Mr. Henry bids adieu

Sautéed potatoes, chicken sausages, and fried rice formed the buffet line. The bread baskets, pieces of fruit cake, and the bubbling apple juice waited next to the coffee machine. Everyday – Monday to Sunday – from 7:00 AM till 10:00 AM.

The sautéed potatoes, often half-cooked, single-handedly managed to keep the residents off the buffet. I trudged along – dreading every breakfast and still going for it. Everyday. I would just chose the apple juice and breads one day. Or just some fruit cake and cold water the next. Morning after morning.

And then, came Mr. Henry. Short, stout, black frames, light beard, visible moustache, and a smile.

I ignored him for the first couple of days – but could not ignore the breakfast. There were boiled eggs these days and steamed vegetables. Noodles were introduced and often a cold salad. People started coming back to the breakfast table. I would, however, still pick up my small little complaints – “How can they have seafood for breakfast!!!” “What were they thinking?” “What’s with this rice?” “When is it that I’ve had rice for breakfast!!”

Then, one day, in a particularly early breakfast, Mr. Henry walked up to me. “Good morning”, he said. I nodded back – half-sleepy, wishing to scuttle through my breakfast and rush off to office. I had an early meeting. “How do you find the breakfast, these days”, he continues. I smile, “Yep, there have been changes. No more potatoes. Leafy vegetables, instead.” “That’s good”, I add.

For the rest of the week, whenever Mr. Henry saw me, he walked over to my table, exchanged pleasantries or tipped me off on the new dish that he had tried. He is now the chef. He has replaced the particularly angry chef – a lady who had sternly reminded me to write my room number on the breakfast sheet and was of course quite fond of sautéed potatoes.

Ten days later, on a late Saturday morning as I ambled out of my service apartment and walked towards the breakfast table, I found Mr. Henry sitting at one of the breakfast tables. “Good morning”, I smiled at him. He walked over and nodded, “You know they are changing the breakfast vendor from next Sunday, I do not know what happened. The guests complained about the breakfast”, he said. “Do you think I should speak to the manager?” he asks me.

I was a bit surprised. The breakfast was visibly better. Was it that the hotel had already decided to take off this vendor and Mr. Henry didn’t know that? “You see, I can run the breakfast service myself, add varieties, I do not need to be a part of this vendor” he continues. I didn’t know what to say to Mr. Henry. I felt bad. Bad because I’ve had done my share of criticism as well. Although I felt bad, I kept it to myself. I didn’t even walk up to the reception and at least ask why they are letting him go. You see, I have been getting pretty good at feeling bad and then learning the tricks of not doing or even trying to do anything about it.

So for the rest of the week I continued to feel bad, every now and then. Mr. Henry continued sharing his morning greetings and new dishes with me. Friday evening when I swiped into the apartment, I found a notice lying on the table. The Hotel in their endeavour to serve the guests better has decided to change the breakfast vendor to Starbucks. I chose to feel bad again. My colleagues felt good – they have seen that Starbucks has ‘waffles’ for breakfast!

Next morning, I went up to Mr. Henry. Asked him how he had been doing, where is he from, and did he get to speak to the manager. Mr. Henry asked me if I know anything about the next vendor. “Yeah”, I said, “They’ve left a notice saying that it is Starbucks.” “Hmm I see”, nodded Mr. Henry, “I will still talk to the manager,” He insists. I wish him luck

On Sunday, we exchanged a quiet nod. He smiled and said, “My last day! Try the vegetables, today.” I wished him all the best – it was nice meeting him.

Starbucks offered one muffin, or one cake, or one croissant and a tall cappuccino from Monday onwards. Waffles were never seen. We continued with our lives. This time we chose to criticise the Starbucks breakfast.

I don’t know where Mr. Henry is. I wish he is doing well. His smile is intact and he feels good about himself. I, on the other hand, do not feel that good about myself. Yes, once again, I choose to simply ‘feel bad’.

Epilogue:

1. I like potatoes.

2. I always wrote my name on the breakfast sheet.

3. Mr. Henry is not imaginary.

Uninhibited

A walk down the empty streets bustling with shoppers and tourists caught me by surprise. Empty corners, empty shopping bags, empty words, empty traffic signals, empty thoughts. Have I been so blank? ever? Orchard Street. Shopping Mecca of Singapore.

I know these streets. I have been there – from Michigan Avenue to Oxford Street to Fashion Street– carrying the bags, waiting to beat the Christmas Sale queue. But I haven’t been here – where I am today – empty streets of empty shopping malls.

I call my greatest power – to rescue me – HABIT! You are supposed to shop, you are supposed to browse, get excited, sip a cup of coffee, abuse the shutter – that’s the rule – that’s the habit.

The habit fails me too. I stand there – on the empty Orchard Street – empty, uninhibited. Have I crossed the Rubicon? Have I finally let go?

...

One more day, struggles to pass by…second by second…minute by minute. One more day, the world calls Valentine’s Day, struts by with ‘mushy’ songs on the FM and cupids flying all over the television set. One more day, when the morning sms and emails proclaim that ‘love’ is officially in ‘air’.

I cross the road to the opposite stall for my Saturday morning coffee and upma. The coffee is good there – some of it I carry back to my apartment in a steel glass, carefully packed by the mother for me to set up life in a new city. The news papers proclaim a ‘pink chaddhi’ war; I choose to stay oblivious to that. Today, the cupid will fly by…the advertisements say so.

I stare out from my veranda – the fever kicks in. In my feverish eyes I see the cupid struggling with his bow and arrow. Has it turned into a missile, I wonder! He is sweating, he cannot be at so many places – from the Archies store to the car dangler, from the flowers severed from the branches to the bouquets, to the bubbling champagne glass and the thumping discotheque. He pleads with me. He wants one soul, at least one soul, to leave him alone for the day.

The coffee has gone cold. The cupid stares at me. I decide to tame the White Tiger. Under the blanket, shivering, I leave the cupid alone – let me pass the minutes in the corrupt land with Jiabao - with a booker that seems so easy to pen. The minutes and the hours, today, will pass by. Let the love be in air, officially, for all.

Ms. Dutt, if you are listening...

I am not so sure if I want to 'express' this. But I feel compelled. During my growing-up years, television journalism was synonymous to Prannoy Roy's 'World This Week'. He covered Bill Clinton's presidential elections and I felt this is bringing news to our doorsteps. He covered the 1993 Mumbai blasts and I still remember his comments on how people lined up at the blood banks to donate blood the day after the blasts. When Barkha Dutt covered Kargil War in 1999, she seemed to be the most natural addition to Prannoy Roy's 24 X 7 entrouge. But somehow Indian television changed.

Today I strongly feel that Barkha Dutt is digressing from her responsibilities as a journalist. Yes, when incidents as strong and as numbing as Mumbai 26th November happen, we all feel compelled to express our views. Express them but please oh please Ms. Dutt do not put words on people's mouth. Please do not direct interviews so blatantly that you start to look ridiculous. Today, as I followed Barkha Dutt's coverage on NDTV from in front of the Gateway of India and her repeated attempts at putting 'words' in the mouths of those whom she interviewed, it disappointed me.

Media in India, we cannot deny, had always played a significant role in the politics of the land, whether it is Indian Express printing white pages or NDTV covering water-logged Mumbai, but the power that media gets from the endorsement of its readers and viewers must not be misused. Ms. Dutt we have loved you once, but please do not misuse the love and force words out of us because you want to hear those aloud. Please do not ask Mr. Santanu Saikia 'How he feels when his wife is missing.' - not you ma'am with so many years in the media.

Here's to TAJ Lands End, an icon and to Mumbai - my first love and muse:

(c) Durba Gupta.

My writing is not about what happened in Mumbai. My opinion from my living room is insignificant. But I do care if we turn to a group that just appears to be 'aware'.

Rokte Amar Agun dhorai, neshai kolkata

(You fire up my blood; you are my addiction, Kolkata - Nachiketa Chakraborty)

The queue was long. Hot and sweaty – Durga-pujo Kolkata. We were all trying to beat each other in the queue to reach the coveted spot. "May be my hand is a wee bit more outstretched than the uncle standing next to me." "Probably I am ahead of him." "I will be noticed first then" - these were the thoughts running through each of our minds.

Nope, the long queue was not for any pandal. We were sweating it out in a ‘xerox’ shop. We all needed photocopies. We had our changes ready. You never know, when it comes to changes, in Kolkata, in all probability you may be denied services if you fall short of it. The photocopier (not the machine) was working with inhuman dexterity. Organizing the copies, calculating the dues and handing over the originals.

Then, he came. He wore a long panjabi, typical of Bangalis during the puja season. He had a letter and an envelope for photocopying. His voice exuded confidence that made me turn my head. His smile gave it away. The letter came from School service commission appointing him as a teacher of Bengali in a secondary school in Burdwan. I slowly stepped back and gave him my place. He probably did not notice.

Today, in the IT and outsourcing world, at one end of the spectrum are those who compete amongst themselves in getting an European or a Silicon valley posting, and at the other end of the spectrum is his story of five years of education, in a language subject that almost everyone around him may have looked down upon (“Bangla Honors?, oh come on! What good is that?”), that had finally bore him a job of teaching in a place far off from Kolkata and he would probably be earning 1/5th of what some one of his age would earn from an IT job.

Yet he stood proud.

His confidence: intoxicating.

And his request to get the envelope (that had his address and the seal of school service commission) photocopied, twice, made me wonder how we take email confirmations from our prospective employer’s as final, how we almost never ever worry about photocopying the envelope in which the offer letter arrives. We have ‘soft’ copies.

He made his copies and left. I stepped forward. Silently I admired his spirit and wished him the very best. I know that during his education and his preparations for school service commission he probably showed more mettle in facing life than me (a privileged one). I am glad that he came out triumphant.

Wants are measured by different standards. The pleasure of a twenty-seven year old in getting a school service commission posting as a school teacher is probably what Nachiketa meant when he said – kolkata is my addiction. It is probably having that smile for a Rs. 7000 per month job (for a post-graduate), phuchka for Rs.5, the ‘IT sector (the famous sector V, Salt Lake) studded with food stalls and our endless speculations on the restoration and screening of Ray’s short film is what the ‘fire’ is all about.

(c) Durba Gupta

Of hearsay and heartaches…

I do not know if he loved her. I do not know whether she loved him either. I’ve seen them talk and I have heard them shout, at each other. I am certain their daughter heard them too. It’s been quiet now for a while. All you hear are old Hindi and Bangla songs, mostly classics.

Jet-lagged my eyes strain to read the time – it’s 3 o’ clock in the morning. He plays ‘Saare rahain chalte chalte, yuhin koi mil gaya tha…’ I listen.

In their fights and shouts, they lived. The wife watered her plants and the husband took their daughter to the school. Like a child’s early crayon work – celebrated the first time, shown to the guests the second time and abandoned for the rest. Then one day, he saw her. In a family gathering. Her beauty enthralled him. His eyes followed her everywhere. He wanted to spend time with her and talk to her. She was his wife’s cousin. He asked his wife to invite her home.

‘Humein aur jeene ki chahat na hoti, agar tum na hote, agar tum na hote…,’ he changes the play list.

She came. To stay with them. He was happy. He took her out to the movies, to the restaurants, the zoo and to the shops. He talked to her, walked with her and spent time with her. He seemed to have forgotten his wife and daughter.

They did not.

Ten days later, she left. He was left alone in the house, with those whom he chose to forget.

The shouts resumed with more vigour. Birthdays were not spared either. The wife’s complaints and the husband’s crumbling justifications gnawed at each other. And then, they left too. The flower pots are gone. Empty parapet walls gather moss. The daughter, I hear, chooses to stay with the mother.

‘Kabhie alvida na kahena…kabhie alvida na kahena…’ now continues to break the silence of the night.
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A long day at pujor bajar (shopping for Durga Puja) has left her exhausted. But her eyes glistened at the sight of her one-year-old. She emptied her bags and stared at the blue pujabi with white embroidery that she had got for her husband and smiled. He will like it, she thinks.

Married, “happily”, with a daughter, thoughts of the cousin, now separated from her husband, may cross her mind, every now and then. The songs, however, I am sure, escape her.
*************************
“It’s strange didibhai (sister). She is happily married with a daughter now and these two could not stay together!” lamented my ‘source’ today morning.

I wish, I only wish, things were so easy – that the cause if removed, erased all the pain, hurt, and gnawing.

“Palkon ke jharokon mein tujhko bithakar…maat ho mere jaan udas…” the clock strikes 3:30. The dogs bark.
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He sits there, in his room, in the big house playing songs as ode to someone who was never his. Sleep eludes him – probably life and love too, at this moment. But he will surely bounce back. Human spirit, I hear is indomitable.

He switches on the television. The bomb blasts continue. I must try and catch some sleep now. His collection is great. Tomorrow, I hope he plays, “Chokhe naamey brishti, bukey othe jhar je…” (aka: jaane keya baat hain, jaane keya baat hain…).
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I can’t help if you find the songs too corny to be true. Believe me the songs played in this sequence as I kept on abusing the keyboard at the middle of the night. All characters are purely 100% unadulterated hearsay and are not at all figments of my imagination. Any resemblance to anyone living or dead is probably not a mere coincidence.

Love for Broadway

They descended on the pavement from the designer stores – their gowns flowing, their fur loosely draped over their shoulders, their neckties in a perfect bow and their stilettos drumming the concrete in the late hours. They bowed their head in humble respect and they ‘excused’ their ways in polite elegance.

And then there were the faded jeans and Snoopy Dog sneakers. Chewing their gums while fiddling with their ear pierce they laughed and talked and they marched forward.

But they all stopped for a while and looked up in silent admiration – the stilettos and the sneakers at the proud neon lights. They traced the lighted words with their eyes, few read those aloud, few immortalized it in the form of a photograph. The flash lights blinked – the bow ties nodded at the faded jeans. They seemed comfortable for they just realized that they have one thing in common.

Inside, the long black coats guided them in. Their shoulders brushed against each other as some hurried. But no rude glances were exchanged. For, they were happy in anticipation of something beautiful. The majestic chandelier and the ornamental walls reminiscent of the Versaille’s art welcomed again the set of new faces as they stood in queues to deposit their coats or grab a coffee.

The men walked their ladies in. The chewing gums stayed back while the sneakers moved in. They all settled down. It was dark. But they were eager. For they are there bound by a ‘common’ love – their love for the Broadway. As the 30 piece orchestra seated below the stage tuned their strings to the hair-raising, heart thumping score of Andrew Webber and the audience sank to their seats, the curtains were raised to the longest running Broadway show – The Phantom of the Opera.

I sat there, mesmerized by the sheer presence of it, grasping the experience that was soon to overcome me. As the cursed chandelier swung from the stage to the audience amidst the gasps, the phantom rowed Christine on his boat crossing the river covered by smoke or descended from behind the opera statuette among the audience, I marveled at the engineering that makes such complex tricks possible, live, on stage and perfect. For two and a half hours they laughed, cried, acted and expressed themselves through their songs in front of a live audience, never missing a single note. I recognized their sheer talent and dedication as they perform before a live audience day after day singing their own songs and shedding their own tears.

All stood up as the cast bowed after an exhilarating two and a half hours. They walked out of the auditorium in revered silence, nodding their heads in appreciation and lost in the magic of the musical. And for me, my first Broadway experience made me feel for the first time in a foreign land that how inconsequential my skin color was amidst this 'sophisticated' Caucasian theatre crowd for we were all there for a common love – love for Broadway.

PS: Thanks Deeps for zee award...mighty pleased and award you the same - one of the most humorous takes on life that I have come across.

(Note: I wrote this long back and had forwarded this to my friends before. )