Batti Bandh

This is something I had once thought of initiating through this blog. I imagined suggesting that all of us decide to turn off all our electricity for a fixed 15 minutes every single day. That would be easy to achieve. I imagined getting lots of people charged up about it.

But I wanted to make a grand statement. I wanted to announce it with facts, figures and statistics. Saying that switching off power for x minutes will save to run y number of things for z number of hours, and so on. You know, those impressive statistics you see in pamphlets about climate change and water conservation. So of course the plan sank into the backseat and wedged itself there, since I never hunted out those statistics.

So when I realised Bombay was doing it at last, I felt, first, cheated that I hadn't been the one to suggest it, and then, shamed and motivated into full participation! So we did it too. We had friends over for drinks and dinner, and they all walked into a dark house, with candles in the kitchen where I was frying the kababs. (Though I must admit that we didn't switch off the fridge.) And so, our house, and the 3 houses our guests had left empty for the evening, certainly contributed to the effort yesterday!

Now that it's begun, do you think we can all (and I mean all you readers, the commenters and the lurkers) volunteer to pick at least 15 or 30 minutes of the day, after dark, when you'll switch off all lights and electrical gadgets in your house? And ask others to do so? Everyday? Let me know.

This is a small thing we all need to know and do. Oh, I know there are theories out there that global warming is a myth. That the hype about the gravity of it is politically motivated. But saving some electricity can only be a good thing. It even brings down your bills! And, being forced to go without it for an hour last night reminded me how much I took it for granted. That sunset did not mean the end of the day because of that magic switch at my command. We need electricity. So let's respect and appreciate it. Let's not be tube lights about this!

Zor se bolo, BATTI BANDH!!!

The Uniform

The tailor handed it over for him to try. Eagerly, he slipped into the made-to-measure uniform. It was brand new. Smart and crisp, the pleats on the trousers fell sharply to the floor as he clicked his heels together. The medals dazzled as he looked down at his chest. The insignia embroidered on the sleeves felt familiar as he ran his fingers over them. The cap was just right, encouraging him to keep his head held high and chin up, like the brave soldier he was.

Curious to see himself as another would, he stepped before the mirror and gazed at his reflection.

An old man gazed back. Slightly hunched shoulders. The face wrinkled. The fingers bent at arthritic angles. The knees apart. The legs bowed. The eyes dull. The forehead lined. And the tailor stood respectfully by. Indulging the old war veteran in his little trip down memory lane.

C'est la vie

I turned 29 two weeks ago. And now 30 waits. A label. A marker. A turning point of sorts. And so, as always, I turn to the web to tell me things I don't always need to know:

You've Experienced 48% of Life

You have a good deal of life experience, about as much as someone in their late 20s. You've seen and done enough to be quite wise, but you still have a lot of life to look forward to.

How Much Life Experience Do You Have?

I like that the blog test thinks I'm wise. For that is a stamp I really could not have done without. Especially coming off the WWW.

So, here's to life. And here's to upgrading from 48% to at least 80% by achieving some of the things on my to-do list (in no apparent order):

• Write a book
• Learn another language
• Justify my driver's license by actually driving
• Be a parent
  

Best Friends

The onset of winter in Delhi meant warmer uniforms, reluctant mornings, hesitant baths, foggy busrides to school, watching mist form before our mouths as we spoke, and hopping around in the big field to keep warm. The afternoons were glorious. Peanuts, sunshine, balconies, and books.

Driving past India Gate in late October, I would crane my neck to see that tents were being put up on the lawns for the Bal Mela, which marks Jawaharlal Nehru's birthday (14 November) with a month-long amusement-and-book fair. And, one lucky winter afternoon, I'd come back from school and be met with Ma saying 'Today we're going to the book fair.'

A quick lunch, and a rapid change of clothes, so that we could go and spend maximum time on the grassy lawns of India Gate before we had to hurry back in time for my father's return from work. And we'd be off. The sun warming my forearms as they rested on the lowered window. The wind just starting to turn merciless, chapping lips and whipping my hair. The people walking around with sweaters tied around their waists, a sign that the morning had been colder and the late evening would be the same.

Having parked, we'd spend some time on the rides, shoot clustered balloons with airguns, eat some candyfloss, buy churan and then head into the books section of the fair.

And that was paradise. Stall after stall, with attractively displayed books. Watching out for my mother (I was always afraid I'd get lost), I'd peek into each stall, my eager eyes skimming the covers till they rested on something promising. Drawing closer, I'd reach out, tug at it, and hold it. Flip through it. Inhale that new book smell. And then decide. Do I want this? Ok, let me come back. Where is Ma? I need to buy it before someone else gets to it. I can't put this down now. Then I'd begin the dance of trying to go as far out of the stall without looking like a shoplifter so I could attract her attention. Having succeeded, scurry back in to look through more pages till the funding body arrived and, having approved the choice, produced the required amount.

Standing in line, proudly clutching my choice till my turn at the counter. Does this bored-looking man care that I'm dying to read this book? Then, bag in hand, I would emerge into the weakening sunlight, often to bump into friends who had come with their parents, and curiously examine their purchases as well, quickly 'booking' the books they had bought which I wanted to read as well.

Once, I had already cleaned out Ma's wallet. And then we saw it. A big, hardbound, colourful book, '1,500 Fascinating Facts'. That day we learnt what it meant to scrape together the money for something. We dug deep into her purse. Lint, fluff, and a little small change. I produced a crumpled tenner from my jeans' pocket. Insignificant coins and unhelpfully small notes all combined, we were still 15 Rupees short. The salesman took pity on us and reduced the price. We drove back, elated at the purchase, temporarily penniless, but with a story to last forever.


The pocketbook series of abridged classics, the Penguin paperbacks, James Herriots, Agatha Christies, and, every time at the book fair, at least one '1,500 Fascinating Facts' kind of book to improve general knowledge. The Prince and the Pauper, Adventure Stories for Girls, Charles and Mary Lamb's Shakespeare, Huckleberry Finn, The Count of Monte Cristo. Just the names of these books are enough to remember those days. Snuggling under the blanket and reading till I was lectured on bad light and threatened with glasses. Hurrying through homework to get back to the adventures of Tom Sawyer. Hoping for a seat on the bus home so that I could get on with The Scarlet Pimpernel.

Etched on memories of childhood and teenage are those books. The front fly-leaf of those books when I pick them up today or find them in my cousins' homes helps me track my handwriting as it evolved over the years. 'Anamika Mukharji', they proclaim in triumph, asserting ownership. And then the date. A marker in time. A reminder of an age I have been that will never come back.


Walking down a busy Bandra street recently, books were far from my mind. We had just watched The Kingdom, eaten at a burger joint, and were strolling across to another hall to catch Om Shanti Om. A movie-fest, interrupted by a calorie fest. The intellect was on holiday. And then, I caught sight of a simple, hand-painted banner announcing 'Book Fair'. Bandra, Bombay, and traffic receded around me as I stood, hurtling back in time.

Entering, it was just like those fairs of my childfood. dusty tables covered with white cloth, books arranged in steps, knowledge, self-help, fiction, classics. Once upon a time, I had been the same height as those tables, and had stood tiptoe to find what I liked. Eager hands had reached out for an imaginary world. Young eyes had widened with interest.

And so, I stared, I chose with my eyes, from a distance. I touched. I flipped pages. I smelt in that old, new-book smell. And I knew I just had to buy something. If only to feel nine years old again.

The Saviour

They came, they saw, they scratched themselves, and they conquered.



Within a few weeks of the arrival of the first red-bottomed monkey in my parents' neighbourhood, several houses had been broken into, messed up, fridges raided, fruits pureed onto the floor, eggs crunched with bare, hairy hands, and sofas and curtains tattered.



Suddenly, balconies were out of bounds as no one could enjoy the early-winter sun for fear of a simian visitor. Pickles left to cook in the sun were reduced to remnants of smashed jars, flowers and potted plants were ruthlessly torn up. The people cried for relief. 'Save us, save us', they told the perturbed housing management society.



And so came Punnu Singh. He strode around our campus. He glared. He glowered from under his bushy eyebrows. He bared his teeth. He made menacing sounds. He intimidated the intruders and drove them away without batting an eyelid. The mischief-makers saw him and hastily retreated into the wilderness of Noida. A man of few words, his expression was enough to tell us: 'All in a day's work.' And so he came, he glared, he scared, and he departed.



Punnu Singh does not like to be photographed. Detracts from his dignity, he thinks. So he refuses to smile for pictures. Here is a photo I found of him on the Net. I think he's quite handsome.

Tumhari Amrita

A deliciously cold Delhi November evening, and a play that I had long wanted to watch.

Though the story was slightly predictable - impossible love between a socially accepted man and a self-destructive rebellious artist - the emotions that played out on the actors' faces as they spoke to us through their letters and their expressions carried me along. By the end, Shabana Azmi actually had tears glistening on her cheeks, and I, a lump in my throat. Without sets, props, music, costumes, 2 human beings sat at separate desks, spot-lit, and lived 2 lives as we listened.

Though the story is sad, it plucked at chords in me that I hadn't known I had. That something so uncertain, so ill-fated, should be so innocent and tender. That a relationship lived, and re-lived, through letters should make an uninvolved heart ache. That sometimes sorrow and grief can be devastatingly beautiful. I don't know what it made me feel. But somehow, with my simple life, simple pleasures, and uncomplicated state of heart, the play made me feel that I have not fully lived. That my heart and mind have not known loneliness, longing and passion to the degree that turns the being into the human. I am thankful for this unevolved state of 'being', but a little voice in my head keeps saying, 'You don't know anything because you have not felt anything.'

A Writer in Our Midst

While we editors jabbered and giggled and criticised our job, our life, our authors and their writing, one colleague decided that he'd rather write himself. And his first book is out! It promises to be interesting. I'm just making a totally pretentious claim to know him before the award committees come a-hunting.

Diwali

May this Diwali be a bright one, bringing you enough light
to see beauty but not so much that it blinds you to the world.

Sharodotsav '07

I was standing on a weaving muddy path that wound through a paddy field. A small shed with a grain thresher rested at the end of a tiring day. A midget of a scarecrow, with a startling wide grimace, stood with his arm raised, menacingly. A large mud hut waited at the end of my road.










All around was a buzz of activity. People coming and going under the star-lit sky. And, this was odd, here was a loud-speaker, asking the owner of car no WB 01 C4587 to step forward to prevent his car being towed away.



I was in Salt Lake, Kolkata, and this was Shashthi, the sixth day of Durga Puja 2007. It was a manufactured world, transplanted paddy saplings and fake mud huts in the muddle of an urban neighborhood in Kolkata. We had left a busy, double-parked street behind us to tread into a timeless world, where the Goddess waited, done up in her finery, eternally punishing the forever evil Mahishasura.







Of course, what really caught my attention when we reached the altar was how blue the demon was. Isn't he usually a very ruddy colour? And, he was clean-shaven. That really bothered me. I mean, no villain is ever complete without the curling mustachios and even the compulsory mole on the cheek. Delhi does way better Mahishasuras. This one looked like Krishna making a cameo. I mumbled a bit about it, but was drowned out in the general oohs and aahs of admiration over the decor.

And how can you not admire the creativity at play here? An ancient-looking temple that could have fooled me, realistic right down to the mould dulling the frescoes. Little shelves gouged into the walls, with images of gods and goddesses filling them. Clay pots - normally used to drink tea and then smashed in eco-friendly disposal - made up an entire pandal, shaped like a banyan tree, near the Shiv Mandir.

Cut to the next morning. We left at 7 am to get on to a tour bus. Our tickets had been booked for the 'Traditional Kolkata' tour conducted by West Bengal tourism. We arrived at the venue really early. The usually crowded streets of Cal were deserted and I actually got a good look at the roadsides, street-lights, and the road itself, which is usually eclipsed by cars, rickshaws, trams, buses, autos, taxis, and, the ever-present pedestrians, saggy-armed mashimas in sleeveless blouses streaking across busy crossings, intellectual, kurta-clad, jhola-toting old bhadraloks munching solemnly on jhalmuri and sipping 'ek piece cha' (one 'piece'/cup tea) at the Maa Tara Jhalmuri stand.

So anyway, we arrived, with a good 40 minutes to spare. 7.30 am, the streets being swept, and through the dust haze of yesterday's litter we could see many, many people, obviously wearing new clothes, waiting to board any of several tourist buses. With a lot of fanfare, some walkathoning men hurried past, hoisting the 'kola-bou' on their shoulders. That is Ganesh's wife, a tender plantain tree draped in the traditional white-with-red-border saree, who is only placed beside Ganesh and the rest of her in-laws on the seventh day of the Puja.




Since the tour was to begin in 20 minutes, Anando hurried towards what we were told would be our bus. But a man, obviously in control of the situation, said 'Dada, jaaben na, nongra aache.' (Don't go right now, it's dirty.) Of course, there was no mention of when it would be cleaned! We could see through the bus doors that plastic packets lay on the floor, little white specks on a questionably grey metal floor. The people who'd taken the tour yesterday had left behind proof that the tour included a meal. My mother-in-law found an interesting seat to rest and wait while we prayed the bus would be cleaned soon.







In another 10 minutes, the bus started up, and there was a twitter among the crowd. Would we have to board a dirty bus? Despite the reluctance to do so, no one wanted to be left behind in case that became necessary. Why risk someone else getting the best seats? But our gent-in-command raised his hand and said 'Petrol bhoriye aaschi.' (I'll get petrol.) Perceiving our anxiety at the obvious delay he said calmly, reassuringly, 'chinta korben na, ja bola aachhe, tour-e ta shob hobe' (don't worry, all that has been promised will be covered in the tour.) Obviously, time was not of the essence here. The surging crowd sagged and fell back as the bus trundled off.



At 8.30, still busless and contemplating a coup, we realised that the tickets did not state the exact departure time anywhere. That part had been word-of-mouth, to evade any liability later. Eventually, at 8.40, after some running up and down that long stretch of road, our bus was located, boarded, and we set off. The entire bus-load united to help a gentleman whose seat had been reclined and now refused to straighten up its act. Loud suggestions. 'Pressure deen' (apply pressure) (Hope no patients of constipation were on board). Finally the chair reluctantly, lazily, sat up, and everyone retreated.



I have never seen such a phenomenally useless tour guide. I am convinced he was reading lines written for him by someone else in an illegible hand. He spoke in Bangla after confirming that everyone understood it. He needn't have bothered - no one paid him any attention anyway. They were busy looking out the window, exchanging notes on what the lunch would consist of, how hot it was getting, how these things never start on time, hadn't we got the little badges to pin on? They had. Hadn't we been told to pick up our lunch vouchers from the office? They had. Didn't we know it would be a buffet lunch at the Shobhabajar Bari? They did. I half-thought we were on the wrong bus.







A bit of history, not culled from the tour guide. Some old families of Kolkata began the tradition of a Durga Puja in their own home. The practice has been in place for two-three hundred years. Most of these families got rich after the British came to Kolkata by doing business (sometimes legit, sometimes under the table) with them. The new money means big spending. The houses testify to this - traditional Bengali structures, sprawling buildings, large, greenish shutters on the windows, high ceilings, an inner courtyard surrounded by rooms for all members of the big, joint families, the children rushing around their home which magically turns into a tourist attraction for 4 days each year, the women dressed in their finery bustling around, cutting up fruits to offer as bhog (food for the goddess). Most of these homes are in the oldest parts of Kolkata.









This tour was supposed to take us around some of these pujos, of historical interest. It was rather weird to go trooping into people's homes with cameras and a tour guide, look around, peer at the wrinkly descendant of a once-famous family of Bengal, and shuffle back out. It soon began pouring, the bus would park far away and we would plod in single file along the ridiculously narrow lanes of time, trying to keep our eyes fixed on the guide's bald, shiny head to make sure we didn't get lost.



All along, the man grated on our nerves till there was a thin string of it left. He would preface every historical fact with 'perhaps'. And end every sentence with 'mota-moti', (more or less). He'd been testing our patience for a bit. Misled, misinformed, confused, drenched, the last straw came when he led us into a large home, promising that this was the home of the famous Duttas of Hatkhola. We sloshed in, and were greeted with large portraits of the musically named 'Latu babu - Chhatu babu', whose home had been listed on our agenda as a later stop. We gave him a substantial piece of our minds ('tis the season to be generous), he shouted back something about 'adjusting', and moving on 'with mutual saapport'. We'd had enough. We flagged a taxi and headed straight home, for some good old posto-baata for lunch and a solid nap thereafter.






****


My first pujo in Kolkata as a (still) new bride (though much of the gloss has worn off). Enthusiastic in-laws, a blossoming family tree that defeats me like Rowling's Whomping Willow, several feet to be touched, several trite conversations and polite smiles. All this time I kept my faulty Bangla grammar in check, alert to even the hint of a smirk on Anando's face in case I'd slipped up. The mandatory visits to relatives who don't really count, but who 'keep count', of who came by and who didn't. The doddering aunt who showed us around a newly renovated part of the house and all its imported bits and pieces, right down to the fancy toilet flush (which she hasn't even seen in America!). Look, these kitchen racks are from Italy. Look, the bathroom (oops, 'powder room' tiles are from Australia. Look, the screws in the botto drawer of the right-handside cupboard are from France. And then, ruefully, the fridge is from India. Poor, lonely fridge. A stranger in its own land.

Pujo in Cal - actually, let's say conversation in Cal - has much to do with food and the consumption of it. Then, when digestion gives up, conversation revolves around the problems of aamasha (amoebiosis), ambal (indigestion), chonga dhekoor (strange, sour burps) and of course that eternal scourge of Bong-kind - uind (Bangla for 'wind'). Trying to keep those at bay while enjoying killer sweets like shor bhaja (fried cream/malai) is not easy. But with regular prayers to Ma Kali we managed. The Pudin Hara helped too. Of course, I fought all these evils with a packet of jalebis (loosely translated as 'round-round-round-round-stop) every morning. No problem! *Burp*

At each house we visited, the drama would commence with that single, horror prop - a tea tray loaded with mishtis. The polite but unfloutable command 'Notun bou, prothom bar eshecho, SHOB khete hobe.' (New bride - first visit - eat EVERYTHING). The notun bou retreats behind her plastic smile and looks wide-eyed at that impossibly big sandesh. The kindly mother-in-law whispers 'Try it, it's soft and has a moist centre.' The notun bou obediently digs the fork in. The sweet bounces ticklishly away. Obviously this is a hard nut to crack. Careful. 'Pressure deen', at the right places. Thumb below plate, tongue outside mouth, fork in my grip, I stab. Success. Open mouth. Enter 200 calories. And at that opportune moment, when the mouth is full, one is asked, 'So is this your first pujo in Kolkata?'


Stammer, gulp, hiccup, answer. And so it goes on.

****

But this was a Kolkata I have never seen before, though this was exactly the Kolkata I have always heard about. In the time during, and immediately after the Pujo, I saw all that Kolkata is stereotyped for. Angry, excitable people still brooding over Nandigram, as evidenced by giant posters of Buddhadeb (the CM) with splotches of blood-red on his face, and the word 'Cheee' (shame). The city screaming for justice for Rizwanur Rehman and his smiling face on posters asking you to remember him and fight for him. The newspapers spewing venom about the ration scam. Smart ad lines. Tongue-in-cheek traffic warnings, about how even children should wear helmets.

Potholed roads in the centre of the city where only a month ago, in torrential rains, people caught surprised fish that had floated into the city's network of flooded roads. A simmering resentment against the CPI(M) in a metropolis that ought to offer a smoother life. Mamata Banerjee's repeated (and successful) calls for bandhs to protest this, that and the other. Old houses holding their own despite the burgeoning malls and a yuppie culture of superficiality that has begun to take over this still-resisting hub of intellectualism and genuine scholarship.




And, in the middle of it all, life carried on. Pandals were erected, livened up, and torn down. The dhaakis (drummers) came, played in a a trance, and went back. Queues formed outside every restaurant. No self-respecting Bengali takes time to cook in her own kitchen during Pujo! Jewellery was worn and discussed - one's own and that of others.




Park street buzzed and people shopped. The goddess was immersed and people re-immersed themselves in regular life, broken temporarily by worship of the Goddess of Wealth on Lakshmi Puja. And the constant refrain was: Aasche bochhor abar hobe. (This will all happen again next year.)


And so the wheels of time carry on. And I, back to cosmpolitan Bombay, can think back, laugh, remember, and prepare my stomach walls for next year's assault.

A Knife for all Seasons

He sat there, showing off the Swiss army knife with little-boy charm and excitement as he lovingly felt the edges of the various blades. According to him, it was a very, very useful gadget in all kinds of emergencies.

'So, have you ever actually used any of the features?' I asked, wondering about the daredevil acts a mining engineer may have accomplished with a little help from this trusted Swiss buddy.

'Sure...' he replied. 'The toothpick.'