Ramblings .2

The car ahead
had two shining dots of light
on it
That's how I learnt
My headlamps had
been on
all along .


Many a time
one's own face
is clearly seen
in someone else's
eyes

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The trees in the neighbourhood have giant broad leaves . I have been watching them all winter . At first they were , devil-may-care dark green , full of eternal youth and vigor . Even harshest weather couldn't dislodge them . Then came fall ,and they turned slightly less green , less sure of themselves . A few (specially at the apex ) turned yellow. The yellow ones fell . In ones and twos , slowly , the others too , turned yellow . And they fell pell-mell . In the deepest , darkest winter , there was a carpet of yellow lying on the floor, at the base of the tree . When the sun finally came out , the tree stood nude , except for a line of yellow ones , ready to drop , at the first hint of wind .


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Yesterday , I saw a teetar family in the bushes , a mongoose nosing around , a finch flicking its black tail and an owl screeched in the cold of the night . I met all my friends .

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A patch of moss on my wall is the shape of 1 The twig end of a broomstick 2 A teenager's emphatically swaying ponytail 3 The hair on the tail of a mare 4 The swish and flick of a Hogwart's wand .

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The late train

First , of  all , there was this waiting room on the rooftop of Platform number 16 . Someone told me that it is an platform number one . When I chugged myself and my tired stroller there , I stood facing the exit sign . Both of us stared at each other for some time , and I realised that even if the train was three hours late , it was not worth exiting the station , and reentering it . Seeing the serpentine queues at the  luggage scanners.

There was an exclusive kind of waiting area , where you are insulated from the rest of the world , the noise ,the smells ,and sights , and I didn't want to miss that .

Hence "Upper Class Waiting Room ". They charge you 20/- for two hours and ten rupees for every extra one hour . A small and brightly lit , overloaded eatery lies bang at the entrance . I decided to take a cardamom tea cup with me . Holding a stroller , a papercup of tea spilling hot spurious fluid at each step , and a purse was a bit of a challenge , and I remember crossing the door and finding a spot to sit too. Commendable .

There were giant TV screens on every wall , and they were all defunct. Meaning black . Unplugged .  There were pairs of charging points on the walls , at regular intervals . All had tell tale burnt marks next to the holes . All were burnt , defunct . I started checking at the western wall , came to north , eastern wall had one point where the phone flickered to life . Temporarily . Before lapsing into stubborn silence . Trial and error revealed one particular angle of the plug in device and another particular angle of the phone .

It was next to an overflowing dustbin and a black giant TV screen.

The tea tastes like ground brick , it looks like that too . Have to abandon it .

A speaker somewhere played a bollywood tune , which was old and a favourite , based on another old english tune , which was also old and a favourite . "If you miss the train ." "Gar koi baat bigad jaye ". Both were appropriate , in the present settings . Apt .

Then a huge luggage carrying handcart was wheeled in , with great difficulty by a guy who was distributing newspapers ,while I was at the east wall , and was brooming the aisle when I was struggling at the north wall . It contained massive containers of curd , with "Dahi" clearly written on them . Only , they were'nt carrying curd . It was yellow , fragrant and steaming hot liquid . Sambhar . It mobilised the" Janta".

A small boy , with vociferous determination , tugged at the hands of his mother towards the cart , which in a corner revealed a box of frozen ice cream on stick. The mother tugged him back , equally noisily . The father asked the elder boy , who was sucking his sweater sleeve , absently , while hypnotised by the sight of popsicles ., to throw a used paper cup . The son screwed up his face , saying "why me ?" He was stared down , and he made his way gingerly across to me , where I was sitting next to the overflowing dustbin . A cleaner lady was attempting to sweep up more cups and trash from the floor , and stuff it up into the bin . Another occupier of the last bench and me sat up with our legs pulled up , to facilitate the sweeping process , and this boy , with a disgusted face , comes and dumps the cup on the growing trash heap on floor . The cleaning lady looks up in dismay , frowns , catches my eye , smiles sadly and proceeds to pick up everything off the floor with gloved hands . Thankful for the glove .


Others have also noticed the hot sambhar trolley , and now the queue at the food stall grows longer and idlis and vadas fly off the cart , even before they can be rearranged on glass shelves . Brisk business . My phone shows 76% charge . I disconnect . My poor neighbour sighs in relief and quickly plugs in his mobile . He was waiting for me to disconnect . My train has been announced , and despite it being three hours late , the platform it is going to dock at , has been revealed , so I must make a move .


If you are a woman , and you are travelling alone , you will get stared at . Regardless of your age , and what you are wearing .

At  a metro junction , a young haryanvi guy launched into a tutorial , as to how to correctly pull my stroller . When I turned to look at him , he realised I was a woman , and he recoiled , as if he had touched a snake .

My trips are replete with such instances . Once I took the help of a coolie (I was probably carrying heavy luggage , don't remember ), and when he came to know that I was from the medical profession , he instantly wanted to discuss his erectile dysfunction with me . He was chewing tobacco , his teeth were rotten. Emaciated ,  he probably had a carcinoma lurking inside of him , eating away his innards, and all he wanted to discuss was erectile dysfunction . As if nothing else mattered .


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The railway platform was windy and cold , and cloudless . But full of food and good cheer . The train had been announced , even the array of coaches displayed , but it refused to come . Other trains (whose coaches were not displayed , or names not announced ) came and went , with impunity . No one seemed to be bothered by such ludicrous anomalies . A man next to me bought a packet written Janta Nashta on it , and continued to eat spiced potatoes with puri, with a meagre price of rupees 15 , printed on it .

 A group of muslim gents , probably afghanis ,  looking like straight out of Amar Chitra Kathas , short broad end pyjamas, pocketed kurtas , enormous blackish turbans, fair unwashed faces , blue eyes and blond beards . They were numerous and single handedly demolished the fruit cart wallah's stock of bananas. They picked up various fruits (apples , oranges ,pomegranates )in their hands , examined them , talked agitatedly about them , and put them back , much to fruit wallah's relief .

A train arrived from Katra , and some people started chanting slogans . A mini stampede ensued as people started running away . Fear spread like an invisible gas . I got up and stood next to a sardarji , the only familiar icon . I asked in punjabi ," hope there is no trouble brewing ." He answered reassuringly back "No , just some crazy people." Then he shooed a sticky coolie away from my side .

Another stranger come to my rescue .

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After what seemed an entire day , my train arrived .

The train chugged in a full three hours fifty minutes late . That was what was announced on the platform . Add that to the fifteen minutes that the train waited on the platform ( scheduled  stop only 2 min ) and we were fours hours plus . Well, there you go . If  you start counting the minutes , it becomes terrible , agonising . The faster , more efficient trains , the Shatabdis and Rajdhanis didnt have any seat for a sudden traveller like me , hence this long distance train , coming all the way from Mumbai .

There were two portly Gujarati Businessmen to my right , who ate , burped , complained , bribed the attendant ( for first class food ) , and ate some more . They would pull their curtains when eating , and when in mood , would discuss politics with their neighbours (ugh ).

I took out my book and pretended to be submerged in it . Two Punjabi brothers of the age group 10-8 , played around on my berth , jumping , swinging , chasing each other , hiding behind curtains , and in moments of quiet contemplation , looking at me , as an alien , dropping biscuit crumbs on me and my book . The mother sat across from me and was trifle disappointed in me , as I would not initiate friendly conversation, neither would I engage with her "adorable " boys . I had just returned from a hospital ICU . Wasn't in the best of my moods and the ambience didn't help . The window was hogged . I was reduced to a small , unwanted , central portion of the berth I had paid for . It was unfair and disgusting .  

Forgotten festivals from a bygone era

My grandparents belonged to a bygone era . Having been brought up by my grandparents gave us the unique privilege of straddling three , very different eras.

There are several rituals which my grandparents indulged in . All these years past , it remains etched in the memory , as if it happened yesterday. I have never come across the same , after they passed away. Even while they were alive , other things , kids' education, traversing to strange cities , jobs , marriages etc , took precedence .

There must be a handful of people on the planet right now , who know , and have witnessed these rituals , and foods , that are dying a slow , but certain death.

It is time to record them .



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   As is true of every agrarian society , the harvest time is festival time . Time to bring the nature's bounty in , celebrate , and thank , the rains , sunshine , wind , everything that fell into place , miraculously , at the right time , and made another year of survival possible .

On Kartik Sankranti , a few days after Dushera , the iron implements were worshipped . I remember colossal plows and scary large scythes , hooks, spades and other implements of farming , were freshly cleaned and laid out on the floor. Rows upon rows of large and small , sharp pointed iron implements , blackened with age , but assiduously sharpened . They were anointed with vermillion , my grandmother and mother carried a "thaali" each of offerings , flowers , coconut , a small kalash with the mandatory sheaf of mango leaf on top , rice grains and blades of dhruba grass.

For every implement , a brief prayer , sprinkling of rice grains , holy water and anointing with the vermillion . Then , move on to the next one . It took some time . In the end , would be the prasad time . Coconuts were given to the "Jans" ( farmhands ) to break and distribute and the party would disperse.

 Incense sticks were burnt and the aroma of ghee lamps and incense sticks would transcend the usual dung-grass-paddy smell of the barn .

One day in the year , the barn lit up and looked cheerful , smelt good . I am sure even the barn looked forward to this day .


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  There is one particular festival , which was incredibly beautiful . It was celebrated some time during
the month of Bhadrapad (august) or ashwin (september ).

It was a fertility festival , for I remember it was to be performed by unmarried girls .

Large covers of mud pitchers (ghada) were bought . They can be described as tagine covers , albeit open side up.  In that part of the country , they were called sarpose. These sarposes were earthenware , new , and were filled with , hold your breath , soil-dug-up-by-field rats.  Amazingly , it was easily available . Now , an assortment of grains , rice , wheat , jowar and five others were sprinkled on top of these terracotta covers .

They were given a spraying of water from a spouted jug , and kept in a place concealed from prying children and adults.

After a fortnight or so, they were brought out into the pooja room , in the evening , where atta  diyas were fashioned by us , "kunwaris " , and a cotton wick placed in the centre of the  small circular pot , full of sprouted greens , almost half a foot high.

There must be some phallic /fertility angle to it , for I clearly remember men of the family having nothing to do with the festival . Their loss.

The magic happened when in the dark of the night , the lit atta lamp was placed in the centre of this sprout "forest ". It had a real "whoa" effect . The lit greenery , and the tall sprouts dwarfing the diya . One was suddenly the little red riding hood , or hansel and gretel, a complete forest with soft muddy ground and a small lamp to boot . Imagination run riot .

It was magic .

                                                         
Everything  else was plebian . Prostrations , prasad . The end .

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Just another lunch at my sister's place .

Last year , I visited my sister . My eldest sister . She is seven years older to me , and is quite bossy . Bossy and maternal . Are they synonyms ?

Whenever I visit her , she treats me like a kid sister, who needs to be fed , clothed , smothered , showered with gifts , etc . Notwithstanding the fact that I myself have entered the fifth decade of my existence on the planet earth , this pampering really feels good . Makes you feel lazy and entitled , none of which is a good thing , I am told .

She will first cart me , from where ever I am stationed , to her home . Then she will loudly complain , that she hasn't cooked adequately , that I didn't give her ample time , that why did I turn vegetarian , for God's sake ?

Then she will ply me with anything and everything lying on the dining table . Exotic fruit juices , dry fruits , candies .

Then , leaving me munching she will disappear into the kitchen , from which appetising cooking smells emerge , by the by . A conversation will be conducted , with her back to me , and any attempts at helping is rebutted and I am unceremoniously shooed out .

When she emerges , a colossal platter of boiled rice accompanies her .  You sit like some God (most likely Ganesha , of the mythically proportioned appetite) , and delicacies keep coming . Numerous curries in steel bowls start mysteriously surrounding your mountain of soft , white , fragrant "bhaat". Some are dry , some runny , some in-between (ga- maakha). Then a smaller plate appears to your right , which has a roof , comprising of  a fried papad , and a fried egg ( a compensation for not -eating "maach , "maangsho" and other culinary delights in the bengali kingdom .).

You lift the roof and are surprised by the ring of walls , made by begun bhaja , jhuri bhaja, and million other bhajas .

Then my sister plonks herself next to me , on an empty chair , armed with sisterly advice , family gossip and a heartful of love .

You work your way through the mountain , via the bowls and the side plate , under the ever watchful eye.

Then , when there is no space left for a burp either , in your tummy , another plate appears , and it has sondeshes in their five myriad avatars and three different hues of rosogollas .

And yes , you dare not say no . Of course , it is all for you . What do you think ?

Vegetable shopping in Kolkata high rise

The vegetable vendor is be there at the crack of the dawn . I mean , it seems like the crack of dawn to me .

I normally  finish my reading at 2 am . Then this crackpot starts yelling downstairs , "Baby , baby !!"  The desi brother of Justin Bieber . I bury myself deep into my quilt .A sliver of sunshine has  invaded  my room, which means it is 6 am , and Mom has come , parted the curtains and gone . While I was in "another dimension ". 

In our colony , this vegetable vendor is alarm clock cum whatever  for all the residents . He brings aloo , pyaaz , milk , bread , eggs and gossip to lonely housewives imprisoned in their respective towers , or so I am told . I can hear Maa shuffling towards the window in her flip-flops , as she peers down from her doubly barred windows.

Then a complicated , noisy process is set into work . A bucket with a rope attached to it is lowered from the fourth floor where I stay . Whatever needs to be bought , or discussed , is talked and discussed and dissected in two languages . Bengali and hindi . Small talk and greetings in bengali , haggling in Hindi , bordering with hysterical "Purabiya " , a mixture of bhojpuri and bollywoodese . Terribly complicated to the uninitiated , unintelligible to most , and a total pain to people taking their freshly bathed,  clothed and taught -by -rote  kids to school , whose path the vendor blocks , and also to people like me , who would rather be left in peace in "other dimension".

Fruit , vegetables , other supplies are loaded onto the bucket , which is laboriously pulled up by the rope .

There are some , like my Mom , who being a person of few words , dictates her wish in sign language ( In which the vendor is proficient too , talk of polyglots ) , specially on days when I lie asleep there . On other hand , there are people , who just cant have enough of this curious intercourse , and lower the bucket , a second time , with the rotten/unripe /imperfect stuff , and berate the guy to their hearts' content .

Now the conversation breaks into a rash of rural bengali , as the shouting comes mostly from top , and the Bihari vendor quietly replaces the offending fruit.

Then comes the payment part . Money is lowered , and many a time the banknotes fly off in the early morning gust , or are drenched in the early morning drizzle .

Some enterprising souls (my Mom included) put it in a transparent polythene bag and weigh it down with a stone , to be left in the bucket for further transactions .

Muddied and occasionally wet banknotes notwithstanding , the business is good in this part of Behala , and the vendor is going to be around even tomorrow , without fail .

Invariably , he is going to blare my name ("Baby , baby ") , poor me who has nothing to do with his vegetables . I lie , teeth clenched , inside my quilt, waiting for his early morning rousing wail.