What a bad idea sirjee!!

We all know that the Indian television is plagued by advertisements, consumerism at its peak, etc etc and gone are the days of 'Bhul na jana...ECE bulb hi lana', or 'Palmolive da jawab nahin'. Instead we have an array of advertisements that assault our intelligence, morale or sense of beauty. Since I don't have anything better to do than stare at the television most of the time, here is a small list of top five picks of mine assualting my senses every now and then.

Fifth in the list is the very metrosexual Shahid and his piece of advice. He urges metrosexuals not to spend XXX hours on grooming their hair, and should spend more time on grooming their face. Easy for him to say, it's all grafted for him!! He also elucidates the various necessary composition in this particular men-'whitening' cream. So how do the dates go these days? Gals say, 'my cream has 5 beneficial components', and the boy goes 'huh - in your face, mine has 6'!! I dunno, call me old fashioned, but men giving me counts of hours spent in front of the mirror...nah...

Then comes a brawny man in a white banyan, twists the villains and gases (read accelerates) the vehicles. Then he settles down with a hottie in a tent and urges the menfolk to 'live like a macroman!'. So how do you define a macroman? Hormone induced muscles, hottie girls on film sets to exchange suggestive glances with, white banyan, and probably colorful chaddhi? Ahh eyes...my eyes...they hurt!! I would anyday settle for an 'andar ki baat hain'!

Next on my list is chhota sirjee with a message that my peanut brain finds quite controversial...use mobile phones and save the environment, seriously?!! With the house sparrows disappearing fast as a result of increasing number of mobile towers, eye problems diagnosed in kids because of the radiations, they actually promote, sell and get away with this idea? Please!!! My grey cells, the tiny half-dead ones are revolting! bad bad idea!

Second on my list is the aamraaas lady in 'rasiya' mood, heaving for a drop of aamraas while handsome man oggles. Tazaa khabar, aamraas is the new fruit flavored viagra! Why? Why? It's a mango juice for crying it out...take it or leave it!! How is slicing the market so fine gonna help? Who are they enticing anyways? The fans of 'raisya' lady? Ah my head hurts!!

The winning entry, in my humble opinion goes to one Mrs. Rai Bachchan, pouting, jutting and rushing towards the camera in vengeance with a solution for 'Girrdte Rrroookhkhe, bwejwaaaan, baal' (You all can reach out to Serendipity for a 'rendition' of the same). I mean seriously, how many of us 'girls' really buy this, nope not the product; the accent, the exaggerated jiggle or the semblance of fashion?!! Do we?

The ones I like? Presently topping the list is the mentos ad, poor donkey :(
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Please feel free to share your picks!! I am sure I missed out on some gems!

to your comments

@Serendipity, actually it is a novel idea, take the dil out of it and assign eyes (eyesore ones), ears (the yaap yaap ones), etc etc (won't drill down further) for each experience ;)
For Sumitradi...she comes to your place, I can share her number, if you want! :)
@Sara - thanks gal! packing done? btw ami ekdom-i gaite parina; and that makes it even more tragic
@ Sanjay, pls do write your memories, and I have a feeling those would be quite similar to mine ;) the barir uthon and the aam gachh!
@ Dip thnx! blore these days.
@ Gunjan - Nope sir...I am waiting for Gaara to grow up - 18 more years, just need to keep these wrinkles and grey hair at bay, and I will be all ready for an intro :) Howz buster? Still growing a long tongue? oh btw i rem one 'dard-e-disco' of yours (she was so for several others too)...the girl from north east, I think...archi...;)
@ Pinakie, good to see you in the blog world. New photographs?
@ Siva - your comment (for bagful of memories) made me think, tried to address your comment by the last two lines (newly added!) - i think the predictability was missing in the write-up
@ Vijay - boy 'am flattered :) Also I know it should be 'pain of disco', but 'disco pain' is so much better. So howz it going? You must have completed your graduation by now. Planning to stay back in Uncle Sam's land?
@ Anu - went through your page - your bold style always amused me :) As for the write-up (Sumitradi inspires...), yep the idea was not to reveal too much - how she inspires me? In every way to look at life and handle what it throws at us ;) no tickets for kites to appraisal trauma :)
@ New beginning and ayon, thanx for dropping by and your comments!
@ The sour one, linked your blog in the post (Sumitradi inspires...) - love the blog alias. You write on the trip, if not anybody, about the smiling one ;) can be the first post of ur blog.
@ Iris I really think the dance idea is good! Good to see you blogging ;) I wish it works out for Sumitradi too!
@ K'niche...ha ha ha such fun!! r u guys friends now? :) thnx for dropping by.
@ MyoChi, 'am still reading your posts one by one. Really interesting, and brand new stuff for me. Thanks for visiting. Agree with the societal typecast thingy. The very fact that I notice it and appreciate this shows the typecast hangover :).
@ Bhargavi, thnx for your mail and appreciation! well most of my write-ups are from real life experience. It may not be exact word to word, that's my creative license ;) but mostly how I see things and how those register in my mind. (No fictiom as yet) 'Dard-e-disco' is reserved for those fleeting malfunctioning of the 'dil' and timeconsuming day dreams, hence the discretion in choosing the events :)
@ Julian, Thanks for dropping by!
@ Woken Up...omg! omg! omg! - u r so right! how cud i forget that?!! Was he from another REC or army? lowe u for that. also what do we call the long term ones? those are simply 'disco' or 'pain' or 'twist' - not to go hand in hand ;)
@ Nikhil, thanks man...in a celluloid format it just takes me to pa(n)ther pa(n)chali...that's the epitome of childhood on screen to me.
@ Upu - yay!!! much better ;) also let's not forget the greek god in what was it, Merecedes?
@ Shashank, viva la salsa, man! How r things?
@ Richie Rich - There is problem in your site!! Do i have to have to create a login? Have tried on both the laptops :(. This side of me - have you forgotten the drunken night in pune? ;)

@ Anon - thanx for all your comments! dunno abt empathy, think 'am just plain naive;)
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Okay last exam over!! 'Am off to my trip...carrying my camera and hopefully the lenses will be kind to me ;) Cheers!

"Dil mein mere hain Dard-e-Disco!!"

(There’s disco pain in my heart.)

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He was 5. She was 4. They were family friends. Fathers enjoyed their scotch together, mothers shared cooking recipes, uncles and aunties used to chat, and they used to play. Chasing the ducks, petting the dogs, her Chinese cut hair, his too!! Family friends are comforting; I mean if you think long term. Parents already have a common ground, one tick mark there, the boy and the girl grow up together, so they know how nasty it can get, no surprises there either. So it’s just the challenge of keeping it exciting, lifelong…now who doesn’t have that challenge?! So at the age of 4, the plan seemed reliable. They went to the same school too. The boy would give her tips on how to handle the maths teacher in standard 1, and she would share Kwality (Not Kwality Walls) icecreams with him. Everything was perfect! Then one day, the boy’s family moved to the US – just like that!! I sang ‘Dil mein mere hain dard-e-disco… dard-e-disco… dard-e-disco…’

That was my first ‘Dard-e-disco’.

When I was in standard 3, I realized the existence of a rather cute boy. He used to sit two desks from me and would smile shyly. I used to squint at him, and do maths (mainly the multiplication tables for 8, it was a b****). Before the summer holidays, the maths teacher distributed the answer sheets for the half-yearly exam. To my pleasant suprise, I found to have conquered the 8*9 and had scored full marks. He ran to my father after school and said, ‘She scored full marks!’ This time, I smiled shyly at him. The school opened after the summer vacation. I waited to smile at him. Friends said that he had moved to another school. I sang ‘Dil mein mere hain dard-e-disco… dard-e-disco… dard-e-disco…’

That was my second ‘Dard-e-disco’. Years later, I stumbled upon him on Orkut. I again sang, ‘Dil mein mere hain dard-e-disco… dard-e-disco… dard-e-disco…’ and logged off.

Saraswati puja was a big event in our place, both in the school and at our house. We used to do night-outs to come up with a theme, decorate the pandal, get the idol, plan the bhog, etc etc. It is during one such night-outs, at the age of twelve, I met an engineering student, 6 years older to me. He was helping out with the decorations, putting up the frames, painting, keeping the accounts, and drinking several cups of tea. He ignored my existence. I happily acknowledged the same. I followed him everywhere, his 'beck and call', and found great satisfaction in fulfilling his smallest desires, from bringing the hammer to cleaning up the paint brush. On the day of the puja, he came in a white kurta and payjama, smiling and reassuring, as ever. I almost didn’t notice the saree next to him.

I turned away and sang ‘Dil mein mere hain dard-e-disco… dard-e-disco… dard-e-disco…’ That was my third ‘Dard-e-disco’.

Meanwhile, I was disillusioned by the prospects available in my close proximity (the school, neighborhood, family friends) and decided to look far and wide. One man drew my attention. He blazed the television screen with his aces, his fury, his long hair, and his rebellious demeanor. I watched his every match, cried at his defeats, and rejoiced at his wins. I almost reached the deserts of Nevada, with him. I kept each and every copy of the various sports magazines, and pulled out his photos. Then he won the Wimbeldon. I watched it, and believe that my watching it had something to do with his winning. I truly believe (no past tense). Anyhoo, next day the papers announced how his girlfriend also watched his win from the player’s gallery.

This time, I didn’t have the voice (from the previous night's cheering) to sing. I just noted it down, my fourth ‘Dard-e-disco’.

After careful consideration, I decided that tennis, USA, etc. are too far off, let me look at some place closer. The closest was the television set, again. So I stared at it, again! This time a truly handsome man emerged from a box, chiseled face, smooth hair, great body, kind eyes…the melody played at the background ‘Ek dil chahiye bass Made in India’. I was pretty sure that this is the one! So I survived one Madhu Sapre, some Dipannita Sharma, etc etc. till oneday, some fifteen years later, he finally got married...to someone else!! I still remember, couple of us sighed, hearts broken. That day we left office early too.

I finally had to sing for him, ‘Dil mein mere hain dard-e-disco… dard-e-disco… dard-e-disco…’ By this time, I have lost count.

So the sweet 16 breezed by, the charming 25 came and went, I crossed the danger 30, and stumbled at the magic 35, the ‘dard-e-discos’ are few and far between now. I don’t blame my grey hairs for that, I think we don’t have ‘men’ of our generations, any more ;). So here’s to the ‘dard-e-discos’ of my life, and our lives, although they generally have very short runs, but boy o boy are those wonderful, and in my case although many of them didn’t know that I exist, I still had complete liberty over my Piscean daydreams; so here's one last time, ‘Dil mein mere hain dard-e-disco… dard-e-disco… dard-e-disco…!’

**"Dil mein mere hain Dard-e-Disco" is a song from some hindi film. I take no credit for this creative metaphor.

Sumitradi inspires…

She is a frail woman in her late fifties. Glasses, thick frame, a plait, trademark cotton saree, one cotton bag (jhola), and a cycle.

(c) Durba Gupta

The mornings in Pondicherry are amazing. The sun peeks through the clouds getting ready for the harsh noon, while the sea breeze, still lost in the nightly romance brushes the trees. The leaves scatter around in idle grace. Hundreds of cycles paddle towards the Ashram canteen for the morning breakfast. The cycles nod at each other, they stop by and exchange pleasantries – I believe that is the ritual, every morning. Ashram’s breakfast includes pieces of bread, milk, and one dalia sweet. They sit in lines, on the floor, young and old, Indian and foreigners, and eat their breakfasts like an ‘emperor’.

Sumitradi goes there too. Some days, she might miss, but most days she is there. She knows the menu by heart. It’s been five years.

I’ve always wanted to go to Pondicherry, may be to brush up my poor French, to capture the beautiful French quarters of the idyllic place, to have good food, to enjoy the sea, and all that jazz! So, last Christmas, I booked myself to a rather artistic hotel for a couple of nights, and took a night bus to Pondicherry. I also cajoled a colleague into joining me in the trip. The bus reached Pondicherry at 6, we took an auto to the hotel, and after few setbacks reached our destination. We explored Pondicherry the whole day and came back to a rather noisy hotel! An impromptu party was going on, loud music, and to top it all the furniture from our room was moved to accommodate the party. We were furious!

Sumitradi is a physiotherapist. She has been working all her life in a place called Burdwan in West Bengal. I imagine a small house, brothers and sisters, mother and father. Sumitradi comes across as a provider.

The next morning the hotel owner called. He empathized with our disappointment over last night’s fiasco. He offered us a free massage.

We met Sumitradi.

Sumitradi came to Pondicherry in the early nineties, for the first time. She had been coming to Pondicherry, since then. She decided that when she retires she will become an ashramite. So one fine day, in 2005, Sumitradi bade farewell to the place and the people she had lived her whole life, and took a train to Pondicherry.

However, the Ashram did not take her in. The retired lady rented a one BHK and stayed back. She became a masseuse. Everyday Sumitradi dons a saree, takes her jhola and paddles to the weary bodies. Every day she chooses to stay back and hopes for a place in the Ashram.

Sumitradi inspires me. Hailing from a humble background in a small town, her courage of conviction to live life the way she chooses to, inspires me. She chooses not to board a train back to the people and place she has lived her whole life. She chooses not to live off her pension. She instead chooses to dream, and to hope that someday she will be living in the Ashram. To Sumitradi, you inspire me…!

(C) Durba Gupta
*Name, place (not Pondicherry!) and timeline has been changed.

A bagful of memories...

I grew up in a joint family. At any point of time, there were 7/8 people sharing 3 rooms. We always had dogs, again 2 or 3 of them, ducks, who would poop as they waddle by, few chickens, a cow, and at times a goat, a goat that we would just grab from the road, milk it and let it go :). Almost every other morning, we would find some feathers in the chicken coop – remnant of a nightly cat attack. We had a guard too; he of course chose to sleep. Our dogs were uncharacteristically friendly with the cats that ruffled the chicken feathers at night! My boro pishi (aunt) was the one who suffered the most, she would have to go out and get one more chicken the next day. :(. The count thus stayed more or less the same.

While the focus was on studies, as that seemed to be the only path to salvation, we had our moments. My chhoto kaku (uncle) was a rebel (don’t know if he would agree to that!), and he always endeavored to show me the significance of not doing ‘what’ everyone wants you to do. I was the only kid in the house! So I was pampered to no ends. In 1983, the great Kapil Dev led the Indian team to history. We watched it. My mom fried dal pakodas and we served them on a plate, in front of the Black and White television when Gavaskar took to the crease – we wanted him to score big, and thought the dal pakodas would help. 

The underlying Gavaskar-Kapil Dev rivalry didn’t escape our house, either – so my father grimaced at the pakodas. Gavaskar refused to devour them, and left the crease soon.

**********
21 years later, I dialled a certain number, hands trembling, forehead sweating! The heavy voice on the other side greeted me. I acknowledged, and told him that I needed a quote from him for a certain article. He most graciously obliged. I closed my eyes, and breathed deep. I had just spoken to Kapil Dev.

Another 5 years after that, far away from journalism, a journalist friend (Chinmaye) took me to a Ranji trophy match. A man in a trademark cricket hat smiled at me, and said, 'I have been watching you! You haven't had lunch!' I smiled and thanked him for the being the best wicket keeper in the 1983 world cup. Mr. Kirmani simply nodded!

**********
We also used to have floods every monsoon. The water drops would make strange noises on the tin roof all night, and in the morning we would find ourselves on the bed and water all around. There would be snakes swimming by and we would struggle to get the chickens to a dry place. The ducks, as aquatic as they can be, were tormented by the rising water!!! So we fetched them too. The dogs would bark at the snakes, but shy away most of the time. The only one that would hold the fort would be the cow, we called her Kalu. No guesses there, she was as dark as beauty can be!

So there stood Kalu, in the rising water, calm as a cucumber with her big eyes, reassuringly looking at the floating snakes, swatting the flies every now and then with her tail, unperturbed by the chaos around her.

Baba said, she’s not brave, she’s just being a cow!! We felt that was mean.

**********
18 years later, in the Markin Juktorashtro (USA), I found myself in a cold Chicago evening, gathered in the Anticruelty society for a film screening. It was an event for the volunteers with pizza, a game of blackjack and sodas. The film, no price for guessing, was ‘Cats and Dogs’. Emma sat with her little spitz, Alice. We exchanged greetings. Alice watched the film with great curiosity, while Emma and I chatted. It turns out that she has an Irish background, and cows there swim!

Ha ha – in your face, dad! Kalu always knew she can do it.

**********
Every summer, my boro kaku used to come, when the schools were off for summer vacation. Boro kaku was fun, an accomplished singer and a great sport! He would bring with him stories, of the dacoits and the thieves, of the brilliant students and daring expeditions (being chased by a monkey, slapped by one, slapping one or even faking as a cycle rikshaw driver to get away with a prank!!). We would have a big lunch, and then he would sit on the easy chair and tell his stories. I would get a five paisa coin for every grey hair that I would pull up.

**********
19 years later, as a Singapore cabbie drove me to the serviced apartments, I saw his dashboard full of coins from all over the world. Sure enough, there was one five paisa coin. He asked me for the new two rupee Indian coin, I was more than happy to oblige. I hope someday, for someone, it might bring back memories.

**********
Memories make us who we are, memories help us undo what we are about to do. Memories give us the courage when we are about to take a big decision, memories warn us, when we are about to break one promise.

So whether it's a bagful, a pouchful, or a fistful of memories, know the ones we've thrown away and why, and hold the ones we have kept, close to our hearts, for some things are for keeps!

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