development

South City Mall geichhilam.

Ki bhir.

Roga, roga. Paangla - paangla young girls. Kshoya chehara. Bansberia-Belghoria types.

Quarter metre kaparer tiny Tee shirt pore "MOM" "MOM" kore chitkaar korchhe.

Tar porei holo " I want ........."

All with a twang.

Call for Coming Home

" Aei Raju, avyas karte es"

The Prep bell going "Dong" "Dong"

"Buli, ebar opore chole eso. Porte boso"

All calls for coming home. Getting indoors. Sitting down to study.

Today the afternoon sun cast long bright beams on my bright red floor. Through the tall barred windows came the noon sunlight streaming in. On the floor, on my bed. The cats lapped up the pre-lunch sunshine sitting on the designated blankets.

Skippy, a warm orange glow.

Chico, sleek and shiny ...... and yet there is so much of him, the fat-cat that he is.

Iago, stretched out to cover his own one-acre plus to trespass on to Chico's acre.

As winter comes the sun changes its angle of entry into my room. It also signifies that is it time for the family to come home. That may not be entirely possible any more, nevertheless it is a call. A call for the children to come home. Each to 'bag' their own space in the sun, to 'bag' his/her own pet, own book.

Are you coming?

Volume and Bounce

I went to the SRA this evening for a perfectly straight forward musical evening. The usual mixture of the Sarangi and the Tabla and Carnatic Music. A very enjoyable experience indeed, till this stranger sitting next to me descended on the scene. She even managed to take away Bickram Ghosh's thunder ....... quite literally.

She was giving me looks. I could even say "queer" looks. I am mortally scared of these 'same-sex' people and had one foot ready to jump up and change seats or whatever. Suddenly, just as a small alap ended, she leans across and whispers " Where do you get your hair dressed?".

The fact of the matter is that my hair (all of the 2" crop that I maintain) is completely undressed, denuded, bare and naked. I was totally foxed and then she gave me a 'leg up' so to say ....... "Who is you hair dresser, dear?" (Why does she say 'dear'?)

Ah! This answer I knew and promptly gave her the name of the very pleasant lady who gives me the hair-cut that I occasionally need.

This lady sniffed and sneered.

I did a mental sneer and turned my attention back to Bickram Ghosh.

Two minutes of silence.

A reverie and a close inspection of my hair in the semi darkness.

Then another whisper, "My dear, your hair is in a mess".

"So what's it to you, lady?" (Except that I am polite at all times.)

I answered with a 'quite so' nod. Ghosh was particularly brilliant this evening and was demanding attention. Rightfully so, too.

The woman carried on about my hair..... its cut, its shape, morphology and what not.

I eventually (with the half-ear that I was giving her) gathered that she was some sort of a hair specialist.

Now, all those who know me will agree that my hair is perfectly fine. A salt and pepper mixture of clean hair, which is shampooed regularly. No trouble with my hair whatsoever.

I asked her, in my very best 'special' English, "Are you a hair stylist?"

"No, no. I am a hair trainer"

I nearly fell out of my chair.

"You are a WHAT?" This in my very best 'street' English.

Oh, Madam was highly offended !!!!!!She puckered up her mouth, sniffed some more. but at least allowed me to get back to the music.

By this time my imagination was fired, and there was a riot of thoughts in my head. I have heard of horse trainers and dog trainers. I can do with a cat trainer for Chico and Iago (even if I have to shell out some cash). There are snake charmers, but not trainers. Shoes that we wore when we were young were called trainer shoes. What does a hair trainer do? I thought hair had no nerves (that is why it does not hurt when cut), therefore no intelligence either. So how could hair be trained????

Bickram Ghosh be damned, I had to find out now. I made a few attempts at polite conversation, and got the story out of her.

Her name is Diva (do not even think of sopranos and operas, dear readers..... this female has a whisky-rich husky voice). She is from Bombay (which by itself is a very dubious introduction).

And of course she trains hair.

"How do you train hair"? I asked.

Hair must have Volume!!! Gleam!!! Sheen!!! Life!!!

It has to bounce and swing.

Shine and glow.

She should write a doctoral dissertation on it. She was in ecstasies of ........ words fail me.......

I instantly thought of Rituparna with her ardent desire to have hair with 'volume and bounce'. This lady carried on about how poorly 'arranged' my hair was.

"It has 'volume' however". said Diva.

"It needs 'treatment' " , Diva said. I was looking for tongs and scissors which she might be carrying in her very flashy purple pseudo-leather bag. She gave me the name (clean out of my mind now) of her establishment on Park Street/Wellesley crossing. There she trains hair and dresses hair. That is her profession. She also trains females ("Only girls, dear") who in turn.... 'trains' hair. Very complicated indeed.

Things were simpler in my childhood when my horribly unruly hair had to be put in two tightly drawn braids. Now of course, no matter who says what I will have my hair 'undressed and naked" in the 2" Eton crop that I find very suitable.

I escaped from the clutches of this lady with all my hair intact, thinking of the likes of Rituparna. Hoping they do not fall to 'training' their hair. Yet in my thought was a remote desire of disciplining Sajani's hair. May be Sajani can be sent to Diva.

What says you???

Barsati Days

The other day, an young colleague of mine was telling me of her 'barsati' days in Delhi. I told her how I used to manage ..... in a 'barsati' .......30 years back.

My 'barsati' was a classy one by standards set in those days. It had a 3ft x 5ft kitchenette attached to my rather large 12ftx12ft room. Nevermind the fact that I did not and could not cook. The whole set up had a large terrace and a toilet (not attached) right across the terrace. One had to run back to the room in the freezing winter chill after a bath. The bath had no hot water. The provision was never there, and the contract (if one existed) did not have a clause for hot water. I always bathed in cold water and in the algid Delhi winters I thanked by parents who did not encourage such 'luxuries' in my childhood. However, there was always enough cold water, and in summer I could bathe as many times as I liked..... which was a luxury, given the water shortage Delhi had at that time. The terrace door did not latch properly and would be open all day or all night. Thankfully, the bedroom door latched and I kept it locked. Tejpal, the landlords son often came to the terrace with a mongrel dog, and every time I had to shoo him away. Tejpal and Bobby (the dog) must have had a field day when I was away. At times the terrace door went bang every time the wind blew hard, and bits and pieces of string was needed to keep it shut.

In those days we had no cell phones, no Maggi noodles, no cheese cubes, no packet milk, no microwave. We had a lot grit, though. And ingenuity.

Since there were no cell phones, phone calls to and from home was restricted. There were no PCO booths either. I had to go to the local Post Office every Sunday morning at 8.30 to make the weekly phone call. It was sheer punishment on winter mornings to have to hike 3km to the post office. But Ma's voice at the other end took away all the cares and weariness of the week. I could talk to my dog, my Dad, my sister and that 20Rs trunk call kept me alive through the coming week. I never failed the weekly call home. Actually this weekly phone call system was something we all followed. We were a class of 45 with 38 non-Delhi students. Only 4 girls. (2 from Bengal, 1 from Pune, 1 from Orissa). We all made these weekly phone calls ..... different timings, different days of the week ...... but we all saved and clung on to the phone call money. It was a religion of sorts.

Cooking was a disaster. Total disaster. The landlady provided a dinner of a kind (roti/dal/dahi), but never ever had I existed with no breakfast. And no milk. A tin (a pink and white tin of Amulspray) of milk powder was sent from home. Hardly the real stuff. After much cajoling the landlady agreed to boil one seer of milk for me every morning. As I said, there was no packet milk. Milk was delivered by the milk-man. Good, rich, creamy milk, which the landlady would boil and I would go down to collect. I had to buy a 'patila' for the milk. However, I could not drink the entire one seer in the morning before classes. There was no refrigerator. In the heat of a Delhi summer, milk cannot stay fresh. I had a flask. The storage system in-a-flask did not work. I also had a water bottle. This unique article I do not see any more. It was a aluminium tubular flask coated with a brown blanket-like material. A cockscrew cap and a wide webbing belt strap. This water bottle was common enough in those days (I think it was an American GI standard issue), and my aunt had given it to me to keep water cool. I could not drink 'sada paani', the mem-sahib that I was. Anyway, the remaining milk was put in this blanket covered bottle, the stopper screwed tight, tied with string and lowered in the 'paani tanki' to keep the milk cool and fresh. And delightfully cool it was when I came home after classes to drink that 'paani tanki' milk. All my friends made fun of me, and even the young colleague smirked when I told her about it. Notwithstanding all such jibes I carried on with the milk-cooling system, and thankfully Auntieji downstairs was never any the wiser. My kitchenette was bare. My aunt in Delhi had provided me with two Spode dinner plates and a Royal Albert breakfast cup. The breakfast cup (a twin of the one Ma used every morning at home) I used and I still have it. The Spodes I did not dare use. I eventually got Auntie-ji from downstairs to give me a very colourful Melamine plate.

There was no microwave oven, no gas connection either. I got hold of a classmate (from Madurai), and the Tam-Brahm brain and the Bong brain got together to buy two red and yellow Janta stoves. To be run on kerosene. We even smuggled some kerosene out of the canteen, and spent an entire evening in his barsati (his landlord was away) trying to solve the intricate process of igniting a janta stove.

At one point of time Chaitanya screamed " Arre, ye janta stove hai, ya. The plebians use it throughout the country. Do you mean to say we educated elite cant get to light a janta stove?"

Well. We could'nt.

Eventually we got hold of Karan from the College (Karan was a Dosco and had done his Dukes) to teach us how to light a Janta stove. We learnt, and from then on hot water could be made on the Janta stove in my kitcheette. And toast. And boiled egg. Nothing more. I survived on Horlicks. And Viva was the variant. Toast and jam was always there. No Maggi. No noodles. No pre-made soup. There was Essex Farm's tinned sausages though.......sometimes. And canned baked beans....... once again, sometimes.

Auntie-ji allowed no friends upstairs. Not even with her approval. In fact two things she did not understand at all was

a) why should I have friends to begin with? "padai ke liye aye, naa?"

b) why were most of my friends boys? and "caste bhi alag ........"

The fact that there were only 4 girls in my class was never considered. However, with time she mellowed a bit, and came to allow us to sit on the steps of her veranda. All of sat there on summer evenings, chatted, sang songs, Auntie-ji sometimes joined in. She sometimes served tea or may be chilled water. We all washed up . We all loved it. In fact my house (not the barsati, but downstairs) was the favourite haunt of the entire class. Auntie-ji put up with us till 7pm and then shooed us way. She did not always let us in. We knew our limits. We always sat on the steps, never entered her living room, and went around to the kitchen door to wash our glasses. Or even to say 'bye when we left. Auntie-ji never did get to go to college. Neither did her son. She kept a very strict eye on the company I kept as also my studies. Without fail everynight she would quiz me on the lectures I had attended that day, and if I had done my 'home task'. She meant Library work. And she meant well. For the fear of lying to her I tried to squeeze in Library reading from 7 to 9pm .... before I went to collect my dinner.

I survived on little those days. Coming home was for Summers was common to all. I got Rs300 as pocket money. That was a princely sum. Many of my classmates got half of that. From the 300 a train ticket had to be purchased. My train ticket to Howrah on the Deluxe cost Rs 85. The Deluxe was a delux train. Nearly everybody took the Janta Mails which went in all directions from New Delhi Station. But that 85 rupees had to be saved. Dad did not give extra money for coming home. He paid for coming to Delhi end of the holidays. Holiday train ticket and term end Exams always coincided. I needed money to Xerox notes, money for extra food during late night studying ....... all these extras I could not ask from home. Kailash ran a side business. He was an electrician. He lent us money for the train ticket nearly every time. I would repay him when I came back after the holidays.

When I heard about my colleagues 'barsati' , my own 'barsati' of 30 years vintage flashed by. It made me nostalgic for many hours.

The Obscure Goa

This article is about Goa. However there are a few things that need to be clarified.

Firstly, all of these small facts came to me from a young man who spent a few years in Goa, came to love it, and saw Goa in different perspectives. The views are not necessarily my own.

Secondly, the person explored Goa and brought to me several mementos…. but not all. Therefore I cannot vouch for the authenticity of all of the stories here.

1. The State of Goa gets its name from the word ‘Govarasthra’ , meaning the land pf cows and cowherds. However, the boy quickly realized that milk in Goa is expensive and is supplied by the ‘Nandini Dairy’ of Karnataka. Further research led to the finding that Goa was named after the “GWA” or “GUA” grass that grew on the coastal marshy edges, and the Portuguese called the land Gwa, the British changed it to Goa. I can not vouch for this theory, but sounds interesting.

2. Goa is known for its beaches, but Goa has more rivers than many other States. Granted, not all of them are big and grand rivers, but they are rivers all the same, which meet the sea in marshy tracts. The larger rivers are the Zuari, the Mapusa, the Mandovi . The smaller ones like the Setsia and the Ranas are no larger than creeks. They are beautiful, though and worth a visit.

3 Goa grows a few varieties of very sweet mangoes. This fact I can vouch for, because I ate them every summer. The names, as far as I can recall are Mankurad and Fernandin. Both are smallish red and yellow mangoes very similar to the ‘sindur kouta’ of Bengal. Excellent mangoes, which always left me wondering why the State did not promote these two varieties. Next time you are in Goa in summer, do taste these mangoes.

3. Goa has sand, but has a red lateritic soil which is found on the slightly higher level than the beach….on the plateau tops and the escarpments coming down to the flat flood plains. This part of Goa, the young man said, is really beautiful and unspoiled. There is hardly any tourist trade here and the forests of teak and sal on a moonlit night can be ethereal with the forest floor bathed in the dappled silver light. This is particularly true in the forests of Morle and Shigga.

4. Now, this fact is obscure and I can find no one to vouch for it. Laurie Baker, a famous architect built a small low-cost hut for an old village lady. The hut I was told is an architectural marvel. It has a thatched roof, built on bamboo pillars. There is a natural skylight for the heat to escape and the diffused sunlight to come in. The inside of the hut is as cool as air-conditioned, and a central courtyard allows total circulation of air. However,I have some sketches of this hut in a remote South Goa village. The old lady is called Thankamma and she ” is a very good cook”.

5. Goa, I was told is a land of Forts. There are several forts and some citadels. All of them are in a state of disrepair, and is open for anyone to walk in. The more famous ones like the Aguda Fort and the Tiracol Fort attract a fair number of tourists. The smaller ones on the plateau top are unknown, sometimes unnamed and I was told ‘fascinating’. There is even a fort called Cabo da Rama, after the mythological Ram of the ‘Ramayana’. Ram took shelter in Goa, and the fort was built for him. All the forts exhibit excellent brick-work and water-supply system.

6. Can not miss the Feni (Fenny) of Goa. What you may not know is that Feni is totally country liquor. And for this same reason, is not for sale outside the State of Goa. The young man clearly told me that Feni can be made from cashew nuts or from coconuts. Southern Goa grows more coconuts and therefore makes coconut Feni, and Northern Goa grows cashew nuts to make Kaju Feni. This lad brought some of this Feni to me. Very potent, very fiery. Ideally to be mixed with a sweet juice. However, I was given to understand that this stuff “is had all the time…..plain”. The so called ‘branded’ ones are “Reals” and “Big Boss”. Make a note…. Sattari tehsil has the best Feni.

7. I have had this very peculiar samosa called ‘egg samosa’ brought all the way from Goa. It is like no other samosa I have ever tasted. These are small flattish ones, filled with ‘egg bhurji’. Spicy, but tasty. These I was told are available at a small restaurant in Panjim called “Sartaj”. From the same shop was brought to me (in a flask) the lime juice-soda that they make. Though every time I have had this, the soda had gone flat, I will agree that for a commercial lime juice this is the best I have ever had. Quite near to Gatorade.. “Sartaj”, I was told “does a mean Biriyani and a potato bake”. Sartaj, I suppose is worth a visit.

8. Christmas time, this young man got us bebinca and dodols and guava cheese. Much traveled and much treasured these used to come to us a little squashed, but they were much awaited. I was told Pasteria in Panjim, and George’s in Panjim made the best bebincas. I never knew which packet came from which shop, as they were all wrapped in brown-paper, but these are delicious Goan desserts which should not be missed.

9. This lad often talked about the flea-markets of Mapusa (Friday Market) or of Anjuna (Wednesday Market) where everything from clothes to books to T shirts could be bought. These markets had live music and Goan women brought to the market their local cuisine. A plate of Goan fish-curry and rice could be had for Rs. 30. I do not remember much what this guy told me about these markets, except that the both times he went, his pocket was picked !!! But these markets sell Goan pork sausages with poee (bread or pau) which is not available in any shop.

10. The two bookshops I constantly heard about was Broadway at Panjim. These people let their customers browse and read with comfort. To boot, they keep the book aside if you want to come back the next day. The other book shop this boy frequented was Literatti at Calangute. This shop was a little way out for my resource person, but there was the owner Divya Kapur (I think I have the name right) who served chilled kokum juice and cold coffee for customers who spent the day there. Of course, at a price.

11. I was told with great emphasis that Goa had the most beautiful churches, and I never had any reason to disbelieve. Francis Xavier, the Basilica, the Don Bosco Church ….. I heard of so many. What impressed this boy was the complete and total 4 voice choir at St. Inez at Panjim and a Latin Mass at 7am in a small obscure Church in North Goa. I last heard a full Mass in Latin about 40 years back in a Chapel in Darjeeling. Not only for the architectural value, I do believe that a Full Mass in a Goan Church is not to be missed……specially a Sunday Mass.

12. A small item. A small bottle of home made chepnim (mango pickle) and a small bottle of prawn balachao was brought by this young man. Home made by one Auntie. I think most Goan homes make these. Try to scout around and buy some. Taste some. Enjoy.!!!!

Not all these are my views or my take on Goa. It is just that these interesting topics do not seem to be discussed on general travel sites on Goa, and yet this lad shared his find with me, and I found the ‘finds’ interesting.

Hope you can scout around for the obscure Goa, next time you go there.

Gopipur and East Anglia

Deep in the valleys of Garwhal, in Gopipur I met Bela last week. Gopipur is 5km from the nearest metalled road and about 350km from Landour, which itself is a small sleepy town.

Gopipur is less than a village and by the English Town and County Planning standards (if applied in this instance) it would probably rank as a hamlet or isolated farm. Gopipur has about 15 small huts, housing about 70 people. No school, no clinic, no post office, one tea-shop. Just acres and acres of hilly pasture land with sweet green grass and hundreds of cattle. The entire village depends on grazing and though they are not nomadic, they are certainly shepherds by occupation. Rearing milch cattle. Pure unadulterated milk is Rs. 10 a seer. They have not heard of kilograms. The rate is " dhai rupaiya pau". Sweet, thick creamy milk. Bela lives in Gopipur. Does not go to school. At least not in summer. In winter, when it is cold, a Masterbabu comes from the town, spends three or four months at Gopipur and teaches all the children the basics of grammar, arithmetic, alphabets and what not. Funnily enough all the children I met and the women too are more or less literate. They all read Hindi, and a little bit of English alphabets even the 5 year old knew. Left me wondering why we could not have the same system in the cities. School for 4 months. Holidays for 8 months!!!!!!

Any way coming back to Bela, her beloved Baba had been all the way to Pithoragarh (another small town in UP) and had brought back a pair of strappy tinsel coated sandals for Bela. For Bela that was the ultimate in fashion, and she dearly wanted to wear it. Her strict no-nonsense mother had put an embargo......not till Diwali. The footwear was kept wrapped in newspaper and sunned everyday (I never got to know why the daily sunning was needed), much admired by all the village folk as it glittered in the misty sunlight and all of this watched by the totally enraptured eight year old.

This pair of sandals and Bela's dark deep dreamy eyes took me back 45 years in a fraction of a second.

Long time back in the bleary and misty shores of East Anglia I spent a winter holiday. On the dead flat marshes of Suffolk it was an intensely cold winter. There was the high sea wall on which we used to walk and play. If you know this part of Suffolk, the sea wall near Lowestoft

is a lonely stretch, on one side lay the bleak grey sea, howling and raging with the wind which was always bitterly cold. On the other side of the sea wall lay the wide expanse of heathland, rimey grass dotted with winter-black whin bushes and dry gorse bushes. A wide pale sky touched the heathland somewhere far way. In this bleak landscape played Norah and Robin and of course yours truly. The sea wall was slippery and wet, and we ran along it as sure footed as only children can be. Norah was the daughter of the local P.C. and wore a pair of red leather shoes with bright silver buckles. I had never seen such a pair of shoes. All I got was the regular black boots for school wear and of course the three striped Adi Dassler hand crafted grey suede shoes. These Dassler shoes were good, comfortable but they could not match the clop-clop sound and the brightness that Norah's shoes brought while playing on the sea wall. All winter I yearned and longed for such a pair. I even went to the extent of asking Mother.

"Red shoes?", she said.

"What's wrong with the black shoes?"

Too bad Ma never understood these things.

The whole bleak winter we played and ran on the rimey heath, on the sea wall, on the straight sandy coast-road. All the time I longed to have a pair of red shoes. They never came. I stuck to my solid black boots and thought that if Norah was not the P.C.s daughter, a clever theft could be arranged between Robin and me. Such luck was never to be, and I left for School in February wearing my black school shoes (albeit a new pair).

While my children were growing up Rita gave a pair of red boots to Sajani (Numbo's old pair).

Sajani wore them to her playschool. However, I never got to wear a pair of red shoes....not ever.

Silver sandals in the bright and green Gopipur, and red shoes in a blear wintry East Anglian landscape. Two little girls, separated by a whole generation and a half. Yet the difference is so very negligible.

Teachers.

Teacher's Day come and go
And with every year I learn more
More than I ever teach.

I noticed that on every Teacher's Day ..... at least in recent years ........ it is the old students and ex-students who wish/greet/phone/visit/mail/write. The present students I teach are not always so enthusiastic.

Possible conclusions :-

a. We as teachers are less effective as the years go by.

b. The present lot of students are not sensitive to our teachings.

c. What we teach is a life-time learning for the taught, and that is why the old students come back to us with love and affection. The present students have not yet realised the value of our teaching . However, they will one day.

I copy-paste here on this page a mail which I had sent to some of my students (ex-students) in October, 2005. After 5 years, my sentiments remain the same.

I could not delete Arik's reply to my mail for some "HTML error". I have not disclosed the other recipients and their replies.

Nandini ma'am,

I am fairly certain that most people in this email would agree that you were an inspiration and that you transcended the textbook definition of teacher to become a mentor. If not, we would not have kept touch with you over these years :) ... don't worry about me just yet ... worry when I go to Iraq for my next assignment in January!

Regards,
Arik.

Nandini Dutta wrote:

The past few weeks saw the passing away of three of my educators. I shall not call them teachers.

One was Mother Marie-Claire, a nun at Loreto who put up with my outrageous ways with love and compassion (the hallmark of Loreto education). Never was there a harsh word, no matter how wicked my behaviour. Loreto education is so very wholesome. It sees you through life.

Then passed away my Economics teacher at College. A scatty and eccentric lady , who opened up my mind like no one had before. The modicum of academic discipline I possess today, I owe to her.

The third was dear IG (IGPatel) who saw me through my wild and wilful days at Delhi .Though he did not teach me as such, but he and his wife (Bibi) were always around for any intellectual discussion/argument. Many a times he acted as a 'sounding board' to the rather far fetched and immature hypothesis and paradigms that I presented to him at regular intervals. We ripped the topic apart and that by itself was a great learning process.If today I'm known to be argumentative, its because of IG.

A mere RIP or a prayer does not do them justice.

What I regret today is the fact that we as professors being in the academia, perhaps have not been able to impart to our students (through the years), a greater part of what we received from our mentors. I rue the fact. It is not just me, but many in our generation (professors and teachers) who received so much from our teachers, and yet, perhaps could not pass the same to the young minds that we teach/taught. My apologies

In introspection

Nandini Dutta.

Those at Univ., have fun. Arik, I worry for you. The rest take care. Priya, do mail.

Chico Dear

BREAKING NEWS

Chico listens to Brahms. And he listens to Schubert .... Ave Maria.

I have never ever seen or heard of such a cat.

......of what use is a pencil?

Dear Readers..........who read my blog .... and who think I'm a little off in the head.

On reading this please do believe that I am not really any more eccentric than I normally am. It's just that my differently-abled mind 'sees' a lot more.

I came back from work this afternoon to find that Chico had once again (for the umpteenth time) pulled down some pencils. Now, in our house pencils are held in high esteem. They are all over the house. Mostly soft leaded pencils. I keep my pencils on my desk, on my bed, on the bedside table, all over the drawing room. The cats have free access to pencils for an occasional chew or to play 'chase and roll' with them. Not one of us mind. Cats will play with pencils. And we are all so used to picking up pencils on coming home.

Today Chico and Iago had got hold of my graphite pencil and it was lying on the drawing room floor. I was getting myself to give me 5 minutes to keep my bag, have a glass of water, and then go pencil-picking. At the back of my mind was the precious graphite pencil. I walked back into the drawing room to see Rampyari's baby (Rampyari is a a squirrel) holding the bright blue Steadtler pencil between his paws and the little squirrel was scribbling away on a piece of brownpaper (also on the floor....thanks to Chico? Iago?). The baby squirrel was intently looking at his work of art on the brown paper and Chico was sitting on the divan watching the squirrel with total amusement.

Now, I do not have a camera. However, I will hold this picture in my mind for a long time to come. A squirrel attempting to write/draw with a pencil....... a cat watching the whole procedure. It is a priceless shot.

Please do believe ...... this writing is NOT a work of fiction. This sort of madness can only happen in the old house by the grave yard.

I do believe in Magic.

Reading Corner

I wonder if 'reading corner' is an apt term. Moreover I am not at all sure if every body has a reading corner or even reads as such. Notwithstanding these rather odd factors, I still maintain that every one who reads has a reading corner.

My current reading corner is my bed (my side of the bed). I love to read in bed, and the old and weary mattress was a worn out 'hole' or depression which is ever so comfortable. It's custom made so to say...... conforming to my bulk. My bed has a wide open window behind the headboard and a table lamp on the bedside table. I can read anytime, with adequate light. I love my 'hole in the bed' and I enjoy what I read lying on the bed. What is really strange is that I am not the only one who likes the 'hole'. I am told Bossie used to see me out of the door, see me out on the road..through the window and promptly plonk himself down in my 'hole' with a deep sigh. He, I am told, wouldn't budge for a long long time. Shantam shared my 'hole' and actually had the nerve to consider it his 'hole'. He tried to oust me out all the time. This is inspite of him having other reading corners all over the house. Adarsh, when here from University completely took over my 'hole in the bed'. He almost has to be pushed out when I want to sleep. Of course most other times I reign supreme. After all it's my 'hole in the bed'.

Another favourite reading corner I remember is the small balcony at the LC Road house. I used to sit there in the sun / rain / hail or whatever and read my story book. Sajani too used to bring her book, Toro his bone, Shantam his Lego and we co-habited in that small space.. If I remember rightly, there was a street lamp which shed just enough light to read by.

Another reading corner which probably does not exist any more is the Children's Library at the National Library, Calcutta. My mother used to go to the Library to research, and I would be left to fend for myself in the ground floor/basement section where existed an excellent library in a brightly lit room full of the morning sunshine. They had window seats with red and pink roses on the cushions. I loved those window seats and the book selection there. I wonder if anyone knows what happened to the books and the Children's Library at the NL, Calcutta. Another window seat seat memory is the Library at L.C., Darjeeling. Another well lit room with window seats. I had my own window and therefore my own reading corner. There would be hell to pay if any one tried to occupy my corner !!! I did most of my 'growing up' there, as all problems of life had to be solved while I read my book.

There was a time Mother taught at the University on College Street. It was quite possible that the staff at home would stage a walk-out if I was left in their care for any length of time. Ma had to take me along. She parked me at Dasgupta and Co. on College Street and I had the most wonderful time in the gallery like structure upstairs amongst the dusty books. Arabinda (the present owner) joined me sometimes, and I still go delving for forgotten books in this shop. Arabinda swears that at one time I knew how to / where to locate a book, better than his staff.

AD Road had so many reading corners. My favourite was the steps leading to the terrace and the landing there which also had a small table. The staircase was west facing and it was sheer pleasure to read and eat the oranges provided by my aunt. At AD Road once again there was Dada's room with a small ledge at the window. The window was tall and very airy. I used to read there when Dada permitted me to enter his room. It was not often, but I treasure those few times I could sit there and read. Incidentally Dada walked up and down the room to 'read' or study or whatever he was trying to do. This paichari, I found totally unnerving and would beat a hasty retreat the moment Dada started being restless. Dada had the same habit of walking up and down with a book at his JNU quarters. Equally unnerving I'm afraid. I wonder what he does now.

I do not remember my Father or Sanjoy reading in bed. Baba I will always remember had his desk/writing table to work and a black leather arm chair with a standard lamp next to it to read by. It has never ever varied. Even today, when he can not sit up for too long, he sits on the bed.....lamp and tea and books and radio and cat and all. Minimum movements. Sanjoy has his own reading chair....another black leather chair and he sits there for his 'read' (like Baba) with his books, cigarettes, ash-tray, dog/cat and whatever. His chair too incidentally has a marked 'hole'. Sanjoy hates being disturbed when he reads.

The Goethalls Library at SXC has always been my refuge for serious academic reading and writing. For whatever reason I have a small desk by a tall window. An old fashioned desk with a lift up lid. For years I have sat at that desk and read and thought and reflected and cogitated. I have written and typed (on a laptop) without anybody ever bothering me. In an Institute of 7000 strong pupils, it is a wonder that the Library maintains absolute peace. It is a sanctuary of sorts.

Sheldon House had so many reading corners that I cannot stop to finish the list. The huge balcony, my cubby-hole study (on a pile of stored mattresses), on the pomello tree, on the swings, the staircase, Raju's little verandah. Actually let these remain secret. The less said the better.

Our old and dilapidated house by the grave yard has reading corners too. Sajani for years sat on a large tin trunk and read her book. She now sits on the floor by the window to read in the warm sunlight. Shantam managed to squeeze himself in a corner of the ever-so-narrow balcony to read his Ivanhoe or struggle through Bindur Chhele (and shed copious tears). Of course I was never to notice all this as it was his private corner. Maybe the house was/is too small to offer all its inmates a private corner to read. That is why maybe we sometimes have to take turns. After Shantam grew taller, he could not fit into that small corner of the balcony. He changed base and took over the wooden window seat in the children's room. He stretched himself out there with his toy cars, music, cat/dog, discman and sketch book and would not answer if called. We had given up getting him to come out of his room if he did not wish to. Adarsh has earned himself a rather large 'hole' in the drawing room divan, and also shares the arm chair 'hole' with Chico, and my 'hole in the bed' with me. There are other reading corners....not so exclusively owned ..... which we all share.

There has been other reading corners which I have excluded here..... the DSE Library steps, particularly at night, pavements and curb-sides in many places and many cities. (Shantam was caught reading by street light down our lane ). There has been exclusive corners for all of us in the Schools and Universities we have studied. Some we disclose. Some are secret. The house at Keyatala Road had a cement tank which was perhaps my first ever reading corner. I had a cloth bag full of books which I used to take there to read .... away from my baby sister. Sajani can read anywhere, including Calcutta public buses. Shantam always read with his sketch pads .... I never did get to figure out why he needed to sketch while reading.

It may seem strange but Skippy reads on Sajani's desk, under a table lamp. She obviously reads whatever Sajani reads. Daku had a reading corner ..... the IIT Maths. He used it as a pillow as long as the children were studying. After they went to bed, he slept on my bed. Boss squeezed himself under Sajani's desk and Bagha always studied with Shantam. Chico watches racy action movies on the laptop every evening (thanks to Adarsh and Shantam) curled up his his favourite chair while Iago chews the days newspaper under the bed.

Does not everyone have a reading corner?

Music & Ma

My earliest memory of a song is a snatch of a rhyme ' ghugu soi, shoilya koi......' This was being sung to me by my mother who was rocking me in her lap and I so clearly remember she was wearing something orange, and I remember Ma laughing and the sun on her face. I have absolutely no idea how old I was then.....may be a few months, maybe a year old. It's a photo frame in audio and video memory.

Ma has always been there in my music. Ma perhaps was not a hugely famous singer, but in our family we held her singing in high esteem. She always sang for me ...joy, anger, disappointment, love, all had special songs.

Once when I was about 3 years old and not getting sleep ( I have always been an insomniac of sort), Ma took me to the small garden of the Keyatala house, showed me the moon and sang

' chander hasi bandh bhengechhe uchhle pore aalo....'. I can still recall her voice, and whenever I am even slightly upset, this song in my mother's voice can calm me down. She has sung this song several times for me, whenever I wanted her to sing it. Calcutta, Patna, Darjeeling...over trunk call lines too.

I had diphtheria when I was about 4, and my sister was just a baby. My mother probably had a hard time with her job, the baby and me. More to the point, I had to be kept absolutely isolated, so that my baby sister did not catch the disease. Baba did a lot of the nursing and though Father was besura at his best, he used to carry me and sing ..'Ogo Ma tomay dekhe dekhe ankhi na bhore" (Bengalis nearly always call their daughters Ma, and to Baba I have always been "Ma"). Baba and this song is inseparable. As we grew up it was Baba who instilled his deep love for classical music in us. It was Baba who calmed my temper with a soft Beethoven, and it was he who dried my tears with Tchaikovsky. However, Baba rarely sang. Snatches yes, but never the way Ma sang to us and particularly to me and for me. I don't remember if I was a difficult child, but today I realise that Ma (who brought up, me, her first born on B. Spock) knew right from the beginning that the only thing that worked with me..... in illness, asthma, tantrums, sheer cussedness ... was her singing. She sang to me all the time. Even when I was far away, she would sing over a scratchy phone line and I alone know the joy and peace that her singing brought to me. When I would be very naughty she often sang '.....chotto naditi, pate anka chhobiti' In my mind, I can still hear her sing it. Her soft crooning voice taking away my wickedness. 'Kajla didi koi' was another song Ma would sing to me. This was when I would be unhappy. I would lie awake and be quiet and late into the night, Ma would sing me to sleep with this.

Ma sang everything. Rhymes, Vera Lynn,Cliff Richard, old IPTA songs, Beatles, Dean Martin, old WW II songs, Rabindra Sangeet, Bangla Adhunik, Burmese folk songs (I still remember the words....more or less correctly.... had a Burmese student of mine to listen to my terrible rendering of these songs). I loved her "na go, eije dhula". No one, repeat no one, ever sang it as well as she did. Even till last year she could and would sing to me. Sometimes over the phone....4pm sharp was her regular phone call time. In more recent years she would just sing to herself, and the few times I would visit her, I would sit quietly and listen.

She sang to her grandchildren too. I do not know if they remember, but all of them stopped crying when she sang to the baby who was wanting attention. In later years they would go to her to get tunes clarified, lyrics corrected......even from Goa and Gujarat.

There was a period (I think before my graduation Exams) when I would study late. And then go off to sleep on the drawing room divan. Ma, who always woke up early, would go about her work in the kitchen, humming softly. After a while she would bring her old Royal Albert tea cup and a brown tea pot, sit on the veranda (near the divan), and sing ever so softly. A short 5 to 10 minutes perhaps and two quick cups of tea, and her beautiful songs. She never learnt that I would be awake, at least I never told her, but the joy of sleeping on that old divan was Ma's early morning singing.

I can listen to music in my head. This may sound eccentric, but I really can. At times when there is no record player, or CD player, or Ma or Shantam or Sajani, I can listen to the music I want in my head.

I wish Ma could sing again.

ps. More about my custom made music in a later post.

Anath Bandhu Ghosh

Yesterday...... a hot and sunny and bright afternoon, I was on Rash Behari Avenue. I was thirsty and my water bottle was empty. I could see no Coke shop nearby, and (because of medical reasons) I am not allowed to walk too far nor too much.

However there was a sweet-meat shop. A small 'para' affair, but they had an Aquaguard. With great hesitation I asked the old man at the counter if I could fill my bottle.

"Abashya" he said. He even filled my water bottle himself. And in a small sal pata bowl gave me two sandesh. I protested. I only wanted a drink of water!!! The old man wouldn't hear of it. They never serve water stand-alone. There has to be a mishti with it. My best attempt at the game of persuasion was a total failure. I had both the sandesh. Very fresh and soft lebu-sandesh. Delicious.

I was bowled over. The fact that such niceties did exist was really long forgotten.

I will not disclose the shops name. The owner... the old man who served me with such grace and much love ...... is called Anath Bandhu Ghosh.

Two old structures........

A feature article in today's Telegraph by Saumitra Das on the Mackinnon Mackenzie building on 16, Strand Road brought back a whole host of memories.... ghosts of memories.

The Mackinnon Mackenzie building was a grand building to say the least. My Dad took me there once to show me an atrium. It must be admitted that my education has been always a little weird. In London, I had seen an atrium (I think at Selfridge's) and I wanted to know how it was built. Dad took me to Mackinnon Mackenzie building. And WOW!....wasn't it a grand atrium. The sun shining through sparkling glass panes gave the lobby a silver light. And yet it was a cool and hushed atmosphere.Dark emerald green carpets, broad staircase, and the atrium. Oh, the atrium.I was perhaps around 8 at that time, and I was filled with wonder. Dad also gave me lunch there. I don't remember much of the lunch, except that there were several courses, and quite neverending. When we came out, at the end of the day, I remember the building stood golden in the 4pm sun shining across the river. Dad said it was made of red sandstone, the setting sun lent the golden hue.

Next time I visited the grand old building on 16, Strand Road was to visit Bhubu Dada ( Pradip Mohanty) who worked there. He was the guy I would turn to for Slazenger Tennis balls, he took me to my first Test Match at Edens, he took me to Olympia to have the famous pepper steak. He took me to his office to have lunch. The same atrium with a silver sheen, the same lunch room with its old world grandeur, perhaps there was no great change in the menu either....not since I last had lunch there with my Dad. I harboured a secret wish that some day I would work here.

The beautiful building burnt down in 1998 (or was it '97?). It broke my heart. In the same period a few other structures got demolished.....does anybody at all remember Lord Inchcape's house on Camac Street?????? The old Fairy House on Southern Avenue, near the Anderson Swimming Club???? Anyway I do remember taking Shantam (and later Adi) to see the warehouses on the Strand, and on one such trip Shantam and I went inside the Mackinnon Mackenzie building. The atrium was broken, all the plaster was missing. There was virtually a vegetation growth in the lobby and on the roof because of the sunlight coming in through the large gap where the atrium and the ceiling used to be. A few labourers were in residence, and they were cooking their lunch on the marble floor, and a huge bath tub was being used to store water. This was too disheartening. I came way. Shantam wandered about a bit. Drew a few sketches and we came away.

Another building which was mentioned in today Telegraph was the Great Eastern Hotel. Another grand structure which has been completely demolished from the inside. Only the facade remains today, and I understand a 'renovated' new hotel is on the cards. I have been to Great Eatern many times. With my parents for dinner, to meet cricket stars.....with Bhubudada to the bar, with Baba .... once again to the bar on the last day the bar was open to the public. The Great Eastern closed down soon after.

In 2005 or may be 2006 in the dead of summer Shantam and I had gone to Rita's office on Waterloo Street and there was a big crowd outside. Great Eastern was auctioning off their furniture and such things. We went in. The lobby, the dining rooms, the kitchens, the rooms upstairs were full of the 'sharks' looking for a 'deal'...ready to buy the napery, the linen, the drapery, the cutlery, the crockery, the furniture..... everything. Horrible sharp eyed guys with the single minded idea of a business deal in mind, on a sad day when the great hotel was closing its doors. I wandered around aimlessly. I was carrying very little money, and anyway everything was going in lots. What would I do with 50 grey carpets of 6x4 size??? With great difficulty and after much haggling I 'purchased' a teaspoon with the GEH embossed logo from a dealer. It cost me 50 bucks, and I was cursing myself for not carrying much money.

Incidentally, I still have the teaspoon.

Then I realised Shantam was missing, and Shantam did have the habit of doing a disappearing act if and when he got edgy. I came down the main staircase and called on his cellphone. He didn't take the call. I realised some one was playing the piano in the main hall, and there was a crowd around the piano. The music sounded ethereal in the great and empty hall and I stopped by to listen. The music sounded familiar... all too familiar, till from the height (I was on the staircase) I realised the pianist was Shantam. It was his pale blue T shirt clad back. It was his music. It was Bach he was playing !!!!! I stood and listened a long, long while. The frail thin figure on the piano was so very inconsequential when compared to the music.The music filled the hall and we all stood and listened. After a while I went down to the piano. Shantam stopped playing immediately (which is rare) and said something like "You're done? Let's go". We came out of Great Eastern Hotel , out of the spell of music, out of the old fashioned plaster casts, out of the musty air.... bang on to to real world of the wall of heat, the noise of the traffic, the sea of people on Old Court House Street. Later, at night I told Shantam how the closing of the hotel was softened a bit...to me... because of the music. He answered with a deep"Hmmm."

I am somehow glad that the Great Eastern Hotel closure was not too bad for me. On the last Bar day, Dad took me there. On the last auction day, I took Shantam there. Both times there was music

French Teachers

On a flight recently I met a lady called Mrs. Sudha Rangaswamy. She is a Tamilian who teaches French at an International School in Mumbai. Sudha is a South Indian and her accent reveals so. Furtheremore, she teaches French, and when she holds a conversation in French, I can assure you it is difficult to follow. The French roll their 'r' s and so do Tamilians. The combination is deadly to say the least.

Mother Claude taught us French. An Irish nun. The Irish too have a peculiar way with their 'r's. "Jassus, child. For all love in Irrrreland, can ye not swally a cup o'tay without spilling? Arrrrgh, you tyke, go wash yourrrrrself". This still rings in my ears. After 40 years. Notwithstanding the Irish 'r's plus the French 'r's all rrrrolled into one, we all learned French verrrry well. And we all loved Mother Claude the best.

There was Mother Padua who taught Music. Paddy was all Irrrish and knew no French. THANKFULLY. Paddy sang all the Irish and the Celtic songs. Her "When Irrrish Eyes Are Smiling" was carried over to the next generation. Sajani sang it. Paddy was a darling. ( I'll put up another post later on Sajani singing 'Irish Eyes' )

There is Nivedita Bhattacharya, who thankfully speaks normal French, normal English and normal Bengali.

Merci a Dieu. Je ne sais pas tout autre enseignant Francais !!!!!!

For you

Deep in the ocean, there lies a wave for you.........

What's in a name?

Ever so recently, someone asked me why Sajani was called Sajani Mrinalini Dutta. Such a strange query....of course from a strange person who had no idea how 'strangely' this family operates, behaves, its ever so strange origins and even more strange customs and odd mindset.

In our family...both my maternal and my paternal... there are no simple Aruns and Malatis and Gopals. Nearly all of us have cumbersome double-barreled names. Jugal Kishore, Naba Kishore, Upendra Kishore, Birendra Kishore, Rai Kishore, Mrinalini, Subhasini. Sarojini, Labanyaprabha, Hironnyaprabha, Rajatabha, Kshirodhewar, Bireshwar, Amareshwar, Arunshwar, Sabyasachi, Sambuddha, Nirad Baran, Chittatosh, Samantyak, Ahindra Nath, Dhurjoti Prasad, Phani Bhusan.

Then there are Ananda Kishore, Aditya Kishore, Ahutagni, Shantam Kashish, Sajani Mrinalini,

Anirban Ranjan, Ashidhara, Nandini Mrinalini, Malini, Aparajit, Ayan Ranjan (not too sure about Ayan's name being Ranjan too).

There has been Udhhav Prasad, Shyama Prasad, Kirtideep and Pragyadeep. Even the littlest ones (generation 5? may be 6...) have names like Baidurjya, Taramoni (aged 7 months), Labanyaprabha (once again), Arup Prattay and Dhrub Pranay, Aalok Priyo and Rajbir Dev.

Nothing too great really, except that Sumit, Aloka, Debashish etc does not seem to appeal to us.

.......what money can't buy.

Somebody I know phoned to say she was stuck for money. A fair amount of money. I offered to help. Not the entire amount, but a part. Pat came the reply a) I wouldn't dream of taking from you. b) This meager amount will not do.

What poor taste. Not a complete being, he/she who cannot take a hand reaching out.

Bad .....Bad......Bad.

Home and I

I love my home. I love it when my family is around me and with me. And I love it when I am all alone. The past few months have taught me to embrace solitude. The peace around me. Being able to think, being able to read, to exercise creaky finger muscles over the keyboard. The silence of the night is beautiful, broken only by the rustle of a page turning. And by Skippy's soft purring.

I long for my family to return, but until then I'm in love with the solitude. It is something to look forward to throughout the day. The moment I walk in through the door, all the vibes soaked up during my day at my workplace dissipate, and I am at peace again, with my thoughts clear in my head. My animals, my music and my books await me.

My workplace is undemocratic and stressful. My home in the house by the graveyard is peaceful.

Travel ???????

I am too old to travel much. Some amount of travel, yes .... but not much. Yet there are places I'd like to visit, places I'd like to go to...... after all I might die anyday.

1. First on the list is Times Square. At Midnight. It's a strange thing, I have never been to the USA.

2. Oh for the purple heather of Greece. It's really a deep purple, merges with the far-off horizon and smells heavenly.

3. London. ......... one word is enough.

4. I want to visit Paris and revisit Paris. Alone. With no one. In the summer. In the rain. Late at night. Walking over the bridges.

5. Haridwar. A trip that Opu and Bhutu and I had planned years back and never materialized.

6. Scotland. And also Cornwall. Once again alone. To meet my friend, the sea.

7. The Garwhal Himalayas, the Kumaon area, Himachal. I dream of this area. The peace. The solitude. The hills are always lovely. If ever I have pots and pots of money, I will retire and live in the hills and build a sanctuary for all my old students. For whoever needs the quietitude and the solace. And of course my company.

8. Lots of other places. In the hills. With the wind on my face. The sound of the sea. The red dust. Long drives on never ending highways.

Forget it. It's not going to happen.

Apong

Someone sent me a forward about the variety of food to be found in India. Very interesting......very colourful. And wonder of wonders, there was Apong from Arunachal.

This was indeed odd, because all other food in the forward was food .... as in edible food. Apong was the only liquor, the only drink.

I have to write about my experience with Apong. I am the hoochie here.

In 2004, during a short break from AVS we went to Tawang, Arunachal.

Arunachal is a beautiful State. Lush and green. And so quiet and serene.

On the second day we went to Siang district. In a ramshackle army reject

Willy's jeep (from 1942) driven by an aged Arunachali reeking of liquor.

The road to Siang was steep and winding. Through the rattling windscreen of the

jeep only the bright blue sky could be seen. The angle of elevation was surely more than

60 degrees. At Siang we saw Apong being made.

Apong is a rice beer of a kind. The sticky (unhusked) rice is dried and then smoked. From what

I understood , the smoking is an integral part. This is done on large open-air chullahs.

Then comes fermenting...... a long process of about three months. In large wooden

kegs. Finally its distilled. However the distillation is a rather incomplete process, because

the final product has to be drunk through a long narrow bamboo pipe (a straw, if you

like), with three slits at the bottom. Very similar to the chung pipes of Sikkim or Darjeeling.

Apong is like water to the local population. Everybody drinks it. It smells. It is peculiarly opaque

and frothy. AND IT IS POTENT.......to say the least.

Our driver had a refill. I had a few sips. My travelling companions were strait-laced

people. Unadventurous to the nth degree . Shantam was already green at the gills with travel sickness.

So, I was the only one who tried Apong at Paia, Siang.

The advantage was all mine. On the return journey, the driver drove recklessly. My

companions were severely sick. I, who is nearly always travel sick remained unaffected

by the 60 degree angle of declination.

Not too bad......my encounter with Apong. Wouldn't recommend the moonshine to anybody,

though. And can't vouch for the cleanliness factor either.

Thank you, Sajani.

When the children were growing up we had two pianos in our house. One was an English upright made by Holden. This was really ancient, but had a very sweet tonal quality. Later we had a Rachals. This was a studio piano. Very classy, and the children, and Bossie, and Daku and Skippy all enjoyed the music. From scales to exam pieces to modern rock. After so many years, I am really happy my children learnt music.

Later, they grew up and left for college. They left home, and I missed their music. They learnt to sing for me, play for me over the phone. Flute, guitar, mouth organ would be played often. Piano ..... sometimes. Shantam would play at Furtado's, Bombay and I'd listen on the phone. For a good half an hour or so. Mostly Bach. Some his own compositions.He would play at the Church, I'd listen on the phone. We all liked it. Birthdays, Teachers Days, Mothers Days ..... the last few years my children have sung to me over the mobile phone. Sajani would often sing the hymn "Fear not, for I am with you". The Loreto Chorus was also a favourite. Shantam without fail would sing 'Words', anytime I wanted it. On Good Friday, he would sing 'Old Rugged Cross'.... because it was Easter,but also in memory of Toro. I loved his version of 'Old Rugged Cross', on the Church piano, in his deepest voice. On 19th January every year there would be 'Amazing Grace' with the guitar and his super-rich voice.

The last year or so, I listen to music with great trepidation.It actually pains me. I missed the phone-call songs. I missed the Furtado's piano, and my child playing B.Joel's 'Lullabye'. I missed the guitar strumming random tunes to which I had to give my 'expert comment'.I missed Sajani singing the Loreto Chorus. If nothing else, the School Song gave us both great strength to face any adversity. Why do I use the past tense .... I still miss this custom-made, call-for-it music.

Today was an exception. Sajani was at Godwin's (C.P.,New Delhi), and she phoned me to hear her play. I have not heard her play the piano for years. Not in the last five years. She has been away from home. Shantam and I lived each others lives through our music.All the time. Songs, piano, homesickness, joys, flute, guitar, anger, trials, mouthorgan..... the piano, and most certainly Bach. Sajani and I share a different kind of music. Today she played Fur Elise, snatches of 'Pianoman', a bit of 'Amazing Grace' , and the hymn 'Make me a Channel of your Peace', and a bit of 'La Bamba'. This ten minute musical medley filled my heart. Made an otherwise bad day come bright and joyful.

I cannot express my joy, my happiness. I can only thank Sajani.

Sajani, you made my day.

Villainous Vegetables

I am essentially a vegetarian, and I like most vegetables. I like fruits better, but will eat (or at least make an attempt) any vegetable. However I draw the line at karela or even the uchhe (a la Bengal). I think they are of the same genre. With its thick warty skin the karela is ugly and somehow reminds me of a frog. The uchhe is no better, Both are bitter and though I don't like the bitter taste, I can have the bengali titar daal, but I absolutely hate the karela. In any form. I like shukto. Only when I prepare it....... with the minimum input of uchhe or karela.Unfortunately the karela features everyday in our family ..... dinner or lunch. Even the children eat karela.

The next on my list of most hated veggies is the pumpkin (kumro in Bengali). It's squishy and sweet and slightly fibrous. Yucky ! Thankfully my family does not like it either. The Assamese call it ranga lau and add almost equal proportion of bhut jalokies to make a fiery curry. This curry is eaten with rice. Pumpkins ...... I do not eat.

The other vegetable on the 'no no' list is the tinda. This is a squidgy gelatinous stuff which is very popular in North India. I cannot have tinda in any form. My mejdimaashi (when she was in New Delhi) tried all kinds of tinda preparations on me. All of them failed to seduce me. She used to stuff tindas with a fish paste and bake them with a cheese topping. Called it by some fancy Spanish name. End of the day, they were still tindas. The only time this very favourite maashi of mine rebuked me was when I stoically refused this fish-cheese camouflaged tinda. She said I was 'too strong headed' !!!!

Otherwise, I maintain a very catholic taste where food is concerned. I am not really 'strong-headed'..... not where food is concerned.

Once when I was refusing to eat karela at the lunch table, my parents mentioned that we should be catholic regarding food habits. I was perhaps five years old at that time and did not know the meaning of the word 'catholic'. Dad explained the meaning. Adding that we are likely to be eating communal food most of our lives ..... at School, in College, in our canteen when we started working, and also in prison/jailkhana, should we ever took to stealing and our profession took us there!! My sister and I listened in wonder.

I tried the same line with my children. This time with the kumro being the bone of content. I wanted to pull the 'catholic' and the 'jailkhana' line on them. They retorted at once "Oh, but we are Catholics. We go to Catholic Schools. We go to Church. Perhaps you should tell Baba. He works in a non-Catholic office. Baba, eat the kumro !!!!"

Folks, today there is karela AND kumro for lunch !!!!

A Denial

To all those who had queries ref: my whisky blog.

1. NO. I am not a secret drinker. Not a drinker at all.

2. No. I do not have a 'stash' of whisky hidden in my house.

3. No. I don't prefer whisky to other liquor. I do not drink any liquor at
all.

4. The last time I drank whisky was Christmas 2007. One sip of
Glenlivet from Ranjan. That's it.

5. The post was not meant to be offensive or condescending. Nor
was it a lecture. Apologies for trampling over your feelings.

6. The rum and coke syndrome is only for youngsters and teenagers.

One admission.

I maintain whisky is a dignified drink. I probably learnt about whisky
from my Dad.

.... of lassi and of ghol .....

A friend asked me to write on lassi and ghol. I offered to send the recipe (so to say) by email. My friend insisted it be a blog.

So, now I do blogs on request. Ha Ha

This Ghol business is very dicey indeed, because it is a very Bengali ( and therefore, regional)concept, where the amount of curd required to make the ghol can vary from a little bit to a fair amount depending on individual taste. Moreover the art of making thick curd is not really known to Bengal. Simply because buffalo milk (very thick creamy milk) is not popular in Bengal.

The idea of ghol is very simple . A bit of dahi, a fair bit of sugar, a pinch of salt stirred together with iced water and the ghol is ready. My aunt-in-law.... a pucca ghoti makes something called doi er shorbot. This stuff is delicious and really refreshing. Doi er shorbot is a little thicker than ghol. A little less sweet, a bit of salt and a good pinch of gondhoraj lebu. Really ,this is heavenly on a hot summer afternoon after I have braved the traffic to get to her old and beautiful house in Bowbazar.

The ghol and the do ier shorbot probably came from East Bengal where the Portuguese, and later the Muslim culture called for a burhani after a rich rice-based meal.

The lassi is quintessentially a drink of North India. Be it Punjab, be it Uttar Pradesh or even Haryana, lassi is a household drink. The area is rich agricultural land with a propensity of milch cattle breeding. Moreover it is extremely hot and dry in summer. The milk (quite a high production), does not keep fresh for very long. Rabri, khowa, ghee and other milk products are made from fresh milk, just as much dahi is made. From dahi is made mathha (buttermilk) and lassi.

The art of making lassi is best known to people native of Punjab. Thick creamy Bhains-ka-dudh dahi is put in a lota. This is churned with a wooden ghotli ...... by hand. This churning is the real art, because the dahi has to liquidise, but not separate into whey. Sugar is added and the entire drink is poured into tall metal glasses, frothy at the top, and thick and creamy underneath. There is nothing....really nothing to beat a Punjabi lassi, made in a village in Punjab, by a buxom Sardarni, served by the pretty young daughter.The lassi is equally popular in Uttar Pradesh, and also in Rajastan. The UP lassi is perhaps a little less thick. There is a shop on Gowdhuli, Banaras, where they serve very,very good lassi, with a piece of cream on top. This is typically UP. Punjab will not have anything but the froth on the top. Rajasthan most often adds a pinch of salt, or sometimes methi. Tastes alright, but I'd vote for the Punjab ki lassi or my favourite Banarasi lassi.

Lassi today is an ubiquitous drink available (from Kashmir to Kanyakumari type) everywhere. Best to avoid the lassi in South India though. It's watery, sour and tastes like nothing on earth. Bangalore, Goa, Chennai etc has other stuff to offer.... Vijay Mallya has done extremely well in the South !!!!

Mathha is another drink which should feature on this post. it's buttermilk or whey or call it what you like. It is popular in North India and is really more effective against the summer heat. The Chhaach of Gujarat and Rajasthan is a close relative of the mattha. Chhaach is tempered and is spiced.

The essential thing to remember in making lassi or ghol is NOT to use an electric blender or mixer. The right thing to use is a lota and ghotli (a wooden rod with angled arms) which can churn the curd but does not make it a homogenised liquid. Lassi made in an electric blender is hardly the real stuff. By the way, in 1998, Sanjoy and I bought lassi for all of us.... kids and driver and all.... on the Chandigarh Highway. The lassi was being made in a green and white Kelvinator washing machine and was being sold in buckets. Rs 20 for a bucketful. Pretty good lassi, too.

My mother (fearing my frequent heat stroke attacks) always had mattha and lassi and nimbu pani ready for me. Infact, in summer I ate very little during the day ..... the home-made dahi based drinks and keri-pani and fruits kept my hunger at bay. In winter (fearing asthma attacks) Ma had me on an Ovaltine and milk diet. Both diets were appreciated by me. It meant pampering and extra attention. I could "create" for hours anytime there seemed to be a deficit of the motherly attention.

There are other summer drinks. Nimbu Pani (best made at home, but the old lady at Lalbagh palace is very near it). When I was very young Ma used to take me to Sita Chaudhuri's house. I had a kalojam er shorbot once, and on another occasion a falsa shorbot. I have never had these two very exotic shorbot ever. I tried to make it at home....didn't taste the same. I make aam-dudh for my childen at home. They love it. The Western Indian concept of aam-ras is also very cooling. The Bengali aam-pora-shorbot has no equal. It should ideally be made by scalding the small raw mangoes in the coal fired stoves. Another Bengali drink is the Bel er shorbot or paana. Good if it is made well. Somehow, I am not too fond of it. In Bihar they make an essence of Beli flower and add it to chilled sugar-water. Very good and very cooling. Watermelon can be crushed and made into a cool and refereshing drink. Unfortunately my family does not like watermelon in any form. All over India, mint (pudina) is used for a summer drink. I cannot comment on this. I hate mint.

Sunita, in all her wisdom, picked me write about the ghol and the lassi.I strayed. A lot more could have been written, But I'll keep it for another post...some othe day. I have not used italics for regional language terms. This post is meant to be regional.Let it remain so.

I include here a poem by Shantam which was published in the school rag. It's called "Sherbet Dreams". Its too small a print . I could not do a good job ofthe scan-image-copy. Perhaps Sajani can make an attempt to read it.

Hmmm. What's happening?

I like sweets. I love sweets.

Sunita does not.

Yet she goes to Sri Hari to buy paneer and ends up buying mishti.

She actually makes a trip to Spencers for Monohara.

Catching, eh?

Infectious.

Two Nuggets of Gold and a Mishti

Here are a few nuggets to be found rarely, very rarely in Calcutta. The nuggets are not native to the city, and not too many people know about it. Though not indigenous they have survived the test of time. How they came to the city requires research (which I have not done). This is just a off-my-head post.

Nugget One

There is this this little shop in Park Circus. I do not know the name of the street. The shop is probably called South Indian Cafe. The road is a small lane...next to Queen of the Mission School.

The road curves and enters Circus Avenue. Anyway, explore a bit and you'll find it. This an ordinary, no-frill shop selling South Indian food. Their USP is the Appam-Stew. I do not know of any other place in Calcutta that serves this very unique Malayalam dish. May be the five-star hotels do. But this little eatery takes the cake.

Appams are small bowl shaped thin pancakes, with a small fluffy roundel of yeasty stuff in the centre. They are golden and crispy at the edges, and soft and fluffy in the centre. Appams are made from fermented rice flour and coconut milk. Essentially they are quite bland and insipid and goes with a vegetable or meat stew. The stew is delicious. A medium thick broth with soft meat and a few pieces of vegetables. Appams, in this shop at Park Circus, is also served with jaggery (only in winter).

Appams are native to Kerala, though Tamil Nadu and Karnataka has variations of it. To those who have schooled in boarding schools in the south (Blue Mountain or SHY, Yercaud or BCS, Bangalore......remember 'whoppers'?). The self-same stuff.

Really worth a trip.....these appams.

Nugget Two

The Gurdwara at the Elgin Road-Harish Mukherjee Road crossing has a Dhaba nearby. I think its called Balwant Singh's Dhaba. They serve 'Dudh-Cola'. Completely unique drink. Safe. Chilled. Delicious. As the name suggests it is a mixture of milk and Coca Cola. I have never come across this in any other part of Calcutta/India/the World.

Dudh Cola is not too thin, not too thick, not too creamy, just rightly chilled.........a 'wonder-full' drink on a wonder filled late night drive. It's made by the jug. You cannot get a single serving.

Ambrosia???........weeell,......near enough !!!!!!

The Mishti

The 165 year old shop of Girish Dey and Nakur Nandy near Hedua Park off Cornwallis Street is known to every connoisseur of sweet. And Calcutta has many such connoisseurs.....lots.......millions of them. Gour-Nakur makes Paradise, Jalbhara and many other types of Sandesh. Their trademark mishti is the 'Monohara'. Monoharas are soft sandesh with a remarkably thin coating of sugar syrup. These are about golf ball size and one requires special 'chena' (cottage cheese) to make it.

The sweet Monohara is said to have originated in Janai village of Nadia district, West Bengal. The Mukherjee family and the Singha family (both from Janai or near Janai) introduced it to the Calcutta elite sometime in the early 1890s.

In our family the story runs that this self same sweet was a specialty and a signature mishti of our ancestral village Majhhpara in Bikrampur District of Dacca. The mishti is made from the softest chena with rose petal flavour. The climate of (erstwhile) East Bengal not being too conducive to keep the chena fresh, the sandesh was coated with a thin sugar syrup. This prolonged the shelf-life so to say, and made it easier to carry / transport the sandesh to our town house in Dacca. Locally this sandesh was called 'Chinir Pire'...... a small seat of sugar. I am told my by Dad that the correct way to eat this sandesh is to crack open the sugar coating (traditionally with the ring/rings that you are wearing), peel off the coating, eat the sandesh and not the coating.

Girish-Nakur introduced Monohara in 1980 when we ordered this for my sisters marriage. It is said that Dad went and stood at their workshop and personally supervised the 'moiras' (sweetmeat makers) making the mishti of his ancestral village. He threatened "shaesh koira dimu" if the sweets did not match his expectation. I quite believe the story.

The present owner Prashanta Nandy is still apprehensive when Dad makes his rare visit (Dad is now 88 years of age) to this quaint shop in Hedua.

Monohara is worth a special trip to North Calcutta...... braving the erratic traffic.

Enjoy ..........

Do not add ice.......

Tonight at Big Ben (Kenilworth), I came upon a great realisation. This issue has irked me always, but well, ...... live and let live has been my policy. Hence though it irked me, it never annoyed me. Today, it was different.

The issue is...Why do people drink their Scotch on the rocks...... with ice. I think it's a waste of good liquor. Funnily enough the Americans are the ones who do it more often than others. The Americans anyway have a lot to learn. They can put this learning procedure on their long list of 'things-to-learn'.

What is more, the wannabe Delhites, the corporate yuppies, the Bongs, the Diggas and the who-have-you from all over India seems to be drinking their whisky on the rocks. Rather strange, because whisky is not the correct thing to drink in these warm tropical climates. But then again, most of these affluent wannabes are cocooned in air-conditioned comfort all the time.....so never mind the tropical heat !!!

The word whisky comes from the word uisgegaugh (or usquebaugh) meaning 'the water of life'. A great tribute to a very noble drink. But when whisky is poured on ice cubes (or ice cubes put in the whisky), it freezes the aroma and the smell, and only dulls the taste/flavour and smell of the whisky. Moreover, the ice melts, and dilutes the whisky in degrees, thereby changing the taste with every sip. The last sip is therefore the most dilute, and yet warmer (no ice) than the first extremely cold.This reverse process is not what this noble drink should undergo.

Chilled whisky does not readily yield up its aromas and the addition of ice will close them down altogether.

Whisky should be single malt. Made in Scotland. Each district of Scotland has their individual brew with their highly individual taste and aroma. Tallisker (Isle of Skye) is different from Dalwhinnie (Highland) or Glenfiddich or Craggmore or JW Blue Label or Glenlivet. A single malt is the best whisky and should preferably be drunk neat at room temperature (the room temperature of the Scottish Highlands is of course 15 degree Celsius). Water.... just a little bit of water ..... may enhance the taste, but ice will surely kill it.

The blended whiskies come next J&B, Cutty Sark, JW (Red, Black, Gold), Black Dog etc. These too can be drunk neat, or with a little water. Spring water is ideal.

Irish whiskey is very different, yet very, very good. Once again, ice kills the flavour, and all good Irish whiskies like Jamieson, Old Bushmills, Tulamore Dew should be had neat, or with a little water.

The Americans ...... remember they still have a lot to learn........ make their whiskey (note the changed spelling) with maize and corn and call it it bourbon. One has to acquire a taste for it. Canadian whisky is once again different from the Scotch of Scotland. And heaven forbid, I hear whisky is now distilled in Japan and also in Zimbabwe. I hope my informer is wrong !!!!

In India whisky is considered to be a fashionable drink. The young trendsetters (no gender bias here) gulp down Indian blended whisky on the rocks, with chilled water, with a Coca Cola, even cocktails. I wonder if they know that Indian whisky is nearly always made from molasses, and hence may well be termed as rum outside of the Indian subcontinent.

A true lover of Scotch will drink his whisky with a little clear water. Adding a little water to the whisky before drinking will prevent the strength of the whisky numbing the senses and increasing the flavour and the aroma of the Scotch. The water liberates 'the bouquet' by breaking down the intensity and allowing the subtle and smooth flavour to make themselves known.

So dear tipplers, please don't chill your Scotch with ice.

Add a little water.

Drink it at room temperature.

Enjoy the 'water of life'

Above all maintain your dignity. For whisky is a dignified drink.

Fiscal Thoughts

Someone whom I know is due to retire. He is not too comfortable with the idea. His pension is meager. "I have always had money to spend...... never been poor........." quoth he.

Set me thinking......

Lucky bugger, never been poor. Hell, man, I've been battling it out for years.

I've never been rich.

Damn it !!!

Hell, Nevermind.

Further thoughts.........

I've never been poor either. Maybe I've got used to being poor. God knows.

Not rich....Not poor.

How complicated this is.

Last thought at bedtime.

I don't know what it is being rich. Nor do I know what it means being poor. I do not care a fig for either state. Money comes because I earn it.......it goes because I spend it. Period.

I have all I need, what I do not have I do not therefore need.

I sent up a silent thanks.