The Kolkata Report #13

The Kolkata Report #13
As a child, I was never given spicy food to eat. I suppose much of my early childhood was spent in being rather sickly and suffering from a plethora of major and minor illnesses. My poor mother, in desperation fed me all kinds of foods suitable for invalids and others in like situations, in the hopes of strengthening my constitution. It was rather sad that she, an excellent and creative cook, kept such insipid pabulum for me, while everyone else had wonderful foods. After all that was said and done, my refusal to eat such foods as were ear marked for me, got me firmly labelled as a picky eater. There are few creatures in the world as anxious and desperate as mothers from South Asia, that feel constantly that their children are imminently facing death from starvation, between meals. And my dear mother, was a champion amongst them. Her panacea for the evil of my indifferent appetite was a large glass of hot milk, which I loathed. Other than that, various egg preparations, chicken, meat and of course fish (after all we are Bengalis, and fish is our staple food), were routinely made in stews, roasts, soups and made to slip down my gullet. There was a point to it. I suffered from terrible and debilitating bouts of tonsillitis, which made eating difficult. But a tonsillectomy at age 6, made history of all that. Yet, my appetite remained iffy. When I was nearly 8 years old, I was packed off to a boarding school in the mountains, where I learned to eat voraciously, along with all the other children.
A few years later, I was yanked out of that school and began to attend a new school in the big city of Calcutta, where my father had just been posted. Finally, my mother exclaimed with satisfaction, we were in a civilized place with civilized schools.
By now, I was eating at par with all others of my age group. I did not particularly enjoy the sandwiches we ate for lunch at school, but every now and then, I would poach some Chinese sausages from my friend Katy's lunch box. They cured the sausages at home, along with chilli and perhaps soy sauces. Everything from her lunch box was indescribably delicious. For a while, the school enabled us to eat at the adjacent sister college, where my sister studied. There was a canteen there, that served chicken cutlets, french fries and my great favorite, baked beans. At first I was gawky with using a knife and fork, but driven by hunger, I mastered the use of utensils quickly.
Calcutta was a cosmopolitan city with a rich heritage of cuisines not just of the four corners of India, but also of the Chinese, English, Portuguese, Dutch, French, Danish, Middle Eastern and Italian. My mother cooked in the distinctive styles of East Bengali foods, the delicately spiced Dhakai, the gutsier Barisali and the fiery spicy Chittagong styles. We also loved the southern Indian flavours, that she cooked rather well, having learned that new cuisine as a new bride in south India, The best foods, were however, the simplest fish curry and rice, the robust mutton curries and dals of northern India and fresh hot wheaten phulka pan breads. My mother, like many Bengali mothers, believed that small fishes like pabda, koi, tangra and mourala, were the best foods for building good brains in children. 'Phosphorus', she claimed, 'That's what you eat in small fish , that brings you brain power'. Some day, a scientific paper may lend credence to her claim, though we just ate it all because it tasted good.
We had said goodbye to food for invalids, with such goodies like 'gawla bhat' (a soft gruelly rice dish with boiled eggs and vegetables), and 'pish pash' (another gruelly rice dish, an Anglo Indian invention, with chicken and sometimes lamb, cooked with whole spices to extreme tenderness). We also bid goodbye mercifully to a horrible raw egg smoothie, called an Egg Flip, which claimed to give its drinkers an immediate energy boost, if they did not suffer from immediate nausea.
At about this time, my dear father, who had spent his early teenage years in north Calcutta, took to rediscovering the rich culinary heritage of that part of town. He found in me, a willing accomplice in sampling the delights of the kitchen and table. Anadi Cabin's Moghlai Paratha, Basanta Cabin's Kabiraji Cutlet (right across the street from his Alma Mater, and for a few months, mine- The Scottish Church College), the nameless countless places that sold fresh fritters called Telebhaja and Fuluri, the delectable Jhal Muri, spiced puffed rice, and many others. Then there was this shop that specialized in exotic flavoured 'Sharbats'. Every few years, it had changed ownership, but its name always varied between two; it was either Paragon or Paradise. Of course both were apt, and its products, a dozen or so of flavoured and natural fruit beverages, unfailingly delighted.
The slow incursion of Gujarati and Marwari snacks and farsan into other areas of the city, followed the spread of these communities out of their usual homes in the Burrabazar area. The chaat and Puchka man became a common place sight, though their products made of unhygienic ingredients, sickened many. Even so, it was impossible to resist the siren call of these hot and spicy foods, eaten with the same thrill of perhaps encountering and escaping from a man eating tiger in the forest. With a silent prayer to the Gods for protection against gastroeneritis, food poisoning and 'jaundice', we gorged on this stuff, anyway.
Across from the Dhakuria Lakes, on a sidewalk by the Vivekananda Park, there now is the establishment of one Dilipda. He is a celebrity Fuchka maker (the name Puchka had evolved into Fuchka in some thirty years). He is much sought after, flown across the country for celebrity parties and even for creating chaats for the erstwhile British Prime Minister David Cameron, on his visit to Kolkata (yes the name Calcutta has also changed to Kolkata). He returns to the humble sidewalk stall, and with unfailing courtesy, serves you the incredibly delicious, mouth tingling Fuchkas. his Fuchka water is is made with bottled water, fresh tamarind and a blend of spices, that his father perfected. He gives you a hand sanitizer and also some water to wash your hands with at the start and finish of your eating adventure.
When we moved to south Calcutta in the 1960s, a fledgling television program debuted. Everyone rushed to buy the black and white ECTV company brand televisions, sometimes waitlisted for months. Every Thursday, there used to be a program called 'Phool Khiley HaiN Gulshan Gulshan' (Beautiful flowers are blooming), hosted by an ebullient host called Tabassum, whose coy mannerisms drove many wild with joy and others take a derisive position. However, everyone watched replays of song and dance sequences from popular movies, with the same avidity as people watch the final games of major sports tournaments.
On those days, and when no one felt like cooking, we would send our cook to a local South Indian dorm and kitchen, called the Ramakrishna Lunch Home, which sold a small quantity of food to the public, other than what was needed for its residents. The food was well cooked and served in clean premises. Last week, I walked down past the place at 8 pm on a Sunday evening. A crowd waited on the sidewalk, with tickets for the waiting line. The Manager emerged and called out ' Number Forty Seven, for 5 people!'
I guess it isn't a small lunch home any more, but lives on as an iconic restaurant with consistently good though limited menu, holding its own against fancier eateries and a nod to the adage- Good quality is the hall mark of success.
A number of Bengali eateries have also sprouted up all over, with a few chain restaurants like Bhaja Hari Manna (named after a famous 'eating' character from Bengali literature), 6 Ballygunj Place. They do serve great food, the former calling itself a Pice Hotels, which were humble eateries serving homestyle foods cheaply, for labourers, and sailors (Calcutta is a sea faring port city, though many miles upstream from the Bay of Bengal). However, my favorite Bengali Restaurant will always be Kewpie's, which pioneered this food trend. Named after its late owner, who acquired this name as a child, undoubtedly because she looked like a Kewpie doll, this restaurant, for me, is the gold standard in Bengali cuisine. You must eat Shukto here, to know what awesome is.
I had in an earlier report, explored the rich heritage of Bengali confectionary and have explored other types of foods in this. I know I have not covered all the wonderful eateries that serve the mughlai and Awadhi style of foods- yes, they are very different. The deposed Nawab of Awadh (Oudh to the British), Wajid Ali Shah, spent the waning years of his life in this city, in a palace near the water front. To his cooks go the credit of the Calcutta Biriyani, a distinctly different recipe and taste as well the inclusion of potatoes in the dish. Those foods, still live on in places like Arsalan, Aminia and many other nameless Biriyani places scattered all over the Kidderpore and Park Circus areas.
At the end of the day- mothers kitchens everywhere rule.
As my late grandmother used to say, about my foodie cousin, Haruda, 'Where Maida and Ghee have come together to form Luchi, Haru is definitely to be found there'. And there are Harudas everywhere on every weekend morning when Luchi Torkari reigns supreme!
May 25, 2018

The Kolkata Report #12

The Kolkata Report #12 
Rant Alert!
It is hot and humid. Not much can be done about that. The month of Jaishtha is typically hot. This year, there have been big fat storms, full of lightning, thunder and rain, every few days. For a brief few hours after the storms, the temperature drops to bearable and even enjoyable levels, Then the heat begins to rise as the day begins. 
Yesterday, I had just finished my daily work inspection of a home being renovated. Things were moving along slowly, but according to schedule. Well almost.
This month, has seen the closure of the banks for 4 days at a stretch, elections in the rural areas, from where the work force come to work from, and the aforementioned storms. Yet, the construction industry needs to move along regardless of interruptions. i have great admiration for the men and women who have to slog through this almost unbearable heat, to set food on the table for their families. I understand that they need to rest frequently and hydrate. With them I have no complaints, I am just grateful that they show up and do their work. I never quibble about their wages. And they respond to the smallest kindnesses in ways with such gratitude, that it breaks my heart. If I have a rant about this, it is that Life is so unfair for many. I have a rant too, about the squeeze that employers force upon their employees at times. A spike in productivity is not sustainable if the people responsible for that spike are not able to sustain that effort. The number of work shirks are actually not as many as we imagine, I believe. Most people enjoy working, if they can do what truly interests them.
On the way back from my inspection site, I decided to stop at and examine an open air shopping complex, set up by the local government, to showcase the emporia of different Indian states and and also other businesses that lend ancillary support to them. This complex has a thriving southern sibling, which is one of my favorites. Perhaps it was the blast of heat, or perhaps the sight of a lot of shuttered shops, or even the rabbit warren like corridors flanked by stores selling cheap, poor quality merchandise, that irritated me. A few people ambled through the space, with less than reasonable cleanliness. The whole place smelled of impending failure. I made one purchase at the Garvi Gujarat store, from an unsmiling manager, and fended off the smiling saleswoman, who insisted on showing me what I did not want to see; while blithely telling me that there was only limited stock here.
Then I went to Park Street, the supposedly swank area of town. I am quite familiar with this part of town, not because I have anything to do with swank, but because my school is right around the corner from here, the steeple of St. Thomas's Church, visible easily. The church is a part of my school's complex. School has broken for summer vacations, and the street in front of it is now a giant parking lot, managed by the city of Kolkata. If you have a lot of cars in this part of the world, you also have a lot of blaring car horns. Even to park a car, people blow the car horns.It is an universal phenomenon though, when a car is backing into a spot, some pedestrian will appear and step into that place, even if it for a couple of seconds. That never fails.
Park Street broke my heart. The whole place looks shabby,with a crass jumble of stores, many of which are shuttered and many plastered with unwanted posters. The pavers on the sidewalks are uneven, broken and dangerously misaligned. The 'flower beds' now with an assortment of shrubs and blighted trees, are littered with styrofoam pieces of broken packaging material, foil packs and even broken terracotta cups.
Street hawkers have proliferated, now there are at least half dozen, selling grimy magazines and sensational best sellers with pot boiler stories.
I step into Flury's, a 'Swiss confectionary' store, the once elegant old world place of impossibly delicious cakes and pastries. I am ushered in by a smartly dressed set of security guards at the door, with a crisp salute. These security guards are now commonplace at every mall and department store. they carry screening wands, and the women guards inspect handbags. The spectre of theft is obviously hovering about all the time. I don't object to this, but I find it unsettling. I stroll in and after an indifferent waiter in a brown uniform- vaguely motions in the direction that I should sit, I find a place in the center of the 'tea room'. Another man comes along and sits at the next table. He summons the waiter loudly, and places his order. He looks like he is a regular here. Then he takes off his sandals, and sits cross legged on his seat. In the long ago past, I would do this surreptitiously in the cinema halls; but never in the glare of the public eye.
No one takes my order, though quite a few waiters stroll past listlessly back and forth. One comes and fills my glass with water and is never seen again.
I decide to summon a waiter like my neighbour. One turns up, looking a bit surprised that I called him. I place my order, I want a bowl of soup- mushroom, and a croissant. He nods and writes down the order and disappears. I wait for 25 minutes. It has been about forty minutes that I have been here, and waited. It isn't even busy. No reason to give excuses for being busy. Then my exasperation rises and snaps. I walk to the cashier and demand to see the Manager. He's 'not available at this time', I am told. Now I'm angry. He must be available, a customer wants to complain, I counter, in a manner that is not characteristic of me. I mean business and lock my eyes with the cashier, who is the de facto manager. He blinks in the stare down, but is saved somewhat from utter ignominy, by the appearance of the manager, who appears with a few other people, laughing and joking. He senses trouble but before he can escape, I accost him. I hurl the verbal equivalent of boiling hot oil in his direction. He looks uneasily at my waiter, who tries to stammer an excuse.
Does it take forty five minutes for a customer to get a bowl of soup at lunch time? I demand loudly.
Pinned down, he shakes his head- No ma'am. He is at a loss for words.
Then he glares at the waiter, who disappears. In the meantime, the cashier has alerted the kitchen, and someone has placed the bowl of soup at my table.
I go back and sit down. Suddenly, the waiters seem to have got a recharge on their batteries and are whizzing around, quite differently from their earlier somnolent manner. I summon my waiter, and this time he comes immediately.
'Where is my croissant?' I ask. I carry on the demanding customer act. He apologizes and vanishes, to return with a soggy microwaved croissant. I debate with myself about sending it back. But now, I am worn out. I let it pass. But not without giving his rather grimy apron a withering look. Standards have really fallen, and people just accept that. hus, they won't improve.
The taste of the food is good. At least that bit is alright.
Lunch over, I walk to my favorite book store on the other footpath. A particularly dirty glass store front catches my eye. It the the flagship store, I suppose, of an Ayurvedic empire, headed by a supposed Yogi. Ironically, he loudly champions the Clean India campaign. 
The entrance to the hoary old Asiatic society property is now jammed with illegal ramshackle stores, selling water, chewing tobacco, potato chips and other 'tiffin snacks'. A car is coming through the crowd of people milling about the entrance, I count them- one horn blast per second for the minute it takes to get through.
Just ahead, a tree has been enclosed in a chequered tile plinth, and has a makeshift temple with 6 unidentifiable idols, A torn black umbrella hangs from the tree, supposedly shielding the Gods and Goddesses from the elements. The whole ramshackle and ugly spectre holds no charm. 
My favourite book store is now a multipurpose boutique like place. The shelves where there were translated Bengali classics, now houses a tea collection. Slowly the books have been shunted to the back of the store. My horror and outrage though, is kept for the front of the store, where the music and film section is now filled with shelves of cheap plastic toys and pink Chinese made teddy bears, wrapped in cellophane.
I give up.
We don't know when and how to treasure the best parts of the city and our lives. Flashy, bright, cheap and convenient has taken over everything. I look to the heavens and see a hugely tangled and messy bunch of electrical cables.
I have to escape from this dead, grimy place of today, that lives in my memory as beautiful.
So utterly sad.

The Kolkata Report #11

The Kolkata Report # 11
Anyone who knew my family when I was a child, will remember my mother's exasperation with my obsession with animals. Actually, what I have is a genetic 'dosh' (fault), according to my late mother. It started, in the recorded history of our family, with my paternal grandmother Sarala Sundari Gupta, and is carried down to my son, via my dad Ajit and then myself. I am glad that the genetic defect manifests in many others in our extended families, thanks to our common mater familias ancestor.
Being a sickly child, with imminent death hovering above my head on several occasions, my mother relented and allowed me what happiness I could derive from my zoophilia. Indeed, by the time I was about 8 years old, we had a veritable mini zoo at our home in Katihar, in Bihar. It helped that we lived in a large government bungalow with huge grounds, where the various animals were variously scattered and housed, far away from my zoophobic mother. However, she became, by default and great unwillingness, the zoo keeper, even while getting rather fond of our four dogs and the rhesus monkey. Her interest and oversight of the other animals was much reduced, the animals being cared for by other keepers. The animals, namely a cheetal deer, some 50 rabbits and some 30 guinea pigs, 3 cows, 1 rooster and 4 hens, and a large pNuti fish that was still alive when brought into our kitchen, and whose life was spared due to my tearful entreaties, lived a comfortable life, and I spent many happy hours with them until I was packed off to a residential school in the Himalayan mountains, in the hopes of becoming healthier.
Then came the much needed downsizing of our menagerie, with my mother gladly presiding over the division and rehoming of the various animals. We moved to the big city of Calcutta, with just the dogs and the hens and the rooster.
Eventually, we were left with just one dog, when we shifted into a much busier locality in Calcutta, and that too, was one that I brought from from a neighbor's home, as she was an unwanted puppy. That dog, Tippy Gupta lived to a ripe old age and won the hearts of the entire family due to her almost impeccable manners.
Well, with Tippy at home, we really didn't have room for more animals, other than the misadventure we had with some roosters. I believe I wrote about that much earlier.
Even so, I was like a magnet for the stray dogs of our 'para' or locality with at least three of them, later named Haripada, Kalipada and Jagaddhatri (Jaggi), who accompanied me to the bus stop in the mornings to see me off to school and accompany me home from the bus stop in the evenings. How they figured out my schedule, I don't know. But I am happy and comforted that they did. So I sallied forth with these 'smiling' dogs, their tails wagging and an occasional happy 'woo ooo ooo' doggie call. They scrounged around the Lake Market and were quite well nourished. In Bengali, we say 'Hrishto, Pushto' (lively, and well fed).
They passed on when I left Calcutta, and their descendants are probably still around.
In my current home, several blocks away from my old home, there were two black and white 'street dogs', very likely brothers, until a few years ago. Now there is just one; I believe the other succumbed to a leg injury caused by a car, when he failed to get up quickly from a deep slumber, being taken right in the road. This sibling is rather more cautious; preferring to sleep in the safety of a nearby roadside eatery, at times sleeping on the very counter top where food would be served a few hours later. There is a vagrant, who does odd jobs for the eatery and sleeps there at night. He loves the dog and they snuggle on winter nights, in a local version of a One Dog Night.
The eatery also supports other kinds of wildlife, the chief being huge rats, that have burrowed large tunnels underground nearby. They clamber all over the place, scrounging on leftovers and foods thrown away. The city of Kolkata has not been able to remove these illegal eateries and other pavement hawkers due to a lack of political will, afraid of 'uprooting the poor' and of denting their vote banks.
Then along with the rats, come an army of feral cats.Naturally. The Circle of Life, after all, demands that prey are balanced by predators. 
In my old house, a short distance away, there were two tomcats that fought for their turfs, inexplicably on a an asbestos roof top of a small shed. Their caterwauling and fighting was especially intense during the mating season. They didn't care if people threw buckets of water on them to stop them, which they did from neighboring roof tops, The fighting would end when one hurled the other off from the roof. There was a Jamrul (rose apple) tree by that roof top. The next morning one could go and pick up a few that had fallen when the cats fought.
Yesterday, I went to the Kalighat Temple, as my faith demands I do, on a bare foot pilgrimage in the last 200 feet. There was a strange mewing of a cat from somewhere in the car. It was especially insistent and distressed when I got into the car. My driver said he had been hearing it for some time in the morning. He couldn't trace where the mewing was coming from.
I got out of the car and began to look under the chassis. We could find nothing even though the cat continued its piteous cries. As happens famously in Kolkata, within minutes, a small crowd assembled, and began to help in tracing the cat; to no avail.
We decided to drive on and finish our errands. After having been to two places about 10 miles apart, the cat mewing off and on (obviously it was still alive and somehow enduring the extreme heat of the day), we stopped for lunch. A new search party emerged from the bystanders willing and able to assist the driver. 
This time around, the cat was found, lodged in the space behind the mudguard of the front passenger wheel. It required a little assistance to free it, and it bounded away. It was a young, white cat, unharmed, as was evident in the way it raced away.
I was thankful that it was unhurt. But at night, I lay awake, thinking of the terror it had endured and that it was so very far away from home. So it is for so many creatures and people all over the world.
May 18, 2018

The Kolkata Report #7

Kolkata Report #7
I had to go to Kolkata Municipal Corporation to pay some overdue taxes. Not overdue by much, but still..
I had fairly easily paid them online last year, feeling thankful for the ease of the process. In the hoary past, some person of the family would have to go to the Municipality's office for the ward, and spend a long time in a queue to make this payment, after spending a long time in another queue to get the bill and payer verified (why the latter, heaven alone knows). It used to be a tedious and exhausting, time consuming process.After this mettle testing exercise, one came away with lighter pockets, than for just paying the amount of the bill, if one could pay for a bill 'adjuster'. Yes, read that as a 'tout', who would work in tandem with the municipality workers on the other side of the counter.
With the marvels of ecommerce and ebilling and epayment, the KMC finally broke loose of the system. Life became easier for all but the touts.
But do they just melt away in the shadows? Probably not. I might have just missed an encounter with one, unless there are people who are still practicing random acts of kindness in this cruel world.
Anyhow, this year, the KMC threw a spanner in the works by requiring people to 'self assess' their taxes, based on the size of the property. We have an old house, whose plans have long disappeared. It is not easy to figure out the exact area. Wanting to be 'pukka' as they say in India (translated- 'firmly correct'), I determined to go to the Municipal office for help. There was even a Municipal appointed and approved document preparer, who was paid by the Municipality for his or her services, and free for the payers. Quite a departure from the past, it seemed.I decided to use this service.
It was a searing hot day with a sopping humidity. I was loath to go out anywhere. The airconditioner was humming non stop, keeping up with the thermostat, which had its work cut out. Wanting to minimise the time spent outdoors, I googled the hours of service of the Municipality office. I was somewhat surprised to see that though most of the Municipality offices closed at time honored 3 pm, this large facility, serving most of the southern district of the city would be open till 5 pm. Or so said google.
It seemed too good to be true. But one never knows. With an effort to improve services, perhaps this was an added benefit, for those who couldn't make it in by 3 p.m. Perhaps, many people would still rush in by 3 pm and and then the last two hours would be a relatively calmer time. I resolved to go at 3 pm.
The offices are on the top floor of a building that also houses a major market called Gariahat, to be reached after.a punishing climb of 3 floors over stairwells of various alignments, past several overflowing garbage cans, and dodging various blind ends of hallways that lead to nowhere. To I arrive at 3.10 pm. The young guard at the door of a large hall near the entrance, tells me that the offices close at 3 pm, before ducking into the hall, past a formidable looking iron collapsible gate.
I try to argue with his disappearing back about the website hours of operation. He glances back and points to a scrap of paper with the hours printed. Yes 3 pm, the closing hour. I have missed the deadline. Or have I? My horoscope in the newspaper did say that I would prevail in every battle and tricky situation of today. So they lied and google lied and I am very annoyed. A older man stands right beneath a 'No Smoking' sign, smoking a cigarette and looking at me with pity in his eyes, I want to hate him for smoking and like him for being kindly. Then suddenly, a scruffily dressed young man approaches me with a little chit in his hand. It is a door ticket docket with a time listed on it as 2.40 p.m.
'Madam', he says in the respected manner in which this word is used in this part of the world, 'I have to leave, because I cannot wait any longer. You can have my ticket, if you like'.
I am a little hesitant, as I process this new development. Is he a tout, offering me a time ticket 'for a small sum'?
He senses my question- 'You can just have it', he says 'I heard you tell the guard that you thought the office stays open till later.I am leaving and this ticket is of no value to me. You can use it if you like'. He is plainly in a hurry. I take the ticket, expecting him to name a price. But he turns and briskly walks away, to a nearby staircase and disappears out of sight. The smoker looks sagely. 'You can take the time ticket and go in instead of that boy', he tells me. I had yet to figure out what the purpose of this hall was, whether it is even where I will find the tax preparer, when I got embroiled in this minor drama!
I ask the smoker in Bengali, 'Is this a general enquiry hall or is it a specific office?
'Ekhanei shob hoy', he replies (translated- This is where everything happens). Ah! I have found the mother lode!
When the guard wrenches open the collapsible gate to let out someone, the smoker, now having finished his cigarette, and I enter. The guard challenges me- 'The office is closed, madam'.
'I have a ticket!' I reply triumphantly.
He looks dubious, but he checks the ticket and somewhat reluctantly lets me enter.
The hall is large and mercifully, air conditioned. I sit in the stainless steel chairs along with a crowd of people. This is a new regime and this comfort while waiting is an unexpected delight, compared with the past. My number is about 60 tickets later. It seems that the tickets are being cleared fairly fast, about three to five minutes a ticket, over 4 counters. A young man, sitting next to me, is waiting to pay his taxes as well. He has a tax form in his hand. I strike up a conversation with him. Was it difficult to do the self assessment? I ask. He looks uncomprehendingly at me at first, 'No', he says, 'I just went over to that Dada (big brother) over there at counter number 1, and he generated my bill right away'.
I thank him and rush over to counter 1, which seems outside the purview of the ticket system.
The man there is pleasant. Yes, he is the man in charge of generating the bill.
'What about the assessment?', I ask.
'O shob niye chinta korben na, shob i thik achhe, he says soothingly. (translated- Oh, don't worry about all that, it is all sorted out).
He clicks on various points on his computer screen and my bill gets printed out. They are still making good use of the dot matrix printer here, I note. Why not? If it works, it works.
Before long I pay my taxes and make my way out.
The guard wants to have the last word. 'Madam. I saw how you got your ticket. I was inside but could see you, You did not do the right thing.'
'Your office timings were posted wrong on the internet. Why is it my fault if I used a valid ticket within the time allowed?', I respond.
'That internet timing post is impossible'
'No, that is what it is'
'All Municipality offices close at 3 pm'
'That's not what the website says'
We argue back and forth, mixing up internet, website, wifi access and all similar terms.
'Jai howk, apnar kaaj ta toh holo' he concludes (translated- Anyway, your work got done).
'Haan, holo, Thank you' (yes indeed Thank you).
'No mention, Madam', he says, closing the collapsible gate on me.
May 7, 2018

The Kolkata Report #10

The Kolkata Report #10
Food! Food! Food!
When I grew up in this cosmopolitan city, the my family's preference in sweets belonged to the iconic chain of Jalajog. It was extremely famous for its 'Mishti Doi', a sweetened caramel Yogurt, which prompted an exclamation of delight from Bengal's Poet Laureate, Rabindra Nath Tagore - likening it to the wonderful sea ('Payodhi') with waves of flavor. So it was that my mother, an avid and passionate fan of all things Rabindra Nath, would have only that Payodhi from Jalajog.
Unfortunately, Jalajog passed on, prey to the banal lack of vision of its non Bengali owners, who bought the struggling chain and reduced it to selling sandwiches.
From the past, there have been several very famous 'mishti r dokan' (Sweet shops) in Kolkata, in continuous operations for almost a century. Many of them are phenomenally successful and are not just iconic in themselves but also have iconic products. Roshogolla, the sweet most associated with Bengali cuisine, first made its debut in the local markets, in 1868, crafted by the master confectioner Nabin Chandra Das. His grandson moved his store from the flagship North Calcutta venue to Kalighat in 1955. One doesn't actually have to go there to buy the famous delicacy, stewed ricotta balls in heavy syrup; it is available all over the world- in cans with the label K.C. Das Grandsons 'A tradition of sweets'.
Then there are others- Girish Chandra Dey and Nakur Chandra Nandy, famously just called Nakur, whose dozens (more than 60) of fancy varieties of delectable sandesh (caramelized ricotta) have delighted gourmands from even earlier, 1844. Thus Sandesh can pull rank when it comes to a battle of historic sweets. The sandesh go with impossibly exotic names- Parijat- one of the five celestial trees of heaven, Jolbhara- water filled- (actually it is condensed palm sap), Monohara ('the lost heart), Dilkhush (the glad heart), Kachagola (soft cooked), Kora Pak ( firm cooked), Blackforesh (a version of Black Forest confections) and so on, Everyone is delicious.
Then there is Dwarik Grandsons- part of Calcutta's urban folklore since 1885, with its signature Mihidana (tiny deep fried chickpea fritters, soaked in syrup), Sitabhog (a snowy white rice and chhana or ricotta based sweet, lightly flavoured and sweetened- a tender offering for the beautiful Sita, the queen of Sri Ram Chandra), and several other unique ones. It was perhaps the first sweet shop in the form of a restaurant, where people could sample what was obviously a dazzling display of sweets, or perhaps a place for instant grtification for those who could not wait to go home and eat! Their breakfast offerings of luchi and chholar dal (the fried pillows of wheat with a sweet fiery split chickpea stew), and Radhaballabhi (a spicy stuffed fried bread with the fancy name of Krishna's- 'the support of Radha') still handily supports the hungry hordes that descend on the establishment every morning.
Then there is the chain of Balaram Mullik and Radharaman Mullick,, confectioners since 1885 as well, I was quite distressed to see their newly revamped and modernized stores, now selling strange things like vegetable Chow Mein and Chhole Bhaturey, deep fried spongy breads with chickpea gravy, a North Indian intruder. My alarm was mitigated to find that the quality of their Bengali sweets had not suffered.
Every locality has its own Bengali confectionary store and many of them make extraordinary signature sweets and savouries. Near a backwater in the southern locality of Jadavpur, there is a store called Madhukkhara (the Beehive), which has the best Bengali shingara I have had in a long while. They make them at 3 pm, and they are sold out by 3.30 pm. Now a word about the Bengali shingara is needed. It is a much smaller cousin of the ubiquitous North Indian samosa and rather different, Its tender pastry crust hides a deliciously Bengali spiced filling of potatoes, peas, winter cauliflower, and peanuts. It demands total concentration and silence to eat it with respect!
One has many many other places now selling all kinds of sweets and savories from Punjab (Punjabis have had a very long presence in the city's transportation system), Gujarat and Marwar (the Gujaratis and Marwaris are backbone of commerce and trading), Chinese eateries (Hakka Chinese guest workers came centuries ago and settled), South Indian regional cooking- no everything is not just 'Madrasi- there is Tamilian, Kerala, Telugu, Udipi and fusion styles to be had, (you can have dosas and chow mein at the same street stall in many places), and of course, the 'Pice Hotels' where homestyle food can be had at modest prices (the earliest ones sold plates of food for a pice). In the past few years, There used to be many more places that sold a panfried toast and eggs on street side stalls, I don't see them anymore.But the famous Calcutta Roll and Moghlai Paratha is thriving still, tender white flour pan breads, stuffed with eggs, meat, paneer cheese and what not. Puchkas orFuchka's are wildly popular- crisp, paper thin, deep fried semolina puffy crackers filled with a fiery hot stuffing of potatoes and black gram and then dunked in a spicy tart solution of mint and tamarind, which you then pop in its entirety in your mouth. The next instant, you have an indescribably delicious explosion of flavors and textures that you would never dream of being possible. Elsewhere in India, there are the paler and lesser versions called Gol Gappas and Pani Puris. Lest there is an outcry of protests over my biased review, I plead guilty of having a hopeless bias. As they say in these parts- 'What to do? I am like that only'.
So, now I will go off to eat at my new favourite confectionary store called Kamdhenu, which stands close to my old favourite Sen Mahashay ( Esteemed Mister Sen). Despite its endearing name, it has, alas, been demoted. Such is the cut throat business of food in this city.
May 14, 2018

The Kolkata Report #9
Suddenly, there is an immediacy in the air. In less than 48 hours, the State of West Bengal,of which, Kolkata is the principal city and the State Capital, is set to vote its lowest strata of elected officials in. The villages and smallest towns are governed by Panchayets, or a Council of Five (Pancha). The system has evolved into a far more complex structure, though it still retains the name. It is the body of elected officials, that is closest to the general public. Though the higher legislative functions are carried out by a higher category of law makers at the state and central level, the Panchayets are the representation of the people at the ground level. A nation with more than a billion people, naturally holds this election as being very important. A politician, cutting his or her teeth at this level, could then aspire to higher elected office in later years. Naturally, these elections are robust and lively, as an incubator for political hatchlings would be. Bengal has always been an acutely politically aware place, teeming with thinkers of all persuasions, with the slogan of of 'What Bengal thinks of today, the rest of India does tomorrow'.
It has, naturally not been sitting quietly in the run up to this election. A few years back, there was a regime change, and fresh blood in the guise of a new political party, swept into power. At the helm is a fiery, charismatic woman, tiny in size but with the courage and guile of a Bengal tigress. According to Newton's Third Law, the equal and opposite reaction is still building with zest, yet knowing that it will be a very long time before they can catch up with her. In fact, sometimes it is comical to see them huffing and puffing to catch up with her, marching in protests, forming strange alliances and conspiring to defeat her political party. In the last elections, her party won something like 84% of the seats.
Her political party has had very strong grass roots support, fuelled by her populist social programs and development agendas. She has been canny enough to do the work, seek publicity for it as well as brush off inevitable criticisms nonchalantly.
So as the notifications for these elections were made, her party, ever ready for such opportunities, rushed to file nominations for every single post. Over and above that, they decided to take no chances with elections and opposition candidates, simply intimidating them and even physically preventing them from going to file their papers. It must be said, that the many of the opposition candidates were often just nominal in nature. Many just simply withdrew their candidature, and some simply fled. As a result, the real elections, scheduled for earlier this month, were deferred due to complaints of fraud and intimidation to the courts of law. The local politicians were always half a step ahead in this case. They declared as many as 34% candidates elected unopposed, even while the courts and various political parties wrangled over the merits and demerits of the case. The state's high court, slowly awakening after a month long strike of their own, because of the lack of sufficient judges, delivered a slew of orders to cancel the voting date, issue a new one and then doubt whether that was it, and whether a newer date would be declared and allowing intimidated candidates to refile their nominations, yes they could do it online, no they couldn't do it online, security was inadequate, no, it was fine and so on and so forth. The opposition claimed that the ruling party had sent death threats to the election commissioner, who then promptly denied the reports. The Supreme Court of India stepped into this mire, even while wallowing in its own woes with their judges, to hold the 'elected 34%' as being on hold. However, it seems, all are due to vote on the 14th, in two days.
There is a bit of a carnival atmosphere even in this scorching hot weather. My staff has made arrangements to go to their respective home constituencies. No doubt, there will be freebies for them, an inducement from all sides.
In the meantime, today's newspaper carries the report of an unfortunate candidate in another part of India who hasn't been able to canvass for votes or conduct any election campaigns for himself due to acute embarrassment. In this eleventh hour, he finally went pounding the road, but it may be too late.
It seems that the Election Commission, which understands that there are many illiterate voters, has election symbols, by which voters can identify their candidates, For instance the party at the helm in the centre has a lotus as its symbol, the main opposition parties have various others like a raised hand, the familiar hammer and sickle, a broom (yes, they really did sweep the very first elections they stood for), a bicycle, a lantern and so on.
This unfortunate politician in question got the allotted symbol of, I kid you not, a Toilet with a toilet seat. Yes, it is true.
Now, for the past few years, cleanliness has been a slogan for success (not yet in hand though), and one which the new prime minister of the nation found fit to propound at length on the day when he addressed his nation on its Independence day. He didn't think it important to give tributes to the martyrs of the Independence movement or to the Nation's struggle to achieve it. Now, of course, after a few years everything has changed. Nationalism is back in the driver's seat, cleanliness, now espoused by various celebrities and corporate sponsors, continues to run on a distant parallel track. Of course, if this candidate wins- the toilet will win again!

Kolkata Report #8

Kolkata Report #8
My close friends all know that I have a 'thing' for bulls. My main collection is back at my main home. Even so, somehow these bull figurines keep chasing me. What can I do, but to take them home with me?
Now I have a small collection in my Kolkata home as well. A couple of terracotta bulls from Biswa Bangla store- the local government's showcase store for traditional Bengali crafts, a couple of very rudimentary clay bulls picked up at an artisan's fair at the Rabindra Bharati University, and even one of a most amiable mustachioed Shiva sitting a atop a sweet little Nandi, created from a historic mold of children's clay toys.All these were the only pieces in the various venues, and it seemed that they were waiting for me.
Years ago when my family lived in a house close by to where I now live, there were a lot more cattle roaming around Kolkata. In fact there was a 'khatal' or a dairy right behind our house and right next to a junior college.
It wasn't unusual to hear the soft lowing of the cows and water buffaloes. They were all ladies, kept at the khatal at night and let loose during the day. Among the various bovines roaming around and parked hither and thither, contently chewing cud or grazing on what little grass that grew on the sidewalk, they lent a bucolic sensibility to our neighborhood. Even the stray dogs that lived in the neighborhood 'para' knew which our local bovine ladies were, and kept their peace and distance from them. Then there was this humongous white bull with a shadings of black, a black hump and a black tail. He walked around with great nonchalance and paid an occasional visit to Lake Market, a thriving and bustling fresh produce market. Yes, he would go right in and saunter around the fresh fruit and vegetable stalls, occasionally taking a sample of this or that to sample. As what he culled was generally a mouthful and since he was of the tribe of 'sacred' beasts, he got away with that. His visits were like those we do at out Farmer's Markets with free samples. On one occasion, he sampled some vegetables at a stall, which was obviously going through lean times. The irate shop keeper descended fro his perch, high among the vegetables, scolded the bull and whacked him with an umbrella. We were sure the bull would react angrily and got ready to escape if there was a stampede. But the bull cast a sorrowful glance at the vegetable seller and began to move away. The vegetable seller hurled and a few more choice curse words and landed a few more blows on the bull's rump. An elderly South Indian gentleman wearing a veshti lower garment, mildly remonstrated with the shop keeper, 'Sir, please! He is a good animal! Very fine and very good.. Don't beat him!'
The irate vegetable seller turned towards the interlocutor, and hurled some sarcasm in his direction as well, 'If you are so fond of this bull, why don't you take him home and feed him?'
Well, that was then, the bull was not deterred from his jaunts, carrying on a few more.
A few years later, khatals were declared illegal to be within the city and the herd of cows and water buffaloes and Sir Bull, all disappeared from the scene.
Just this morning, I read an online news report of a popular politician in the distant state of Punjab who was jabbed or nearly jabbed by a bull. Yes, you might groan. I do descend into bad puns at times!
The news report (from NDTV) is as follows
'AMRITSAR: Punjab Minister Navjot Singh Sidhu had a narrow escape when a stray bull attacked a group of people standing with him outside a temple in Amritsar on Wednesday, police said.
The minister had gone to inspect the ongoing beautification project in Durgiana temple when the incident occurred.

He was chatting with some media persons when the stray bull attacked them, the police said, adding that Mr Sidhu was unhurt while two media persons got minor injuries.'
Clearly, this Punjabi bull had no tolerance for politicians or their entourage. Quite unlike our local Kolkata bull of yore.
However, I bemoan the lackluster reporting of the incident, which I suspect, was far more exciting than related above.
Of course, I have many bull stories to relate, which will have to wait till a later date.

   


Kolkata Report #4

So starts the month of May. A momentous day, worldwide, celebrating the rights of the workers of the world. As they should, indeed be celebrated. For some 30 years, the state of West Bengal, under an elected Marxist regime, celebrated this holiday, calling it May Dibosh (May Divas in Hindi).

Ironically, 'Mayday!' is the Emergency call for a sinking ship. And so it happened to the regime, which had become enfeebled and lost its sight of what was needful for the people and became too enmeshed in the dogma and enforcement of its thinking ... Life moves in cycles and circles. One day, perhaps, people and became too enmeshed in the dogma and enforcement of its thinking ... Life moves in cycles and circles. One day, perhaps, people will come to power, supporting the everyday heroes that make our lives flow and celebrating the egalitarian principles, which the sinking planet earth needs badly, to survive.
What is also precious about the First of May, is the Catholic Church's celebration of the Feast of Mary, Mother of Jesus Christ.
In fact, in our parochial school, we celebrated the entire month of May in Mother Mary's honor. Every morning our assembly hall was decorated in beautiful fresh flowers and candles, so wondrous, that it would take my breath away. To celebrate a woman, who was not just defined by her motherhood of Jesus Christ or Issa Masih, but one whose unquestioning acceptance of her God's grace and of the sorrow that would befall her and her life of calm dignity and holiness.
This was the first of the different daily hymns we would sing in the month of May, truly, as the lyrics say,
'Our full hearts are swelling, Our glad voices telling,
The praise of the loveliest Flower of the vale'.
Our voices would rise in a magnificent paean, filling our assembly hall and reverberating in the flickering of candles and and the calm beauty of Mary's statue, standing among the beautiful boughs of freshly culled Krishnachura or Poinciana sometimes, and fresh fragrant Rajanigandha or Tuberose at others..

Written - May 4, 2018

Bring Flowers of the rarest

https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?rinli=1&pli=1&blogID=2917537897014121677#editor/target=post;postID=784489829274434318

Kolkata Report #6
OK, so it a tropical country, teeming with life, human, non human, vegetable and whatever is in between. Everyone and everything is to be considered Survival Experts. Teetering on the edge of death and destruction, everything seems to find a way to survive and carry on regardless. Humans live in close proximity to and in the very midst of wildlife in the city of Kolkata. There is still an amazing variety of foliage in the city, despite human's propensity to destroy and generally remove anything green that can be seen in close proximity to bricks, mortar and concrete. Even so, the plants are equally adept at finding footholds in amazing nooks and crannies. Left to itself, Nature takes over everything here. Ferns and mosses, moulds and wild figs quickly grow out of cracks between old brick walls, their roots digging ever deeper into every structure and eventually engulfing and choking it.
Armies of various types of ants, beetles, worms move into buildings. Snakes and skinks come to live wherever they can. Birds relentlessly find apertures in window wells, cornices and ventilation shafts to nest and raise their young. Rats burrow extensively underground into long tunnels under sidewalks, emerging at night to forage and wreck their own havoc.The city's feral cats and stray dogs live lives of misery, even though the dogs are an essential part of neighbourhood security networks. Even the mange covered dogs seem to be well fed. Some one or the other seems to be feeding them other than what they can gather from trash heaps.But they are carriers of various kinds of parasites and infections, bravely living despite everything. Many form canine gangs and are very protective of their turf and even people who live on it. Every newcomer human to their turf is scanned with attention and they can quickly figure out the dog lovers from the dogsceptics.
Inside the houses live many varieties of ants, cockroaches and of course, gecko lizards called Tiktiki. Apparently, the strange name comes from their calls- 'tiktiktiktik..'. It has been years since I have heard a tiktiki. But they are still around in houses, stalking and eating insects that plague us inside our homes.
My mother used to echo an old saying 'Tiktiki holo Ghor er Lokkhi' (Tiktikis are like Goddess Lakshmi gracing the home).
They certainly are the householder's ally against cockroaches and flies.
There is a young one that fearlessly chases all kinds of prey around the kitchen at night. If I switch on the light at night, I find it looking at me with bright beady eyes and a lizard grin. Goofy but cute.
There are seasonal wildlife pests as well, Occasionally langur monkeys invade the city's leafier suburbs in the south. One decided to tease my sister's dog by running back and forth on a wall, outside of the frenzied dog's reach. Meanwhile, the neighborhood was deafened by the dog's furious barking and then the refrain picked up by the other dogs in the neighborhood. The monkey evidently enjoyed this game much more than its companions, who sat, eating mangoes from a nearby tree. When it got tired of the dog, it went off to eat mangoes.
The suburbs of Kolkata are also haunts of jackals, which gather in the night to raise the loudest of terrible wailing cries 'hukkahuwa.,wa, wa..'. Though their sounds are heard less, as the countryside is encroached by developments, but it will be a while, before people cease to hear the cries of these jackals, the screech of owls and hawks, the call of parrots and mynahs, arguing and complaining, the harsh cawing of the crows and the melliflous 'kuhukuhukuhu' the cuckoo's call, rising in crescendo from some nearby tree.
We become immune to their presence, but if one day, these sights and sounds and the presence of some of these, vanishes, our lives will be poorer. Much poorer.

Kolkata Report #5

This will be a brief one, I promise.

Just when the world was becoming dreary and morbid, up in the eastern part of India, rises a new comedy king in the form of a politician who has been established as the Chief Minister. This former athletic trainer (quite well built and with movie star good looks, admittedly) seems to be saying something new and astonishing every day. The newspapers in Kolkata are seizing upon this treasure trove of gems falling out of his mouth daily. Sadly, today there are no print papers, in the hoary old tradition of not printing newspapers after public holidays, so that I will not be able to preserve this clipping for posterity..
But please note the possibility of a free manicure..

https://www.ndtv.com/india-news/fingernails-will-be-cut-tripura-chief-minister-biplab-deb-on-those-questioning-his-governance-1845680?pfrom=home-lateststories

Kolkata Report #3
There is gritty charcoal like feel to the air. It might be particulate pollution we read about, but I remember this precise feel back in the days when pollution was not even a problem. There is an underlying heat of sizeable proportions.You get this feel when you emerge from the airport, after its cool air conditioned relatively dust free environment. It announced that you were in India again.
Along with this, you hear car horns, people talking excitedly, the sound of childrens' voices- some peevish despite being in the sweetest voices in the world- 'Kothay?! Dadubhai toh ashchhei na!'(Where is he? Grandpa just isn't coming yet!), or a bit whiny
'Bari jaabo...' (I want to go home) or á plaintive 'Plane kothay? bolechhiley na ekhaney anek plane ashey?'(where are the planes? Didn't you told me that there were lots of planes here?)..
Then one's ride materializes and one is off to one's destination.
The sky is a murky khaki color, the clouds have piled on thick.
Not that long ago, the plane was in the sky, above the bumpy cloud layer, and the air was crystalline in clarity. There the sky was a wonderful cerulean blue. Perspectives change as one shifts position. But of course- always, and in every facet of life.
Long journeys make one philosophical at their end, as blood begins to flow through one's limbs and cranium once again.
Speeding over the new roads and flyovers, one feels a mixture of love for the old city, a bit of guilt for those standing by the bus stops, a sense of hopelessness for the tangles of wires and posters and ramshackle tarpaulin covered pavement stalls and also a tiny sense of relief, that not too much has changed.
One can resume ones mental agenda as to how one can restore this city to its elegant past.
The rain starts with a sharp thunderclap. Big fat raindrops beat down on every surface, stinging on bare limbs. Lightning strikes something and then there is a huge crackling sound as the sky was being ripped like a strong fabric. The water gathers quickly in the gutters and the raindrops on that water look as though someone was frying pakoras. Ah! Pakoras, singaras and machh bhaja.
Yes, yes- one's mind is never far from food.
After the shower passes- there is a cleaner feel to the air but also a whiff of odor of urine and mould.
The next day, the sun rises and within a few hours that gritty feel to the air is back.

April 30th, 2018

Kolkata Report #2


The telephone company that I have subscribed to, sent a chap from their office to my place for address verification. So, this chap calls and asks for directions. Turns out that he is coming from their office which is about 250 metres away. Even so, he wants to know landmarks.
I tell him about the Canara Bank on one corner, a traffic police kiosk opposite it and a well known beauty salon close by.
Oh, he says, it is on the street on the corner of which is the house of a politician.I tell him truthfully that I did not know. Now he gets suspicious. How could I live there and not know about this politician? he asks.
Oh, I answer in return, I know about this pol, and I would rather not know too much about him, based on my rather poor opinion of him. And why would I want to know where he lived?
I make a mental note of the fact that during the last election, there was the only lotus poster outside the supposed residence of the pol, amid the sea of the Trinamul Congress posters. It is still there, but in shreds.
Outside the house, parked almost permanently, is a hearse.
Hmm. I am interrupted in my ruminations by the door bell. The phone company guy has arrived.
In a city where everybody knows everybody, it seems, I did not know of a famous neighbour!

April 29th, 2018

The Kolkata Report #1

I am back in the Land of Powerful and Ultimate Excuses. It took several days to regain connectivity and equilibrium. I knew these days would throw up several such and of course, I was not disappointed. However, relating all of them would make both yours and mine eyes glaze over, or else shed tears of sorrow or laughter, depending on whether you are of a compassionate or of an awful cynical nature.
So, I'll try to recount one a day, so as not to overwhelm you.
Last year, I bought a 'landline' phone, only it was not strictly a landline phone. Oldies like me, find great comfort in the descriptions of our erstwhile dear devices, as stated in wikipedia
'A traditional landline telephone system, also known as plain old telephone service (POTS), commonly carries both control and audio signals on the same twisted pair (C in diagram) of insulated wires, the telephone line. The control and signaling equipment consists of three components, the ringer, the hookswitch, and a dial. The ringer, or beeper, light or other device (A7), alerts the user to incoming calls. The hookswitch signals to the central office that the user has picked up the handset to either answer a call or initiate a call. A dial, if present, is used by the subscriber to transmit a telephone number to the central office when initiating a call. Until the 1960s dials used almost exclusively the rotary technology, which was replaced by dual-tone multi-frequency signaling (DTMF) with pushbutton telephones (A4)'
All that has been condensed into a small slab, the size of the 100 gm. Amul butter pack or even thinner. Though they are marvels of science and technology, they are also, covert disrupters of our lives, having taken over almost every function of our brains, and that have us as addicts, craving for ever more of that.
But I digress. I had been paying a very small rental monthly fee for that device, with the assurance that only calls to be made on that phone would be charged, and that too, at a nominal rate.
This phone was also supplied by a renowned business group called Tata Teleservices, and I also used an internet 'dongle' from them. I cannot complain too much about the services they provided; after all, every system has its glitches.
I gathered that the telecom industry was roiling in scandal and legal tangles, even as it surged forward to provide connectivity to millions of Indians. In fact, it was a somewhat tragicomic and incongruous situation to see people squatting in the fields among their crops, to attend the urgent 'calls of nature', with cell phones to their ears. The cart with a bullock hitched on one front and a Mercedes Benz on the other, turning in circles.
Well, of the last 3 months or so, I began to receive online notices about the need to take my device in, to change from CDMA to SMS or something of that nature. There were enticements and freebies in order to effect this change.
I wrote back to a very persistent Customer Service agent, who had been on my tail to get this done, saying that I would be in Kolkata later in April and could get the work done then. So, here I am, with my phone set in hand, standing in front of a shuttered Docomo store. 'It has been closed down for several months', says the local panwala, the wikipedia of the locality, 'It may have moved to Tollygunj Phari (a transportation depot)'. I am shocked. This was a large and bustling store, when I bought the device from here, just over a year previously.
I decide to try another Docomo store on Kolkata's elite Park Street, their prestigious flagship store. It is also shuttered.

I realize with a shock, that in the past month all the Docomo stores have vanished, and we never even knew.

I try to call the helpline, a stubbornly opaque automated system, which cheerfully tells you that you have exceeded all allowed attempts and bids you goodbye, thanking you for calling Tata Docomo.
I feel that hollow feeling that one gets when one returns home, to find your dearest neighbor has picked up and departed suddenly in your absence and left no forwarding address.
I turn to Facebook and find their page. There are 12 million 'likes' registered, among whom I spot some known persons.
I vent my ire and annoyance. I send them a message. Someone behind the screen, on the page, responds fairly soon. They have taken note of my complaint and they'll get back to me, they say. Of course, they won't.
I go and get a service plan from their competitor.
It's business as usual, I suppose.


April 29th, 2018

Illusions and Heartaches

Three more days to spend in my old hometown. I sat in the old wicker armchair, sipping my morning cup of tea. The crows had awoken since several hours and having raucously announced their day's agendas, were temporarily quiet. The front gate creaked open and the familiar sound of the newspaper man's bicycle followed. It was an apologetic sounding bell, like the old man himself. Just wasn't like the good old paper it used to be, he rued. So thin and and full of advertisements. Nothing is newsworthy anymore, I am sorry to say, he went on in a reedy voice. He looked so miserable that I rushed to his defense. It isn't your fault, I told him, not at all.

Those who are supposed to make news are just not doing their jobs; at least you are doing a good job delivering whatever they are serving up. He looked at me with doubt. I offered to buy an unnecessary extra newspaper. He took it out of his simulated jute shopping bag and handed it over carefully. I'm sorry, he said again, this one is not much better. Then he wheeled his bicycle away before I could reply.
I was not going to rob him of his apology.
He was right. The newspaper was so banal that I put it aside within minutes. What a great paper it
used to be! What forthright editorials!
The listing of current events used to show an abundance of intellectual pursuits, of dance, of  drama, of recitals, of prayer meetings, of births and of deaths.
And now the paper was a vestige of its former self, a wheezing gasping old person.
Sadly, I consign it to a pile of other newspapers that are waiting to be sold by weight.

I imagine for a moment a breakfast table several decades ago. My father would be leafing through
the newspapers, crackling as crisply as his toast. I almost hear the very slight slurp of the coffee
cup, as it drains by sips. The illusion vanishes as the phone rings.
It is my old friend Mithu. Why haven't you come to see me? she demands. Because I haven't felt
like going, I say to myself. So sorry, I was busy, I tell her.
I am evasive with Mithu. I cannot tell her whether I will find time in these three days to visit her.
She has an illusion of me, of the way I used to be. Giving in to her whining and her cajoling. But
life has taught me to see through such wiles, even though I still find it hard to keep people like her
at bay. One way to do this, is by breaking the illusion they have of us as being compliant.
So I hold off making any commitments. She is nearly in tears. Or is it an impression I am forming?

 Is her distress an illusion or a reality? I am confused and somewhat moved to capitulate. Luckily, she has a distraction at the other end and has to hang up; but not before exhorting me to make an effort and come to her place. I tell her I will try.
What a cruel thing to do to an old friend! But a true friend would understand, I tell myself. Quotes
about true friendship run through my head, like a jumble of bingo chips. Get five in a straight row....

The day is spent like other days, fitfully and uncomfortably. I don't want to leave, but I don't want
to stay either. I shall once again lose the cadences of a life I have left time and again; and
rediscovered time and again.
As the evening draws near, I am restless. I decide that I will go to visit Mithu. I will go after
sundown, so that it will cool down. Besides, she will probably be done with her daily chores and
duties.

I shower and change into fresh clothing. I will go in a salwar kameez, a more youthful attire that
we sported when we were young and neighbors. We used to back comb our hair into impossible
beehives and wear impossibly tight clothes. And sport impossibly pointed shoes that had no
resemblance to the shape of normal human feet.
As I smear some pale lipstick across my lips, I marvel at how fashion has come around a full 360
degrees. But thankfully, I am no longer a fashionista.

The evening has suddenly darkened. A distant thunder rumbles as clouds gather overhead. I take
my umbrella as I leave the house and walk towards the taxi stand. This is an 'ultralight' umbrella;
a marvel of modern times. A concoction of nylon and aluminium that one can stash away
conveniently in a purse. I miss my old fashioned black cloth umbrella, with a stout wooden handle
and a sharpish metal tip. I have an ominous feeling that my old umbrella would have been
necessary for this evening. But then, I reassure myself, I do have an umbrella.

I walk past a young man selling flower garlands. On a sheer impulse I buy a jasmine gajra, a small
fragrant flower garland to twine in a braid or around a chignon. But my hair is now cut very short.
I remember my very long braid, now very long gone as well. I feel a momentary twinge of regret
at my decision of convenience. I can almost hear my late mother's voice at this moment. See, she
says with a smirk evident even in her voice, I told you, you will regret cutting your hair short!
 One does not maintain a head full of lustrous hair that cascades down one's back, just to wear
gajras, I say to myself decisively, as I stop at the corner store to buy a packet of bobby pins with
which I will attach the gajra to my short hair. This time around, I hear my father's exasperated
voice, You women are so vain; nothing will stop you from trying to look beautiful.
Past a cart lit with a Petromax lamp, briskly selling aloo kabli, a piquant dish made with chickpeas
and potatoes, I find a taxi.

Can you wait a minute, I ask the taxi driver. He nods. I go over and buy two aloo kablis. I give one
to the astonished taxi driver and eat one myself. We both eat in silence. Soon I am hissing with the
burn from the spiciness. The driver takes out his plastic bottle from somewhere under his seat,
holding the bottle well aloft, pours down some water into his mouth and drinks deftly. Then he
offers me some water- which I decline. It is good tube well water, he insists. Even so, I decline
while thanking him.

Presently we set off. I stop and get off a few streets away from Mithu's house. We used to live a
couple of houses away from hers. I want to walk down these streets again to savor the past. These
are well established old neighborhoods with houses built around the 1940s and 50s. There is a
certain similarity in them with the same architectural flourishes of the period, yet, each is different. Almost all have a tiny garden in the front, with a few old fashioned flowering plants and a patch of grass struggling to grow in compacted clay soil.
They have unofficial fancy names attached to their numbers- Mayer Ashirbad ( Mother's Blessing),
Lalita Kunja (Lalita's Garden- though this one did not have a garden any longer), Madhabi Niketan
(Madhabi's Abode), Agarwal House with an obviously newly placed marble plaque and then my
favorite one, simply called Sanctum. I am relieved to see that Sanctum still stands- untouched by
the hands of property developers, who have torn down beauties such as these, to put up soulless,
graceless stacked matchboxes.

I notice that the tube well pump, the focal point of social interaction for maids and other domestic
helpers, is now defunct. Weeds grow around it. I can visualize our maid Surobala fetching a brass
pot of its 'sweet' water from there. We drank that water, probably Arsenic laced, for decades
without realizing its toxicity and hopefully escaping its side effects. She would stand for a few
moments balancing the filled kolshi pot on her left hip, exchange a few pleasantries with other
maids, before lurching home. Surobala has passed away into oblivion, though I think sometimes,
she still wanders about some where near this tube well pump.
The street lights have changed too. They are brighter and more efficient. Even so, they are no 

match for the vagaries of the electric company. They have just turned on in the darkness; only to
be snuffed out moments later in an electricity conservation move called 'load shedding'.

This street is almost deserted. This is surprising for a place just a few streets removed from one of
Kolkata's busiest bustling markets.
I walk on in the dark. I know this place so well, that I can walk blindfolded.
A few candles have been lit in the houses of the neighborhood.

Amazingly, I am able to avoid every pothole on the street. It is as though some sixth sense has
been activated. However, I am not able to prevent a fall into an emotional stumble when I see the
house I used to live in. It is dimly visible in the gloom. But I know its spaces so well. I think I still
know where all the light switches are and the telephone number that we had then, even after all these years and even after having lived in so many houses in the interim.
I draw up to Mithu's house. It is very dark inside.
I pause with my finger on the door bell. Well, without electricity, there's not much point in ringing
the electric door bell. So I knock with my knuckles. Almost immediately I hear a most wonderful
bass voice, 'Ke? Who is it?'
My heart leaps and races, as a strange churning feeling wrenches my gut.
How did I forget about him?
Mithu's older brother Ratnesh was a heart throb. Tall and muscular, he was an young Adonis. He
was away at a boarding school and then to an Engineering college. When he came home, he would
play street cricket with the neighborhood boys. We watched his natural grace, as he bowled and batted with great style. Even his fielding was a joy to behold- gracefully sinking on a knee to receive a catch, like a courtier in some king's palace. As he matured, his voice deepened into a polished
mahogany, his diction precise and clipped. He was very popular among all his companions. On a
rare occassion, he would vault over the railings of our property, to retrieve a cricket ball; of course
first having requested permission in that wonderful voice. When asked for consent, I would be speechless with shyness; able only to nod my assent.
Now I was going to face him again. I swallowed hard as I heard the inside bolt of the door
being unlatched. 'Ke?', he asked again from within.
My tongue had become a lump of dough. The door opened. Candle in hand stood a tall, gaunt man, balding, with heavy spectacles and a military style mustache. He was wearing a blue lungi and a white singlet. He held the a candle aloft  and peered down at me, standing in the darkness.
'Ke?' he repeated, 'Ki chai? Who is it, what do you want?'

I stared at this greatly changed Ratnesh, unable to respond. Momentarily I found my tongue.
'Ami Minnie', I replied, 'I am looking for Mithu.'
'Minnie?;, he repeated, then, 'Were you the girl who lived in the red house in the corner?'
'Haan;, I replied in agreement.
He opened the door wider and bid me come in. My heart had settled down. This man was not the same heart throb that I had expected. Even so, I hesitated slightly. There was a moment of indecision of a lone woman entering a dark house with a virtual stranger.
'Mithu is out, she will be back shortly,' he said, 'You can come in and wait for her, or return in about
half an hour.' He had sensed my uncertainty. He was giving me a way out.
'I'll come in and wait', I replied boldly. My instinct was that he could be trusted.
Ratnesh pointed to a large single chair in the room for me to sit in, and seated himself on a wooden plank bed. He placed the candle on a table between us. I couldn't see him well with the shadows in the room. We sat silently for a few minutes.
'So', he said slowly, 'You're back looking at the neighborhood; or what you can see of it in the
darkness.' I could sense the smile that accompanied his observation.
'Hmm', I nodded.
'Mithu told me that you had moved to the United States after you got married', he continued.
'Yes' , I replied. There was not much more I wanted to say. There was no point giving him any
details of the misery that I had endured at the hands of my ex husband. I had come to terms with life after he left me. After the relief from the abuse, came a heavy vacant boredom, that had reduced me to a robot like existence.
We sat in silence.
Suddenly, his mobile phone rang cheerfully with ring tones of a popular Hindi song. It was a call from a man from a nearby department store.
Mithu was trapped in the elevator along with several shoppers. The power cut had hit suddenly and
the store's standby electricity generator was not functioning. He was informing the families of those who were able to communicate from inside the elevator,  lest they grew concerned about their relatives not having returned. There was much shouting going on in the background, and the man was trying to speak above the din. Even though the phone was several feet away in Ratnesh's hand, I could hear the voices. One could well imagine the chaotic scene in  the darkened store.

Ratnesh thanked the man for the information and ended the call.
He sat silent for a moment and then broke into a chuckle. I could not help laughing as well.
Neither of us said anything but we were in a bubble of of mirth suddenly.
We both stopped and then almost simultaneously began to laugh again.
Oh, he said, wiping his eyes behind his spectacles, I suppose I shouldn't be laughing at the
misfortune of those poor people- but just the thought of it is so funny.
It was my turn to chuckle.
'Well', he opined, 'looks like she's not coming back soon'.
Do you want to wait? he asked after a few moments.
'No, I had better be going', I replied. There was no knowing how long Mithu would remain in the lift.
'I'll walk you to the taxi stand', he said, 'Just give me a moment'.
I was about to protest that I would manage fine- but, he just got up and left the room.
He was back in a few moments, changed into a pair of pants and a polo shirt. He picked up his keys and wallet on his way to the door.
'Lets go', he said.


- This short story is a work of fiction even though it has many touches of my actual life and real
people. I have changed some names.