শুভ বিজয়া দশমী

দেড় হাজার মৃত।

দেড় লক্ষ বাস্তুচ্যুত।

কোথায়, সেটা আর বলবো না...

কমেন্ট আসবে - পলিটিক্যালি মোটিভেটেড পোস্ট।

কিসের জন্য, সেটা বলতে পারি...

এক টুকরো মাটি, মহা পবিত্র সেই মাটি।

বছরের পর বছর ওই মাটির জন্য মানুষ মানুষের রক্ত মেখেছে।

আর বছরের পর বছর, এই মাটিকে অবলীলায় ফিরিয়ে দিয়ে 

মা চলে গেছে তার ক্ষ্যাপা বরের কাছে।

শেখো কিছু।

শুভ বিজয়া দশমী।

Fourteen Cows

Kimeli Naiyomah was studying medicine in New York, when 9/11 happened. A few months later, back home in Kenya, he told his tribespeople about this great tragedy. Stunned and saddened, the Masai decided to extend their help to the United States. On 1st June 2002, in the village of Enoosaen, tribe elders dressed in their traditional red robes presented William Brancick, deputy head of the American embassy in Kenya, with 14 cows, an animal they hold sacred.

I came across this story recently, and it hit me that a lot of people across the globe, myself included, will probably never be able to truly comprehend how beautiful and selfless this gift was, because we focus on the cows. But it's not about the cows. It's about wrapping your arm around someone who's hurting, and giving them a piece of you. 

And in this respect, what the Masai gave was priceless. What the Masai gave to the Americans, and to the world, was hope. Hope, that for every group of people trying to cause harm, there will always be another group of people trying to help. With cows.

---

PS: The cows were never actually transported to the United States. Instead, they remained in Enoosaen, and were used to set up an education trust fund for the Masai children.

When Breath Becomes Air

American neurosurgeon Dr. Paul Sudhir Arul Kalanithi was 38, when he passed away with stage IV metastatic lung cancer. His daughter was only eight months old. During his battle, he wrote a memoir, which was published posthumously as "When Breath Becomes Air". Here are a few lines from the end of that book. 

- - - - - 

Everyone succumbs to finitude. I suspect I am not the only one who reaches this pluperfect state. Most ambitions are either achieved or abandoned; either way, they belong to the past. The future, instead of the ladder toward the goals of life, flattens out into a perpetual present. Money, status, all the vanities the preacher of Ecclesiastes described hold so little interest: a chasing after wind, indeed.

Yet one thing cannot be robbed of her futurity: our daughter, Cady. I hope I’ll live long enough that she has some memory of me. Words have a longevity I do not. I had thought I could leave her a series of letters—but what would they say? I don’t know what this girl will be like when she is fifteen; I don’t even know if she’ll take to the nickname we’ve given her. There is perhaps only one thing to say to this infant, who is all future, overlapping briefly with me, whose life, barring the improbable, is all but past.

That message is simple: When you come to one of the many moments in life where you must give an account of yourself, provide a ledger of what you have been, and done, and meant to the world, do not, I pray, discount that you filled a dying man’s days with a sated joy, a joy unknown to me in all my prior years, a joy that does not hunger for more and more but rests, satisfied. In this time, right now, that is an enormous thing.

DL8CK9883

They tell me, eleven years is a long time

To hold on to a second-hand car

But how do I explain, that

For a little over a decade

She just stayed.

Through heartbreaks and happiness

As people left and others walked in

And I coped with lonely cigarettes

For a little over a decade

She just stayed.

Through long-distance drives 

As cities changed five, no, six times 

And I struggled to find my home

For a little over a decade

She just stayed.

She just stayed

Till there was no journey ahead of us

And I decided to move on

Because there comes a day in all our lives

When poetry gives way to practicality

But, right till the edge of that dead-end

She just stayed.

- - - - -

Post Script: I just handed over the keys to my 2007 model second-hand silver Maruti Suzuki Esteem LXi. In a few days, there'll be another car parked at the designated spot. A more practical car, with all safety and comfort features. And I'm sure we'll have our own adventures in the days to come. But today, I can't help think about the crazy stories this girl was witness to. DL8CK9883, thank you for the memories. Exit stage left.

Dunia Gol Hai

These days, every time I'm on Facebook, I'm filled with a sense of amusement and awe, to see familiar faces of people from long past. My old friends and cousins now look exactly like their parents, as when I had first met them, decades ago. And their tiny children now look exactly like my old friends and cousins, from when I had first known them, decades ago. The familiarity of these faces, and expressions, and mannerisms, remind me that life, indeed, is a circle. It has all happened before. It will all happen again. The same play is running in an infinite loop. Only our roles change with the passage of time. As we welcome this new year, here's to us adapting to our new characters. And here's to those who taught us how to play them.

Happy New Year 2022!

Going Solo

There's something romantic about solo road trips. A man and his machine, munching up miles, with just each other for company. Well, that's what people say. Personally, I find the idea of driving somewhere all alone kinda boring, and also highly stressful. And so, this time when I had to do a solo road trip from Bangalore to Mumbai, needless to say, I wasn't overly excited about it. To entertain myself through the thousand odd kilometres, I decided to keep a journal. The idea was that every time I take a pit stop, I'll scribble in my phone (because I've forgotten how to use a pen) whatever is on my mind. I'm copy-pasting the same here. To be honest, this probably wouldn't fetch me a Nobel for literature. But then again, that wasn't the intention.

Okay, before I jump in, I feel this needs some context. The move from Bangalore to Mumbai had been on the cards for a while. But things kinda rapidly changed in the past few days. The wife and I racked our brains, to come up with the best possible plan. Of course, when you have a mixed species family (or, as we like to say, a mini zoo), logistics is a total nightmare. Ours was a not-so-simple seven step plan. Step one: The wife had already taken the son and the dogs (and also a nanny, but she ran away) to Kharagpur, by train. Step two: I get all our belongings transported through a movers and packers company. Step three: I take the cat and the parakeet to Mumbai, by road. Step four: I reach Mumbai, and receive the said belongings from the movers and packers company. Step five: The wife and the son reach Mumbai, by air. Step six: The wife makes another trip to bring the dogs (and also a new nanny, once she's hired) to Mumbai, by train. Step seven: We all live happily ever after. Till the next time we need to relocate.

Anyway, here's the journal.

- - - - -

4:56am. Odometer reading 72268. Goodbye Bangalore. Both Bagha and Panna are quite angry at me, for having woken them up at an ungodly hour. The radio stations haven't started. So I'll just have to listen to these guys vocalise. Dugga dugga.

6:23am. Odometer reading 72350. Reached Tumkur. Gave Bagha half a packet of wet food, which he didn't eat. Gave Panna two Marie biscuits soaked in water, which she ate.

7:33am. Odometer reading 72434. The sun has risen, and my initial adrenaline has waned off. Pushed the seat back, and shut my eyes for ten minutes.

9:58am. Odometer reading 72615. Caught a thunderstorm. Entered a service lane, switched on my hazard lights. And waited. Had a few Hide & Seek biscuits.

11:11am. Odometer reading 72690. Reached Hubli. Gave Bagha the remaining half a packet of wet food. He's eating now. Gave Panna one-fourth of an apple. She seems pretty happy. All good.

13:05pm. Odometer reading 72789. Reached Belgaum. Was supposed to stop here for the night. But the hotel I had booked lied to me about their parking facilities. Did a quick Google search for pet friendly hotels in Kolhapur. Gave Bagha and Panna some water. Refilled the tank. Pushing off from here.

14:58pm. Odometer reading 72904. Reached Kolhapur. Checked into Solanki Guest House. The high ceilings and wooden shutter windows were like a blast from the past. But hey, they gave me a bed, and pretty decent WiFi. What else do I need? That too, for a princely sum of four hundred and eighty rupees. This place has been stuck in time, since 1945 (of course I googled their year of establishment). Bagha seemed really content that we were not in a moving object, for a change. Gave him two fistfuls of dry food. He gobbled it up, drank his water, and promptly fell asleep on the bed. Gave Panna some more apple, and then headed out to get lunch. Came back, spoke to the wife, spoke to my parents, surfed the internet, and dozed off.

4:34am. Odometer reading 72904. Leaving Kolhapur.

6:16am. Odometer reading 73003. Was forced to take an unscheduled stop due to fog. I hadn't realised Satara was at an elevation. Parked at a Dhaba, and closed my eyes. Waiting for sunrise.

7:56am. Odometer reading 73103. Breakfast stop. Gave Bagha some wet food, but he preferred to hide underneath the seat. Gave Panna a couple of Marie biscuits. Got myself a cup of over-sweetened chai, the kinds I usually abhor. But needed the sugar now. Finished off the remaining Hide & Seek biscuits. Saw a stray dog watching me intently. Bought her a packet of Parle G. Told her not to trust humans.

8:41am. Odometer reading 73132. Crossed Pune. Stopped just to write this. Moving on.

9:12am. Odometer reading 73183. Customary stop at an expressway Dhaba. Had a Monster energy drink. Bagha had some of his wet food. Panna didn't try to bite me when I changed her water. I guess she's just really tired.

11:36am. Odometer reading 73287. Reached my destination at Mumbai. Signing off. Wake me up in two days.

- - - - -

As some of you know, I'm not a picture person. Here's the only one from this trip. My Maruti Suzuki Esteem LXi. She's fourteen years old, and has been with me for exactly a decade. My longest ever relationship. God knows, we've had some interesting (some might say, crazy) adventures together. Her registration expires early next year. It was only fitting that the last trip be this epic. 

Sando Genji

If you're reading this, you probably know who I am. And then, you probably also know that I have a slight obsession for language and history. Combine the two subjects, and what really gets me going is reading about etymology. Almost an adrenaline rush.

Anyway, so I stumbled upon this article on men's fitness last night, which mentioned Eugene Sandow. I had read about him earlier as well - he's considered the father of modern bodybuilding - but never noticed the connection. Last night, my brain mumbled to itself : "Sandow. Like, sando genji. Wait. What?" For those of you who aren't from Bengal, a sando genji is the name we've given to what you call a banian. Basically your ubiquitous sleeveless vest. 

All these years I had never asked anyone why a sando genji is called a sando genji, but now that the question had popped up in my head, I couldn't just go to sleep, could I? A tiny bit of research revealed that Eugene Sandow, at the peak of his popularity, had indeed visited India in the year 1905, for a series of shows in major cities, the most important of them being our then capital Calcutta. And this is where it gets interesting. 1905 was also the year Lord Curzon had announced and implemented the first Partition of Bengal. 

Sandow's visit coincided with the time revolutionary organizations such as the Anushilan Samiti and the Jugantar Party were rising to prominence in Bengal. These organizations enlisted youth from local gyms across the Bengal Presidency, and engaged them in the philosophy of violent militant nationalism. Physical fitness was of prime importance to these young men and women, who had by then internalized what Swami Vivekananda said a few years ago : "You will be nearer to Heaven through football than through the study of the Gita." 

It is no surprise that, at such a time, Sandow quickly caught the imagination of all Bengalis. And they honoured him by naming the undershirt as sando genji.

Such was the legacy of Eugene Sandow in Bengal, that even the legendary Sukumar Roy mentions him in Abol Tabol - 

"ক্যান্‌রে ব্যাটা ইসটুপিড? ঠেঙিয়ে তোরে কর্‌ব ঢিট্!"

"চোপরাও তুম্ স্পিকটি নট্, মার্‌ব রেগে পটাপট্!"

"ফের যদি টেরাবি চোখ কিম্বা আবার কর্‌বি রোখ,

কিম্বা যদি অম্‌নি করে মিথ্যেমিথ্যে চ্যাঁচাস জোরে -"

"আই ডোন্ট কেয়ার্ কানাকড়ি, জানিস্ আমি স্যাণ্ডো করি?"

নাই বা দেখলাম বাকি পৃথিবীটাকে

কাকভোরে উঠে, দার্জিলিংয়ে

সূর্য্য মেখে লাজুক কাঞ্চনজঙ্ঘা'র...

আড়মোড়া ভাঙ্গা, আমি দেখিনি।

দুপুরের রোদে, আন্দামানে

সাদা বালির উপর আছড়ে পড়ে ঢেউয়ের...

চুম্বন নেওয়া, আমি দেখিনি।

সন্ধ্যে নামার মুখে, গির অরণ্যে

পশুরাজ সিংহের একরাশ ধূসর বিরক্তি নিয়ে... 

হাই তোলা, আমি দেখিনি।

তবে রোজ রাতে, তোমার চোখে

জীব নির্জীব যত সৃষ্টি আছে... 

সব, আমি দেখেছি। 

আর তাই,

নাই বা দেখলাম বাকি পৃথিবীটাকে।

নরনাং মাতুলঃ ‌ক্রম

সন্ধ্যেবেলা। বছর দশেকের আমি বৈঠকখানা ঘরের পুরোনো সোফা টার উপর পা তুলে বসে, জিজ্ঞেস করলাম - "মামু, তুমি কোনো ভূতের গল্পো জানো?"

"জানি মানে? একবার আমি ভূতের খপ্পরে পড়েছিলাম।"

"অ্যাঁ!"

"হ্যাঁ রে। তখন আমি কলেজে পড়ি। সাল টা বোধহয় সিক্সটি এইট বা সিক্সটি নাইন। পাড়ার একজন মারা গেছেন, আমি সবার সাথে ম্যাটাডোর করে শ্মশান গেছি। তখন কেওড়াতলা এত মডার্ন হয় নি। বুড়ি গঙ্গার পাশে কাঠের চিতায় মড়া পোড়ানো হতো। ঘুটঘুটে অন্ধকার রাত, চিতা জ্বলছে, শেয়াল ডাকছে, আমি টুক করে বড়দের চোখ এড়িয়ে সাইডে একটা পাঁচিলের ওপারে গিয়ে একটা সিগারেট ধরিয়ে খাচ্ছি। তখন আমি ফিল্টার উইলস খাওয়া শুরু করেছি। সবে দুটো টান দিয়েছি, এমন সময়ে খড় খড় খড় খড় আওয়াজ। ঠিক আমার পিছনে। আমি তো ভয়ে স্ট্যাচু। ঘুরে তাকাবো, সে সাহস নেই। ওখান থেকে পালাবো, সিগারেট টা নষ্ট হবে। দাম দিয়ে কেনা। আমি দাঁড়িয়ে রইলাম। শুনতে পাচ্ছি, আওয়াজ টা আমার দিকে এগুচ্ছে। খড় খড় খড় খড়। তারপর ‌ফোঁস ফোঁস করে জোরে নিশ্বাসের শব্দ। আমি ভাবছি, ভূতে কি নিশ্বাস নেয়? তারপর ঠিক পায়ের কাছে ঘোত ঘোত ঘোত ঘোত আওয়াজ।"

"তারপর?"

"তারপর আর কি। তাকিয়ে দেখলাম, দুটো শুঁয়োর।"

"শুঁয়োর?"

"হ্যাঁ। ওই বুড়ি গঙ্গার তীরে কাদায় শুয়ে ছিল। আমি সিগারেট টা শেষ করে পাঁচিল টপকে চলে এলাম।"

"ধ্যাত। এটা আবার ভূতের গল্পো হলো নাকি?"

"আরে সৌম্য, ভুত বলে কিছু হয় না।"

---

পুনশ্চ: কেউ কেউ বলে আমি নাকি ভালো গল্পো বলতে পারি। তাদের স্মরণ করিয়ে দি, সংস্কৃত ভাষায় একটি প্রচলিত কথা আছে - নরনাং মাতুলঃ ‌ক্রম। আজকে খুব মনে পড়ছে।

Shyamal Kanti Ghosh 22/07/1950 - 06/10/2021

মামু

আজ থেকে প্রায় তিরিশ বছর আগেকার কথা, তখন বাঙালির জীবনে গ্লোবালাইজশনের হাওয়া লাগেনি, আমাদের বিয়ে বাড়িতে লম্বা টেবিল পেতে বসে খাওয়ানো হতো। আর মেনু হতো ফিক্সড। রাধাবল্লভি, ছোলার ডাল, স্যালাড, কাসুন্দি, ফিস ফ্রাই, বাসন্তী পোলাও, মাছের কালিয়া, মটন কষা, পাঁপড়, চাটনি, রসগোল্লা, সন্দেশ, পান। আর এই সব বিয়ে বাড়িতে আমার পার্টনার ছিল আমার মামু। মায়ের নিজের দাদা। আমার সেই তিরিশ বছর আগেকার মামু ছিল ভোজনরসিক। ক্ষুদে আমায় পাশের চেয়ারে বসিয়ে বলতো - "সৌম্য, খাওয়াটা হলো টেস্ট ম্যাচ, ওয়ান ডে নয়। ধরে খেলতে হবে। প্রথমেই রাধাবল্লভি ছোলার ডালে চার ছয় মেরে দিলে পেট ভরে যাবে। তাই সিঙ্গেলস নে। তারপর সুযোগ বুঝে ফিস ফ্রাই আর মটন কষা'তে তুলে ছয়। রসগোল্লা ভালো হলে চার রান। লাস্ট'এ পান দিয়ে ইনিংস ডিক্লেয়ার, নট আউট।"

আজ সেই মামু আউট হয়ে গেল। কেওড়াতলা শ্মশানে তাঁকে গার্ড অফ অনার দিয়ে ফিরলাম। রয়ে গেল শুধু এই গল্পটা।

Hiroshima Day

"At exactly fifteen minutes past eight in the morning on August 6, 1945, Japanese time, at the moment when the atomic bomb flashed above Hiroshima, Miss Toshiko Sasaki, a clerk in the personnel department of the East Asia Tin Works, had just sat down at her place in the plant office and was turning her head to speak to the girl at the next desk."

This is the opening sentence from John Hersey's 30,000-word article in The New Yorker, headlined Hiroshima. The story, ranked first on a list of the top 100 works of journalism of the 20th century, has been celebrated since as a journalistic and historical masterpiece.

Immediately after the Little Boy and Fat Man atomic bombs were dropped on the Japanese cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the U.S. Government’s wartime propaganda machine went into overdrive covering up the human suffering. The War Department released pictures of destroyed buildings only, and asked all American news outlets to limit information about the death toll and widespread suffering from radiation. One U.S. general even told Congress that dying from radiation was “a very pleasant way to die.” Thanks to this organized suppression, the public had started to accept that the atomic bomb can very well be a reasonable mainstay weapon.

One man changed that. Pulitzer Prize winner John Hersey visited Hiroshima a year after the bombing, and wrote his article for The New Yorker by emphasizing on the stories of six survivors, regular people for whom 6th August 1945 started like any other normal day. Instead of focusing on the grandeur of the mushroom cloud, this article told us about the horrifying effects of the atomic bomb as seen by the witnesses. Three hundred thousand copies of that particular edition of The New Yorker were immediately sold out. The American public were aghast. They felt shame and guilt at the widespread suffering of their fellow human beings. They realized, for the first time, that their enemy was not the Japanese people. They questioned their own government about the need for nuclear weapons. Two months after this article came out, it was printed as a book, that has sold more than three million copies, and has never been out of print.

Much of what has been achieved worldwide in terms of regulations for nuclear weapons under international law, is because of this one man's account of what happened at Hiroshima.

Today is 6th August. I wanted to tell you about John Hersey, so that we know what good journalism looks like, so that we know what a good story can do.

Strange Love

Every once in a while
I stare at your sleeping face 
And I think
What a strange thing love is

There's no joy greater
Than seeing you laugh up to your eyes
There's no pain greater
Than watching those eyes overflow

And when you run towards me
From across the room
With your arms outstretched 
I realise
There's no moment greater
Than the one I'm in right now

I realise
This moment will never come back
Just like it didn't for those two people, who
A little less than four decades ago
Loved me
The exact same much

Every once in a while
I see them in your sleeping face 
And I think
What a strange thing love is

---
Happy birthday, 19th April 2021

Pneumothorax!

Last Sunday, late at night, I experienced a severe episode of breathlessness. Having lived all my life with bronchial asthma, I know my usual triggers. But this felt different. I took my inhaler and sat upright all night, trying to keep the airways unobstructed. The next day, I felt a lot better, but decided I should still see a doctor. He suggested a Covid test, and a chest CT scan. The antigen test results came immediately. Negative. The RT-PCR results would come in 24-48 hours.

On Tuesday morning, I received the CT scan reports. One of my lungs had collapsed. Spontaneous pneumothorax. There was air build-up inside my pleural cavity, that caused my right lung to deflate, and push against my heart. I needed immediate medical intervention. Usually this condition is accompanied by high fever and a sharp pain in the chest, but somehow I had no external symptoms. At the insistence of family, I got myself admitted to a hospital. It was Tuesday midnight. The doctors at the Emergency called up their senior Pulmonologist, and he advised intercostal chest tube drainage. And so, in the early hours of Wednesday, a sterile tube was slowly pushed through a small incision under my armpit, past my ribcage, and into my chest, as I muffled my screams.

Thereafter, I was transferred to an isolation ward, as my RT-PCR results hadn't come. That arrived a day later. Still negative. With Covid ruled out, I moved to the normal ward. And waited, for four days on antibiotics and painkillers and oxygen, as my lung slowly re-expanded back to its normal shape. Upon visual confirmation through follow up X-rays and a CT scan, the doctors removed the tube today. Hopefully in the next 24 hours, that is by Monday, I should be back home.

Why did this happen? Well, from what I learnt over the past few days, the outside surface of our lungs have these small air blisters, called pulmonary blebs, that can randomly burst. This causes spontaneous collection of air inside the pleural cavity, and the difference in pressure leads to a pneumothorax. If this is significant, it will cause hypoxia and then respiratory failure. Although people with lung disease are at higher risk, this can happen to anyone. Let that sink in. For no apparent reason, your body is trying to kill you.

But, I am alive. All thanks to my wife, immediate family, relatives, and friends who made mountains move. Literally. And, of course, the superhero team of doctors, nurses, and support staff at Manipal Hospital.

Potol

One fine day, during my early childhood, I looked at the vegetable us Bengalis call "potol", and decided - Nope!

And ever since, I have not allowed even the tiniest morsel to enter my mouth, let alone pass through my digestive system. The funny thing is, I was never a picky eater, happily chomping on all vegetables, including the other cucurbitaceous ones. And perhaps that's why, my family conceded me this one quirk. Everyone who is related to me, by birth and now through marriage, knows that I don't eat potol. Thankfully, they no longer ask questions. Because, to be absolutely honest, I can't for the love of God remember why I hate potol. All I know is that I always have, and therefore I must continue resisting any attempts of its approaching me.

And approach me, it does. Bengalis, on both sides of the border, absolutely love potol. So much, that the big expressive doe eyes on our Mother goddess is called "potol chera chokh". Yes, the same beautiful eyes that you keep falling for, and then scream black magic. There's more. Bengalis, with their characteristic morbid sense of humour, refer to death as "potol tola". Which literally translates to picking up the pointed gourd. Don't ask. Potol is an emotion. Bengalis eat potol bhaja, aloo potol'er dalna, doi potol, potol diye machher jhol, potol'er dolma, potol mishti. I could go on.

But why am I writing about something I hate? Because, just today, I found out that the word dolma is of Turkish origin, and means "to fill". Mind blown. I always thought it was a Bengali word. A little bit of digging revealed that the dolma is a family of stuffed dishes popular in Central Asia, particularly in the Armenian culture. You see where this is going? The Armenians have had a long history with Bengal. In the 16th century, when their country was absorbed into the Ottoman Empire, the religious minority Armenians were forced to flee. Eventually, a settlement reached India, and in 1688, an agreement was signed with the British East India Company, giving them special trading privileges and the rights to freedom of residence and religion. In the same year, they built the Armenian Holy Church of Nazareth, at an address now famous as Armenian Street, Kolkata, West Bengal 700001.

The Armenians, who were fond of community-eating, and the Bengalis, who, well, were fond of eating, soon bonded over shared dinners and shared recipes. And that's how the "potol'er dolma" was born, as two cultures came together in an unknown kitchen.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is why I love history. Because it can get me excited about something I hate. But more importantly, because it teaches us that even the most opposites can blend together.

Eid Mubarak

Dad is a medical practitioner. And till at least a few months ago, he would spend a couple of days a week at a village clinic, not very far from our house. The patients here were a funny lot. They would never pay the usual fees. But a few months later, they would show up at our doorstep with a bottle gourd, or a pumpkin. And a huge smile.

This occurrence was such a normal part of my childhood. I would open the door, and scream "Maaaaaaa, peshent party eseche" (the patient's family have come). Maa would emerge from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her saree, and talk to them for a few minutes. While I went back to doing whatever it was I was doing.

But one day, this is not what happened. It must have been around May-June, because I remember my summer vacations were on. Maa came to the door, and said something in a tone I knew she used when pretending to be angry. "Why will I take this from you? Is this how you will give to your family members?" She went back into the kitchen, and handed them one of her many steel tiffin boxes. "There's no hurry. Whenever you are coming this side again, I want you to bring it prepared. Okay?"

Confused, and also a bit scared to ask questions, I lurked around the dining table when Dad came back from work. Then I overheard Maa telling him, "They came with packets of raw vermicelli, milk, and sugar. So I asked them to prepare the dish and bring." Dad replied, "You know, they're used to us people not accepting food cooked by them. You did the right thing."

The very next day, the steel tiffin box came back. With seviyan kheer. And an even huger smile.

Eid Mubarak. Remember, hatred is taught.

One Year

You probably don't remember, but I do
That day from exactly a year ago
When we first met

I remember waking up to a phone call
And frantically travelling across the country, reaching
Hours late for our rendezvous

Yes, I was late. But in my defense
It was you who arrived, in all your hurry
A bit too soon

You probably don't remember, but I do
That a year ago, I wasn't there with you
At that exact moment

You probably won't remember, but I will
That a year later, I'm still not there with you
On your first birthday

Work From Home

Via an email right from the top, the team that I work for has asked us to stay at home, and not come to office unless absolutely necessary. And while I laud this step taken by the company in our collective fight against the Covid19, it kinda takes the fun away from playing truant.

C'mon, we all know what I'm talking about. Those mid-week treats you give yourself by saying - "soch raha hoon aaj WFH kar loon". Not the kinds where you email your boss stating the same. But the times you discreetly message a colleague - "aaj boss aaya hai kya?" Or, you log onto your messenger to track exactly when the dot against your boss's name turns from red to green or grey. A quick decision is made. A few emails are sent out with an all-important CC list. The rest of the day goes periodically checking your inbox, and praying that the said boss doesn't call you. And if all ends well, there's a sense of triumph at 5:00pm. That's what I call a WFH. Not this.

I guess WFH is the closest, albeit by a huge distance, that a responsible adult can get to the thrill of playing truant from school. Or, bunking, as we called it back in the day. That was a different ball game altogether. A rite of passage, almost. I know I'm gonna be super proud the day my son bunks school for the first time, although a bit disappointed that I actually found out. And then years later, when he's a responsible adult himself, I'll tell him all my bunking stories.

I'll tell him about the first time ever. When Debjit and I went to watch "Himalay Putra". Well, there was this other movie that the two of us intended to watch, one with the big capital A on the posters. But we chickened out when we saw the security guard staring at our school uniforms.

I'll tell him about the time Sayantan and I went to watch "Godzilla", and sneaked in to the theatre a can of cold beverage that wasn't age-appropriate. It opened with a loud hiss, and the person in front turned to look. Sayantan whispered to him - "surround sound".

I'll tell him about the time Chandradeep and I had already made plans to go watch "Josh", and his dad suddenly decided to drop us to school. But hey, a commitment is a commitment, right? We walked gingerly from the car towards the school gates, and then took the fastest U-turn in history.

I'll tell him about the time when almost forty of us, in different smaller groups, all in our school uniforms, found ourselves in the same long queue outside a movie hall, for "Mohabbatein". I can't remember why or how we all chose the exact same showtime, but then again, this was a Shah Rukh Khan movie and that was the late 90s / early 00s.

Okay, I'll stop before I implicate my best buddies any further. And you start thinking all I did in school was bunk.

Tomorrow onwards, I'm "working" from home.

Esteem

I have a second-hand DL registration 2007 model Maruti Esteem. And notwithstanding all the fun that has been poked at me for driving "a prehistoric set of wheels", I love my car. It's not like I've never thought of selling her and upgrading, but each time I have, something or the other has cropped up and I've postponed my decision.

Take, for example, this weekend. We moved to another city. A full truck-load of household goods was sent through the movers and packers company. Next, was us. Which in our case means the whole pack. The wife and I briefly discussed our options. Air was ruled out because there's just one domestic carrier that allows pets as cabin baggage, and while our experience with them has been very positive in the past, this time we weren't sure how to put a rescue animal, that's illegal to cage, inside a cage, when he doesn't live in a cage. Rail was ruled out as well, for the same reason, and because we couldn't get confirmed first class tickets in such short notice. Ergo, we had to do this by road. Plan A was to sell the car in our previous city, and hire a long distance cab. But that was turning out to be too expensive. Plus, the wife pointed out that we'll need a car in the new city when our eldest, the German Shepherd, comes back home, as no public mode of transport allows him on due to his size. Plan B was to drive down. In my second-hand DL registration 2007 model Maruti Esteem.

And so we did. Pune - Satara - Kolhapur - Belgaum - Hubli (night halt) - Chitradurga - Tumkur - Bangalore. 850+ kilometres. Just a man and his machine. And his beautiful wife, their nine-month old son, a full-time live-in nanny-in-training, an Indian ring-necked parakeet that can't fly, a doll-faced Persian cat that can't sit still, a large suitcase, a gigantic bag full of baby paraphernalia, a litter tray and feeding bowl (for the cat), two potted plants, a wall hanging, and a laptop.

A Little Goodbye

An hour ago, I was cradling my son's head against my chest, as he, through some mysterious sixth sense that only babies have, had perceived something was wrong, and wouldn't stop crying.

Right now, I'm sitting at an airport. Alone.

I've said a lot of goodbyes over the last so many years, but never have I felt this way about a little blink of those big eyes. I've traveled quite a bit over the last so many years, but never have I immediately checked return tickets while in the cab towards the airport.

The silver lining... it's only a few weeks that we'll be apart. But it doesn't stop the terrible guilt that surges through me.

This won't be easy.

Johnny Johnny...

When we were scouting for a name to bestow upon our firstborn, a very close friend of mine remarked - "Why bother? His pals are gonna call him something embarrassing anyway." Yea, nicknames. Sometimes embarrassing. Sometimes funny. And almost always makes you wonder "where did THAT come from?" Because each nickname is a unique story. A celebration of one very personal relationship. I'm not talking about those nicknames widely used, but the special ones. The one nickname that only one person (or a close group) calls you by. The one nickname that you feel inherently protective towards. The one nickname that you wouldn't allow anyone else to utter.

It's not the same with our "real" names. We all dream that our name will one-day spread wide and far. We all want our name to live on in history forever. And to achieve so, we spend a lifetime doing what they call "making a name for ourselves". But how about relishing the nicknames, instead? How about cherishing them, appreciating them, celebrating them? How about spending time with that one person (or that close group) who simply refuses to remember what your actual name is? Because your name may very well be forever, but your nickname lasts only as long as the other person does.

---
A very close friend of my dad passed away today. He was the only one in their group who called dad "Johnny!" I always assumed that's an intentionally corrupted form of my dad's name. Never really asked. Or even if I had, never really got an answer. I'd like to believe there's a little story hidden there, from back when they were in college. I guess I'll never find out. While speaking to dad over the phone, a few hours ago, he tells me - "Aar keu konodin aamay Johnny bole dakbe na" (Nobody will ever call me Johnny again).

Love Multiplies...

There will be a day
Long after you've gone
When everything that you called yours
Will be gone too.

Everything you bought
Everything you built
Every cat dog human you ever loved
Will be gone too.

Every word you wrote
Every note you sang
Every reason that made you once smile
Will be gone too.

Time will engulf
Everything around you
And every tiny proof that you did exist
Will be gone too.

But on that day
Long after you've gone
Only the love that you gave out
Will be alive.

Because everything else dies
Love multiplies.

One Month

Ushno turns one month old today. And in this one month, I have been asked umpteen times by almost everybody I've spoken to - how does it feel to be a father? And the response has always been the same - it hasn't sunk in yet. Maybe because I don't share my physical space with both mother and child. Maybe because I hardly spent any time bonding with the baby, before I rushed back to Pune. My life here has been exactly the same as it was before. I spend five days working and two sleeping. I haven't had to drastically modify that routine in order to accommodate feeding and changing times. As the biological father, I have done absolutely nothing.

I remember an old friend of mine, when I told him we are expecting, had said "there's no feeling of pure love and joy like the first time you hold your own baby". Sadly, I didn't experience that. The first time I held Ushno, the only feeling I had was of pure terror. The only thought I had was - don't drop him don't drop him. Over the next seven days that I was there, that specific fear did go away, only to be replaced in the weeks that followed by a deeper more persistent thought - what exactly does a father do?

Times have changed. Earlier, societal norms dictated that the father's job was only to be a protector and provider. But now, I'm sure his mother is more than capable of being the breadwinner AND the primary caregiver. Which basically means, I am obsolete. Like a home landline. You need one as proof of residence or something, but no-one actually uses it. Some of you might chuckle at that description, but trust me, it's just an attempt to cover up the abject trepidation of being actually useless.

And so, in the absence of having to do anything worthwhile, I spent the past one month doing the only thing that I do best. Reading. I read the articles on how the presence of an involved father can impact the child's emotional and social development. I read the studies that say paternal engagement leads to emotionally secure children, which in turn develops the confidence in them to go explore their surroundings. I read the advice columns. I read the instructions manual. But let's be honest, cramming all the theoretical knowledge in the world doesn't really make someone a good father. Which is probably why they're called hands-on dads. C'mon, ask me again - how does it feel to be a father?

Ushno, I hope someday you get to read this. The thing is, when you're old enough to understand all of this, there are chances I may not be around. On that day, I want you to know that while you were struggling to make sense of this new world, I was a struggling one-month old too. Shine on, you faraway angel.

Dokhin kothay?

Dokhin, like all cats I suppose, loved to hide. In an empty shoe box, behind my study table, underneath our TV cabinet, inside our low seating wooden box chairs. The tighter the space, Dokhin would squeeze right in, all snug and comfortable. And then he would give us a wide-eyed look of surprise when we managed to find him. After a good ten minutes of searching, of course. One of the recurring jokes that the wife and I shared, was that - in the past twenty months of our marriage, and the sixteen months of having Dokhin, we haven't said "I love you" to each other as much as we've said "Dokhin kothay?" (Where's Dokhin?)

We won't be saying that anymore. Dokhin Ray jumped over the rainbow bridge yesterday at 11:45am. He was diagnosed with FIP (Feline Infectious Peritonitis), a fatal disease with no known cure. After three weeks of fighting tooth and claw, we decided to let him go. Dokhin was such a magnificent little tiger, it would have been unfair to make him live minus his dignity.

He was only one and a half years old, and in that small amount of time, he had filled our lives with affection. To those who don't like cats (and I would know because I was one of them), I must point out that you probably have never received the affection of a cat. They are very choosy about whom they love, but when they do trust you, when they do feel secure around you, when they purr as you lightly stroke their chins, when they rub their bodies against your leg, when they follow you around the house just to check on you because you're home alone, or even when they're fast asleep on your arm with their head upside down and belly exposed... there's no feeling of more contentment.

Good bye, son. We know you've found a better hiding place.

Lost and Found

It was her dark green handkerchief,
With an even darker perfume stain right in the middle.
She had put two sprays, like always, from her favourite glass bottle
And tucked it herself inside your shirt pocket.

Later that day, in between sobs and almost choking
On that lump in your throat, you told her how sorry you were.
That you didn't mean to lose her dark green handkerchief.

She laughed and laughed. "It doesn't matter, you dodo. I'll buy a new one."
But you just wouldn't stop crying, and just couldn't explain
That you weren't really upset about the dark green handkerchief.

But, for a few hours that day, from lunch till school got over
You couldn't smell Maa on you.
And that is the worst thing that can happen to a five-year old.

Or a thirty five-year old.

The Train

Found this on Facebook today. Such a beautiful expression of life and love. Some of you might not have had the chance to read Bibhutibhushan Bandyopadhyay's 'Pather Panchali', or watch Satyajit Ray's brilliant on-screen adaptation 'The Apu Trilogy', but I'm sure your own experiences have taught you, in some way or the other, that life is all about letting go. We are all Apu, on our own little journeys through an endless time. And along the way, we will lose a sister (like Durga), a father, a mother, a friend, a lover, a spouse, a child. We will thank them for joining us on our journeys. We will remember them through bittersweet memories. But eventually we will let them go. Because we're all meant to be chasing our own trains. Never catching it.

Chnachor

Around forty years ago, my grandfather bumped into a teenage boy at the railway station. He couldn't speak any Bengali, had run away from home, and was looking for work. After coaxing, scolding, and even threatening him to go back, when the boy just wouldn't listen, Dadu gave up and offered him a job as a porter-cum-handyman at his shop. Since that day, Bhorot Da became part of our family. He fell in love with Kalpani Di, our maid at the time, got married to her, moved into a small hut at the perimeter of our ancestral house, and raised two beautiful children.

In the years growing up, Bhorot Da was more than Superman to us cousins. He had a chiseled body, could catch snakes and giant centipedes with his bare hands, would bowl the fastest deliveries at us during our cricket matches, and at our annual Kali Pujo he would dance like a mad man, holding two lit anars that spewed fiery sparks in all directions.

But his pièce de résistance was the three storey tall chnachor or bon-fire that he built single-handedly on the eve of Kali Pujo. Villagers from far and across would drop by, just to watch this burning spectacle. As the flames licked the sky, we too would watch in awe, our little chests swelling with family pride, beads of sweat forming on our foreheads from standing too close.

This year, for the first time in a long time, Bhorot Da couldn't work on his chnachor. He's been very ill of late, and excessive drinking has paralyzed his hands. But family traditions have to continue. Someone else built the bon-fire, we set it ablaze and watched it burn. It seemed smaller this year, an indication of how time erodes everything.

Bhorot Da was there too. Kalpana Di and the kids brought him over to our house. I sat with him for a while, watching him wipe away his tears with trembling hands. I was holding my wife's camera, and wanted to capture this moment in a portrait, but quickly decided against it. This wasn't the Bhorot Da that I want to remember. And so, I took a picture of the bon-fire, instead.

That night, I realized Bhorot Da was our chnachor. For all these years, he burned tall and bright, lit up our childhood with memories for a lifetime, and then, let the night take over.

Love for a Lifetime

Say hello to Leelabati Basu and Gosto Behari Basu, my paternal grandparents, or Amma and Dadu, as we called them. In the years growing up, we hadn't seen a single moment that they weren't bickering and arguing, to the extent that we were reasonably sure they hated each other.

The day Amma died, which was quite sudden, given her good health at the time, Dadu was seen mumbling to himself angrily - "That old woman just had to take my neem tree away, didn't she?" - referring to the wood that had been cut down for her pyre.

And yet, the day Amma died, Dadu stayed on his favourite wooden chair and watched us go through all the rituals, one after the other, till we took her body away. He then came back inside the house, lay down on his bed, and never got up again. One and a half years of bedsores and dementia later, he too passed away.

Falling in love is all about the skip in your heartbeat, or the butterflies in your stomach. But when you love someone for a lifetime, you simply can't live without her.

Daadhi Badh Gaya Hai

The other day, I decided to take an auto to work. 

I do this a few days every month, whenever I don't feel like driving, and the guys at my nearest auto stand all seem to know me. Plus, it's easier than using an app to find a cab, coordinating with the driver for directions, and then staring at a little car icon on my smartphone that keeps moving away from where I am. Anyway, I digress. So the other day, I decided to take an auto to work. 

I walked upto the first auto in line, and asked - "Baasat chaloge?"

"Baithiye."

"Kitna loge?"

"Sir, baasat kahan?

"B block. Nokia building."

"Do sau de dena."

"Kya? Abhi toh pichle hafte yahin se auto lia tha. Bhaada badh gaya?"

At this point, he looks at me, and flashes a smile of recognition - "Oh sir, aap? Daadhi badha liye ho?"

This was in obvious reference to my beard that has grown considerably since, well, the last time he saw me. Now, I'd like to think there was a lot of traffic, but my wife says I'm deaf. Whatever be the reason, I clearly hear him say - "Oh sir, aap? Bhaada badh gaya hain."

And so, I reply - "Kya bhaiya? Kuch bhi bolte ho? Kab se badh gaya?"

"Sir, pichle baar aapka itna nahi tha."

"Wahi toh main bol raha hoon. Itna jaldi kaise badh sakta hain?"

(mumbling) "Woh toh sir aap ko hi pata hoga?"

(raising my voice) "Mujhe kaise pata hoga? Aap log kuch bhi bol dete ho customer ko."

(giving up) "Sir, aap baith jaaiye."

"Nahi. Pehle bolo kitna loge?"

"Sir, aap toh regular ho. De dena jo dete ho."

I sit inside the auto with a smug smile, feeling accomplished that I wasn't taken for a ride (pun intended). Minutes later, it hits me. But it's too late for clarifications. He drives me to office in stony silence. 

I'm pretty sure all the guys at my nearest auto stand know me. Now.

Dokhin Ray

In the country of eighteen tides, what is known to the rest of civilization as the Sundarbans, every morning, as the honey-collectors venture out to earn their daily bread, they worship two deities... Bonbibi, the guardian of the forest, and her arch-enemy Dokhin Ray, the demon tiger god.

Ladies and gentlemen, meet the newest member of our family... Dokhin Ray.

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

If I Knew You...

If I knew you, when you were only six
I would have held your hand, and just for kicks
We would run around in circles, like two crazy best friends
And only stop when our mothers sent
Someone to look for us, coz it's getting dark
Too late for little kids to be out in the park

If I knew you, when you were thirteen
I would have been​ your first crush, in the school social scene
We would ignore each other all day long
And keep on wondering, did we say something wrong?
But everyday, I would have walked you back home
Acting all cool, with my blue pocket comb

If I knew you, when you were twenty three
I would have knocked some sense and asked you to choose me
We would sit by the sea, and kiss in the rain
And save each other from a whole bunch of pain
Our weekends would have been spent at roadside bars
Staying up all night, searching for stars

When I finally got to know you, you were twenty eight
And I do feel sometimes why'd it have to be so late
There's so many things we missed, so much catching up to do
So many unnecessary scars that need healing too
But I'm really happy we met... as they say, better late than never
Now we have the rest of our lives, to grow old together

Diamonds Are Forever...

This goes out to all the women who loved me. The ones I loved back, and the ones I couldn't. The ones I once hated for hurting me, and the ones I hurt along the way. Thank you. Thank you for everything. For the smiles we exchanged. For the laughter we shared. For the tears we couldn't wipe away. But most of all, thank you for your time. Thank you for letting me be a part of your journey. Thank you for joining me on mine.

This goes out to all the women, except one. The one I'm marrying tonight. You and I... we're like diamonds in the sky.

The Scar

She rode out to war once,
On a thundering horse.
Her hair tied up under an iron helmet,
Her sword glistening in the sun.

They fought for days,
But eventually lost that campaign.
She returned, lucky to be alive,
With only a deep scar across her arm.

She was quite proud of that scar, actually.
Because it reminded her
Of a time she was reckless enough
To jump headfirst into a losing cause.

You must cover it up, they said.
Who will marry you with that ugly scar, they asked.
And so she did cover up the scar
With ornamental ink, so pretty.

A few evenings later,
She bumped into Prince Charming.
Her heart fluttered,
As he stared intently into her eyes.

And then he said,
Pardon me, but
You look a lot like someone
I once went to war beside.

She wore an iron helmet,
So I couldn't see her face clearly.
But I must admit
I felt true love for only her.

Because of her scar.
You see, she had this fierce scar
Right across her arm,
And that's what made her, beautiful.

Tamaso Mā Jyotir Gamaya

A long time ago, before religion had been invented, humans lit ceremonial fires to celebrate. Fire, or light, has since time immemorial been the symbol of happiness across cultures, as has darkness been associated with gloom and negativity. Even now, for any joyous occasion, we light candles, earthen lamps, and little electric bulbs.. to decorate, but more importantly, to dispel darkness from our lives.

This picture is from exactly a year ago. I had just shifted into a new house, in a new city.. and was feeling rather blue. To be honest, I was regretting a bunch of decisions. After the movers and packers had left, I slept for God knows how many hours, only to wake up in the middle of the night. Disorientated, I walked into my balcony, and saw that my neighbours from upstairs had put up these fairy lights. A smile flashed across my face. I knew I'd survive this.

Kali Puja

Tucked away on the South Eastern railway line that extends from Howrah towards Kharagpur and beyond, is a small village called Kulgachia. I'm not too sure why my grandfather decided to make that his home, but he did, and it's been almost seventy years since. Here, my grandparents built their own house, raised six children, lost one, survived a bunch of extremely naughty grandkids, and breathed their last.

Kulgachia, to me, has always been my "desher bari"... of long corridors and paved courtyards, of bathing ponds and mango orchards... and of course, our family Kali Puja. Almost as old as our ancestral house, this annual event is what brings me back to Kulgachia every year. Kali Puja connects me to my roots, ties me up in nostalgia, and for one night, lets me be a child to his Mother.

Waves

For three hours last Sunday, we
sat by the sea,
and watched waves.

Each different from the other, yet
indistinguishable,
in their incessantness.

Isn't this how love is supposed to feel?

The comfort of knowing that, no matter
how today ends,
there will be tomorrow..

Crashing against our shores, slowly eroding us.

Good Things Happen to Good People

Throughout my adult life, for as long as I can remember, I have loved, laughed, listened.. cared, shared, repaired.. and forgiven. With so much good karma under my belt, it was way about time the universe started paying dividends. Yea, this sure feels like the start of something special.

shaadi dot com

A few hours ago, my friends and I were at the rooftop bar,
Drinking tall cocktails, crazy purple shots, and smoking cheap cigars.

They all left, soon after the last bell rung,
I decided to stay, for me the night was still young.

And now I'm standing at a crowded corner of the high street,
All alone among people, I'd otherwise never meet.

There's vomit on the pavement, the air smells of stale regret,
But we're all in this together, we're playing a variation of roulette.

Yes, we're all in this together, buying 'n selling dreams in polychrome,
You see, the last bus has left... and everyone's in a hurry to get home.

Forward Now, Forward...

A few days ago, an old friend of mine (you know I don't mention names on this blog) asked me whether I'm up for a weekend getaway to Rishikesh. Dying to do something different with my life, I said yes.. and we drove all the way from Delhi to Biyasi in my faithful Maruti Esteem. The first evening at our campsite was spent around a bonfire with Old Monk, a guitar and old Hindi songs. Early in the morning of Day 2, the both of us scrambled our way to Shivpuri, for a 16km white-water rafting trip that was included in our package deal.

This stretch on the tumultuous Ganga, from Shivpuri to Rishikesh, has famous Grade IV rapids like the Roller Coaster and Golf Course. As a non-swimmer, I was obviously super nervous, and yet never more sure that I wanted to do this. The next hour and a half was an experience I'll remember for a long, long time. Not so much because of the thrills.. to be honest, I've been on amusement park rides that are scarier.. but because of what our raft guide Rohit taught me that day.

When approaching a rapid, remember that the splashing water will try to push you over, and you need to counter that force. So, instead of holding on to the safety rope.. just lock your feet under the air tubes, sit on the outer rim of the raft, and paddle forward as fast as you can.

And that, ladies and gents, is now my Mantra to life.

Amores Perros

You're on your way home. On your bike. Slightly over the speed limit. But that's okay.

You realize you're losing control of the handlebars.

Your grip tightens. Everything blurs into slow motion. You just have enough time to think "Oh, fuck!"

You see people helping you up. They look concerned, and funny too, opening and closing their mouths. You can't hear what they're saying.

You look down. There's a rather large red blotch on your jeans, near your right knee. It is slowly spreading out. You can't feel it.

You remember. There was a dog. Crossing the road. You had slammed your rear brakes. There was sand too.

You look around. Your bike is all smashed up. You search for the dog. It's nowhere to be seen, probably ran away from the crowd.

You look at your bike again. This is gonna cost a bomb. You want to get angry. But you smile instead.

The dog is okay.

Happy New Year

I don't really publicize the existence of my blog, and so, if you're reading this, chances are you know me pretty well. I tend to turn to writing when I'm feeling rather emotional about something, mostly when I'm depressed. A simple per year post count will tell you that 2006-2007 and 2014-2015 have been the worst years of my life.

That changes today. I know I've made mistakes, but I also know I've done everything possible to make amends. And more importantly, I know I've learnt from each experience. You see, what matters most is not the first, or the second, or even the third chapter of my life, but it is the final chapter which will tell the world how well I wrote this story. Watch out!

Cold Cold Winter

So, here we are. Another failed relationship. What happened this time? Well, I can only tell you my version, which of course, won't be the whole truth. There's her version as well, which is as much true to her as mine is to me. Anyway, I'll keep this short.

Five years ago I fell in love with a girl who was headed for a divorce, legally separated. That fact aside, we were just another happy couple. But the court case took too long. We fought about it. A lot. One day, we decided to ignore the fact that there is a divorce happening, and instead focus on being together. Bad idea. That's when the distance crept in. She couldn't talk to me about the one big pain she is going through. I, on the other hand, spoke a bit too much about future plans. She changed cities, twice. For her career, she told me. I read it as she wants to be away from me. I followed her around the country, thrice. We fought. We spoke. We fought. Then we just got tired. And gave up.

Lawrence Durrell said, "There are only three things to be done with a woman - you can love her, suffer for her, or turn her into literature".

Text Messages

Every time we exchange text messages, every time, out of the blue,
I feel you reaching out. Do you not feel the same way too?

Here's a funny meme, that describes you so true.
LOL. Smiley face. So, what else is new?

Didn't you start work today? How was it? How are you?
The new office is good. Oh BTW, guess who I bumped into?

Ten minutes of conversation, and then the pain starts oozing through.
Five years of being together, and that's all we can make do.

Take care. Be good. Move on.. I say, but don't wanna hear no adieu.
Just tell me that you're reaching out. Because here, I'm reaching out too.

The Cardboard Box

There’s an old cardboard box in my room somewhere,
Probably a remnant of something I got delivered from one of these online stores.

Some days it is plain brown, with a fading blue logo I can’t read anymore,
On other days it has pink wrapping paper on it, and little grey smiling elephants.

Every night I put away my stories in that box... the good, the bad, and the boring,
And I’m careful to shut the flaps tight, so that they don’t spill out and fade away.

You see, this is the longest that we haven’t spoken to each other,
And I’m worried that when we do meet, we won’t have anything to talk about.

Because we will meet someday, maybe years from now,
Talk about our respective lives, a normal conversation without any awkward pauses.

I’ll ask you about your new friends, your music sessions, your dance classes,
Tell you about my job, my football practice, everything...

Just enough chit chat, to make you smile,
And keep me from saying out loud... I never stopped loving you!

Possessive Much?

Okay, so here's a thought.

Let's say you love someone. To me, that means you think that the person is a wonderful human being.. that she is capable of spreading positive vibes, such as happiness and joy and love. Ergo, there will be others who will think so too.. there will be others who will love her too. Right? So, what's this thing called jealousy that couples talk about?

A certain someone once had told me, "You're the world's least possessive boyfriend". And I think I had replied, "That's coz possession implies ownership. I never owned you. I'm just happy to know you."

Or something like that. I dunno. It was a long time ago.

Early Morning Flights

"Why do you always book early morning flights?", she asked in exasperation, her nose all scrunched up.

"Because then I get the entire day at my destination", I replied.

"No, you don't. You can't sleep all night because you're scared you'll miss the flight. You can't sleep in the plane because your legs don't fit in those tiny seats. Basically you fuck up your entire day. You're an idiot."

"I love you too. Now go back to sleep. I'll call you when I reach."

I Scream

My little nephew was coming home for lunch, so maa asked me to go get some ice cream. On the way back, maybe because I was dangling the flimsy plastic bag a bit too much, it ripped right through the middle. Eight cups of butterscotch ice cream went tumbling across the asphalt. As I bent down to pick them up, I see from the corner of my eye, an elderly gentleman walking up to the crime scene. Let's call him bhadralok number one. He stops right in front of me, and exclaims to an unseen audience "the plastic has ripped". Enter bhadralok number two. He says "eeesh, yes indeed, the plastic has ripped, and the ice cream has fallen out". While I try my best to gulp down a sarcastic retort, bhadralok number three announces "polythene bags should be banned, they are harmful to our environment". There's a collective groan of approval from the crowd. Oh yes, a crowd has formed by then. And all this in the span of less than a minute, mind you. Then comes fat sweaty kakimaa, wiping away the extra talcum powder on her neck with the edge of her saree. She looks into her big shopper, pulls out a bunch of plastic bags, throws one at me, and walks off. Before I can mumble a thank you, she's gone. And so has the crowd. Dispersed into the city called Kolkata.

Work Culture

Ten years ago, on an October afternoon, a bunch of kids fresh out of engineering college were bundled into a bus, and asked to report at the Tech Mahindra (then Mahindra British Telecom) Chandivali office. We reached Mumbai late, greeted by the heavy rains that this city is so famous for. It was after office hours, and our point of contact from admin had left for the day. Drenched, confused, and tired, we struggled for the next couple of hours figuring out what the hell we were supposed to do. But none of us complained. We were busy making new friends, gulping down vada pavs, laughing at the absurdity of the situation.. everyone a little too excited to actually be in the city that never sleeps.

I've said this before, and I'll say it again - if you haven't lived in Mumbai, you don't know what "work culture" means.

Thump Thump and Bump...

A little sparrow flew into my life once,
Well, not flew, exactly... she just nosedived,
Thump, thump, and bump.

Lost, hurt, and confused, she fit in my palm,
I fell for her barely audible nasal chirp that day,
And promised love.

Yes, like an idiot, I promised love,
My commitment, my attention, my time,
To a sparrow.

But sparrows don't eat from spoons,
One day, she found herself again...
And flew away.

And all I was left with was a song,
A song that still plays in my heart today,
Thump, thump, and bump.

Quarter Past Five

The blanket, fresh from the dry cleaners,
Because she gets cold at night,
And hates sharing.

The TV subscription, upgraded,
Because she needs to know we have all channels,
Even if she’ll watch just one.

The plug socket right next to the bed, repaired,
Because she wants her phone fully charged,
While it stays under her pillow.

The white bathroom slippers, the pink sleep shirt, the green towel...
They were all ready at 5:15pm,
Only you weren’t.

What Do You See?

woman, i've heard you dream a lot about the sea..
but in those dreams.. what exactly do you see?

do you see a setting sun spread dull orange flames across the sky?
do you see a few wispy cirrus clouds fading out as they say goodbye?

do you see a flock of unknown birds fly past in a mad scramble to get home?
do you see uninterrupted waves crash into the sands and spit out their foam?

do you see a lone crab scurrying sideways, seemingly unsure where it wants to go?
do you see that one broken shell, hidden, almost waiting to hurt your little toe?

woman, i've heard you dream a lot about the sea..
but in those dreams.. do you see me?

Tor Baba!

Bengali boys are emotional, sensitive, inclined to write silly poetry.. but what most people don't know is that they're rather creative when it comes to giving gaalis. Not the usual maachod behenchod for these young gentlemen, no... they specifically target each other's fathers. Nothing brings a hearty chuckle to those nicotine stained lips, than having his father insulted by a close Bengali friend.

I am lucky to have an entire gang of such friends. And, while today might be too soon... maybe in a month or two.. bhai, I promise you we shall celebrate the life of Uncle.. in a way only Bengali boys can.

Durga Pujo

A long time ago, this meant buying yourself a shiny new cap pistol.. being gifted no less than 5 matching sets of clothes.. keeping your heartbeat in check before that all night pandal hopping excursion (only to fall asleep somewhere between Mohammad Ali Park and College Square).. eating copious quantities of street food (followed by a spoonful of Aquaticotis as soon as you reached home).. and feeling a sense of irreparable loss on Doshomi as you watched your mother smear sindur on the Mother.

Now, it means taking a 15 minute break from work to stare at Kolkata on Facebook.

Alone Time

I've always been a popular kid. I enjoy being the centre of attention. I love public speaking, some might even say I'm pretty flamboyant when in front of a crowd. I'm an introvert.

There is no mind numbing paradox here. Every human being is different. And for the love of God, I don't understand why some people don't get this. I do not lack social skills. I love talking to people as long as I'm genuinely interested in the topic, AND the person. I hate small talk, I don't believe in social pleasantries, I will never fake a conversation. I love reading, I love thinking, I love solving little puzzles in my head. I need my alone time.

In conclusion.. please stop encouraging me to play badminton with you guys.. stop inviting me to a weekend getaway with your family. I'm most lonely when I’m with a group of people and there's nothing to talk about. It depresses me. And I don't like being depressed.

Happy Teachers' Day

Strip everything away, and the purpose of life is to survive... to survive and pass on.. not just our genes, but the collective knowledge that would help the next generation (and the next) survive.

Which means the only way to justify your existence as a member of our species, is to have taught a child.

Happy Teachers' Day!

The Door

One thousand two hundred and forty four days. And every one of those I spent struggling to open the door between us. I cried, I complained, I gave up, I gave in.. and then, when the door finally did come ajar, I realized I had built a whole new wall. And this one, had no door.