They say I am slow, I can't walk fast on the road.
I fall at times.
Son, there was a time I could run
To catch a bus or to win a race
There were times I slowed down too
To keep pace with your little feet
To walk and talk to you on your way back from school

They say I am hard of hearing,
I ask too many times.
I am deaf.
Son, I could hear and can even now
It's just that the voice is not so clear.
Therefore, I ask, ask and ask again.
Son, there was a time when you were little
Would ask questions, and question again
I answered them all

They say my mind wanders...the fearful word
Dementia.
Son, but my mind I had at one time,
I still have
It's just that I've lost the time-line frame.
It's this mind that taught you how to read
To reason, to discern
Can you not wait for me to catch up
On my rambling?

Slim Shady

During my growing up years in Calcutta we often visited my mama-bari in a narrow little lane in Kaiighat. My uncle (mama) and his wife (my mamima) were kind and big hearted people. Their children were our age group and many a summer holiday I spent in that old and sprawling Kalighat house with my cousins and also the children of the ground floor tenant (bhaarate in bengali parlance)

The bhaarate-babu on the ground floor was Haripada babu and his family.  Hari kaka worked in the Railways and was most often away. We did not know him too well, nor liked him much. However his children Priya and Poltu were good fun and specially good friends of mine. Their mother, Benu kakima was a mild and non interfering lady who I remember even now for her great cooking skills.

Like it always happens, I grew up. Left Calcutta to study in Bangalore. Every holiday would take me to my mamar-bari and more often than not there would be Priya and Poltu back home from their Universities in Delhi and Chandigarh. We would have great fun going for movies and go pubbing on Friday nights. Cricket matches and Book Fairs were a must  However Hari kaka was never around. I asked my aunt and she gave me the story of how  Hari kaka actually abandoned his family. In a slimey and underhand way he went back to his parent's house on the pretext of a death of an aunt. This story of an aunt passing away and subsequent period of mourning (prolonged period, I understand) went on for months. Hari kaka did not come back. He did not send money for house-rent or the children's school fees. Perhaps I was a poor observer. Perhaps pride did not allow Poltu and Priya to show their area of weakness. The bottom line however was there was no support from the father and Benu kakima ran the show on her very modest salary. The general impression I got was that Hari kaka had done a dastardly deed. Abandoning the family is looked-down-upon act in the middle class Bengali society.

A few more years passed and I took up a job in Mumbai. Poltu worked in an office nearby and for both of us going back to Calcutta was a once-a-year affair. We met in Mumbai bars and movie halls. Calcutta boys stick together when they are in a different town. Priya worked in Bangalore and earned enough to send money home to her mother. Poltu too would make a monthly money transfer and I was glad these two friends of mine took care of their mother. After a difficult period at home, at least things were better for them.

 My visits to my mamar baari grew few and far between. All the news I needed of Priya and Benu kakima could be had through Poltu. Not that I met Poltu very often, but we did keep in touch in a superficial way.

Last month I was in Daar-es-Salaam  and after a hard days work a few of us got together at the hotel  bar. The bar was crowded and there was a large ex-pat crowd along with some Indians. A girl looked vaguely familiar but I could not place her. I gave up the idea after a few minutes as a Daar-es-Salaam dance bar is not the the best place in the world to stage a pick up. Besides, I was not interested.The girl was not particularly pretty. In her thirties and looked somewhat careworn.

It was only when I was leaving and at the door that a chance glance at the girl caught my breath. The smile was ever so familiar. It was Priya. Something in me prevented me from rushing across the room. She was with a fun loving ex pat group. She had not recognised me. Perhaps I would not be welcome. Nevertheless I took courage in my hands and walked softly till I was quite close. She turned around and in one small second all the tenderness came back to her face. It was the same old vivacious Priya that I knew. The gentle submissive Priya of Calcutta. The second was only a second. The magic passed and it was lost. Immediately  her face became hard again. She seemed to be a tough young woman with  hard and shifty eyes. Yes, we spoke for a few minutes. We asked after our families. She offered no explanations as to what she was doing in Daae-es-Salaam and I did not like to pry. This hard and calculative young lady was not the Priya I knew.

I got back to India and decided to keep quiet about this meeting. There was something dodgy about Priya and it irked me. It was not something I understood.

I came to Calcutta soon after and made a trip to my my mamar baari and to Benu kakima. I heard from kakima how Priya had distanced herself from the family. Her exit from Bangalore was shoddy. She gave out she was going to Tanzania for a short 2 month stay, which became 3 months and then of course a few years. 

 "It was all  work related and of course no one minded a relocation, but it could have been done in a more straight forward way"  That is all Benu kakima
had to say. I once again drew back into my shell and could not get myself to tell kakima that I had met Priya a month back. I am a coward.

What struck me was the 'escape route' of both Harikaka and Priya being the same. After ten years the family trait resurfaces and both were rather slim-shady exists.

HIRAETH

Nostalgia is a peculiar feeling. It is more precisely a state of mind or a mood that stays with one for a while, and then goes away. It certainly should not be staying on. Missing home, missing a part of your life, missing a person is not quite nostalgia. It is not homesick-ness.

The English language has no clear word for this intense feeling of nostalgia that grips everybody once in a while.The Welsh however has a word that expresses this feeling. Hiraeth. The Turks say Hasret. The Portuguese have the word Saudade. All denote something that is now distant. Something that can not be got back. Something unreachable and unattainable in the present time frame. A longing, an yearning for the past (home, person, situation) with a great deal of love and affection. Memories that are treasured and held in high esteem.

All men (and I dare say animals too, because they are more human than most men) go through such Hiraeth phases, School children long for home specially those who go to boarding schools. I worried myself sick because I was away from home and my family for most of the year. Even in the University stage, the feeling of Hiraeth would not leave me. I still had this constant feeling of nostalgia and yearning for something that had gone by and was not attainable any longer.

There is little fundamental difference between Hiraeth (Weish) and Hasret (Turkish). Both the groups of people have strived hard to attain economic independence. They have fought for the freedom of their land. They travelled for long periods, they stayed away from home and family for long periods. They treasured the memories of times gone by. They valued this sentimental feeling of nostalgic longing.

I empathise with this feeling. School, home, family, our pets, friends and their company are memories I cherish I do not wish for these situations to return. I will probably hold them dear to me as 'memories' rather than 're-meets' Personally I do not have much faith on an 'Yarrow revisited' situation

I live in a social situation where most of the younger generation has moved away from our city in search of 'better career opportunities'. It is perhaps true that they need more freedom from social bindings. They need more money. They need, they want and they want and they want even more. They will get what they want. They are smart. However, they tend to lose out on the filial bindings. Home to many of these young migrants is some Utopian idea which is created and held tight. They left home in their teens. Got their degrees, got employed and moved on in life. Their visits to their old homes are formal visits. Parents do not matter much. The family circle is anyway small (nuclear families). They 'miss' home on Facebook and blogs, but take great care to limit any face-to-face social interaction. Of these young yuppies some are intelligent and therefore more thinking, Some are plain greedy. Some cut away from their roots to gain self-reliance and lose the sense of belonging (and of course absolve themselves of all responsibilities). They are the foolish souls who gain a little bit of short-term freedom and lose their identity and place in the land and people of their birth. No Hiraeth here. No Saudade either. 

They may 'miss' home, but are not of an intellectual status to comprehend that the 'home' has long been lost. A two-minute monthly phone call does not qualify as "I am phoning my folks". They come back to the long lost family and are treated as 'guests' (read 'strangers' instead). There remains a lack of warmth, from both sides. The ties have long since been severed. No fault on either side. Priorities are different. Ethics vary. Morals are rigid or eroded. And most important economic status is so very different that glitzyness takes priority over class. A jacuzzi or an air conditioner overtakes the old world red cemented floor and wide open windows. So there is no 'home' to go back to. No family to call their own. These rootless rolling stones perhaps should build new homes and adhere to them. Ditch the past. Carry no baggage. 

Is there any Hiraeth for them? For Hiraeth is too precious a feeling.

Belief

Some 50 years back my sweet old Catechism Teacher told me that Archangel Lucifer was annoyed with  whatever the system was in Heaven and Lucifer appeared before the throne of God with his legion of angels and declared "We are not going to serve you any longer" 

The thought of a rebellion in Heaven thrilled me no end. The least bit of impertinence about wet shoes or chilly rooms brought frowns from the nuns, and here was a war of sorts in Heaven !!! 

However, to continue the sermon, the All Mighty God (not willing to take such insolence) ordered Archangel Michael to throw Lucifer out of Heaven, along with all his rebellious followers. Michael with his flaming sword banished Lucifer and his gang to Hell. In Hell Lucifer became the Devil and his loyal gang members all burnt in Hell.

These stories fascinated me. My father being a strict non-believer, Mum had arranged a rigid religious instruction system for me. This resulted in the fact that I at once doubted and questioned Catechism. I loved the stories at age 5. They fascinated me. In the next five years I learnt  more about religion and completely ignored the fact that there could be a God. However, that Gods could fight and go into serious battle was always an interesting thought. How could conflicts occur in such paradisaical realms? How could there be quarrels and opposition in an area of oneness? I preferred to like the stories that religion taught me and leave them as stories. Not to put my faith in them.

Later when we were taught Latin I understood that the name Lucifer was derived out of two words. Lux (light) and ferre ('to carry' or  'to do'). Lucifer literally means Carrier or Bringer of Light.Was the Devil to carry the light to the poor heathens?Was he the Bringer of Light? My realisation based on my shcool-level Latin made the whole understanding more complex and bewildering.

In another ten years I thoroughly studied the Old Testament, the Vedas, the Egyptian Book of the Dead, Indian mythology, Greek mythology and Tibetan dzyans and came to a dead-certain conclusion that there were frequent battles in Heaven, amongst Gods in all these Holy Books. Interesting battles, delightfully thrilling issues, fire and flame, blood and gore all bristling with contradictions and horror stories. Some could be termed as offensive and demanded proof. I flatly refused to put my faith in any religion, and only because of my Mum at home I did not openly refute God. I was more than willing to go to Church or to attend the Puja, but only because it helped me to think while in Church and the Sanskrit sholkas made interesting translation pieces.

Reasoning comes more easily to me than blind acceptance. The fact that Dad and his strong teaching of Logic and Mathematics did not help the fact that I was a complete sceptic by the time I left school.

Space and Time theories learnt in school and later seemed that God is best left as a myth. The Christian Church, Hinduism and other religion taught us to concede to God. I conceded to Science. I was not irreligious. Never irreverent.It's just that my comfort zone was in what I could reason out in my mind.With my head.

In addition to the Theory of Relativity, Einstein formulated the lesser known theory of gravitation. Both explain macrocosm, our 'great universe' so to speak. Another all time favourite physicist of mine Werner Heisenberg proposed the formulas of quantam mechanics. The behaviour of the microcosm is very well explained by the theory of quantum mechanics.What happened to those hydrogen subatomic particles which set up our world. Fortunately enough both gravitation theory and quantum physics quite adequately explains the origin of the universe. Space and Time came into being simultaneously. Astrophysicists had a ball of a time. Tedious calculations were done by super-genius men. Plato's "Timaeus" was unearthed once again and dusted. The concept of God and Creation was openly being challenged. Theologians argued about the transformation of Godly creatures into Human bodies.Transposition of soul was being battled and debated. 

It was a wonderful period to grow up in. What with Dad at home  declaring that he had known Heisenberg at the Wilhelm Institute for Physics (later renamed Planck Institute for Physics). In college I was learning the hydrodynamics of turbulent flows and ferromagnetism. Einstein declaring "God does not play dice" as oppose to the omnipresence of the Almighty. There was little room for God.

I spent more than a lifetime adhering to my belief. Teaching a science that demanded a high level of deductive powers and total conceptual clarity  of Physics.

Now that I am so much older I have learnt to be less rigid. My analysis of my own theories I can now question  and also defend. Certain facts Science and Logic perhaps can not not explain. I have always treated religion with contempt, but age has taught me that there perhaps may be a Superior Being. A Maker. Just a small may be. Religion remains bunkum.

'Spiritualism' and 'Philosophy' are acutely powerful words. It all started with these two words.
 









 

Ahh HMV !

The HMV music store on Oxford Street is to close down. No one buys music anymore. There is always E music which can be downloaded. Nevermind, the ethics  of it. 

The sad part of it all is that the store was a huge part of our wild and willful growing up years. Not just me, but a bunch of us who lacked heating in our rooms. We had no access to a guitar or a piano. Had to work 18 hours a day to meet submission deadlines and exam dates. And of course the audio tape recorders that we had, ate into the electricity bill. Costs money to have a warm and well lit room plus some music. The HMV store at Oxford Circus was the best music store that I have visited. All kinds of music, all genres. From Western Classical to Ravi Shanker. They had the latest Who to the oldest Chant music. Once Dad once asked me to pick up a very anglicised version of the Gayatri Mantra . I searched London through. Even the quaint little music shop on Tin Can Alley(run by Ben Harrick) did not have it. The HMV store pulled it out of their store-room. I was allowed to go down to that huge basement (larger than most tube stations...well almost) while the staff located the box and pulled out the lone vinyl record.

The best part is that the shop had small rooms known as 'music rooms' The idea was to allow customers to listen to records/tapes before making the purchase. These warm and well-lit rooms harboured an entire generation of students in the '70's. It did not matter where (Uni) you studied, what horrible discipline you were trying to follow. Did not matter which country or county you came from. All that mattered was the shop was there for us when we homeless students arrived with our books and files. We took in the piped music that was always there and beat a hasty retreat to one the music rooms (Room No. 5 was my favourite) to work. Room No. 5 had a Steinway grand. The walnut finished piano stood on the dark green carpet like a tree. There were Garrard or Phillips-432 record changers in all rooms. Some of the rooms had Technique or Nakamichi speakers. A total heaven where music was concerned. One could bring in audio tapes from the shop-floor to listen. We sneaked in our own tapes and played everything from Beatles to Iranian desert music (courtesy Aamir). Olof played some Norwegian lullaby music. It reminded him of his home which he missed. We all missed our homes. The shop was open till 8 in those day. Till midnight before Christmas and we sat in relative comfort and did PPE and Physics. Geography and Architecture and what-have-you. All because of the benevolence of the HMV and its various staff who turned a blind eye to this 'abuse' or 'misuse' of their swank music rooms.

It was always a pleasure to emerge from the tube at Oxford Circus to see the bright lights of the shop. As we walked up, the piped music was  welcoming.... would it be Yellow Submarine? Vera Lynn? Tchaikovsky? Chubby Checker? Zubin Mehta on special days. George Harrison and Shankar on some days. African music when Amin was playing up, and Tagore on 15th August. Such eclectic music, All of us held our breaths till we got to the stage (or spot on the pavement) where the music could be heard..... generally in front of Robbins and Son.

We most often left our books and notebooks, Rotrings and our 80g Schhkoler paper sheets in the trust of HMV. Nothing ever got misplaced. When the shop shut at 8, we moved on to Hyde Park for a loaf. In those days it used to be open till midnight. No mugging. No rape. No grooming boys.

With the HMV would go out of the window  the bright days which produced the high firsts that we all got! If it had not been for HMV, all of would have perished (of cold and emotional deprivation) in that 'haloed island' which is almost uninhabitable from November  to February. Yet, first week of January was the submission week. HMV took care of us.

Atri told me that the shop was shutting down. I send my emissary, Rudra  to scout around for the last scrap of music. The last taste of the Oxford Street HMV. The trusted agent got a few CDs and posters and such. One bright red Beatles umbrella was also acquired. I shall forever cherish this umbrella.Two carry bags, too!!

Next thought.... Foyles ?  Hamleys?  Please Lord, let these survive.

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.