I wish for you

For

Krishi Singh (20th August, 2010)
Nandini Viveka Chatterjee (21st September, 2011)
Nayantara Ray (21st September, 2011)
Meera Dasgupta (10th November, 2011)

I wish for you all the flowers that you can talk to, and all the trees you can climb. I wish for you all the rivers you can wade in, and the hills you can climb.

I wish you castles made of story books ( for bricks/stones) and all the wonder that they may contain. May they never cease to amaze you.

I wish for you the soft gentle breeze that rustles your silken hair, but I also wish you the thrill of an occasional gale and you at the helm of a ship.... or at least the feel of a strong wind as you pillion ride a motor bike.

I wish you "twinkle toes" feet, so that you may travel and travel, AND travel. but may you always return and to bring for us the scent, the flavour, the feel of the places you visit.

I wish for you stories and books, pencils and pens, paper and note books.... may all of you love to read, and above all, to write,.

I wish you the colours of the rainbow, along with crayons and pastels, Caran d'Ache and canvas, Faber and charcoal, never mind what others say/ feel about your piece of art.

I wish you a mind that is razor sharp ( but never to hurt others). A mind that never ceases to think, A mind to seek, to analyses and to reflect , to feel, to touch.

I wish you the Music of the Heavens and of the Universe. Some Joel and Denver, Dylan and Cohen, Bach and Tchaikovsky - may there always be music in your lives.

I wish you large expanses of the blue sea and deep in this ocean, may there be a wave for you. I wish you a high blue sky and high in the sky may there be white fluffy clouds for you to ride.

I wish you strong sturdy legs that you are good to walk, and walk, .... and walk , and may the walks be forever enjoyable. Also a a pair of strong arms to help, to protect , to guide, to carry.

I wish for you Magic Carpets and race horses, lemon drops and peppermint creams, ice cream and roller skates, cycle rides and bear hugs, warm bread puddings and rocking horses.

I wish for you numerous animals, cats and dogs, rabbits and squirrels Teddies and Poohs, panthers and tigers : out of Corbett and Ruskin Bond. Always love the animals around you, don't bother too much about the homo sapiens.

May in your life be plenty of laughter, lots of smiles and sunshine, but solitude and dark clouds ain't too bad either.

May you dads throw you in the air to catch you again in his strong arms. May you mothers share all your happiness and doubts, may all of you have siblings to share the ups and downs of life. To squabble, to fight, to sneak to stick up for, to love and to hate.

I wish you all the luck and love, and blessings that will make you grow up strong and tall. May you all live long happy lives. And may you all meet each other at some point of time.

May this song of mine wrap it's music around you and keep you forever safe and secure.

Rocket Attack on AJ

This young man I know did his Diwali CSR or good deed or whatever one would like to call it by going to an old-age home and join them for a fireworks show. All very good, except that this boy is more-than-normal scared of fireworks. To his credit, he braved the fear and went to the show. He sat quietly, and watched others do the cracker job. Without much warning a "rocket cracker" (0r what was called whistlers in our times) shot across the ground and found a neat target ....... our dear protagonist's toes. The toes were singed, the young man bawled, a doctor was got..... etc. etc. etc.

The moral of the story :
1. At Diwali shows always wear shoes and socks, always wear full sleeved shirt and trousers.

2. It pays to study 'Rocket Science' perhaps ?????? Did the guy who lit the whistler read the science??? At the USA?????

I do not know whether to laugh or to condole, but it re-affirms by belief in 'armoured Diwali garments'.

of parents

Sometimes I miss my parents. A large part of my growing up years was spent with them, and much of what I am today is because I was the world to them, and in turn, they were important in my life. Ma was the first to know of any failure of mine. And Dad was the first to know about any new mountain that I had climbed.

They taught me Freedom. With a capital F and that meant Freedom of the Mind and of the Spirit. They also taught me Responsibility, that may arise out of Freedom ...... or the misuse of it.

Parents tend to fade away into the background over time.
That I guess, is the nature of life.
And children sometimes permit that to happen.

Make your parents relevant to your life.

Relevance. Significance. That is all they need.

All I have is yours to have.

I have been meeting a whole lot of young people lately. I meet and interact with the age 20+ and the age 30+ youngsters as a matter of routine .... as part of my job. Interesting young people, intelligent and bright. They, nearly all, seem to have clear and ambitious schemes ahead of them, and the pursuit of success and status take on a high priority. Clearly ambition and achievement are qualities held in special regard. Objects of material affluence are important to them.
That is the way society works ............
a) Success
b) Money
What the world measures you by.

I treat success with disdain. I smirk at its smugness. A recent mandatory appraisal at my place of work asked me if I was a success at my job. I have never asked myself the question.
Do I measure my success as a professor judging from the few dozen of CEOs and academicians I have tutored?
Or do I judge my success on the fact that hundreds of old students come back every year with girl-friends/boy-friends/wives/husbands/children/a dog, in tow to meet
"My Ma'am. Pronam koro."
To me the latter seems to be more important. Yet, when a publishing house of huge repute recently announced the top five young social scientists of India, three of the five were my students. I walked rather tall that day!
Actually there is only one form of success, and that is how successful you are in your relationships.How do you sculpt a long term relationship?

Of money, the least said the better. Money is so very non-contextual to me. I know that is not what I judge myself by. Neither do I judge others by it. I work hard and earn the money I think I deserve. I never have made money that I did not rightly deserve. I do not spend my earnings ostentatiously. I have all the material things I need, and what I do not have, I do not obviously need. I have earned other riches in life, I have got other wealth. Things money can't buy.

To the bright-eyed youth of today ..... Make money, make it honestly, but never for yourself. Always for someone else. Bring on a smile on someone's face. Let not "I want" or "I want to...." be a catch-word in your life.

I don't own any thing. All I have is yours to have.

Of Khokababus

When I got married I got introduced to a new set of men... male members of my new family.They were different from the males in our family. All at once I realised that I came from a family where the women were educated, broad minded, strong, vocal and definitely had an opinion. The men in our family, who were nearly all professors and lawyers by profession, were uber-educated, tolerant and peace-loving and that is why we children - girls and boys alike - grew up with a lot of freedom and space. The household (households, if you consider the extended family) was run in a fair and democratic way.

In my in-laws household, the males seemed to be domineering and very feudal in their ways. While we (in our childhood) were taught that it was uncouth to show arrogance, this new family of mine revelled in arrogance. This show of false attitude irked me for a long while. After a while I learned to respect the relationships (too late to cut loose), if not the men themselves.

This post is all about Khokababu - my new acquaintance. I have never ever known another person like Khokababu, and it makes me wonder about the male of the human species. This man is a stuffy pompous ass. He has an ego as inflated as a hot-air balloon ....and we all know how empty balloons are.This man (I cannot call him a gentleman) comes from a baniya Bengali family ( a very bad combination. Baniya Gujjus and baniya Marwaris are better people). The Khokababu was educated at an ordinary school (I have great respect for the term 'middle class' , and therefore will not use it here), and then at an upmarket College . What he does for a living is inconsequential, but his inter-personal skills are very, very poor indeed. The 'feudal bangali' attitude remains in him to the hilt. And the upbringing has obviously been poor because his unrefined ways shows in oh so many ways.

However, how he chooses to live his life is no concern of mine. Except that it left me thinking about such 'alpha-male' people that all of us have to encounter at some point of time. Why do these 'Khokababus" of society force themselves on others?

Why do others take these so called men lying down, and give in to their whims? A big pity that these sort of of egoistic, empty, arrogant, pompous people exist. Could their parents not teach them basic human qualities like tolerance, sympathy, compassion? Why is 'I' so BIG in their world? Followed almost immediately by 'MY'. .... .'MY IDEA'......'I DO NOT APPRECIATE' ...... 'IN MY OPINION'.........

MY dear man, does it strike you that your opinion, your appreciation, is not the end all and be all of everything. The sun doesn't exactly shine out of.........

The term Khokababu is used to denote these not-very-mature 'big boys' who behave like six year olds. Throw a tantrum when they are put in a situation of conflict. Pull on the 'I' act when their so called 'entity' is threatened and definitely behave in an all round uncouth fashion without any respect for age, gender, chair and most important....insaan.

From one insaan to another......can we not expect a little more refined behaviour from the Khokababus of this world? Can these pompous people grow up? And not be little boys. Could they face reality with some straightforward, old fashioned courage, and not hide away.(not that we want to see too much of them......)

Most often these people are not too above board and their skewed thought process would delight a psycho-analyst.

I have to admit that most men I have dealt with are fair and just. They have their quirky ways, but on the whole they are tolerant and gentle.Quite good company some of them......not so good the others.

The object of this post is to ask my readers.......do you know of such people? How many? How often do you meet this kind of Khokababus?Are they easy to deal with? I hope the Khokababus of the world are an abberation. I am sure they are.

Responses please.

R.I.P. the 'chowanni'

It was sad to read about the death of the 'chowanni'. At one time, many, many moons ago it was a much coveted item ...... came to us only on Saturday mornings. The 'chowanni' in the sixties bought me a bottle of Coca Cola (the 'asli' American stuff) and perhaps a toffee too. The Coke at that time was probably the most costly item on the 'chowanni' list. The indigenous "Jusla" or "Nimbula" cost 20 paise. Even in the '70s a 'banta' (in Delhi) would cost att anni .

A 'chowanni' got us a wooden top with a latti....... a great toy to show off ones skill in lattu khela.

In the rainy season with the gusty winds tugging at my wild unkempt hair, a 'chowanni' could fetch a few paper kites with some manja string. The joy of flying a kite from our roof top, with the wind tugging the kite high, high, high up in the sky was something nearly sublime. Hemant Jalan had once offered to do my school homework for the princely sum of a 'chowanni'. Unfortunately Dad got the wind of it, and the plan died a sudden death. When I was very, very young (in the Keyatala house), a copper paise with a hole in the centre got two gujias at the local mishtir dokan.

A few years later a 'chowanni' would take me to the school tuck-shop where a small bar of Cadbury's (white wrapper with purple logo) would cost 2 annas. That was the most expensive chocolate in our tuck-shop. Jujubes came for one anna for 10, and a biggish stick of barley sugar would cost the same. Lacto Bonbons and Morton's toffees would cost 5 paise for 10. The old man in front of the Rink cinema at Darjeeling would sell second hand Archie comics at 'chowanni' ........ this was the height of "contraband" in our school life.

Even as late as 1975, a soda-nimbu at North Campus would cost a 'chowanni' and 'char annar size' rosogolla was common in all mishtir dokan in Calcutta. In Etawa station a 'chowanni' could get us pua tak rabri. Plus the thrill of running after the Deluxe Mail with the rabri dripping from an indigenous leaf-plate. The sheer defiance of having a malai lassi in Banaras ( even after Ma had read the Riot Act on the consumption of street food) came at 'chowanni'. Just as much a 'chowanni' bought me strength and comfort in the cold December nights in Delhi in the form of samose aur malai chai.

The 'chowanni' could actually pay for a two-way bus fare from College in 1972 with 5 paise to spare, and when the bus fares went upto 15 paise, there were widespread protests in Calcutta. A 'chowanni' worth bus ride took me from Bhawanipur to Paikpara on the top deck of a No 33 bus, and brought me safely home with a return ticket. Those were great days!

It is a pity that the 'chowanni' died away in the great path of economic advancement. With it died a large part of my childhood.

A Legacy

My parents may not have left a whole lot of material things for their four grandchildren, but both the grandparents left a deep sense of music in all their grandchildren. My sister at one time could sing very well, she still can I guess, but I don't hear her sing very often. I cannot sing, but my love for music makes me go forward in my life.

The grandchildren were more lucky. The youngest (a violinist) has made music his profession, and from what I understand he is doing very well. The next eldest was perhaps the most gifted musically. An excellent pianist and a superb singer. He had got the pitch perfect voice from my mother. And his intense love of music from my father. In addition his ability to play nearly all musical instruments was probably God gifted, or gifted to him from my Bheblu-Mama. The only grand daughter got my mothers' voice. Almost the exact tonal quality and the empathy she lends to her singing. From my father she got the love for music, specially his intense love for western classical got carried over to her and she still plays the same on the piano. The eldest grandchild too loves music, plays the piano a bit. However, he has not got my mothers voice.

People leave behind wealth and riches. Oh, how fortunate are you four children to receive such priceless legacy. Count your blessings, children.

P. S. My parents left behind a love of reading books, and writing. More about it later.

Untitled 1

Let there be a seat for you

At the end of the road.

A seat for you to sit

And rest your weary limbs.

Let there be a golden sunset

To help you cross the way.

A sunset full of tenderness

To welcome the new day across.

Let there be a clarity

A vision which you leave behind.

No last thoughts, not a good-bye

But you leave with your head held high.

Let there be memories

Which we treasure.

But also let there be

A new world full of peace for you.

Arch. F J Ainsworth-Smith

This Blog is about Felicity J Ainsworth-Smith. She is 26 years old. An Architect by profession. A Britisher by nationality.

She turned up on my doorstep. Literally 'turned up' , on a stormy rainy March night with a quiet "Are you Nandini Dutta?"

She brought out a piece of paper ..... a email printout. The mail was from Shantam. Shantam wrote to her stating clearly that if ever she was in India, she was welcome at his Mum's house. There would be food and also shelter of a kind and many, many animals. The address was enclosed. Shantam did not give his Mother's email id or her phone number. The girl did not think it was strange not to have a mail id or a phone number, and just come to the address. She said the offer was made in good faith, so why need she worry?

Felicity has done her degree from Manchester, has lived in a small town in the Midlands all her life. She has a Mother (who is a potter), a grandmother, an aunt and two cousins.

"What brought you to India?" , I asked.

She said she has come to dig for her roots. Yes, she is part Indian. Her father is an Indian from Patiala. Punjab.

"So, did you find your Father?"

"No. No. My Father is in England. In Bristol".

This young woman spoke so little. I am not very good at conversation. I hardly knew this girl, and here she was, with an email printout and all, while a full fledged storm was raging outside. I offered her my very frugal dinner. She agreed. I asked her about the 'shelter' Shantam had promised. She declined. She was staying at Sudder Street, but would not mind spending a few days at my house-by-the-graveyard ...... " later in the week, perhaps?"

"So, Felicity, did you find your Father's family? Why did you Father not come with you?"

"No, Ma'am, My Father cannot come. But, yes, I did trace my Father's family. Besides, I also have come to India as a professional Architect."

"Oh. What kind of Indian Architecture?"

"Prisons. Prisons in India and other parts of the world."

In my wildest dreams, I had not ever given thought to Prison Architecture. Very gradually (this young girl is the quietest person I have met in a long, long time), over a period of a week or ten days that she was in Calcutta, the story unraveled.

Felicity told me that she has come to India because of an award she (or the firm she works for) has won for designing an ideal prison. Prison conditions are appallingly bad all over the world. British prisons are almost 'inhuman' in their architectural designs. Indian prisons were not too far behind. Felicity has come to India to visit 11 Schools of Architecture to deliver short lecture-modules on Prison Architecture. She has been interacting with the faculty and the students of the Schools, and basically "spreading awareness". Not social awareness, but something in the way of Architecture and Design and such like. The particular interest she has in Prison Architecture was because her Father is a 'lifer' in a British jail, and she has been visiting prisons and jails since she was a twelve-year old.

It is such a pity, that the cramped quarters of a prison (6' X 4') strikes a 12 year old hard enough to make life changing decisions. And yet the Social Service Wing of several Governments go completely 'blind' on such issues. Yes, she always wanted to study Architecture. The prison idea was always there at the back of her mind. I did not ask her about her Father. She did not reveal much either. She wanted to visit the Alipore Jail in Calcutta. She showed me e mails where she and Shantam had communicated on this issue. This was before, much before, she had actually designed this Idealised Version of a jail. Shantam had offered the help that his Mother could give. "She is quite good at all this kind of stuff" where the exact words. Hence, I arranged a

visit ......which led to several visits. Felicity walked around, talked to the inmates. No awkwardness, her disarming smile can put most people at ease. She talks very little anyway. She listens. She knows Hindi ..... at least well enough to get through to people. We spent a week together .... on and off ...... talking about prisons, India, Punjab and many other things. She spent three days at my house. Loved Skippy, loved Chico (who for once was quite kind to a guest). Ate rice and dal and curry. We visited North Calcutta. I showed her all the balconies of Calcutta that I adore. She was fascinated with the river. We had a good time.

She took the train to Delhi where she did manage to locate more uncles and cousins. She visited their ancestral village near Ambala. She 'loved' Red Fort and the Old Delhi area. In between she lectured at the SPA and at the BHU. She thought Banaras was 'ageless' At IIT-KGP she wanted to know about the MIG aircraft. Felicity went off to Mysore and Bangalore. leaving her luggage behind at my house. She travelled second class sleeper on the Indian Railway coaches..... it was not too warm in March.

Felicity has been on my mind for sometime. She phones from different towns where she is on this lecture-tour awareness scheme. She will be going back to the UK in July, and I hope some day there will be an ideal prison for life-time prisoners and perhaps for all other prisoners too.

If for no other reason, for the sake of Felicity.

Girls

Overheard at a small eatery in the outskirts of Calcutta.

A very ordinary, not very old father with a small girl.... his daughter...... about 8 or 9 years old. Both sitting on a rickety bench, having a chilled Pepsi each. The girl swinging her legs, and the father doing the Bengali leg-shake.

Girl : "Baba, you know, Ma never says anything to Bhai. Never scolds him. He tore my drawing book last week, and Ma blamed me. Baba, why does Ma always scold me? "

Father : "No, Khuki. I don't think Ma scolds you intentionally. Bhai is a handful. He is a very naughty boy. Ma gets tired looking after him. She gets irritated"

Girl : "Baba, you know Gora next door? He is naughtier. He breaks all the flower pots, and steals the pickle from the terrace. He is naughtier than Bhai. Bhai is hardly a naughty boy. Gora's mother does not scold him. Neither does she scold Anu Didi"

Father : "And now, who is Anu Didi"

Girl : "Oooff Baba, you don't know ANYTHING. Anu Didi is Gora's elder sister".

Father : "Oh..."

Girl : " You have not answered me. Why does Ma scold me? Maybe she does not love me".

Father : " No. That is not true. She loves you very much. You are her first born. You are our special child, Khuki. Ma loves you."

Girl : " How do you know?"

Father : "Because she told me"

Girl : With bright eyes.... "She did? Did you ask her, or did she say on her own?"

Father: "She tells me that nearly every day. What a good girl you are. How you looked after Bhai that afternoon when Ma had to go to the temple to do her Neel er Pujo. Khuki, you must understand that Ma is overworked. She has a lot of housework to do. Maybe that is why she is irritable."

Girl : " Not all Baba. Every mother has housework to do. All mothers have to do it. When did she tell you that she loves me?"

Father : "She tells me that most times. You are a good child. Don't take Ma's scoldings to heart. She does love you, Khuki. You know that. Now, finish your Pepsi, let's go home"

Girl : "But I haven't finished talking yet. May I have another Pepsi? No? Ok, half a bottle? Please Baba, it's such a hot day."

Another bottle is ordered.

Girl : "Baba, you know Papai Dada? He is going to College next year. Baba, when will I go to College?"

Father : "Hurry up now, Khuki, you talk too much. You have to study hard to go to college."

Girl : "Yes, Baba. Can we take a chocolate home for Bhai and for Ma? Actually no. Bhai will only make a mess of the chocolate. Perhaps a big Pepsi bottle?"

Father : "Khuki, hurry up. We will take some mishti doi. Happy?. Now finish that cold drink.

And remember not to worry your mother with your tantrums. She loves you a lot. Never doubt that."

Girl : "Yes, Baba. Please tell her not to scold me so much. Baba, you know the mishti Putul Pishi brought that day? Those boro boro, norom sandesh...... well, Thama did not give Ma any. Bhai is a glutton. He had two......or very nearly would have had two, if I had not snatched some away from him. Ma did not have any. I noticed."

Father : : "Your Mother is fat as it is. She should not have any mishti at all"

Girl : "Why not? You are fat too. You have mishti all the time. No. It's just that Thama is mean to Ma. Why, Baba? Why is Thama mean to Ma and Parul er ma? Wait, I'll take the uthon jharar jhanta into the pujor ghar this evening. That should teach Thama a lesson!"

Father : "Ok. Ok. Now let's go. What a little chatter box you are! No college will ever take you. Now, wipe your face. Here, let me do it. Use your frock. Let's go. We'll have to get the mishti doi on the way back. Ooof. God knows why I brought you along. Get up. Let's go."

The Father and girl leaves with the girl happily skipping alongside.

I had taken a long bus ride. It was a very hot day. I spent some time in a small eatery drinking hot sweet tea. This conversation took place at the bench next to me. I enjoyed the tete a tete.

Just a note .... a rather long note.

A few days back a young lady asked me to suggest a 'walk' in/around Calcutta. Calcutta is a city of such variety of colour and flavour, filth and spankiness, the old and the new. Any walk, just anywhere can be a delight if the perspective is correct and the power of absorption is high.

However to this young lady I suggested a trip to the Park Street Cemetery and a walk around the area..... Park Street, McLeod Street, Park Lane, Elliot Road, Ripon Street, Sheriff Lane, Kala Goonda Lane, Sudder Street. Lanes and by-lanes with narrow paths going through courtyards and bhaatikhanas and dhobikhanas. Strange and unknown cobbled paths ending in sudden cul-se-sacs. I have always loved this area and have wondered why an average Bengali is afeared of the Elliot Road para. It's safer than Kasba and Belghoria, let me tell you.

This area of Elliot Road-Ripon Street-McLeod Street used to be the Anglo Indiandom till about the mid or late seventies. In the seventies an exodus of Anglo Indians left for Canada and Australia and England. They left behind old magnificent rococo structures in various stages of dereliction. The houses had wooden staircases and crazy-china floors. And what ornate G.I balcony grille work !

It is not really strange that the Anglo Indians and the Muslims have always shared a symbiotic relationship. The culture, religion etc being different, they did however concur on some socio-economic indices, making them peaceful and friendly neighbours to each other.It is a matter of regret that once the Anglo-Indians started moving out, the Muslims (clearly the more affluent of the two) bought up most properties and converted the elegant old houses into slick- cemented tenements. The once gracious houses are but nostalgia today. The influx of the Muslim community in the last three decades has changed the entire picture of this kingdom. However, the charm still exists in bits and pieces and an occasional whiff of 'ball-curry and yellow rice' cooking on a Sunday afternoon can be most reassuring to lost souls like us who grew up with the Hennesseys and the Laurences and the Chaters of this ' Little England'.

To begin with, Anglo Indians and Eurasians, Portuguese and Goans are all clubbed together for the sake of convenience. Anyway they all lived together in more or less perfect harmony with, I think, religion (Roman Catholics and Protestants) forming an adhesive bond. The Bengal Baptist Union building (which is now falling apart, quite literally) used to be a solid octagonal shaped building with a deep verandah in the front. The wooden louvers (painted green) still exists and the steps (13 steps, if I remember rightly) going up gives the building a high plinth and the building has cellars underneath. (Incidentally so has several other buildings in this area).

The building which houses the Calcutta Muslim Orphanage at 25C Elliot Road is another beautiful red-brick building which obviously has seen better days. Yet the old charm still peeps out of the tall top floor windows and the magnificent balcony on the top floor. The old Naskar Bakery perhaps still exists. The Naskars came from East Pakistan, and started this bakery. The house is old and square with a courtyard inside which I do not think can be matched anywhere else in this city. A courtyard paved in golden yellow sandstone which in its moment of glory in the late evening shines like a sheet of gold. Neddless to say, the level of dereliction is high. At one time this area abounded in small-time bakeries making meringues and 'fairy cakes'. I wonder if anyone still remembers the street hawkers selling " Cakes....Cakes" in Ballygunge and Beadon Street, Kalighat and Bhawanipore. These hawkers came with black tin trunks on their heads selling pink and white iced cup cakes. "Saldhanas" was a popular brand. Old Mrs. Saldhana died. Her son emigrated to Australia. Another son stayed back, but he worked in the Tram Company. Alex, the grandson plays music for a living. End of fairy cakes in black boxes. These cakes were not too bad.

The Anglo Indians were (and are still are) warm, friendly fun living people. For many of us who grew up in the golden sixties and went to SXC or LH, their company, their homes, their festivals were shared by all of us. Similarly they had no qualms about coming to our Durga Puja or Saraswati Puja. Many of them were the best 'dhunuchi dancers' I have ever seen. These boys were naturally graceful and oh so full of music.

The Armenians too lived in this area. Old fashioned and gracious people. Old Mrs John may still be around. She does not however consider herself to be a 'true-blue' resident. First, her accommodation is rented. Second, Armenians are NOT Anglo Indians. Notwithstanding these two points, I consider her to be a very elegant lady (she can be a warrior too) for, she has been a great support to the Armenian Society, their Church and their School and College (William M Thackeray's house) for decades. The Armenian boys were mighty handsome and many of them went to School in the Darjeeling Hills. Many of them are still my friends. Old Mackertich John (the original Armenian) owned the Carlton Hotel, a part of the city's oldest hostelry. The building does not exist any more. It has been converted to an office block.

At one time there used to be trams on Elliot Road (now there are these monstrous autos) and there used to be a few 'ladies' special. These special trams used to take the Anglo Indian (read all those who lived on Elliot Road area) 'chicks' to office in the Dalhousie Square area. These girls were well dressed, and they knew how to carry their clothes. The SXC boys and the locals used to have big fights over these ladies in the 'ladies special'. The girls and boys were all very musical.

Mrs Misquita (from SXC) used to live in 61 Elliot Road and there are a few hundreds who learnt the piano from her. There were two pianos in her house, a Collard and Collard and also a high studio level Rachals. Even today, a search in this area might reveal a few dusty Steinway's or maybe a small English Holden. Mrs Peterson (also of SCX) was another true-blue resident and generations of SXC boys learnt their English Speech and Elocution from her and her sharp slaps. Mr. Melvyn Brown ( formerly of the SXC Library) and his son Warren still lives on what is called the Chotta Elliot Road in No.3. This old house is really beautiful inside. Warren Brown says it was built in 1901, and they have been living here since 1920. Nevermind the dates, the house is worth a visit and old Warren Brown is a store house of information on/about the community.

Mrs Misquita's house by itself was a large and airy flat. Huge bedrooms, huge verandahs. More to the point, the other house in the same compound still stands as a redbrick mansion. It now houses a nursing home.

All these old houses, with their old inmates have a story to tell. The wooden staircase (at one time polished), the cellars below the houses. (Shantam and Craig once broke open the netting and went in) hold such mysteries. There are so many stain glass windows, sandstone facades, regally constructed steps upto the high plinth ....... all these are waiting to give up the ghost, so to say.

The inside of the houses also are beautiful. Even now. Crazy china flooring, or else a bright red or black IPS flooring. An altar in almost every house, with photographs of Mother Mary and Sacred Heart of Jesus. Complete with small blue and red altar lights. Dark ebony or Burma teak furniture. Almost always some cats or dogs. Waterford glasses. Old Domit ceramic water filters. A hat/umbrella stand at the entrance. On Sundays the smell of yellow rice and ball curry. Chinese sausages on Free School Street. Osteria type of Chinese food (my children called it 'dirty anglo food') from a few old Chinese families. Heavenly taste. Authentic Chinese. Nothing dirty about it at all. We never fell sick. The 'gully' football which I played when I was six. Sanjoy played when he was a little older and Sajani and Shantam played till they were in School. Roughest version on 'footer' you can get in Calcutta. (Maybe the SXC backfield 'footer' games were as bad). Same gully, same football game. Equally rough. Only the ghost of the previous generation of players keeping a silent and watchful eye on the young and new boys.

A note must be made of all other communities who all lived here. All in complete harmony. Came from all parts of the country, all religion, all trades .... the tailor, the bhistiwallah, the butcher, the lala-man (grocer), the dhobi, the baker, the hooch-maker, the teacher, the priest, the jockey, the boxwallah, the telephone operator, the nurse, the law maker, the law breaker, the cabbie, the shippie, the old ricky men who carted the ladies to New Market, the bar tender, the can can dancer, the vet and the doctor. Such wonderful communal feeling. Never have I ever felt unsafe here. Never have I ever hesitated in letting my children run loose in the Elliot Road para. They played football, ate street food, learnt music, did choir practice, played hooky from School, danced on the streets, waded through floodwaters, went exploring wine-making on Sheriff Lane. And came out unscathed. Safest place to grow up in, no matter who says what.

One thing that is not be found on the streets of this mahalla is the typically Anglo Indian lingo. Not anymore. The soft sing-song accent, the choicest of expletives that used to splatter every sentence, the "I say, man" English which we grew up with is not here any more. The "Daramtallah" ( the h after the d is always dropped) trip of the young missy is greatly missed. The word "Ricky-man" (hand pulled rickshaw puller) is nonexistent . Gone too is the slow drawl of "....saalah". A totally local pronunciation of the word. All these have been replaced by the Bollywood Hindi / English. A version, I 'm afraid I am not very comfortable with.

With the old people nearly all gone (to Heaven or elsewhere), a walk in this area is sheer nostalgia. True enough some still live here. There are the Johnsons, the Braganzas, old Miss Eaton and her dogs and cats, the Futardos, the Pintos, the Purtys, the Bowens, the Rodricks, the de Donckers and some other families. There is also Debapriya Sen Gupta who lives in Nawab Sirajul Islam Lane. His is perhaps the only Bengali Hindu family to live here since 1949. Rahim Khan, the butcher stays on McLeod Street. Farley Rodrigues , a jolly old man on Elliot Road. The Bayliss family. My tailor old Masterji (Asraf) , who made my dresses when I was a baby and then a teenager. Who also stitches for Sajani and puts up with our collective nonsense.

A place to loaf. A place to gallivant. A place to sniff out nostalgia. A walk I take often enough. So does Sajani for old times sake. Shantam for 'footer' and music. Steeped in memories for me, but good enough for the new-comer.

Come, let's walk.

"Do you read? Why?"

Quite recently some busy body asked why I read.

"Why I read? Read what?"

"Books".

I was in a fix. I have never asked myself this very important question.

"Because books are written" I retorted, before turning my back on the lady.

However the lady had asked a very pertinent question. Why do I read? Why do people read?

I have never thought of it from any perspective at all. I read almost instinctively, without much thought. Books, journals, newspapers, even paper packets recycled from old newspapers ( I undo these, smoothen out the creases, and read the scraps in the kitchen while cooking).

I have mulled over this question for some weeks. Cogitated and contemplated. Eventually I thought I read books because of an innate and deep rooted desire to open the cover and read the printed matter. Do I love to read? Yes, most certainly. As I see it, the love for books is something innate. You can never force anyone to fall in love ...... with anything. Most certainly never books.

One has to read, partake the flavour, let the charm soak in, bask in the borrowed glory....... and then be quite replete. That is what reading does to me. Leaves me in a warm and golden reflective mood. Introspective and pensive. Happy and joyful. Elated and saturated. Sorrowful, somtimes with remorse. So many moods, so many books, so many authors.

If I did not read, how would I live? How would I breathe? Would I be a inanimate object, therefore? How will I think, if I don't get to read? Terrifying thoughts !!!!!

How does one get to start reading? The simplest answer to that would be..."At school, of course".

I am not to sure about the school bit, though. I do not remember who taught me to read. At our old Keyatola house I remember Dad teaching me alphabets. I was less than 2 years old, because my sister was not born then. He taught me alphabets, sums and of all things Latin. In the mornings, when he read his newspaper, I would sit on the window sill and do my reading and writing. This much I remember very clearly.

Books were there in plenty all over the house, and I think I taught myself to read. Today children go through such elaborate and complicated methods of education. I was sent to School simply because my parents had work to do during the day, and I got in the way. All I was expected tp do in School was to behave and maintain a certain basic standard of discipline. Certainly me nor my classmates were ever expected to come up with an A grade report card end of the year. The sweet old nuns too thought nothing about poor grades. As a result School was a happy place, and marks never a consideration. Funnily enough nobody ever failed an examination, and I got 'double promotion' three times (Primarily because most class teachers found me a handful). Studies and excellance in studies was a 'by the way' situation. I certainly never worked too hard for my grades.

However, I did read. I read everything that I possibly could. I read in class, I read in the Library, I read at Prep time, I read under the blanket with a torch. I read on steps. I read sitting on a tree. My mother read out to me. In time, I read out to my sister. I read Bengali. I read English. I read Hindi. I read any language whose script I could identify.

Very peculiar question....... "Why do you read?"

Maybe be because it comes to me as easily and naturally as breathing. May be because I am otherwise jobless. Maybe because I simply enjoy reading. Perhaps it is a selfish thing to do, because I read only for my enjoyment. My personal pleasure. The other productive and constructive effects of reading is perhaps unintentional and secondary. Something like Sachin Tendulkars batting records...... personal gain? or national gain?

More or less all my reading I did on my own. My Ma read out to me when I was young. My Dad, when I was a little older ....... but he also read out Peter Drucker and Toynbee and such stuff to his 4 year old daughter. Very simple equation. He had to read his book. The child was happy enough to fall asleep on his lap with Toynbee in the background.

Thank heavens I was left to my own devises for the better part of my childhood. No alphabet books. No rhymes to mug up. No "C-V-C" system of spelling. (Please ask a school teacher about this CVC procedure. Even at this age I find it complicated). No phonetics. I was just left to pick up a book and read. I did too. I enjoyed it, and read more .... and more ....and more.

That is why I read, dear lady. I am glad you raised the question. Thank you.

...of libraries.

In my childhood, going out with parents was a rare treat. It was not often that my sister and I could accompany our parents to whose evers house they were visiting. However two families we visited very often were the Mookerjee family in Bhawanipur and another Mukherjee family on Theatre Road.

The Mookerjees of Bhawanipur were our close relatives and the huge four storied house abounded in cousins and uncles and aunts. This huge house had a library on the ground floor and this room was the most wonderous room for me. The library was a long, narrow chamber facing the West. Most of the upholstery was in green .... a dark moss green. The mullioned windows were the only breaks in the book lined walls. Rows and rows of shelves all laden with rows and rows of books. It was the closest I could get to the word 'infinity' at that very young age when I first entered the room. Books of all sizes to folio to duo-decimo. Most of them bound in leather, powdered and roughened with age and with use........ like autumn leaves on the winter floor of the woodlands. The library smelled liked the woodlands too, a musty slightly age-worn smell of paper and adhesive and printing ink. At one extreme end of the library stood a big green baize writing table, with a shaded table lamp. There used to be a few chairs scattered here and there. It is here in this library that I first read Corbett (The Man eater of Rudraprayag) and reveled in the description that Corbett gave of the Himalayas. I never can forget the greenery of the Himalayas as offered by Corbett and took the dark and green library to be the forests of Rudraprayag and half expected a panther to pounce on me from behind the curtains. I read many a book there. I asked for books and they were procured. I wanted to take them back to School with me. My uncle allowed it. Later I took books home. The uncles and aunts loved the idea that I wanted to read.!!!!

This library still exists. It is still in regular use. I still go there to meet my ageing uncles and aunts and cousins. These people are still there, and they are still as eccentric as ever. Even today a light 'supper' is served at 7pm after which the residents (most of them) 'retire' to the Library. To do what? To do Maths. Calculus, Integration, Vector, String Theory, Solid State are the topics under discussion. The oldest member is a 80 year old physicist of international repute, the others include a retired Chief Justice, a globe-trotting grand uncle, some young students who drop in every evening. Now there is a huge green glass board to write on plus a white-board to get 'modernised'. A completely insane family with totally whacky ideas on any subject under the sun.They do Maths after dinner (sorry, supper) for relaxation and recreation. It's leisure time activity with the old Garrard playing the most out of the ordinary opus 34 of Beethoven. An entirely scatty and eccentric family , but WOW ! what a eclectic collection of books.

The family allows me to borrow books. And I consider it to be an honour because no one, repeat NO ONE is allowed to take books out of the library. Any one can sit and read there. They keep it open for about 10 hours a day for students, scholars, book lovers, research workers etc. I am the only one to take books out.

The other house was on Theatre Road(may be Loudon Street). My Dads friend Reba Mashi used to live there. These people were extremely affluent and cultured people and I now suspect that the only reason Dad took me (and never my sister) there was because I maintained my best-behaviour act all the time. Here too the Library was on the ground floor overlooking a walled garden, with flowers of every colour. The garden had a swing on a large guava tree and I always took my book out to read on the swing. This reading-on-the swing I could not get everywhere (Yes, Raju and I read on the Sheldon House swings...). I loved this library with its pale cream and gold furnishings and tall shelves of books. The books here were not on Physics and Philosophy or Maths, but more mundane topics with the popular authors. I remember reading a Miss Read once....a slim version.......and it had seemed I was living out the piece of fiction.... the garden with all its flowers and bees and the warm sun...... straight out of Miss Read. I remember telling my Dad about it too. He didn't think much of Miss Read it appeared. I could sit on the swing or in the library and read for hours, but that was never to be. I had to always put the book back when the time came for us to leave. No one offered to lend it. I was too shy to ask. Later, much later, I bought some of these Fairacre series of Miss Read and missed the cream and gold library so !!!

This library at one end had a slightly raised platform with a Bluthner on it. I sometimes opened the piano to see the "Julius Bluthner, Leipzig" embossed in gold on the inside of the lid. I played it sometimes too, a few notes. Never for long, because I had to get back to my book, the swing (if the weather was fine). At times it was difficult to understand if the garden was an extension of the library, or was the library an extension of the garden. Where did one end? Where did the other begin? Both offered so much light and was so airy and so warm with the sun shining in. The fragrance of flowers and the soft rustle of the leaves blended so well with the smell of books and the rustle of a page turning.

To me this house was a wonder..... the beautifully done up library, the books, the enclosed garden, the swing and to top it all a grand piano !!!!

Such elegance. I miss it.

..... a memory .....

Everything in this part of the world slept. In deep undisturbed slumber, and only I it seemed was awake and will remain in an awaken state receptive to the quiet peace of the wildness of this place.

A small wind rustled the tall conifers. A thick smell of pine hung in the air. A peculiar half-light came from behind the mountains giving the horizon a lilac hue. The mountains seemed blue and grey but they didn't stand clear of the sky. The hung somewhere between heaven and earth, like impersonal beings. The air was damp and chilly and the silence stared back at me.

I gradually felt myself sinking slowly, merging with the cold silence. Till a dim oil-lamp lit up the doorway, and I was escorted up the stone steps, into a polished wooden floor. The silence still somewhat unbroken, but there was warmth radiating out of the fire in the fire-place.

I remember clearly the dampness and the silence. I never grew to like the damp climate, but I will always cherish the silence that the Convent offered and the very peaceful time I spent in the Hills.

My first evening in School. In the early '60s.

....where have all the knitters gone, long time passing.....

At one time, any family would have had a mother, sister, wife, daughter, in particular a grandmother who would knit sweaters, bootees, jerseys, mufflers and what nots for any soul who would wear them.

When I was young knitted shop bought sweaters were rare and only came from Scot House or Debenham. Later from Courtney's or M & S. These, at least for our family, were rare and infrequent wear. To be worn for very special occasions. We survived on sweaters and jerseys knitted by my grandmother, later by my mother and my aunts. Mother her and friends often knitted for us children. Shop bought jerseys were not appreciated.

Ma was a great knitter. My sister and I wore her knitted sweaters, which carried on to our children. They are kept carefully in our camphor-wood box for the third generation. I could never wear the regular grey school sweaters. I got a wool-rash and it used to become painful. Special permission was sought and I wore soft lamb's wool school sweaters made with 3ply wool. My mother knitted 2 sets of full sleeved pullovers and 2 slipovers which lasted me one school

year. They did require frequent darning, and Sushila didi at School did most of the darning.

When I went home, Ma had ready for me several other sweaters. Raglan sleeves, open neck collars for daily wear. Beautiful lacy stuff in soft wool, soft colours for special occasions. Ma learnt Fair Isle design in Scotland, and the Fair Isle sweaters that we two sisters wore were unmatched. In those days there used to be "Woman and Home" and "Women" and other magazines which would regularly publish knitting patterns. Ma sometimes followed those. Sometimes sweaters used to be made from "Knitting World" ( I hope I have the name right) .... a magazine with a large pink bar at the top of the cover. I think our old house still has some of them. Very often Ma and my Bordi Mashi knitted patterns and designs out of their heads....and what exquisite sweaters they knitted. Even at that young age both my sister and I took a tremendous amount of pride in wearing hand knitted, custom made jumpers and pullovers made by our Mother specially for us. We wore something called Fuzzy Wuzzy wool. Sort of furry wool which on the whole gave the effect of fur rather than wool. I had a couple of them, and loved them. Sajani wore the pink one when she was young (my old one), which Toro later chewed up.

Ma knitted all her grandchildren Fair Isle sweaters. Not one, but several. Shantam had this phobia/dislike about wool. Ma had to knit him slipovers .... sleeveless and V neck ...... so that no part of the sweater touched his skin. Ma knitted him exactly what he wanted. His colours, his design, his pattern. Mostly they were single tone in maroon or blue, but often enough FairIsles in shades of grey and blue which looked as misty as the sea at Skye. (When Shantam grew up, Ma made him cable knit sweaters. Like she did for my Dad. Slipovers and pullovers with the cables running up the front. How exclusive they were !!!!). All in the softest 3 ply baby wool which would not injure his stubborn soul and of course his tender skin. Ma pampered him and totally spoilt him in his huge 'sweater porbo naaa' cry. We felt a little ashamed about the15 minute fight with a sweater that the boy would put up...... even a school slipover, on a school day. We all felt a little awkward that the whole locality would know about this sweater fight on at our house, specially when the whole para would appreciate the garment when the brat stepped out on the road with his angelic smile and acknowledged "Dida made this for me"

Sajani was very good about wearing warm clothes. Ma knitted for her, Neelum's Ma and my sister knitted her the most beautiful sweaters. In turquoise, sometimes in emerald green, or even in bright yellow. Fair Isles, raglan sleeves, zipped T shirt types. Also those airy-fairy lacy stuff in baby pink and powder blue. Ma made for all her grandchildren striped pullovers. In shades of grey/maroon/blue for the boys. And exclusive ones in bright colours and fairy-tale ones in pastel shades for her only grand daughter. She made cricket sweaters for Shantam who played cricket and also a basket-ball tank top for Sajani with LH written in front. A Man U sweater for the brat who loved football and also a violin with a treble clef for her youngest grandchild.Our children were really well turned out. Right from babyhood to their 20+ age. School sweaters, party sweaters, "Dida,-Delhi-is-very-cold" sweaters, jumpers for home wear, pullovers for playtime, ponchos, scarves. All done by Ma, my friends and their mothers, my sister. Wool came from all over the world. It had to be soft wool, pure wool. Nylon mixed wool was not often used. Wool came from Himachal and Sikkim..... the rough but soft type. From Scotland...lambs wool. From Australia ....... angora wool. All of these spun into skeins and made into balls to be transformed into sweaters for daughters, sons, grandchildren. friend's children, babies, sons-in law, the naughty brat, the little princess, the cherubic angel wore a pale blue jumper, while the sallow complexioned withdrawn little boy wore a bright crimson..... to lend some colour in his cheeks. Such love, such care, such a lot of thought went behind these knittings.

All this apart, I remember Ma sitting on her old cane chair and knitting...... reading to us, talking to the dog, tending a sick kitten, calming me down after a tantrum, singing to me, doing lessons with my sister, crooning to the grandchild on her lap........ such an ambiance of peace and quietitude when Ma knitted.

In December last I was looking for someone who would knit a baby coatee for six month old Krishi, and even after an extensive search found no one ... no one at all ..... who would hand knit a baby sweater.

I rue the fact that today there are few people who knit. Perhaps they buy machine made sweaters in glitzy malls.

A Forward

A copy-paste from a Forward a friend sent me.

If you mean Whiskey, the devil’s brew, the poison scourge,

the bloody monster that defiles innocence, dethrones reason,

destroys the home, creates misery and poverty, yea,

literally takes the bread from the mouths of little children;

if you mean that evil drink that topples Christian men and women

from the pinnacles of righteous and gracious living into

the bottomless pit of degradation, shame, despair, helplessness,

and hopelessness, then, my friend . . .
I am opposed to it with every fiber of my being.

However, if by Whiskey you mean the oil of conversation,

the philosophic wine, the elixir of life, the ale that is consumed

when good fellows get together, that puts a song in their hearts

and the warm glow of contentment in their eyes; if you mean

Christmas cheer, the stimulating sip that puts a little spring

in the step of an elderly gentleman on a frosty morning; if you

mean that drink that enables man to magnify his joy, and to forget

life’s great tragedies and heartbreaks and sorrow; if you mean

that drink the sale of which pours into our treasuries untold millions

each year, that provides tender care for our little crippled children,

our blind, our deaf, our dumb, our pitifully aged and infirm, to build

the finest highways, hospitals, universities, and community colleges

in this nation, then my friend,

I am absolutely, unequivocally in favor of it.

This is my position, and as always,

I refuse to compromise on matters of principle.

Watering Holes

These days young 15 year olds in full school uniform (tie and belt and badge and blazer) walk into Oly pub on Park Street to have a beer (and I guess a smoke).

Bang in the middle of the day. !!!!!

I am no moral policeman. If it is alright with the pub and the young souls and their parents....so be it.

What really shook me was their attitude. Complete man-of-the-world at 15 years.

My encounters with pubs started pretty much the same age. Except that I was in College at that age, and I never ever enjoyed the outings. Too much noise, too much smoke....... claustrophobic.

However the SXC boys and the Presidency pals were pretty forthcoming on their escapades and very occasionally I accompanied them.

There were some sleazy bars that Calcutta had at that time. Not sleazy perhaps, but definitely not quite 'genteel'. One such one was Paris Bar. This where the schoolboys came to see what 'hookers' were. The beer was warm... never chilled....... because the fridge was non-functional. The whole place would be smoky as hell, and the waiters would wear lungis and vests. I was given to understand that Paris Bar came alive in the evening with the office babus and the policemen and the hookers all sharing the rum and the occasional whisky. The crowd spilled over on to the pavement outside and everyone waited for the free-for-all to start and then join in with gusto and soda bottles.

Saki was another bar. I have always wanted to go there, but never found a male who would think on similar lines. Sanjoy, in sheer exasperation, had said 30 years back..... 'ok, ok. we'll go one day'. I am still waiting for the 'one day'. Saki was for serious drinkers who would drown the sorrows of life in their "chho taka pint' (Rs. 6 for a pint) beer. Of course besides the booze much else happened at Sakis. It was a place for all illicit deals, and my biggest regret is that I never got to go there. It would have been fun...... police raid et al. Complete with chakus . Such side shows used to be part and parcel of Sakis . The office babus left the bar by 7pm, to go back home to their killjoy wives. And from 8 pm Saki came all a-glitter.

New Cathay was unique. Once again the beer was warm. (Actually it did not really matter if the beer was warm....... nobody expected a chilled beer anyway). The crowd was always sleazy, two DC current fans overhead...... hardly being able to slice the thick, heavy 'smoke&sweat' air. Sanjoy and I took Sujit and his girl friend Kaberi there once. Not so much for the beer but to rattle Kaberi a bit. I think we did succeed. In fact it was a huge success. It took everything Sujit could give to dry her tears.One thing though Cathay did a mean chilli chicken. A dry roasted chilli chicken which I still miss.

I wonder if anyone remembers Blue Heaven. A small bar on Beadon Street....may be Cornwallis Street. The Presidency boys went there often. It was on a raised platform. A smallish place with the traditional "cabins" and blue curtains. I had strict orders from home never to go there. I did go though. Only once. With Jyoti and Partha from Presidency. I did'nt last more than 5 minutes. It was too shut-in for my claustrophobia.

The Chungking was a class apart. Slightly more refined. Good food and a better crowd. Not really a bar. It was and still is a restaurant. Which served liquor.

The intellectuals go to Coffee House. The pucca sahib to The Bengal Club. The corporate boxwallah to the Saturday Club. The dedicated golfer to The Tolly. The down and out "chullu khors" to the burning ghats. The young wannabees to Olympia (now renamed Olly Pub). But real men ...... the janta....... go to Paris Bar and Saki and Cathay and many such places which I am sure still exists.