Hyderabad Chronicles

By Ananya Mukherjee

“Excuse me, yeh Begumpet kitna door hai?” I asked, rolling the car window to a man at the first traffic signal. It was my first day, my first tryst on the roads of one of India’s most modern metropolis, Hyderabad.

 The man I threw the question at was in a sparkling white polyester half sleeve shirt and white lungi and reminded me instantly of a detergent commercial. He was sitting astride on a bike that had more bling than steel and as he spit a spray of red betel juice flashing a stark white set of dentures, I was convinced that I was caught in a commercial gone wrong, terribly wrong. Against the dark tone of his skin, the pearly white smile with crimson red betel juice stain was highlighted as if in bright neons. 

“Amma,” he started to speak and I froze! Amma, who me? Heck, I was in my mid-20s, smartly dressed, hired as a Lifestyle journalist by one of the most popular English dailies in Southern India, and a man old enough to be my dad was calling me Amma?? It hurt my pride, most importantly my fashionable alter ego!! Anyway, little did I know then that the local culture was not particularly influenced by Oedipus complex or leaning on any incestuous dogma; in fact, addressing a woman as "Amma" was considered a sheer display of affection and respect and accepted gracefully by anyone in skirts bereft of their seniority in rank or age. I, however, developed that insight only after I had spent a couple of months in the city.

Refocussing my thought on the road, I stared at him with the same question in my eyes. I was running late for a meeting. Amma or Behenji, I needed to find my way to Begumpet, and I needed him to oblige fast.

“Left ko katke, right ko marne ka. Phir sidhha ekich road” my detergent man declared in what I assumed to be a “warlike hostility” and zoomed away.

It was only when the car trailing mine started honking rather rudely that I realized that I was still standing at the road signal, racking my non-violent brain to interpret whatever that meant…”left ko katke, right ko marne ka”…ouch, Was I in the battlegrounds of Haldighati or Hyderabad? Whatever it was, the "marna-katna" made me feel like a princess in an armour that needed some greasing!

And so began my tenure in the city of Nizams and IT geeks! 

Hyderabad was my first address in Southern India in 25 years since my birth. Born in Jammu, raised partially in Bengal, Bihar, Jharkhand, Maharashtra, Punjab, Orissa and Madhya Pradesh, like most Bengalis from Lake Market (my ancestral home in Calcutta) I too was brought up with a veiled assumption that anything beyond the Deccan was simply “Madraasi”, that all " Madraasis" ate sambhar, idly and dosa three times a day, wore Kanjeevaram sarees and listened to Carnatic music. That Telugu, Tamil, Malayalam and Kannada had very distinct identities, the states, the culture, the food and their people clearly different from each other, was a learning I gathered only through the experience of living and spending time in each of them.

I remember one incident in particular, very vividly. I had just moved into a new penthouse apartment in an upmarket locality and used to be woken up at the crack of dawn every morning with the loud singsong hawking of a street vegetable seller. I would not credit it to be the most pleasant of wake up calls, especially since this echoing shout was in a language I did not understand at all. Each morning, come rain or shine through the monsoon swept by lanes of the neighbourhood, he would go stressing his vocal chords on something that sounded like Aiaaaashwarrrrya…….. I quickly linked it to the established perceptions in my mind. Wow, that was a steal…they sold Aishwarya in wicker baskets on the streets of Hyderabad, I thought! Now how would the former Ms World and Bollywood’s First Bahu react to that is a story we shall discuss another day!

I could not of course hold my curiosity for too long. One morning I dragged myself out of bed to check the Aishwarya that was so generously being sold outside my apartment gate. To my chagrin, it turned out to be a cartload of green leafy vegetables! So disappointed I was with my discovery that I never bothered to check what the correct pronunciation was.

In hindsight I think, there was something almost planetary about my connection with vegetables in Hyderabad. On another occasion, while I was rushing home from work on a very busy day, passing through a rather congested fresh vegetable market, I almost choked in repulsion as I heard the vendor ceremoniously screaming in a hoarse stereophonic voice…PEDDA PEDDA PADI PADI. In his hands were two huge cauliflowers. Needlessly to say, my flabbergasted mind instantly connected his outcry to the vegetable and my nose twitched. I could almost smell the imaginary stench! Of course, I soon discovered much to my amusement that “pedda” innocently meant large and “padi” was not obnoxious in the least: it meant the number 10. The fabricated horror was only a figment of my own limitations! The poor man was only selling large sized cauliflowers at Rs10 

Hyderabad, to me, had its own charms; it was an amazing blend of what the Nizams left behind and what the IT boom did to it. Amidst the biryani from Paradise, the Kanjeevaram draped, coconut oiled and jasmine haired women, the turmeric smeared feet, the IT and SFO connections, where nearly every house had a son living in the US of A, the potted tulsi plants and rangolis, the old world charm of Golconda Fort, Salar Jung Museum, the Charminar, the narrow by lanes around it that sold silks, Kalamkari and Bidri art, lac bangles, pearls and Haleem, there was a bustling metropolitan, where women drove home safe at two in the morning, the tap water “manjeera” was ready to drink, the queues moved faster than most other cities and no one complained of eve-teasing, rape or sexual harassment at work.

Also, I can’t do justice to Hyderabad, if I don’t talk about the Hyderabadi Hindi. My first rendezvous on the road on the very first day was just a curtain raiser. But talking about Hyderabadi Hindi, it is bound to connect you to the memories of our erstwhile Bollywood comedian Mahmud. It is so uniquely coarse, delightfully tangy and surprisingly sweet at the same time that I developed an intense ear for it and picked up conversations from wherever they happened. On one such incident of eavesdropping, I heard someone say "Visa Balaji." My ears had not been particularly efficient in picking the right pronunciations, so I made no assumption this time and queried, “what?”

“Tumko nai maloom, amma?” By now I was used to being called Amma. So long as no one called me Behenji, it seemed acceptable. My maid Saroja, took great delight in enriching my knowledge by answering my quest. “Visa balaji sabka visa karta.” I thought she was talking about a travel agent, Balaji and Venkat were undoubtedly the two most common names for all shops and men that I knew of in Hyderabad. “Balaji kaun? Agency?” I probed.

“Nahin amma, Balaji bagwaan.” And she touched her forehead. “Tirupati balaji bagwaan, tum janta na?”

Yes, I knew her “Balaji bagwaan” but had not met him in person, I joked. Saroja seemed not bothered by my insolent humour. Instead she suggested, “Tum jao Balaji ko bolo. Tumhara bhi visa ho jayega. Idhar kayekoo raheta? Sab phoren jata. Tum bhi jao.” 

I can’t say whether it was on her insistence or my own relocation plans somewhere in the back of my mind, that I took Saroja’s suggestion seriously and decided to pay a visit to the pilgrimage in Chilkur, a small village at about an hour’s drive from Hyderabad. The folklore around it went thus: One particular devotee of the Lord Narayan or Balaji was too old/feeble to go pay a visit to the Lord in his temple. But the devotee’s yearnings were so sincere and intense that Balaji made an appearance in his own modest hut to bless him. The hut was now transformed into a temple. 

What I saw there left me enthralled: men, women, children, denim clad teenagers with branded coolers, the ready to hop on to the next flight to Silicon Valley kind young adults, the devotees came in thousands each day, perambulating the inner circle of the shrine, praying and pledging to offer gifts and donations, should Balaji once listen to their prayers and ensured that the passports got the respective desired visa stamps. 

There was something so spectacular about the temple, the faith that drove these hundreds of thousands of believers and I started visiting it again and again. Not for a visa, not even for a wish to be granted but to be a part of the whole spiritual experience of submission and faith in the power of the divine.

On one such morning at the start of the Bengali New Year, I decided to visit Chilkur again. Unfortunately, luck was not on my side that morning. I missed the alarm, woke up late and struggled to get out of the morning traffic of Hyderabad. Once I was out, I missed the exit and had to drive another 20 kms before I reached the first U-turn. By the time I reached Chilkur, it was almost midday, hot, sultry and the summer sun was harsh on the skin. The temple as usual was crowded with devotees streaming in from luxury coaches, station wagons from far off villages, cars and tempos. I must have been behind 2000 people in the snaking queue that moved at a snail’s pace. It was only after a couple of hours of waiting when I entered the inner shrine from the outer premise of the temple, that I started hoping to catch a glimpse of the deity. Little did I know that the door was soon to be shut for the “Bhog” or lunch recess. Almost an inch away from the main altar, just as I was about to step in, the head priest raised his hand and stopped the queue from moving. It was time for Bhog he announced. The temple would only open after Balaji had rested well. By then, I was leading the queue. I don’t know if the frustration showed on my face or it was something else, he called out to me in fluent English, “You, come here. Help me clean the flowers from the floor and the inner shrine. “

With that, before I knew it, he handed me a basket and took one himself, and we collected the marigolds and roses strewn on the altar at the feet of the Lord. Finally when it was done, the priest signalled for me to step into the inner shrine where the Lord was seated. “No rush, you can pray.” He said gently placing a silver crown on my head in blessing. I stood there, transfixed, unable to comprehend the significance of the whole situation. All I now remember is that I mumbled something about being grateful, and asking for strength, endurance and courage to be myself.

What followed next was rather an interesting fact. I don’t know if it was the blessing of the much revered “Visa Balaji Bagwaan” or just some divine coincidence, I found myself relocating to Singapore for good in just six months' time.

It was nearly a decade ago. I have not visited Hyderabad since, but when I look back, I feel a gush of warmth, of acceptance, of familiarity laced with the smell of coconut milk and curry leaves. The streets may not have sold beautiful women in wicker baskets as I had imagined at first, but they bartered beautiful memories for a pause to last a lifetime...

This article was first published in my regular column Sudhh Shakahari Desi in Bkhush.com

Words are all I have...

By Ananya Mukherjee

Like an unborn child stifling in my womb impatient to see the light of the world, words form inside me.

Restless, happy to be severed from any presumptuous umbilical ties, vocal and unashamed to cry out aloud.

Incomplete songs of life; distraught, lest I break the chain of thoughts

Like siblings running home, craving a family refuge in expressions.

Batwaraa

Patiala Peg

By Ananya Mukherjee
Singapore

Backdrop: A freezing winter night in Patiala in the year 2001.

It was half past midnight when I heard the doorbell ring. As planned, I wrapped up my little girl in a thick woolen blanket. She was fast asleep in her long johns. Picking her as quietly as I could, I tip toed to open the hard wooden door. A sharp cold breeze whisked past me through the second layer of the net door. In the mist-filled dim greyish blue light of the staircase, I could only see the shadow of a man.

Well-built to the extent to be called athletic, he was covered in heavy woolen clothes, that included a cap drawn over his head covering most of his face. His neck was wrapped in a thick muffler. A dark leather jacket rose up to this throat.

The chilling wind was making it difficult for me to stand steady. He asked me if I were ready. I nodded my head and handed over my child to him.  Then I went in to bring my own red leather coat, cap, and gloves. With my hands trembling at the winter cold, I managed to lock the main door as noiselessly as possible and went down the staircase following him.   

We paced up the drive way without exchanging a single word.  When we had nearly reached the gate, he turned back once as if he had changed his mind. My eyes perhaps had a questioning look for he handed over my girl back to my arms and said, “I don’t want any noise. Leave the iron-gate. Let’s jump over the boundary wall. Wait, I will jump first. You pass her over. Then you jump across. “

I did as I was told. He crossed the boundary wall to the other side and waited. I passed my daughter over and jumped across. It was cold as cold it could get and we were freezing in the open lawn. We waited for a few seconds before he picked up my daughter from my arms again and went inside a dark bungalow. He came out after a few minutes and locked the doors of the house where he had just left my little girl. We hopped into his car as silently as we could and just as we were about to leave, I saw a man standing in a balcony watching us from across the road. His gaping mouth had the most incredibly horrified expression as we drove away, laughing.

Yes, you read it right. Laughing till we choked! We had just created the spiciest gossip in the neighbourhood! If you are wondering what this is all about, let me explain.

That man who I supposedly “eloped with in the wee hours of a winter night” was Colonel Bhatta, my husband’s friend and colleague in the Indian Army. We had been neighbours for almost a year. When two Bongs are thrown into a place far away from home and end up living next doors, they no longer remain friends. Between couriers of aloo posto and maacher jhol, shukto,  khichudi and kosha mangsho across boundary walls and evenings spent in Rabindra sangeet, adhunik gaan and all things Bong, they become one large family. So it was with us. Col Bhatta and his beautiful wife Shikha soon became a part of our extended family in Patiala, where my husband was pursuing a MD in Sports medicine. Needless to say, most of our memories are of moments we spent in the company of the Bhatta’s.   In hindsight, I can barely remember an evening we had dined separate in our individual homes.  Typically, our days as young mothers would be busy housekeeping and running around the kids. My daughter was particularly close to the Bhattas and picked up many of life’s first lessons in the company of our kind hearted neighbours. On a usual day, as soon as the men came back in the evenings, we would gather together, bring in some food either in their lawn or on our terrace, light up a camp fire and have a drink and dinner like one big family. There were days when the fog and the chill would get so strong, we would all slip inside huge quilts in a well heated room and chat the night through. 

It was on one of those winter nights when my husband was away, and we were having dinner together when Col Bhatta asked me how Doc was returning. I told him that my husband who was travelling by train had to disembark in Ambala Cantt ( since Patiala had no railway station) and would most likely rent a cab home.  An idea was proposed that post dinner, all five of us,  including Gungun who was two and Shubhang (their son) who was nine would join the reception troop to bring home Doc. It was meant to be a surprise. It also meant we needed to drive 40 kms in the early hours of the morning in the cold to reach Ambala Cantt station.    

Unfortunately, later in the evening, the children fell asleep too early and Shikha’s migraine surfaced from nowhere. So our plans had to be altered. Shikha proposed I leave Gungun with her and go ahead with Col Bhatta to receive my husband.

So that’s the real story, and that’s exactly what we did. However, to the spying, perceptive eye coated with conviction, it seemed like a perfect neighbourhood gossip. The incident remains etched as one of my fondest memories of the princely state of Patiala till date. 

For those of you, who associate the name of the city with the measure of liquor equivalent to 120 ml, or the extravagant Patiala Peg, here’s a story we learnt during our stay.

One of our banker friends in the Civilian community outside of the Army territory would often invite us to the Maharani Club. Located in the midst of Baradari garden in the very heart of the 6-km radius town, the majestic red tile-roofed mansion was said to resemble the pavilion of the Oval England. The architecture was a blend of the colonial influence and the royal grandeur of the erstwhile state of Patiala. Interestingly, Maharaja Bhupinder Singh of Patiala was the captain of the first cricket team that visited Britain way back in 1911. He also had an indomitable Polo team.  Before its civilized version or Tent Pegging, the army was known to play skull pegging where an army of fierce warriors would ride on their horseback, pegging skulls of their enemies’ buried half in the ground, along the way. With time, the game changed its format and friendly matches began to be organized. It was during one such “friendly” invitation that the Viceroy’s Pride arrived in Patiala for a match. For some reason, the home team felt threatened and nervous that they would face a loss and the wrath of the fearsome Maharaja, hatched a conspiracy.

On the evening before the match, the Viceroy’s Pride was invited for a drink at the Maharani Club where a double measure or the first Patiala pegs of whiskey was served. Needless to say, the Maharaja’s team won the match the next morning.  The legend of the Patiala Peg lives on.            

Patiala is a treasure trove for short story lovers. My husband’s school, the National Institute of Sports, was a part of the sprawling princely palaces and gardens right in the royal district of the city. Every trip opened up a Pandora’s Box of tales and folklore. One of the famous ones, as I now recall was about Maharaja Bhupinder Singh and his fleet of Rolls Royce cars.  When the Maharaja visited a Rolls Royce showroom in Britain and enquired the price of a premium model, he was humiliated by a salesman who doubted his affordability. The infuriated Maharaja Bhupinder Singh not only bought all the cars from the showroom, he cut open the roofs and began to use them as garbage trucks. No sooner did the news reach England, an apologetic Rolls Royce envoy requested the maharaja to return all the garbage truck and replaced them with the finest and most premium models.

It was also during our two-year stay that I picked up other gems; words in Punjabi that I would not have known by simply watching Bollywood movies or being an Army wife ( where for some reason people simply assume Punjabi to be the most spoken language after English in the mess before General Kapoor says so ). A horribly misinterpreted phone call taught me that “lukhh” had little or nothing to do with Lukhnow,  that the colour of the turban shared some hints about the clan or identity, that makki da ataa must always be kneaded with warm water and never rolled; that there was nothing so heavenly as stopping by a Dhaba on a long drive to sit and relish a freshly baked alu ka paratha with makkhan di tikki on top and a glass of malaiwali lassi; that it was perfectly normal to attend weddings with ‘Mandeep weds Mandeep’ written on floral plaques ( one just needed to ‘see’ the implied Singh and the Kaur), that no one cared if tandoori kukkad was the national bird or not so long as it found a spot in the dinner plate, that “naardana” chowk meant “anaardana”; and that a desperate looking youngster suffering from cardiac arrest like symptoms on a hot summer afternoon complaining of “book ni lagda, neend ni aandi, jee gabrata “ at our door could actually be the proud owner of a name such as Aashiq Ali.             

I also learnt a thing or two about the large heartedness and progressive mindset of the Sikh community. My many trips to Dukhniwaran Gurudwara, watching the kar sevaks, attending the langar, were the most humbling experiences of my lifetime.

And I would do little justice to my memories of Punjab if I do not mention a lady called Leela.

Leela auntie, all of 50 then was my domestic help. Her mother had come as a part of the dowry with the Maharani of Patiala. Leela auntie was born in the palace grounds and was raised serving the first family of Patiala. Before she started working for me, she had spent six years in Singapore and another four in Hong Kong working as a helper in NRI households. When she came back, from whatever money she had saved, she invested in her daughter’s college education and in building a double-storey house for herself and her family. I would often question her why she needed to work in her age, and a response would be “ Aurat ko na humesha kaam karni chahiye. Khud ka kamana chahiye. Tabhi uski izzat raheti hai,” ( A woman should always be financially independent. Only then can she get the respect).

We left Patiala in 2002 and 13 years later, as I look back at the memories and reminisce the wonderful times spent in the company of some warm hearted people with such a positive happy outlook towards life, my eyes get a wee bit misty. I am not a drinker but I might as well pour myself an extra helping of my favourite port wine and raise a toast to the Patiala Peg. Cheers! 

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A bit of a role play

Consultant: "Well, you have the highest scores that I have ever seen in optimism and stress management. Never met a profile such as yours. My own scores are pathetic. How do you manage to achieve this?"

Yours truly: ( smiling ) " Frankly, I do not know what I manage better; disappointments or dreams."

Her eyes begin to sparkle. Or maybe they are reflecting (on) mine. I leave the room smiling at the role play.

Flashback and more

In my ancestral home in North Bengal, this is the busiest time of the year. Folk lore has it that the Khan Bahadur Bhaduris many centuries back descended from a family of dacoits and made their fortune by amassing wealth and land from the kings and landlords. Before every raid, they were known to offer an animal sacrifice to the goddess Kaali. In due course, over a few generations, they became feudal lords themselves, gave up on robbery and adopted the lifestyles of Zamindars. However, the loyalty to the goddess of shakti or Kaali continued and a temple on home grounds was built over an altar of panchmundi or the sacrificed heads of five humans. Even today, the temple stands strong in the courtyard amidst the dilapidated remains of the old mansion and the modern structures where our extended families live.
Kaalipujo continued to be the most awaited festival at home and throughout my growing up years, an annual ritual for the dispersed family to reunite. During my grandmother's time, as the senior most matriarch of the Khan Bahadur Bhaduris, she was the sole controller of the elaborate family run extravaganza. Everyone else merely followed orders.
Interestingly, everyone in the village and in the neighbouring villages were invited. No one who lived within the radius of 5 kms, stayed hungry on these days. Thamma, till her 90s, continued to fast all day and prepare the Bhog for the pujo.
It was during one of those annual visits to home, that she told me a story.
Once in the midst of the festive season when her grand mom in law Bindubashini Debi was preparing the bhog, a little village girl came and stood near the main kitchen. She looked like a peasant's child, matted hair and frail, and someone probably from a lower caste. How she had found access to the zamindari kitchen or the courtyard of a bramhin family was unknown. The girl apparently spread out her hand begging for food. Bindubashini Debi was so engrossed in cooking for the goddess that she snapped at her insolence, explained that it was bhog meant for Ma Kaali, ignored the child and ordered the servants to drive her away. No one eats what's prepared for the gods before it is offered in prayers. Only after the bhog is religiously offered, can the prasad be distributed amongst devotees. The little girl went away forlorn and sad.
That night Bindubashini Debi had a dream where she saw Ma Kaali rebuking her in her sleep and refusing to accept the bhog. " I came to your doorstep asking for food and you drove me away. Now I shall not touch your bhog," the sad Goddess said. Bindubashini Debi must have realised her mistake for she sought forgiveness and declared that the whole village and its neighbourhood be invited for the pujo. A decree was passed that no one within 5 km radius of the zamindari would sleep hungry that night and if anyone ever asked or begged for food even meant to be offered to the gods, it must be given out to the person first.
For generations, we have stuck by the unique code. In all our festivals and prayers, in rituals and celebrations, it is always about practising human first, then God.

May Ma Kaali, the goddess of Shakti give you strength, courage and power!

The Distance

How far are you from yourself?
Half a breath away. 
Always? 
No. When I am alone.
And with people around?
A few million light years, sometimes.

Sing me a song, Ma!

Lullabies or loris. Are they things of the past?
I don't know what lullabies or loris our kids will sing to their next generations, but I still love the ones I grew up listening to in my childhood and sang to Gungun before putting her to sleep every single night when she was a baby. There used to be something so innocently beautiful about the ritual....change into your night suit, brush your teeth and slip inside the quilt. In that dim soft light of the bedroom, my Mamma would hum to me, gently patting all the while, songs, ballads, rhymes....I followed the same ritual with Gungun. She needed her lori, learnt her first songs and poems and even participated in singing them in return to a tired "sooo jaa ab meri maa" me. As I look back, the simple act fills me with a beautiful memory of bonding, of passing a culture and a tradition to the next generation. No?

Dugga Dugga

It is almost impossible to observe, reflect and then honestly narrate the juicy chronicles of a Barowari Probashi Durga Pujo (the annual Community Bong festival) without rattling a few cages and raising a few well- trimmed eyebrows (they already look arched high enough with the pujo chaant , like an expression of perennial surprise; a couple of millimeter more would hit the roof….oops, the hairline)!! Shhhh.. I was just being polite. I actually meant opening a can of creepy crawly worms. Eeeks…I can see you cringing at that! Trust me, so am I. To be absolutely truthful, and I cross my heart as I say this, that’s a just a simple breakdown of what we, the flag bearers of back stage management and front row audience, call Poro Ninda Poro Chorcha or PNPC in short.

You do not know what PNPC is? You gotta be kidding or you are not qualified to be a Bong! Ok, let me have the exclusive privilege of enlightening you on the fodder that we live on. PNPC is the staple bong diet after the bhoger khichuri for any community Durga Pujo, whether in homeland or on foreign shores. It is a must; like the panchamrita that cleanses your soul post fasting? There you get it! It is the quintessential detox of the Bong mind….just throw up all the snide remarks, nose twitches, lop sided smiles, sarci jokes at one go and there you are the decontaminated pure spirit ready to absorb the blessings of the sacred mantras and indulge in more observation of the clan around you.

For once, even I cannot slip into my self-assumed social anthropologist’s role watching the antics of a known tribe without identifying with it. So let’s get back to the real scene. Did you read “battlefield”? Oh no! We are the “kaalchaared” intellectual genes. PNPC is never done aloud. We do all this very subtly and if you are the probashi Bong, there are chances you would not even get it. It could start with a simple query: “Tumi Kolkatar?” (Are you from Kolkata?) . You are dead, if you dare say “yes” and later reveal an address that’s indicative of a pincode in South 24 Parganas. “Narendrapur abar Kolkata naki? Bollei holo!” ( Since when did Narendrapur become Kolkata! Crap). Well…to the unsuspecting mind, it is just the beginning to a compartmentalization, almost as definite as the MBTI test if you have ever taken one. The next lines of questions are somewhat predictable. Ghoti na Bangaal? North Cal or South? Which school did you say? You are saved again if your school has a reputation to be hip. Even better if you have a convent tag attached to your alumni and can sing the commonest school prayer “Our Father, thou art in heaven….” to perfection. Also, even if you do not drop slangs as punctuation marks in your conversations, you must know what they mean! “JU? No wonder!!” With each question, mind you, you are becoming a part of a quadrant and don’t ask me the axes!

Now that you have been measured (up and down) and somewhat fit into a prototype of a certain creed of Bongs, we will look at your clothes…yes, the saree and goyna cannot find a better exhibition than the puja mandap. Commissioned designer exclusives to Gariahat morer stalls, copies of Sabyasachi and Satya Paul to online carbon prints, displaying your wardrobe over five glorious days is the heart of Bong Durga Pujo. There can be nothing as traumatic as discovering the lady standing beside you at pushanpanjali wearing a saree similar to yours. Did I say traumatic? Read catastrophic! The dokaandaar who promised you “ektai piece didi” is dead and so is dear hubby who spent some few hundred dollars buying you the best this Pujo. The shoes too would not go unnoticed. Dare you show your heels and mismatch your Dhakai saree with red velvet shoes or don’t have a Kolhapuri mojri to accessorize your Dhuti Panjabi and see how the world drags you to your feet! Also, be sure to watch a few mobile PC Chandra versions walk up and down the aisle and pujo stage. As a kid, I wondered why women dressed up in sheets of gold, jewelry that looked like Raavan’s collection to me. With age, I have learnt that the catch here is not to be demoralized by the bullion market. It is also not about what you flash but when you procured it. How much of what you own is heirloom and how much of it has been acquired recently. Nouveau riche or ancestral wealth determines your genre again. A typical bong compliment could be: “ Natun gorali? Bah besh” ( Is that a new one? Wow nice) and the aside remark to follow can be as “conclusive” as “Kichhui chilona agey; shobi ekhon goracche.” (Had nothing before, see she is getting them now) Ahem! The complexities of what’s right and what is not, is debatable.

Of course, we are not a bitchy tribe. We are fantastic intelligent people, almost always bestowed with good looks or some talent, be it painting, singing, writing, acting, dancing, photography or simply dressing up. And one could find ample demonstrations of each in the Pujo Mondop. We do it well and we do it with all our competence. In other words, we are competent and we are competitive. The only flipside is, sometimes, everyone is clamoring for a space on the stage and there are few cheerleaders and audience on the ground: Bathroom singers, gawky dancers, school sketchbook artists, birthday card writers and everyone with a DSLR camera or with a husband who has a DSLR which is one and the same thing in this instance. Having said all that, pujo is what tugs at the heart of all Bongs everywhere in the world, no matter whether it is a “ghoroa” pujo in Johannesburg or the full on “dhoomdhaam” at Singapore or London or the weekend get together in Bay Area. It is about community bonding, and all things Bong, food, adda, music, dance, dressing up, and if PNPC is such an integral part of the BONG DNA, so be it!!

We do not even spare our gods. I just heard someone say, “Maayer mukutta ektu byenka. Kartik ki ektu tyera naaki re? Uff Lokkhir sareeta ki gyeyo. Sarashwatir hashita bhari mishti. Ar oshur ke dekh, puro tamil movier hero…” ( Isn’t ma durga’s crown a bit tilted? Kartik looks cock eyed, Lakshmi's saree is so behenji type and Saraswati has a cute smile. Asur looks like a hero from a Tamil film…”) Till the next one! Dugga Dugga!! Ashche bocchor abar hobe!

The article was first published in my regular column Shuddh Shakahari Desi on Bkhush.com   

Traveler's note

City lights, skyline and silhouettes
Breath of a perfume,
An euphoria of losing, finding and locking a lost map 
Fingers discovering contours like a voyager on a conquest.
Whispering winds, lyrical rains, and a moist inviting earth. 
Nothing changes.
Just the coordinates, just another country.

Changing Perspectives- beginning with me

Much as I am often critical pushing the boundaries to the extent of being caustic, I have begun to look beneath the layers. And it is surprising me, filling me with empathy not frustration, amusement not anger and perhaps settling the inner turmoils in my own mind when I find people, convictions, perceptions or actions distinctly different from mine. There is always so much more than the eyes can see.

I was talking to a dear friend over lunch yesterday and we both agreed, our patience with what we do not like/ was different from our school of thoughts was weaning with age. "Frankly, I do not know why I am in the same frame with him/ her"! But the same us, we concurred, accepted a lot of "nuisance" a lot more casually in the younger days.

I, however added that maybe with time, it will change again to being neutral or simply graciously understanding the psyche of another pattern. And I have been consciously thinking since then...

When I find people subscribing to all kinda games on Facebook, I am no longer thinking they are silly time wasters trying to find their personality types, the meanings of their names, their best friends or what makes them happy. I am beginning to wonder how lonely they are

My growing up years....

There are so many things about my growing up years in India that I miss. Yes, from the time of the dinosaurs, when carrots, cauliflowers and green peas were only available fresh and in winters; when Boroline and Dettol were the antidotes to life's miseries, most of which centred around the knees or elbows; when kids in the neighbourhood gathered every evening to play and there would be one target house that served them "paani"; when broadcast started with colour bars and ended with a grainy buzz; when on certain days of the week someone would turn the TV antenna in a certain direction and the family could watch Pakistani theatre on screen; when spooling tapes with a Nataraj pencil or a Reynold's blue capped pen back into the cassette was an art; where romance started with A+R; when handwriting apparently was the biggest proof of one's character...

I have stopped judging people now. I don't get to read handwritten notes anymore

Voices

Words do not worry me. Silence does. I dread the moments when all that I can hear between shadows of my breaths are my own footsteps. Not even the voices in my head. That makes me nervous.

Do thoughts have a gender bias?

I find it so interesting how certain things I write resonate more with men sometimes than women. And in some other times, women identify more with my musings than men. Do my narratives have a gender slant? So many of my protagonists are men. May be there is a bit of a man in my mind that men can connect with and there is obviously a woman in my heart that echoes the pulsating beats of others in my kind. Or are my thoughts, convictions, observations, rationale and inferences generally unisexual?

Pronam Montro

Ki chaili otokhon pronam kore?

Ortho.

Mane taka poisha?

Na, ei orther ortho thik ta na.

Ar ki chaili?

Shahosh.

Oma! Keno juddho korte jabi naki?

Korchi to.

Besh. Ar kichu chaili na?

Chailam. Khoma.

Keno? Kar kache doshi tui?

Nijer kaache.

Baarish....

Ek umr baad tumhari awaz sooni khidki par
Sharmili shaam ke bheege hawayon ne kaano mein phir bajayi tumhari khilkhilati hasi ki dhoon
Aasman to khulkar barsa par zameen tumhari khushboo se aaj phir mahek utthi
Baarish ... Ek umr baad mili ho
Ek iltija hai..
Aaj raat mere paas ruuk jao.
Kuchh tum barson, kuchh main.

Been ages...i missed myself!

Been ages since I wrote a line here....have missed this bit of me so much and am guilty of ignoring myself and my readers.  Will start with something that never fails to inspire me...yes, you knew it was raining...did you not??


Boondein bhi bade kamaal ke hotein hain
Aaj aise tez raftaar se chale mere sath gari ke shishe par
Jaise ashique ka hath thame khule maidaan mein daudta ho koi
Phir kuchh der rukkar na jane kaun si tasveer banayi dhalte kaach ke canvas par
Junoon aisa jaise kisi tasavvur ko zindagi mil gayi 
Phir roothe hue dost ki tarah dastak diya lagatar
Meri kya majaal ki main uss pukar ki tauheen karti
Khidki khol di... Aur hum dono bheege barse!

This morning enroute work