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

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.
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“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. )

Chicago Summer

Here are some glimpses of the short-lived summer in Chicago. To begin with is the Blues Festival. People come from all parts of Chicago and subburban counties to enjoy the city relive their love for Blues music. It is a full day out for the music lovers.


Most are in their 40s and 50s....during the peak of Blues holding hands and swinging to the tunes that had probably brought them together.


And they will bring their chairs and barbeques, grill food, wash it down with a pint and have a day out. It is a festival on the park ground.

Next, is the sailing season. It kicks off with the summer and people bring out their boats and explore the downtown as they sail on the chicago river winding through the city. The innumerable bridges over the river open up to make space for the boats to sail through. Here are some glimpses of the same:

The bridge over Michigan Avenue is opening up.

The boat is sailing through.

And the vehicles wait...long live summer in chicago.

Then they have events in the Millenium park. Located at the heart of downtown, Millenium park hosts an array of events and performances. These images are from a group called Australian Passion Fruit. They enacted a short story for 30 minutes perched over a pole about 10 feet high - swinging, emoting and dancing as well.

And then the evenings in Millenium park, open-air theaters and people splashing on fountains. Human faces illuminating the night sky while Cloud Gate reflects Chicago skyline.

The Cloud Gate by Anish Kapoor

The human face fountain in Millenium Park.

Next up is the Michigan Avenue - the shopping mecca-buzzing with people...

and make-shift sculptures...walking down the street makes you feel alive.

And the boat rides on Chicago river amidst the architectural splendour of the city.

The summer comes to an end with the Jazz festival. I was not in Chicago to experience that. But just prior to the Jazz festival is the Air & Water show. Will leave you with glimpses of that. The same drill - chairs, grills, food and lazing out.

Till the winter sets in...

(C) Durba Gupta