বুঝিনা ডান বাম

মানিনা রহিম রাম

যত্তোসব বুড়ো ভাম

এবার কিছু কাম (কাজ) করে দেখা।

 

নেতাদের জুয়োচুরী

দেশজুড়ে মহামারী

কথা দিয়ে ফুলঝুড়ি

তবু কৃষকের হাঁড়ি আজও ফাঁকা।

 

পুঁজিবাদী লালসায়

সব্ দেখি ভেসে যায়

মারোয়াড়ী মজা পায়

দেখি স্বাধীনতা অসহায় একা।

 

তবু ছাড়বনা ডান বাম

ভুলবনা রহিম রাম

মানুষের কিবা দাম

বৃথাই ঘাস ফুল পদ্ম আঁকা।

 

Memories of a Mulligatawny Broth (From Life in short and other stories)

In my limited experience the best form of art and revolution has always had its inception in people – the final expression of the celestial art form. For it’s the man, who symbolizes existence, expression and experience at its best. It’s just the degree of passion that varies. Passion is not always saving a damsel in distress, cutlass in hand from a megalomaniac – but it does have more subtler and transcendental connote. My narrative aims at indicating one such extremely sublime and ephemeral passion that I had had the good fortune to experience. Like all passionate endeavours it was also garnished with raised eye brows from moralistic crusaders. A story which would never have had a happy ending except for my persecution. That is the irony of this story where I got persecuted in a sense for a passion that also brought about fulfillment.
I have often described myself as a professional gypsy. For in my few years of work experience I have had the good fortune to visit and stay in a number of places – each rendering me generously some remarkable experiences that have enriched me as a person. Sometimes during the earlier years of the 21st century I was positioned at the Arab American Oil Companies in a place called Al Khobar at the Eastern Provinces of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. These oil wells were the veins and arteries which produced around 10 Billion gallons of oil daily to the kingdom, thereby transforming this desert land of Beddoos (Tribal Arab Bedouins) into one of the richest countries in the world. It was sheer money and the wonderlust that had drawn me to this dry parched landscape from my lush green surroundings (not anymore) of Bengal.
The Company was owned by H.E. King Abdullah and was run efficiently by the Americans who alongside a generous portion of the production enjoyed colossal compensations and privileges. The King had actually granted them permission to build their own town with all modern amenities that you can find in any city in the US. Alongside this, the Americans and the European populations were also given the permission to design their own sanctuary sans the Saudi religious restrictions that spread terror to all expats across the country.
We had a good many number of Indians there too who worked across all levels up to the rank of middle managers. But almost all of the senior positions were held by the Western populace. There existed at KSA an unseen demarcation between the Asians, Arabs and the Westerners. However the money was good, cost of living was low and no one generally complained. The Indian commune was divided further regionally (Bengali, Keralite, Maharashtrian etc.) which were further dissected according to your designation and pay package. All these were practically frivolous to me for I was a bachelor – almost an outcast in a Saudi community. A Syrian friend had once wonderfully explained to me that “Bachelors and dogs have the same status at KSA”.
I was working as a Junior Officer earning about SAR 2500 a month, which meant that I could save around INR 15,000 monthly – an arrangement I was completely satisfied with. I lived alone in a Room cum kitchen cum toilet near the H.Q. The numbers of Bengalees who worked at KSA were few and there were only 3 in our office. They generally kept to themselves and their work and rarely expressed an overwhelming intention of indulging in social interactions outside office hours. One of them Mr. Sujit Chatterjee (Sujitda to all) being a British by Nationality held the position of a very senior manager. He was treated like a demigod by the other Bengalese and held lustrous positions as Secretary of Bangiyo Porishod, President of Puja Committee etc. What brought me to his line of vision was that I had earned repute at the Bachelor’s quarters as a guitar player and an entertainer of sorts. This credibility earned me an invitation at the Chatterjee residence one evening for dinner. The biggest lure being home cooked Bengalee food and a glass of beer – something that was illegal in KSA but was readily available at the Western compounds. Almost a year without a decent drink made me accept his invitations without much ado.
I met Romadi (Paroma Chatterjee) there for the first time. She was a simple Bengalee housewife in her mid or late thirties who preferred to be in the kitchen mostly and only occasionally came out to have a bit of polite conversation and replenish the plate of pakoras. She wore plain everyday wear and didn’t exhibit any extra adornment that having a guest for dinner normally evokes. It was only towards the end of dinner that I got to know that she had once worked as a journalist in India before marriage and loved Simon and Garfunkel which probably made an impression about her in my mind. For even I thrived on S&G duo as well.
Well Sujitda was brilliant and his scholastic ability and knowledge on a varied range of subjects had me enthralled throughout the evening. Amongst many others, he made fabulous wine (4 Glasses can fling a hooch drinker like me to the floor). After that I have visited the Chatterjee house several times and every time with similar jovial experiences. Sometimes I had carried my guitar and sang songs with Romadi softly indicating her requests occasionally. She would be mindful about the how I liked my coffee. The fact that I liked Masur Dal and many such small things. In a land where you are devoid of any care and attention especially from the opposite sex, I gloated on her compassion like any true blue Bangali who have thrived on “Mayer ador and Didir Sneho” (Mother and sister’s care) till late in life.
Sujitda on the other hand enjoyed having a well read auxiliary in me. Soon I was to become a part of almost all Chatterjee social events wherein I met some Bengali big wigs at Khobar. My choral qualities and guitar playing though not excellent earned me some friends in the local circle. They were rich and powerful people who vacationed at Greece and had multitude of property in and around India and discussed the dollar value with gravity. For most part of the evenings they were hardly mindful of my existence. Mostly the conversation circled round money, stocks, cost of land in Bangalore, It was only when the “pegometer” (counter of pegs) hit 6-7 I used to be summoned. “Deepu where are you hiding?” “Get that guitar man!” and similar instructions were bellowed out. Till this time I preferred helping Romadi with whatever I could in the kitchen and sometimes entertaining the womenfolk with boring anecdotes about my bosses. The women were mostly appendages of their husbands without much of a mind of their own and happily mausoleumed in their world of jewelry and designer wears. I was also responsible for the entertainment of the kids, which I thoroughly enjoyed. These were my contributions to the Chatterjee household for their generosity and I did it with onus.
Over the few months I had formed a natural and wonderful relation with Romadi. I was amazed at her discretion on books, cinema and politics. We would spend hours talking over the phone on the same. She used to call me “Deepsy”. I loved it when she used to call me by that name. When you really feel close to someone, the way they say your name is different. I knew that my name and my being were safe with her – eternally. Slowly I found that she was so different from all the other women (Indian women) at Khobar. She had a mind of her own which was beautiful and brilliant. Once I had complained that the men folk here don’t interest me as they always talk about money, property and power and I feel so insignificant and weak in front of them. She had warmly told me with a wonderful smile “Whoever had told you Deepsy that the often movie-fostered notions that a man is only a man if only he can carry Vivien Leigh or likes up a winding staircase. For me the essential manliness which is always something internal, and consists of gentleness, consideration, and other qualities of that sort, and not just of power and money” She laughed like a teen ager and added ” The men of here have difficulties even associating with women, despite their braggadocio. Clearly, women were seen as breed sows and trophies, and were associated with the same triumph as is in the capitalist world. Deepsy, promise me you would never become like them.” I happily pledged that I would remain the leftist tramp that I am. I was sold out at the thought that the most wonderful woman in Khobar thinks I have something that the heavy weight honchos here don’t have.
You can talk with someone for years, everyday, and still, it won't mean as much as what you can have when you sit in front of someone, not even saying a word, yet you feel that person with your heart, you feel like you have known the person for forever.... connections I felt were made with the heart, not the tongue. Sometimes we would just sit quietly next to the compound pool watching her son swim. I’m sure she also felt the same contentment that gushed through me.
I used to have my meals at a nearby South Indian mess which I abhorred and of which I had often complained to Romadi. She had offered me to have at least one of my meals at her place which I refused. As it is I’m being nurtured generously in her kindness. So she had shared with me a recipe of Masur Dal (Mulligatawny Broth) that was easy to make and was tasty as well. One evening in an effort to cook this I had a minor kitchen accident. No casualties just that my finger was cut in two while chopping carrots. Hearing this Romadi came instantly (something that was remarkable as women were not allowed to travel alone in KSA). She was livid and just took over the pantry and housekeeping of my bachelor’s quarters with the same ease with which Nadir Shah had taken over Delhi – but more generously. Again I was nursed fed and looked after. Except for the embarrassment of housekeeping failure, I soaked in her company.
My wound healed but another part of my being was slowly getting impaired. I craved for her association. But at the same time I realized its consequences. A stupid move on my part would not only banish me from the Chatterjee household, but would prove perilous to her reputation. As already she had once mentioned in humor of the gossip that was going on the Khobar grapevines about her partiality towards me. And I could never let that happen.
Romadi never discussed her marriage to me. But somewhere I could see a crevasse in her relation with Sujitda, but she covered it almost always very gracefully. But I did complain to her about her carelessness about her looks and clothes and implored her to wear something nice someday, something glamorous. She always laughed and said “Why do you want me to dress up like a poodle? You only said this makes me different from the other women?” I tried to argue with her with all my absurd logics but ultimately had to give in.
Then it happened one evening that Romadi and Sujitda were invited at a nearby compound for dinner, which Sujitda couldn’t attend because of business travel outside Khobar. So I was given the responsibility of escorting her to the dinner. The hosts were perfectly happy at this arrangement since they would have the “guitar man” as a bonus. This was my opportunity and I black mailed her to wear something I would chose else I wouldn’t escort her. After mild arguments she said “I’d think about it”. Well this was my half chance to knighthood.
That afternoon I went to the Dolce & Gabanna store that normally I won’t even have the courage to look from outside. But I was seeing the moon as a pizza pie. Each part of my body was singing out mild Italian love songs. There was no stopping me today. I bought a black evening wear for which I had to pay with my arm and legs and eyes but it didn’t matter. She would wear it. Proudly I romped up to her door and handed over the packet to her and in a tone often heard from the likes of Rock Hudson I announced “Beautiful lady, this is your wear for the evening.” Needless to say she was murderous with rage at my act. However I left in one piece – happily!
That evening when she opened the door I saw the most beautiful woman standing in front of me in that black dress. I was speechless. Seeing my bewilderment, she stuck her tongue out and snapped “Shall we go? Or you prefer to just stare at me like this.” She had a baby pearl string around her neck and one around her wrist. Her hair open and flowing. Even with this sparse décor she could stun the desert moon. The Khobar sky sparkled with all its stars as if to garden her amidst them. And I was on cloud nine. I floated. The fact that she was wearing something I had gotten her was beyond any of my aspirations. I could have happily died there.
The dinner was regular and so was my role there as an entertainer. But that evening I sang more in tune than I had ever sang before. As I came out for a smoke in the garden I felt someone come from behind and lightly hold my hand. Without looking I knew it was her. “Come let us take a walk” she said. I followed her. “You know Deepsy” she continued, “The paradox of our time in history is that we have taller buildings but shorter ideals, wider Freeways, but narrower perspectives. We spend more, but have less, we buy more, but enjoy less. We have bigger houses and smaller families, more conveniences, but less time. We have more degrees but less sense, more knowledge, but less judgment, more experts, yet more problems, more medicine, but less wellness. We drink too much, smoke too much, spend too recklessly, laugh too little, drive too fast, get too angry, stay up too late, get up too tired, read too little, watch TV too much, and pray too seldom. We have multiplied our possessions, but reduced our values. We talk too much, love too seldom, and hate too often.” I was not sure what she was getting at but I listened. She went on, “We've learned how to make a living Deepsy, but not a life. We've added years to life not life to years. We've been all the way to the moon and back, but we have trouble crossing the street to meet a new neighbor. We have conquered outer space but inside we are empty.”
I was feeling uncomfortable for I was not sure why she was telling me all that. I asked her “Romadi why are you saying all this tonight?” She smiled and said, “Deepsy when you would grow up and become mature and have 5 white hairs here” She traced her delicate fingers on the side of my head. “You would realize that no matter what happens, or how bad things seem today, life does go on, and it will be better tomorrow. I've learned that you can tell a lot about a person by the way he/she handles these three things: a rainy day, lost luggage, and cooking Mulligatawny Broth.”
“I am leaving for India tomorrow for Sujitda has decided to go back to New Castle” She said with a smile on her face.
“What do you mean?” My whole world was crashing down and on the day which till a while back seemed to be the happiest day for me at Khobar.
“I mean Sujitda has asked for a divorce. He is marrying someone else there. Nowadays Suorani and Duorani don’t stay happily ever after” She chuckled.
I was having difficulty breathing. I wanted to do something. Save her marriage. Plead, beg even punch Sujitda on the nose and implore him not to make this mistake. But all I could manage was two columns of tears that rolled out of my eyes.
She came close to me. So close that I could smell her perfume. Hear her breath that fell warm and heavy on my face. She took my face in her hands and gently wiped my tears with her kerchief. Then she looked intently at me for a while before she placed her lips on mine.
She stayed like that for some time holding me. It seemed time had engulfed us in a celestial wrap. A very bright luminescent light was rupturing inside my head. Standing under that starlit night at the Al Hamra compound while the genteel October breeze soothed more than the parched soil, Romadi smiled at me. She had a look that was enveloped in a sort of maternal affection. She said “I kissed you for you are a real man. Deepsy always remember that manliness is not all swagger and mountain climbing, power freaking. It's also tenderness. Real men cry. Like you did right now. Years from now when you talk about this - and you will I know – please treat me kindly”. After that she never spoke a word. A deep sense of vacuum was slowly engulfing me. Something told me I’d never see her again.
She left Khobar that week and I in 3 months with another job to Riyadh. It was the worst three months of my life It pained to let go and it seemed that the harder your entire being tries to hold on to something or someone the more it wants to get away. I felt like some kind of criminal for having felt, for having wanted. For having wanted to be wanted.
I had never believed in the idea of soul mates, or love at first sight. But that night I believed that a very few times in your life, if you were lucky, you might meet someone who was exactly right for you. Not because she was perfect, or because you were, but because your combined flaws were arranged in a way that allowed two separate beings to hinge together. Probably that’s why Elliot had said:
“You will go on, and when you have prevailed
You can say: at this point many a one has failed.
But what have I, but what have I, my friend,
To give you, what can you receive from me?
Only the friendship and the sympathy
Of one about to reach her journey's end.
I shall sit here, serving tea to friends...”

Short Story # 4 (Mrs. Teenaz Bharoucha's Trumpet)

It was 2 in the morning when my sleep was abruptly and rudely strained by the annoying sound of an off tune brass instrument.  It was a really long day especially since the Colgate campaign was due next week. All of us at the agency were doing graveyard shifts. The Creative Director Ms. Zeena Abraham was literally driving a slave ship. No doubt it was a prestigious brand plus the CD was sensing the curtained lure of winning her 9th Best Media Campaign award – and a fat bonus. “It’s a team work guys” she had always said however the team thing was always restricted till the work part. In other words our share of success was limited to a group picture donning the Colgate smile post the award ceremony, and not a single paisa ever came to us. I had just dozed off when I was rudely awakened by this offensive noise coming out from the next room. It was just 3 months that I was staying in Pune as a paying guest of Mrs. Screewalla, and I was really not accustomed to its culture. For where I came from in Calcutta, this was an intolerable act. I remember once the Boses were throwing a cocktail party in the neighborhood and the sound of inebriated laughter and revelry had echoed beyond the Bose residence after 11 PM, Fultuda the cultural gatekeeper of the “para” along with some others had almost gone into a fist fight with Mr. Bose and his guests. Needless to say this was not repeated. But where I was staying was a Parsi neighborhood of Pune, things were different. Cultural surprises sprang up almost at every corner for a Bengali Middle Class Bhodrolok.

In local terms these were called Rooming Houses. A Parsi family had rented out their entire bungalow with its 8 to 9 rooms had been to people who had come from outside Pune for academic or professional reasons. It was a birdcage of a room with a window. The curtains were a remnant of the British period, so were the furniture that comprised of a Chair, a Table, a Bed and a lockless wooden cupboard. There was a common bathroom. The rent was Rs. 400 a month and additional Rs. 150 if you eat breakfast and Dinner.  This was an ideal set up for me who had joined Bates India as a Trainee Copy Writer with a meagre salary of Rs. 2000. Mrs. Screewalla had rented out 6 of the 8 rooms to different people with strict instructions that she would not tolerate amongst many things, cooking in the rooms, girlfriends / boyfriends after 8 P.M, Cigarettes and drugs before renting it out. All tenants had quietly complied with this. Although sometimes these rules were irritating, but the place was quite near to the offices and universities on Senapati Bapat Road, so we bore with it.

I had just shifted here a month back and I barely knew the other inmates. I briefly knew their names like Srinivasan was from Madras who was a Commerce Final Year Student at Symbiosis who spoke very little English or Hindi save Good Morning and Good Night. Deepen Suri was a management student from Chandigarh who always yelled “Ki Haal Hain Bangali babu” every time we met and went into his room. That was the extent of our conversations. The room on the other side of the parlour was that of Neena Sapra a journalist from Delhi with the Times of India, she smoked Classics and drove a scooty. She looked arrogant and affluent and had an aura of carelessness about her. Once we had spoken briefly about the state of tribals at Purulia and learnt that she had spent some time there for some welfare work during her JNU days.  The room facing the courtyard was of Mr. Ramesh Dandekar an Insurance agent from Kolhapur, who was hardly around and I saw him maybe on 2-3 occasions at the breakfast table, and who had tried selling me a retirement Policy. The sweetest was Sonam Kyndiah. She was 23-24 a BPO employee from Shillong extremely pretty and always with a smile on her face. Her work hours were weird and most of the time she had really loud music on her Walkman plugged into her ears. So the chances of interaction were minimal. She was quite strange and we had often heard sounds of weeping coming from her rooms. But nobody intruded on anyone’s privacy. Then there was Mrs. Tenaz Bharucha.

Mrs. Bharucha was an old Parsi lady. She was easily over 80. She was a frail little thing with a creased face that bore the marks of yesteryears. In spite of her age she was quite conscious about her make up. She always wore bright red lipstick and nail polish, something you rarely see amidst the Didima Thakuma (Grandmothers) at Calcutta.  When I had joined this facility, I was warned about her on the very first night by Deepen Suri. “Stay as far away from these old ladies” he had advised. “They are forsaken by their own families and need someone to run errands for. They have no one to talk to and per chance if you lend them a patient ear and fall for their Grand Motherly charm, she would be haunting you every day and not only that you might even end up footing her medical and other bills as well”. Well I had neither the time nor the inclination for this as I was doing my Masters and spent my after work to study for my finals. Mrs. Bharucha did try to strike up a conversation with me several times, but I remembered Deepen Suri’s advice and had courteously dodged her by saying “I have to finish some assignments for tomorrow or I am studying for my exam etc”. She had always laughed cheerfully and said “That’s no problem Dikra, we are the passengers of the same ship, and we’d surely meet some other time.” “Do something, when you are relatively free come over to my room and we’d talk over some cookies.”  I was interested in neither.

Now in the middle of the night I found myself laboriously awake due to the hideous sound coming from the next room. I felt very annoyed and helpless at my predicament. Tomorrow I had to give a lengthy presentation to the clients and I sorely needed my sleep to look and feel fresh for that. What on earth can be happening? I stepped out of my bed and into the dark corridor to trace the source of this beastly clamor. I saw even Deepen Suri was out. I could clearly see the irritation on his face as well. I asked him “what’s this din?’

Deepen angrily replied “trumpet”.

I said “What trumpet? Who’s trumpet?”

Till then the refinement of Jazz had not hit me. My knowledge of wind instruments was limited to Kishan Kanhiya’s Bansoori (flute) and the occasional saxophone on Hindi songs.

“Bangali Babu it is a brass instrument played by Jazz musicians in the west. It needs major strength in the Chaati (Lungs). Haven’t you heard about Louis Armstrong or Miles Davis?”

I had to admit to him, much against my liking that I had not. “But who is playing it?”

“Mrs. Bharucha dada. What a nuisance she is. Look I am quite hot headed so would you kindly go and tell her that it is past mid night and she has absolutely no right disturbing us like this.”

I walked towards Mrs. Bharucha’s room. To my surprise the door was wide open. The old lady was sitting on her bed with this contraption. Deepen said this thing needs a lot of strength in the wind pipe, I wondered where she got that strength from.

Seeing me she walked up to me with a beaming smile, “Banerjee! Welcome dikra.” She used to call me by that name as it made me sound like a Parsi. Banerjee-Pestonjee all Jee’s are Parsis.

I couldn’t be rude from start so I asked her how she was.

“I am good. Really good. I bought this wonderful instrument from a garage sale. See it is almost new. Took me just Rs. 30. Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Yes, it is beautiful Mrs. Bharucha.’

‘I had always wanted to learn how to play the trumpet. Homi used to love this instrument. He would sit for hours and listen to it. Harry James, Dizzy Gillespie, Tommy Dorsey, Oh! Those wonderful musicians.’ I could hear a sigh come out of her.

‘I heard that playing the trumpet is very difficult it requires a lot of pressure on the wind pipe.’ I asked.

‘That it does Dikra; the toughest part is first few blows filling up the pipe. Once that is done its easy. Why don’t you sit down darling?’

‘I would come back another day. I have a very difficult presentation tomorrow Mrs. Bharucha. I need to sleep.’

‘Off Course, off course Dikra. Is my trumpet playing disturbing you?’ She asked with genuine concern.

‘A bit.’ I had to be honest here.

‘Sorry darling. Extremely Sorry. I would not play anymore. You go and sleep gently Dikra.’

As I was about to go out she called out ‘just a minute son. I would make you some hot cocoa. There is nothing like hot cocoa to put you to sleep’.

I tried to refuse but she was already boiling water and milk in her small electric heater. ‘Don’t say no, son. Listen to this old woman. You would sleep like a log. After Homi passed away I could not sleep. We had been together for 60 years you know. So I would stay up all night tossing and turning. Then I invented this wonderful sedative, thanks to Mrs. Bottliwalla. Now I sleep like a child.’

The cocoa was ready. I had to drink it. While I was drinking it she was telling me about her children. She had four of them settled in various different places. She hadn’t met any of them in the last 10 years. But they used to send her an occasional letter or a card sometimes. They sent her pictures of their families and children which were displayed all over her room.

‘Banerjee would like to see pictures of my grandchildren?’ She quipped.

‘Some other time Mrs. Bharucha.’ It was already late.

‘Ok Dikra. You go and sleep now. The cocoa would make you sleep like a baby.’

I don’t know if it was the cocoa or something else, that night I couldn’t get a wink of sleep. In the morning I met her again near the bathroom. Seeing me she joyfully exclaimed ‘Slept well, didn’t you?’ I covered my soreness with a smile and replied ‘Yeah great’.

‘I told you, didn’t I?’ she expressed animatedly.

After that night there used to be several incidents from Mrs. Bharucha that were disconcerting for all at the lodge. However we overlooked it considering her age and her over all pleasant demeanors. I learnt that she was trying to learn how to play the trumpet through correspondence. I had heard about correspondence courses in Bible but how one can learn to play a musical instrument through correspondence was beyond my understanding.

Her trumpet used to keep us awake quite frequently. One day Deepen went to her room in a fit of rage and yelled at her. ‘Look madam, it is all good that you are learning how to play the trumpet. But I fail to realize why you have to choose this unearthly hour for your lessons. Why don’t you practice during the day when no one is there?’

‘I busy during the day.’ She had snapped.

‘You have no work Mrs. Bharucha. All you do during the day is just going around town.’ Deepen fumed.

‘That my son is my work.’ She retorted gently.

‘Fantastic. At least when you play that thing at night you can keep your doors locked?’

‘But one has to play the trumpet in an open space. You can see the instructions if you don’t believe me.’

‘I would complain about you to Mrs. Screwalla.’ Deepen says as a final threat.

‘Go ahead and do it. I have a lease agreement with her. Nowhere does it say that I can’t play trumpet in the house’.

‘You are disgusting’ protested Deepen.

‘Tch Tch you shouldn’t talk like that Dikra. Ok now go I won’t play anymore.’

The noise receded for a few days and resumed again. We fretted and fumed inside. But no one said a thing to her because of ever smiling self. Every time you happened to cross her path she would always talk a lot.

‘My granddaughter Annie has had her first teeth. Feroze has sent her picture. Come and see Banerjee how pretty she looks. Almost like an angel, don’t you think? I think there is no other baby in world as beautiful as her. I am going to visit her this December. I have asked Feroze to send me tickets. He has said he would send them. I can’t go to Bangalore without tickets Banerjee, right?’

But Decembers would melt into March and no tickets ever came from Feroze or any of her other children. She was one of the millions of neglected veterans in the country, whose existence didn’t mean much to anybody. They lived on the little pension they had which could barely meet up with the rents and medication. On top of that Mrs. Bharucha had this bad habit of having parties. She would buy some cheap local wine from Parsi ladies and throw a party. We would find small notes cello taped to our doors that read;

Dear Friend,

Today is a very significant day in my life. On this day I had met my husband Homi for the first time. We met at the Annual Parsi Ball and had dinner together and danced. Before the evening was over Homi had said that he loved me. To remember this special day I am inviting a few very close friends. You are cordially invited.

Tenaz.

I didn’t feel like going to her parties. But you had no option as she would knock on your door after every 10 minutes and say ‘Come on Dikra, you are late. Everyone else has come and we are only waiting for you’. When I would go there I would see that I was the only one in that room. Nobody had turned up and she had probably said the same thing to all.

The room would be lit with candles. There would be chips and peanuts on the table along with a bottle of handmade local wine and some glasses. Mrs. Bharucha in a black evening wear would flutter all over the room looking exceptionally happy and satisfied. Sometimes Sonam or Neena would join us. I had never seen Mr. or Mrs. Screewalla at any of these parties. Mrs. Bharucha didn’t have any friends outside, so it was always us. Like the focal point of the group she would walk up to everyone with her glass of wine and say, ‘Life is beautiful isn’t it?’

We would somehow reply, ‘Sure’.

‘This was a great party, wasn’t it?’

‘Fantastic’. We would echo

‘I feel like I am 17 again you know.’ She would chirp.

But her attempts to go back to her youth started getting more and more frequent and tedious for all of us. We stopped attending her parties. She would knock at my door and with a doleful look say, ‘Today is a very special day in my life, Homi had proposed marriage to me 60 years back……..’ her voice trailed away and I would not even listen.

‘Please Mrs. Bharucha today I cannot make it. I have some really important office work to finish.’ I pleaded.

‘Just for a while Dikra’ She implored.

‘Impossible, Mrs. Bharucha.’ I would stand my ground.

She would walk away slowly and dejectedly to her room and probably party all alone. Sometimes the horrifying trumpet would bellow out and one of us had to run to her room to ask her to stop playing. We would feel angry and miserable about her.

Well close to autumn that year our miseries came to an abrupt end. We learnt that Mrs. Bharucha had sold off her trumpet for lack of funds. We were delighted. Shortly after that I received an offer from Response an agency in Calcutta and I gleefully came back home. Before I left I had gone to see her. She was not well and was lying on her bed. Seeing me her face lit up and she asked me if I had got her a card. She said she was customary to bring cards when you come to meet someone unwell.

‘I am collecting all the cards Banerjee. See Neena has given me this wonderful card. This one is from Srinivasan. Mr. Dandekar gave me this one. See what Deepen has given me these beautiful flowers along with a card - the poor darling. He doesn’t have much for himself and he went out and spent this money. I am very upset with him.’ Her voice was filled with happiness and genuine concern for Deepen.

‘Dikra do remember me and invite me to your wedding’ she had said and kissed my hand before I parted. I felt heavy but the excitement of getting back to Calcutta was more overwhelming.

I came back to Calcutta and joined my new job. Slowly memories of Pune were fading out. In the meantime I met Lali who worked in the same agency with me in client servicing and after 6 months of courtship we decided to tie the knot. A month before the wedding my father handed me a bunch of cards to give out to the people I would like to invite. As I sat down one night to prepare the list I remembered Mrs. Bharucha and that she wanted to come to my wedding. I had Mrs. Screwalla’s address and I mailed her the card for Mrs. Bharucha alongside a promise to buy her a return ticket to Calcutta if she agreed to come.

On the day of my wedding I received an inland letter from Mrs. Screwalla that read:

Dear Mr. Banerjee,

I am so happy to hear about your wedding. On behalf of all of us and Mrs. Bharucha we would like to wish you a happy and pleasant marital life. It is with deep regret that I have to inform you that on the 6th of December, that is 3 months after you had left Mrs. Bharucha left us for her heavenly abode, she was suffering from tuberculosis and succumbed to age, lack of attention and medication. We had tried contacting her children and only her younger son who stays in Bombay came over to complete her last rites. On the last day at her death bed she had fondly remembered each one of you and had asked me to personally apologies to all of you about her trumpet playing. She had asked me to tell you in case you ever came or wrote that she had absolutely no interest in that instrument or any other musical instrument for that matter. Her only reason to dole out that atrocious sound every night was so that one of you would come to her room to ask her to stop playing. For according to her nobody ever went to her room till she played it. She used to love your company and said that was her only way to escape her loneliness.

She has asked me to convey her gratitude to all of you for the company and love that she had got from and you and sent you her blessings.

Regards

Sara Screewalla.

As I finished reading the letter the memories of an old Parsi lady with constant smile on her lips, perched on my moist eyes. I could almost hear the annoying noise of her trumpet from far off till it slowly melted into Bismillah’s Kedar that had started playing – a ritual in Bengali marriages.

The Red Motor Boat (From Life in Short and other Stories)

Your past is always your past. Even if you forget it, it remembers you. I can say that with conviction today as I trek across my life. The past catches up on you in occasional flashes and at times – when least expected. The only thing more painful than being an active forgetter is to be an inert rememberer. This inertness is not self implicated but happens subconsciously as layers of time sediment itself on your life. Then suddenly like finding an old coin on the beach you stumble upon a precious bit of memory. Good times are never forgotten. It is stored always in a hidden corner to expose itself at the right time automatically. No one can erase it but it stays forgotten for some time till the true time comes.

A part of my daily chore is getting my 7 year old son ready for school. It’s the rush hour and we both try to match the supersonic speed with which clock runs during this part of the day. He stays submerged in sleep while I tediously layer him with his uniforms, his tie, his lunch pack etc. Today as I was at it my son, who doesn’t speak much during the early sleep intervened hours of the day dejectedly mentioned “Baba Arya is going away to Muscat.” Saying this he silently went on to finish his breakfast head drooping to his shoulders.

It was a while later as I stood under the shower that this conversation echoed in my ears “Baba Arya is going away to Muscat.” It was then that I could feel the pang of separation that a 7 year old could not express in as many words. This was familiar. Too familiar with something that happened to me long ago. Almost forgotten till now. I knew Arya, a shy, quiet and spectacled kid. Always the first one to be disqualified at the group games that happens at birthday parties. No one wants to share the table with him (a fact that I had learned from my son). No one wants to take him in their group (another shared fact). But for some reason my son always made it a point to write his name (albeit not the first name) in his list of invitees for his Birthday and although he would be disappointed at Arya’s slowness, something told me he liked him. An emotion that was re-confirmed by his sad announcement of Arya’s impending departure to Muscat.

As I drove to work this morning I remembered another boy just like Arya, I had met when I was my son’s age. He lived in a city that no longer exists, in a house that no longer exists, on the edge of a street that no longer exists. He lived in a time where everything was discovered, and everything was possible. A stick could be a sword; a pebble could be a diamond, a tree, a castle. His name was Joydeep Mukherjee. He was fat, he was stupid, he was dirty and he was a liability to any side in sports. So no one was keen on having him in his team or be friends with him. He sat consumed in one of the last benches of Class 3D - alone. His clothes were untidy, hair unkempt and nails dirty. He often forgot to do his homework and failed to answer the simplest of questions in the class. For which he bitterly faced the scorn and ridicule of the students and the teachers alike. He answered all that indignity with his silence and quirky expressionless eyes that stared into a dimension that probably only he could see.

Anybody who has survived his childhood has enough information about life to last him the rest of his days. The first lesson you learn is that anywhere in the world it is always a crime to be different. A crime that you have not committed, but fate had cruelly imposed it on you. All you are left to do is but submit to its tyranny. Its extent can only be judged by the unfortunate ones who have been subjected to it. Even in grade 3 its demonic characteristic was in full bloom. I could never portray the inhumanity as thankfully I was a part of the “regular kids” thereby I was spared. As kids we were so engrossed in building our own social order that we relentlessly and cruelly banished anyone who lacked conformity – conformity that the majority dictated. The cruelest of all humiliations those days was – name calling. Based on your physical, academic or other inadequacies you would given a name that would provide humor to others and death to you. Joydeep was called “aloo bhatey” (Mashed Potato) for his de-shaped body and inert demeanor. 30 kids yelled the same at him mercilessly at every possible chance from the 1st bell till the last. Sometimes the name calling graduated to hair pulling and slapping. But Joydeep rarely protested except a few drops of tears occasionally.

Although I resented to this torture but I didn’t have the nerve to go against the community. But deep inside I used to hurt badly and craved to reach out to him. Sometimes I used to tell my mother about him who affectionately told me “Deepu don’t ever hurt anyone for God punishers those who hurt others”. But surprisingly the Anirbans, Satyos and others who made Joydeep’s life a living hell were never subjected to any celestial reprimands. But my inefficiency to help him used to cause deep guilt in me. I was afraid. Fear isn't so difficult to understand. After all, weren't we all frightened as children? Nothing has changed since Little Red Riding Hood faced the big bad wolf. What frightens us today is exactly the same sort of thing that frightened us yesterday. It's just a different wolf in a different time. This fright complex is rooted in every individual right from childhood. So to make up for this sometimes I would give him a bit of candy, a Phantom Cigarette, a Pepsi Stick (Frozen Popsicle).

I remember the first day I had shared my lunch with him. Lunch time was a time when we flaunted our mother’s culinary credibility. So naturally everyone whose mom was a good cook was regarded with a deep sense of esteem for a share of the goodies. My mother was a good cook. So during lunch the guys flocked around me like bees to honey. And my mom knowing this sometimes used to pack more than what was required. One such day she had made “Lucchi and Aloor Dam” (A rare Bengalee delicacy). Quite a bit was left after the class had feasted. So I called Joydeep. No one was keen to include him in their pot lucks as his Tiffin was always bread and jam without variation. Initially he was scared and apprehensive. But probably because I never had any direct role in his assaults he came nervously. I smiled and said “Try this”. Still nervous he took a small bit. I could see that he was thoroughly enjoying my mother’s savory. So I extended “Come on finish it off”. I could see that he was overjoyed. But he stared at me and I could see tears rolling down from his eyes. Maybe he couldn’t imagine that amidst 30 odd butchers in the class someone like me could treat him like a human. “Wipe your eyes you fool” I snapped at him. “Do you want everyone to see this and make both of us more miserable?” I added. He quietly wiped of his tears with his dirty hands leaving a mark on his face. A mark also remained in my mind as well, that I didn’t understand then. But I can still see his tear strewn face laced with gratitude and a smile.

“Why don’t you ask your mother to make something nice for you Joy?” I asked him in mild admonishment. He looked at me with his same idiotic look and said “I don’t have a mother”. “Don’t have a mother”. How can someone not have a mother?” My 8 year old brain could not comprehend this. “My mother has gone to heaven” he said submissively. In a child's eyes, a mother is a goddess. She can be glorious or terrible, benevolent or filled with wrath, but she commands love either way. I was convinced that this is the greatest power in the universe and a birth right to every child. That night I couldn’t sleep properly. I kept on thinking of everything that my mother did for me. Rather of all the things that I couldn’t do without her presence and tried imagining life for Joydeep without it. Who does he snuggle up to when he is scared at night? Who dresses him up for school? Who buys him new dress for Pujas? Who stays up nights when he is sick? And a million zillion such other situations that requires only one person – ta mother.

In the morning I informed perplexedly to mother that “You know Joydeep, “Aloo Bhatey” ma, he doesn’t have a mother”. For some reason I saw her eyes getting moist and said “Deepu be very nice to him always. Remember he is very special. If you are nice to him his mother would bless you from heaven”. I didn’t know till late what she meant by that but since that day I was on a mission to ensure undying camaraderie to Joy. Those days all you needed to confirm friendship was a statement “Will you be my friend?” and a stretched hand. Joydeep readily became my friend. Slowly I learned more about him. He stayed with his father who was mostly out and an old house keeper. For some reason Joydeep was terrified of his father. He was estranged to things like love, affection, kindness and indulgence which were readily available to us. So little gestures on my part of these finer emotions used to overwhelm him. In the class I used to sneak a glance at him sometimes only to see him looking at me with deep look of contentment and happiness. His fat and round cheeks cherry red with glee.

His torment continued and I used to sometimes use my influence to spare him. For I did not have, the physical or mental built to keep off the brute strength of the on slaughters. But he didn’t look as distraught as before. Probably he had the satisfaction of having at least one friend who shares lunch with him. But he never sat next to me or hang around with me lest the others disown me but shyly smiled at me when we met alone at the Gym lockers or the wash room.

As kids the biggest celebration that we wait for annually was our birthdays. A day for many gifts. A day for good food. A day, when you are undisputedly the most important person in the world. It was my birthday and I invited the fellows from my class. Although I never supported their treatment of Joydeep, but they were my friends. I even invited Joydeep. Everyone came with books, toys, pencils and a major revelry was in progress when my father came and said that there is someone to meet me at the gates, who refuses to come up. It was Joydeep.

He had this big packet in his hand. It was a toy boat that actually floated in water on motor. This must have been really expensive. I remember seeing something like this at New Market once which my mom refused to buy for me because of the price tag. I felt really embarrassed but super happy. “Come on in” I said. “We are all inside and Mom has cooked Luchi and Mangsho”. But he was hesitant to come in. “Deepu every one is here, and they would not like me here” he said weakly. I ignored his pleas and almost dragged him inside. God knows where I mustered my strength from.  Seeing the gift everyone was surprised and slowly they all came and shook hands with him. That evening I could see him a different person. A look of deep satisfaction beamed in his face that years of social depravity had taken off from him. I was happy. Content now that my friend is finally accepted.

For some reason Joydeep didn’t come to school after that. Nobody knew why. He didn’t even appear for the term examinations. I was too young to worry. I was at an age when even the most remarkable changes in life failed to create much of an impression. But one day we overheard some teachers discussing Joydeep very animatedly. We could not make out most of it but all we could understand was that Joydeep’s father had brutally beaten him up for taking some money from his purse. He had suffered severe concussions and he is now with a distant aunt. The teacher’s were enraged about his father behavior and had sent him a show cause. To this his father had become antagonized and had taken him out of our school.

Throughout break that day we went on analyzing why would Joydeep need money? Everybody had different notions. Some said – to have “phuchka”, some said to buy Tintin and many such opinions reverberated without any conclusion. But once I reached home I saw the answer to all the debates perched on my table shinning and red – the motor boat. He took the money to buy me this motor boat.

I didn’t see Joydeep anymore. Life went on and I grew up but every time I saw that Motor Boat I was reminded of him. I had searched for him in social media. But apparently he had just vanished. On reflection we would all definitely have warm recollections of our lives as children.  But Joydeep surely would have had very little of it compared to all of us. All parents damage their children unknowingly. It cannot be helped. Youth, like pristine glass, absorbs the prints of its handlers. Some parents smudge, others crack, a few shatter childhoods completely into jagged little pieces, beyond repair. I pray that someday something or someone can collect all these pieces for him and build something that he desperately needed - belonging. I wanted to be there for him. But I don’t know how much I could have helped him. But in the brief time that I had known him it seemed that in me he had found that one person who had altered his isolated world a bit. He could tell me things that he had never shared with another soul and I absorbed everything he said and actually wanted to hear more. His dreams to be good in sports and studies that would never come true, the simple goals that he would never achieve and the many disappointments life had thrown generously at him. He was not embarrassed to cry in front of me for he knew that I would never hurt his feelings or make him feel like he was not good enough.

Memories of your childhood come back and are so clear and vivid it’s like being young again. Colours seem brighter and more brilliant. Simple things bring them to mind like a pale blue sky, gentle wind or even a storm cloud on the horizon - even an old red motor boat. It gives me strength in knowing that I have a true friend somewhere also feeling similar who will remain loyal to me till the end. This makes life seem completely different, exciting and worthwhile as a child. So I guess its true when they say that childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies

Mangli. A love affair (From Life in Short and other stories)

I have read lots of love stories and visited cities which seduce one to fall in love. I have tread in the company of enchanting women. I have seen the ever-changing emerging patterns of passion that is tender and violent. But one experience had stood out for me till this day amidst all other insignificant ones. It happened in my life not so very long ago.
I was born in a relatively well to do household of a banker father and a doctor mother. Being the only son and offspring it’s needless to say I was spoilt. A trait which still remains rampant in me and causes irks in people who come into close proximity of me. A reason why I always cocooned myself in a cordon of solitude. I grew up in Calcutta and was sent to a public school. My insolence went alongside me and although I was academically tolerable, my shenanigans had caused the teachers considerable amount of infuriation. So during one such incident (which may be another story) I was asked to vacate my candidature at the school.
This had greatly upset my parents and I was sent off to my aunt’s at remote place in Orissa with a purpose of reforming me in a more Spartan settings. It was a village called Rengalipaly, an off shoot from the Ghanteswari Temple Road in the Talamad district of Orissa. The nearest town of any caliber was Sambalpur which was over 40 Kms. It was secluded, alien and a god forsaken land. The only establishment of any repute was my aunt’s bungalow and the post office. The Mahanadi River flowed right in front of our bungalow. The landscape was molten green as the monsoons were just about done. My aunt’s husband was a nonchalant, non ambitious and a simple man who worked as an Engineer at the nearby Chiplima Power Project. They had a daughter who was only 2. The only neighbours around us were a few employees of the Power Plant, who kept us at bay as my Uncle was the boss. The other were the Kandha adivassis (Tribals). Needless to say I was not in a social ambience that I was used to.
It was the Wetlands and had varied array of flora and fauna. But surroundings were mainly forests. Although it had extreme summers but October to March were quite pleasant. The river was the main source of water for the animals and the migratory birds who flocked in. There was no TV and the voltage used to drop to abysmal levels during evenings and could barely support 2 bulbs and a fan. So I used to spend most of my evenings at the river bank gazing at gazelles, birds and bison with my binoculars. I was no ornithologist but I had nothing else to do. Nightfall was relatively early in such a surrounding and dinner was regimented at 8 PM.
In the mornings I took leisurely walks on the river bank after breakfast mainly as that was where I could smoke a clandestine cigarette or 2 without causing uproar with my aunt; for I was only 13. Nobody spoke to me during my sojourns and I liked that. I was anyways resenting my exile. Besides my city bred looks and clothes didn’t seem very welcoming to the tribal denizens. Another reason for me to populate the river was to see tribal women bathing. A welcome perk at that age. I used sit there for hours. Lost. Forlorn. Sad at my predicament. I was reclusive but polite. I used to return the questioning looks of the village folks with smile. It seems my presence there had created quite a sensation.
The tribal girls, I know used to look at me with awe as I strolled the length from Kapurthali to Cheraki Bazar pensive and poignant. There were many a time that I have turned and seen them staring and breaking into giggles at being found out. But probably the girls knew that their admiration would never be reciprocated by a Sahar Babu. But still the heart of a teen age girl irrespective of her demography rarely acknowledges the improbable. The girls used to dress their best on Friday, the market day to probably get some admiration from the opposite sex. But I guess their teen age heart was right. The impossible happened. I started looking at them with a bit of admiration when they were washing clothes or fishing. It was then when I met Mangli for the first time.
I don’t remember the details implicitly now as to how or when we spoke to each other for the first time. I just know that we were introduced by a Pakora vendor at the market. In a short time and through sparse interactions Mangli made me realize that my heart had really turned bitter and contemptuous of the paint and mascara covered coquettish society girls that I used bump into at my social circles at school or at home. I was besotted by her simplicity and resignation. I readily opted for the chickweed to the scented lily. But she was not the prettiest of all the tribal girls. Mangli couldn’t ever imagine that I would be paying her so much attention after all. But she was not ugly. But that was of no consequence to the two teen age hearts that met every evening at the river side.
I fail to assume the happiness and pride she felt being with me in spite of her repeating the same. But she was not proud of her conquest and was almost shy and reticent about our acquaintance. A quality that was extinct in the girls that I had known till then. But I used to be as pleasant with the others as well to save her from any envy or jealousy. It was a romance encrypted in silence and sensitivity. We rarely spoke. In the day she went fishing with her mother and in the evening she came down to see me after finishing her household chores and we looked at the river or discussed what she had cooked for her father. I am no writer and do not hold the capacity to express how this unalloyed romance had blossomed with no intervention of the body or any modern medium. But I enjoyed her company thoroughly and her simple cookery almost every evening.
Well my time in exile was slowly coming to an end. My father had successfully employed one of his bureaucratic allies to find me a seat in another school in Calcutta and I was given the marching orders. Finally it was the last evening before my departure. She had rushed in to see me. That evening her tears had gushed out heavily in silence. My repeated consolation to her seemed ineffective that I would be back soon. Maybe somewhere she knew the improbability of the whole thing. But I was adamant with my belief that I would be back once the Summer Vacations are on. But someone who had loved with all heart, heal and absolution can probably see the lines of fate as clearly as a fate himself – so Mangli was inconsolable.
‘What do I get for you from Calcutta?’ I asked her. She was quiet.
‘Please tell me what do you want from Calcutta?’
‘Nothing. Just come back.’ She had whispered.
‘Nothing!’ I had exploded. ‘Everybody has asked for something or the other. See! I have even noted them down on my notebook. But for you I would the best, the most expensive thing of it all. Please tell me what do you want?’ I entreated.
‘Nothing.’ She repeated in the saddest of tones.
I had to struggle a long time to make her say what she wanted me to get her from the city that is about to engulf Mangli’s only adornment for ever with the cruelty of a holocaust. But finally she gave in and said. ‘Well then get me a scented soap from there.’
I was bewildered. A scented soap! She wants a scented soap. I could have gotten her the most expensive dress from one of the boutiques. She wants a scented soap.
‘But why do you want a soap?’ Quizzically I asked her.’ I have never seen you being too engrossed in your clothes or make up. I have never seen you flock excitedly at the ornament shops during the Friday Market. But why do you want it now?’
Again there was no reply.
I said ‘Come on please tell me.’
Then she looked away and said ‘Fine then don’t get me anything.’ And in tear strewn voice just said ‘Just come back again’
‘I would surely get you the best soap available at New Market’ I told her reassuringly. ‘But I’m just surprised why you wanted just a scented soap?’
Then Mangli had looked earnestly at me and said. ‘Babu all these days you have never as much held my hand. I know we are fisher women and we stink of the fish all the time. I want you to get me the soap so that I can come to you fragrant with its perfume so that you at least hold my hand when we meet again’
Fate didn’t give me the permission to return to Rengalipaly again. A grief that probably would go to the grave with me, that I would never get to hold Mangli’s hands smelling of an expensive toiletry.