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.