Monday, December 12, 2016

Ardh-Satya now available!!



In the beginning, there were only a few words, then sentences. Then songs happened; then poetry. What remained of me became my story.
Ardh- Satya & Other Stories is now in all major bookstores in India and available on Amazon. Order your copy now.
Much love and sunshine,
Ananya

Sunday, December 11, 2016

Book Launch of Ardh Satya & Other Stories

Wednesday, 28 December, Oxford Book Store, Park Street, Kolkata. 6.30 pm onwards 

Monday, August 29, 2016

Meet Annie the author

Feels a bit awkward to shout out for attention but am told, if I don't, I would be just foolish in an old fashioned way. So please spend a minute when you have one to stop by my author page and maybe the thumb therapy could work some wonders! Thank you so much for your "likes"! And if you share the link, I would, of course be very grateful.
Humbled again.

Tuesday, August 23, 2016

Ramblings from Annie's Desk

For those of you who know and the rest who assume that English is the language in which I respond to in my sleep, wakefulness and dreams, let me share a little secret with you today. I was not exposed to English in school for the first couple of years of my life.
My first school was in the middle of an apple orchard in the Kashmir valley. Frankly, I remember nothing of it, except that I was four-ish and a school uniform was an extremely romantic idea that only my privileged sister could own. In late mornings, my guardian angel Bahadur flung me over his shoulders and walked down a pebbled road winding to a lovely patch of sunshine. There would be some other little red cheeked children in fleece and flannel clothes like me soaking in the sun and running around with apples, cherries and walnuts in their pockets. On our uphill walk home, and Bahadur always insisted that I walked this leg, we would collect pebbles and maple leaves. I had no uniform. I don’t recall if I had books. The Kendriya Vidyalaya that my sister attended was a distant dream that unfortunately could not come true because my family relocated from the valley.
For the next couple of months, our home went through a major upheaval and a series of uncertainties. My Baba left us for a tenure in Tehri, Uttarkashi where there were no schools. My mom stay put in Calcutta with my sister and me. My sister was sent to a neighbourhood school in Calcutta and I was pulled out of the school education system! Yes, you heard it right! For 8 months, I was not registered anywhere. A part of it was because I had taken seriously ill in those 8 months and was too frail to take any physical strain. A severe case of encephalitis and jaundice had taken its toll on my tiny frame.
It was only in the summers of 1980 when my Baba gave up a lucrative job offer in Baghdad and joined a private sector organisation where he stayed for the next 40 years of his life, that the family decided to move to a small town in Maharashtra. Again, there were no proper schools within the township. The nearest school was some miles away. My sister by then had moved to an elite boarding school in Calcutta. So, I tugged along my adventurous parents clueless about my academic future to the sleepy town in Tumsar Road in Maharashtra. I don't why my parents had chosen what they did for me, but we found Masterji ( an old retired teacher) who spent a few hours every morning in a dingy old room teaching the names of seasons, fruits and flowers in Hindi. I spent a couple of months in Masterji's classes( essentially on his lap) across the road and learnt “aashaad, shravaan and bhadrapad”.
My sister, of course, was from a different planet. I would look up in awe every time she visited us from her elite Enid Blyton dream-come-true boarding school. She spoke with a clear accent, sang Christmas Carols and introduced words like "supper" and "counterpanes" to my life. She also ate fish with a fork. To top it all, my only cousin made it worse. She was a second generation American immigrant kid who spoke English with a heavy American accent and Bangla with an English accent. Every summer, my NRI cousin and my well groomed sister would visit us and gang up against me. It was not because I did not speak their language. They were just elder sisters playing up against a younger one. But, in my baby eyes, I was clearly not in their league and would cringe at my incapability to form a grammatically correct sentence in English, leave alone engage in a meaningful conversation with my very stylish sisters.
Fortunately, we moved to Bhadrak in no time and for the first time in my life, after I had just completed my 6th birthday, I got my first school uniform. “Sunshine Public School. English Medium”, the blue and white signboard changed my life. I was directly admitted to Upper KG in the last three months of the academic calendar and when I joined school, we were already on Chapter 23 of the Radiant Reader. Interestingly, I was not registered as a regular student. It was way too late in the year. I had joined school finally but there were no roll calls for me. I was not counted. I was a nobody; just an unregistered extra chair in the class. I don’t know why it hurt my little pride a bit.
Even as I struggled to read a line in English, grappled with forming sentences, I was tasked to write questions and answers from Late Kate and Simple Simon! That I scored a four out of twenty-five in the first unit test was no surprise. My mother had tears in her eyes when the Class teacher Ms Dakshina told her that I was no good. My Baba was furious and I remember him throwing away my horrid homework book with red X marks all over. I did not know what was wrong. All I remember from that moment is a little helpless girl running out of the house to the backyard, ashamed and lost, overlooking a paddy field and a speeding train. That December I fell ill again and answered my annual exams with a high temperature. Baba draped me in a thick red coat and drove me in his jeep to the school. He sat there as I took my test. By some fluke of destiny, when the results were out, I had not only beaten all my own records, I had beaten everyone else in class and picked up a second rank. My mom, as emotional as all moms are, had ended up crying again when she came to collect my report book. The school principal, as generous as only he could be, announced a special award for this student who was not registered. I received my first book “Cinderella” as my prize from him in the school assembly.
I had never scored a second rank again in Sunshine Public School. I was slowly getting used to being the first ranker throughout my first and second grades. I was also exposed to Odissi at this juncture in life as my training under Guru Kelucharan Mohapatra started then. Naturally, I became active on the school stage. However, spoken English was still a pain I struggled with. I dreaded going to the Principal’s office because it meant a conversation in English had to be either initiated or responded to. I remember a day when I was wincing in acute abdominal pain and could not muster the courage to go up and speak to my principal for a special permission to go home. I don’t recall feeling as helpless ever.
1983 and we moved to Bokaro Steel City where I was exposed to one of the best schools of Eastern India- Chinmaya Vidyalaya. By some miracle, I seemed to have done extraordinarily well in my admission test and even though only half way through my Grade 2, I was admitted directly to Grade 3. It was here that I first met the lady who transformed my life. Mrs Sujata Kumar was my Class teacher and taught us English. She was the kindest, most soft spoken and patient teachers I had known. With her, English seemed like the only language I would use to converse with myself. She made it that easy, that simple and yes, that perfect. Under her tutelage, English became my favourite subject; and I would spend all my time outside of school, reading, literally devouring books. There were not many children’s classics that I had not read by the time I turned nine. Soon, I was not just communicating in English but winning all school elocution contests. I don’t know what she saw in me. In hindsight, I think I see my God in her.
Then there was another day in 1985. We had moved to Durgapur and I was asked to write an autobiography of a broken umbrella! What a piece of homework for a 10 year old. I had no clue how autobiographies were written and was struggling hard. I took resort to my sister who was now a high schooler. Dids, in one of her rare bad moods, refused to help. I cried, cajoled, pleaded but nothing worked! Desperate, I hid myself in a dark corner of the house (we used to call that my gosha ghor or the whine zone) and began scribbling whatever came to my mind. I came back home the next day with an “Excellent” in red ink marked by my English Teacher. I graduated from St Michaels’ School in 1991 and English continued to be my best subject.
From the time I could spell ambition, I had only wanted to be a journalist. My first and only dream was to write a book someday and become an author. My heartfelt gratitude to the circumstances and the people who have made this dream possible!
I am what I am today, because of the push backs I got in life, the language that I learnt to love and am yet to master…

Friday, April 15, 2016

Gladly Bengali

By Ananya Mukherjee 
It is that time of the year again, when the quintessential “Lyadh khawa Bongo shontaan” wakes up from his cultural hibernation, shuns his acquired tastes and part-British, part-Medinipore accents, ransacks the Chaitra Masher sale to become the dhakka paad dhuti clad Babumoshais and Jamdani mora Bouthhans straight from the pages of a Sarat Chandra Chattopadhyaye novel, and gets all set for the “kobji dubiye bhuribhojon.”
“Arre moshai, kalboishakhi, poila boishakh, Rabindra Jayanti, bajare natun aam, jamai shoshti….eshob chere ki aar global citizen howa jaye!!" Ekhon bangali nohii toh kabhi nahi.
In times when the insane waves of consumerism had not hit and swept the moddhyo bittyo Bangali off their feet, this was the only other time of the year apart from Pujo, when boudis, mamonis and didibhais would be clogging the pavements of Gariahat and Rashbehari Avenue, in scorching late morning or afternoon sun and striking the best deals at Bounir shomoy. The trick was to quote exactly half the price or less and then walk away and yet keep your ears alert for that one welcome back call…. “Ei je didibhai, aare shunoon, aapni koto deben boloon, phinaaal etai laasht”!
Of course, the “ei ja pocha goromtai poreche moshai” would have little or no impact or influence on the "saat pod ranna" nor could the "buuk jala" and "chora ombol" discourage mashima and meshomoshai from taking another helping of the “jhurjhure aloo bhaja” or “tel koi”!! Poila boishakh bole kothaa!!
It is also that time of the year when each Bong household would be focussing less on mathematics and more on extra-curricular activities. Domestic performance workshops are a must in every bong home, especially when the paraar Rabindra Jayanti is around the corner. Make a request and see! You will have Mamoni singing “Kotobaar bhebechinu apona bhuliya” and Tumpa dancing to “Momo chiitte” at the drop of a hat, or at the hint of the word, Talent! Oh, that we have in plenty apart from the egoistical intellect. Sometimes, I wonder if the word "aant" and "aantel" are co-related!
Whether or not Babushona cracks the joint entrance, he will be able to tell you in detail where Ritwick Ghatak’s frame is different from Mrinal Sen’s, why Ronaldo is cooler than Maradona and what is the predicted result of the American Presidential Elections. Tell him to move his butt and fix the electric fuse, and he will smile and wait for Shankarda to do it while strumming his guitar, preferring to stay in the dark all evening. Babushona, am told, writes and composes his own songs. I think I hear a bit of Cohen, a lot of Dylan but am convinced the concoction is not all that bad.
It is also the time of the year when the jamai babajibon, no matter how crooked his records are, will try to get them straight. Let there be a few rain showers and he is ready to come dressed as the quintessential "bhalo chele" with jora illish to add value to his shoshurbari.
And then amidst all the pyech pyeche gorom there would come a day of Kalboishakhi and the dead poets societies in Bengal would awaken from slumber, step out of every defined boundary, unleash the soldier in their blood, dare and absorb the storm and be ready to take on the world. And when the rains hit you, you would have a soul cleansed by the richest of cultures and purest of hearts!
Do not be misled by the lull. Like the kalboishakhi, the Bong will break open every door and sweep you off your feet.
Yes, porojonme abaar Bangali hobo!
Shubho Nabo Borsho!

Thursday, February 4, 2016

Connect

When I listen to your voice, all I can hear is the gurgling laughter waiting to spontaneously overflow and infect me.
When I see you in silence, what I read are the songs you have hidden in your eyes.
Your touch is almost lyrical, like the opening stanza of a couplet, rhythmic yet secretive.
In my passive consciousness, sometimes in unrehearsed moments of solitude and tranquility, I remember the fragrance of a perfume and know you are there.
And in that momentous juncture when all my senses surrender and am holding my muted soul in silence, you reach out to me.
And that's where we begin to connect. 
Happy Listening
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Xtcx8ivN_w&feature=youtu.be

The most beautiful woman, in my opinion, is not Barbie.

Never was. She is the fearless warrior princess who protects the weak and encourages the strong to be their best. She is the one who knows how to seduce the world to her advantage in one minute with just a hint of a smile, and she is the giver who dispenses of everything you can ask for in the very next one without batting an eyelid. She is the one in whose presence the universe disappears. She is the universe.

Independent and Sponsored...Sorry??

I don't think any "independent" human being has the right to create a wish list that needs sponsorship. You can have dreams and yes, you can have a hell of a lot of them. But if you need someone else's money to get you there, you are a loser. So shed that drama about being a liberated individual because you are not. Admit you are a dependent baggage waiting to be carried off to your destination on someone else's shoulders. Or at least someone else's credit card. No matter who takes you there, if it is not you, it is not your success. If that admission hurts, drop your wish list. Preserve your self respect.
Dream big and then earn your reality and your success.

The American Rock

By Ananya Mukherjee
Singapore
I was introduced to the word “America” (pronounced Aymayrika in most Bong households) from the moment I was born. “Aymayrika” is a common punctuation mark in most family discussions where at least one good son or “bhalo chhele”, after having completed his Engineering from IIT and diligently scoring a crazy count on GRE has finally settled down in a suburban town on the eastern coastline of the continent. In many homes, it is also where the proverbial “lokkhi meye” or the good girl who again sits ready with post graduate degrees and other bridal competencies relocates after being suitably evaluated by the Paatro-Paatri (matrimonial) section of Ananda Bazaar Patrika and eventually wedded to the bespectacled “bhalo chhle”. However, it was always different for me. Being neither a “lokkhi meye” nor the kinds to be swept off the floor by the quintessential “bhalo chheles”, the name America meant nothing aspirational but something closer at home.
To me, in my growing up years, it signified a blue airmail the postman dropped in our mailbox once a month that instantly made my mom happy. It also meant long distance trunk calls in nights of excitements and emergencies in the family. And of course, it brought memories of blue leather suitcases filled with sweaters, denims, highland boots, Kit Kat chocolates, Granola wafers, dresses and dolls, perfumes and lipsticks, every summer and one person behind it all; the Santa Claus of my childhood, my maternal aunt. So enamoured was I by her charm and generosity that very early in life, I had seemingly concluded that all good and rare things in life originated in a land far far away and could only be shipped to me by an Air India flight.
My mother fondly remembers an evening in Kashmir when I was a toddler and had barely began to speak sentences in full. She recalls we were walking up a hill. A two-year- old me had picked up a shiny pebble stone from the curb, and very gloriously announced that I had found an “Amrikarer Pathhor” (The American Rock) on a roadside in Riasi.
America was a “brand” we found in every nook and corner of the house, despite living in the heart of India. My Grandma, who was tutored at home in the days of the British Raj made her first solo trip to the US in 1980. Needless to say, it was also her first flight. In hindsight, she not only surprises me with her unusual independent streak and Columbus- like approach, I am fascinated by the fact that she actually flew across three continents, from Mumbai to London and then to New York City speaking a single line in an immaculate British accent: “I do not speak English”. I am told she forgot to get her visa stamped and hence had to disembark in Heathrow and was detained in London, where she managed to charm a whole team of immigration officers , sorted her visa and after a day tour of the Queen’s palaces took an onward Pan Am flight to JFK. When the very concerned family on either side of the ports enquired of what they assumed to be a “harrowing experience”, her response was epic. “Ei shujoge England dekha hoye gelo. Heathrow airport e janish koto Sardarji” (Got an opportunity to see England. Do you know how many Sardars I saw at Heathrow?) Her first US vacation lasted eight months. My phoren-returned Grandma came back prettier, fairer, a few kilos heavier, smelling of Chanel and her hand bag was full of Kit Kat chocolates and candies they served on the flight. Of course, she was full of stories. Anecdotes of how first generation immigrant Bengalies in the eastern coast of the US were the most delightful, social and culturally rich clan of Non Resident Indians ever to be found, how every weekend meant a long drive to another state and an eight course dinner over songs and adda, where everyone treated Mashima with such respects and even gave her presents, how Niagara falls was the most astonishing sight she had seen in her life, how she missed us in Disneyland, how Americans severe the fish head and her heart wept for my Mom whose love for Muri Ghonto ( a special Bong delicacy with fish head) is well known in the family, so on and so forth. And yes, how lovely American neighbours and their kids were.
Michelle and Tom were my aunt’s neighbours in Wayne, New Jersey. They must have been really cute kids since my Grandma was so fond of them. “Ki je shundor duto bacha. Phutphute, phete porche gayer rong aar phor phor kore ingriji bolche.” ( How beautiful these kids were. White skinned and speaking English fluently), she shared on her return. Ahem!! It took my mom and dad some time to hold their laughter.
She went back to the US again much later in the late 80s and her fascination had not changed much. This time she came back with the worst biases ever. By now, my sister and I were both teenagers and pretty strong self-assumed ambassadors of the Mera Bharat Mahaan campaign. One evening at dinner, when Grandma was caught in a whirlpool of American fantasies, raving about every single thing she had eaten, worn, seen or touched, Dids and I, mischievously decided to teach her a lesson. The war was now between the Indian Basmati Rice and some fragrant rice she had been served in the US. The opportunity for such a moment came soon enough as she handed over a stack of neat jute bags to my mom, saying “Look, I got you the bags in which the rice comes from the supermarket. They are good for storage.” Dids and I lost no time in grabbing one of the samples on which the following words shone like shining neons!! “Premium Dehradun Basmati Rice. Export Quality.” Under the big label in blue were tiny prints on the jute fabric: “Imported from India.”
My Grandma’s loyalty to the American dream came close to being shattered when her favourite American, no less than the President himself, Mr Bill Clinton was facing a potential impeachment due to his somewhat scandalous liaisons with an intern in the Oval Office. My Grandma was perhaps amongst Clinton’s greatest fans. She followed every single news piece on him and was fiercely protective about any political or personal allegations against him. She almost took it personally. So intense was her loyalty, that she pledged an offering to the revered Goddess Kali at a temple should Clinton walk out scot free. My maternal uncle had to actually go and pay homage to Bhriingi Kali and offer a basket of red hibiscus flowers, some sweets and donations in honour of Mr Clinton’s release. It does not stop here. The priest, it seems, was little impressed or did not recognize the name of the person whose offering he channeled to the Goddess. In his usual high pitch he had thrown the question to my uncle across a bunch of other devotees. “Hyan kaar name pujo?” ( In whose name is this offering?” “Bill Clinton.” My uncle almost died with embarrassment for having to do this.
“ Bill Clinton? Bideshi? Accha, ki Gotra?” ( Bill Clinton? Foreigner? What is his Gotra?”) My uncle had looked helplessly at my Grandma. How would he know what Gotra Clinton was! Grandma who was standing next to him, shouted back with an unforeseen authority, “Kashyap.”
Well, ever since then, Clinton became family, or at least linked by my maternal Gotra. Strange as it sounds, my first trip to the US happened only a month back. I would not go into the details of my personal experience of whether or not I was fascinated by what I saw for the simplest reason that I perhaps live in the swankiest, modern-est, safest, cleanest city in the world and every other city looks like a washed out version of my home-city few decades back, but I did have an enormously enriching experience travelling across some parts of its west coast. They say, life moves in full circles and it could not have been truer than this. We spent the new year at the Grand Canyon Village in freezing cold. Amongst all the things that my 16-year-old daughter could have gifted me at the start of this year was a piece of Canyon rock beautifully carved out as a candle stand. Her words were: “Mamma, that’s your Amrikarer pathhor ( American Rock). We found it.”