calcutta, all the way

Under Development: Singur - Photo Exhibition and Film Festival

2008-06-18T00:59:00.000-07:00

Invite

2007-08-07T01:20:00.001-07:00

I Wonder

2007-06-01T06:05:00.000-07:00

Five years is a long time.
To be away from home. And family.
Long enough to make one homesick. Long enough for the mind to wander.
And wonder.
I hear there has been a lot of change in Calcutta. For the better.
And I wonder how much things could have changed.
I wonder.
If they are going to change my childhood. My growing years. My memories.
I wonder.

If you still have the sudden clap of thunder and the ominous darkening of the sky with the mad frenzy of a rainshower bringing respite on a sweltering Summer afternoon. Kalbaisakhi they used to call it. And ek poshla brishti.

If Kaki still closes the shutters on the window to keep out the scorching sun. If she still turns on the radio and listens to the Bangla natok as she prepares for her siesta in the afternoon. Ghori Rahashyo. I still remember the name of the natok.

If Didibhai's Thakur-ghar is still exactly the same. If she gives batasha proshad. And sandesh on Thursdays. If she still has to keep a lookout for the tiktiki that threatens to eat the proshad.

If people still stop by to see you in the evenings. Unannounced. Without calling to check if it will be a convenient time for you. If Ma still makes jolkhabar every evening just in case someone turns up. Unannounced.

If people still flock to Monginis in the evening. For pastries. And chicken rolls. And patties.

If the corner shop still sells hot, deep-fried shingara and jilipi in the morning. That you could pick up when you go to collect your Mother Dairy milk pouch. Somedays if you got lucky you'd get kochuri. With chholar daal.

If Satya-Kaku still stops by the paan shop to buy a paan on his way to work. Light a cigarette from the burning rope that hangs by the shop. Chit chat with the paan-wala, take one last long drag of the cigarette as his bus pulls up, squishing the cigarette-butt into the ground with his shoe and fight his way into the overcrowded bus. B.B.D. Bag Minibus.

If pasher barir Boudi still comes to the terrace to hang her saree out to dry on the clothes line. A towel still wrapped around her hair. If she leans over the pachil and calls out to my Mom and carries on a conversation across the street for over an hour. Until she realizes the time and has to rush to pick up Gogol from school.

If Chhoton and Sanjib-da still play cricket out in the streets and break a few windows making everyone mad at them. If Pijush-da still tries to catch Padmini-di's eye as she stands in her balcony watching them play cricket. And if Sanjib-da ended up marrying Bulbuli. If they all still live where they used to.

If Kumar still carries a small comb in his back pocket. And if he stops by every parked car to comb his hair in the reflection of the side-view mirror. If he still bullies all the kids who play on the street. If he still jumps in to volunteer anytime anyone needs help. Kumar na thakle ki je hoto.

If Ghosh Kaku still parks his car in front of Mr. Chatterjee's garage. And if Mr Chatterjee still raves and rants about having his garage blocked. Every morning. And if the neighborhood kids still giggle when they start fighting. Eta kintu bhari onyay.

If school kids still throng to Nalanda Tutorial. And Prabir-Babu still keeps the girls away from the boys in separate sections. If the boys still throw stones at the girls from outside the window. And leave messages for them carved into the benches. If they are still excited at having a girl say "Excuse me" as they deliberately crowd the narrow stairs of the tutorial.

If Niloo still meets Tintin-da in the secrecy of Nandan. If Niloo's Dad finally let her marry the love of her life. If Raka and Rana still give into throes of passion in Rana's moonlit terrace. If people still get caught stealing kisses near the lake. If hand holding with a guy is still taboo and earns you a frown from the neighbors. If people meet at a roadside stall, share a bhar of cha and a thonga of chinebadam and still call it a date.

If the SFI dadas will still storm a class and throw issues at you from the podium. If a crowd of protesting millions will bring the city to a screeching halt. Michhil, slogan, bandh. We were happy for the free holiday.

If the hawkers still crowd the pavements with their wares. If you still hear the fervent cries of Chaitra Sale trying to coax you into stopping and buying. If Partha-da still has his little shop in Gariahat selling costume jewelry. And if he still does Dhunuchi nach at Samajsebi Pujo. If Naru Kaku sells chanachur and chhola-chyapta to the people who line up outside the liquor store.

If people still buy pastries from Flurys. Or do they go to some fancy bakery. If they buy ice cream from the Kwality man who comes every afternoon with his cart. Or do they go to Baskin Robbins. If people eat an egg roll. Wash it down with a cold Thums Up. And suffer from acidity. Chowa dhekur ebong ombol. Or do they go to KFC. Drink Coke instead. If a child's face still lights up with joy when you give her a bar of Cadbury's Milk Chocolate. Or does it have to be Swiss Lindt instead.

Change is inevitable. Progress is good.

But I still wonder.

Curious...

2006-12-03T22:04:00.000-08:00

***EDITORIAL NOTE***
I chose to shoot a disproportionate amount of poverty because it captivated me more than the many other facets of Calcuttan life. There is a huge amount of development and prosperity in Calcutta. The "very poor" or "street people" made up less thn 5% of the population by my estimate. I found Calcutta quite sofisticated. - jay

Seen in this travel/photoblog (you'll need to scroll down to just before where the Sundarban section starts). Hmm, should I call it piquant?

The Autumn Examination :-)

2006-09-30T13:32:00.000-07:00

Since everyone reading this has already read this, we shall begin from familiar territory and work our way up (or down, if you're a scrollbar-sympath) from there. Right at the beginning of his 'I have nothing to do with the Pujos' puja post, Arnab says:

Whenever I am away from Kolkata, I impose a total media ban on anything related to the Pujo, taking a leaf out of the Government of India’s Ostrichian principle that if I bury my head in the sand and censor the flow of information about a certain thing, then that thing ceases to exist any more.

The last bit of the sentence isn't entirely necessary, but it hurts the popular Bengali image to edit a dig at the government.

So anyway, like I said here, it's been the same since the e-boom hit the country: a pre-puja buildup in online communities, people asking each other if they're going 'home' (which more often than not is Calcutta), cribbing about being forced to stay away, ranting and reminiscing on blogs. Every year. It's the (Hindu?) Bengali's autumn imperative, by all available proof. Before you start shaking your head vigourously and pointing to own blog and stamping feet, let me direct you to this, this, this, this, this, this, this, this, this, this, this, this and especially this (no, I insist).
And that's just from about a quarter of my blogroll.

I wonder now. Is there much that's said that hasn't been said last year? Isn't being said on five other blogs simultaneously? Not really, no. The same rhetoric, the same nostalgia: the (fast disappearing) kaash phool , smilingcrying reunions, distant homelands, dhaaker shobdho (which I can hear as I type -- the dawn drums that rouses and summons on a grey-blue moist Saptami morning), new clothes, long sleepy dusty annual trip to the ancestral home, sepia-tinged memories of the myth of happier times.

I was writing my puja post too. And it was very personal, and beyond the first three sentences I just couldn't go on (right words are such a bitch) and I was in a state of high-middle despair. It's Saptami, dammit, when will I finish it and put it up? Which is when it occured to me that I needen't, really, you know, put up a puja post. It's not a Pujabarshiki that I publish. Sit back. Hit 'save as draft'. Relax. Is okay.

But why the automatic attempt? I'm not away from home. In fact, I think I've always been in Calcutta during puja. Maybe missed a couple growing up, but that's all (my family's not bitten by the Bong wanderlust). The comfort of shared memories, do you think? Herd mentality? Peer-pressure? Or, as I said, the creation of a pool of semi-mythical memories fed on enforced notions of how the perfect puja should be?

All this is idle conjecture, you understand, and not children of my usual stunning intellect either, because there is only so much thinking you can do in your 28th hour without sleep. I'm superwoman, but only just.

However, since we are (tangentially) on the subject, have you noticed the determined 'cultural awareness' of regional channels? Looking at the prime-slot programmes on popular cable channels, I'd say the focus was on creating (check) and sustaining (also, to a large extent, check) a flauntable ethnic identity based on an almost-identical lifestyle* made distinct with token symbols of regionality. Red-bordered white sari for the Bengali girl, for example, with a Durga Puja sequence always thrown in. For, one presumes, the allegedly too-cosmopolitan-for-their-own-good city kids.

"I know all about Bungali culchur", said a girl I once met.
"You were born and brought up here", I pointed out.
"Arrey but who mixes with Bengalis? Chhi! (Ewww!) I am knowing from Devdas and Kasauti Zindagi Kii only. They are showing all about you pipple." (Please check the links. Please)

Ah. Of course.

Not that the Bengali channels are any better. They flood you with this constructed Bangaliana of elaborate kaantha stitch kurtas and the coloured dhotis (yes, him, but also an increasing number of men who're not him), heavily embroidered saris, pora matir goina (red clay jewellery) and chunky metal 'n semi-precious stone jewellery with which I was utterly unfamiliar in life. And which have suddenly become the epitome of urban 'ethnic' Bangali - 'a', not 'e' - chic. Along with the once dreadfully unfashionable jhola .

I've been wondering if the pujo jingles and verse-advertismenst one sees in pujobarshikis can be seen as a revival of the dying culture of pujor chhoDra and pujor gaan ('Puja special' poems and music albums, as it were), but even I think that's pushing it a bit too far ;-)

------
*Which must be maintained to protect in the interests of urban consumerism. The advertisments, of course, tap into this culture of superficial difference awl the time. The potency of images that the media pieces together from life and from yearnings have been reiforced by their recurring presence in 'critically acclaimed' films. Or maybe it's a symbiotic relationship. Large families scattered all over the urban landscape returning to the big, sprawling autumn (as opposed to summer) home in a village conviniently close to Calcutta with all sorts of feudal comforts and the joys of a stylishly traditional family puja (or bits thereof) - the Shalimar puja ad jumps to mind. Or the cosy togetherness of para'r pujo complete with a romanticised version of what might equally have been harassment or pujo'r prem (love that starts during the pujas). Another inherent part, we're told, of the Bengali's Pujo. See Thumbs Up and Coke ads for proof. Not that bloggers haven't covered this aspect as well. Although the take is entirely different:

The whole hullabaloo about Durga Pujo, simply put... is this... for most bongs it's a one-week window to fix your social/love/sex life. The friendly neighborhood pujor pandal, is nothing but an exotic singles bar.

**As you can see, the Bengali non-Hindu is rather left out of the game.
------

Originally posted here on my personal blog.

Pliss To Come

2006-08-24T10:20:00.001-07:00

Design and Copyright: Abhijay Gupta, 2006.

Pliss To Come Part 2

2006-08-24T10:20:00.000-07:00

Design and Copyright: Abhijay Gupta, 2006.

Which city is this...bolo bolo?

2006-08-13T20:35:00.000-07:00

View Large!
Entire thread here.

SPE Times

2006-06-29T00:28:00.000-07:00

When the Mommy's away (australia - a month) the 'babies' will play. Every evening after work, we go for a little outing. The CCD down the road, Thumsup at Fillers, puchka @ VP ... then I park the car and we walk back from the garage.

It was an ordinary day. Dull, long and slow at work. Dot net training - 3 days long. There's something about the place though. The vast open spaces. The invisible walls, and the vast spread of water in front. The blinding white of the wings of the birds, as they swoop down, to snatch up some unseen prey. And the vague white clouds, hung out in the shaded cobalt blue sky, over the water.

When I looked out through the glass walls of the cafeteria, the richness of the colour, the incredible stillness, the occassional lazy afternoon breeze , the nodding leaves, the little boats ... made an irresistable magnet which wouldnt let me focus on my lunch (which can only be a good thing when ur being starved by ur mommy :( - disgusting boiled veggies - every day). No wonder they keep the blinds drawn in the training rooms.

I was home by eight and was greeted with a bite (last one of a ham & mustard sandwich) at the door. Had to change 3 Times. When you have a little sibling a decade younger, the next generation, so the speak, Its hard to please. Finally, it was the same blue jeans (my one and only) and the same white T Shirt - the set that I had originally said were the only clean things I had - which she had to settle for.

I dont drive a lot in town, so it was excited. Took the short cut to the Park. We'd gone for a Hip Pocket pilgrimmage on Friday last, but the place was so crowded (wrong kind of crowd - fresh new / pseudo cool - out for a drink and a good time - f the music) that we had to quit. So we figured, we'd have better luck on a Wednesday night. We did. It was still full, but less packed than the other night. And they didnt have to play Oh Susannah type numbers either, to keep the mob calm ... though they didnt do Baba o'Reilly either. We walked in to 'where were you ...' and then it went on to 'Open Invitation' & then 'Here I am' ... not brilliant, but beautifully familiar, alive and rocking. I sqatted on the floor - tucked into an obscure corner at S's feet, and in good view of S doing it to the mike. well, nobody does it better.

Before that we dropped in at Roxy. I showed her around in high excitment - reminded me of the time she first came to Pune and I was showing off Ferggie. The verdict: Cool and Grown up. I'm happy.

While walking out of SPE, bumped into "Ma'am" ... who used to be my physics teacher. Of all the teachers I have ever had, she is one of the top 3 coolest, so that was 'nice'. I ofcourse threw away quickly everything in my hands and went instantly blank. Isnt it curious how carefully we preserve the pedestials? Is it a human thing, the need to worship?

After SPE (she wouldnt let me tip the doorman), we went to Sharma's and had ThumsUp and Malai Kabab. Not grub to die for, but its tradition. Have 'always' gone to Sharma's post SPE. It started when we were kids and perpertually broke. We had to chip in all our pocketmoney for cab fare - one way, didnt think of how we'd get back till it was over. It was pretty early, in the morning. chatts, juls, addy and me. We hitched a ride back from some people leaving from Tantra. They were a little strange (tantra-cool) but nice. They stopped at Sharma's on the way and we've done it ever since. After SPE, you stop at Sharma's, sqat on the edge of the pavement and stuff urself with kebabs and chai.

The long arm of B.C road, a name I have always loved, stretched out in front and behind. Since I was only in Cal for winter, and since we usually went that way at night, my memories of this road are painted in as a long black line snaking out forever. Orange flamed fires lit by the roadside. Lined with tree's that looked old - so much older - than me .... isnt that a comforting feeling? I wonder why?

Cal's has changed. Everytime I came back I heard people crib about that. They(we) used to come back, starving and hugry, from Blore and Pune and other 'faraway' places, and everytime what they ran back to had run out a little more. Will Cal become like everywhere else with time and progress? Is that such a bad thing? I dunno. Could never figure out. Bad for me and you, yes. But for her?

It's late by the time we get back home. As usual, I want to crash. As usual, she wants me to look at a new post she wrote. As usual, I cant bear to say no to my favourite miniperson/monster. As usual, I'm blown away. When did that little pink faced, squealing thing with curling ringlets like a piglets tail, grow into this 'person'! I love the way she writes ...

Mensa Kolkata - please apply

2006-06-24T02:15:00.000-07:00

This is where I use the blogsphere to push non-blog matters.

As some of you may know, Mensa, the high-IQ society, has a chapter in
Kolkata. Mensa Kolkata has been around for many years, but has become
active only very recently, in 2000. Since 2000, we have increased our
membership to over 300, which puts us behind Pune and Mumbai in terms
of total membership.

Mensa increased its membership through a number of membership drives.
Initially, we had help from our contacts in various newspapers - TOI
and The Statesman did stories that led to a huge increase in
applications. Later, efforts by individual members brought in large
groups from JU, BE College and IIM-Calcutta.

Our current problem is twofold - firstly, membership has levelled off.
Secondly, Mensa Kolkata has a unique problem because the majority of
our members are Isolted (live in other cities). Also, since almost all
applicants are students, this problem is likely to continue. Since a
number of these students are from IIM, they are rarely able to attend
meetings, and so, remain inactive.

So, right now, Mensa needs more members. Also, we are trying to
convince people above the age of 30 to join as this demographic is
less likely to move away from the city. Unfortunately, older people
are hesitant to give the test, as not getting through can hurt their
reputation - a problem that younger people do not have.

Right now Mensa's activities consist of the monthly meeting at the
Rashbehari Avenue home of our Chapter Head and veteran Mensan, Mr.
Amit Das. These involve adda sessions on pre-decided topics. Sometimes
members with specialised interests give a little talk. Visiting
Mensans from other countries also drop by occasionally, to answer
questions about their home countries.

Its only when the number of active members crosses a critical value
that Mensa Kolkata will be able to kick its activities into gear. A
number of SIG's (Special Interest Groups) are lying dormant because of
insufficient interest. A larger membership will also allow us to hold
activity-specific meetings. Mumbai Mensa, for example, has a trekking
SIG which organises monthly trips. Pune Mensa has a tribal outreach
programme. But such things need manpower, which we lack right now.

How do you get into Mensa? You send an email to Mr. Das at
amit.mensa@gmail.com. He gives you a test for which you pay Rs 300. If
you make it, you get your membership packet, and can start attending
meetings.

Finally, what are the advantages of joining Mensa? Well, there's the
meetings with other people who, like you, are more intelligent than
98% of the world. Then, there are benefits like SIGHT, which allow you
to avail of the hospitality of Mensans in other countries, when you
visit. Finally, it looks good on your CV, if you're into that sort of
thing.

So, I'm sending out a request. Bloggers of Calcutta - please apply. If
you're above 30, then most definitely do apply. If not, apply anyway,
but do apply. We need you.

City of Joy

2006-05-12T05:49:00.000-07:00

Kolkata's just got a fresh coat of red paint and it looks every bit the quitessential City of Joy. It's party time in the Red Citadel. While citizens indulge in another round of holi, the Buddha can't stop laughing, as kudos and compliments flow in from all parts of the country. In all humility, the politico-litterateur bhadrolok just smiles and says "It's the people's verdict and I'm happy." Of course, the people are also happy. Who wouldn't be with loads of shopping malls, clean, well maintained parks, lovely roads, well organised traffic, warm hospitality and fewer bandhs? He's also happy that Kolkata's finally being recognised as a prospective industrial centre and surely welcomes "more FDI and domestic investments." But he wants to get his basics right first. Hence he has identified areas well below the poverty line (according to him 20% of Kolkata's population is below the PL) and aims to provide them with the bare minimum needs for a decent existence and is trying to take agriculture to the next level - agri business. It's like poetry in motion.
I don't understand politics, nor have the desire to, but I give credit where it's due. And will not allow personal prejudices to veil my genuine happiness. As long as I lived there,I hated it with a passion. Now that I am only an irregular visitor, it feels better. So here's to more of Kolkata. And kudos to all those who are making it rock!

PS: Now can we please have the CM put his best foot forward and play a full blooded shot to help the Prince win back his lost glory? We can't let him go down without a fight, or vanish into oblivion whimpering. The elections are over, peacefully. Now let the war begin.
Ok, so this was the whole reason for the post. Selfish? I have an agenda? Yes, go SUE me!

PPS: I still don't believe I wrote this post. It must be the weather here that's driving me nuts, or excess nicotine:P

The blog meet that didnt ...

2006-05-05T09:09:00.000-07:00

How come there are always blog meets happening when I am not in Cal and nothing at all when I am here? Not fair ...

Anyway, apologise for having gone semi underground for a while. Went thruogh a really crazy phase work wise for a while and then didnt have net at home till now. Should be free-er now, so holler if anyone wants to get in touch, or Rimi / Ani, if you still want me to make the template changes

54, Chowringhee Lane

2006-05-02T12:31:00.000-07:00

Long time no posts around here. Just to pep up things, this link.

... and to echo on!

2006-03-11T19:39:00.000-08:00

Will be in Kolkata till the end of March and if any of you are interested in meeting or arranging for a blogger's meet or distributing free goodies or entertaining with disco dance on the road, please let me know ...

Oh, Calcutta!

2006-03-11T14:54:00.000-08:00

Will be in Calcutta come April. Looking forward to meeting up with some more bloggers this time and definitely meeting up again with the ones I met the last time. Apart from that, not really looking forward to the 'return' as much as last time bcz its too soon after :)

A Calcuttan's Kolkata travelouge: II

2006-02-12T02:40:00.000-08:00

Right, getting back into the happy ‘I went walking!’ mood will take a little effort after the previous post, but here’s the attempt. Two things: the first is usually always the best *wink wink*, so don’t expect too much of this post. And, this goes without saying, huge post ahead!

Phase I: the Calcutta in my head:

Now, since I brag about my excellent road sense at every chance I get, P left the route entirely to me. So I started down Brabourne Road, because I’ve always sort of thought of it running parallel to MG Road (yes yes, I know every city has one. This is the Calcutta Mahatma Gandhi Road) and Central Avenue. See, since real maps are SO crowded and confusing, I have a very simplistic plan of the main city streets in my head. It’s something like this: (er, tried to draw it with Paint. clearly not my thing. Shall draw on paper and ask someone to scan and upload later)

1. Circular Road (APC and AJC Bose Road), Beadon Street (Bidhan Sarani), Central Avenue, the road on which Kumartuli is, a part of which road is B.K.Pal Avenue, along with a less conspicuous road that runs from Dumdum through Paikpara and Gouribari right up to Rajabazaar, after which the Sealdah flyover cuts it off – all run parallel to each other and to the Ganga up to, more or less, Esplanade.

2. At regular points, there are roads at right angles to these roads, linking them to each other. Most of north and central Cal metro stations in Central Avenue are located at such points, like Shyambazaar, Shobhabazaar (whose connector runs from Ultadanga to Chitpur Ghat), Girish Park (Nimtala/Burrabazaar/Howrah to somewhere near Manicktala) and, our target for the day, MG Road (connector from Howrah to…erm, it twists and turns, so it’s a little difficult, but roughly Sealdah).

The equation changes after the roads change direction at Minto Park – Chowringhee Road, Landsdowne off left from Lower Circular Road and Alipore on the other side, but the Metro equation remains more or less the same. I’m leaving the Eastern Metropolitan Bypass connectors out of this.

Phase II: Brabourne Road:

So we started down Brabourne Road, and this was just past twelve in the afternoon. Jesus! The rush! It has the unruliest traffic I have EVER come across, and that’s counting the killer traffic during the evening rush hour at Hatibagan crossing! The minibuses from Howrah rush towards you, and though they veer away at the last minute, it’s still highly advisable to jump a foot away, just in case. And then there are the ‘cycle- vans’, carrying iron and steel rods or piled high with colourful packs of Sunfeast Marie and Maggie and Clinic All-Clear shampoo and an assortment of such things for the face and hair and body and tummy, wrapped crudely in sheets of gunny but tied securely with jute ropes. A kid usually sits on top of the whole load, making sure no one snitches anything in the distractive craziness of the buses honking, conductors screeching the destinations of their routes (“’Splned, Park Ishreet, Mintu Park, ayyyy! BallygonjGoriahatDhakuriaJadobpur!!! ”), shouts of “Hatio!” “Chal chal!” “Daine ja!” and assorted abuses that seemed to be casual punctuation to everyday speech.

(“Behench**, tiren ka tera baap ka hai?” yelled a wiry pan-chewing dirty dhoti-clad supervisor at one of the younger boys loading a van with those mysterious boxes packed in brown, who had stopped midway and was staring at P and me, adding a “Harami saala” in an undertone as he sized us up in a brief glance and the boy resumed work)

We were almost-hit quite a few times by these men carrying high-piled broad-based wicker baskets (beter jhuri) on their heads. I don’t know if you've noticed women carrying stacks of wood or kalash on their heads; they move with what is traditionally a dancer’s gait – a faster version of the ‘gajagaman’. The hips swing from side to side, while the upper body, and especially the head, remain absolutely still. It’s weird that it didn’t strike me as weird then , that these bulky, sweaty, ungainly, smelly foul-mouthed men in dirty short dhotis and torn ‘ganjis’ with a reddish cloth tied around their waist move in exactly the same way. Perhaps I was too busy dodging potentially fatal accidents and pretending I wasn't aware of the attention we were drawing, in our jeans and P in her midnight-blue-with-tiny-designs-in-matt-gold khadi wrap-around top (which I swear I’ll steal any moment she looks away) and me in my sleeveless low-backed broad-curvy-V necked white kurti. P, however, seemed to be her usual unconcerned self, walking ten paces behind me, staring at buildings and clicking her tongue at the ruins of cosy old houses. She told me later I get more ‘grab-attempts’ because:

1. I’m smaller and therefore an easier target.
2. I’m wearing sleeveless , which means they can see two and a half inches more of my arm than they can of her, which must mean I’m more of a ‘asking for it’ slut-type.

So I switched to what P calls my “move, bitch!” body language, and went up twice to speak to the cops on the streets, ostensibly to ask for directions to Kalakar Street. There was a visible backing down of the lecherous kind. Little tricks, but they work. During the day.

The rush makes it impossible to saunter casually and stare, but you cannot not notice the buildings. There are these old, lovely colonial buildings inside the little side streets, most of them colourless and peeling, with the stout old thick red bricks peeping out. I don’t know if you noticed, but just like clouds, bits of bricks from under the plaster and paint seem to make quaint patterns, if you’re looking at them the right way. However, there are also these hybrid houses, which, when their owners presumably fell on hard times or wanted to ‘modernise’, had the front bits broken down, and ugly new structures with no pretensions to aesthetics built. Most of these front bits are steel and iron shops. Incidentally (we noticed this because one of us needed to buy sanitary napkins) there are NO medical shops on Brabourne Road! What the hell do the people do when they want medicines urgently?

Lining the footpath of the main road – on which you can’t walk, because they were either dumps of rusted iron rods or brown cartons midway between the carrier (usually one of those small trucks – ‘tempos’) and the shop, interspersed with shacks selling tea and meals of rice/roti and a basic curry – are these hideous newer buildings, on the ground floor of which the shops are, which go up absolutely straight , with no relief in the form of a balcony or a sunshade that usually marks Indian windows. The windows are tiny, sometimes meshed. The really tiny squares at a higher level than the other windows on a particular floor and meshed with cement instead of wires marked, or so I thought, the lavatories of that floor.

Phase III: The Armenian Church?

Oh, and by the way, we tried to get inside the Brabourne Road church too, but it was closed. So we lounged around a bit, taking snaps of the plaster statues, which, with a little work, could be passed off as snaps of marble statues taken in Italy, he he! I sort of remember someone calling it an Armenian church, but it looked like a Catholic church, so that can’t be right. Anyone know what church it is? I suspect the smart-arses call it an Armenian church because they’ve heard the term somewhere in context of churches, and the Armenian Street is behind the church. Just outside, the footpath is occupied by those who live on them. The women couldn’t stop grinning at P and me.

Swati has left a few links in the comments section on my blog, do visit the sites. The thing is, thanks to an optional I took last semester, my Church History up to the early 1700s is pretty okay, but beyond that I'm lost. And perhaps this IS the Armenian Church (will take pics next time), but the décor is very Catholic.

Phase IV: Burrabazaar:

Anyway. If you turn right just before the way towards the Howrah flyover, you’ll cross a very crowded stretch of road and come out on MG Road. Except that I wanted P to see Burrabazaar, where she’s never been. Incidentally, if you’re ever on that part of MG Road, there’s this guy under the almost-crumbling portico – next to the last pillar before you turn towards Kalakar Street – who makes the most amazing phuchkas. P had eleven first, while I chatted with the guy about the time when he first came to the city from Bihar, in the ’80s, and sold eight phuchkas for one rupee, while he now sold them at six for five. We had almost reached Kalakar Street, singing the man's praises – not only does he make a killer potato filling, he’s got amazing PR skills – when, on cue, we stopped, looked at each other, turned and ran back. Heh, you guessed it. We lunched on phuchkas, swinging the plastic bags in which he packed it for us, nine each, walking down Burrabazaar.

Burrabazaar. It’s like Holi all year round. It’s dreadfully busy too, but not fatally so. The traffic here goes the opposite way, towards Howrah. And yes, very unruly. Still, walking into Burrabazaar at the Satyanarayan Park crossing is like having buckets of rainbow thrown at your eyes. It’s dazzling! There are rows and rows of red, blue, green, white, amber and purple rhinestone studded golden and copper hair clips, glass, metal and meenakari bangles, tinkling anklets, boxes of glittering rings, bags set with mirrors and sea-shells, embroidered mats, the glow of the soft yellow lights from inside the thick glass doors of the Gold & Silver shops, saris and lehengas more vivid and ostentatious than Satya Paul could ever dream of, entire gullis lined with street shops selling all kinds of dry fruits, seasonal fruits, pan-masala laid out on silver thalis and all manner of spices...

...people shouting for five stacks of blue silk to be sent to them by tomorrow, shop assistants running to the godowns to fetch stuff for the difficult customer, women and men haggling like their life depended on it, people sitting on wooden benches on the narrow street outside shops and shouting out their orders – “Do lassi aur yahan (indicating another customer) chaar kachauri garam! ” And the constant cajoling: “Ekbaar Dekh toh lijiye!” “Chudiyaan! Chudiyaan! Dus rupaiya darjan!” “Jutey chahiye medam? Dekhiye na, sabse achha eshtock hai…”

And there’s the food. There's nothing Bengali about this part of the city. You can smell fried ghee every now and then, when the wind changes direction. A lot of the houses are built along the lines of the houses you see in pictures of Rajasthan, only several stories taller. There are obscure, tiny shrines scattered here and there. There are kachauris, all sorts of fried sweets, the all-pervading smell of ghee.

Burrabazaar is the ultimate of Indian kitsch. Throw in the odd elephant lumbering down the narrow road, blocking traffic, and you’ll have the strongest ever case against accusations of stereotyping India/catering to ‘western sensibilities’ (though personally I think ‘preconceptions’ is a better word).

For those of you who're interested in such matters divine, there is an intricately carved temple near Ganesh Talkies – it's a 'Vaikunthnath' shrine. It has a pole of solid gold (or so we were told) around which people run, anchoring themselves to it by vividly coloured cloth-ropes. It's apparantly a part of 'raas'. The day we went, a 'Lakshmi Abhishek' was due to start in half an hour's time. I haven't a clue what that is, but apparantly it's part of the Vasant Utsav which almost always coincides with Mohorrum. If anyone has ever been to one of these utsavs, we'd like details :-)

Cross posted on my personal blog, whatever things

A Calcuttan's Kolkata travelouge: I

2006-02-12T02:35:00.000-08:00

Fair warning: VERY long post. Skip, if you want. I won’t mind. But if you choose to read, be a sweetheart and read it all.

So you thought I only rambled in pen and ink? Or in invisible HTML, under present circumstances? And you thought YOU were the only one being tortured by it?

Here’s proving you wrong. For those of you who don’t know Calcutta, please click on this link (not my favourite, but he best I could find) and see the city’s map for better comprehension of this post.

Why Poushali and I bunked uni Tuesday:
1. There was a screening of A Day From A Hangman’s Life, a film arbitrarily and forcibly removed from Nandan by the authorities on the chief minister’s demands, followed by a pretty pointless panel discussion on ‘Censorship’ which Taslima Nasreen, the star of the show, was ‘unable to attend’ and which nonetheless droned on till eight in the evening. Poushali got bored with getting bored and taking pics of my cleavage with her almost-new camera phone. We needed a break.

2. My attempts at submitting my passport form had been jinxed for over eight months now. I had gone to the Regional Passport Office, I had gone to the Passport Extension at the GPO (six times in all), but I’ve NEVER been able to give it in. Tuesday, I wanted to. It was getting on my nerves.

3. Poushali and I had been talking about a walking trip through the unfashionable parts of the city for ages now. And since our exams start next week (and will go on, intermittently, till the end of this sem), we thought, what the hell, screw uni, we bunk too many classes anyway, let’s do this.

Phase I – GPO:

We’re supposed to meet at the Esplanade metro station – on the platform, where it’s easier to find people – between ten and ten thirty. I caught my train from the Shyambazaar metro (it’s roughly a 12-15 minute ride) station at ten thirty seven. He he.

We walk to the GPO from the metro statione (which Poushali pronounces ’Splaned and I, Es-pluhnade). It’s incredible. The rush around us, office boys running from one office to the other with sheafs of paper (they still do that? Excuse me while I check the century…), young men dressed in starched formals in pastel shades getting their shoes shined one last time before the entered the majestic colonial buildings with their ancient carved oak and brass doorways for job interviews, rushing cabs which managed to screech to a halt just before the stop-line, the amazingly laid-back body language of the cops efficiently manning these very important crossings, footpaths lined with people selling cucumbers and guavas and plastic folders and pens and second hand books and small stuffed toys and peanuts, and fortune-tellers and their shiny rhinestones and parrots, traffic signals changing lights and an immediate swamping of the roads with cabs and minibuses from one end or the other, people screaming for cabs, people trying to grab your boobs and disappear in the crowd…it was like you see in movies: the world rushing, rushing, rushing all around in a blur, and P and I the only serene, unhurried people stopping every two minutes to take pictures of a particularly impressive column or doorway or shining decorative doorknob or stairway.

We got a lot of looks. Stares. Advances. Most of them registered like a passing car does, perhaps less. Being an attractive woman with a sense of style spending several hours a day for years in busy city streets does that to you. And Poushali is and does :-)

GPO was a breeze. The lady at the counter fell in love with me. Asked me to call her ‘kakima’ and drop by at her place after college for lunch one day. Yes yes, I’m on of nature’s born charmers, and less of those discreet coughs, if you please! The much-agonised-over form was submitted in less than fifteen minutes. Woohoo! Now I just have to wait for the West Bengal Police rep. to come to my place to be bribed for a clearance.

PHASE II – ‘Oasis des Friedens’:

Then we walked past Writers – the single building ever which looks majestic in red – and I had to explain to P, in full hearing of the tons of cops and guards on duty outside it, why the street in front of it was so empty and clean and full of cops and why we weren’t allowed to use the footpath in front of the building. “But HOW can we carry bombs inside the kinds of clothes we’re wearing, even if we were terrorists?” she asked loudly, and ten heads on uniformed shoulders swivelled towards us. Darling, I love you, but sentences like that would have ensured prison, rape, torture and possible death even thirty odd years earlier.

Munching cucumber slices at the crossing in front of St. Andrew’s Church (Scotland, Kolkata), we stared at the streets, wondering which and where. Suddenly we realised we’ve gone past the church tons of times without ever going in. One of those things, you know? So we went in. There’s this visitors’ book right next to the front entrance, hardbound in dark red, now dirty, with a dirty golden label, lying on a polished wooden antique three-legged table. We stood for twenty minutes looking at the entries. “How weird are we?” mused P. “We’ve bunked college to look at what people we haven’t a clue about have written about a church we’ve never been in, at twelve in the bloody afternoon at the heart of crazy Dalhousie?” Well, you never know. Maybe we’ve walked past them on the ‘tourist zone’ – Park Street, Chowranghee, Victoria Memorial.

You never know, do you?

Here are some entries we saw. Most of the people had visited for nostalgic reasons:

19th January 2003: Finlay Moodie – Returned to see where I was christened in 1937. Thinking of my parents who lived here.

30th November 2005: Andreas Hansv – Today is my Name Day in Andrews. I’m from Germany (“Explains”, said P. I didn’t, I swear!). Bless me!

1st September 2005 (or is it 9th January?): Enrico Zabaglime of Calgari, Canada – If having the Lord is wrong, I don’t want to be right. Amazingly, P hadn’t heard of this one before. Am I the only one who gets a kick out of cheap rhetoric employed by people who think they’re such wits? Incidentally, “Hmmm…having the Lord, eh?”, said Poushali, who is incapable of thinking respectably.

15th January, 2002: John & Jennifer Fowler, 31 Lethbridge Park, Somerset, UK – Revisiting where we were married in 1968!

Both P and I found this incredibly sweet (what did you expect, we’re 21 and female). We tried to imagine the two people, not too old ( or perhaps) coming in from the disciplined stricture of Writer’s on one hand and the crazy traffic of Howrah-Dalhousie on the other into the sudden peaceful stillness of this church, and perhaps trying to see what has changed, trying to remember how the other looked 38 years ago at the altar, and how many there were that aren’t any more. Who knows, some of them might even be at the Park Street Cemetary. Except that we wouldn’t know which ones, even if we walked past their graves.

Who was John Fowler, I wondered? What kind of a last-bit-of-the-Raj was he? What did Jennifer think of getting married in India? Were they British? Were they/was one of them perhaps an Anglo-Indian? I'll never know, will I? But at least I had the chance to wonder...

19th December 2006: Dilip Pundit, Kumilla (he preferred Comilla), Bangladesh – WONDER that was Christian Calcutta and not a city full of demons. If any of you can figure this out, we’d be very grateful.

Then there was Michael Cannon of Hampshire, UK, who visited on the 1st of December 2005 (again, although he’s from the UK, it might well have been the 12th of January), revisiting the city of his birth, and adding, for reasons only he could best explain, that his great-uncle Roy Whitehorn was principal of Westminster College, Cambridge. Any of you know the family? :-)

On the 29th of December last year, David, Suzie, Charlotte and William Pepperell of Wessex Close, Thames Ditton, Surrey came to visit ‘David’s birthplace and where Granny+Grandad got married (Peter and Joyce Pepperell on the 1st of October, 1955)’.

Michael Pitcairn, who was born in Cal in November 1949 and christened in the church, where his parents were also married, and his wife Xandra, whose first trip to India this was, visited on 16th September 2000. While they wrote this, news was running along the phone lines to the serener parts of the city, whispering how the person dearest and closest to me than any other had given up living.

Not that I’m complaining. Some grief is past all that.

On the 22nd of January, 2003, Ranjita Dutta and Aruna Sharma wrote, ‘when people are in distress, they realise there is one place where they will find peace and belonging. We found this place.’ Bless their peace.

There were several others: Michael and Jenni de Jesús, who believe their address is ‘Heaven!’, Csige Ga'Bor who comes from Debrecen, Hungary and A. K. Bannerjee from Kanaipur, Hoogly, who visited the church on the same day. Joost Hoetjes from Holland who sat inside "...this quiet and holy place" and thought ‘pure thoughts’, like ‘Wonder what Don Preston would whip out of this one…’.

“Let’s mail him!”, said P. “I can just see the mischief in his eyes when he wrote this! Besides who’s Don Preston?”
“What if he’s dead?” I asked. You never know. He came in 2002. Anyway, we haven’t mailed him, of course. It’s one of those things you never get around to doing.

Then there are the handwritings. Sorry, this is quite possibly a negative generalisation, but the American and Canadian handwritings were almost illegible. A lot of them printed their words, clearly uncomfortable with joined handwriting. Plenty couldn't keep within the confines of the top and bottom lines. The British were mostly readable; the three from Germany were smallish with some letters indistinguishable from the preceding ones. Then again, there were Peter Packshin and Marks Andreya from St. Petersburgh, Russia, one of whom has loopy, large, beautiful near-calligraphic handwriting, which nonetheless (and oddly) didn’t soothe the eye.

Then there were our own entries, which became a conversation on paper. If any of you go to that church anytime, maybe you could look up what we wrote, dated 7th February, 2006. Maybe we’ll go back one day and check if the cute guy inside I mentioned in my entry read that and wrote anything in reply. Most probably we won’t. Does anybody?

Phase III – K.C.Pal:

On the ridges on the back wall of the St. Andrew’s Church, marking the outer limits of it’s territory, are alternate English and Bengali graffiti by a certain Mr. K.C.Pal. Tintinda had gone to meet him at his place in Howrah, apparently, and his house is covered with slogans against what he thinks is the delirium of the masses.

“The Sun revolves around the Earth.” He proclaims. “There is no life on Mars.” “Are the reporters one-eyed?” ("Surjo prithibike prodokkhin kore. Mongolgrohe praan nei. Sangbadikra ki kana?)

Apparently he has written to NASA claiming to have proof of the fact that the sun goes around the earth. I don’t know if NASA bothered to reply.

Another of those people, perhaps, who weigh stuff at the Customs Office during the day and translate Neruda by night. Calcutta, you know.

P.S: For those who've asked offline, I apologise for my friend's abject stupidity of buying a phone which doesn't have either infra-red or bluetooth, especially when she's lost her USB cable. So sorry, took lovely pics (my cleavage included), but ...

Cross posted on my personal blog, whatever things.

Off the Wall

2006-02-05T01:46:00.000-08:00

In the land that was older than the hills, there was an old, old city.

And in the old, old city, there once stood an old, old college.

Well, its still there, but that is hardly the point.

And in this old, old college, there were some old, old walls.

Ah, this is getting tiresome!

The point of all this being that once upon a time in Presidency College, the walls of the Union Room and the Canteen weren't as blank as a slate, or as minty fresh as a Chlor-mint. In fact, they were daarty yellow kalar and looked straight out of occupied Basra.

They were also glittering testimonials to the collected aantlami of an entire generation.

Being ridiculously smart and scarily creative as we all were (and still are, I am told), the authorities viewed us with an apprehension only matched by that of Mr. and Mrs. Kent as they watched little Clark destroy Ayers' Rock with an ill-directed sneeze.

In lieu of a troupe of costumed supervillains to keep us busy, we were led to a section of campus and given carte blanche, as it were. On the walls of the canteen and the Union Room, we were told, we could do whatever we damned well pleased, as long as all works of art were duly signed.

And so it came to pass.

There you could find witty exchanges, like the following

Life is a Sexually Transmitted Disease

Death is Hereditary

Impotence is not.

(written by three different people, mind you).

There were plaintive pleas.

Stop the world - I want to get off!

And fashion advice.

The ends justify the jeans.

Some in jokes that made sense to only a few.

Pol. Science or bust

And some that made no sense to anyone at all.

Legalize Counter-Masculinity

Some expressed their political views.

All opposition is suspect.

Some expressed their views on politicians.

Don't vote - you'll only encourage them.

And there were those that expressed their view on the entire debate.

Lenin lives, but McCarteney ROCKS!

Potshots were taken at everyone - from the staff.

The world is full of creatures, big and small.
Some that creep and some that crawl.
And Presidency College employs them all.

To the faculty.

Where did professors come from?
From the West, because the wise men came from the East.

To our friendly rivals across town.

Those who can, do.
Those who can't, join SXC.

It wasn't just the outside walls. The long toilet behind the canteen, lovingly christened "Pakistan" (which is quite spotless these days - the toilet I mean, not the country), had the following scribbled at eye level above a urinal stall.

If you can hit this, join the Fire Brigade.

and at around knee level

Cutoff for SC/ST's.

And there were posters of all hues. Political mainly, but some others as well. A particularly clever one was put up in the immediate aftermath of the left-led protest against the setting up of a Coca-Cola fountain in the canteen. (Yes, young reader, there WAS such a time). The poster had a squashed Coke paper cup pasted on it, with the words.

Coke is Red.
We are not.

But my all-time favourite was the sight that greeted me when I walked into the canteen a few days before Election Day. Strung across the canteen was a huge banner, that had obviously taken a great deal of effort to put up. Written in large black letters across it was the following.

Do YOU suffer from Bad Results? Do you believe something needs to be done about your bad results?
Join us in the Bad Results Association.
VOTE FOR BRA.

I never found out who the mastermind behind this operation was, but I silently appluaded him. Not to be outdone, some other bright spark put up a poster a week later announcing the launching of a new party, the Presidency Association of Non-Terrorist Youth

Some of these attempts at humour did not go down well with the self-appointed guardians of Presidencian Virtue (no, really). A particular graffito that was painted over while I was still in college read.

Ashes to Ashes,
Dust to Dust.
If grass don't get you,
Acid's a must.

And there was my own attempt at wit, which backfired. A friend had put up a poster which read -

War is necessary for peace.

below which I thought it necessary to post -

War for peace is like sex for virginity.

Duly signed of course.

The friend in question found it hilarious. Certain illiberal leftist elder brothers did not. I was confronted in the Metro Station with the poster, and it was menacingly ripped up in front of me, crumpled into a ball and flung onto the tracks. I was also warned to never write such dirty things (involving the words 'sex', 'virginity', or any combination thereof) again. The next week I joined the 'other' party.

But thats a whole different story. Before this becomes "The memoirs of a Presidencian has-been", I shall sign off. But I leave you with the most telling graffito of all.

God is dead - Presidency

Presidency is dead - God

Attack them walls again, young 'uns, or that annoying know-it-all up there might just end up being right.

Invite

2006-01-31T20:17:00.000-08:00

Adhunik mohakabyo

2006-01-29T04:35:00.000-08:00

Reportedly first published in the magazine "Probaashi", on the occasion of one of those Beesh O Byango Shommelons in the Benighted States.

KANAI HORI SEN

Shealdoh-er bridge-er pashey Potoldanga Lane,

Shei khane te-i baash korto Kanai Hori Sen.

Chotto theke-i Kanai chhilo ak nambor bichchhu;

Onko, bhugol, Rapid Reader porhto na shey kichchhu.

Borho hoye Kanai gelo kortey tickit black -

Pulish-wala dhorlo taake, bollo deke, "Dekh,

Amader ei elaka-te dichchhis tax phnaaki"!

Bollo Kanai, "Dhuttorika! Moger muluk naaki!"

Taar porey-te jaa holo ta shunley pabey kanna -

Kanai regey bollo "Shaala ei desh-ete aar naa!"

Jail hajot-e thekei Kanai phiriey phello get-up,

Bollo "Aamar kodor bojhar eikhaane nei set-up".

Porer din-i bnochka bnedhe, uthey shokal shokal

Dhorlo Kanai Chhawta-r gaari - - - Hollywood-er local!

Naamer opor korlo Kanai ektu karikuri,

'Sean Connery' naam nilo shey palte 'Kanaihori'.

James Bond er filim kore khullo ki taar'forma'

Shukkhyati taar chhorhiey porhlo Paris theke Burma.

Plane theke ei jhnapaye Kanai, porhlo bujhi maara!

Abaar dekhi submarine-e korchhey kake tarha.

Goorrum goorrum photash-photash, chalaye khelna bonduk!

Chhotash photash haat-taalitey hall knaape ar knaape buk.

Kung-fu, judo, sumo, kanchi - baap re ki taar funda!!

'Bruce Lee', 'Mithun', 'Jacky Chan-o', shobai holo thanda.

Potoldangar chhele tumi, korley jogot maat,

Shabash shabash, jeete raho, kya baat, kya baat.

Choturdike chhawrhalo jokhon prochondo naam-dak,

Bhablo Kanai, chhotto korey line maara jaak.

Jane Fonda-r kachhe giye korlo shedhey dosti.

Golf kheley aar sunbath neye, byapok korey mosti.

Boley Kanai, 'Fondoo, tomaar byang-er moto gola!

Havoc lagey dekhe tomar mukh bnekiye chawla.

Chul jeno thik sone-papri, iskin jeno silik,

Neel chokh-ete 440 marchhe kemon jhilik !!

Figure ta ki chhilim tomaar, jeno sojne-r dnaata,

Taar oporey porecho jeans !! Dichchhe gaye knaata!"

Emon korey baarh khawano-ey, Fonda holo kaat

Three cheers for Potoldanga! Kya baat, kya baat!

Kanai-er bou Nettokali; baaper barhi 'Khorda'

Urgent ek e-mail taakey pathalo taar Borh-da.

"Shiggiri aaye, Jamai-babu jachchhe bujhi bokhey.

Ekhon theke din-rattir rakhish chokhey chokhey."

Nettokali khullo PC, likhlo tokhon mail -

"Haarh-haabaatey! Haramjada! Hoyechhe khub tel!

Phurti lota hochchhe, desh-e nijer istiri phele!

Jhentiye tomaar jharhtaam beesh, haater kaachhey peley!

Ghater mawra, haarh-jalani, shiggiri aaye phirey,

Ghor-bhangani, porha-mukhi petni-take chherhe".

Bou er kotha-e Sean Connery-r bhishon holo bhoy.

Jane Fonda-o bhablo sheshey heart attack na hoy.

Ghoomer majhey swapno dekhey , edik odik pherey,

Nettokali jhnata niye ashchey bujhi terhey.

Bollo Kanai, “Onek holo, ebar nebo pension

Aar parina bou-er bhoy-e nitti eto tension.

Ebhaabe tei 'Kanai Hori-r' bajaar gelo sheshey,

'Roger Moore'-ke kaj bujhiye phirlo Kanai deshe.

Gul-golpo bhabchho eshob! Bhabcho chhatar matha?

Holof korey bolchhi dada, shotti e shob kotha!

**** ****

The Return Of MarMar!

2006-01-26T00:44:00.000-08:00

I guess this is the best place to inform everyone that I'm now back and my first post is up so all my fans (thats right - all three of you!) can return to enjoy my latest post.....

Calcutta Sojourn – Following the Trails of the Past

2006-01-23T11:11:00.000-08:00

Vidyanjali writes about her experiences (both past and present) related to Calcutta, after her recent trip to the city @ Thoughts in Action

"There are things abt Calcutta which are most likely to have an impact upon a child's life, being mentioned there ... Who knows others may share some of the experiences ... like say, savouring Bengali sweets!"

Read more here:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

My Calcutta

2006-01-18T08:17:00.000-08:00

I haven't been to Calcutta in three and a half years. I belong to that class of homesick individuals who eagerly browse the web for any new information about the city they grew up in, who read and re-read emails from home, to glean every bit of information about the newest development, the latest trends, the coolest resturants, the hippest shops, and the juiciest gossip to hit my hometown. I have a strange nostalgia associated with anything Calcutta and that gets rekindled everytime I come across an article, a photo, that talks about the people, the culture, the city.

Yet, the larger portion of what I read or learn about Calcutta is a city that I have a hard time identifying with. Calcutta that is in the news today, is vastly represented by a modern pro-western metropolis. One that boasts of glamorous shops selling "ethnic wear" and "designer fusion wear", coffee shops where you pay fifty bucks for a cup of coffee, discotheques and pubs where people just "hang out", fashion shows where tank tops rule, shopping malls and multiplexes where a fat wallet can get you "in". I know I am old-fashioned and dated and that I do not live my days in the "new" Calcutta, and I am happy for all the upcoming fashion and technology that has hit my city, yet, somehow it just does not add up. Because when I remember Calcutta I remember her as a melting pot of people and culture and passion.

To me the average Calcuttan is not that girl in her tank-top and shorts or the guy with spikes in his hair and sporting an Armani. When I think of the people I see a man rushing to office in a terrycot pant and an untucked poplin bush shirt, a woman in a crisp cotton saree wiping sweat off her forehead with the "aachol", the vendor on the street corner in an old faded dhoti and dirt streaked sweaty banian, the rickshaw-wala in a brightly printed lungi and turban tied round his head. Those are the people out on the street, the ones that I'd see everyday. And feel at home. Like comfort food. Not KFC fried chicken or pizza from Pizza-hut or a latte from Coffee-Pai. But plain and simple bhaat, palong shaak, lau shukto with daaler bora, mochar ghonto with kucho chingri, alu-posto, mooshur daal with gondho-raj lebu, patla machher jhol, aamer tok, mishti doi. Going out on a date would not have to be an expensive deal. We could still have matir bhare cha from a street vendor or chinebadaam from a miniscule thonga and watch the last rays of the sun ebb out in the pond at Nandan.

Don't get me wrong. I am not saying this globalization and change of face that Calcutta is experiencing is bad. I am glad for the youth of Calcutta. For the exposure, the opportunities, and the options. But my city is not all about malls and call centers and discos and multi-national food chains. It's about the crowded streets, the traffic congestion, the billboards that sport catchy ads in bangla, the early morning radio jingle of "shurobhito antiseptic cream Boroline", the hawkers that line the pavement, the rickshaw-wala, the thelawala, the phuchkawala, the man selling Joynagarer mowa, the kagoj-bikriwala, the shil-kataowala, the bashonwali. They are the ones who do not feature in the news from Calcutta, yet they form the vibrant life-source that is the heart of the city.

Calcutta is beautiful. You have a heady crowd dancing to the beat at Tantra. And you have a music conference that boasts the best in Hindustani classical music. And you have a baul with a dotara singing at the street corner while a group of men light a bonfire and sing Bhojpuri songs while they keep warm on a cold winter's night. And it is all music. You have art galleries that present the best in Indian modern art and you have people drawing on the pavement with colored chalk to earn a few pennies. And it is all art. You have a sumptous meal served to you in an upscale resturant and you have wonderful food cooked up in front of you on a little stove on the street. And they all taste great.

That to me seems great.

That to me is Calcutta.

Calcutta caught on the camera

2006-01-13T15:40:00.000-08:00

Oksie, how about compiling a list of places (photographers) which has Calcutta caught on the camera?
Here's to start:
1) Point and Shoot
2) Mr. Amal Sircar @ PN
3) Waddell Collection at UPenn
4) Hensley Collection at UChicago
5) Anupam Basu @ PN
6) Jacques Henry @ PN
7) Sunondo @ Flickr

ps: Has anyone noticed how shabbiness is a common theme in all the sets? Plus, the emphasis on B&W, connoting a ubiquitous sense of an era long bygone?

Calcutta Calling

2005-12-29T02:29:00.000-08:00

Its the 29th. Been back in Cal for 4 days. Already feels like I never left. Tolly's during the day, watching while he plays,and giggling at mad things, thr 3 of us at the table. Listening in on everyone's crazy and urgent plans for New Years Eve. Watching Calcutta from the terrace, as she sleeps, quiet,at peace. My city beautiful.

Not eaten Biryani yet. Nor egg rolls. Yet, it tastes like home ...

Havent yet heard from any of the Cal blog junta except Rimi :(
Hoping to meet up with most of them - I'm so curious to see them!

hark the siblinghood!

2005-12-22T08:20:00.000-08:00

Alrighty! If no one else will do it (not including Priya and Prero), it’ll have to be The Rimi.

Right, so, as I was saying. Prero and I had this grand plan of jazzing up this template, which hasn’t come to anything so far, but then Prero’s coming to town soon, I’m sure we’ll work something out then. Also, in other news, the blog’s dying!!! All of you who so wanted in, people, WRITE! I know it’s the holiday season, but that isn’t excusing you from the drill. So, get cracking.

Right, now since I do not believe even ONE of you will actually respond to this desperate request, I shall take it upon myself to toil for the noble cause. Or whatever.***

This is something that was sparked off by an article I read in an ancient edition of the Robibasorio (Sunday Special) of the Ananda Bazaar Patrika. It’s too ancient to be in the online archives, so don’t bother looking it up. It was titled ‘Dada go!’, or something similar. Now, being a quintessential Bong that I am (NOT, claims lots of people I know. Heretic dogs!:P), this racial/ethnic obsession with extended families – all very fascinating in terms of population-control, of course – but it’s so deep rooted in the Bengali psyche that’s it’s occasionally slightly alarming. I have been frigidly and loudly ticked off in public for calling a woman a year older than me by her name. By herself. That was one of the better incidents. So this is a slightly personal issue.

First, let’s us look at our case history. We shall look at popular literature to support our theory. Oh, Literature! That mirror of this our evolving society! Literature, where everything except names and dates are true. And all such glorious certificates of credibility from assorted sources.
Oops! Forgot about my widening readership. Right, so those of you who don’t know what I’m on about:

Dada – noun. lit. elder/older male sibling/cousin. Shortened to ‘da’, personalized by adding at the end of proper noun. E.g. Mithunda.
1. General term of address employed by Bengali men and women for yelling at random men of all ages for poking them with the butt of their umbrellas on a crowded bus.
2. Also, form of address used by young women with oily braids and red ribbons in them for the young masculine objects of their affection who return the compliment by whispering searing dialogues from latest (Mithunda?) Bollywood flicks to said young women in roach-infested cheap movie theatres. In short, if she calls you brother, you can start licking those stray Salmanesque locks into shape. The local heyaar cutting selun (barbershops. Contextual meaning: handy roadside mirrors for quick peek) is third from down left.

Didi – noun. Lit. elder/older female sibling/cousin. Shortened to ‘di’, personalized by adding at the end of proper noun. E.g. Mamatadi.
1. Term employed by bus conductors when asking for tickets of young to middle-aged women. After which they are relegated to ‘maasima’.
2. NOT to be employed if you a fancy a chick. If a hot babe calls you dada and you, unaware of subtle cultural nuances, call her didi, expect a woman scorned. In other words, flee country.

Okay, now that we are clear on this. Let us to be continuing. (Ha ha, always knew it! Microsoft sucks! That last sentence is NOT underlined in green!)
So, offhand, how many ‘dadas’ can you name from popular Bengali lit? okay, okay, Feluda not allowed! And don’t scream so hard!

Hmmm, so…
1. Feluda. Created by Satyajit Ray. The home-grown wildly popular mid-twentieth century Bengali detective, an open admirer of Holmes and attributes loosely based thereon. Sidenote: the otherwise excellent series is noted for it’s almost complete lack of women. And therefore smartly sidesteps the accusations of misogyny.

2. Ghanada – *deep breath* Premendra Mitra. Brilliant satire. Ostensibly of the milder ‘parar dada’ figure every locality was familiar with, the resident storyteller, but also of the society these so-called anecdote-relaters lived within.

3. Tenida – Narayan Gangopadhay. Another extremely popular depiction of the local airhead bigmouth with a heart of gold, humoured and followed by his three younger sidekicks. Hilarious. Chiefly for kids (wait, ‘young adults’), but entertaining read for any age, though the laughs get a little monotonous after a certain age.

4. Brojoda – if you though the satire in Ghanada was obscure, try this. I’ll quote just one example (also quoted in said article).

This was the post-Independence age of fiery denouncement of all things British. Brojoda recounts his antics under the last years of the raj – a British boxer had come to India, claiming the ‘world-best’ type status. India is his last stop, and he wants to assume the title of Sher-e-Hind (the Tiger of India – erudite readers, please do not start a debate over the Hind-India thing). Now, in the bubbling spirit of nationalism (again, above-alluded-to readers, pray desist!), Brojoda thinks this is a national insult, and challenges the poor Brit to a match and defeats him. As victor, he is entitled to a trophy and a kiss from the viceroy/governor’s wife. B’da accepts the trophy, but averts his face from the lady’s lips, proclaiming proudly, “Sorry madam, no can do. That’s foreign goods, we’re good swadeshis.”

And then there are the lesser big brothers. Rijuda, for instance. But they don’t count all that much. Of course, till a while back, the crazy dada-didi labellers that we Bongs are, we had Souravda in the house, but he seems to have left the building for good this time. And that is what got me thinking.

I mean, look, despite being part of this large siblinghood, we actually don’t have too many dadas even in lit, do we? And just one precious Didi guarding the fortress for decades. So clearly, something’s gone wrong somewhere. The traditional centre cannot hold, ‘westernised’ codes of address is set loose upon the Bong.

We try to retain the old habits. I address the white haired guy at the ticket counter at the metro as dada, the designer-Bengaliness of ‘reality shows’ manufactured on the regional small screen oozes dada and didi – everybody says it to everybody else. And of course, the R.D. is Panchamda to those four generations down and from the other end of the country. Still, the insecurity peeps through. Did people swamp insignificant streets and hold up traffic because it was unfair to drop Souravda when he had actually started performing, somewhat? No. Of course not. We fought to preserve our Last Hero. A whiny, whimpering-for-a-while-now hero, but a Hero nonetheless. It was a moment of ethnic crisis, the storming our last bastion of cultural herohood, and we responded the way we do best. Organising a bandh.

I’m deeply hurt at the way the un-naturalised Bongs and the rest of the country ridiculed and condemned our move. Darlings, aren’t we also, after all, members of a larger siblinghood? ‘All Indians are my brothers and sisters”, remember? How then could you misunderstand us so gleefully? What happened to our exalted Indian family-values? *sniff*

Oh well. The ‘parar rock’ and in north Calcutta, the external courtyard, which housed the Ghanadas and Tenidas of yore are slowly being swallowed up by widening roads and multi-storeyed buildings, and there is the general insistence that the famous sloth of the Bengalis is a thing of the past (my foot! I am living proof, I am!). So perhaps the Dada/Didi image needs a makeover too. What will the new heroes of the 21st century Bengal need?

1. They will refuse to address/ be addressed by the flutter of their hearts as dadas. Reeks of incest, man. We’re a globalised community in an increasingly rightist country, whatever will people say.

2. They will be able to sophisticatedly swoon over every old Rituporno flick and intelligently trash his every new.

3. They will be able to detect straight away the obscure Hollywood number that ‘inspired’ the latest Bollywood offering and compare Billy Crystal favourably to Saif Ali Khan to make their point.

4. Swoon over aluposto and mishti doi and mispronounce them both with atrocious accents.

5. Admit to the spiritual cleansing sessions with Robindroshongeet and scented candles in between roughing up the kid for falling grades, overwork, dealing with the secret-believer-in-traditional- gender roles husband, bitching the mother-in-law/daughter-in-law out over the phone to fellow sufferers and being the ultimate knowledge base about STD.

So, here’s to the new age culture hero and heroine, to the revamped siblinghood of Bengalis! Bring on the trumpets!

***sheepish addenda: I see the worthy fellow-bloggers haven't been awl that you-know-what after all...

Cross-posted in my own blog, whatever things.

Duck Tale

2005-12-21T21:51:00.000-08:00

A very instructive evening, or part thereof. Our Youngest Member (pun fully intended) held forth and held court in a coffee bar with picture windows. He played on the audience like a stringed instrument, he truly did. Examples:

1 - Earnest Young Lady asks his views on the film version. The Duck dimples (all right, he doesn’t have to have a real dimple to dimple at a fan, gerrit?) and confesses that he would want full creative control, and of course nobody’s making the film just yet. Aforesaid EYL says most emphatically, “I (with reverb – I – I – I –I!!!) shall make the film!” (Almost audible sub-text: AND HAVE YOUR BABIES TOO!) She thereafter retires in some confusion, possibly due to realization of how audible the sub-text was.

2 - Earnest Young Man rises thrice to ask THREE separate questions about (a) Japanese root of Kirin’s name (whereupon Ducky proves cool credentials by mentioning Japanese beer) (b) the Duck of Destiny (c) something about inspiration. Ducky answers at some length, sounds modestly erudite. After the reading, EYM shuffles round and round until he has at least five autographed copies of the book.

Aside: the Duck is most concerned that some members of the reading public seek to avoid becoming members of the paying public. To wit, that some are sneaking out of the store with copies of the book NOT PAID FOR! Reassured that electronic surveillance (as noted in the bathroom) prevents this (and thereby safeguards his share of Rs. 13.65 per copy), he lapses back into a sofa with a sigh and signs another 37 copies in rapid succession.

3 – Old Gentleman asks the Duck about (I kid you not) the time of day when he does his writing. Ducky mentions that the second book was written at all hours because he “was very lonely at the time”. Concerned store-owner winces as plaster falls from ceiling due to decibel level of a hundred female voices (aunties, almost-aunties, never-will-be-aunties, wish-we-had-had-such-aunties et al) going “Aaaawwwwwwww!!”. (Ducky puts delicate hand to pensive cheek, entire effect says “I KNOW I had a dimple there this morning!”)

In all fairness, he did side-step a question about his pre-occupation with furred and feathered avatars. (During the reading, he claimed to be a lizard, in addition to the Duck and Cat forms we know)

****

Being a Philistine, I was more concerned with Observing Situations Too Funny for Words than with Imbibing the Wisdom of the Gods. Couldn’t help but be impressed, though, by the scope of the Duck’s imagination and industry. I mean, 800-odd meticulously plotted pages so far, interweaving of several species of fantastic creatures, erudite references to sources as diverse as Hindu myth and Terry Pratchett (that Game passage was SO “Small Gods”), a build-up to a (probably) conclusive third volume. I admire intelligence but I am totally awed by systematic work. (And all this fantasy without once mentioning Salma Hayek or whipped cream, such restraint)

Ladies and Gentlemen, we have in our midst this evening …

Hmmm. Star quality, no doubt about it.

**** ****

If on a winter in Calcutta

2005-12-21T00:03:00.000-08:00

Calcutta’s been on my mind for the last couple of weeks. Foggy mornings, monkeycap, pullovers and shawl-clad vigorous morning walkers and the overpowering lethargy that makes a blanket statement on Calcutta’s work ethics. Maidan gearing up to unfold its Pandora’s box, New Market and Park Street bedecked in all their Christmas finery and the fervent planning of X’mas and New Year parties.
D’Gama’s Plum cakes, Nahoum’s cookies, X’mas itineraries from RCGC and Tolly club, lazy afternoon strolls around RCGC, Baba’s daily dose of a teeny weeny peg of Old Monk, days spent reading snuggled under the lep, happy family evenings spent at Expo, painfully drooling times at the Lexpo (considering my insatiable fetish for bags and shoes) and of course, the secret moments spent counting all the unfulfilled wishes from the wishlist jotted down on the insipid blue “inland letter” marked to a certain “Santa Claus” in the godforsaken North Pole.
Do I sound like I’m missing something? I probably am. But is it the city or sundry moments/things in it? Don’t know, or may be am scared to confess. But what the heck, Calcutta, it’s on my mind these days. (Ok stop sneering, JAP, Urmi et al).
G hasn’t had the good fortune to experience any of the above. On my wishlist this year, I hope to take G to Calcutta sometime this time, at least once.

PS: I believe Maidan is no longer given out for the winter “melas”, it’s been metamorphosed into an Eliot-esque park. Now, did I hear right, or am I dreaming? Before the city itself morphs, must take G around on a pilgrimage.
PPS: Don't know how I forgot, (guess it's all abt..err... geriatrics), but the one thing I miss most...The BOOK FAIR. Rushed from school or bunked college to touch, feel and smell the intoxicating flavour/aroma of new books. Stood and devoured the untouchables, quickly grabbed and paid for the more affordable and just sat around like the most pretentious antels talking shop.

Calcutta, Again

2005-12-16T00:36:00.000-08:00

I dont know if it feels more exciting or strange. I'm 'Going to Calcutta' after 14 months, efectively. I had almost forgotten the familiar tastes, sights, smells. Biryaani, Chicken Chaap, Butter Chicken, Kaali Daal, Egg Mutton Roll, Aloo Dum, Chana Chapta and the man in white who sells them. The house. My room. My books. The Lakes. Old friends. The best friends. Mom, Munal, Tupi ... the family. My car. The sunsetting over the bridge. Lake Gardens, the Lakes, the grey-white domes of Victoria in the rose coloured light of gathering dusk. The cool breezes (thank god its that time of the year). Kathi Rolls & Steak at OlyPub. The fabled BED so much heard of, to be seen at last! The Suitable Boys! School. Will meet Moju (Chatto) hopefully this time. Want to meet Kaur too! And Sen. And Ma'am - I dont know why!

I think I'm still a bit in shock, and thus numb. Will get excited in a bit, I'm sure. Looking forward to meeting all the Calcutta bloggers I have talked to so much over the last few days. I probably wont have net access, but will try to co ordinate with some of them on Gmail before I leave (on the 24th) so that I can, if they are not too busy, meet up with some, atleast.

Harry Potter

2005-12-07T09:24:00.000-08:00

Er, just wondering...have any one of you watched the Aag ka pyala thingy? Was it annoying enough (esp. if you happen to like Potter) ? I had to watch the The Sixth Sense in Hindi coz the gaao that I once used to live in din have any English theatres. Yanyways...just curious.

Also, shunlam naaki bejai thanda porechey ebaar...heh heh heh

A first post should have been more pretentious than this, but

2005-11-19T22:40:00.000-08:00

It is a fact universally acknowledged (mainly because it is also a fact universally advertized, by me) that I shall be infesting The City (which one? duh) between the first and the twelfth of the coming month, or effectively between the second and the eleventh. Now I'd love to do something by way of performance poetry while I'm there- not in a public way, of course, but a small gig, (in the verdant lawns of JU, maybe? wink, wink), and so I'm looking for musicians, especially guitarists (preferably of the accoustic variety, but electric guitarists are also welcome), percussionists and violinists. If you happen to be any of these, or know people who are and might be interested in investing some of their time in this ungainful employment, do holler to me at arka(dot)o1(at)gmail(dot)com. I'm also looking for others who might be interested in reading (or, as I like to call it, 'performing' the poems).
To give you an idea of what I'm talking about, I've done something similar here in Bangalore, where I was the only one reading with a group of musicians- voice, guitar, violin and a twenty litre water jar in lieu of a mrudangam. We did Neruda (combined with this song called "aaj jaane ki zid naa karo"), Yeats with a stylized adapatation of the theme from "tu hi re", dylan thomas with nusrat, etc. However, that was more of a textual, conventional recitation blended with music. This time, I'm looking at something a little more experimental- to break, if necessary and possible, the ' literal' meaning of the texts and explore their purely aural nature- to play around with sounds and see what emerges. So, for instance, one could have keats done to death metal. For some of the pieces, I want the poem to set the mood for the music, the 'usual' way, but for the others, I want to take my cue from the music. Hope that's not too confusing.
The poets I have in mind for this time are:
Dylan Thomas
Neruda
Ginsberg (especially 'howl')
More 'classical' stuff like Grecian Urn
Prufrock (although, if we mess this one up, it might incur the wrath of certain un-hirsuite bureaucrats)
ee cummings
Langston Hughes

These I can think of off-hand. Do feel free to come up with more. This would not require too much rehearsing, so if we set the discussion rolling now, through e-mail etc., and we get going from the second, perhaps we can do this on the ninth or tenth? And anyone know of any interesting performance spaces apart from the JU lawns? crossword, perhaps. And oh, I completely forgot about a rehearsal space- my own house is tiny and will not suffice. Time to show some large hearted calcuttan generosity.
Also, my phone numbers (here) are: 09243122682, and 08056995562. If you are rich, or have rich parents, do feel free to holler. Don't leave foul imprecations if you land on my voice mail (which will most likely be the case, especially on the mobile, because it's switched off most of the time)- just leave your name, number, and the best time to call you back, and I shall get in touch.
In Calcutta, I'll be accessible at 24368232 and 9831731422.
Do start firing in the mail, then.

and thus the meet is set

2005-11-16T06:33:00.000-08:00

BLOG MEET

At Park street Barista ( its almost directly in front of The Park hotel)

On 20^{th
(Sunday)}

^{3:30 PM}

^{be there}

STOP THE PRESSES!

2005-11-15T06:48:00.000-08:00

ALERT! ALERT! ALERT!

The poet laureate of the Kannadigas is visiting the city of his birth sometime at the beginning of next month. In view of this development, I propose a postponement of the blogmeet to coincide with his vacation. Hopefully, proper planning and the presence of star expat will bring in the crowds.

I propose 4th December. Venue, time to remain as before.

bhai phota conversations.

2005-11-06T00:50:00.000-08:00

*ditiate diya phota....*)
" sit down on the bloody carpet!"
"ei! prodip phelbi na, bolchi!"
"MAAAAAAAA!!!!! dekho na amay ghi makhacche!!!!!"
Slap!
sister holding brothers face tightly in one hand and taking carefull aim with the little fingle of another, tongue sticking out in concentration...
" ebar norbi na kintu..."
" MAAAAAAA!!! amay dekhona shara gay kajol makhacche....waaaaahhhhhh!"
sister holding out drop of kajol in lil finger for brothers approval....
" ei dekh, kissu nei, ebar laga, mere baap..."
*ditiyate diya phota.....*
" amar jonne ki chocolate enecho?"
Brother digging nose with the face washing paner bota...
outraged brother: " eki!!!! ami eto koshto kore ghi makhlam, ar tomra amay chocolate diccho na!!!!MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA, AMAY DIDIRA CHOCOLATE DICCHE NA!!!!"

Bijoya Sweets -- Rimi's Secwet Family Recipes!

2005-11-05T23:54:00.000-08:00

My grandaunt ( I call her Jhu) fell ill rather suddenly, so I was packed off to look after her. And if I may say so myself (I pretty much astonished myself, actually), I’m a champion by the sickbed, and have a killer bedside manner. And forget the inane jokes you’re coming up with. This is my grandaunt we’re talking about. Even I draw a line somewhere.

So, we spent quite some time on deep musings about life, the universe and me, and there was this especially invigorating conversation where she listed (bulleted, too) the top…seven, I think…reasons why I am a freak. But more on that later. I promise.

But, keeping JAP’s request in mind, I beavered most of the family’s Bijoya sweets’ recipe out of her. Which led to hours of mellow, sepia-tinted reminiscing, of days and people gone by, of jokes shared in the busy kitchen amid sharp sound of the soft kheer filled sweets hitting the hot oil and the heady smell of pure, melted ghee. Of children seen ‘stealing’ sweets made for the Bijoya guests, and smiled indulgently at.

Of where Bhutnather Dokan (Bhutnath’s shop) and why Gojen Mittir.

Of working under the starlight in the dew-softened garden in front of the house to get everything, from the blazing colours of handpicked flowers to the cool, soothing chandan bata ready at the crack of the pink and golden autumn dawn for the family puja.

Of people who you loved but who died before you could say how sorry you were and how much you loved and treasured them, and of those who trod on your heart with hobnail boots.

Of Didimoni, Khurima, Jhu, Chonu, Mashimoni and Shumani sharing one big bed in one large room because the new ‘house’ was a three bedroom flat and there were six more people in the family, and of the bitter, lonely, disconnected three-member skeleton this bustling, vibrant family has now been reduced to.

I shan’t tell you those.

But Bijoya is just passed, the last day of the Durga Puja, and Diwali and Kaali Pujo is just getting over here in Calcutta, and for those who celebrate it, it is Bhaiphonta/Bhaidooj tomorrow. The odd firworks are still waking us up, so hey, compliments of the season! And here are Jhu’s (and Didu’s. and Didimoni’s. and her Didimoni’s) recipes for homemade mishti. For whatever they’re worth.

Ledikini, pantua:

Ingredients: ½ kg chhana, drained completely (hung to drip-dry in a cotton or muslin wrap, you know the drill?), 100gms of flour, about 75 gms of sugar, baking powder, elach/ ilaichi/cardamom pods, small nokuldanas (er, sugarballs kind of thing), refined oil, preferably with a few dollops of ghee melting in it.

And this is how you go about it: make a nice, soft dough with the flour, a tiny little bit of baking powder, sugar (say, about 2 tablespoons?) and quite a bit of ghee. It’s not going to be a dry, tight roti dough— it should feel oily and smooth. Oh yeah, and the cardamom powder as well, but go easy on it (trust me, I’ve done this). Right, now you make little balls with the dough with the nokuldanas inside them, and fry them in batches of three or four (again, the voice of experience—one by one takes too long and is often over-fried. Too many, the whole lot breaks or sticks to the sides. Or both) Fry till they’re brown, but keep stirring and gently rolling them over in the oil, or, as I said, they stick to the bottom and the sides.

Then, when the whole lot is done, make a thick (and we’re talking icky thick here) sugar syrup (lots of sugar in boiling water) and drop them in. carefully.

*****Important note about frying!!!*****

This is the way to do it: heat the oil and ghee till you can smell the ghee. If the utensil’s non no-stick (he he) and turning red/brown, you’re wither careless or not very experienced in the kitchen. In which case I take no responsibility. Right, so if you’re the kind who can tell when the oil’s reallt hot by looking at it, take it off the flames at this point. Let it cool for about twenty seconds or so, then, slowly, carefully, drop the ledikinis (and ALL other sweets) into it. Keep rolling them over gently with those perforated hatas you get for fishing out fries and stuff from oil, and put the (*insert appropriate utensil name*) back on the flame, and turn it on high. You can’t be too careful with the flame. Too high, your sweets are a scorched, half-done mess. Too low, it’s a ball of flour and milk dripping with cold oil.

Chhanar jilipi:

The exact same list.

Make the dough the same way, divide it into little balls, lengthen each like you would a rough solid cylinder of plasticine, give them a jilipi shape (sort of imperfect overlapping supposedly-concentric circles), deep fry the same careful way, dip in rosh, serve. Or better, eat.

And now the more difficult ones: (not really, though…)

Kheerer chop: flour and sugar; 1 ½ -2 litres of milk; shuji/ sooji/ dunno what it’s called in English; a couple of pieces of bread, toasted stiff (but not brown) and powdered; a sliver of nutmeg, powdered; ghee and oil – the previous lethal combo.

Right, deep breath. You could mess this up royally, and you probably shall, but let’s think happy thoughts anyway, okay?

Put the milk on to boil, with about 2 tablespoons of sugar (or 1 ½. Depends on how sweet you like your kheer) and about a teaspoon of shuji/ sooji. Turn down the flame after a while, otherwise it’ll scorch. Now, when the whole affair thickens and occupies about half the volume it did before (and there are no scorches or spilt white stuff on the kitchen floor) you can pat yourself on the back, add about 2 tablespoons of shuji, mix it well, add powdered toast, fold well, let it try and tighten (but not scorch! …you can tell how my efforts went, can’t you?) slightly more, then sprinkle the powdered nutmeg, mix it in again, and take it off the flames.

You should be a pat hand at the dough and the sugar syrup by now. Only this time, the stuff shan’t float in the rosh, it’s only meant to cling to the chops and give them that extra sticky sweetness. So, right, you make the balls (look, stop smirking every time you read that, okay? We’re trying serious cooking here! *huff*), put a small amount of the kheer (the one you just made. Yay!) inside, seal it my stretching the dough over it firmly but gently, pat it into a rough oval shape with your palms, and fry till each one’s golden-brown. Then toss them in the clingy syrup and we’re done with this one.

Nimkis in rosh:

Here’s a breather. This is really, really easy. Buy a packet of lightly salted nimkis (the less salty, the better), make a thick, thick rosh, stir the nimkis into it, and keep stirring till they soak all the rosh. Do NOT let it cool. Have it straight off the flames. It’s fast, easy, and delicious.

Goja:

The same dough (you should have some in the fridge wrapped in a moist cloth by now. Just in case). Roll the dough in a large…er, fellow bongs, what’s a good word for lechee? (and NO, it’s not what you think. I’m sorry to disappoint you, boys and girls, but we’re REALLY cooking here. I’m not Gytha Ogg)

Anyway, you know what I mean, just flatten the dough with your palm (and not a rolling pin), and make sure it’s between ½ an inch and an inch thick. Then cut it into rough squares, diamonds, rectangles – whatever’s your favourite shape of the week. Just not circles, okay? That’s a disaster. Then fry them, one by one, over a high flame, dip them in rosh, and let the syrup dry on and cling to the gojas. Some people sprinkle coconut shavings (narkel kora) on them while the rosh is still sticky. Some sprinkle more sugar.

Suit yourselves.

Pranhora:

Right. Now I’m in trouble. I really don’t know what chira/chire is in English. I’m not entirely sure there’s a easily recognisable word for it, actually. So, if you figure out what it is, yay, you just got yourself into more cooking.

So, you soak the chira (that’s how I pronounce it, Bangal trait apparently) in just about enough lukewarm water. The chira, and this is important, should not be soggy. It’ll just soften a bit and maybe swell just that much. Now, preferably, you should make it into a paste on what we call a sheel-nora, which is a stone slab and a stone pestle respectively, used to grind spices and make pastes by rolling the pestle over the slab from top to bottom, and putting crushable and grindable stuff in between. Has been known to be used as a weapon of mass destruction, so perhaps it's better if we just stick to the food processor. Just, don't make it into a smooth paste, alright? Leave it at the slightly grainy stage.

Now, mix this grainy paste with dry kheer (you may do without the sooji/shuji and toast bit this time, though a fistful of shuji is always advisable), flour, a pinch of baking powder, ground large-cardamom seeds. Make rough ovals from this dough and fry ‘em. You should be the reigning champion of this by now.

The pranhoras stay in the rosh. You don’t pick them off after they’ve had a good soak.

Lobongolotika:

If you’ve done the kheerer chop, this is like, child’s play. Absolutely.

So, hmm…you make the kheer the same way, you make the dough the same way, and then, you do the little trick. You *clears throat* make balls with it, roll each of them into a flat circle (they should be largish) and cut them into half.

Actually, wait, this gets a little complicated. Do it my way. Don’t cut it into half. Make a normal sized flattened thing, put some kheer in the middle, and wrap the sides over the filling to give the thing a triangular shape. The foldings should overlap and be securely glued together with water. But don’t drench!!! Just wet a fingertip (in water) and press the sides closely together. Then put a clove in the intersection (or roughly the middle) of the folded sides. Then fry the lotikas, and dip in the rosh.

Then serve, eat, feed it to your dog, pack and send home and give mum a heart attack. Upto you, love.

Bhai phonta

2005-11-03T19:08:00.000-08:00

“Bhai er kopaale dilam phonta

Jom duarey porlo kaata…”

Bhai phonta as I remember it always started out the same way. A crisp November morning when you wake up knowing that school would reopen the following day and the Final exams would be in less than a month and that the month long Pujo vacation was over. Bhai phonta marked the culmination of the seasonal festivities and celebrations.

Mamu-dadu would be the first one to arrive. He was my grandmother’s brother, elder to her by a few years. He was remarkably fit for his age and would take a longer than usual morning walk and travel the entire distance from his house in New Alipore to our place in Kalighat on foot. Didibhai (my grandmother) would be all ready for him, showered and dressed in a crisp white cotton saree with a bright red border. She would have the prodip lighted, the five essentials for phonta: ghee, doi, white chandan, red chandan and kajal, and a bunch of freshly plucked grass (durba) along with a few grains of rice (dhaan) for the ashirbad. Mamu-dadu would sit on an aashon that Didibhai had stitched herself and she would give him a phonta wishing him a long and healthy life. Then she would touch his feet and he would be given a plate full of sweets to enjoy.

By that time Mamu (my mother’s brother) would arrive. And it would be my Mom’s turn to give him phonta. And the whole routine was repeated. Mamu was always a little pressed for time because he would have to leave right away for work. So right after that there would be plates of luchi and alur dom and fish fry that would be served to the brothers which they ate before they left for their respective offices. By this time my Dad and uncle would have left for their phonta at my Pishi’s house. They would take the phonta, have breakfast and leave for work from there. The big feast for Bhai phonta would usually be a dinner at my Pishi’s place later that evening.

Meanwhile I would be getting ready for my share of phonta dewa. I always started with giving a phonta to Dadubhai (my grandfather). Next in line would be my Kaka’s son, P. P was six years younger than me and we’ve grown up together under the same roof very attached to each other. P would dress up for the occasion in one of his new Punjabi’s from Pujo and I remember how serious we would try to be and not burst out laughing while we sat there for a few minutes staring at each other’s face, with me reciting the lines praying for his health and long life while the rest of the family stood watching and blowing the conch shell when we were done. My Mashi would bring her two sons over, for the few years that they lived in India. So B and T were next in line, followed by two other cousins A and R. I happened to be the only sister available to give phonta which worked well for me because with every phonta came a little gift as a token of love, which for me more often than not turned out to be books, given that everyone knew that I was an avid reader. So every Bhai phonta would mean at least five or six new books that I would be craving to devour since I would not be allowed to read any once school reopened until the Final exams would be over.

Every Bhai phonta I would be introduced to a set of new books, a new series of unexplored delights. I went from strength to strength starting out with Enid Blytons, Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys to Agatha Christie and Alistair Maclean to John Grisham and Robin Cook. These would be interspersed with some bangla treats from Satyajit Ray: Feluda, Aro Baro, Professor Shanku. The hardest part was waiting the next month to start reading the books while studying for my finals.

And now years later I remember those days with nostalgia. Things are not the same. I live in a land far, far away. Dadubhai has passed away. Mamu-dadu is old and frail, just went home after spending the last month in the ICU and cannot leave his bed. P is in Indiana, B is in Michigan, T is in Australia, A is in Chennai, R is in Pune. It would be a real stroke of fate if we ever got together, all of us, for Bhai phonta. May be we won’t. But I will always cherish the memories that I carry from those days and will wish them the best of health and a long life, no matter where they are:

Bhai er kopaale dilaam phonta......

My bit

2005-11-01T11:59:00.000-08:00

Guess this's turning out to be more of a Bong adda than Calcutta per se. Delightfully so too because Calcutta's getting so non-Bengali-ish - you've to see the queue in front of Blue Print on Lindsay while the Dey's Medical people swat flies these days. Yes, the Bengali Calcutta is more of a bygone era. But then there are also those small instances when my college buddies (non-Bongs) who had (small) stints on working there complain that the Rt. 240 actually reads dusho chollish which drives them nuts - and then that grin on my face just pops up so involuntarily :)

In fact my pals complain that Calcutta is too darned slow and shopkeepers actually draw their shutters down for their afternoon siestas - gosh, think of the lazy laidback wintry afternoons and the smog-filled sky and basking in the lukewarm sun on the terrace - now that my friend is Calcutta for you!

More later...

2005-11-01T11:22:00.000-08:00

huh?
eh?
WHAAAA?
what am i doing here?
oh yes of course!

Happy Diwali All :)

Piscine ponderings

2005-11-01T09:55:00.000-08:00

Morning. Not early morning, not the time when the body creeps reluctantly towards the day, not light-breaking crow-waking tree-shaping dawn. But the time when tea is brewed and road-side flower-vendors importune walkers, when conservancy trucks clear their throats hesitantly and judder forth, when the lights strung above the fish-market begin to pale in the sun.

Buying fish. The essence of the morning round for the good Bangali householder. If one image, one metaphor were to sum up grihasti for the Bong, it is this. Little bag in hand - usually plastic yarn, distinctly mildewed and with an odour that leaves no doubt as to the usual contents – most likely dressed in flapping crumpled wide-legged pyjamas and a shirt, rubber “Hawaii” sandals flip-flopping, the man of the household shuffles between lines of vendors perched on the long platform, peering suspiciously at the beady-eyed glistening wares and occasionally asking the price in a tone of deepest disgust.

Stone chips crunch underfoot as I approach the market. There’s a new “mall” coming up here now, to replace the sprawling muddy chaotic bazaar that I grew up with. My grandfather’s house is on the next road up, and over the years the bazaar has spilt its banks every morning until it laps at our front door and little trickles now run even farther up-shore.

I remember the huge black Brahmi bull that used to stand in the vat at the corner of the road, blinking as flies buzzed around his nose, occasionally putting his head down to sample some exceptionally choice piece plantain leaf. After the bazaar had packed up for the day, he would lurch down our road through the mess of leaves and peel, snorting at anything that crossed his path and pausing only to scratch his hump against the occasional parked vehicle. Mr. Gupta across the road eventually stopped replacing the wing-mirrors on his Maruti.

Now, as I enter the little alleyway into the fish-market, there’s the thump-pause-swing-thump of a man breaking ice in a plastic tub. Little flakes of fishy ice fly onto the clothes of shoppers who remain either unaware or oblivious. I sidle past, determined to shower at the first opportunity.

A chorus of blandishments rises from the fishmongers, excited by the sight of the first lot of customers. Mostly wasted on me, because I can’t even identify most of the more common kinds of fish. I am relegated to third-class citizen status the moment I ask about the difference between paarshey and bacha. I haven’t figured it out in 30-odd years, so I wonder why I even bother to try now.

Some of the vendors, of course, welcome my ignorance. The fatted calf, they must be thinking as I approach. My shorts and tee are not the attire of the serious fish-fiend. And I hesitate to actually touch the wares … eewww, to prod and part flesh that looks quite so mucoid round the gills. As a middle-aged man beside me leans over to prod the flanks of a vast scaly thing, I am reminded of W.C. Fields’ reason for refusing to drink water – “Fish fuck in it!”

I begin to think he had a point there.

Aagomoni

2005-10-31T20:39:00.000-08:00

You don’t realise it unless you wake up early enough. The sudden .. no, not a nip, but a pleasant coolness in the morning air. The change in the quality of the light. Perhaps that’s what woke you up in the first place? And strangely enough, you do start waking up early, about a week before it happens. To revel in .. well, to revel in something.

When it starts, you can’t quite admit it to yourself. Especially if you’re pushing 40 and all mature and respectable and too old to sing on the balcony. I feel like singing Robindro shongeet (Shumon Chattopadhyay, SHUT UP already about ‘Robindronather gaan’. It always has been and always will be Robindro shongeet) I know which one, too – Ey din aaji kone ghorey go khuley dilo dwaar. Not in the affected min-miney pursed-lips Dokkhinee style but the way Kishore Kumar sang it in 1982, full-throated, a chest full of song.

Because the sunlight is suddenly sharper and more mellow all at the same time, the morning air smells different, and is that .. yes that IS a stray banner of kaash phool in the corner of the park.

Kaash phool. I saw so much of it, growing up in Salt Lake in a time before the houses grew together like fungii. Somehow I didn’t associate it with Pujo then, because it appeared in the last months of the monsoon, before the rains cleared and the air smelt like crisp new cotton. Now we have to drive ten miles to see kaash phool. No, wait, there are waving expanses along the Rajarhat expressway, silver-tipped where the setting sun sparks off them. (That exhilarating sight is the only good thing about catching a 5 p.m. flight).

There was a sea of kaash phool around the 40-acre field in the Sainik School in P*. Lovely in the morning when the late sun slanted through the morning mist, the beauty heightened by the clean feeling at the end of a good run in fresh air. That is not really a Pujo memory, but all memories of cool air and crisp weather seem to be linked to Pujo because it signals the start of the travel season for Bangalis. I remember we were in Shimultola just after Pujo one year … “Aaji joto tara tobo aakaashey”, the first time I saw constellations spread out three layers deep.

And of course, the last of the kaash phool in the low sun of November.

**** **** ****

What IS it about Durga Pujo?

Digression – Puj-OH. ‘Puj-AH’ (or Puj-AHS’) is only used when we are all so propah and anglicized and taking a letter to our class-teacher asking for some extra leave because we have to rush to the bedside of an aged relative who may not be long for this world and tickets are just not available till the day after Doshomi .. And SHE knows and WE know that this is so much bumph, we’re all off to Rajasthan for Pujo’r chhuti, but we shall be civilized and dissimulate and ooh and aah and get it counter-signed by the Vice-Principal and if it's nice Mrs. D’ Souza, she will wait till January and then ask how our great-aunt is. With a smile hovering somewhere behind her misleading hatchet-face.

‘Puj-AH’ is also used when we have become terribly smart career people in suit and phitey deowa juto (as distinct from kaabli choppol) and must make small talk about how terribly primitive it is to have so many days off from work, when will we ever develop a work ethic, it’s so professional in our head office in Boston yadda yadda yadda. Can it, McDuff, try to swing a deal in Noo Yawk on 27^th December before you give us all this first world shit!

**** **** ****

On-off, sing-song, loud over the radio at 4 in the morning, “Joshong dehi, dhanang dehi” and the theatrical intonation of Birendra Krishna Bhadro. Unique, inimitable, the voice of Pujo, Durga’s herald long after he died in his 80s. All the years past curled up in the corners of the room as I snuggle back into bed and listen to the Mohaloy programme through a pleasant haze. Mohaloy. Pujo. Durga Pujo. Pujo eshe gechhe!

**** **** ****

Rain Song

2005-10-31T20:34:00.000-08:00

Morning glistens on the monsoon roads. The air is a flapping curtain, damp and faintly stale, rent by little swirls of coolness that carry green smells.
The rain breeds moss on walls and unruly greenery on road dividers. It scrabbles holes in roads and leaves stains on the sides of houses. It breeds nostalgia.

Returning from a visit to the doctor, I find myself on a tour of my youth. Tyres susurrate, a bedraggled vendor raises a persistent yodel. Seasons past well up in memory.

**** **** ****

Jodhpur Park. A long trek from the bus stop to her friend’s house, the fan soughing like the distant sea as I disappeared into the bathroom to wash my face. Frosted green khus sharbat (Rasna ready-pack? Or did that come later?), a shelf promising delight, the comfortable background noise of the girls talking, a conversation not demanding more than the occasional smile and grunt while I ploughed through a book. The collar-chafing armpit-slicking heat outside heightened the cool of the room, the awareness of comfort perhaps more deliciously pleasurable than the physical sensation itself.

Then the darkening of the day, sullen mutterings on the horizon, a distant turmoil from the shanties on the southern shore of the Dhakuria Lakes. The scent of rain would invade the room well before the first fat drops battered the window glass. A sense of expectation, building and building, until the first flash of lightning followed by the deep elephantine roll of thunder brought release.

As the memory plays itself out and the rain streaks past the windows, we pass the spot where, 20 years ago, we stopped for phuchkas. Now it is a garbage dump.

**** **** ****

Other days of rain more sedate, even wistful. A verandah in Salt Lake, a Turner-scape with houses scattered among the waving green, breathing great lungfuls of pine trees sodden flowers wet earth grass and the faintly sour smell of iron window-grilles with coy rain-drops trembling on the edge.
That first year in Salt Lake was lonely, with afternoons spent on the verandah ledge, feeling the smooth black mosaic (too hot to lie upon during the heat of May but cool and welcoming in late June), musing on the diminution by perspective of the line of fir trees that made up the ‘Green Verge’.

The rains were even lonelier, long summer vacation mornings where the whisper of rain accentuated the silence broken at long intervals by the passing of a bus. The sound of a slamming door followed by the ‘ting’ of the conductor’s bell, carrying clearly over the acres of swaying grass that raked at my legs when I tried to walk through it. Sometimes the radio would be turned up loud in the nearest neighbours’ house a hundred yeards away, if I was lucky Vividh Bharati would be playing Kishore Kumar, the music slightly tinny and tremulous because of the distance and the vintage of the “transistor”.
And somehow the silence would be audible around the edges of the song.

**** **** ****

Purno Das Road. Always associated in my memory with summer afternoons that thrummed with empty trams passing Triangular Park, as I walked down to the stretch between Gariahat and Gol Park to browse the book-stalls. That was where I first discovered pornography, but it was also where I picked up the spare descriptive prose of Louis L’Amour enthusing about his ‘country’, where I found Maugham and MacLean behind piles of medical text-books, where I picked up a quaint little gem called ‘Love on a Branch Line’ along with (God knows why) a slim volume by Epictetus.

The book-stalls no longer await me at the end, they vanished ten years ago and now a fly-over has planted its foot where they beckoned by the light of gas lanterns spiced with the smells of tele bhaja*. Purno Das Road used to have a succession of three-storeyed houses with curving fronts, round-shouldered cousins of the more spacious bungalows on Lake View Road. The few that survive now seem to huddle together in the drizzle, waiting for the hammer and the ‘dozer that will finish them before the pile-drivers beat the ground for the apartment blocks to come.

I turn away and look back up Southern Avenue at the house opposite the Ramkrishna Mission, the house I’ve always wanted to own, white and remote behind ten-foot walls and serene in the knowledge of wealth.

On the same corner, just across the lane, is a lime-green house with an awning on the terrace. D lived there, a tear-away even in Class V, D who took me up on the terrace to show me how he could shoot crows with his Brno .22, who fought bitterly with me because I teased him about the cute girl in the TT coaching camp and then put his arm round my shoulder while he cheeked Zal the instructor. He was only 11 at the time, I was 10. D who – as I heard when I came back from training in Mussoorie – put another of his father’s guns to his head one rainy night in 1988, all because of another girl.

Too much death and change on this corner. I look away as the car passes Mouchak and turns into the tangle between Gol Park and Cornfield Road.

**** **** ****

A web of little alleys run like capillaries off Fern Road. Unchanged in 30 years, I think. The front verandahs hemmed in with fanciful grilles, a glimpse of mosaic floors in lozenge patterns, lines of school uniforms on sagging lines this Sunday morning. Smells of cooking, the hiss of vegetables released into a hot korai*2 as we pass a kitchen window, paanch phoron and kaalo jeere*3 warring in our nostrils, a steady roll of noise translated by memory into the rhythm of a grinding stone.

A grey moustache at the corner of a lane, peering towards the distant back gate of Gariahat Market. The hand behind his back must hold a little bag of rayon twine for the fish he will buy within the next hour. A face that woke late this morning, scratching luxuriously at a tattered genji*4, then sat up in bed with a pillow on his lap, drawing satisfaction from the first noisy sip at his cup of tea before peering out of the window and shouting to the kitchen, “Din taa meghla ache, bujhle. Boli khichuri chapao, dekhi byata Jodu’r kachhe aaj ilish thhaakbe nishchoi*5”.*

A drizzle sweeps out of the sun, leaving diagonal streaks on the houses and wetting the little metal plates set into the walls with the names of the lanes. Narrow cement-paved corridors lead in from the road, down the sides of houses where straight-barred louvred windows open into rooms with the remains of breakfast and empty tea-cups on scattered tables, perhaps even on bookshelves.

An advertisement for a “BBC spoken English course” glares in garish maroon from the wall of a garage. A corner has come loose and sags with the weight of the rain. A cat appears in the crack of the garage door, arches its back and closes its eyes, then disappears again. We pass on.

**** **** ****

Ekdalia Road yawns in the morning rain as we turn left. Two gates down is the B--s’ family temple. We’ve been there at least one evening during Durga Puja, every year since 1983 except for the two years when I was in exile. Even then, she came and lolled on S’ mother’s bed to be pampered till the clash of cymbals in the temple forecourt announced the start of Shondhi Pujo*6.

It used to be a sprawling red-brick mansion, half the rooms locked and two cousins living in what used to be the servants’ quarters over the garages. My other friend on Ekdalia Road has an uncle who told me, in a voice of hushed awe, “Even in the ‘70s, there used to be 22 cars parked in that courtyard. Foreign cars, all of them, the B--s never drove desi cars as long as their money lasted.” And of course there was S’ uncle who periodically vanished into the Sundarbans when his debts piled up, but he deserves a story of his own.

Now the red mansion is gone and strangers live in the block of white apartments that has taken its place. And S’ mother, who pampered us even as she scolded us, died ten years ago.

The other house I used to visit on Ekdalia Road, cool smooth floors and a gracious drawing room looking out on the Puja pandal of Ekdalia Evergreen Club, is gone as well. Except that in its place there is still the grey and brick ugliness of an apartment block under construction.

**** **** ****

Ballygunge Place. More cars, a lone rickshaw clattering down the road with the occasional flat sound of the finger-bell to warn the stray umbrellas turned up against the steady drizzle. Two young faces peer out above the polythene sheet that screens the rickshaw seat. Whither on a Sunday morning? The tyranny of tuitions? Music class, where a harmonium will underline the tremulous offerings of Robindro Shongeet from a faded diva?

And occasional glimpses of the lanes that have always made this para*7 magic for me, from the days when I walked these streets on summer afternoons and winter evenings, when I sought to exorcise the loneliness of teenage angst with solitary fantasies and pretentious poetry.

Now, I roll down the window to catch the lanes as we pass their mouths, lanes that hold together hamlets of community in the flow of the city’s life; lanes where still, as siestas fade, young men stand under windows and call each other out with the assured intimacy of boys who have grown up together. Lanes that lead to wrought-iron gates and stuccoed walls, then vanish round a corner with a backward glance that tempts me to follow …

**** **** ****

The Bypass then, gritty as the rains break it down, and I have left behind the Sunday mornings of my past, headed towards another temporary exile leavened by a Very Small Smile. The skies clear as we pass the Shonar Bangla. Which is a good thing: the rains breed nostalgia, a fungus of the memory. The sun clears the mind.

Yet memories lurk in the shadowed corners of the day.

**** **** ****

(Now for the truly pretentious bit - a glossary!)

* - vegetable fritters fried in (preferrably unidentifiable) oil. Literally, "oil-fried"; a taste bonanza paid for in heartburn and acidity
*2 - something like a wok, though usually smaller
*3 - spices. 'Nuff said
*4 - Undervest. Since you asked ...
*5 - (transliterated) Looks like rain; put on some khichuri (a savoury mess of rice and lentils with spices) while I go get some ilish (a distant cousin of the shad)
*6 - I'm not too strong on ritual. Call it a major bonding exercise and leave it at that
*7 - neighbourhood, but with a very strong underlying sense of community more than the physical proximity

**** **** ****

J. Alfred Prufrock, July 2005

Band-any

2005-10-29T14:36:00.000-07:00

A
ny Bengali, especially calcutta kid, these days will identify with what Im talkin about . Its a part of our new sense of respectable identity. Im talking about Bangla bands. I mean, think about it..... these days if you don't listen or proffess to know anything about them or scorn them as wannabe acts and proffess your love only for sophisticated "classical" stuff such as Euro- pop, or only Rolling Stones/Ac/Dc club, you are bound to be called a "tansh goru" behind your back or a anglicised to the largest extent. But if your music repertoire consist of Mohin, fossils, lakkhichara, cactus(yuck!) , chandrabindu, bangla and what not to pepper you dignified taste of Led zepplin, Floyd, mettalica, judas priest etc... you will see that a blooming flame of respect that rises on the faces of our co-youths. This is the respectable identity sense i'm talkining about. Now, I realise that what i just said might raise a huge storm of finger pointers and correctors and you might say that there is nothing wrong in the opinion of bangla ands to be wannabe acts and such like. and i agree on that part. but what i mean to say is that the first situation sort off reeks of lack of appriciation for something that is very much calcutta born. a lover of all things calcutta can appriciate the good and the bad facets of the city. and bangla bands inspite of all their wannabe-ness, has now become an essential part of calcutta culture.
If one sees it from one point of view, Bangla Band music has sort of brought back the bengali youth to listen and pay attention to bengali music again. And that by itself has infused a new life and energy into bengali music and spurring it to go on. Bengali music is not only rabindrasangeet. Bands like Bhoomi, Krosswindz, Kaya, etc has infused new life into bhatiyali and sort of convined us that its not entirely bhat. and the tradition goes on.
The fact that Bangla Band means wannabe-ness power infinity is true to a large extent but we cannot say that we have a dearth of talent or originality. Some bands have very very strong song-writers.... say Rupam of Fossils, Chandril and Anindo of Chandrabindoo. And Wannabes they might be, but all these bands posess a huge amount of musical talent in their extremely good musicians, even though the material might not be very original.
The energy that these bands generate in their programmes are awesome. The fact that before a month or six back , most of the bands only got to promote themselves through the word of mouth, the radio to an extent and only by their music sales, is an amazing phenomenon, that most of kolkata know about these wannabe bengali rockstars and all. For example, In a Fossils concert, you will hardly find an variation in the song line up. Yet they pack crowds in, and are able to hold them in thrall and controll them a bit. It helps that theyare amazing performers too.
No one can deny that Bangla bands are now a really strong part of all things that makes Calcutta, Calcutta. They have emerged from a pseudo-underground movement to being a mainstream calcuttan cultural limb.

More on Calcutta photography...and newspapers

2005-10-28T21:57:00.000-07:00

Check out this link. I adore the one where the elderlies are engrossed in the khoborer kaagoj-s. It's so darned Calcutta-ish!
---
Speaking about newspapers, do any of you guys remember the transition from The Statesman to The Telegraph that Calcutta has seen during the last decade or so? It happened sometime during my mid-school years I guess. And now my boro jyathababu, an earlier ardent Statesman reader and who held that The Telegraph was too much of a spin-off from Aanondobajar Potrika (which also would be read) can be seen with The Telegraph in the mornings.

But really, hats off to The Telegraph guys - it's a brilliant newspaper, methinks.

Schools all the way

2005-10-28T21:53:00.000-07:00

Stole this one from the school ygroup site. It's "Calcutta" Boys'...so there :)

the crowd, the yellow cabs, and the bloody traffic!!!

2005-10-28T20:06:00.000-07:00

Remember this???

Pratt Memorial School...

2005-10-28T19:31:00.000-07:00

and, sorry, but schooldays and all that...Pratt Memorial School, front view.

Lawless, as usual...kolkatar raasta

2005-10-28T19:30:00.000-07:00

er, this is from another site though. is that illegal? tell me quick! and PLEASE, PLEASE tell me how you manage to post ALL pics in ONE post!

bishti pore tapur tupur...

2005-10-28T19:28:00.000-07:00

Okay, so not the best rain-in-cal pic i could find, but still...

2005-10-28T19:27:00.000-07:00

Which ghat would this be?

Book Street!

2005-10-28T19:25:00.000-07:00

Pretty common pic, this; but one of my faavourite places in the city. good old College Street.

Kolkata

2005-10-28T13:31:00.000-07:00

This is taken out of a mail that was forwarded to me. And although the theme is hackneyed and the lines cliched, it still evokes a certain nostalgia that I have come to associate with Calcutta and being away from the city I so love.

And to quote a few lines from Veer Sanghvi's brilliant article:
"........... And to understand Calcutta, you must understand the Bengali. It's not easy. Certainly, you can't do it till you come and live here, till you let Calcutta suffuse your being, invade your bloodstream and steal your soul. But once you have, you'll love Calcutta forever. Wherever you go, a bit of Calcutta will go with you....."

was i supposed to post this?

2005-10-28T08:42:00.000-07:00

ahh whut the heck!

panty == Kanti == Heart of the Dark
Telytoot == Teleute == Ruins of the Day

from conversations and incidents during the blog meet --

1)LOST or thoroughly confused/Finding T3 ( where bloggers were called on account of blog meet)

Over the phone :-
Panty -- dude T3's near Sify Gamedrome(a gaming cafe) k
Me - ohh then i'll find it.
Panty - k cya there.
*i take bus to Park Street and reach Gamedrome*
Me-- ahh now where is T3???
Me -- *walks walks walks walks*
Me-- *walks some more*
Me -- WHAAAAAAAAAAA?
Me -- *definitely lost*
Me -- *wtf wtf*
Me -- like where is the place?
Me -- *get stared at by taxi drivers*
Me -- DAMN YOU PANTY!
Me -- *walks in direction of T3*
Me -- *almost walks past T3 but spots panty*
Panty -- *wave* *wave*
Me -- *wtf! Is that guy waving at me?* *realizes its panty*
Me -- PANTY U IDIOT!
Panty -- *wtf*
Me -- *enters T3 and seats himself*

2) To Tele-tubby or not to Tele-tubby --

Telytoot -- Don't u dare call me Telytoot again! *glares*
Me -- *WHAAA?* *HUH*
Me -- *oh*
Me -- But its such a great name :D :D
Telytoot -- i prefer anything over Telytoot
JAP -- Ahh then we should start calling you Tele-tubby.
Everyone -- HAHAHA ROFL ROFL
Telytoot- *hmph* atleast its better than Telytoot.
Panty -- *whispers* Atleast she doesn't know what you originally intended.
Me -- HEHE :-D
(yes ur allowed to guess what i originally intended)

3) GIVE MY COFFEE OR DIE --

Me -- dude your paying for me.
Panty -- WTF!
Me -- yes u heard me.
Panty -- NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.
Me -- *hehe*
Panty -- damn! only because its the blogmeet.
Me -- *orders coffee with ice-cream :D*
Waiter -- *servers the coffee at the other side other the table*
Me -- WHAA ? WHAA? HEY HEY THAT MY COFFEE.
Panty -- *schemes*
waiter -- * serves coffee*
another waiter -- *serves a whopping triple scoop chocolate sundae to Sphinx*
Me -- * : O *
Me -- *get up runs at sphinx and begs for ice cream*
Panty -- * hahaha * * starts drinking the coffee*
Sphinx -- * being the incredibly nice guy that he is,offers me ice cream even before he has any* (:D thanx man ~~ )
Panty -- *drinks drinks*
Me -- *goes back to chair*
Me -- *looks for coffee*
Me -- *WTF WHERE's MY COFFEE * *spots panty*
Me -- PANTY U BIATCH DIEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
Panty and me -- *fight over coffee while JAP takes a picture*
Panty -- *succeeds in finishing more than half* (DAMN YA DUDE)
Me -- *spills sugar all over body*
Everyone -- HAHAHAHAHAHA OMG
Sphinx -- Dude u messed up big time.
Me -- whaa?
Me -- *sits*
Me -- *looks down*
Me -- *spots sugar*
Me -- *whoa nice white crystals*
Me -- wait a sec!
Me -- *: O that's SUGAR!!!*
Me -- *gets up and wipes it off on panty while panty looks the other way*
Me -- *hehe PAYBACK DIEEEEE*
Me -- *finishes panty's cake :D*

4) "gay" waiter -- During the blogmeet all of the waiters were staring at us after the incident between me and panty fighting over coffee.There was one particular waiter who kept on staring

A waiter *comes upto me after coffee fight*-- Sir,could you please keep your voices down for other customers will get disturbed.(He said this very awkwardly in hindi)
waiters -- *stare*
waiters -- *move to take orders from others*
"gay" Waiter -- *stare* *stare*
Me -- panty watch this.
Me -- *waves to waiter in an extremely gay fashion(almost like saying hi)*
Panty -- *WTF*
"gay" waiter -- *: O* *comes upto me*
"gay" waiter -- Haan?
Me -- *leans face over to waiter's*
"gay" waiter -- *: O : O OMG WOOOHOO MY LUCKY DAY HAHAHA YEA YEA*
Me -- Pani. (Water)
"gay" waiter -- *heart breaks* *practically stumbles away* *somehow manages to fetch water but spills half of it*
Panty and others -- HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA OMG ROFLMAO

AND

CHECK OUT THESE AMAZING PICS FROM BLOG MEET :D :D

Panty
(with powder still clinging on his neck LOL!)

(Hilarious till once notices the vampiric Srhino in the background)

Telytoot
(the one in the green dress)
(notice the chicken patty she's winking at)
(Hint: its carefully hidden behind the glass :D)

And FINALLY.......
THE "GAY" WAITER
(notice that Telytoot is still winking at the patty :D)
(this picture also shows what chocolate sauce can do to a fish : O)
(Hint : look at the eyes of the bloggers sitting)(notice anything yet?)
(and of course see panty hiding in the distance looking ready to pounce on the unsuspecting)

and of course
plz do visit my blog
A Tribute to Stupidity

Pappu I know you Pappa

2005-10-28T08:36:00.000-07:00

I wanted to post this on my own blog sometime back but didn't since the topic is very inherently Bong by nature and only a Calcuttan will understand who/what I'm talking abt. The topic being - para kakus.

How many of you have interesting para kakus (PKs)? They are always there - discussing everything from the local municipal elections to Sachin's tennis elbow and how "he should concentrate more on cricket and not tennis coz Sania is much better at that" :) I love the way they stop every person walking by and ask them the exact same question - "ki bhalo to"? But lest you think they don't care for you, they add in their own personal touch to the situation as well - "tumi ki porcho jeno? bah, bah, khub bhalo!"

What amazes me most abt all the PKs of my locality is that they all bring out references to my dad. Now I know my dad and I know that he wasn't much of a para person. But that doesn't stop all these kakus from referring to him - "bujhle to (followed by some deep introspection) ... tumi tokhon onek choto. tomar baba aar ami khela dekhtey gechi ... jiggesh koro" OR "seta 1970s er kotha hobey ... tomar babar money thakbey" OR "arre Mukut (my dad) key to amiyi bollam engineering portey ... o to bhabchilo pure science niye porbey". Surprisingly my dad claims complete ignorance to most of these references. Also I have noticed that nobody makes any references to Mom - not in our para, nor in her own childhood para.

All very amusing.

of Tollywood 'stars' and radioactive fish

2005-10-27T18:26:00.000-07:00

Our dear Mr. Basu lends the celeb touch (ironical, that. as you shall soon perceive) to this blog by gracing us with this article of his, posted here for general entertainment. so you'd better be entertained.

or else!!!

****
The emergence of a distinct new species usually takes millennia of
careful evolution – unless (and listen carefully) there's a drastic
change, a sudden mutation in the original species or its environment.
In which case, there's reason to believe that there's some new
neon-green radioactive sludge that's being eaten by the fish that we
consume with manic efficiency every day. Because over the last few
years, a new breed of human has waded out of the traffic-swamps of the
City of Joy – the Calcuttan Celebrity (Pirmanentli Fotoshute)

Calcutta's not a city which had any kind of P3 list until very
recently – yes, we were always insanely proud of our icons, but never
wanted to know what they did on their weekends, or what they really
felt about global warming. But now, thanks to thriving city
supplements, retail explosions (and radioactive fish), the discerning
Calcuttan is able to watch with a fond eye as June Maliah or Raima Sen
(or, on a slow day, Bikram Ghosh) pirouettes in a new designer
creation in the morning, fights for world peace in a bookstore at
noon, opens a household gadgets store in the afternoon and addresses a
conference on modern women in the evening.

It's all harmless, mindless fun, and I like my daily fix of What They
Did Today as much as anyone else. But behind the glittering enamels,
the tittering PR people and the flashing flashes there's a serious
problem.

We don't have enough celebrities. The legitimately talented ones will
only play along when there's an actual reason to appear in a
photograph. Even the most pliant of celebs occasionally has to take
time off to (shudder) work. Plenty of Tollywood stars have time on
their hands, but not too many can be seen with the naked eye without
causing grievous mental damage. And the real celebs – TV astrologers –
would have drawn huge crowds, but those chart-busting, wild-haired
megalomaniacs are far too busy making piles of money. All our business
tycoons and politicians are old or ugly.

Thus, thanks to endless shuttling between malls and studios and
overexposure to harmful flashbulbs, our small but dedicated
professional celebrity class is beginning to lose its shine. They
laugh hollowly while battling poverty; they weep silent tears as they
point at paintings.

In desperation, photographers have taken to turning innocent
bystanders into celebs by simply putting their names and pictures on
the page – but how long can a cerebral, culture-fixated city be
sustained on the knowledge that Dolly and Gautam preferred to hang out
by the bar instead of getting into the groove with Neha (sexy in red)
and Daniel? Reporters do their best too, but except when well-known
Mumbai types drop in and they can write thrilling articles on the
lines of ‘11.30 Saif scratches his thigh. 11.35 Saif yawns. 11.36 Saif
goes to the loo’ the going gets really tough.

So I'd like to appeal to everyone in my beloved city, here and now, to
join my campaign to Save Our Celebrities. We'll march from Forum to
Tantra, very slowly, dressed in designer lingerie, chanting new-age
slogans for TV cameras. Join me. I've called up all the photographers.
Hell, we'll make Page 3, even if nothing else happens.
And eat more fish, just in case I was right about the nuclear sludge.

****

I think i'll pass the last, though, thanks you very much. and let the guest blogging continue!!!

Pench Puja

2005-10-27T06:05:00.000-07:00

Tragedy of life time struck a Maddox devottee this puja. Instead of doing pet puja in the various eateries that sprout around calcutta and seep to pour into the streets, i had to do Pench puja instead. as in Pench Madhya Pradesh. with Tigers, not Ma Durgas lion. and thats they bottomline of the tragedy. lets stretch it from there. like the plot line of Dil To Pagal Hai after the intermission, like a chewing gum, Boomer. Lets Not make a lot of sense from now on.
The holiday was lovely, really. BUt what will satisfy the heart of a bengali who craves the carnival atmosphere and non-existant cerfews? What was I to do with the excessive amout of brand new clothing recieved for the occassion? what to do with those traiterous roaming phone calls made on my Damn Cell One connection, that works everywhere but in calcutta? what do i do but to sit and dry my tears in misery and doze off in sleep in an uncomfortable position, stuck between 2 pairs of legs at a back of a cramped jeep, giving up hope of seeing those dastardly invisible tigers anyway? I persevere, thats what. and sleep, sleep and more sleep. with frequent reports of whats happening in and around calcutta. ah sad life.
BUt never fear... more to terrify coming up. Im affraid of butterflies. huge moths. moths, dark, fluttery and scary. am terrified. and these in artificial profusion decorated the cieling of the dinig hall of the hotel. I was more convinced than ever, never leave calcutta again for the pujas. never the less, i survived and was my way home hopefully, cursing everyone who had fun when i was away.
BUt speedy home delivery ws not to be. got laid out in benaras, for a day due to Bihar elections....had a most interesting time , making up for the dud puja days. Benaras is like the most interesting of cities. oldest and dirtiest. fascinating. saw plenty of sexy shadhus... made up for the loss of mine to see dashing mahishashur. Had an interesting encounter in the Biswhanather gulli. Saw a potentially rockstarish sexy south indian young sadhu turn into one cool dude with a backpack right in front of my eyes.
that was my entire holy experiance during the pujas. how holy no?

the bong and his fish

2005-10-26T18:43:00.000-07:00

so, for those who wondered online and off where I was during the pujo, well, I was tucked away at my grandparents place for more than a week. it stripped life of all those things I thought was essential for sanity – the internet, for example – and still, still, I had a really, really good time. I did.

I came away after lunch tuesday afternoon, and contrary to traditional expectations, it wasn’t a huge affair. lunch, that is. in fact, it was laughably unpretentious bengali ‘shadharon ranna’, a simple everyday home cooked meal. and it was delicious. like meals at grandparents inevitably are. there might just be a post about my stay, I certainly want to write one, but not everyone has the evocative talent of this lady or this avuncular gentleman, so it might just remain in my mind, till the dust settles on it, and it takes on a sepia, forgotten tint…

but today, we’ll talk about fun stuff. the stuff I discussed at lunch with my grandaunt jhu and my granduncle’s friend binku. there was ilish for lunch (and kanti, I bow to you as well. ilish with a spoon! kid, it’s one of the more painful ways of killing yourself slowly but suddenly. they’re called fingers. use them. if you want to live.), and I was, as usual, much scorned for scorning the fantasy of , or so everybody insists, every bangali. however, being family, there wasn’t the usual shriek of “tui ilish khaash na!!!” instead there was much shaking of graying locks and shiny brown scalps in my general direction, and tut tutting under the breath while hunting for the tiny transparent bones embedded in the fish’s flesh.

“children these days…” sighed binku. “ilish, rui, bhetki, chingri. that’s all they know. isn’t it, phuldi?” phuldi being my jhu.

phuldi nodded sadly, and broke two green chillies in a small heap of steaming rice before topping it with bhaaja tel, the oil the fish was deep fried in. “true, true…do you remember, binoy (that’s binku), in bikrampur (that’s where the family is from; it’s in bangladesh) – actually, even sometimes in dhakuria (that, of course, is in cal, but this was during the second world war, when dhakuria was almost a village) when it rained too heavily…”

“we too!”, interjected binku enthusiastically. “went out to the banks of the rivers and the paddy fields for koi maachh. achha, did you eat khoyer maachh in your family? or kholshe? the kind that grew in dobas? small ponds?”

“khoyer…khoyer…ahhh, you mean fyaansha maachh? of course we did! and my mother used to speak of times when she and saraju khurima (this is not a relative I’ve heard of. but then she was my grandaunts’ aunt. so…) rushed out to catch kholshe and koi at the height of the monsoons. even back then, I spite of being the bous…their mother-in-law was…indifferent. she was keen on social work, distributing grains and rice and cooking oil to the poor ‘low caste’ women. she didn’t much care what she ate. or her daughter-in-laws…”

I’m a little surprised, satisfactorily so, to hear jhu curl the quotes carefully around ‘low caste’. I bet when she was a child, in the early 1930s, that was the general form of referring to people. their casts, that is. how fast times have changed, I wonder for a second. in some pockets of the country. there are no caste distinctions in my family, I know because I overheard a neighbour once tell my grandfather, in tones of mild regret, that all the children of the house married out of the caste. and my grandfather ignored the tone, gave him a sunny smile and said, “yes, they’re all so happy. I’m a proud father.”

and I’ve never heard of these fishes jhu and binku are suddenly speaking of. they’ve all lost out in the battle of place in the sophisticated urban cuisine. some have, perhaps died out. others have lost out ‘cause they’re too bony, too dark and slippery, maybe a little bitter. perhaps too icky to look at. or maybe just too downmarket. (this is a term I’ve picked up recently from my twelve year old cousin, and for some obscure reason, it’s a scary word). others have survived – barely – under other names. the more familiar khoyer for the bangaal fyaansha, for example.

or kaanklash maachh. if you know bengali well enough to read, say, bibhutibhushan bondhyopadhyay, you’ll know what kaanklash means. it means fatally skinny, a bag of bones, starved taut skin thrown over a dry skeleton at the brink of turning to dust. not a pretty picture. that’s what this fish looks (looked?) like. thin, very little flesh, the snout pointed and sharp, a sickly whitish green. not for the fashionable or healthy platter. I wouldn’t buy it to save a few pennies. I’d much rather just have plain boiled rice. but people with large families and little to keep them on ate this though. regularly.

then there were baan, baaing, lyata, chang and pangash (also known as ghaayir this side of the padma). some of them looked like small snakes at first sight, some like smaller shol maachh. good deep fried, but not usually for the gentleman’s platter. hmmm.

but there are cuter names. some you’ll ooh – ahh over too, maybe. baanshpata maachh, I think, is rather cute. shaped like the leaf of a bamboo plant, hence the name. or kanchki. which are a smaller version of the more famliar mourola maachh (like that’s possible. hey, I may not eat it, but I’ve seen mourola, okay?). and wait, there’s another rname for khoyer maach…or is it another fish that looks like khoyer…anyway, since I haven’t seen either, this one’s called chapila. please tell me it sounds alien and nice. I like it. it apparently smells like ilish as well. poor man’s hilsa, eh?

now for the good ones. there’s believe you me, a silvery, exquisite variety called the shillong maachh. it looks just like bacha maachh (that’s bengali for ‘living’ minus the ‘chondrobindoo’), except that it’s snout is not quite as sharp. both are silvery white and delicious. and extinct. apparently.

then there’s bele maachh, glistening white again, and eats sand, according to popular belief. hence bele. sand=bali, which lends itself to bele.

“with white stones in it’s head, na binoy ?” jhu looks up from her ilish, “we used to collect them in small wood and ivory boxes on the sly, ma would’ve raised hell if she knew there were fish parts in the bedroom”. and she laughed. jhu was a notoriously irrepressible tomboy as a child. and then they branch off, talking about the basin bikrampur became during the monsoons. people used boats, shaajimatir nouko if that means anything to you, to visit neighbours. sometimes when the river and local ponds overflowed, people had to build shaankos, narrow short bridges made of single or double bamboo sticks across rooms! can you believe that? the houses were flooded, so you had to use a bridge to go from the drawing room to the bedroom!

“aar uthone daariye borshi diye maach dhora jeto”, binku laughs uproariously and helps himself to more fish. I’m a little concerned. he’s had three already, and nobody’s getting any younger. but in true bangali style, nobody cares how much of what they eat at our place. I had finished, so I get up, wash my hands and get my tiny telephone diary. that’s all I’ve got by way of a notebook, but these names I have to write down. there’s no way I can remember them – two generations down the line, these household regulars have become remoter than an eskimo’s diet.

and there are varieties of poonti maachh, or small, bay fishes. there’s a variety, apparently, that has a perfect black circle, like a teep/bindi on it’s tail fin. another’s called shorputi. shor as in the layer of cream on milk? the yuck thing? what’s it got to do with fishes? binku didn’t have an answer. jhu shrugged and passed him the salt.

and then come a few familiar names. before some completely alien ones. foli, kaalbosh (which is notoriously difficult to bring to land, even if you’ve caught it), chitol, mrigel, gurjaali, which is known here (if it is at all) as omlette maachh. pouya maachh, known as bhola maachh, similar to bhola bhetki. mohashol, which, I’m given to understand, is nothing like the shol. then there’s the loitya, known in bombay as the, surprise surprise, bombay duck. why duck? perhaps our resident quack expert could explain...

fotka, which is poisonous but if blown into the mouth, its tummy enlarges and makes the sound of a small balloon bursting quietly.

or, this is wayyy stupid but you gotta know, bhyada maachh. which in west bengal is called nyadosh maachh.

and then there are the chingris. golda chingri, bagha chingri, shotinpora chingri, kucho chingri…but let’s leave that for another time, yes?

because binku and jhu couldn’t come up with more names, see? they racked and raked their brains, but all the old memories have evaporated…

On Bengali mobs - murderous

2005-10-26T15:54:00.000-07:00

My good buddy Rohan had the some things to say about my unprovoked attacks on the collective Bong machismo. I have reproduced the relevant portions of his argument, with his permission, of course. Here it is.

"...While I agree with you in most parts, some serious thought into the whole matter springs forth certain anomalies.

1. It was a bong man, Arobindo Ghosh who in conjunction with Tilak wrested control of the Congress from the hands of the "petitioning-moderates".

2. Chakki and his motley crew were the first to use force/violence in the agitation against the Brits. The de-railing of the train of the then Bengal governor, as an example. Gun and Bomb making, and their subsequent use during the freedom struggle, first found root in Bengal.

3. The Armory raid at Chittagong was as closest as you could get to guerrilla warfare. All bong men in that brigade, mind you.

4. Subhash Bose and the INA of course, and a lesser known gentleman called N.N. Bhattacharya who tried to gun run German made stuff into India during WW I.

Post Independence,

1. The whole Naxalbaari stuff, nearly all -young bong men.

2. South East-Asia’s last major revolution – Bangladesh. Yeah the bongs got slaughtered there, before Indira Gandhi decided to save the day. But in its very essence it was a very violet, up in arms sort of Freedom Struggle. No soft "petioning" here.

While we as a race do not readily conjur up visual images of "physical strength or vigor", a look at the history of the last one hundred years, as listed above does indeed paint a different picture. While we do not easily slip into the "image" of the warrior class and all it’s associated trappings, violent revolt and as an extension the alpha male attributes, are actually very much a reality.A bong man for his entire bow bazaar dancing girl decadence sets the stands on fire at the Eden or Salt Lake Stadium at the slightest provocation. For all its marginalization from mainstream Indian politics, Bengal has always seen the most violent of political agitations...."

(Copyright, Prasenjit Guha, 2005)

And like most of what Guha da says, this too makes a great deal of sense. Why does everyone assume that Bengalis are meek and mild, when they have such a rich tradition of violence? A North Indian friend commented, on meeting a Calcutta lumpen - "A rowdy Bong! Now I've seen everything."

To shed some light on this apparent dichotomy, let us recall a popular joke.

Q) What do you call one Bengali man?
A) Poet

Q) What do you call two Bengali men?
A) Political Party

Q) What do you call three Bengali men?
A) Two Political Parties

Q) What do you call four Bengali men?
A) A procession and a counter-procession down Chowringhee at rush hour.

So - have all you smart people spotted the pattern? Not difficult, really. For Bengalis more than other communities, the size of their immediate cohort almost completely determines their behaviour.

An certain Iyengar Brahmin says that Bengalis are fun to talk to one-on-one, but too many intimidate him. Individual Bengalis are quietly intelligent and sufficiently well-informed on many topics which makes them great conversationalists. Even two is fine - at worst they'll have an animated debate (UNLESS you have a North-South Cal split, in which case avoid mentioning football). However, things start getting out of hand when the number increases beyond that, usually culminating in large-scale screaming in Bangla, on matters none too serious, with the participants nearly coming to blows.

The average Bengali is a pack animal. Deep within the recesses of his soul lies a caged animal waiting to break out. The sight of other werewolves is just the spark he needs and Dr. Bruce Bandopadhyay finds himself answering the call of the wild - transforming into a green-skinned monster wielding a mashaal and laying waste to every heavy vehicle on the streets. Truly, the Bengali mob, or Bonglomeration if you will, is a sight to behold. Mild-mannered clerks, bureaucrats, insurance salesmen turned into bloodthirsty beasts all driven by a shared passion for unmitigated violence. Is it any wonder that Calcutta witnesses an average of nearly one lynching death a day?

To use a scientific analogy, the Bengali male can be likened to a 1Kg mass of Uranium-235. If you are exposed to one of these occasionally you will suffer from a bad headache at worst. However, bring 5 or more of them together and we have critical mass. Kaboom!

The Bonglomeration has risen in the past to fend of attacks from such savage races as the British and the Punjabis, who made the mistake of underestimating the capacity for violence in the Bengali, thanks probably to impressions formed based on Bengalis they personally knew. The following are transcripts of historic conversations.

Conversation 1: circa 1858

Lord Canning: Well, your Majesty, we now have to worry about ruling that bloody country.
Queen Victoria: Indeed, Lord Canning. I have no idea how we are to go about it. First of all, where in bblazes are we going to have a new capital?
LC: Don't worry m'lady. I have the perfect spot. Remember that town Cahl-cah-taa. The one that old Charnock stumbled on. I think it will be just marvellous.
QV: Why that place in particular.
LC: A little bit of research on my part, ma'am. The people who live in that god-forsaken place - Bungawlees I think they're called - are a bunch of spineless wimps. Wouldn't say boo to a goose. They'll give us no trouble at all, so its the safest spot on earth.
QV: How can you be so certain?
LC: I know a few of these Bungawlees myself. There's this chap Bonnerjee who takes shorthand at one of our offices - most subservient goose I ever met. Then there's Bose who practices law. Always gets shouted down by the judge and never says a word. Then there's...
QV: You've made your point, Lord Canning. Cahlcahtaa will be the new capital. I can see us ruling the bloody place for another millenium now.

Conversation 2: circa 1974

Gen. Yahya Khan: OYE! These bloody Bangalees have won! Oh meri maa ki ******. Abhi us Mujib ke bachhe ko dikhata hoon, behen****.
(Mujib answers phone)
Mujib: Hallo. Who eej thees?
YK: Oye, who eej thees ke aulad! Saale, mein tera baap bol raha hoon, madar****. You bloody phool. Just bikaz you er winning leckshun, you think we will allow you bh***********s into Slambad. Teri to...
M: Mishtar General Shaar. Pleej do not shwear like that. I am a bhadralok and I am bhery upshet at hearing shuch languages.
YK: Abbey beti****. Abhi tujhe dikhata hoon. You bloody Bangalees will never be aybull to faarm a gvernmant.
M: Thish ij outrageoush. Bhe bhill oppoj thish infrigement on our bashic democratic rightsh. Bhe bhill phight on the shtreetsh. Cholbe naa, cholbe naa... (cut off)
YK: Dekh loonga, madar****.
Aide: Sir, agar woh bagawat shuru karein to mushkil ho sakta hai.
YK: Oh behen****. Woh kya kar lenge? Bahut behen**** Bangalee dekhein hai maine. Tu meri gaari nikal, Shahi Mohalla jaana hai.

The rest, as they say, is history.

So, my fellow countrymen, remember that however mild-mannered your Bengali colleague may seem, do not provoke him in the presence of the Bonglomeration. Your life is forfeit if you do. Do not try shooting someone in the head, molesting a local damsel, or picking anyone's pocket in a public place in Calcutta. While these things are commonplace - and in fact encouraged - in Delhi, you will be pulverized by the wrath of the Bonglomeration before you completed the task. If you are a law-abiding citizen in the presence of this multi-headed monster, keep your hands to yourself, speak in hushed tones, and avoid all sensitive topics.

And in case I have given you the impression in this post, that Bengali men are as rowdy as their Northern counterparts, perish the thought. This is only an anomalous situation. We are actually a race of well-bred intellectuals interested in art, culture and the finer things of life. Gentlemen who watch cricket and... What's that you say? Dravid is a better captain!?! WHAT DO YOU MEAN, REMOVE GANGULY FROM THE TEAM!!! BOKA*****, KH***** CH****, LA****** B***! MAAR SHALA KE! KAALO HAATH BHENGE DAO,

etc.

PS - The term Bonglomeration is copyrighted to the Punjabi ex of a friendly Bengali Blogette. Other terms are in the public domain.

On Bengali nicknames - degrading

2005-10-26T15:52:00.000-07:00

In this post I will attempt to alert people to a great injustice that is being perpetrated upon the sons of Bengal. So you thought they were wimpy to begin with. Far from it, my friend. Their current state is a result of years of conditioning by the oppressors - namely the women. By using a variety of psychological weapons, they have reduced these fine men to what you see today.

Today we focus on the first weapon in their hands - the nickname.

When a son is born into a Bengali household, he is gifted with a resonant, sonorous name. Bengali names are wonderful things. They convey majesty and power. A man with a name like Prasenjit, Arunabha or Sukanta is a man who will walk with his head held high, knowing that the world expects great deeds from him, which was why they bestowed the title that is his name upon him.

But it simply will not do for these men to get ahead of themselves. Their swelling confidence needs to be shattered. How can one go about it? This task is left to the mothers of these lads and is accomplished by the simple act of referring to the boy, not by his fine-sounding real name, but by a nickname which Shakti Kapoor would be ashamed to answer to. Their are some rules for creating nicknames, which need to be followed. They are -

1) Nicknames must have no connection to the real name. Arunabha cannot be called Arun. No, for that would be logical, and such things are anathema in the world of women. Instead he shall be called Bhombol. If possible, the nickname and real name must have no letters in common, but an ancient alphabet proves to be the constraining factor there.

2) Nicknames must be humiliating. If you are a tall strapping boy, with a flair for soccer, an easy charm and an endearing personality, then you shall be nicknamed - Bhondu. And every time, you have set your sights on a girl, and are on the verge of having the aforementioned lass eat out of your hand - your mother will arrive and pronounce loudly - "Bhondu, chalo". The ensuing sea of giggles will drown out whatever confidence you had earned from that last winning free-kick.

3) A nickname must refer in some way to a suitably embaressing incident in your childhood that you would give your arm and leg to forget. If it took you a little too long to shed your baby fat, then years of gymming will not rid you of the nomenclature - Motka. If your face turned crimson when you cried as a toddler, you will be called Laltu. When you turn 40, your friends' children will call you Laltu Uncle. Even age will not earn you the right to be taken seriously thereafter.

4) Different members of the family will make up different nicknames - each more embaressing than the preceding one. If one member of the family calls you Piklu, then another will call you Mitul, and another will call you Jumbo. The humiliation multiplies.

5) You will always be introduced by your nickname until people forget you had a real name. Ranajoy might have taken on a gang of armed men single-handedly, but Toton really didn't have a chance. After a point Toton will completely take over the beaten body of Ranajoy,
weighed down by the pressure of a thousand taunts.

This strategy is surprisingly effective. Ask yourself - would you take Professor Rintu seriously? Or put much weight by the opinion of Dr. Bubai? Or march into battle under the command of General Thobla?

The power of the nickname has scarred the psyche of Bengali men everywhere. It follows them like a monkey on their backs. That too, a monkey with a flair for slapstick, that was gifted to them by their own mothers.

On Bengali men - wimpy

2005-10-26T15:50:00.000-07:00

If you were from another country, you might conclude that the men of Bengal are a sad, frustrated lot. In fact, you'd be right. But give them a break - its not really their fault. I shall explain why in a scientific study.

Observation

I recently noted that my male friends - most of them Bengali - have been suffering from what is known as "doormat syndrome". In other words, throughout their lives, they have been trod on by stiletto-clad feet until it hurts (which is pretty soon, if you know your stilettos). The average Bengali guy is therefore a confused chap who, in spite of a towering intellect, cannot figure out why he's missing out on the action that the Singhs, Aroras and Sharmas are making the most of.
On the other hand, the women of Bengal are using the aforementioned stilettos to good effect. Oozing confidence, intelligence and serious attitude - the world is at the feet of these tigresses, just waiting to be trod upon.

Why this strange divide? Why have the sons of Bengal caught a collective cold, while the rest of India keeps its hankies firmly in its pocket? To answer this question, we will have to go back in time.

Reason 1

The area referred to as Bengal (including present-day Bangladesh) has seen much less military action than the other parts of South Asia. Note, for example, that the Bengali caste system does not include a warrior caste.
The reasons are mainly geographical. Bengal contains the riverine plains of the Ganga-Brahmaputra system, and is incredibly green and fertile. Also the multitude of streams divided the land into small self-sufficient communities, each of which could grow pretty much whatever it wanted. These factors combined to turn the Bengalis into a contented bunch who didn't really feel like getting out of bed in the mornings, let alone tramp across the countryside to conquer the next village.
Compare this to the arid North where fertile land was at a premium, and the ruler with the most land to his name was invariably the most powerful. So the Northerners were forever riding into battle in an attempt to boost their landholdings. In fact at the time that the Rajputs were battling the Turks in the Thar, the Bengali men were taking afternoon siestas.

So how does all this ancient history affect Mr. Basu's love life? Well, its like this - in times of war, the relative stature of men, with respect to women in the community, will invariably rise. If the men are forever on horseback fighting for the glory of the land, the women... umm... just hang around. Swordsmanship isn't really a woman's forte. On the other hand, even today, while making the idol of goddess Durga, the first lump of clay is brought from a prostitute's house (one of the FEW things Bhansali got right in that movie he made), showing that Bengali men are only too glad to grant the superiority of women in bed. And considering they spend so much time in it...

Segue to the present and - Reason 2

The primary deity of Bengal is Goddess Durga, the embodiment of Shakti - woman power! Right through their childhood, all little Bengali boys are treated to an annual spectacle of people praying to a violent thousand-armed lady on a lion spearing a male demon with a spear. Then there is Kali, who is quite, quite scary and is portrayed walking all over her husband (a prostrate Shiva) with her blood-red tongue sticking out. And lest we forget, there's Lakshmi and Saraswati as well. Male Gods? What are those? I mean seriously, Kartik was also Durga's child. How come HE doesn't get his own festival?
And this is unique to Bengal. The Ghatis have their Ganpati Bappa, the Northerners have their Shivratri (which gets the award for the ritual most demeaning to women), and there's Dussehra, which coincides with Durga Puja, but where the lead character is the virile blue-skinned Rama, and the only woman involved is his hapless damsel-in-distress, Sita. If you thought that was bad, the Southerners do one better - they show devotion by pouring milk over an idol shaped like Shiva's phallus. No seriously - "Just in case you women didn't get the point that you are completely subservient to us, we shall make you bow to a divine d**k". How sad is that?
So basically, the vagina monologues are limited to Bengal, and everyone else is completely (well?)hung up on male domination.

With imagery like this, the average Bengali boy grows up in the shadow of the Mother Goddess, in awe of women in general and utterly under the thumb of his mother. Every time our little lad has wanted to defy mummy, an image of a lion and a spear flash through his brain, and the thought passes. Is it any wonder he finds himself wanting in the battle of the sexes?

So, history and social conditioning combine to make Bengali men complete and utter wimps. At the same time, the women of Bengal are confident, powerful and very very dangerous. Not even a fair fight. In fact the Bengali women are even competent to take on the testosterone-pumping "Wham bam, Sat sri akal ma'am" brigade of the North. And they thought Turks on horseback were bad!

So Messrs. Mukherjee, Basu, Chatterjee, et al - its not you. Its fate. Tough shit, guys.

A small suggestion, though. Make a beeline for the towns of Haryana and Rajasthan. There you will find women who are still under the misapprehension that they are inferior to menfolk. They have had a different set of ideas drilled into their heads, and are so completely subjugated that even you guys will have no trouble handling them.

A final prayer to Buchuchandi, the wrathful Bengali goddess of South Asian History -

"Maa Buchu, I know have offended thee with my shameless desecration of ancient history. Please find it in thy heart to forgive me my minor shenanigans, and turn thy mighty vengeance to targets within thine own realm of Notoon Inglistan. Om Shantih."

They were all there once

2005-10-26T10:56:00.000-07:00

A million toddlers and even a Drama Queen
Some touching forty, others in their teen
The greatest of Bongs and a Sad Old one too
While some Hate Fish, others 've Started to Blue
A Mithun persona who also likes playing games
Others have Inspiration dripping from their names
And as some of them regale in the Ruins of the Day
The rest just stay in Dark or walk the Insanity way

So why send so many emails when you all can post?
To the Calcutta bloggers - I raise a toast!

When Bloggers Meet

2005-10-25T22:15:00.000-07:00

16th October. Blogmeet.

Is meeting bloggers a good idea in the first place? Can the persona of the blogger and the person in real life be reconciled? We like Gaurav Sabnis's blog but do we really like the "Real Gaurav Sabnis" ? You may read Greatbong's weighty musings but would you care for his actual weight?

With such thoughts reverberating within my demented mind, I walked into the apocalyptically titled "T3" ----the waiters having a definitive cyborgian air about them. I had seen JAP before----though it was evident that JAP had left a bigger impression on me than the other way around; he forgot the fact that we had crossed paths before on another continent.

Anyhow, JAP --having seen a few more summers than most of us was seated in the middle holding the entire assemblage together. And me---having occupied a fewmore cubic feet than most of the others, counterbalanced him at the other end.

On my left was seated a rising star of theatre. And some bloggers---still in high school. Acutely conscious of my own age (I was reminded of a question thrown at me by a number of "juniors" at Stonybrook: " You actually saw Sunil Gavaskar bat?")

I looked to my right and there were first and second year "tanayas" (ladies) from JU and Presi. I wistfully thought of the days I had spent in AC Canteen jharofying their didis many moons ago. Needless to say, I do this any longer (Freudian slip)---- with age and maturity, I have become more respectable.

The conversation flowed freely---cha and coffee were ordered. After which a bizarre incident took place. The cyborgian waiter suddenly said: "No more coffee" in a definitely Gandhian non-cooperative way. Fortunately, JAP had booked a table at Flury's across the street and we trooped out. As we did, I glanced back at the waiter in order to confirm a suspicion I had been harboring for some time based on what I had read in "the Historian". Imagine my sense of vindication when his white cap moved a little and I saw what I had been expecting to see----a hidden ponytail. No wonder, he was being rude. He had been possessed by the evil Chicken spirit and thus had as much regard for bloggers as Dracula has for garlic.

T3's loss was Flury's gain. Kind of. Conversations carried on along the normal lines of murderous school principals, Moonmoon Sen's non-mainstream celluloid achievements, mass copying, short tops and "golabondho" jeans, Bhappi Da's moojik, getting under the table and call girls (which suddenly elicited an enthusiastic response from someone---that individual not being named for fear of causing slander and of consequently getting a notarized email). Samit Basu, the great Duck, blessed the gathering remotely. IIPM was *not* discussed---except a passing word or two.

JAP took pictures of all of us --on the condition that individuals are not identified. Hah..."fat" chance of anyone being able to map me in those pictures !

In all, an extremely pleasant afternoon spent with like-minded people. And yes it does make sense to get to know the people behind the silly monikers----if only to see how sillier they are in real life. Here's looking forward to the next one.

2005-10-25T19:20:00.000-07:00

On Sunday, I set out to T3: The Tea Table. A blogmeet was supposed to be held there. My Dad offered me a lift because he was going that way. So, at four twenty-five, I found myself on the corner of Park Street and Free-School Street. I had never been to T3, so I decided that I would have to look for the place. So I looked around ... and saw a familiar face. Trina was sitting and looking out of the window. I looked up and saw the signboard. It said T3. I walked towards the entrance ... and saw another familiar face. Teleute was standing there looking very confused. Obviously, she did not know Trina. She saw me, and we engaged in small-talk. Just then, another confused face popped up. His name was Krishanu. He was wondering whether we knew of a blogmeet. The door opened, and Trina came out. After the brief introductions, we went inside and met another blogger called Sphinx.

Soon, other bloggers started showing up. The venerable JAP, the insane UI, Jaded, Srin, Rimi, Babelfish... the numbers grew. Soon, we were making lots of noise. Much coffee was consumed before the management gracefully informed us that they were out of coffee. More likely, they found us too noisy.

A general exodus was made in the direction of the main Flury's. The people inside stared as a lot of people walked in, and stared harder when we made lots of noise even before being seated. Food was ordered, from Chicken-Cheese sandwich to Coffee with Ice-Cream to Chocolate Pastry.

Photographic evidence was also acquired. JAP took a few pictures, the best of which has to be the one of UI and myself engaged in semi-mortal combat over Coffee with Ice-Cream.

Slowly, some of our number began to disperse. At about seven fifteen (not sure), we left Flury's. We split up, but not before posing for a photograph in which all of us cross the road together.

Then, we went our separate ways. And that was the end of the blogger-meet.

Blogmeet

2005-10-25T06:30:00.000-07:00

Well, so the second Cal bloggers' meet happened and was a great success.

Cal bloggers of sundry ages from 14 to 137 (guess who?) carried on conversation, ribaldry and mayhem with great gusto. All was very 'kewl' as a certain Kaku would say.

Some people were missed.

The Ducky, especially. There are moments when one runs out of witticisms and looks for some effortless humour of the duck kind.

And the duck does this sort of lit party/blogmeet summing-up thing much better than anyone else, so would not have attempted this if the basu had been present to record and comedify ( as opposed to 'commodify' - which, our favourite professor of drama in JU once told me [to my great amusement] should mean, according to the rules of the English language, 'make into a commode'. I had used that word in a tutorial and he was much peeved/ amused. "The right word, which no one uses, is 'commoditize'", said he. Have never managed to use that word so far. Will, as soon as I can.)

I digress.

The Bridalbeer and Sagnik of 'no url left' were remembered with much affection. Hope we can all meet and be merry together at some point.

There was a lot of laughter and randomness. Ice cream spoons were dropped and thrown around on brand new kurtas and hair, the scene shifted from T3 to Flury's in Japdas able organisational hands.

The gorment was lauded, feared and deeply revered.

I met two old acquaintances, and having had no idea they were bloggers, was much pleased. Heard that most of JU english dep is now blogging.Which is good. And before the whole JU/Presi debate starts again, lemme clarify that I have no particular feelings of patriotism for any of my alma maters. And that includes Oxford. Im just not that kind of person, whattodo.

The best and most salacious bits of the conversation, mostly courtesy the Greatbong, cant be put down here cos they involved famous ponytailed and non-ponytailed celebrities, old school rectors, actresses who are JU alumni [no, not me, before you ask], alleged 'quizmasters'/ 'theatre personalities' with the initials P.M and more such. And whoever said Cal and ex-Cal types would ever run out of gossip?

Snippets of random conversation I remember.

1.

Japda (in the most melancholy voice): Was at the Durgabari this time, and felt some one hundred and thirty years old...

[Pause in conversation when no one says anything and every one tries to look sympathetic.]

Laura: And you're not?

Japda (looking hurt): ...

Laura(smiling sweetly): Good to know.

2.

Japda smoking pipe.

Sweet young thing: You should put substance in that pipe.

Japda (smiling enigmatically): Uh-huh. No. I dont do that anymore. Substance was a long time ago. The last time I did substance was ... was... was...was... was...

[The longest pause while he pokes pipe with keychain . Vajpayee would have been ashamed.]

Laura ( very helpful and ever ready to complete other people's sentences): Woodstock?

Laughtrack.

3.

Greatbong: So is this like a post-bijoya shubeccha meet?

Rimi (I think): E ki tahole gurujonder pronaam kora hobe na?

Japda (petulant): Keu korche na to!

We are all happily stationed at a Flury's table by now, pre-booked by Japda.

Laura: Ei to, we shall all be crawling under the table to do just that right now.

Arnab: Ei, ei, have you seen Boom? Maane this is too much like Boom kintu...na?

Laura: Jani.

Japda (deeply embarrassed to the bottom of his bhadrolok soul but trying valiantly to cover up) : Was trying very hard to be decent, but if you are going to say all this...

Let's not finish that one.

4.

Greatbong and Japda bonding over Mithun.

Greatbong: And do you remember that? 'No warning, no arrest, only bhog of ma'

Rest of us: What? What?

GB: Crowd screaming in the background 'Mayer bhog, mayer bhog.'

There was much else. Am sure the others will put in there bits. Kanti's schoolname is hilarious, but I kind of like the chap, so wont put it here ... though I think I laughed the longest time on that one. Lemme just say the word starts with 'P' and rhymes with his name. There. Will stop at that.

uh...

2005-10-25T01:50:00.000-07:00

um guys.... how bout jazzing the template of this blog a bit eh?

2005-10-24T07:43:00.000-07:00

there have been rumours of an *upcoming* blog meet.
most likely sometime around the third saturday of November(19th)
So people keep your schedules free.
because
Naa aashle KELIYE DEBO !!!

2005-10-21T11:27:00.000-07:00

dear all,

this is the blog we were speaking about (well, sagnik and trina, at any rate. i think...) so, since young (even by my standards, heh) unjustified insanity has put up a post already, i thought we might as well get some work done here.

since the blogmeet was where it all started, it'd be a good idea to post all your relevant posts here. trina? arnab? JAP? would you please please please do it?

(oh, damn! and blast. i didn't invite arnab. sheesh! me!)

right, then, JAP says, and i completely agree, that pujo posts everywhere is a brilliant idea. so, everybody who wrote anything about the pujos, please put it up here.

also, this isn't attempted racism (it's better to play safe, you never know) but will members please scout blogs and their own archives for their cal and bengali related posts? (g9's post on bongs spring immediately to mind...)

so, posts up ASAP, what?

and any changes to the blog name/template/settings? (i'm not over-fond of the name, so please suggest changes if you want to)

Hi all

2005-10-21T10:38:00.000-07:00

ahh now that we've finally got it created.
Tell me, what exactly are we planning on doing with this blog?