. Let's just take it slow and easy, Here from the top... Question number one. Hmmm, nothing familiar. Scroll down. Well, just find a question you know how to do, and do that one first. In the question paper I could see The Venn diagram becoming blurred, accompanied by music effects from Nightmare on Elm Street. Pay no attention to that. Move right along to the next one. I started to sweat. I could hear my heartbeat. It took about four minutes to attain total panic. As I hyperventilated I looked towards the other students for a similar expression of despair. There was none. The heartbeats continued. I was desperate. I was a drowning man looking for anything to cling to. Anything. Even cheating from Paramita and Devarun sitting next to me. And that's when I realized I'd sunk as low as a person in eight-grade algebra could sink. And then it was over. I got “15". I didn't answer most of the questions. I walked upto Mr. Dey. A dying man. Diagnosed with the most fatal of all diseases. Mathematitis! I felt lost. I felt confused. I felt alone.

 

There are times in life when you think you're lost. When every turn you take seems wrong. Then, just for a moment... You see a light. So that light was Dad. And to him did I yield. My crown at his feet. I wailed to him “I don't understand math I'm - I'm lousy at it.” “I will bring shame to you” “I’m the worst kid in the family” He heard me and asked me to get my Maths book out. And as we went pages after pages of Algebra, initially I had no idea what my father was talking about, but suddenly I fell in love with the rhythm and flow of it all. And till this day Maths and Dad became synonymous. And so I began that long climb into the light. Only this time... I wasn't alone. I guess we really didn't understand why he was so hard on me sometimes. Because sometimes, and I remember these times so distinctly, my dad could be great. He could be so much fun. You never wanted that feeling to end. Every war has its casualties, and every victory its price. Well growing up was nothing short of war. But life goes on. Sooner or later, though...you learn

 

Father and Son - Cat Stevens

Chapter 6 - SPHS - Class 8F - The 1st Phone Call! May I have your number please?

There are very few things in life as purely terrifying as calling a 13-year-old girl on the telephone. Especially, a really cute 13-year-old girl. A 13 year old who is one of the most sought after in SPHS Grades 7-10. She was in the same grade. A different Section. We had a lot of sections in South Point. Sometimes they joined for a particular class. I'll never forget that day. Mrs. “don’t remember her name” let us sit next to each other in the Sanskrit Class.

 

Well Sanskrit was no entertainment and the teacher made it even worse. She was right out of Adams Family – Aunt Fester! Now, at the time, I'd just gotten over this whole thing with Nayana, so I didn't really know if I was ready for love. I just knew that I'd lost all interest in the emotional space program. Jayeeta Sen (Name Changed) was the kind of girl you dreamed about but who would probably never even know your name. She was the kind when she passes by you, you feel like summer rain. But then it happened. She looked at me - did you see that? She looked right at me! I don't know how to explain it ... ... except to say that when you're 13 and a girl like that looks at you like that, even for an instant, everything else gets blasted out of your mind and into the upper atmosphere. That was no "I'm-glad-we're-in-the-same-class" look. That look was "Tony, Tony! Take me in your arms, I'm yours!" My God, it was a moment. I was in love. I was in air. I was confused.

 

 

So now I was a man with a mission of my own. I had to find out if she liked me. This called for desperate measures. But I was a desperate man. The only problem was I didn't really know Jayeeta all that well. Oh, let's face it; I'd never actually heard her speak. Maybe the easiest thing would be to just call her on the phone. Now calling on the phone was slowly becoming popular….and safe. The person on the other end of the line would not know you, which is a safety measure for unforeseen events. On the other hand, maybe the easiest thing would be to just bump into Jayeeta somewhere. Casually. Accidentally. Strategically. So I spent the next three weeks tracking her every movement. Who she is with? Where does she walk during break timings? What does she buy from the canteen? How she folds her socks?

 

Well I was not perceived the typical lover boy those days; this made matters good and bad. Good, that I can do my surveillance, plan my strategy without being noticed. Bad, I might still get unnoticed. Those days, a boy's popularity was based on his soccer abilities, hand cricket competency, and how many imported toys he had. For the same boy to acquire a comparable level of popularity in junior high school, he's gonna need a girl. This “getting a girl” ceremony rarely strays from tradition. Fully unprepared for his destiny the certain someone to be surrounded by three giggling friends, Boy grows thirsty and proceeds to drink. He will continue to drink until the gaggle disperses or his stomach explodes--whichever comes first. Girl, acutely aware of boy's presence, warns her friends that she will in fact die if they abandon her. To no avail. She is forsaken. This was the time. Boy prepares for final approach. He takes one last breath and lunges forward. And they engage in small talk. Feeling the full weight of the moment, boy realizes that those three gallons of water have just funneled directly to his palms, armpits, and feet. Boy decides that the time has come to quote-unquote "pop the big one." Can I have your telephone number? Girl Smiles and says Sure. And just like that, the ceremony is complete leaving the newly-formed couple with absolutely nothing left to say to each other except an imaginary piano playing Love Story theme song in the Boy’s head.

 

My friends were moving in pairs those days Hirak-Mayuri, Anondo-Anindita, x-y, a-b, well almost everybody. I was seriously worried at my singular disposition. I had visions of spending my old age alone without wife and kids. So I had to make my move. At eleven twenty one and fifteen seconds on Tuesday the eighth I made my move. My plan was foolproof. I could already see it happening. I'd look at her, she'd look at me, I'd say "Oh, pardon me; I didn't expect to bump into you here". She'd say "Just my lucky day, I guess". One thing would lead to another. I'd suggest we talk about it over an ice cream float and a plate of churmur (To be procured across the school walls). I realized right then there were special things a man says to a woman. I also realized that I had no idea what those things were. I was officially a goner. And so began the great intermediary fiasco. Torn between the forces of torturous love and the fear of horrible humiliation, agreed on the sworn promise that not a word would ever be mentioned directly to Jayeeta. To have Romit ask Debaleena whether or not Jayeeta liked me. After all, Debaleena was in the same section as hers and did know everything about Jayeeta. Well the whole thing bombed.

 

After the great intermediary fiasco had fiascoed, it was clear I could never be seen by Jayeeta again. There were certain places I felt I was unlikely to bump into her. Suddenly I realized what I had to do. I had to take that brave leap into the unknown. I had to pick up the phone and call her... Well, I had a challenge of my own. I would call Jayeeta by eight o'clock on Wednesday, or die trying. Wednesday was the “Chitrahaar” day. The city came to a standstill at 8.00PM. This was my chance. The phone would be free. And I took it. But Oh Hell Dad was on it. Yapping away about some file. Didn’t he realize, this is not time for files. Well thankfully he finished but stood there reading some letter. I was about to explode. But a squeal came out – “Aren’t you going to watch Chitrahaar?” He looked at me and nodded and stood. “Um, dad I was just going to use the phone” “So use it.” He blurted “Well, I was kind of hoping for a little privacy” “What do you need privacy for?” As he looked at me, I knew we both sensed the cycle of family history poignantly repeating itself and left quietly. Then as I was about to call. The phone rang. “May I speak to Dr. Banerjee?” Arrrgh! One of my mom’s patients! This would go on till the next century. I had to think fast. “Oh! May I know who is calling? She’s in the washroom. I can take a message.” I lied. Well, I still had one minute before eight o'clock. T minus nineteen and counting. I could just pick up that phone and call her anytime now. Well, something deep inside me said it wasn't the way every muscle in my body tightened, although it did. And it wasn't because every nerve ending in my body tingled, although it was. No, it was because the way every piece of food I had eaten for dinner suddenly went into the spin-cycle in my stomach. I felt like I had to take action. To...make a stand - to do something. But I had no idea what. Fortunately, my sub-conscience had a plan. If I had a shred of manhood in me I would call her now.

 

And suddenly I got this funny feeling. Maybe I was blowing this whole thing out of proportion. I mean, Jayeeta wasn't going to laugh at me. And anyway, what if she did? Did it really matter? And that's when I knew what I had to do. I just had to pick up the phone and call her. Finally I did. “Jayeeta!” “Hi this is Deepanjan from 8F”. “Yeah, right, the thin crazy guy” “Do you have the Sanskrit notes” “Yes” “Oh! Thanks”. That was it. Next day I had assumed my standard position, drooling in the general direction of Jayeeta. But today, things were different between her and me. You see, the night before we'd spent very close to two complete minutes talking to each other on the telephone. Our relationship was entering the fast lane of the eigth grade social scene and it was up to me to keep the ball rolling. All I had to do was plot my next move. I saw her brushing her hair as she walked by. The best smelling head of hair in the 8th grade. We were again in the same class. I was within striking distance. The time was right for the most intimate form of communication known to 13-year-old man - inter-classroom note writing. In a note you could say anything you wanted to. Lines I would have choked on under the glare of fluorescent lights were coming out like poetry with the venetian blinds drawn. It was time to throw caution to the wind. She was replying. Hello World! I have arrived. Little did I know that the problem is excess. We keep pushing, pushing and it always ends up by us going one step too far. What was I thinking? I mean, one lousy phone call, a couple of notes and suddenly I'm asking her for an ice cream?

 

It was all happening too quickly. I wanted that note back. Then again, why stop when you're on a roll? It was all so perfect. With one flick of the wrist I'd opened up an entirely new and exciting chapter in my life as an adolescent. Jayeeta Sen was mine to have and to hold, for better or for worse, till death do us part. I’d ask her out. And then it happened. Arindam Bose (Name Changed). She told me she was seeing him. She looked at me. I'd seen that look before, in 1986 when my mother put my aunt’s cocker spaniel to sleep. And that's when she said it. The word I was to hear from beautiful girls, like Jayeeta Sen, time and time again. The word that struck a chord so violent in me that I wanted to strangle guys like Arindam Bose with my bare hands. My world was crashing. Maybe it was the buzz of the cafeteria, maybe it was the sting from Jayeeta, I felt a splinter burning within me. It was all too much to take. But I had no Jeanie in a lamp. Women were proving to be the bane of my existence. I was too complicated to be pried open like that. I had my dignity.

 

Sitting alone outside the school, I kept wondering what it would be like if she had said yes? Had I meant anything at all to her? Well 20 years later Jayeeta still looks as gorgeous as before, and I as insignificant as ever. Well, you can’t blame a guy for dreaming. And so we all had our one slow dance after all. But things wouldn't be the same with all of us. We were getting older. And whether we wanted it or not, the Jayeeta Sens were changing us by the minute. All we could do was close our eyes and wish that the slow song would never end.

 

And I love her

Chapter 5 - Adoloscence - Introduction to Voyeurism

In 1988 a lot of people were doing a lot of things a lot of other people didn't understand. Love-ins, Be-ins, Happenings" It was...different. It was weird. But where we lived, things were still pretty much normal. It was a typical middle class locality with the Dads went to work in a Chartered Bus with a tiffin box, the Moms spent time cooking, cleaning, chatting up other Moms and calling us off the playgrounds, us kids went to school, came back, played like mad and waited for load shedding. There was only DD to depend on. The “World this week” and “Yeh Jo Hai Zindegi” on Fridays, the Spiderman and Rajni on Saturdays and the Hindi movie on Sundays. There was this community feeling all around. We did everything together.

 

The Golf Green B Block was like one happy family, well with exceptions like the Chakrabortys of B5, the Roys (Khuchro Buro) of DT, the Kapoors of B9. But they made the community more exciting to live in. Sunday afternoons was when they all got together the ladies out on a walk discussing recipes, gossip, results. The Dads donned in their “Battik print” Panjabi settled at one corner discussing politics, community development, taxes and maybe Debonair magazines. Us playing or biking, overall presented the perfect picture that made “Family First” the 80s tagline. Events were few but well participated – The Pujas, Holi, and Birthday Parties. Summer Vacations.

 

 

It was the biggest of them all, the last day of school. It was kind of a solemn moment. Six months of relentless education were finally erupting in a blast of summer madness. Yep, you could feel it in the air. Hope, potential, freedom, .. who knew what the summer breeze might bring! Yep, I could still feel it now. The wind in our faces, the football matches, the picnics (in someone’s terrace). What I loved about summer vacations was that it always seemed to rekindle this wonderful sense of community-togetherness It was also the right time to explore unchartered territories. Swarm, sweat and swear at imaginary World Cup Cricket matches happening at the B Block playing field in front of 60,000 imaginary screaming fans, a slight look from the girls who used to walk around the field giggling to themselves – which would amplify the power of the bat swing or the speed of the bowler. I remember fancying myself as an ace bowler, tried to ape Wasim Akram (who was also quite popular with the girls those days). All these years later my pride and psyche received a nuclear bolt when a friend recently said I bowled like Bruce Reid (Arrrrgh).

 

Cricket those days were characterized by Indo-Pak rivalry. We had our very own Indo-Pak right there on the B Block (well if we were not shoved out by the seniors) field. The Pak captain was a certain Madan Mohan (went by the name of swing, why? There were various theories). Well we had seen fighting spectators at the Indo-Pak matches. But here every match was always followed by the 2 captains rolling on the ground fisting, pulling and abusing. This would make the next day’s match even more exciting. War plans were drawn on the back page of the Maths copy book. Players bought and sold over Chewing Gums, Post Cards with Pics of Cricket Gods. Well this was serious business and with the girls looking it made the games a matter of life and death. Now one event changed all that.

 

Arghya (name changed) one day came and announced his experience whence he saw Mrs. Chakravorty changing her clothes every evening at 6 PM. He detailed us on the absolutely new terrains which we were unaware of – Women’s Underwear. Arghya even asked us not to peep. Not to Peep! After what we heard was like telling a pack of wolves to stay away from red meat. Suddenly the cricket world Cup lost its TRP. India and Pakistan teams teamed up on terraces with folding binoculars to experience the spectacle.

 

 

Instinctively, we went to the terrace first thing the next evening. Nervous, sweaty, hushed we went up on the terraces wherever we could for this spectacle. Me accompanied by Madan Mohan. I had known him since he was 8 and never before had I seen that kind of fire in his eyes. He made me steal my father’s binocs. This was going too far. I was a pervert, not a felon. It's hard to know just how it happened but suddenly at that moment with an intensity that no one in that terrace had previously thought possible, 13 and a half years of pent up impotent sexuality became potent! Scared or No Well, there was no turning back now. We were here. The moment stretched out so unbearably I thought we'd both explode! Well, you gotta give Madan credit for spotting! And what spectacle it was. It was like tornados... or flash electrical fires. Or fate! That was it. Fate. Maybe I knew even before it happened...that I...had an appointment with destiny. But destiny has many faces or at times bodies. She was one.

 

My first experience with voyeur. By the end of that summer of 1988 a lot of things had changed. Terrorists kill nine tourists on Aegean cruise. Benazir Bhutto, first Islamic woman prime minister, chosen to lead Pakistan. Bihar earthquake. And we had our very own uprising. Well later someone had squealed to her about Arghya’s activity and Arghya was the hunted man. He stayed out of circulation the rest of the summer. Rest of us were keeping this a tight secret. The Chakravortys moved away next summer. But they had given us something that would be a part of the rest of our lives.

 

In the game of life few things are absolutely certain. In fact most things are left to chance. It a matter of trial, error, and pure dumb luck. And of course, Fate. But one thing I learnt that the best part of having a friend is knowing someone really understands you and shared more than just the laughs and Chewing Gum. We shared confidences. In 1988, people tried so hard to find themselves. Sometimes they got lost. Sometimes they found their way home again.

 

Summertime - Janis Joplin

Chapter 4 - Nemesis - Ms Rossanna Balford as I remember her!

Sometimes...when you're a kid... You lie awake at night and ponder the kinds of questions that grown ups have long since stopped asking. Questions like - What did it feel like to be dead? Are times and space really infinite? What was there before the universe began? Why are there people like Rosanna Balford? My very own 8th Grade horror story. Sorry Class Teacher.

She always had the 1st period. Which means I always got to start my day with her. To make things worse she was always accompanied by Grammar. Did Tom Cruise speak in the correct Grammar? Did Stallone ever consider his Past Perfects? And it was a hormonal thing or adolescent anxiety or whatever I always forgot the text book. And here she was the beef of a woman towering over me for my folly.. Some of the more health bent guys secretly desired to have wrists like hers. And to make it worse she wore a saree in a manner that was totally un-saree like. Seeing her I was always overwhelmed by a sudden panic. Things hadn't been going that well so far but if this wasn't what I had imagined, “grammar test” I was in bigger trouble than I thought.

Of course, we didn't realize it at the time, but this lady had the biggest inferiority complex since Napoleon. And she would invariably look at me after the roll call. Deepanjan! This was it. I felt like a fighter pilot under heavy enemy fire. Her most delivered dialogue to me was “I think we have a problem.” How in the world she came up with “We”. There was no we, no love, no marriage, no togetherness just a test answer sheet. She was right, there was a problem. We needed another Class Teacher. Someone like Ms Neogy. She was discussing my grades, my attitude, my behavior, my inadequacy, my life - in front of 50 onlookers! Conversation was getting stale. I asked myself "Now, what would a guy like Amir Khan do in this situation?"

As 8th grade wore on, I began to have nightmares. I'm walking into a sort of a - a cave. A long dark tunnel. I'm all alone. I don't even want to go into the cave - I'm, I'm terrified. But I just know that I have to keep going - deeper, and deeper. So deep, it's like I can't even remember what the daylight is like anymore and suddenly I'm in 1st period Grammar class. In pajamas. With Winnie the Pooh on them. Ms Balford towering over me and in leather suit swishing a whip. This was almost regular. I guess I was under a lot of stress. To make things worse things happened that summer which couldn’t be avoided. Bunking School, Playing Holi outside the school gate, first cigarette at Mayuri’s house, 1st Beer with Hirakendu Anando and Raj (in School uniform), refusing to divulge the names of participants of the aforesaid acitivities, wearing baggy trousers (a fad those days), wearing ear rings, forgetting the grammar book periodically - intentionally and naturally choosing to sit in the classroom Business Class (the last bench). What she hated the most was the direct refute of authority figure that I had.

There are a lot of things about junior high life that might seem simple to an outsider. But they're not. They can be best understood by being a part of 8F (1988). It was about being cool. Being acceptable, on my part. I couldn’t help it as I had 50 pairs of hopeful eyes boring down on me to liberate them, to lead them on to salvation, to freedom, to History Class.

It was a overwhelming feeling of insurgency that I felt. What you do with those initial minutes with Ms Balford says pretty much of everything there is to say about you as a human being. If you were cool. You had places to go, people to see. And now she is there asking me “if I had a problem?” OK, steady, boy. Steady. Hold on. And that's when it hit me. This thing was bigger than Ms Balford. Bigger than my gang. My future. It was my reputation. It was the Conduct Book. A ledger of sorts accounting my various movements across periods. A testimonial of sorts by various teachers. The news of this achievement reached home. And naturally at home I was grounded.

That night I had another nightmare. I'm back in the cave. I can't see a thing - it's total blackness. I take a step - and then suddenly - I'm falling! I try - I try to grab on to anything I can, but there's nothing there - I just keep falling and falling, and then finally –Grammar Class again. In my underwear. There she was laughing at me. So I did the easiest thing I told her I don’t think Grammar is important. Huh, well, let's face it - kids in those days just weren't as smart as kids of today. There was this silence. Then my parents were called. Those days there was totalitarian military everywhere, Russia, Iran, Cuba. South Point High School was no different. Of course, we in the free world need not worry about a totalitarian military... Because all our totalitarians are busy teaching junior high school.

Unfortunately for Mrs Balford, our spirits were not yet completely crushed. Well such was the divide between me and the High School authorities. Bigger than US and Iran, bigger than Amitabh and Social Studies, bigger than QSQT and getting a bike. But it all dissolved in time. What remained was the faces, phone numbers and face book profiles of the guys who were there in 1988. And a sense of “Yess I did it! And a loss of being sent off from school” But those as I said before were changing times

Freedom

Chapter 3 - Introduction to Social Studies - Girls.

In the 80s when you're thirteen years old you've got a lot of strange new physical territory to explore. For me, that meant the bunking school with Hirak, Anando, Raj and the group. None of us were the world's greatest make-out experts, but we figured all we had to do was waiting for the sign from the opposite sex.

 “The Opposite Sex”, Whoa! This is when I realised that people in my class who were in skirts were the desirables. A different species, a different zone, Unchartered, Unknown, Unimaginable, Unfathomable and Unforgettably Desirable. Well not all of them off course. An arm around the shoulder, succinctly in the darkness of Globe Cinema while watching Karate Kid, bunking school. Holding hands when no one’s watching and maybe a lucky kiss. That was when the stars explode in your head and illuminate you in the celestial light. You walk on clouds.

In 1980s my illuminati was Nayana (name changed for obvious reasons). And so the days passed, carefree and lighthearted. I seemed to have found a truce in the war of the sexes that was there even till the year before. Everything was simple and fun. In other words, it had to end. Getting Nayana to like me like me was not easy. It was a multilayered process. Gathering intelligence was vital in this operation. Reliable sources were her friend, her neighbor in class, her lab partner and even sometimes from the most unexpected sources like her goofy kid brother in Grade 6. Answers were imperative for life threatening queries like “Does she like me?”, “Why doesn’t she talk to me?” or (UGH) “Is she mad at me for something?” And answers usually varied from a positive “She does”, lifting you atop the school building or even “She is booked” burying you under the gym equipment of the PE room or even vague ones as the one that I got from Ellora “She's not mad at you. She likes you. She's not sure if she "likes you" likes you, but she likes you. When she first liked you she "liked you" liked you, unless she just thought she liked you when she really just liked you.” This was tougher than Chemistry.

What does she want me to do? Do I approach her? She's waiting for me to make the right move, isn't she? What's the right move? Should I give her something? And I guess it was then it first occurred to me: I really didn't understand girls. I mean--and let me be absolutely clear about what I mean I really didn't understand girls. After nights of contemplation to call Nayana or not one night I caught up on something I'd needed to do for a long time. I just shut the door and lay down on the bed and put in two hours of good, solid, adolescent self-pity ...until Nayana got home from her Singing lessons (Something Girls did those days withouth the wont of Reality Shows).

I intended to walk over to her house at the pretext of getting some Biology notes and pop her quintessential question. As I was about to leave, my dad casually had asked “Can't this wait till tomorrow?” A reasonable question, but at the moment I was not a reasonable man. I just had to know if she liked me or not. And I had asked her after procuring the notes "Well, Do you like me". There was this reaaaalllly long pause. I remember impatiently I had added “And don't give any of that "like me" like me stuff”. Well, that was it: a straightforward, face-to-face, yes-or-no question. And I was going to stand there until I got my answer till eternity, till Im thrown out of the house, till dinner time. To my surprise and utter shock she said “I don't know”, "I don't know"! What do you mean you don't know? I exasperated She repeated “I mean I don't know. I really don't know”. This time on the verge of tears. She said looking softly at me “I wish everyone would just leave me alone”. This was something new. I mean, I always figured girls knew exactly what they wanted. They knew; they had a plan. Or maybe they didn't. Maybe they were just as confused as we were. Isn't that great? It--it's horrible. They don't know either. That means nobody knows.

As I stood there that cold night, I realized for the first time in a long time that Nayana and I were feeling the same thing. We were both completely miserable and confused. But hopeful of finding a way out of this mess, someday, somewhere, with somebody. In silence we decided to find out. Now thousands and miles a couple of children and a husband away I’m sure she found out what we had looked for that night standing at the corner of Vivekananda Park. A place I had vsisited a million times later, but the way it had taken me that Nov night in 1988

I have been loving you too long!

Chapter 2 - The Kobita Protijogita (Elocution contest) - Poila Boishakh 1988 B Block Club house

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When you're a little kid... You're a little bit of everything. Artist, scientist, athlete, scholar... Sometimes it seems like growing up is the process of giving those things up. One by one. I guess we all have one thing we regret giving up. One thing we really miss. That we gave up because we were too lazy... Or...

we couldn't stick it out. Or because we were plain simple afraid.

 

We had The B Block Cricket Team. Well there was really no name to the team. But what was important was that there wasn't an imaginary team in the world that could beat us. And we romped the little playfield that court yarded the B Block from 4 to 6 every afternoon. Suddenly some mom would yell “It's six-thirty...” And so the IPL championship game of 1988 would come to a grinding halt. In front of 60,000 screaming fans...the league's leading bowler... had to go to his weekly recitation rehearsals.

 

This was something I was volunteered into doing by my Mom. She felt (still wondering how) that I had immaculate elocution capacity. A notion falsely formed because of my practicing Amitabh Bacchan dialogues in the toilet. Fuelled by the eloquence of a certain Projapoti Bandhopadhyay (Real name withheld). He was practically a legend in our neighborhood. He had participated in all recitation ensembles held in Golf Green B Block since Nehru was the Prime Minister. He always practiced...forty-seven-hundred hours a week. He always recited everything perfect. And his mother always bragged about him to everybody else's mother.

 

I hated Projapoti Bandhopadhyay. Uhhhh! If there was one thing I hated... as much as I hated Projapoti Bandhopadhyay... It was recitation of Bengali poetry with a irritating feminine snag in front of the neighborhood who’s who. The one in charge of this was Mrs Chhanda Sen. I liked her. She was a no nonsense woman except her son was a bit of a cuckoo. I tried to reason with her that I'm in 8th Grade now and there are a lot of pressing demands for my time. Well she had a way of convincing me to participate at the Poila Boishakh (Bengali New Year) recitals. She said I had talent and with practice I can be better than Projapoti Bandhopadhyay. That did it. I was in. I gobbled the bait and was a part of the seasonal performance.

 

All of a sudden...as I started to recite in front of her... It was like...there was electricity flowing through my veins. The Tagores and Nazruls and Sukantaos had exorcised me. Suddenly, I could do no wrong. And so, I made my decision. I would sacrifice. Endure humiliation. Deprivation. Grave physical danger. But I would participate in the recital and recite Tagore’s “Beerpurush” as Mrs. Sen had never heard it before. Like the world had never heard it before. Like Projapoti Bandhopadhyay had never heard it before. In due time it was the dress-rehearsals. And I was ready. Leave it to Projapoti Bandhopadhyay to actually get dressed up for a dress-rehearsal. And then it happened.

 

Mrs. Sen announced that Projapoti Bandhopadhyay would also be reciting Tagore’s Beerpurush. Now, I'd never actually been hit by a ton of bricks but -How could she do this? She must have known. But wait a minute. What was it Mrs. Sen had said? This wasn't about competition. It wasn't about who's better, or who's worse. It was about poetry. And anyway, maybe Projapoti would screw up. Maybe he'd screw up royally. Well with such prayers droning in my 13 year mind Projapoti started. Maybe the phone would ring. Maybe a fire-alarm would go off somewhere. Maybe someone would drop a ten-megaton bomb on the roof. China had 'em now, didn't they? OK - sure, it sounds perfect now. But how long could he keep this up? But he was not making mistakes. God, you know I don't ask for much. OK, God, OK. I'll never swear. I'll give my allowance to the needy... And I won't use that snotty tone of voice with my mother, OK? OK? Just one..one...lousy...mistake. This was a disaster. Projapoti had recited his piece - my piece...perfectly. And then she called me on to deliver my piece. Now?! Back-to-back? What was she trying to do to me? Suddenly...as I started to recite, I thought...maybe I could do it. Maybe I could still recite it, better than him. After all, I had a feel for poetry, right? If I could just get through it, without making a mistake. Or, even say...I made one little mistake. But then it happened. I started to feel their eyes...boring into me. It was like a chain-reaction. I couldn't stop it. It just got worse. And worse! It was the poetry recitation from hell. Then it was over. Mrs. Sen walked upto me and said nonchalantly, “OK, so you choked. But it's no big deal. You'll do better tomorrow night”.

 

There was no tomorrow night. That night I threatened my parents that I’d leave home, join the hippies or whoever would take me if they force me to recite. I never did forget that night. I remember the light glowing from the B Block Club house, the place of recitals. And I remember the darkness falling as I sat out there on the street looking in. And now more than twenty years later... I still remember every word of the poem that wandered out into the still night air. The only thing is... can't remember how to recite it anymore.