Summer at last

Finally, we have summer !!! This year for those of us on the East Coast, it has been a long, bitter and miserable winter. The spring followed with some promise, though soon overflown with rain at historic levels. Therefore, no wonder that summer was desperately looked forward to, in the minds of all and sundry. The astonishing part is how I, a Bengali from hot and humid Calcutta, have come to such a state of affairs that I now actually look forward to plus 80-degree days.

I think, friends, that the answer lies in the fact that man is a slave of practice and environment. “Manush abyasher daash !!!” After a decade and a half on this coast, worn down by the winters, the blazing heat for a few months seems more bearable as my memories fade of Calcutta's plus 100-degree days. However, some never fade, as the one I recall now of our days on the football fields. More on that later on in this ode to summer.

Some time back, at one of the “soccer” camps here, I stood bewildered at the sight of 22 kids outfitted with kits which would have been the envy of even first-class football clubs in Calcutta. And wonder of wonders, each had his own ball !!! Good grief; my long dead grandfathers , staunch East Bengal football fans, would be turning in their graves, if we had indeed buried them. How in the world will these kids learn dribbling, snatching or tackling – to play the game the proper way ? Now I know why American soccer is such a sorry state on the world map. The full analysis will have to be left to worthier scribes than me, dear readers. No doubt you are wondering, why bring this up here ? Where is the relevance?

Aghast at the aforesaid sight, my mind hearkened back and took comfort in the memories of our football playing summers in Calcutta. All we really needed was one ball. Jerseys and kits ? Perish the thought – those were for the serious players in the clubs. For us commoners, it was really simple. One side would keep their shirts on, the other side bare-chested !!! A great sight for those who remember.

In our gang of youths those days, we used to have two Bapis, very conveniently classified as Roga Bapi and Mota Bapi. As you can imagine, Mota Bapi was always suspicious why he ended up on the bare-chested side. We always protested that it was by chance, not by any of our evil designs taking fun in seeing him flopping bare-chested all over the muddy field !!!

Another fond memory of Calcuttan summers is the majestic mango. Ah, the start of the season with the Himsagar, followed by the Langra , ending with the Fajli. Before you clamor and shout – yes I do know there are many in between – the Gulabkhas, the Dudhi , the Alphonso of Western India et al. Some of my Indian friends here, from other parts of the country, fail to grasp the significance. They often tell me why is it such a big deal when we can get mangoes here by the crate anytime. Ah – the ignorance of it – this is where the much blamed intellect of the Bengali often comes to the surface !!! It is blasphemy to compare the bland single taste of the Mexican mango to the many-hued flavors of the varieties I mention above. One cannot wholly blame them , I realize – it would be well-nigh impossible for those to understand who have never tasted these sublime versions, each very different form the other.

One other summer memory that springs to mind is Digha. For Jersey folks, we have manifold beaches here within an hour's drive – yet the charm of Digha's beaches remain of a different texture. I am informed that approach roads are nowadays much better in those parts as well. Back in our days, it used to be about 4 or 5 hrs away in one of the tourist “coach” buses. The beaches here are more sloping, thus you are up to your waist very soon. I remember Digha's beaches being very flat, so that you could go out a long way before the water could reach waist high. The charm of those beaches in the evenings was very different from here – you would see gaggles of people in all forms walking up and down the beaches, impromptu shops setup all over the place selling trinkets and what not.

I recall an incident from those days, which albeit embarrassing now, may be fruit for some humor in hindsight. Though consuming alcohol in public was prohibited on the beaches, we , a group of daredevil college boys, were chugging down “Guru” and “Kingfisher” beer at the edge on one of beaches, on one fine balmy summer evening. Our confidence was bolstered by the fact, that we were seated beyond the overhead street lights and were in the dark – so that nary a person could really see us. As luck would have it, a roaming patrol of policemen caught us , rounded us up and summarily announced that we would be charge-sheeted , spend the night in a lockup and released the next morning.

We started realizing that they were really angling for a bribe, by frightening us into paying up. My friends , in order to lessen the amount of money we would have to pay up, started imploring me to tell the police sub-inspector about my eldest maternal cousin brother – a Calcutta Police sergeant, at that time posted in the Entally area. God forbid !!! - I retorted to my friends in horror. Any rough treatment at the hands of these policemen would pale in comparison to the whipping I would get back home if my brother found out, I told them. Best to pay up and get out of there, I told them.

In the end, we settled with the policemen for a princely sum of Rs. 200, pleading that we were poor college students, trying to make the most of a beach outing !!! While the officer ultimately agreed, he stalled us temporarily by pointing at me and asking - “If indeed you are poor , how do you explain this boy's silk panjabi and gold necklace” ? In those days, I used to sport a necklace all the time and the panjabi was for the celebration cut short. My friends glared at me, as I stammered and tried to explain that both were really gifts from my parents for having done well in the past exams. The gods were kind to us that day , I believe, for the officer did appear to be convinced and went off with his troops for the next fleecing.

It remains my overwhelming regret that summer here seems to turn into a period of frenetic activity. One always has to “do” something , to be able to say we are enjoying the summer. Youngsters have to left to their own devices sometimes to understand the pure joys of impromptu activities or just relaxing and doing nothing at all. I wish we could import the much-acclaimed Bengali “adda” to these shores. We here seem to be turning our youth in regimented camps of structured fun – which, I fear , is stifling creativity and creating a lack of curiosity for things unknown. We insist on activities where the end is known, expected and mapped out.

Let us bask in the heat, lie back and enjoy the season while it lasts. Summer here is treasured all the more since it is so brief. May we have a dazzling , dry and happy summer !!!

- Prasenjit Baisya

Tagore in Spring

May, the month on the East Coast, when trees are in full bloom. Spring green and blossoms everywhere, for the blessed ones bereft of allergies, who can truly enjoy them. I, alas, have to be fortified by medicines, nasal and eye drops to be fortunate enough to venture out and immerse oneself in these joys.

This year, we were gifted with the opportunity to listen and bask in the strains of Bengal's greatest poet, on the occasion on his 150^th Birth Anniversary. The celebrations of his work in multiple halls of Rutgers University were a breath of fresh air, all the more since such a variety of offerings are rare on our coast. Dance dramas, musical soirees et al were offered, to reaffirm the Tagore in all of us fortunate enough to attend the events.

Back in my college and university days at Calcutta, I had many friends in Santiniketan and in the Fine Arts divisions of many Calcutta colleges. This event brought back flooding memories of the gatherings we would have in Rabindra Sadan, Kala Mandir, the Academy of Fine Arts or the general College and University fetes. One has to understand that for the Bengali, the joy does not lie in knowing the song, story or script that Tagore's works present. Rather, it is the inner consciousness and the enjoyment of the senses one attains when immersed in the sights, sounds and color of Rabindra Sangeet, a dance drama or a rendition of the poet's stories.

Those gatherings would sweep you up in its many-splendored folds, weaving in treasures to be cherished many seasons later. This spring event brought back many of those wondrous memories as we moved around the halls attending different sessions of song and dance. The galleries of Calcutta did not have the vast expanse of trees and greenery that campuses here have, yet, I felt a strong sense of commonality as I stood beside one of the wooden bridges betwixt the halls. Could it be that the poet's stirrings of song had merged the divide of oceans?

There is divinity in the fact that Tagore, unlike most composers, did not craft the music first and then string words to them. Amazingly, it was the other way around, where his poetry wafted forth and musical notations followed - to create the compositions we cherish now and for many generations to come. Lo and behold, there methinks, lies the ethereal magic of Tagore’s Rabindra Sangeet. This awareness was reaffirmed as the renditions of many artistes spun musical threads across the halls, evoking my memories of such days in my youth long ago.

Truth be told, the heart grew heavy with the regret of long-lost youth and the realization that those profound memories are the desperate anchors we hold onto, as we sway and tumble in the grind of routine. However, as the great poet wrote, there is nary a human emotion or a phase of life that he did not write for. Which other poet could venture to compose “Ananda Dhara Bahiche Bhubane” as he lay grief-stricken in the untimely death of his son? We, the mere mortals, take solace in such enormous works as we soldier along in our endeavors.

May all of us, my dear readers, awaken and treasure the Tagorean Bengali in our hearts and souls, as we enjoy the bloom of this Spring …

- Prasenjit Baisya

The Coming of Spring

The month of March, emerging from a long and cold winter on the East Coast, is a time to look forward to the thawing spring. This year, our winter has been especially bad, whether we blame it on El Nino effects or the vagaries of Mother Nature. Alas, if only snow shovels and blowers could speak !! Many an interesting story they would have to tell.

Spring brings to mind one of our most boisterous and joyous festivals. Yes, indeed the Festival of Colors, our beloved “Dol”. One recalls wistfully the days of our boyhood, when we would start the morning with water colors, or as we grew older, horrific shades of silver or black tar, to be put on all and sundry who were unfortunate enough to cross our paths as we rambled across “paras” in search of innocent victims. We would often put these colors on ourselves first, mothers aghast at the faces of their sons. Then, in the late afternoon, we would either wander off to our houses to wash off the colors or jump in one of the nearby ponds to clean up. It used to be a matter of pride to have concocted colors which would not wash off but stubbornly remain for a few days on our faces, as evidence of our mastery and power. In the evenings, the time used to be for a more sedate sprinkling of “aabir”, one in which seniors and parents would join in the gatherings as well.

Back in those days, traffic would be stopped on the roads for the day, to allow for safety of the Dol revellers. I am almost embarrassed to recall now, that in one particular year, having no recourse to public transportation, me and one of my friends bicycled 10 miles to go and meet my girlfriend of those days – now my better half. We were apprehensive of getting pasted with colors from boys of her para, but by Cupid's grace, our luck held up pretty well !!! Strange indeed, as the good wife would retort - that I still remember that Dol, having forgotten many other occasions. 

Calcuttans, at least back in my time, are not very given to religious aspects of festivals – preferring to revel in the social and active parts, offering only the token obeisance needed. Never having been tuned to the religious part of this festival, I have never really participated in the Dol celebrations we have here in sundry temples and community gatherings. It is a particular facet of our festivals observed here, that large parts of them are religious – probably due to the fact that we do not have the luxury of having several days to observe them. More often than not, here we have to cram it all in a weekend, mindful of the American lifestyles we all have had to adopt.

However, it is high time that I show my daughter at least a representation of our Dol here, bereft of my being able to show here our actual revelries in Calcutta. In the past when she was younger, we were always worried about exposing her to the cold of April – since one does have to be outside to play Dol in a proper manner. For a girl entering Middle School, I guess I should not be worried about this any more – there are bigger problems coming my way !!!

That brings me to the day before Dol – the famed “Nera Pora” – somewhat similar to camp bonfires here. As in all American outings/sports – bonfires here are much controlled, well thought out affairs under adult supervision. Our Nera Poras were more in the tune of – “light up a fire with wood scraps, twigs, sticks, whatever else you can find and keep throwing stuff in to keep it going!!!” If we ever had such a one here, I daresay there would be several fire engines blaring their path to the place. Many of us will recall the old rhyme, which I place here again for my younger readers, hoping they will keep reading with as much enjoyment as I do writing for them.

Aaj amader Nera Pora

Kaal amader Dol

Purnima te chand utheche

Bolo Hori Bol !!!

May the Festival of Colors bring immense joy to our hearts

and uplift our spirits, as we step into Spring …

Saraswati Puja 2011

The most benign of our goddesses, dear readers, yet, at no time in our living history have we needed her more to bestow her powers upon us.

We are in the second decade of the twenty-first century. Scholars and visionaries alike proclaimed that this would be the century of breathtaking technology – connecting all citizens of the world in ways we could not even dream of. This century would foster greater understanding among us all, making the world a far smaller, safer and healthier place. Part of this proclamation has come true. Thanks to many technological advances, the world today is indeed a smaller place. Sadly, the safer and healthier dreams have not rung true. This century has unleashed many horrors and widespread devastation, stretching the beliefs of many unfortunate people as to whether there is really a higher power governing us all.

How did this come to pass ? Knowledge begets understanding; understanding begets compassion. In spite of increased learning and all our newfound ubiquitous technology, I fear true knowledge has eluded us. We, the citizens of the world today, painted with a broad brush, are regrettably lesser compassionate and I daresay, lesser in understanding of our differences as human beings than in the past centuries. Our forefathers would be well-nigh ashamed of our actions in recent events throughout the world.

Many of our readers will recall the Saraswati Pujas of our childhood, the “narkuli kul” available only in this spring season, staying up all night to guard our small “pandals”, hustling around to grab the “purohit”, as he scrambled from one “para” puja to another – a man in much demand and source of rancor between rival clubs hosting Pujas. While we regret that those days cannot be recreated here as we embark upon celebrating our Saraswati Puja, let us bring ourselves to hope that the goddess shall bestow the powers of knowledge upon us, leading us on the path of understanding and compassion, desperately needed in today’s world, yet so rare to find.

Happy Saraswati Puja!!!!

The Deer on Route 1

Riding on the bus to work today, I was immersed in thoughts of the Kali Puja our club had organized this weekend. Transiting from the old guard to the new, we are struggling to spark involvement from others our age in the club’s activities.

Deep in such thoughts as the bus rounded the merge from Route 1 to the East Brunswick Tower Center hub, the still body and open eyes of a dead deer burst into my sights. In New Jersey, such deaths are common in fall and spring where deer are often struck down by speeding vehicles. In the past, I have got no more than a fleeting glimpse of such bodies. This time, being a passenger, it was the first one I saw clearly.

Eyes open and strikingly focused, perhaps having been killed recently, did I imagine it pleading to be taken away and buried? Here in this great bastion of democracy, there is high regard for human value – in our worst nightmare, a human being lying there would be sacrilege. Did we not owe the same to this helpless animal? In my native country with population bursting at the seams and resources pitifully insufficient, delay may be understood, daresay justified. How so here and why?

A deep sense of foreboding overwhelmed me. On a cold, dreary and windy day in the future, will man too be struck down on a grassy ramp? Will he lie sideways, lifeless eyes open, pleading to be disposed swiftly and mercifully – away from curious pitiless eyes?

May all life be gone from this Earth by then – what utter shame on us; should such a day ever come to pass.

The passion of Bengal

Friends , the 2010 World Cup is upon us. For the ignorant, let us not call it soccer please !!!

Around the world it is football, save the US where even the 24X7 channel for the sport has to be called the “Soccer Channel”. I never feel more homesick for Calcutta then when a World Cup comes around. At the risk of sounding partisan, I believe all my Bengali fellow beings here will agree – the football frenzy that we share as a legacy is hard to understand for someone not having grown up in that atmosphere.

Make no mistake, we have our domestic clubs – the immortal rivalry for the IFA shield between  East Bengal and Mohun Bagan, where even marriage proposals had gone awry because the prospective bride and groom's families had different club loyalties. Four generations of my family have been East Bengal supporters save one of my sisters-in-law's family – the only concession we allowed for Mohun Bagan !!!.

Be it also noted that Bengalis are great watchers and analyzers of the game, so when a World Cup rolls around, loyalties move from the clubs to Brazil, Argentina, Portugal etc. Myself, I am a Germany/France fan and have survived many fist-fights over the '86 Mexico World Cup, where the great Karl-Heinz Rummenigge stifled the “samba” greats Zico, Socrates and Josimar. There are endless comparisons and arguments whether Maradona would have been better than Pele or Klinsmann better than the “Black Pele” Eusebio. Could Beckham be a match to the immortal Garrincha or Falcao ? And how can we forget the magic of Platini – incomparable midfield general ?

Flipping back to the homesickness I mentioned, the most I miss is watching games together with friends. For those younger in years, it will be hard to understand that all the fun and passion used to be in watching games with the whole gang cramped together in one room with a 18 or 20” inch TV – mostly black and white till the nineties or so. Arguments galore and often tempers would fray over a disputed red card, penalty or free-kicks. A far cry from the soccer bars here, which are completely alien in concept from what we had in our days.

After I settled down here, in an attempt to get some sense of watching football together, two of us from New Jersey traveled 250 miles to Lancaster, PA to be with two others of our Barrackpore gang to watch the 2002 World Cup Brazil vs. Germany final. All three of them were Brazil fans, me the lone German one hoping Kahn would keep out Ronaldo – alas not to be !!! I broke my glasses in the excitement and not having carried my backup pair, drove back 260 miles with one good and one cracked glass – all the way back.

For the 2006 Cup – I went over to another friend's home here in Central Jersey – to watch the final again – hoping the immortal Zinedin Zidane would overwhelm Italy – a team I cannot stand to watch playing. Italy prevailed as followers of the game know, and Zidane, alas – will probably be remembered for his head-butting red card than all his glorious game-making play with the French strikers Viera, Thierry Henry and Trezeguet.

All this to achieve – as we say in Bengali - “Dudher shaadh ghole metano !!!”

This year, I have to watch the Cup alone, all our kids having grown up and having different weekend schedules, we can no longer meet up together to watch any games. That, friends, is what I regret the most as having lost in the travails of settling down in life and career here. My 46-inch Sony LCD TV in all its High Definition brilliance cannot make up for those lost days of football fever.

However,something is to be said for football here, since my daughter has become – horror of horrors !!! – a Brazil fan along with her schoolmates who come over nowadays to watch games with me. Added on is the hope that the USA may finally do something in this Cup, with the goalkeeper Tim Howard of my town and Donovan/Dempsey maybe turning out a last flash in their career-ending days.

 For the fans of African teams, we will truly regret that Roger Milla's Cameroon of 1990 has not gone on to produce the African teams , that as the great Pele hoped, one of them would win a World Cup in the 21^st century. The closest we have come is that an African nation, South Africa is hosting this year's cup. The purists will lament that the Brazilian “samba” style is no longer to be seen with  Dunga's team looking more like an European team, eschewing creative brilliance for the “total” football and scientific style more in line with a Dutch or a German team.

Styles of football have also evolved – we can no longer see the classical 4-3-3 or 4-2-4 formations any more, there are a whole host of combinations now that teams play , no doubt the influence of technology as in other games. As with other things, my friends, the football fever we had back in our days will not come back but I remain hopeful that we may at least keep up the tradition of watching the games, wherever you are, maybe gathering at someone's place to relive those days in part.

By the time this article comes out, this World Cup will be over – hopefully with Michael Ballack holding the trophy and Miloslav Klose having two goals under his belt. By now, you will have grasped the nation these players represent and whose legacy they carry as the World Cup rolls on...

My American Daughter

This year, I have decided to switch tracks and choose a different perspective for my readers. For the past weeks, it has been gnawing on my mind that my recent experiences with my nine year old daughter as she progresses from a child to a young girl is something people of my age who have been here for some time with children born here may like to read about.

It has always been a worry that our daughter, while growing up here, may soon feel Indian “culture” at a distance, since our India trips are once in two years at best, barring which, her active touch with family in India are our overseas calls to her grandparents. Let me hasten to add here that I do not subscribe to the theory of dragging children for Hindi/Bengali classes at community centers or forcing them to read from our Indian texts and scriptures in the hope of their imbibing “culture”. Personally, I grew up in Calcutta and had to carry some derision of being “Anglicized” in my college and university days, since all my schooling had been in an American missionary institution. That did not hasten my parents to do any formal over-schooling for “Indianization” but to go with the flow and let things even out – I have followed the same path.

By intention or accident, over the past few months, certain incidents have come to pass, which has resulted in a sense of gratification for me. My daughter has recently taken a liking to Hindi movies, which I have getting DVDs for her to watch on her “porty” ( her Sony portable DVD player). In our day and age, regularly watching Hindi movies was frowned upon as something which would corrupt our minds and lead to neglect our studies. Here, on the contrary, I have realized that this is actually a very good idea, provided it is managed with care. By simply piquing her interest in some movies and my favorite actors of yesteryear as well, she is now interested in the old and the new of Indian cinema , on which we have regular conversations now. We all will agree that Indian cinema, with both its good and bad sides, is essentially a mirror of Indian culture , therefore not needed to be formally taught but imbibed in a manner to be casual and yet persistent. Voila !!!! - Hannah Montana, High School Musical and Shrek now co-exist with Shah Rukh, Aamir and Salman Khan in her “porty” collection.

The other event which has yielded similar results is that she is very curious to know how I was at her age and wants to hear the detailed biography of my schools, childhood , college etc.. all the way  till I finally landed up here. Of course, it seems inconceivable to here that we have no videos of that time and nary some B&W photos !!! For people of my generation, who were born in the late sixties and grew up thru the 70's and 80's know why !!!! - the details will have to be in another article. So, we hit upon the next best thing, that is to tell her my life, one year at a time, during her dinner time. This magnum opus could not be told without bringing my teachers, friends and family in the picture and so, by extension, the images I have been able to paint for her are snippets of our life in those times, as something to be cherished and retold for generations.

The one she adores from those stories is the one of us, in our teens, playing Indian football a.k.a. American soccer, with one side wearing shirts and the other none (!!!!) , to distinguish between two teams, then being covered with mud in the July/August seasons of Barrackpore's football fields. Very different from her school's and our town's soccer teams, where the smallest kids are decked out in full soccer kits, which each kid having his/her own ball !!! I have also managed to pique her interest in watching some of the recent Twenty20 cricket matches with me.

Notwithstanding videos and photos, the images of our festivals that I have conjured up for her have also captured her imagination. As we in New Jersey know, the timing of Dol in April does not permit us to celebrate it outside, in the manner we were used to in our childhood. Till last year, my daughter was petrified of the small “Aabir” bindi that my wife would put on her when Dol came. This year, having heard from me  of the joys of playing with colored water in the mornings and Aabir in the evening, she is now ready to move to India to be able to play Dol properly !!! Not a practical thought, given our job and house commitments here, but nevertheless, it brought me much gratification to be able to create the bond for her. She is emphatic that she would be able to enjoy the festivals in Calcutta more, given the hot weather and the multitudes of people celebrating them.

To digress a bit, I also explained the festival of Rath to her, during which I was reminded of a long-ago story from my father. He used to work in a British power consulting company in Calcutta, where one of his colleagues had requested a day leave's for Rathajatra from their British superiors. Challenged to explain Rath to the Britishers, that colleague concocted this intrepid definition:-

          Church er opore church

          Tar opore little church

          On the top sits God

          Many many men pulling the rope

          That is called Rathajatra ...

That was sufficiently amusing to the Britishers to grant the desired leave !!!

My daughter's Odissi dance classes, which she has recently started, have also been a revelation, that even if she learns nothing else, the sounds of the mudras and dance forms and the Bengali conversations all around her from mothers, students and the teacher, create an environment which reinforces the “culture” we strive to keep alive as life moves along.

The challenges of embracing dual cultures seem to be within reach as a result of all these happenings. It is true that with the recent explosion of Indian channels on TV networks, the profusion of Indian movies in local cinema halls and the growing number of Indian businesses here strongly reinforce our assimilation into the wondrous “American” fabric of livelihood. Nevertheless, to have been able to impart a home-grown love of rediscovering the Calcutta of my childhood and youth have been immensely enjoyable. In the process of weaving stories for my American daughter, it seems we may have strengthened the Indian father....

The Pujas at Calcutta

How different was the Puja atmosphere in our youth at Calcutta? This thought struck my mind as I sat down to write this article. The suffocating crowds, unbearable humidity and the many-faceted splendor of the idols in the pandals supplemented with the color and variety of the best clothes that one could afford while venturing out during the four fun-filled days of the Pujas.

We, as members of a local club, used to put up a roll-stand near our Barrackpore railway station. The “egg-chicken-mutton” roll was a concoction that defies description, which I will not attempt to do here at all. Suffice to say, if you have not eaten one in Calcutta, you cannot be called a true Calcuttan.

On one rainy Saptami day, our sales were very down and Jayanta da, in an entrepreneurial attempt to make a sale, accosted three ladies passing by our stand. He claimed that we were selling special    “haasher deem”(duck's eggs) rolls, which could not be found anywhere else. The ladies indignantly asked him what was so special about these rolls. Pat came Jayanta da's reply, “Boudi ra, haash gulo eto koshto kore deem pereche, oder kotha bhebe ekta roll kinte parchen na ? “

All of us in the stand were rolling around in splits of laughter. Needless to say, the boudis did not buy any of our rolls, instead stalking off muttering about our audacity !!!

My mind is drawn to another Ashtami night with two of my friends at the Mohammed Ali Park pandal. It was about 3:00 AM in the morning and crowds were thinning out. The idols that year were in Khajuraho style with a mossy green color. An elderly gentleman was standing beside us with his wife and sister-in-law. In a bout of mischief, I casually remarked to one of my friends, “Amazing, isn't it, ki shundor dhulor(dust) thakur baniyeche ebaar ?” The man fell for it and turned around to me, awestruck -- “Tai naki Dada? Shotti?” His wife glared at us, having cottoned onto the fact that we were making a “murgi” of her husband. She literally dragged him off, while the man protested that he needed to get the details of these wondrous dust-made images from me !!!

As one of my friends remarked the other day, the surest sign of our middle age is when you are near your neighborhood Puja Pandal and the girls hanging around address you as “Kaku” instead of “Dada” !!!

Ah, the pandal hopping, the adda with friends and the surreptitious smoking and drinking – so different from the organized weekend pujas we have here. I had my first cigarette (Gold Flake) during a Puja day in my callow youth. Same is true for my first drink as well (Kingfisher beer of all things!!). Amazing that those memories grow keener with each passing year.

On a more serious note, I am sure that all Calcuttans have their favorite Pandal and idols in their memories. For me, the most special one was Adi Ballygunge in the Pujas of 1992, my University days. It was 5 or 6 AM on a Navami morning , crowds were sparse while the Purohit was chanting the morning shlokas with outstretched arms to the Devi.

Calcutta is usually hot and humid in the mornings as well, but on that particular day, a cool breeze was astir. The Purohit's chants and the gaze of Ma Durga (in traditional style that year) combined to form an ethereal feeling. It was the first time that my then girlfriend and present-day wife was with me overnight - I having managed to convince her parents that she would be safe in my care !!! We and another dear couple had spent Asthami night on a North/South Calcutta pandal-hopping tour and Adi Ballygunge was our last stop.

Bisorjon is usually several days after Dashami in Calcutta, at least during our days when the clubs would compete with each other to keep the Devi on display as long as possible. With the advent of newer laws, I believe the police are stricter nowadays and the idols have to be immersed as soon as possible.

We were always part of the immersion processions, trucks carrying the idols, while we danced in front on the roads all the way to the river ghats, blissfully drunk on Siddhi. On one such occasion, some onlookers remarked that one particular boy seemed to be really drunk while dancing in a fury. One of my uncles standing nearby heartily agreed until he looked closely and realized in horror that the dancer was his eldest nephew a.k.a. yours truly !!!

May the Devi's blessings and these memories stay intact with us in this hemisphere as another Puja beckons !!!

The trains at Barrackpore

“Ki Dada, chhal ta chhariye debo naki?,” questioned the man menacingly, standing outside the train window. “Good grief – why does he want to skin me?”  I thought to myself, “What is he talking about?” “Apnar na, sosha taar”, smiled the vendor selling sliced cucumbers at Sealdah (Calcutta’s Penn Station). A neat trick to capture a potential customer’s attention, after all!

Echoes of this voice from the past have been haunting me for the past few days. This is one of the persistent images in the mind from my commuting days on the local trains to and fro from Barrackpore to Sealdah.

Memories and experiences from those days are assets I hold dear to my heart and fear losing them, bit by bit, as each year passes by in this land, so far and yet so near, in today’s space age. You see, the very environment of students, teenagers, young and old office commuters in those trains was something many of my friends and I grew up through and were part of the society that formed over the years.

I remember the day for example when Arnab, on our usual 8:37 A.M. Barrackpore local, lost his left eye’s contact lens. He told me that it had slipped from his eye and landed on a lady’s back while she was getting off. I asked him why he did not call her to get it back. “What would I have said?” he shot back. “Didi, apnar pithe amar lens ta?” and then probably get bashed up for eve teasing! 

Yet another day, while returning on the crowded 6:30 P.M. Shantipur “galloping”, we had a distraught husband in our coach, trying to comfort his wife, who was feeling very sick and was about to throw up in the train. One seemingly concerned passenger asked the husband – “Dada, Sandhyo Aajkal ta aache naki?”

We onlookers, as well as the husband, were nonplussed. What did Sandhyo Aajkal, the evening daily newspaper, have anything to do with the husband’s current problem? We were thrown into fits of laughter by the Good Samaritan’s explanation. What he meant was that since there were no seats available, if the husband had the paper with him, he could lay it on the floor near the doors, so that the wife could sit there and feel better.

That explanation had “Calcutta” written all over it – nowhere else to be found in the world.

Through my college and university days, I learnt most of my Auction Bridge playing skills on these local trains. Four players sitting opposite each other would have a large cloth tied on four ends with strings to their legs and voila!, the portable bridge table was born. There were days where due to having played badly, my regular partner would not speak to me at all. Conversations during play would often be animated and blow up into major quarrels between partners, as a result of having lost or playing a certain hand badly.

A unique system of “reserving” seats was also in place on those trains; used both by the office and the college-going commuters. People traveling together, as a group would often toss handkerchiefs, papers, and sometimes fruit (!!!)  to mark seats as reserved. Such “reservations” would often result in much quarrel and animated dialogue, along with the threat of blows (which would never come to pass). While the Calcuttan commuter will make many such threats a.k.a. “Phaatiye debo !” , rarely will it ever come to that. As Shakespeare’s Macbeth would say “Full of sound and fury, signifying nothing!”

Meanwhile, on the “reservation” topic, I remember an amusing incident from the old days. Before I start, I need to explain that the “Down” Barrackpore locals to Sealdah would first arrive as “Up” locals from Sealdah. While these “Up” locals were pulling up to the platforms, people standing at the edges would throw in various objects through the windows to “reserve” seats. When the train stopped, they would then get in and sit on those “reserved” seats.

On one such day, an attorney traveling alone got in after the train stopped, coolly removed a handkerchief and sat down on that seat. Soon, the man having “reserved” the seat came and demanded that since he had “reserved” the seat with his handkerchief, it was his seat and he should be sitting there. The attorney heartily agreed, with one condition. Since the handkerchief had come thru the window and thus “reserved” the seat, the man would also need to come thru the window to avail the same privilege. We onlookers were all stunned by the simplicity of the logic and the resolution to the situation. As expected, the man had no rebuttal and slunk off to another coach.

One other interesting scene could be seen in the afternoons, usually at Sealdah. This would be on the trains leaving from around 2:30 p.m. to 4:30 p.m. Most of the colleges in the North Calcutta would have their last classes finishing off during this time and many blossoming romantic relationships would be seen traveling back in pairs on the “Up” locals from Sealdah. In most of the trains around that time, one could see these pairs near the windows, or at least “reservations” having being made in anticipation of his or her arrival. We called these “Prajapati” locals – as great grounds for potential marriages in the future.

I travel in much more comfort here, in and around New Jersey by car or my occasional city commutes to New York City by bus/train. As all of us here know, such commutes, whether by car or by train, are adequately heated or air-conditioned, depending on the season. We can also travel in a shell of our own, with very little to distract or bother us, during the commute.

The local train journeys from Barrackpore, by contrast, would have overpowering heat and humid conditions as well as suffocating crowds during the peak hours. You would think that one would want to forget the years traveled in those conditions.

Yet, for some strange reason, I wish I could get back on the platform to catch the 8:37 A.M. from Barrackpore all over again. Mohammed, my regular shoe-polish boy, would come running to give my shoes a quick polish before I got on. While the other guys of my group would start coming on the platform slowly as the train arrived, I would fold my Telegraph to the crossword page – to do on the train. It was always a perpetual goal for me to finish the crossword before we arrived at Sealdah – a journey of about 45 minutes. We never really actually sat on those trains – all of all would stand together on the far-side door, to take in the breeze as the train sped through.

Memories of those days are the precious remnants I hold on to, as I get into my car each morning to listen to 101.5 FM and hit the highways to get to work – yet another day in the wheels of American business.

Uneasy Dreams

Deep awoke in his bed, throat dry and an urgent need to relieve himself. It was 3:00 A.M. in the morning. His sleep has been invaded by intermixed dreams, none of which made sense to him awake.

The puzzling thing was that he could recall most of the dream, something he had not been able to do for years. Rarely, if ever, was his sleep interrupted in the wee hours of the morning. He had the dubious reputation of being a “dead man” sleeper, something Anuradha envied him for.

“They” say that an impending progress to middle age brings on the occasional insomnia. After having checked on his daughter sleeping next room, a bathroom visit and a glass of cold water, Deep wondered whether it was just that then, as he lay awake. “Is this a sign proclaiming entry to the mid-life? ”

The Abhradeep of suburban Calcutta had, over the years, metamorphosed into today’s Deep. This shortening had been prompted by the need for easy identification to various handymen and contractors for housework, as well as his neighbors, who otherwise preferred to just say “Hi” and leave it at that. Yes, we all know the rebuttal that if “Schwarzenegger” can be pronounced, then “Abhradeep” should be as well. However, Deep had finally surrendered to the present-day colloquial surroundings, which are comfortably confined in the “two syllable” world.

Over the past few months, Deep had been feeling as if the wheel has come rushing around too soon, without the spokes he had wished for in his younger days. Awake but silent, he realized that the desire to pursue his Doctorate was now stillborn. In the industry circles his work took him, the overbearing paradigm to stay employed was to be “hands-on” predominantly, something which would wither away from him in the academia of theoretical studies.

The other missing spoke was the one that he had aspired to, during the course of his studies and all energy brought to bear on the technical aspects of his work. The desire to be a strategic planner was slowly dying, as the centripetal forces of the corporate environment and Deep’s own survival mechanisms rolled on in their pre-determined courses of action.

As the digital clock glowed “4:00 A.M.”, Deep’s mind churned with the thought that the verve of his youth had been replaced by the angst of middle-age and to misquote - “this shall not pass!!!”

By the standards of modern suburbia, Deep was a successful man. The trappings of financial stability, a house, manicured lawns and two cars were all present, albeit with some struggles en-route. The “American dream”, to quote the worst of clichés, had been achieved. What then, was missing from the equation, was the sense of self-fulfillment.

The unending stream of parties and get-togethers in their social circles had also become rote. Deep, while realizing the necessity of this, yearned for change. “Familiarity breeds contempt” as the saying goes, and he had slowly been losing interest in these societal environments. They did not seem to evoke the spark in him any longer, more a duty to be fulfilled than otherwise.

Deep reflected that he had probably joined the ranks of other men in similar walks of life, where they had arrived at the watershed in their respective lives. “Am I destined to play out my final role and be done?” he agonized, as sleep still proved to be an elusive mate.

If this was the onset of middle age and the harbinger of things to come, Deep mused that he should look towards a different perspective in life. Should he now focus on his daughter’s achievements to satisfy his sense of self-fulfillment, subverting individual desire?

Ha, but we forget that the desire to shine through our children, is in more tragic ways than not, essentially our own selfishness, shamefully bare to the discerning observer. As in many parents before him and his own to a certain extent, Deep feared that he would soon project his aspirations onto his child.

An idealist in the deepest corners of his heart, Deep fervently hoped that his daughter would bloom and thrive in whatever area the Almighty had chosen for her. The possibility of such occurrence would, of course, be well nigh impossible in the world we have built for ourselves. Such is the adulation we bestow on “achievement” at all costs, in today and sadly, probably tomorrow’s world as well.

Having thwarted both individual and parental options, “what else can I hope for?” thought Deep. It struck him suddenly that, in recent times, he was strangely troubled by all the advertisements for sponsoring orphans, poor schools and the like. While he had always been able to shrug them off as irrelevant in the past, they seemed to gnaw at his conscience with increasing intensity in recent times. They seemed to be able to churn up guilt in him, as if he had somehow fallen short of their expectations.

“No promises to anybody, yet this guilt!” agonized Deep, as the demons of unrest would still not let him lapse into merciful sleep. While he had fleeting ideas of initiating contributions to some deserving entity, they had never been translated into action.

The path of religious intensity was not for him, as he was not a particularly religious man. That did not mean that he was an atheist or an agnostic, but simply that overt obeisance and public rituals did not particularly stir him.

Self-fulfillment would be met by some other way of thought, a way that had not revealed itself to Deep yet. The most elusive of damsels it may prove to be, which many men will covet but few attain.

“Probably another morning’s uneasy dream will bring the answer,” reasoned Deep, reassuring himself, as the angels of sleep finally arrived to lull him into slumber.

Durga Puja 2005 – musings of doubt

“Can I really write something worthwhile?” is an unfashionable question evoking self-doubt in today’s achieving and confidence brimming world, where Type A personalities are sought after and aspired to by most, if not all. Whatever follows, patient readers, is a churning of thoughts, tortured and otherwise, which swirl within, as yet another Durga Puja unfurls over us in time’s rapid and unyielding march.

Any current topic today, has a lot to be written about, analyzed, hotly debated, opinions formed and finally discarded once there is a hotter one sprung upon us. This state of affairs is not necessarily a fault, being that the mind can hold only so much in an active state at a point in time. From the word’s origins in Ancient Greece, a cynic was a person of much learning and experience who could hold and expound upon a view lying between the optimist and the pessimist. A monumental tragedy, therefore, that the latter years of the last millennium and the young ones of this one, have juxtaposed our minds in extreme exposure of so much , alas !!!, in so little time, that our opinions of tumultuous events today are usually cynical to a fault.

Original thought is not really within the idling levels of discussion that we have become so fond of nowadays. What then should I continue with, readers, that you may stay with me in this journey of words? Let us see where we reach in our sojourn ….

The Durga Pujas of my early childhood days on India’s western coasts were not very different from what we have here today. We had the so-called “Bengal Club”, organizing and celebrating the Pujas over the true Saptami, Ashtami, Navami and Dashami days of the almanac. This, of course, as I know now, was possible due to the fact that the audience was more or less geographically close and the work culture of the India of the 70’s (blessed be it) would allow the working class to attend most of the ceremonies.

The Calcutta Puja version (with your permission, dear reader, I will eschew using the word Kolkata and forego debate on it for the sake of this passage), was a phenomenon I was brought into for my adolescence and early adulthood. “A thing of great joy and to be savored for all time !!!” – English poets of old would have exclaimed, were they to be thrust into the thick of things in a Calcutta Puja atmosphere. Great writers and greater words are needed to describe that aptly, which I as a humble individual, do not dare commit the transgression. A Tagore or Keats, maybe a Wordsworth or Bankim? Such descriptions are not to be attempted by humble individuals as yours truly.

Yet, in the wishful corners of my mind, I long to be able to experience the Calcutta Pujas once again. The harsh light of reality thrusts me back – “How will it be the same again?” Reality is right; most of my friends and acquaintances from that day and age are all dispersed, some here with me by the Creator’s graces and some long separated by time. We cannot evoke a bygone age without its necessary surroundings and so it sinks in, slowly but surely, that those days are well and truly gone. We look to the present and the future for comfort and it is well that we do, for one would not survive without the hope of the road in front.

There is a lot I hope for, as we attend the Pujas here every year now, for the past decade or so. My precocious five and something year old daughter revels in it, her mind no doubt assuring her that it is the biggest two and a half day party she has with her circle of friends. Wonder of wonders, it does become really that, inasmuch as we, playing the roles of parents, uncles, aunts and grandparents all together, are torn between indulging and imposing on her. There is nevertheless a sprinkling of regret and despair, in our resulting indulgence. It arises from the somber fact that she will, due to the demands of the school calendar here, never be really able to experience the Calcutta Pujas as we were fortunate enough to do.

“Hope springs eternal in our hearts”, to borrow from an old adage, that our indulgence will someday be rewarded by the fact that she has assimilated the brighter nuances of the prevalent Bengali culture, even though we are separated by great distances from its core.

As our path of thoughts draw to a close, I would like to leave you, my dear and patient readers, with the feeling that the mild dawns and cool nights of early fall here are not very different from the augment of Sharat in the Bengal of our younger days. Both of these herald the coming of the Divine Goddess, one from our memories and the other from time’s current grip on us.

May the Mother bring peace into our hearts and calm in our minds as we immerse ourselves into the spirit of this year’ Puja!!!