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. 

I thought

“So sorry ma’am ,” Anu stood on the landing . Wringing her hands , wearing a terribly guilty look on the face.
The boss swept in , holding a packet of streamers in her right hand , aloft ,like a torch . Statue of liberty . A very pissed off statue . Bathed , perfumed, in a cloud of aromatic efficiency .
“I thought the meet was tomorrow.” Anu wasn’t going to let go an opportunity at self-flagellation .
“Sadist!!” hissed Sujata , seated at her desk.
“No, masochist”, corrected Ashok , “self- hate” explained Murthy.
Sujata rolled her eyes . She always rolled her eyes . 

All fell silent when the Statue drifted in , with guilt ridden Anu in tow .

“Anu darling !!” The Boss stopped moving , the streamers stopped scraping the floor .
“Yes Ma’am ?” Eager -to -please Anu .
“Here , hold these .” Boss handed her over the files , streamers , buntings , all that had adorned her , hitherto.
Anu disappeared under all the streamers , with gratitude. Boss, freed from all that paraphernalia , swept her mascaraed eyes over the entire floor.
Everyone else pretended to be busy , very busy . Clickety clack , went everyone’s keyboards .

Boss clapped . All looked up .
“Okay!! Everyone , listen up !! Did anyone “Think” That the meet was tomorrow . ” The boss meant Anu , and Anu flushed .
The white buntings turned pink with her shame .
There was a moment of silence . The type at funerals , for the departed soul , etc etc .
“The meet is TODAY” , The boss thundered , and everyone , on cue , jumped to their feet . 

“Please do not “think ” . Here , you are paid to “Not think ” . “I DO NOT WANT ANY THOUGHTS !!”
Everyone bustled around .

Buntings around Anu’s neck turned a shade darker pink.

I wish

I wish it rains tonight
ruining the perfection
of a sky ,star lit and bright
Bring on precipitation 

to cloak the earth in mist
hold it in chill’s tight fist
The streets clog
with night fog 

The school shut down
and we pad around
in our night gown
from dusk to dawn

The gullies fill with slush 

In rainwater flush 

On TV they showed 

other cities flood 

Why, unfairly parched 

is my land scorched 

Burnt to a crisp 

Every grass blade 

Let life arise from the ashes 

foliage shoot from marshes