The Angel of Victoria Memorial

There is an angel atop the dome of Victoria Memorial in Calcutta. It a actually a very big statue (copper on iron) of an angel set on a huge basin of mercury. The mercury keeps the angel in a state of floatation. The angel carries a flute, and the entire statue is a wind-vane which shows the wind direction. The concept is an engineering marvel, the angel has to be kept afloat so as to enable the statue to swing and swerve with the wind. In recent years, the mercury topping up in the basin has not been regular. Something to do with the cracks that have developed on the dome. The angel is stationary most times. This is a huge pity, for in my childhood the angel was a source of wonder to me.

We lived in South Calcutta..... Keyatola, Sarat Banerjee Road, New Alipur, Lansdowne Road ....... and when there was a storm abrewing or a kal-baishakhi approaching, my Dad would take us to the Victoria Memorial to watch the angel change directions with the wind, and more than ever to hear the music that the angel would play. The angel carried an uplifted flute on her lips and the flute was (and still is) graduated with the notes of the entire octave. The wind blowing through the flute would play a sharp high pitched tune. Hardly to be heard unless one knew how to keep an ear open for it. High above the sound of the storm and the traffic of the city road, our ears were tuned to the music that the angel played. An ethereal music. All it's own. If ever the term 
"Music of the Universe" can be applied on Earth, I guess it would be the angel playing it's flute on a stormy April afternoon with a kal-baishakhi raging over the city.

The story given to me by my Dad (and I believe the story, because there is a similar short story by a famous Bengali author) is very interesting. An old story, which not too many people are aware of. 

My Dad and his friend Ashok Roy used to frequent Firpo's and other bars. Very much like what 20+ men did then , and do now. Most days when returning from Firpo's it would get late and they would be the last to leave the bar. Outside Firpo's there would be an old man with a violin who played beautifully and what is more he played Western Classical. Dad had a keen ear and was extremely fond of good music. No matter how late or how drunk, Dad would wait a good ten minutes to hear the music, tip the old man sufficiently and then drive home. Once when both Ashok Roy and Dad had had a drink too many and there was a storm blowing, it was decided that driving the old Baby Austin would not be such a good idea. Both of them were standing in the arcade waiting (to get sober? the storm to abate?) and listening to the music of Abdul Mian ..... for that was what the violinist was called. Eventually Abdul turned to go home, and the storm by that time had also lost a bit of it's might. Dad offered to drop Abdul Mian home, specially as he was blind, and the roads were wet. Abdul however refused saying that he knew his way home and he played his violin all the way home. Dad was curious as to how he could find his way home. After a while, Abdul walked homewards, and Dad and Ashok Roy accompanied him. Abdul lived in Khidirpore, a good 40 minutes away, and he said that the 'pari' on top of the Victoria Memorial helped him to direct his way. It was through Abdul that night Dad learnt about the angel atop Victoria Memorial.Abdul would play softly on his violin, and follow the thin reed like notes from the flute of the angel. The river air coming citywards would turn the angel, and the soft breeze would play the flute. The sound of the music would direct Abdul towards the Victoria Memorial, and from there the busy noise of the ship yard would guide Abdul home. 

Fifty years back the city was smaller and less noisy. Nights are quieter. Even today I can hear the Khidirpore dock and ships hooters every morning ..... sitting in my ancient-house-by-the-graveyard.It would be entirely possibly for Abdul with his musicians ears and his visual impairment to find his way late at night with the help of the flute music.

My Dad was not born or brought up in Calcutta. He came to live in Calcutta to earn a living. He was not aware of the Victoria Memorial angel. He made it his business to visit the curator and get the facts right. When we were growing up, he took us to the museum at the Victoria Memorial and on top of the dome on one occasion to see the angel. Stormy afternoons would mean the angel playing her flute. We loved it. The thin reedy music was indeed ethereal. 

Now, how many knew of this story?

O Flower of Scotland

This is for Baiduriya, Tara and Rudra.

Once there lived in Greece  a king who had a son called Gathelus. Prince Gathelus was handsome and brave, but he was also wild and headstrong. He was frequently disobedient and eventually the King had to banish Gathelus from his land. When Gathelus learnt that he was banished, he took a ship along with all his wild and brave friends and sailed away to Egypt.When they arrived in Egypt the Pharaoh greeted them kindly. The Pharaoh was in the midst of a battle, and he needed young soldiers to fight for him. He hoped that these young knights would help him fight his enemies. Soon Gathelus and his friends defeated the enemy and the Pharaoh gave them large estates as rewards. However, Gathelus wanted to marry the beautiful Princess Scota, and the Pharaoh eventually gave consent.

Gathelus lived in Egypt for many years and grew rich and prosperous. He ordered that his family take the name of his wife and be called Scots.After some years he gathered a great fleet of ships and with his family and a huge company of people, he sailed across the sea in search of another country. After many months and after weathering many storms he arrived at the shore of Spain. Gathelus and his company were tired and exhausted, but the Spaniards were not willing to give them shelter. There followed a fierce battle in which the Spaniards were defeated. Gathelus and his Scots wished to live peacefully in Spain and gradually they learnt to speak the new language, adapt to the new country and lived in peace for many years.The Scots grew to be still richer and greater than they were in Egypt. They became so powerful that once again the Spaniards were jealous and would not allow the Scots to stay in their land.Two great battles ensued, and the Scots realised that it was their immense wealth, military skills and the wisdom of Gathelus that was coming in the way of permanent settlement in Spain.

Again they set sail. This time in search of a Green Island across the sea. Gathelus with his two sons Hiberus and  Himecus and all his family and troop landed on Green Island, The Scots found the inhabitants of the Island gentle and kindly. Hiberus and Himecus opened business and trade in the Green Island. They learnt the value of agriculture in this new land of soft soil and plentiful rainfall. The islanders were happy with the Scots, and changed the name of their island to Hibernia. The island is still sometimes called by that name, although we now know it as Ireland. 

For many years the Scots lived in Hibernia. Gathelus died, in time so did Hiberus and after them ruled many kings. At last after many hundreds of years, a prince called Rothsay sailed over to the islands which lay opposite Hibernia, and took possession of them. The island upon which he first landed he called Rothesay, and to this day there is a town of that name on the island of Bute.

The Scots finding these islands fertile and suitable for breeding cattle and sheep, sailed over from Hibernia in greater numbers (with their families) till they inhabited all the little islands and also a large part of the great mainland, which was then called Albion. After several years, the northern part of Albion came to be called the land of Scots, or Scotland, just as the southern part was called the land of Angles, or England.

The story of Prince Galthelus is not a fable. Long ago when people spoke of the Scots, they meant the people who lived in Ireland. And of course Scotland took its name from those who came from Ireland and settled in today's Scotland.

Summer of 1971

Paris is perhaps the worlds most beautiful city. There is beauty so evenly spread out. It's in the air, the sky, the wrought iron balconies.When I was very small, I was taken for afternoon walks to a nearby park by Ma. I was two or three years old then and don't remember much except that the air smelt fresh every afternoon, after the drizzle and the park had the most beautiful railing.

However, nothing to beat the Summer of 1971 I was in Paris on a shoe string budget. Fresh out of School, not yet in College. My Dad thought I was too young for College. My Ma thought it was asking for trouble to keep me at home for months on end. Hence, I was packed off to Europe.

I stayed with a crazy French family, who threw me out every morning at 9 sharp. I was expected to be back by bedtime. So, I walked the streets of Paris with my high school French and an air of very false arrogance. Of course, Paris was overwhelming, but why on earth would people be allowed to understand my apprehension. I walked along the Seine, I walked in the rain, I walked in the parks, I walked the Louvre several times over. Paris roads are confusing, the language rather awkward, the food was expensive, but I survived on fresh air and love  ..... I loved Paris.

One evening the Paris sky was streaked with pink and purple clouds and the air was soft. The drizzle had stopped and the city smelt ever so fresh.I sat on the kerb in front of a bistro looking for a food-cart, and there was a table (at the bistro) with a "Biggles" held over a brown head. 

English! 

Bingo! 

I got introduced to Tim over "Biggles goes to War" Tim was a school-leaving Brit, although 2 years older than me. My French was decidedly better, but he had more pocket money. Furthermore, his family paid for his meals, and of course meals can always be shared ..... whoever did not know that? So we latched on to each other  ....free food for me, and my (broken, but better than his) French to get by with. 

Tim actually lived in a garage! This lifestyle was totally new to me. He slept on a dirty mattress with a Slenvo guitar and a mongrel called Daisy .... for warmth, he assured me. I was 14, Tim was 16 and we went around Paris exploring. We had all the time in the world. We walked and we sang, Tim played the guitar ("Love me Do" most often) and got a few francs on the Montparnasse.Going up and down the butte  (of Montmartre) was a lark for us. We haunted the  chaotic La Rive Gauche till late evening with the artists and the Sorbonne students. The Boulevard Saint Germain fascinated me. On the Right Bank we marvelled at the lights of Champs Elysees. Thomas was a waiter at the Moulin Rouge, and he lived near my villa. Of course he took us to his grand restaurant. No food though. No Can Can either.We got caught in the Paris drizzles (Oh! the drizzle in Paris!) and frequently stole bread and fruit and ate it with the cheapest wine,

On warm afternoons we lay flat on the grass at Champs de Mars and took in the blue Parisian sky. One morning, barefoot and barelegged we were wading in the Seine to get to the Isle of the Swans, except  le flics chased us. Daisy, the dog, chased the police away ! Under the bridges of Paris existed a different and exciting world. We loved it. A Gitane went a long way those days and the short stubby Gauloises had us choking. Today, I believe the French prefer Marlboro. Strange !

It was the most idyllic summer. 

Funnily enough we explored Paris from individual perspectives of History and Geography. In a few months time Tim went on to study History and I came back to India to study Geography. We both became Professors. Rather odd that.

My Dad had arranged for me to stay in London with his Danish friend. Tim and I spent a few months in England. The London we explored no longer exists, but what a summer it was! France and England .... mostly on foot. Sometimes on cycles. Definitely on the wings of wonder. 

....

Pice Hotels

What with all this 'fine dining' experience and  'specialty restaurants' the average street-food eater in Calcutta is on the verge of forgetting pice hotels. I heard of this term in the early 60's when my Dad would tell me about the excellent machher jhol-bhat he used to have at Goalonda Ghat, on the ferry. The machh would be ililish of course, straight from the river. This meal would cost him less than one pice in the 1930's. 

When I grew older, and was in college, I went looking for 'pice hotels' in Calcutta. I spent an entire summer walking the streets of Calcutta discovering among other new things, 'pice hotels' There were several near Sealdah Station and Howrah Station. I remember a vegetarian meal in 1972 would be about 2 to 3 rupees. Fish etc would be a little dearer. The food would be hot and served on clean kolapata. In the Sealdah area the Tower Hotel, was not exactly a pice hotel, but I always loved the food there.

The essence of pice-hotel-food is that there is no choice. The question of a la carte menu.does not exist. Fresh vegetables, fish etc are brought from the market everyday. Only a few items cooked and typically all the food is over by 3pm.(The evening meal is a simple roti-sabzi). A basic daal-bhaat and vegetable curry would cost Rs 10 or so in 2000. Rs 15 in 2011. These pice hotels are not fancy, but they are clean, well lit, no offensive crowd and terrifically good service. 

The hotels, which are now obsolete started in the early 1940's primarily to cater to the large influx of shelter-seekers from East Pakistan. The food was always simple and inexpensive, hence the concept of pice hotels stuck around. I have taken Shantam to Tower Hotel and some other similar places around Sealdah. a meal for just Rs 10.!!!

The Young Bengal Hotel at Khidirpur (Karl Marx Sarani) is another pice hotel which has been around since the 1940's. The original owner Tarapada Guha is no more, but his daughter now runs the place. This is now an upgraded  pice hotel. About 40 covers. Plain board tables. Stainless steel ware (washed in hot water and soap), but what excellent food. Rice and daal, Fish curry, vegetable curry. All for under Rs 20. Maybe Rs 25. Squeaky clean, well lit, good food, good service...... what  else are we looking for?

Pice hotels will have a slate at the entrance. On it will be chalked a simple menu.   

Pabda machher jhaal, 

Lau chhingri, 

Posta alu etc etc etc 

With prices. 

 In recent times, there is cooking gas, Aquaguard drinking water, a refrigerator,  There is a clean wash basin with liquid soap, If you have not eaten at a Calcutta pice hotel ..... well, your search for good Bengali food remains incomplete.

 

Gay Paree

I found an ancient photograph of Tim and his Parisian mongrel, sitting on a stone bridge over the Seine.

I have a bad cold and an infectious fever, which got cured by a French drug. The medicine worked like magic.

R has a French "lady friend". All of nineteen years. No doubt, a very virtuous Mademoiselle..

I learnt that an old college mate of mine is now posted in Paris.

So much French in my life ........ took me back in time......

Paris is one of the most beautiful cities - perhaps the most beautiful city - in the world.  But certainly it is very poorly planned. Oh. No No. It is not the planners fault. The fault is ours, we emigres. Our poor countries never had any town planning.

Thoroughfares radiating out from the Arc de Triomphe is the basic pattern of town planning in Paris. For the first-time emigre, this is most confusing.

1.Roads are NEVER parallel, instead they diverge. 

2.The streets are radii of a circle.

3.You are always in fear of getting lost.

4.You always have the humiliating feeling that the late Euclid (whom you have just shaken off in School) would have found the rue Longchamps ..... armed with sextant, dividers, paper and drawing board, of course.

Parallelograms were unknown to the planners of this dream city. All roads are pseudo-parallel. specially constructed to get any reasonably educated and mathematically oriented person in a state of total confusion. 

Addresses :  Every city has a Postal system which sorts out addresses. In Paris every address is a Relative Address. By this I mean..... next to, across from, near, practically next door. 

"It is, mon cheri, near the cafe". Now Paris has thousands of cafes.....so, which cafe? No policemen ever help. Even if they are twenty yards ( oops, it's metres in Paris) from the Metro, they will sagely say "Nous, nous"

Food and drink is a national passion for the French. In Paris, the passion is enhanced exponentially. An average Parisian culinary habits are well worth observing. He eats no breakfast. Drinks coffee instead. The secret of this is that he simply has to get rid of that hangover. Eating is out of the question when you are quite sozzled. Hence, for the love of God, you CAN NOT get a decent brekker in Paris. You would HAVE to settle for C&C (croissant and coffee). Incidentally, Parisians don't drink milk.

The rest of the day a Parisian will eat the most gourmet food, exquisitely

served with such unrefined manners, that one is left in a "off-food" mood for hours. 

Food is outrageously expensive in France. Paris.... even more. This is one of the main reasons for the permanent economic crisis that the country has been facing for the last 60 years. Buying food all the time is out of the question. To eat frugally is almost a sin. To earn money is a worse sin. By the time tested method of hit and miss I found that it was easy to get hold of a garcon who (at a small price and a big smile) would gladly steal bread and fruit for you. The easiest, simplest and the most economic way of obtaining food in Paris.

Of course there is the Maxim, which still survives. Remarkable, it's existence, considering it's bourgeoisie price list !!! A bistro by the Seine is always a better option, i.e, if you actually want to pay for the food you eat.

Drinks.It is not a passion. It is a habit. The English like their whisky, the Irish their beer, but they can carry their drink, or the drink can carry them.Not all men are sober all the time, but the French rarely drink to excess, they drink regularly. Like breathing in. Breathing out.A little wine for breakfast, a glass or two at lunch. Some more at tea-time (actually the French have no tea-time) and of course after 6pm they are just impregnated with alcohol. After all, 'moderation' is a foreign word !! 

Plain drinking water is practically unknown is Paris. Little boys in grey shorts sit in cafes at 11pm drinking beer or wine (read vinegar) Their wine drinking begin when they are born. Wine for the weakling, wine for the crying child. Wine in the winter cold, Anytime wine. At any age. In Paris, unlike any other city in the world, one has to buy water. And that too at a premium. A bottle of Perrier or Evian  does not come cheap.

The French Language. The least said the better. If truth be told, the French don't much care what they say actuallly....as long as they say it with great fervour. They will fling their arms and gesticulate wildly. Gesticulation is a part and parcel of French grammar. it is an organic part of it. Just as much there is a noun, and those horrible verbs, there are rolling eyes, and shrugging shoulders, clicking sounds (entirely grammatical) with tongues and also fingers if needs be. It is quite a spectacle to watch a Parisian speak his mother tongue in his own home ground. To the uninitiated, is can be daunting, because you tend to lose the thread of the conversation/monologue by watching the flaying arms and rolling eyes.

Do not even try to speak French the way a Frenchman does. Your arms may get a foreign accent, your eyes may catch a foreign intonation, as for your internal organs..... a grave grammatical error may be committed in convoluted intestines. O-la-la.

In the poor country where I belong, the janta tries their best to be nouveau-riche.It is considered fashionable to show off your swanky car or the new white Italian leather sofa (nevermind the fact that the leather came from the hide of an Indian cow). The French are snobbish in a different way. They pretend to be nouveau-pauvre. They look unkempt, disheveled and unwashed only when they own a few vineyards and half of the Riviera.  

In Paris you are always an emigre . Which is an advantage. Whatever you do is wrong. Next step la police or les flics catch you. However, you are a foreign national, and anyway they don't speak your brand of French. You can not gesticulate and roll your eyes (our grammar does not have it), hence the Interpol may be called. Then you are on safe grounds, because with some luck you may get deported..... without luck, your Embassy steps in.

Notwithstanding such trivial trials.....Gay Paree, I miss you.

 

.

The Lady and The Dog

My aunt possesses the most mighty ancestry and the most pristine lineage. She has a peculiarly crushing arrogance . She looks down her long nose through frosty eyes, as if most beings are quite beneath her dignity. On her forehead she wears a frown that has been known to cause the most loquacious visitors to fall uneasily silent when she turns the light of her countenance disdainfully upon them.
Oh, she is very, very beautiful with a complexion like old ivory. Even her wrinkled skin is pale and delicate. Her eyes are dark pools of emerald green water...... which can quickly turn into fire. Her hair is dark, still dark, at age 84. It is held back on to her noble cranium with a small french knot at the nape of her slender swan-like neck. She holds herself erect, and will stay erect as far as the proud curves of her tall elegance allows.

BUT, her dog is everything she is not. To begin with, it is part terrier, part Labrador, with a fair bit of sheepdog ancestry, a flavour of a collie (in it's tail), a suggestion of a hound. The Vet refrained from giving his expert opinion. The problem, he said, was beyond him. The dog had come as a puppy some three years back, on a rainswept evening. Something had yielded within the tough Trojan heart of my aunt. The dog was given shelter, and thus he is now there. The Tramp with it's completely unknown background is whitish gray with black patches. A huge brute of a dog with a huge tail. A most wxpressive tail, if one may comment. The Tramp's tail is tremblingly responsive to his every mood and his moods are many. The mistress is so proud that she never permits herself ever to feel a weakness, let alone show it. The dog, un-upheld by the arrogance of race and beauty, feels many weaknesses and shows them all. He is frightened, he is unhappy, he is anxious, he is overwhelmingly joyful. He is penitent, he is shy, he is coy, he is passionately loving. His tail like a dirty curled ostrich feather trembles, droops, waves, rotates, rises, falls or simply disappears altogether between his hind legs, according to those emotions that is ravaging his faithful breast. For faithful the Tramp undoubtedly is. Inspite of the extreme nervousness of his highly strung temperance he would have died in defense of his dearly loved mistress, who he considers to be his sacred property. The Tramp's loving faithfulness is very visible in his bright button eyes that peeps out of the whitish thatch. The loyalty also shows its fine fettle dripping in streams of saliva from the end of his long pink tongue that he lowers out of the side of his mouth in moments of emotion. He always dribbles when he loves people and he loves all people. The Tramp with flapping uncontrollable ears, sprawling uncoordinated legs is loved by all and loves all.

How these two diametrically opposite creatures co-habit in the sprawling bungalow is a mystery!

Male Tantrum Management

"Male Tantrum Management" said Ritu.

Ritu is 28 and obviously knows enough of the Syndrome to devise Management Techniques to tackle the syndrome ... and of course Males.

How many Males could Ritu possibly have known in her 28 short years? Men who are 28? 30? 32? Just out of their mother's apron strings? Men/Males at 50? 55? 60? 75? ....... will Ritu know how to manage their tantrums?

Of course girls these days know more of men, about men, number of men, from men .......(any other prepositions?) than we did at age 28. Our generation, most of us, got stuck with/to one man, and for better or worse have stuck it out. And tantrums? ....... the medicine was "WAIT. He'll get over it". So our Mother-in-laws told us. We told ourselves the same thing while bringing up our sons. The same I'll tell the wives of Adarsh, Buju and AJ and the other so called 'sons' to whom I have been a surrogate mum.

Of course my personal tactic was 'What tantrum? You throw a tantrum? HA!!! Wanna see what a tantrum means?' This approach worked like magic. Most men, family or otherwise, would take a step back. I really did not have to demonstrate. A threat worked as well as the real thing.

So, if the Male Tantrum has to be Managed...

Methods

a) Play along. Pamper his ego. After all this is His Eminence.
b) Wait till he gets over it. Can be time consuming. Not worth the time and effort.
c) ..... or else ..... there is a Hindi word, Manao. Not too bad an idea. Bittersweet, kind of.
d) IGNORE the guy and his bloody tantrums.

Nevertheless, MTM is indeed a very good coinage. Some people could make a career out of it. I know of several who can be clients of this highly specialised profession.

There is

Disaster Management
Water Management
Portfolio Management
Agro-Business Management

And now there is Male Tantrum Management.