"I am better off writing to strangers on the Internet."

Am I really? This is bound to be a random blog post. We all have old friends. Sometimes, these people become old friends merely because we have known them for a really long time. At least that is what happens to me at times. These are the old friends we never like visiting, and neither do we like it when they come by.

My friend came visiting today. I shall name it (?, of indeterminate gender) Black Cloud. I hate those times when it comes to meet me. Every time Black Cloud leaves, I heave a sigh of relief and hope never to see it again. Today, it came again in the midst of a blazing summer afternoon. I was least expecting it. But that is how it is. I met it about two years back, on Red Road. And after that I had the worst time of my life. However, I cannot deny the unmistakeable feeling of familiarity that it evokes.

I meet it with a small smile, always.

Some weird sides of a Home

There are things that we know. And then there are those things that we stumble upon. It is like spotting a little blue blob on a painting which one had seen for years, but never noticed. Public transport in Kolkata gives me the strangest views of a city I thought I knew by heart. Here are some rather random observations. On hindsight they might not be that funny or random, but worth mentioning all the same.

Curiosity No. 1:
Camps can be found all around you. I was sitting in an auto, one summer morning. The auto driver was merrily chatting away with the auto driver who was moving alongside. In fact, both the vehicles decided to move at an equal speed in order to carry out their talk.
The subject: The commercial status of My Name Is Khan. (No sniggers, please!)
For convenience, I shall refer to them as Ad1 and Ad2.
Ad1, while driving the auto I happened to be occupying, was evidently an ardent SRK fan. When Ad2 asks him whether he has seen the film, Ad1 enthusiastically replies that he had seen it, and loved it.
Immediately he is interrupted by loud groans from Ad2 who says that he had needed aspirin. "Pata hai ?", he says. "Poora hall mein sirf sola (sixteen) seats bharti tha! Mein to soh gaya tha beech mein. Koi accha naach-gaana bhi nahi hai." (There were only sixteen people in the theatre. I had fallen asleep midway. There are no songs or dances in the film.)
Not to be outdone, Ad1 replies, "toh kya hua? Ye sab filim videsh mein bahut accha chaltah hain. Tu nahi samjhega yaar. Yeh sab filim pe sochna partah hain. Dimaag lagtah hai, aur tera woh cheez ki kami hai." (So what? These films do very well abroad. You will not understand because these movies require the use of a brain which you don’t possess.)
Being part of the Ad1 camp, I suppressed my cheers as Ad1 proudly zoomed off after this admirable comeback. I turned back to see the miffed face of Ad2 and resisted the urge to pat my heroic auto driver on the back.

Curiosity No. 2 : Studious mother along with bored son.
I was nodding peacefully in a bus when this priceless sight caught mine eyes. A schoolboy boarded the bus along with his mother who dutifully carried his schoolbag on her shoulders. They sit down, and he occupied the window seat. Suddenly, she whipped out one of his copies from the bag and started perusing it intently. He continued to stare out of the window. She kept reading and occasionally poked her son to ask him something. I am presuming it had something to do with some class work. He simply shrugged her off, fending her questions with consummate ease.
Throughout the entire journey, she updated herself on what was done in school. By the time her son's exams start, I am sure she will be well prepared.

Curiosity No.3: Goats who stare at men.
The auto was trundling down a dingy lane near Park Circus. All I could see were goats. Ram-chhagols, from the look of them. There was a boy perched atop his shiny bike. He was chatting with a friend who was squatting on the pavement. Both of them were unaware of the presence of a rather mean looking chhagol, who was quietly chewing away at the front tire of bike. It must have made for a good mid-day snack for a "tire-d" goat. There was another Zen-looking chhagol I spotted near a shop. A crow perched on its head and the goat bleated not a word (bleat?).

Curiosity No. 4: The jet-setter buffalo.
I firmly believe that things like this can only happen in Kolkata. I was leaving the airport after a sad farewell. A friend had just left. I don't quite remember the details as it happened a while back. However, I was in a taxi and we were passing the entrance to the domestic terminus. A huge commotion was ongoing. For no small reason, though.
A huge black buffalo was trying to fit itself through the entrance.
Since the door was obviously not meant to cater to the space demands of a super sized buffalo, the animal got stock mid way. The huge belly refused to move an inch further. No one dared to give the animal an obliging push. The prospect of nudging the backside of an angry buffalo is not a tempting one. Neither is the idea of pushing at the horns. I wonder what happened to the accidental jet-setter.
My cabbie promptly decided that the sight was unfit for the eyes of a little lady and zipped away.

Curiosity No. 5: The mobile dog.
Those who say that dogs lead a dog’s life are sadly mistaken. No mode of public transport will let you board for free. Dogs, on the other hand, have it better at times. I was aboard a cycle rickshaw near South Kolkata when I saw this rickshaw puller trundle slowly past me. The seat was vacant but the rickshaw wasn’t. No, there is no typo here. A handsome street dog stood proudly on the rickshaw. What was admirable was the deadpan expression of the man pulling it. All n a day’s work, I am guessing.
I could have sworn the mutt sported a broad grin.
That is all I can think of, for now. Shall add more later. Feel free to chip in with yours.

2nd March: Stories from the other side

Street food is an important part of life in Kolkata. The famous phuchkas ( or golgappas or paanipuris, call them what you will) are known across the country for their exquisite taste. Not surprisingly, the taste-makers have been prominently featured in the media for their skills in being able to manipulate the tastebuds of thousands of people in the city. The phuchka-wallahs have been interviewed numerous times about their lives, customers and what they like. But rarely had they been asked about what they liked themselves. Those quirky stories had never come to the forefront. This is when my friend Reeti and I got thinking. Certain stories are rarely told and often get lost in the sensation of terrorism and politics that scream for attention every morning. What started out as a small assignment blew into a full fledged narrative with a few other friends coming along to support us. We zoned into three famous phuchka-wallahs and one hot March afternoon after college, Reeti and me, accompanied by Aditya, Rukmini and Antoreep set out.

We first interviewed Bachhu Prasad outside Jadavpur University who seemed happy enough to talk. When we asked him why people came back to him again and again, he replied that it was not his phuchkas, but the human touch that he lent. He said that if one bonded with their customers they would come back, no matter what. He is originally from Bihar and migrated to Assam before settling in the City of Joy for good. Phuchkas run in his family and they have been selling them for decades on end. His father had been selling phuchkas since 1965 and he continued the legacy ever since. He loves phuchkas and seemed a bit puzzled when we asked him what his ideal phuchka would constitute. He couldn't grasp the fact that someone would ask him for his preferences as people mostly wanted to know what the customers preferred. The phuchka-man's preference seems to have been marginalised.

After this we spoke to Kusheshwar at Mudiali who has had to move base a couple of times due to run-ins with the police. He sits under a bright yellow umbrella situated below a tree. He said that the umbrella protected him from the crows and the truth of the statement was proved a few minutes later when a twig dislodged itself and landed on Antoreep's head! He comes from a village near Patna and has been taught the art of phuchka making by his brother.

The last man we spoke to was Jetendra Pandit near Vivekananda Park. There is a complete phuchka community there and it is known for having created the much imitated dahi phuchka which can now be found all over the city. Like the other two, he hails from Bihar as well. We got a taste of not only the phuchkas, but even a bout of traditional medicine. Aditya accidentally scratched his hand and it started bleeding. Pandit calmly applied some “special chilli powder” on the cut, in front of our appalled faces. Astonishingly, the cut was sealed in a matter of minutes. Pandit told us all about the varied taste preferences of different communities in the city. Observing taste buds over a span of twenty five years, who could be better informed?

After the trip, a clear pattern emerged. The men who are famous for creating one of the culinary landmarks of the city, are not from West Bengal themselves! And here we are, Bengalis taking pride in the timeless phuchka. A clear pattern of the migrant worker emerged as part of the larger picture.

Reeti and I realised that what we had embarked upon was merely the tip of the iceberg. Countless anecdotes and insights had emerged from just three conversations and there are thousands of phuchkawallahs across the city. Their stories will still remain untold until the next March afternoon. These chronicles need to be documented to grasp yet another facet of a city.

Great novels brought to life on celluloid

Great novels brought to life on celluloid

No one stood still.

Today is the 26th of January. This is the day when the entire country is supposed to be celebrating Republic Day. I was at the Metro station, waiting for the train to arrive. The television screens were playing a version of the National Anthem. It was at a pretty high volume so that everyone there could hear it. Strangely enough, people could not be less bothered. Some of them just slouched in the chairs, while others even stared at the TVs and watched it being played without taking the effort of standing still for those few moments. A few were generally walking around, chatting and laughing while the song went on in vain.

When I stood stock-still in front of the screen, some men turned around and stared at me, as if to wonder at what I was doing.

How naive I am, I suppose.

Patriotism is outdated.

changeling

Within dark rooms, caught off guard.

A growl lurking behind a lisp.

Laboured breaths from the lips of the fake child.

A trick between the lisp and lips...it does the deed indeed.

Dancing shadows beneath the moon.

Friendly teeth, bared beneath the glass light.

Sinking into unsuspecting flesh.

wolfish apologies from a changeling to a child.

Red, bursting seams.

The soreness seeps in.

The child smiles.

The day I shut the door.

This is probably one of those inexplicable incidents which happen to people every other day in their lives. Some you forget, and some you don't. Often, we end up forgetting certain things because they tend to rankle. This happened to me yesterday and I still cannot figure out what bothers me so.

I was walking home in the afternoon when I realized that I had left my door key in the house before leaving that morning. I prayed that there would be someone at home or I would be locked out . Being tired, I wanted to crash for a while as I had a birthday invitation that evening. Subject to the infuriating bad luck which sweeps down on the already downtrodden, I reached my house and found the front door locked. Desperate to enter my apartment, I wondered how the detectives in the novels unlocked doors with hairpins. It was then that I went looking for a locksmith.

He was sitting on the pavement, draped in a shabby grey shawl. His feet looked tired and old. He was sitting on the pavement, staring vacantly at the feet of the countless people who passed him by. I went up to him and explained my dilemma. The old man came with me and inspected the lock on my front door. Within a few minutes, the new key was ready and I entered my house. He was still gathering up all the tools of his trade when I paid him. I got through the front door and was about to shut it when I realized that this tired old man was still on my threshold picking up his things. For some strange reason that I cannot yet fathom, closing the door on his face somehow became a task of immeasurable cruelty to me. I was unable to shut the door on his face. Awkwardly, I peered at him and asked him if everything was fine, and he simply nodded , shuffling around. When I realized that I could not stand at my door staring at him without seeming weird, did I shut the door on his face.

While I was filled with extreme relief at being able to enter my house once again, I could not rid myself of the feeling of guilt at the fact that I had shut the door on the face of the old man who had provided me with the key to my own home.