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।"

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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

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Happy birthday, 19th April 2021