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.

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.

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.