Ahem!

The biggest challenge as a blogger that I have faced till now is that people keep asking you about your next post.

In such cases I either keep a know-all sombre face and shake my head and hope that the person interpretes my answer to my and his liking or say that I am thinking of/cooking up something to be posted very soon.

In either case, it is an euphemism. For at that moment, I have not the simplest of inclination to write-- either due to the dearth of ideas at that time or due to my age old lethargic nature.

So, all those who wanted to know, the cat is now out of the bag and , you all have to make do with this pathetic attempt masquerading as a post.

And no Sniggers please:)))))))

It is raining

As soon as the first monsoon clouds team up to darken the horizon, all sorts of strange memories invade my mind.

Here I am sitting at the verandah of the small quarter in Durgapur looking out at the horizon and marvelling at the downpour washing away the grime of the trees , flowers, roads and even the pebbles of our garden with the sound of rainfall on the various surfaces and tree leaves creating a marvellous symphony of its own.

Then there I am straining away on my small blue bicycle away from the cricket field as I continue my struggle to reach the safety of my home before the fast approaching rain drops catch up with me.

Of course, there is a fun filled moment of a few of us , all teenagers, having a time of our lives playing football in a slushy mud spattered field in a rain soaked day, while the neighbourhood damsels watched us from the convenient safety of their verandahs. Maan, how we showcased our talents that day in the 'Inter para' football championship.

There is a complete collage of picking mangoes, playing ' Jumping in the puddle' , wrestling matches on the wet school ground and intentional rain drenching sessions to be able to get French leave from school.

Add to that, the memories of being huddled inside the room as the first 'Kalboishaki' lashed the city armed with generous doses of thunder and lightning and aided by storms reaching 90 km per hour. The fear and apprehension gave way to the pleasure created by the sudden fall in temperature as one sat back in the evening munching away at 'telebhaja' and 'muri' or huddled under the mango or guava tree to pick up the fruits dislodged by the storm. An occasional 'shilabristi' added to the charm and it was fun to reach out in the rain to get hold of the icicles falling from the sky.

There is also one memorable holiday in Darjeeling where I spent one full hour alone in the Mall sitting in the pouring rain, enjoying two cones of ice cream as I tried to get a feel of the mist covered mountains in the blurred horizon.

Then there were the romantic escapades of the mind pushing me to offer umbrella space to a good looking college mate (met with rejections almost always), offered lifts on a dilapidated scooter such that the dainty selves do not soil their lovely feet in the puddles (generally accepted) and of course, participation in typical college groups walking cheerfully in the pouring rain with the hope of getting close to the most recent infatuation.

Aah, those were the days when youth was me. Those were the days of monsoon magic and romance.

These days , when I see the same clouds, I am more worried about the waterlogging, work disruptions, the maid not turning up, car stalling in the water and water borne stomach ailments.

Is that a sign that I am aging?

Who knows? Maybe.

But this year, at least one day, I am going to deliberately wade in the monsoon puddle and enjoy it. That is a promise!!

Chalo Let's Go

I was never a film buff.

I mean I do not enjoy sitting inside a dark hall sharing some tear jerking melodrama with a group of unknown individuals; or for that matter neither do I appreciate laughing at some antics on the screen. I would rather read a quiet book at home and let my imagination run wild or go to the Eden Gardens and shout my guts out in favour of the Indian Cricket team (and not for a certain Mr. Khan) .

My experiences of a cinema hall were for Feluda films, Goopy Gyne series and of course, some love stories which I had seen with my wife ( which was when we were dating pre-marriage).

I have also sat through a lot of good movies in my living room, reclining on my sofa and with occasional flipping of sports channels in between thrown in for good measure. And I for a good measure diligently read the film reviews and gossip published in the Tabloid section of The Telegraph, Ananda Bazar Patrika and the Times of India -- such that I do not feel left out of the office lunch corner.

With that sort of background I contrive to do this blog on a film - a recent one by Anjan Dutta.

The seeds were sown with us (my wife and I) attending the Music Release of the film ' Chalo Let's Go'. This had to do with my love for the songs of Anjan Dutta and the presence of my 'Orkut Friend' Rudranil as one of the actors in the film. I loved the music and my wife seizing my moment of vulnerability (wives do have a sixth sense in reading the vulnerable moments of their husbands) extracted a promise out of me to see the film.

And so there I was at the movie hall with mixed feelings -- waiting for the movie to set rolling.

Two hours later I emerged out of the hall slightly uncomfortable-- dazed by the simplicity of the story, uplifted by the complexity dealt out in this span. A simple non linear story line dealing with the myriad nature of what we call the human mind embellished by the lush backdrop of North Bengal , nurtured by mind blowing music and held together by superb acting by non-stars made my evening.

I am tempted to discuss the nuances in detail . But I desist as neither do I have the capacity to express such depth, nor do I intend to give out the hidden joys that the film holds for the viewer. I would rather wish that individuals walk in to see the film and appreciate it in their own way. I know that it is not a 'classic'. But If you are a Bengali in the strange world of today, then the film would have held a small bit of recognition of yourself in any or many of the characters portrayed.

So I would recommend to all and sundry to 'Chalo let's go'.

Celebrating an epitaph

This is courtesy someone whose profile I bumped into in Orkut.

Thanks 'Sanjhbatir** Roopkothara***'.

I guess I would be proud if I could write something of a depth and quality remotely close to this:-

Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning hush
I am the swift uplifting rush.
Of quiet birds in circled flight,
I am the soft stars that shine at the night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry
I am not there , I did not die.

Darjeeling- A Love Story

I do not know from when I had fallen in love with Darjeeling.

I cannot place a precise time frame from when I had yearned for that place. It was also not the first hill station to be visited by me. In fact, I had already traveled through Jammu and Kashmir and had seen Mussorie. They were splendid hill stations but my mind somehow wandered towards Darjeeling. Blame it on the Feluda stories, which started from Darjeeling or on the wonderful songs of Anjan Dutta weaving dreamy tales about it – both are my favourites—Darjeeling always stood out. Always!!!!!

I visited Darjeeling for the first time in 1992, when I had just completed college and Darjeeling had just recovered from a rather bloody phase of unrest. The feeling of waiting to see my beloved was so overwhelming that I scarcely noticed any thing on the three and half hour journey from Siliguri.

Then after Ghoom, when the car turned one more S-curve on the road, there loomed she – the queen of the hills.

Four days of intoxication followed – intoxication of colours, smell, peace and -----, I don’t know what else. I came back happy to have whetted my thirst for the place. There was satiety in having known my beloved so closely and there was hunger for more – much more. And not even the fact that I could not get a single glimpse of Kanchenzonga during that period of stay could take away my happiness!!

I have visited Darjeeling about 8 to 10 times after that and my thirst refuses to get quenched. These days I know the curves of the Hill Cart road so well that I can even drive in the night. I have a crush on the hot chocolate and sausage breakfast of Keventers. I love the liquor chocolates of Glennarys. I have another affair with the Joeys Pub. I love to wake up early and take a walk around the Observatory hill as the Majestic Kanchenzonga looms in the front and takes a bath in the light of the rising sun. I love taking lonely walks around the tea gardens. I love watching the Blue Toy Train making its meandering progress. I love sitting upon the observatory hill, watching the sun set in the distance. But best of all, I love to sit lazily on one of the green benches in the Mall, doing absolutely nothing as hordes of people move around.

I know that crass consumerism is eating away at my beloved. I know the various struggles of recognition by various sects have eroded the Buddha like calm of the place. I know that the visiting throngs have denuded away the water reserve of the place. I know that the knowing population speaks highly of other places like Kurseong, Pelling, Ravangla and Sikkim.

But can you do away with your beloved and look for new love just because your love of your life has fallen ill? Does a love affair look into physical deformity?

No way, sir. I love my beloved Darjeeling.

MITRALAYA- My house

The first and the most lingering memory of the house is of a big iron gate with creepers over it blooming with flowers of myriad colours and a tall dark handsome gentleman with a baritone voice standing behind enquiring from us --- me and my parents--- whether the Tata Patna express was behind schedule as usual. If my memory of about 35 years back serves me right, the month must have been May.

Why that particularly non- exciting routine inquiry from my grandfather remains etched in my memory defies normal logic. For I have visited that house three times every year for the next 32 years without fail!! Whenever, I have had school vacations, we rushed of to that house in Jamshedpur. Is it possibly because that was the last time I had seen my grand father fit and walking? Maybe. Or is it possibly that I had reached that age when one tends to recognize the yearnings and love in the voice of ones grand parents? Maybe.

My grandfather, or Dabhai as I called him, died of cancer within 2 years of the above incident leaving behind his large family, a lot of difficult to emulate legacy and a lovely house, aptly named ‘Mitralaya.’

The house became part of my growing up. My father worked in another steel city and we would look forward to going to this house in during each vacation. Built around a facade supported by huge Gothic pillars, the house housed all sorts of interesting things for my growing childhood.

First of all my cousins lived here.

Then there were the circular rooms with 12 windows, a huge kitchen garden filled with fruit and vegetable trees, a flower garden with a manicured lawn and a stately Magnolia Grandiflora tree presiding over all of it. Add to the above umpteen bookcases filled to the brim, a dining table fit to serve 12 covers, a bathroom with red floors, winding marble staircases to the roof and the roof itself—from where one could see the rolling Dalma hills in the horizon.

The wonders were many and so was the flow of love and affection.

12 years back, a burgeoning family and sheer economic considerations forced the unwilling family to do away with the dream. Now, there stands a mid rise multi-storied apartment block -- very modern, updated and without any history and character.

I have an apartment there and so do each of my cousins who like me are settled all across the globe.
Each of us are successful in our little way but we all pine for that house which took away our childhood with it.

A Fiasco Named Kolkata Book Fair

The Kolkata Book Fair has been called off!!

I could not believe it the first time though perhaps everyone would say that it was always on the cards. Caught between the crossfire of an unbending arrogant Guild (people who organize the fair) and the environment protecting experts who had taken on the Book Fair as a soft target, the future of the fair was suspect. The last moment verdict by the court of law was the proverbial last straw.

Given the situation, a few questions do arise.

Who gave the guild the right to play with the emotions of the common mass of Kolkata who look forward to this annual event?

Since it is a repetition of the last year near fiasco, why did the guild not have a Plan B?

Why did the authorities allow even the initial work to start when now they are trying to avoid the blame?

Since this has got a history from the last few years, why has an alternative site not been offered? After all, last year the fair at the Salt Lake stadium had lost much of its vaunted flair!

Why has the environment experts taken on only about the Book Fair? Is it because this is a soft target, which does not have the backing of big corporate houses or political honchos? After all, when every month 10,000 new cars hit the cramped up roads of Kolkata, thousands of new polluting restaurants open up, trees are hacked mercilessly to create new skyscrapers, the Tolly Nullah or the Krishnapur Canal remain pollution personified, Kolkata gets annual floods twice as the exit route of the storm water has been damaged or blocked in the name of development, a cigarette company does not want to move out of Kolkata as the number of smokers is maximum in the state, government vehicles belch smoke with impunity , 15 year old vehicles refuse to leave the roads, why only the book fair of all things?????

We in Kolkata have lost a lot of our heritage and culture in the name of Development and Progress. When other towns do protect their heritage and yet grow at a double speed than us, then why can’t we?

The Kolkata Book Fair is a part of our heritage—a heritage for which we should be damned proud of!!!

So please Messrs. Dutta, De, Bhattacharya, et all. Stop this stupid bickering and make sure that the Book Fair is back in all its grandeur irrespective of the location --- theories be damned!!!