1978 Floods
I can vaguely recall a few things during our stay at 4/7 in the year 1977. One of them being my father intently listening to the radio during newscasts. It happened to be a time of significant political turmoil in India. The emergency imposed by the then Prime Minister Indira Gandhi, and subsequent power play between Charan Singh and Morarji Desai etc. While I can safely define myself in terms of an absolute political junkie, at five years such events couldn’t have possibly left any political mark on me. Thus I move on to greener pastures of story telling to the year 1978.
One of the events that a number of parents would attach a lot of importance to was an admission to kindergarten in the St. Xavier’s school. I can distinctly remember two things about my admission. One was a white padre, Fr. Wautier who interviewed me and of all things I remember identifying a rabbit on a book of pictures correctly; and doing a simple addition using my fingers – that turned out to be quite correct again. After thirty years of that event, I look back and can’t really accept the unusual amount of importance attached to being Xavier-ite. Nevertheless, enter Kalu, in his worn rickshaw with a small wooden bench tied to the frame of the three wheeled contraption; meant to ferry at least five to six kids to and from school. The man lived in a shanty close to our quarters called Salbagan. I heard that he had died later on from tuberculosis (that may not be true – I have heard from a third person); a fact that I regret now. Had it been today, I would have done everything in my capacity to get him decent health-care.
The one singular incident, that every Bengali would swear about 1978 was the floods. It may not be such an understatement to say, that this was one of the most devastating floods in the recent history of West Bengal. I am trying to pull out from my memory of what I can remember. I am taking some liberty here in the form of dramatization.
An overcast sky during monsoons, meant a slight chance of a joyful day at home; away from the wrath of Mrs. Bourne (our class teacher at kindergarten), who I suspected had some special antipathy towards me. I can now confess without one bit of shame, that all through my tenth grade in St. Xavier’s I was one of the most petrified kids around. This morning was not especially ominous, looking at the sky. It drizzled a bit, as Mom stood in front of the gate while I jumped up on the rickshaw. Its hood was drawn and a blue plastic sewn to the top of the leaking canvas hood tried to protect the kids, somewhat in vain. Kalu, and a lot of other rickshaws pullers toiled through the uphill road from Fine Arts Club to Durgapur Club, his sinewy arms and taut shoulders drenched in the drizzle.
Before the snacks break, it was evident, that the downpour was not an ordinary one. None of us strayed into the field. Classes went on till schedule, and we ran as fast as our five-year-old legs could take us to Kalu, who was waiting under a tree just outside the school boundary. The rain was now getting dumped like hose water, instead of droplets.
Without incident we reached home. After lunch, Mom listened to her daily fare of songs and other stuff on the radio, while I dared to venture out of the front door into the front porch, to the red bench. This was as strict no-no during afternoons, when supposedly kidnappers were let loose all over the place, according to my Mom. But watching the rains, sitting on the step at the front door, was an experience a five year old simply could not pass. Later on it became a habit; I had to sit down there when it rained. I had to daydream. This afternoon, looked special in a sense, that I hadn’t quite seen such ferocious rains before. I could hardly see the front gate, just a few yards away. Something told me that the street in front, had transformed itself into a torrent of water gushing down. The other oddity: water had accumulated on the porch; something that had never happened here before, going by previous rainfalls. At first, I just touched the water a few times with my toes; then the obvious happened: I call it “what the heck lets do it” moment. I stomped and jumped merrily in the ankle deep puddle.
While the living room was one step higher than the porch, the courtyard was a step lower. With my feeble knowledge of complex hydrodynamics at that age, I deduced that there should be some water in the courtyard as well. A part of the courtyard was paved, but a good part wasn’t, so rainwater usually made it to the unpaved soil. I went back into the living room, turned left at the dining area (which also served the purpose of our cycle stand and shoe store on a mite eaten shoe rack). The dining space was the same level at the courtyard, so a natural conclusion would be that this place should accumulate some water as well. Well, it did not and I did not give it much of a thought. But, later on I did find out the answer. It should suffice to say, that neither the courtyard nor the dining space showed signs of flooding.
I then decided to move on with life – that is doing my one favorite chore. Our master bed was a big affair. One edge of the bed stand lined along the outside window of the master bed. I lifted my body in that narrow passage with one hand on the bed frame and the other on the windowsill and swung around; there wasn’t much to goof around with anyways.
When Dad returned, his face seemed quite grim. He had been grim with his affairs at the Steel Plant lately. But this time around it was certainly something more. He was completely drenched. The rain was relentless and hadn’t stopped even momentarily. That something more was a young kid, in a little hand-made dinghy rowing across a landscape that seemed completely flooded, somewhere near the Aksa village, Madaripur subdivision, Faridpur district of now Bangladesh (I have said this before and I am saying again – so what?). His eyes betrayed his composure. The evening news on the radio brought more bad news from all over the state. Thousands had perished, thousands were marooned. It was pure devastation all over the place. Yet Durgapur, sitting on a plateau at about 300 feet above sea level, shouldn’t have to worry under normal circumstances. But, there is the sorrow of Bengal lurking by Durgapur’s southern end. Its fury is well recorded in history - one of the main reasons for the Damodar Valley Corporation to be in existence is to tame the river with dams and barrages. There is a barrage right at Durgapur on the river.
The Durgapur Steel Plant, one of the very few in India then, was right by the banks of upstream Damodar. All the lock gates had been fully opened for the furious river to rush ahead. Rush ahead he (this is strictly not a she) did. Destroying everything in its path as it snaked to meet its destination at the Ganga. I have heard that water was actually flowing over the bridge at the barrage, its sides now very much under threat.
We had locked ourselves up, waiting for things to improve, with constant updates on the radio, in our main bedroom. Electricity had either been shutoff or transformers had blown off somewhere. After the eight o’clock All India Radio News, Baba decided to take a look and have a chat with our neighbors. The first shock came on the step from the bedroom passage to the step that took him down to the dining space. He held a lamp in his hand; and we all heard the first splash. He came back in a hurry, his face showing some signs of terror. “Water is rising, we have to do something”. The two bedrooms were fortunately one level higher than the dining space. A temporary solution was found. Baba had a bed – that can best be described as four wooden legs with four planks nailed to them, from his bachelor days. Ma and Baba pulled that in from the other bedroom and managed to lift it over our master bed. Ma and I were to climb up and sleep on that, with our noses inches away from the fan. Baba, would keep vigil all night.
I vaguely remember, snakes being discussed in hushed tones. But I slept as best as one can under the circumstances. By the time I woke up, our bedroom was ankle deep in water. The rain hadn’t subsided; yet owing to an unknown topographical oddity water never rose higher than that. The one sweet thing about all of it was that school had shut down. So, I dragged myself along the flooded floor, enjoying the “lap-lap” sound of water hitting the walls. I am sure Mom did not get a chance to cook anything for breakfast;
A couple of days later, a small opening was noticed in the foreboding clouds. Our neighbor, Mrs. Gupta waded into our front flooded front lawn, beside the Kamini; my Mom and she, started the usual round of gossip that had waited two full days for the rains. In a few minutes, we heard this big roar from somewhere; me petrified that a huge tsunami was rumbling in from somewhere. Well, that wasn’t it. It was an army helicopter hovering 30 feet over our lawn. A man was perched precariously by its side with a hand held mike – he was waving sacks at us – sacks of food, yelling over the chopper’s roar – “Do you need food supplies?”. Mom and her friend waved them away – we were well stocked. The chopper, veered away.
It took a few more days for the water to come down. Then we heard it from Baba. They had to protect the Steel Mill from flooding and it stood right by the banks of the Damodar. So, the army was brought in. They blasted dynamites on the other shore – Bankura – to let the monsoon fury swallow entire villages in that poverty-stricken district. No one ever came to know the number of people that died, lost their homes – ended up as bloated corpses. The Steel Plant had to be saved. There was too much invested in it…
Monday, June 2, 2008
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Chronicles of an improbable journey
Kagaz ki Kashti
4/7 had one really spectacular scene to offer during the monsoons. There is no better way to put it. I love the monsoons of Durgapur; more specifically, I love the monsoons of 4/7. I can cite a gazillion reasons; yet not touch the tip of the proverbial iceberg of every single tingle in the cells of my bones, with every single raindrop that landed on every single leaf of every single of my childhood friends. The amazing versatility of evolution comes full-bloom to blow out our egocentric selves, only if we care to see; in all its glory – in every insect that crawls out of its egg, in every frog that croaks from a tiny puddle, in every soaked crow….
Well, poetry apart, 4/7 was at the base of a slope that started at the top of the street; that meant that the street in front of us, frequently turned into a stream – gaily rippling down to the drain at the end of the street. The following incident has been repeated innumerable times. Let’s suffice by saying that this was a time when I had learnt how to fold a piece of paper into a boat – a Kagaz ki Kashti. My brother was little. Let us imagine for a second that it is about 430 in the afternoon; and both of us have had a wonderful time monkeying around while our Mom had her siesta. Let us imagine, that when the heavens broke with a drizzle turning fast into a steady patter of a million little feet, the stream in front of our house swelled. All streams flow to the river; so let us for a moment close our eyes imagine this little stream, meandering through unknown lands till it met with Damodar. For a second; just for a second, let us think of two kids, with a Kagaz ki Kashti peering through the tall windows watching the drenched Guava tree, waiting for a break. Then the two kids, decide the wait has been long enough; and they run through the rain holding on to the boat. And so they float the boat onto the stream and watch it sailing down proudly. Jhumpu, in all his wisdom concluded that that boat was going all the way to the ocean.
Last year, I tried to teach my six-year old, Roop, how to make a paper boat. He isn’t an expert, so I made one for him. There is a nice bike trail that goes from our home, through an open space, that has a small canal running by its side, called the farmer’s highline canal. Often, Roop and I take our bikes and ride the trail, by the water, particularly during spring and summer. I took the paper-boat with me; father and son set out on a mission now to sail the boat in the canal.
It was late spring, and snow had started to melt with alarming levels in water, and frequent flood warnings at various places in Colorado, that are closer to the mountain. Our little canal, that remained dry (maybe with a a coat of hardened ice or snow, all of a sudden bursts into life, with a good volume of water making its way through. The trees with their leafless branches of winter have performed their yearly miracle – they have all woken up and have started filling up their canopy with fresh greenery. The bugs are out and so are prairie-dogs. We stop the bikes to get closer to flowing water. And Roop watches over my shoulder closely monitoring if I made any mistake in sailing the precious boat. It hit the water and off it went sailing merrily with the current. Roop stared and followed it for a while. Then, garnering his full six years of accumulated wisdom, declared that the boat was going all the way to the ocean.
He got me stunned for a few moments; as I stood, the image of a wet afternoon, 13000 miles away with two kids and a boat more than twenty years ago slowly enveloped the Rocky Mountains.
4/7 had one really spectacular scene to offer during the monsoons. There is no better way to put it. I love the monsoons of Durgapur; more specifically, I love the monsoons of 4/7. I can cite a gazillion reasons; yet not touch the tip of the proverbial iceberg of every single tingle in the cells of my bones, with every single raindrop that landed on every single leaf of every single of my childhood friends. The amazing versatility of evolution comes full-bloom to blow out our egocentric selves, only if we care to see; in all its glory – in every insect that crawls out of its egg, in every frog that croaks from a tiny puddle, in every soaked crow….
Well, poetry apart, 4/7 was at the base of a slope that started at the top of the street; that meant that the street in front of us, frequently turned into a stream – gaily rippling down to the drain at the end of the street. The following incident has been repeated innumerable times. Let’s suffice by saying that this was a time when I had learnt how to fold a piece of paper into a boat – a Kagaz ki Kashti. My brother was little. Let us imagine for a second that it is about 430 in the afternoon; and both of us have had a wonderful time monkeying around while our Mom had her siesta. Let us imagine, that when the heavens broke with a drizzle turning fast into a steady patter of a million little feet, the stream in front of our house swelled. All streams flow to the river; so let us for a moment close our eyes imagine this little stream, meandering through unknown lands till it met with Damodar. For a second; just for a second, let us think of two kids, with a Kagaz ki Kashti peering through the tall windows watching the drenched Guava tree, waiting for a break. Then the two kids, decide the wait has been long enough; and they run through the rain holding on to the boat. And so they float the boat onto the stream and watch it sailing down proudly. Jhumpu, in all his wisdom concluded that that boat was going all the way to the ocean.
Last year, I tried to teach my six-year old, Roop, how to make a paper boat. He isn’t an expert, so I made one for him. There is a nice bike trail that goes from our home, through an open space, that has a small canal running by its side, called the farmer’s highline canal. Often, Roop and I take our bikes and ride the trail, by the water, particularly during spring and summer. I took the paper-boat with me; father and son set out on a mission now to sail the boat in the canal.
It was late spring, and snow had started to melt with alarming levels in water, and frequent flood warnings at various places in Colorado, that are closer to the mountain. Our little canal, that remained dry (maybe with a a coat of hardened ice or snow, all of a sudden bursts into life, with a good volume of water making its way through. The trees with their leafless branches of winter have performed their yearly miracle – they have all woken up and have started filling up their canopy with fresh greenery. The bugs are out and so are prairie-dogs. We stop the bikes to get closer to flowing water. And Roop watches over my shoulder closely monitoring if I made any mistake in sailing the precious boat. It hit the water and off it went sailing merrily with the current. Roop stared and followed it for a while. Then, garnering his full six years of accumulated wisdom, declared that the boat was going all the way to the ocean.
He got me stunned for a few moments; as I stood, the image of a wet afternoon, 13000 miles away with two kids and a boat more than twenty years ago slowly enveloped the Rocky Mountains.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Chronicles of an improbable journey-The Unoon
The Unoon
There are occasions nowadays, when a ragged piece of some long forgotten incident, streaks across my memory like the flash of a shooting star and leaves me stunned for a brief moment; at times even longer. Kishore Kumar’s songs have that effect; particularly when I am not trying to reminisce. This is one such piece that knocked me off while I was driving down Interstate 25 a few days back. The trigger, in this case probably was “Ghungroo ki tarah”.
My father’s twenty six year old bicycle, manufactured by a long lost company called Rover, had been my loyal vehicle through my teenage days, into college when I returned home and even when I started to work at Durgapur. There are too many bits and pieces of vivid memories involving that contraption and me. This just happened to cross my mind.
Late one afternoon, Mom found out that we were out of wood needed to light up the Unoon. We did not have a modern gas oven at that time. Mom would normally get up early, and prepare the “Unoon” or oven to take her through the day of glorious Indian spices. This piece of machinery consisted of a thin sheet of iron or tin, wound up in a cylinder, with two edges riveted together. One base of the cylinder was made heavy with – I don’t know what. The other side was raised with baked mud, in three mounds over the circle of the cylinder. So off I went with “my” bicycle, a jute sack neatly folded and clamped onto the spring-loaded 6 inch by 12 inch “carrier” at the back of the bike. You had to lift a small lever up, place whatever it is that you wanted to hold tight and snap it back on. I made my way through the 4th Street, in my blue jeans shorts that really should have been discarded the year before. Rode in front of the manicured lawns of our neighbor the Guptas, and then through the “cul-de-sac”, which usually was in a state of pitiful neglect with patches of mud left over from the last day’s rainfall and soggy wet patches of grass. Then over the high-drain which had a single slab of concrete over it – quite precarious for even a bicycle to cross. The drain and its immediate surroundings really stunk. For starters, It was open; It wasn’t meant for sewage; but the adjacent slum-dwellers made sure they donated their excretions into it and often beside it. Therefore, it was normal to hold your breath while crossing that area, which I did dutifully.
I was still quite young; so I could not get my feet to stay on the pedal all through its rotation while riding the bike. In fits and jerks, I crossed the green playing field of the worker’s quarters. Then onto the dirt road made with red gravel. At the corner, there was a quarter that had a Kali temple, that I always looked at and holding the handle on one hand, did a quick pronam with the other. Finally I stopped at the junction of this dirt road and Trunk road, looked at both sides and walked the bike over to the other side where they sold chopped firewood. Out came the sack, and I picked up the firewood and stacked them inside. Per instructions they had to be dry. Once in a while a sliver would enter my fingers and then I had to spend time trying to get it out. The next bit is almost hilarious. With a lot of effort, I picked the sack up and put it on the carrier, with two sides bulging out. If I had a rope I would tie it up, otherwise try to use the clamp to hold the sack in place. So the return begins along the same path. I push the bike to gain some speed before jumping on to the seat. Right at the first turn, the sack decides to lose its balance and either falls off altogether, or hangs precariously on one side. The invariable result is a pissed off me, walking the bike, holding on to the sack with one hand and the handle with the other, completely conscious of pairs of eyes belonging to worker’s families watching an officer’s kid carrying firewood on a twenty-six year old bike. It would be sometime, before I realized how wrong such classifications were.
The next morning I was up at 530 in the morning, helping Mom to light up the Unoon. The concept of the Unoon is quite simple; first some firewood is inserted from the top, to jam the top opening as best as possible. A few pieces of charcoal is put on top of the assortment; and then you place the lid of an empty shoe-polish box at the base through an opening, pour a little kerosene into it and light the kerosene up. Have a whole bunch of newspapers ready, to keep shoving in through the opening, till the wood catches fire. That in turn burns the coal – and you end up getting an oven burning for four hours at least with furious heat. I can’t imagine, sitting in front of that thing in the seething temperatures of Durgapur all day long. Hats off to the lady and all others who go through that dreadful process.
And so the Unoon was lighted and breakfast, prepared for Baba to leave at 715. Then it was my turn; my daily fare of rice, with some daal and ghee and potatoes prepared in a pressure-cooker. After I left, the Unoon went on; Mom went on with her cooking till mid-day at least. No fridge meant every day’s food had to be cooked fresh. The Unoon fed us; all of us; slowly but surely it also took its toll on Ma. The skin on her hands grew dark patches that are still there today.
There are occasions nowadays, when a ragged piece of some long forgotten incident, streaks across my memory like the flash of a shooting star and leaves me stunned for a brief moment; at times even longer. Kishore Kumar’s songs have that effect; particularly when I am not trying to reminisce. This is one such piece that knocked me off while I was driving down Interstate 25 a few days back. The trigger, in this case probably was “Ghungroo ki tarah”.
My father’s twenty six year old bicycle, manufactured by a long lost company called Rover, had been my loyal vehicle through my teenage days, into college when I returned home and even when I started to work at Durgapur. There are too many bits and pieces of vivid memories involving that contraption and me. This just happened to cross my mind.
Late one afternoon, Mom found out that we were out of wood needed to light up the Unoon. We did not have a modern gas oven at that time. Mom would normally get up early, and prepare the “Unoon” or oven to take her through the day of glorious Indian spices. This piece of machinery consisted of a thin sheet of iron or tin, wound up in a cylinder, with two edges riveted together. One base of the cylinder was made heavy with – I don’t know what. The other side was raised with baked mud, in three mounds over the circle of the cylinder. So off I went with “my” bicycle, a jute sack neatly folded and clamped onto the spring-loaded 6 inch by 12 inch “carrier” at the back of the bike. You had to lift a small lever up, place whatever it is that you wanted to hold tight and snap it back on. I made my way through the 4th Street, in my blue jeans shorts that really should have been discarded the year before. Rode in front of the manicured lawns of our neighbor the Guptas, and then through the “cul-de-sac”, which usually was in a state of pitiful neglect with patches of mud left over from the last day’s rainfall and soggy wet patches of grass. Then over the high-drain which had a single slab of concrete over it – quite precarious for even a bicycle to cross. The drain and its immediate surroundings really stunk. For starters, It was open; It wasn’t meant for sewage; but the adjacent slum-dwellers made sure they donated their excretions into it and often beside it. Therefore, it was normal to hold your breath while crossing that area, which I did dutifully.
I was still quite young; so I could not get my feet to stay on the pedal all through its rotation while riding the bike. In fits and jerks, I crossed the green playing field of the worker’s quarters. Then onto the dirt road made with red gravel. At the corner, there was a quarter that had a Kali temple, that I always looked at and holding the handle on one hand, did a quick pronam with the other. Finally I stopped at the junction of this dirt road and Trunk road, looked at both sides and walked the bike over to the other side where they sold chopped firewood. Out came the sack, and I picked up the firewood and stacked them inside. Per instructions they had to be dry. Once in a while a sliver would enter my fingers and then I had to spend time trying to get it out. The next bit is almost hilarious. With a lot of effort, I picked the sack up and put it on the carrier, with two sides bulging out. If I had a rope I would tie it up, otherwise try to use the clamp to hold the sack in place. So the return begins along the same path. I push the bike to gain some speed before jumping on to the seat. Right at the first turn, the sack decides to lose its balance and either falls off altogether, or hangs precariously on one side. The invariable result is a pissed off me, walking the bike, holding on to the sack with one hand and the handle with the other, completely conscious of pairs of eyes belonging to worker’s families watching an officer’s kid carrying firewood on a twenty-six year old bike. It would be sometime, before I realized how wrong such classifications were.
The next morning I was up at 530 in the morning, helping Mom to light up the Unoon. The concept of the Unoon is quite simple; first some firewood is inserted from the top, to jam the top opening as best as possible. A few pieces of charcoal is put on top of the assortment; and then you place the lid of an empty shoe-polish box at the base through an opening, pour a little kerosene into it and light the kerosene up. Have a whole bunch of newspapers ready, to keep shoving in through the opening, till the wood catches fire. That in turn burns the coal – and you end up getting an oven burning for four hours at least with furious heat. I can’t imagine, sitting in front of that thing in the seething temperatures of Durgapur all day long. Hats off to the lady and all others who go through that dreadful process.
And so the Unoon was lighted and breakfast, prepared for Baba to leave at 715. Then it was my turn; my daily fare of rice, with some daal and ghee and potatoes prepared in a pressure-cooker. After I left, the Unoon went on; Mom went on with her cooking till mid-day at least. No fridge meant every day’s food had to be cooked fresh. The Unoon fed us; all of us; slowly but surely it also took its toll on Ma. The skin on her hands grew dark patches that are still there today.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Titin - Chronicles of an improbable journey - The accident
The accident
My father, rues the lack of enjoyment in his strange and eventful journey, from a half naked kid in Aksa village, Madaripur subdivision, Faridpur district of what is now Bangladesh, to the retired executive of Steel Authority of India Ltd., even today. There is a lot of truth to it. He hardly had an enjoyable childhood by any decent standards; youth was spent in struggling to get a foothold somewhere, to overcome excruciating poverty. A lot of the middle-age spent to getting his two sons ready for their struggles in the world, and when the time and means came to enjoy, his health gave in. I beg to differ at points on this theory. It takes a certain degree of mental strength to rise above our daily platter of anxiety, anticipation of the dark to enjoy the “now” moment of life. I think, he never could go there. Well, some people can and some can’t. That is how it all works; so be it.
In early 1977, the only vehicle that belonged to the Ray family in 21/24 Vivekananda Road, was a bicycle. Yes, it was a run-down concoction of mostly steel and a seat that was hard enough to saw through one’s butts. This was a contraption built somewhere in the prehistoric ages – I would put the date somewhere in the late 1950s to early 1960s. My father had managed to bring it along from Agarpara, our hometown (in India at least)– about 10 miles from the city of Calcutta – when he decided to start his life in Durgapur. He would go to the market – Benachity Bazaar, run errands – pretty much whatever took him out. He traveled to the plant, in the blue and white company buses, and occasionally when he was late, he would travel the whole 10 miles to the plant riding the bike. There was really nothing wrong with this scheme of things. Except that at a certain point, he decided that he had taken enough of the abuse of day-to-day struggles and was now entitled to a little comfort. The answer was a scooter. It came in the form of a brown and white spanking new Lambretta scooter. Oh my friends, Sri Pranabananda Ray was proud, Amitava Ray (that would be me), danced around for a full day in excitement and Smt Archana Ray could not contain her grin for the next few weeks whenever she talked to her neighbors.
Dad got his license to ride the scooter, and soon he started to use it as a replacement for the bike. He would take us occasionally for a ride – not too far usually – and that I relished as a kid. But even then, I could feel that he was not entirely comfortable with this motorized form of two-wheeler transport. More so, when I stood in front of him and Mom sat in the back. It is one of those rare pleasures that a kid growing up with Dad having a scooter, gets. You get to stand, right in the front, wind blowing directly onto your face. The thrill of going fast and feeling it; feeling how slow everything around seemed; somehow feeling superior to those poor souls that trudged along by the side, those insufferable samples of the human species that got honked out of the way. The street dogs that reverently made way for me on my Dad’s scooter who otherwise wouldn’t have two cents worth of respect for a superior species on two legs instead of four – walking on the same road. There was the occasional day when Dad would get up late (intentionally I think), to go to his office on the scooter. Then, Mom and I would stand in the front porch, proudly gaping while Dad kicked on the starter to get the scooter started. Off he went, and I tried to make the same noise with my hands stretched out in front like riding the thing – “Vrooooooooooooooooooooooooooom” and ran inside.
And so the days passed – till one evening, Dad went to Benachity to buy our daily fare of vegetables and fish and meat and other things that Mom would use to cook. We did not have a fridge then – that luxury, if I remember right was the sole dominance of the Roys in the locality. Going to the market was almost a daily affair. I went off to play with the kids in the block. Now, the exact sequence of events, I cannot recall today. But I can vividly remember someone, literally plucking me up while the game was in progress and take me down to the site of the accident. It probably was Mom. I can close my eyes and see the scooter, its smooth contours contorted – lying on its side. Its new and glossy paint peeled to reveal ugly gashes. Dad lay on his side, blood was all over the place. On the other side, stood a black Rajdoot motorbike. Its owner, standing by in a complete state of shock. It was at the corner of Sister Nivedita Avenue Road and Aurobinda Avenue. Dad was groaning, his head, quite soaked in the red fluid. Yes, he had tried to be smart – did not bother to wear his helmet. There were no siren blazing police cars, there were no red and white ambulances, there was no fire-truck. Chances of getting those together in emergency are very close to nil in modern India. This was 1977. A rickshaw was called. The crowd helped to get Baba on it. Mom sat down beside him, holding him tight. I stood holding the rickshaw pullers seat. That guy, understood the situation and he rode fast and hard, as hard as his taut muscles and under-fed body could stretch. I remember I kept asking – “Mom what happened to Dad?” over and over again; and Mom kept on weeping, without saying a word.
We landed in the emergency of the Durgapur Steel Plant Hospital – one of several times in the next twenty years for various ailments of different people. Fear, probably was the keyword that evening. Panic, that I could see in Mom’s eyes; panic that I felt somewhere deep inside, yet I was too young to comprehend. As a five year old, the fact that there was a faint possibility of human mortality making a random hit to take away one of my parents, never occurred to me. The moments of anxious wait, outside an emergency procedure facility is nerve-racking. Those who have to undergo such torture – to know that there was a loved one in there somewhere hovering between life and death – and you cannot do a thing, I empathize with them. I understand them. A minute seems like years. While Mom, waited her eyes wide open, tears continuously streaming down her cheeks, her disheveled hair, her eyes swollen – told the story. I remember – may be we, guys, are born with this – even as a five year old who had no idea of what was happening, I tried to console my Mom. There was no way, I could have known what I was trying to convey – but if it was today and I saw a child like that I can tell what he is trying to tell his Mom – “I am here for you. Things will be ok”.
In my numerous phases of philosophizing through these thirty five years, I have gone back and forth between the spiritual, agnostic and atheistic mind so many times, I admit with my pants down, that I am hopelessly confused. I wish, I had the boldness of belief of Swami Vivekananda to proclaim spirituality as the final truth. I wish, I had the guts of Bertrand Russell to proclaim the divinity of the celestial teapot. I have neither. Yet, friends yet… I would, if this were to happen all over again, pray feverishly in front of Buro Shibtola (this is an 800 year old temple near Durgapur). I don’t know why – I do not have an answer to that question. But, I saw my mother, close her eyes. I knew, she was praying silently while tears streaked down in a steady stream. It was late, when we were informed that my father had had a significant head injury. His condition was far from stable – there was every possibility of some very bad news. They doctors, wanted 24 hours of constant monitoring. They sent us home.
I did sleep through the night. Mom could not get her eyelids together. The next morning, Dad’s colleagues arrived early in the morning in a black Ambassador car. There was Dilip uncle, Goswami uncle and a lot of others. They had been summoned from the hospital – my father’s condition had worsened. He was in a stage when the angel could come any moment. Since my Mom was all alone, Dad's friends were sent in to set her up for the news. I saw the tense faces, some of them gently held me and stroked my hair. Their serious, drawn faces told the story. Mom slumped into the bamboo chair on seeing the car.
Somewhere in the course of the day, an angel arrived in the hospital, in the form of Dr. Samar Mukherjee – a general surgeon (he would be our neighbor in the coming future). And somewhere in the entropy of the universe (which is how we explain cosmology and time nowadays), something did change. I call it the hand of the Almighty, I call it the fighting spirit that never quit all the way from a penniless kid in rags from Bangladesh to the scooter riding officer of DSP, I call it the will of my mother, I call it the delicate fingers of an angel of a surgeon, and yes – I call it the God that lived in the soul of a five-year-old named Titin. The hemorrhage stopped.
He was back at home after a month or so. Still not fit enough to walk on his own. The scooter was repaired and sold. Thus July 1977, saw me, Mom and my Grandma with some of our belongings – mostly pots and pans – riding on a rickshaw, with Baba riding the bike ahead of us – leaving Vivekananda Road to live in a different quarter, in a different place – Tagore Place. And while we rode by Fine Arts Club, a plastic mug, that was used mostly in the bathroom, fell down from the loosely packed stuff we had with us. Mom yelled out loud asking the rickshaw wallah to stop. He did stop, so did Dad on his bike, while I ran and picked the mug up. So begineth the story of Titin, alias Amitava Ray, alias Saheb (that’s what my Grandpa used to call me) at 4/7 Tagore Place, Durgapur. So endeth, one of the most intense incidents that I can recall in my life.
My father, rues the lack of enjoyment in his strange and eventful journey, from a half naked kid in Aksa village, Madaripur subdivision, Faridpur district of what is now Bangladesh, to the retired executive of Steel Authority of India Ltd., even today. There is a lot of truth to it. He hardly had an enjoyable childhood by any decent standards; youth was spent in struggling to get a foothold somewhere, to overcome excruciating poverty. A lot of the middle-age spent to getting his two sons ready for their struggles in the world, and when the time and means came to enjoy, his health gave in. I beg to differ at points on this theory. It takes a certain degree of mental strength to rise above our daily platter of anxiety, anticipation of the dark to enjoy the “now” moment of life. I think, he never could go there. Well, some people can and some can’t. That is how it all works; so be it.
In early 1977, the only vehicle that belonged to the Ray family in 21/24 Vivekananda Road, was a bicycle. Yes, it was a run-down concoction of mostly steel and a seat that was hard enough to saw through one’s butts. This was a contraption built somewhere in the prehistoric ages – I would put the date somewhere in the late 1950s to early 1960s. My father had managed to bring it along from Agarpara, our hometown (in India at least)– about 10 miles from the city of Calcutta – when he decided to start his life in Durgapur. He would go to the market – Benachity Bazaar, run errands – pretty much whatever took him out. He traveled to the plant, in the blue and white company buses, and occasionally when he was late, he would travel the whole 10 miles to the plant riding the bike. There was really nothing wrong with this scheme of things. Except that at a certain point, he decided that he had taken enough of the abuse of day-to-day struggles and was now entitled to a little comfort. The answer was a scooter. It came in the form of a brown and white spanking new Lambretta scooter. Oh my friends, Sri Pranabananda Ray was proud, Amitava Ray (that would be me), danced around for a full day in excitement and Smt Archana Ray could not contain her grin for the next few weeks whenever she talked to her neighbors.
Dad got his license to ride the scooter, and soon he started to use it as a replacement for the bike. He would take us occasionally for a ride – not too far usually – and that I relished as a kid. But even then, I could feel that he was not entirely comfortable with this motorized form of two-wheeler transport. More so, when I stood in front of him and Mom sat in the back. It is one of those rare pleasures that a kid growing up with Dad having a scooter, gets. You get to stand, right in the front, wind blowing directly onto your face. The thrill of going fast and feeling it; feeling how slow everything around seemed; somehow feeling superior to those poor souls that trudged along by the side, those insufferable samples of the human species that got honked out of the way. The street dogs that reverently made way for me on my Dad’s scooter who otherwise wouldn’t have two cents worth of respect for a superior species on two legs instead of four – walking on the same road. There was the occasional day when Dad would get up late (intentionally I think), to go to his office on the scooter. Then, Mom and I would stand in the front porch, proudly gaping while Dad kicked on the starter to get the scooter started. Off he went, and I tried to make the same noise with my hands stretched out in front like riding the thing – “Vrooooooooooooooooooooooooooom” and ran inside.
And so the days passed – till one evening, Dad went to Benachity to buy our daily fare of vegetables and fish and meat and other things that Mom would use to cook. We did not have a fridge then – that luxury, if I remember right was the sole dominance of the Roys in the locality. Going to the market was almost a daily affair. I went off to play with the kids in the block. Now, the exact sequence of events, I cannot recall today. But I can vividly remember someone, literally plucking me up while the game was in progress and take me down to the site of the accident. It probably was Mom. I can close my eyes and see the scooter, its smooth contours contorted – lying on its side. Its new and glossy paint peeled to reveal ugly gashes. Dad lay on his side, blood was all over the place. On the other side, stood a black Rajdoot motorbike. Its owner, standing by in a complete state of shock. It was at the corner of Sister Nivedita Avenue Road and Aurobinda Avenue. Dad was groaning, his head, quite soaked in the red fluid. Yes, he had tried to be smart – did not bother to wear his helmet. There were no siren blazing police cars, there were no red and white ambulances, there was no fire-truck. Chances of getting those together in emergency are very close to nil in modern India. This was 1977. A rickshaw was called. The crowd helped to get Baba on it. Mom sat down beside him, holding him tight. I stood holding the rickshaw pullers seat. That guy, understood the situation and he rode fast and hard, as hard as his taut muscles and under-fed body could stretch. I remember I kept asking – “Mom what happened to Dad?” over and over again; and Mom kept on weeping, without saying a word.
We landed in the emergency of the Durgapur Steel Plant Hospital – one of several times in the next twenty years for various ailments of different people. Fear, probably was the keyword that evening. Panic, that I could see in Mom’s eyes; panic that I felt somewhere deep inside, yet I was too young to comprehend. As a five year old, the fact that there was a faint possibility of human mortality making a random hit to take away one of my parents, never occurred to me. The moments of anxious wait, outside an emergency procedure facility is nerve-racking. Those who have to undergo such torture – to know that there was a loved one in there somewhere hovering between life and death – and you cannot do a thing, I empathize with them. I understand them. A minute seems like years. While Mom, waited her eyes wide open, tears continuously streaming down her cheeks, her disheveled hair, her eyes swollen – told the story. I remember – may be we, guys, are born with this – even as a five year old who had no idea of what was happening, I tried to console my Mom. There was no way, I could have known what I was trying to convey – but if it was today and I saw a child like that I can tell what he is trying to tell his Mom – “I am here for you. Things will be ok”.
In my numerous phases of philosophizing through these thirty five years, I have gone back and forth between the spiritual, agnostic and atheistic mind so many times, I admit with my pants down, that I am hopelessly confused. I wish, I had the boldness of belief of Swami Vivekananda to proclaim spirituality as the final truth. I wish, I had the guts of Bertrand Russell to proclaim the divinity of the celestial teapot. I have neither. Yet, friends yet… I would, if this were to happen all over again, pray feverishly in front of Buro Shibtola (this is an 800 year old temple near Durgapur). I don’t know why – I do not have an answer to that question. But, I saw my mother, close her eyes. I knew, she was praying silently while tears streaked down in a steady stream. It was late, when we were informed that my father had had a significant head injury. His condition was far from stable – there was every possibility of some very bad news. They doctors, wanted 24 hours of constant monitoring. They sent us home.
I did sleep through the night. Mom could not get her eyelids together. The next morning, Dad’s colleagues arrived early in the morning in a black Ambassador car. There was Dilip uncle, Goswami uncle and a lot of others. They had been summoned from the hospital – my father’s condition had worsened. He was in a stage when the angel could come any moment. Since my Mom was all alone, Dad's friends were sent in to set her up for the news. I saw the tense faces, some of them gently held me and stroked my hair. Their serious, drawn faces told the story. Mom slumped into the bamboo chair on seeing the car.
Somewhere in the course of the day, an angel arrived in the hospital, in the form of Dr. Samar Mukherjee – a general surgeon (he would be our neighbor in the coming future). And somewhere in the entropy of the universe (which is how we explain cosmology and time nowadays), something did change. I call it the hand of the Almighty, I call it the fighting spirit that never quit all the way from a penniless kid in rags from Bangladesh to the scooter riding officer of DSP, I call it the will of my mother, I call it the delicate fingers of an angel of a surgeon, and yes – I call it the God that lived in the soul of a five-year-old named Titin. The hemorrhage stopped.
He was back at home after a month or so. Still not fit enough to walk on his own. The scooter was repaired and sold. Thus July 1977, saw me, Mom and my Grandma with some of our belongings – mostly pots and pans – riding on a rickshaw, with Baba riding the bike ahead of us – leaving Vivekananda Road to live in a different quarter, in a different place – Tagore Place. And while we rode by Fine Arts Club, a plastic mug, that was used mostly in the bathroom, fell down from the loosely packed stuff we had with us. Mom yelled out loud asking the rickshaw wallah to stop. He did stop, so did Dad on his bike, while I ran and picked the mug up. So begineth the story of Titin, alias Amitava Ray, alias Saheb (that’s what my Grandpa used to call me) at 4/7 Tagore Place, Durgapur. So endeth, one of the most intense incidents that I can recall in my life.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Titin - Chronicles of an improbable journey - trees and a diamond!
The trees of 4/7 brought me up – they held me in their bosom when I was down, they let me play with their branches when I was up, they hid me in their shade when the sun was bright, they covered my head when it rained, they weathered the nor’westers (Kal baishakhis as they are known in West Bengal) to protect me, with their heads and leaves swaying furiously with the merciless winds, they whispered to me when I was alone, they hugged me when I cried. I look at myself today, living a life without trees around me, and I cannot even begin to express how sad it feels.
It is therefore fit for this reminiscing piece of literature to invite you to a nostalgic journey with me around 4/7, as a tribute to my long lost friends. We start the trip around the house, to the left, from a guava tree on the eastern side of the house, hugging the wall of the courtyard. The color of the guava tree’s trunk, a salmon-brown with dark patches of fibrous knots, gave it a sense of invincibility – a strength that stands the test of time – yet it did not; another sad departure of a beloved friend, that had withstood my antics for five long years, before it fell to our garage. By the fence on the eastern side was a tagor tree (unfortunately I do not know the English name for it), blooming every morning in dutiful regularity, with its pretty and small white flowers. One of my favorite kicks from those flowers – pluck them out and suck the tiny stem for that tiny tinge of honey. From there on till the back-end of the plot of land, a wild variety of grass with coarse bushes and shrubs held their sway till we planted some more trees around – a few cashew nut trees – we never could actually extract a cashew from the cashew fruit and a lime tree (Gandharaj variety).
Right behind the window of our main bedroom (which was at the extreme back of the house), was a Dalim tree. It produced a yellowish fruit with fleshy seeds that we ate heartily. Smack in the middle of the backyard, there were two trees hugging each other almost – one a sajne data and the other a neem tree. Both of these played a tremendous role in my later years and I will come to that at some point. At the southwest corner was a mango tree; this was my favorite – not because of the mangoes; I actually don’t eat mangoes, which is plenty strange given the fabulous quality of mangoes that this tree produced. I simply loved climbing up the tree, perching myself somewhere in its myriad tangle of branches and daydreaming. There couldn’t have been a better spot, for a romantic teenager hopelessly in love with a girl in the neighborhood. It gave me a feeling of being on top of the world without one bit of care for the rest. That my friends, I call ultimate freedom. This tree also served to provide natural shade for one of the windows of the second bedroom. Which is a great thing to have during a scorching Durgapur summer, but equally bad to have during the monsoons and winter. This later on became my bedroom – I remember complaining about the winter or the monsoons – the mango tree was one of my biggest friends and you can’t betray a friend.
Beside the mango tree, hugging the fence on the western side were two columns of banana trees. The soil under these trees was soft. Which served the purpose of generations of stray dogs to burrow and give birth to a fresh set of litter. We named them – Sona Bubuli etc. The leaves of the banana trees often carried a particular variety of green caterpillars. These banana trees however left much to be desired, when it came to producing bananas. So now, we come the third arm of the “U’ around the house. Right in front of the mango tree, within a few yards, stood another giant – a big jackfruit tree. Now, I hate jackfruit. I can’t stand its smell. So, while there was every reason for me to fall in love with this tree as well, I never quite managed to. There are two other reasons; this was a difficult tree to climb, because it did not have too many strong branches at the base. And, two of my other friends had their home in that tree – two squirrels.
Another guava tree, a smaller one with a perfect “Y” branch at about 4 feet from the ground, had dug its roots right beside our kitchen. That “Y”, was my place to hang upside down – which is probably how I have looked at life anyways; and one can argue that it all started from here. A papaya tree, stood by the side of the small paved area by the kitchen. It was really little when we moved in, grew rapidly up in a few years, and then…the rest is a story in itself, I will narrate later. Finally, three more trees – a Joba tree with its red flowers, a lotus tree and another tree producing white little flowers whose name I do not know. We used to call it “Pauruti” – the flowers had bread like feel and its leaves had burgundy-ish color. We would locate the buds that were ready to blossom and press them a little bit between our thumbs and forefinger – pop you have a flower! There is another really stupid thing I remember about this tree. Someone at some point had provided me with the information that coal, when kept long enough underground turns into diamond. I had dutifully taken a piece of charcoal from Mom’s store, dug a little hole just by that tree – as much as my five-six year old hands could – and put the piece in, and covered it back with the excavated soil. I did look for the diamond, dutifully for a while and then gave up. So, back at 4/7, that piece of coal should still be there; May be if I dig now I will find that elusive diamond!
It is therefore fit for this reminiscing piece of literature to invite you to a nostalgic journey with me around 4/7, as a tribute to my long lost friends. We start the trip around the house, to the left, from a guava tree on the eastern side of the house, hugging the wall of the courtyard. The color of the guava tree’s trunk, a salmon-brown with dark patches of fibrous knots, gave it a sense of invincibility – a strength that stands the test of time – yet it did not; another sad departure of a beloved friend, that had withstood my antics for five long years, before it fell to our garage. By the fence on the eastern side was a tagor tree (unfortunately I do not know the English name for it), blooming every morning in dutiful regularity, with its pretty and small white flowers. One of my favorite kicks from those flowers – pluck them out and suck the tiny stem for that tiny tinge of honey. From there on till the back-end of the plot of land, a wild variety of grass with coarse bushes and shrubs held their sway till we planted some more trees around – a few cashew nut trees – we never could actually extract a cashew from the cashew fruit and a lime tree (Gandharaj variety).
Right behind the window of our main bedroom (which was at the extreme back of the house), was a Dalim tree. It produced a yellowish fruit with fleshy seeds that we ate heartily. Smack in the middle of the backyard, there were two trees hugging each other almost – one a sajne data and the other a neem tree. Both of these played a tremendous role in my later years and I will come to that at some point. At the southwest corner was a mango tree; this was my favorite – not because of the mangoes; I actually don’t eat mangoes, which is plenty strange given the fabulous quality of mangoes that this tree produced. I simply loved climbing up the tree, perching myself somewhere in its myriad tangle of branches and daydreaming. There couldn’t have been a better spot, for a romantic teenager hopelessly in love with a girl in the neighborhood. It gave me a feeling of being on top of the world without one bit of care for the rest. That my friends, I call ultimate freedom. This tree also served to provide natural shade for one of the windows of the second bedroom. Which is a great thing to have during a scorching Durgapur summer, but equally bad to have during the monsoons and winter. This later on became my bedroom – I remember complaining about the winter or the monsoons – the mango tree was one of my biggest friends and you can’t betray a friend.
Beside the mango tree, hugging the fence on the western side were two columns of banana trees. The soil under these trees was soft. Which served the purpose of generations of stray dogs to burrow and give birth to a fresh set of litter. We named them – Sona Bubuli etc. The leaves of the banana trees often carried a particular variety of green caterpillars. These banana trees however left much to be desired, when it came to producing bananas. So now, we come the third arm of the “U’ around the house. Right in front of the mango tree, within a few yards, stood another giant – a big jackfruit tree. Now, I hate jackfruit. I can’t stand its smell. So, while there was every reason for me to fall in love with this tree as well, I never quite managed to. There are two other reasons; this was a difficult tree to climb, because it did not have too many strong branches at the base. And, two of my other friends had their home in that tree – two squirrels.
Another guava tree, a smaller one with a perfect “Y” branch at about 4 feet from the ground, had dug its roots right beside our kitchen. That “Y”, was my place to hang upside down – which is probably how I have looked at life anyways; and one can argue that it all started from here. A papaya tree, stood by the side of the small paved area by the kitchen. It was really little when we moved in, grew rapidly up in a few years, and then…the rest is a story in itself, I will narrate later. Finally, three more trees – a Joba tree with its red flowers, a lotus tree and another tree producing white little flowers whose name I do not know. We used to call it “Pauruti” – the flowers had bread like feel and its leaves had burgundy-ish color. We would locate the buds that were ready to blossom and press them a little bit between our thumbs and forefinger – pop you have a flower! There is another really stupid thing I remember about this tree. Someone at some point had provided me with the information that coal, when kept long enough underground turns into diamond. I had dutifully taken a piece of charcoal from Mom’s store, dug a little hole just by that tree – as much as my five-six year old hands could – and put the piece in, and covered it back with the excavated soil. I did look for the diamond, dutifully for a while and then gave up. So, back at 4/7, that piece of coal should still be there; May be if I dig now I will find that elusive diamond!
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
4/7 Tagore Place: starting again
The welcome note:
Living at a different place was an experience that I was dreading and looking forward to at the same time. I did not know what to expect, and had no prior data to figure out how to feel. Leaving known faces back at Vivekananda Road was depressing to say the least. The day our rickshaw stopped at our new quarters, I can distinctly remember it was quite overcast – somewhat gloomy. To top that, it was hot – as in really very hot – and humid; monsoons in India ensure humidity to make life as miserable as you want it.
I am describing 4/7 because – I remember vividly every contour of the place; somewhere in my heart, I want 4/7 to be remembered by someone, somewhere in the future – that is it – I don’t want 4/7 as I saw it, to be lost….ever.
Compared to our previous quarters this was a palace. Two bedrooms instead of one, Mom was delighted looking at the spacious kitchen, an enclosed courtyard, a nice little dining space. Couldn’t ask for more. That wasn’t the entire story – the quarters (most people called them bungalows) were in the middle of a third of an acre in land! Two nice patches of green lawn right in the front. Between them, a concrete path led to the entrance door of the house. The entire plot was fenced – a shapely hedge glorified the front fence. A steel gate, whose hinges played a particular set of musical notes, served well as a calling bell. In fact, we did not install a calling bell, till years later.
A kamini tree, with its neatly trimmed shape of an inverted cone greeted us on the left of the concrete path. This was the time of the year, when that tree bloomed; its white little flowers giving out an aroma that can beat any Liz Taylor perfume, anytime. The bush was a constant source of curiosity for my brother and me in our later years. Sometimes, we would discover, bird nests deep inside, sometimes a ball that we thought was long lost. On the other side of the path, was another bush – a white lily plant – whose flowers were as gorgeous as their sweet, delicate smell. The path ended at a small porch, that had a brick red colored concrete bench on the side and a small raised hollow brick platform – the hollow meant for planting flowers. We had instead a raging Tulsi shrub in it – the leaves of which my father used for his daily worship. Right where the concrete bench ended, a jasmine plant, twined all the way up to the roof of the porch.
Thus friends, I welcome you to my formative world with three of my most favorite flowers – the Kamini, the white lily and the jasmine. Trees and flowers have formed my childhood; my attachment to trees is almost like a child to his or her parents. When they brought that jasmine twiner down to build our garage, I wept. I can still recall, those misty afternoons of fiery rains, when I would sit on the red bench, inhaling the jasmine’s sweetness, lost in the droplets of water that decorated the tips of the leaves of that wonderful friend of mine.
Living at a different place was an experience that I was dreading and looking forward to at the same time. I did not know what to expect, and had no prior data to figure out how to feel. Leaving known faces back at Vivekananda Road was depressing to say the least. The day our rickshaw stopped at our new quarters, I can distinctly remember it was quite overcast – somewhat gloomy. To top that, it was hot – as in really very hot – and humid; monsoons in India ensure humidity to make life as miserable as you want it.
I am describing 4/7 because – I remember vividly every contour of the place; somewhere in my heart, I want 4/7 to be remembered by someone, somewhere in the future – that is it – I don’t want 4/7 as I saw it, to be lost….ever.
Compared to our previous quarters this was a palace. Two bedrooms instead of one, Mom was delighted looking at the spacious kitchen, an enclosed courtyard, a nice little dining space. Couldn’t ask for more. That wasn’t the entire story – the quarters (most people called them bungalows) were in the middle of a third of an acre in land! Two nice patches of green lawn right in the front. Between them, a concrete path led to the entrance door of the house. The entire plot was fenced – a shapely hedge glorified the front fence. A steel gate, whose hinges played a particular set of musical notes, served well as a calling bell. In fact, we did not install a calling bell, till years later.
A kamini tree, with its neatly trimmed shape of an inverted cone greeted us on the left of the concrete path. This was the time of the year, when that tree bloomed; its white little flowers giving out an aroma that can beat any Liz Taylor perfume, anytime. The bush was a constant source of curiosity for my brother and me in our later years. Sometimes, we would discover, bird nests deep inside, sometimes a ball that we thought was long lost. On the other side of the path, was another bush – a white lily plant – whose flowers were as gorgeous as their sweet, delicate smell. The path ended at a small porch, that had a brick red colored concrete bench on the side and a small raised hollow brick platform – the hollow meant for planting flowers. We had instead a raging Tulsi shrub in it – the leaves of which my father used for his daily worship. Right where the concrete bench ended, a jasmine plant, twined all the way up to the roof of the porch.
Thus friends, I welcome you to my formative world with three of my most favorite flowers – the Kamini, the white lily and the jasmine. Trees and flowers have formed my childhood; my attachment to trees is almost like a child to his or her parents. When they brought that jasmine twiner down to build our garage, I wept. I can still recall, those misty afternoons of fiery rains, when I would sit on the red bench, inhaling the jasmine’s sweetness, lost in the droplets of water that decorated the tips of the leaves of that wonderful friend of mine.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Titin - Chronicles of an improbable journey - the white cow
The story of the white cow:
I can’t recall my precise age –somewhere between three and five in all likelihood. Our quarters, a one bedroom, one bathroom one kitchen deal was located at the end of the street. There was a brick and mortar boundary wall on one side of the house – a sort of a quarter-of-an-yard by American standards. The wall was plastered and lime-painted with a yellowish tint; no bare bricks with their ugly, dilapidated joints shining like British teeth. A bougainvillea, twined along the bedroom window, which faced the street. It wasn’t much of a street I would say. You would see the occasional bicycle; if you got lucky you would see a rickshaw.
There was a wooden gate by the yard from the front-side of the house. It wasn’t rickety – but its hinges screamed out quite loud when it was opened or closed. You could get to the small yard through a door from the kitchen. A couple of stairs and the yard was mine. This is where the story of the white cow starts. We, Bengalis like food. And my mother happens to be an exceptional cook – an art she says she learnt from her mother-in-law. A number of preparations are made from lentils that are crushed to a paste with water and dried – otherwise known as Bodi. On an uneventful summer day, while I was doing whatever three year olds do (or did –a generation back – a lot has changed since I am sure); most likely monkeying around. My Mom, prepared her crushed lentil paste. She carefully, laid out irregular cones of the stuff on an aluminum plate. A patch of sunlight, illuminated the two stairs to the yard, that led to my territory. On that day, I was fore-warned. The steps to my world of imagination, was soon to be consumed by a process called – “drying bodis”. I had to stay away. And the bodis were laid out to dry, in that patch of intense Indian summer sun.
Three year olds can be excited by anything I guess. My amazement about the bodis never ceased. My Mom, was pummeled with the same question every two minutes – “When are they going to be done?”. I even ventured to the edge of the steps a few times, to take a personal and close-up look to provide some expert comments –“I think it is done now”. Soon, it was lunch-time and I was called up to eat. We did not have a dining table in those days. We sat on the floor – which was cool and I still think it is a cool way to eat. With food, and other distractions at hand, the bodis were soon history in my mind, much to the relief of my Mom.
The afternoon siesta followed, both me and Mom blissfully asleep. Human memory is a tough thing – even in three year olds. At some point, the dream of bodis all over the place woke me up. I promptly ran to the kitchen door. It was shut, but I could hear strange noises in the yard. So I promptly returned to Mom, and shook her up. She did not get mad – in fact, in my entire life I have seldom seen my Mom get mad. She heard the story of strange noises in the yard, and decided to investigate. She had been thinking about the bodis in the back of her head as well. The kitchen door the yard was opened with caution. Lo and behold – the plate was there on the steps, the bodis had vanished. The culprit was standing, quite arrogantly I must say in front of us. Completely non-chalant about her abominable behavior. To add to the wound, she stared at us, almost asking for more bodis, all the time moving her jaws like chewing a gum.
Unfortunately someone had left the yard gate open. And the white quadruped had promptly taken advantage of the fact, without the slightest of considerations for a three year old. Mom, sprung into action – “Hat hat hat”. She walked out with the gait of a queen – slow, deliberate.
I was inconsolable. The biggest event of my life had been completely devastated by a lousy white cow! No matter how much Mom, tried to explain that she would make those same bodis the next day – I was adamant – the cow had stolen our bodis. She had to be punished. After all I would be punished if I ate Dad’s food as well.
Dad returned from his work soon after. He heard the monstrosity unleashed by this brute of an animal. He decided, I had a case after all. With seriousness that would befit a Supreme Court judge, he declared he was going to the police station to lodge a complaint against the white cow. The police had to take action against such a heinous crime. I was asked to stay with Mom, lest the cow invaded again. The police station was about five minutes walking distance – on Aurobinda Road. He came back soon after and announced that the complaint had been made; and the police had taken prompt action. They had traced the cow and taken him to the police station. I had to see that justice was done. So a rickshaw was called and all three of us rode by the police station. Of course we could not get inside the compound; the police were notorious for catching whoever dared to cross that gate and throwing them to jail. So we rode on the rickshaw by the side of the police station, going towards Netaji Bhavan. You could see my smile from miles away, when I saw the “white cow”, inside the police station compound, standing on a patch of grass. She looked somewhat smaller than when we saw her in our yard. But Dad assured me, this was the villainous cow – the police had cross-examined all evidence.
I can’t recall my precise age –somewhere between three and five in all likelihood. Our quarters, a one bedroom, one bathroom one kitchen deal was located at the end of the street. There was a brick and mortar boundary wall on one side of the house – a sort of a quarter-of-an-yard by American standards. The wall was plastered and lime-painted with a yellowish tint; no bare bricks with their ugly, dilapidated joints shining like British teeth. A bougainvillea, twined along the bedroom window, which faced the street. It wasn’t much of a street I would say. You would see the occasional bicycle; if you got lucky you would see a rickshaw.
There was a wooden gate by the yard from the front-side of the house. It wasn’t rickety – but its hinges screamed out quite loud when it was opened or closed. You could get to the small yard through a door from the kitchen. A couple of stairs and the yard was mine. This is where the story of the white cow starts. We, Bengalis like food. And my mother happens to be an exceptional cook – an art she says she learnt from her mother-in-law. A number of preparations are made from lentils that are crushed to a paste with water and dried – otherwise known as Bodi. On an uneventful summer day, while I was doing whatever three year olds do (or did –a generation back – a lot has changed since I am sure); most likely monkeying around. My Mom, prepared her crushed lentil paste. She carefully, laid out irregular cones of the stuff on an aluminum plate. A patch of sunlight, illuminated the two stairs to the yard, that led to my territory. On that day, I was fore-warned. The steps to my world of imagination, was soon to be consumed by a process called – “drying bodis”. I had to stay away. And the bodis were laid out to dry, in that patch of intense Indian summer sun.
Three year olds can be excited by anything I guess. My amazement about the bodis never ceased. My Mom, was pummeled with the same question every two minutes – “When are they going to be done?”. I even ventured to the edge of the steps a few times, to take a personal and close-up look to provide some expert comments –“I think it is done now”. Soon, it was lunch-time and I was called up to eat. We did not have a dining table in those days. We sat on the floor – which was cool and I still think it is a cool way to eat. With food, and other distractions at hand, the bodis were soon history in my mind, much to the relief of my Mom.
The afternoon siesta followed, both me and Mom blissfully asleep. Human memory is a tough thing – even in three year olds. At some point, the dream of bodis all over the place woke me up. I promptly ran to the kitchen door. It was shut, but I could hear strange noises in the yard. So I promptly returned to Mom, and shook her up. She did not get mad – in fact, in my entire life I have seldom seen my Mom get mad. She heard the story of strange noises in the yard, and decided to investigate. She had been thinking about the bodis in the back of her head as well. The kitchen door the yard was opened with caution. Lo and behold – the plate was there on the steps, the bodis had vanished. The culprit was standing, quite arrogantly I must say in front of us. Completely non-chalant about her abominable behavior. To add to the wound, she stared at us, almost asking for more bodis, all the time moving her jaws like chewing a gum.
Unfortunately someone had left the yard gate open. And the white quadruped had promptly taken advantage of the fact, without the slightest of considerations for a three year old. Mom, sprung into action – “Hat hat hat”. She walked out with the gait of a queen – slow, deliberate.
I was inconsolable. The biggest event of my life had been completely devastated by a lousy white cow! No matter how much Mom, tried to explain that she would make those same bodis the next day – I was adamant – the cow had stolen our bodis. She had to be punished. After all I would be punished if I ate Dad’s food as well.
Dad returned from his work soon after. He heard the monstrosity unleashed by this brute of an animal. He decided, I had a case after all. With seriousness that would befit a Supreme Court judge, he declared he was going to the police station to lodge a complaint against the white cow. The police had to take action against such a heinous crime. I was asked to stay with Mom, lest the cow invaded again. The police station was about five minutes walking distance – on Aurobinda Road. He came back soon after and announced that the complaint had been made; and the police had taken prompt action. They had traced the cow and taken him to the police station. I had to see that justice was done. So a rickshaw was called and all three of us rode by the police station. Of course we could not get inside the compound; the police were notorious for catching whoever dared to cross that gate and throwing them to jail. So we rode on the rickshaw by the side of the police station, going towards Netaji Bhavan. You could see my smile from miles away, when I saw the “white cow”, inside the police station compound, standing on a patch of grass. She looked somewhat smaller than when we saw her in our yard. But Dad assured me, this was the villainous cow – the police had cross-examined all evidence.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Titin - Chronicles of an improbable journey - intro
Thus begins the tale of a kid (from what and when I can recall and remember), at 21/24 Vivekananda Road, Durgapur, West Bengal, India. My father, to the time I can recall, worked at the Durgapur Steel Plant. I know, he used to teach Civil Engineering at a technical school (this wasn’t a college as far as I know – it happened to be a department at one of the high schools in B-Zone) in Durgapur. But then he got this opportunity to join as a foreman I believe at the plant – which used to be one of the very few heavy industries in the entire nation of India. My mother, an arts graduate (and at that time it was a big deal), either chose to be a home-maker or there weren’t that many places where she could work. She came from a pretty well-to-do, renowned family at Calcutta. I am sure, going through the rigors of regular household work, must have come as quite a shock. She had never been to buy vegetables at a market before. So, haggling with fish-mongers...you can guess my Dad's face when he saw the damage to his wallet..
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