Christmas Carols

One of those odd thing that this odd family of mine does is to listen to Christmas Carols in this season of Joy and Peace. Old and ancient hymns, German carols, new and contemporary carols, we even have some in French.

I cannot remember how or when this practice started. My parents put on hymns for us during this season ...... on the old Telefunken radiogram. By the time I left for School, I knew all the carols.

Through School and College the practice carried on because we always came home for Christmas, and Christmas was at home.

After I got married, I carried out my Garrard and my records. Sanjoy was not averse to hymns, carols and midnight vigil mass. Children when they came, grew up with the same idea. The strong Catholic upbringing at their Schools and choir singing strengthed the ritual at home.

The story I have not ever told anyone at all goes back to 1977. I was in Delhi and was staying up deadly cold December nights writing my final submission. I was tired, cold and terribly homesick. The only thing that kept me going that December was an old red and grey HMV gramophone.....I think the model was called Fiesta. This ancient piece of junk had come with thebarsati I lived in. (I guess the previous occupant of the room graduated to a better system).

I had records to play on it. It was late and it was cold and I still had to finish that piece of academic nonsense. I was playing Bing Crosby on the player and shutting out non-academic thoughts when there was a soft knock on the flimsy door. It was the press-man from downstairs and his wife. They had come up to listen to the carols. In my wildest dreams I would not have classified them as Christians. Faith and religion is not writ all over a person. They were Goans ... migrated to Delhi. Yes, they were Catholics. Yes, they liked and knew the carols. Most certainly they were homesick. They had brought a roti-subzi dinner for me. I brought out my jam and bread dinner. I made Horlicks in the electric kettle. And we sang carols with Bing Crosby. "White Christmas" and "Blue Christmas" and "Merry Christmas" and everything. In true Christmas spirit.

To me the spirit of Christmas has always included Tony and his wife. And every year when I put on the carols at Christmas time, I always think of them.

I am not a very religious person. Somehow that carol singing session meant a lot to me. Like most things, I kept this bottled up. I think the time has now come for me to reveal why I love carols so . It is not just Ma, nor School, nor family( though all these count, too). One cold Delhi December night had a definite role to play.

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Mohit and an Escalator

Today I went to a nearby shopping mall. I am not very comfortable in these shopping malls. There is a feeling of claustrophobia in these places in spite of the large expanse they occupy. (This in an urban landscape is a crime). I always have to stop and take my breath to get accustomed to the closed space. On one such 'breather' I was watching the series of escalators going up and down. Quite a sight. Quite awe inspiring.

Suddenly I remembered Mohit (for Mohit was his name, I think). I was in College and it was generally assumed I was always at a loose-end. Anybody who wanted any work done from a bill-payment to a dentist trip employed me. Neelum had this little cousin called Mohit visiting the city for the first time, and I had to entertain him most days. He wasn't too bad, and I really did not mind Mohit tagging along. One of the most exciting things we did was to have rides on the RBI escalator. In those days, there were no shopping malls, and to the best of my knowledge the RBI was the only building with an escalator. We went up and down the escalator endless number of times and never tired of it. In those days it surely would have been termed "awwwesome".

How naive we were with such innocent tastes. Escalator rides, tram rides to Joka amidst the Maidan greenery, walking in Dalhousie Square looking for the Old Fort Wall (we did find the plaque), double decker bus rides to the outskirts and back. All such simple and completely marvelous acts left us "awestruck".

Today when I saw a two-year old smartly stepping on to an escalator with a large Coke and a packet of chips in her hand, I thought of Mohit. All of 10 years. Me about 16 years. Having a whale of a time on the RBI escalator. That escalator had us spellbound !!!!!

Today's kids need a Gold ticket to an Inox Harry Potter show. In the 1970's Mohit and Neelum and I needed very little. An afternoon breeze on College Street gave us a high.

Hablu

Hablu was a neighbourhood boy. At one time we lived down a small narrow lane off Lansdowne Road, and Hablu was something short of a street urchin.....except that he was quiet, dignified and never behaved like the other street-boys. His father, I remember use to work in the Ramakrishma Mission Hospital........certainly not as a doctor. His mother, Bakuldidi did the occasional sewing for my mother and helped with the cooking when there were guests. Hablu came to our house with his mother. He did not go to school. He did not and could not study. He was too dumb. In those days in the sixties, dyslexia, autism, learning disorder etc was not perhaps too wellknown. He could not learn his lessons. Period. Therefore he did not go to school.

My sister and I brought home a constant stream of abandoned kittens and runover dogs. Most of these were treated by the vet. Some lived and shared our home. Some left us heart broken. I once brought home a pupppy. My sister had measles then and Mother put her foot down. A stern "NO" was the verdict. Hablu came to the rescue. Hablu fell in love with the puppy. I could have fought Mothers "NO". Dad could have been brought into the scene. I was very, very good at throwing tantrums. None of these were needed. One look at Hablu's shining eyes, and I knew the puppy would be well looked after. The skinny brown pup transformed Hablu. He looked after it. Fed it. Walked all the way to the Vet's for regular treatment. Hablu was no longer a dumbo. For a person who had learning difficulties he picked up knowledge on animals and animal behaviour without any trouble. He learnt at the Vets. He learnt from us. My mother bought him books on dogs and he devoured those books written by English vets in English. Of course we helped him to read. My Mother read out to him in the kitchen and Hablu would read after her. By the time Hablu was ten years or so, he rejoined school. Managed to overcome his learning difficulties. Passed his term end Exams. Passed his school leaving Exams. All because of that scrawny puppy Chitto (for that is what he was named), who won Hablu's heart.

I grew up and moved out of my parental home. However once in a while I got news of Hablu. He studied Veterinary Science. Became a Vet. I went to his wedding in 1989 .....on Sajani's 5th birthday. I got the news through my Mother when his children were born.

This story does not re-affirm my faith in the human race in any way. I do not trust the human race too far.... certainly not enough to put my faith in it. Yes, it reaffirms my faith in animals. The power of a scrawny puppy to rehabilitate poor Hablu never ceased to amaze me.

This post comes up because during the Kali Puja weekend I chanced upon a half-dead kitten on Rifle Range. A hit and run case. With the help of a local rickshaw (who took no payment) I took it it to the nearby Vet (once again the rickshaw wallah's suggestion). The Vet turned out to be Hablu. I was overjoyed. Hablu had eyes only for his patient. I left the kitten with him along with my phone number..... in case the kitten survived. Hablu rang up this morning with the news that the kitten is now fine and would I care to have her back. I hesitated. Hablu offered an alternative. Would I object if he gave the kitten to a little girl in his neighbourhood?

"The girl has lost her mother from cancer, Didi, perhaps a kitten would do her good. The family is willing. Would you mind, Didi?"

So typically Hablu. Time does a full circle, does it not?

Ha Ha Lalgarh

So much happening at Lalgarh. Such unrest. So much bloodshed. How did this name LALGARH come up? Thirty years back I knew this area like the back of my hand. There was no Lalgarh. No garh of any kind. It was no defence station. Peace loving people eking out a living from the relatively infertile soil and an abundance of forest products. No gunshots, no bloodshed, no sense of indignity. Such a quiet and serene area.

Lalgarh? HA. Whatever happened to those enchanting villages with their lyrical names? Where is Mohuldiha? Jochhanchar? Chikantila? Bangriposi?.........mon udasi

bajai bansi

banser bansi...................

Wide expanse of red earth meeting at some far off point a blue sky which looks almost white in the mid day sun. Shallow rivers, with sandy bottoms and the wonderful feel toes sinking in the soft mud of these rivers. The Kuher river like a sheet of beaten silver in the Dol Purnima moonlight. The dappled forest floor of Sal forests......on another moonlit night. I can go on and on and on........

And the people. The simple, earthy people who never had malice in their mind. When did they learn to hate? To kill? Whatever happened to their Danu Baba to practiced non violence and amity. They never wanted money. They never wanted jobs. They were already much more "developed" than their urban counterparts......even twenty years back.

In the city, humanity has no value. In my Mohuldiha of yesteryears, I went about the country side without a care, without a penny in my pocket. Yet had shelter, food, and mohua to boot. I never felt threatened. Never ever.

Constant deprivation, regular taunting, incessant exploitation and organised rape of humanity........birth of LALGARH.

I hang my head in shame.

'.......no more than a packet of cigarettes'

I wonder how many know this story. People in the publishing industry surely would, but others??? I doubt.

Way back in 1935, Allen Lane of Bodley Head Publishers was waiting for a train on Exeter station. He wanted some reading material......to read on the train. His choice was limited to popular magazines and a few poorly published and equally poorly written paperbacks. This definite lack of quality literature in paperback set Lane thinking. He was sure there would be a market for paperbacks. Not too many could afford to buy hardcovers. Lane knew that well enough.

His wisdom and acumen in the publishing industry was evidently immense, because he founded a publishing house that brought out the best of literature.....thrillers, classics, historical masterpiece, poetry, autobiography, reference books, all the best novels. All in paperback. At an ever-so-reasonable price. He even had them colour coded to help readers distinguish the genre.

Lane had a vision......he was adamant his publishing house should produce books that sold from a railway station to a chain store, from a book-shop to a tobacconists. All should be priced reasonably. In his own words '...... no more than a packet of cigarettes'.

Well, Lane kept his word and readers over the world helped him. Today the company is one the the most recognised publisher.

From orange to yellow, to green, to purple, to blue....I was brought up on these books.. Nice soft, foldable books, that fitted in my blazer pocket, and went conveniently behind an atlas at Prep time.

Thank you Mr. Lane. Thank you Penguin Books.

My Cats

There has been a couple of queries about my cats. For general information......my family of cats include

SKIPPY. Old Grandmother. Gentle. The most loving. A Lady-Cat. Reads me like a book.

MONTY. Named after the illustrious DN Mountford.He is a little over 4 years old. Monty is a Chartered Accountant by qualification. He goes to office everyday. Comes back for lunch, and then by 6pm.

CHICOBAC. Chico meaning 'baby' and bac is Welsh for 'darling little one'. Therefore 'Baby Darling'. Shantam named the little motherless kitten in all sincerity. Chico is hardly a cat. He is better than a dog. Knows all the tricks. Can open the fridge. Listens to Bach. Watches full length action movies on the laptop. Only on the laptop. Chico is 3 years old.

IAGO. The latest. About 2 months old. The name says it all !! Beats Machiavelli hollow.

Communication

At one time there was only the Trunk Call for long distance calls. A greatly awaited event. The whole locality knew when one was on the Trunk Call line. It involved a fair degree of screaming.

Then came the Lightning Calls and PP Calls and what not.

Parallel to the Trunk Call days was the daily post....the postman. And sometimes the telegram.

In time, came the STD. Subscribers Trunk Dialing. Direct dialing. Anywhere. No screaming.

With this came the Internet and the computer.

One had to look for phone booths and STD centres to call home. Keeping in mind the metre rates. Computer access and Internet access was not easy either. One had to steal a few minutes of Net time at work to check and send personal emails. This too had a charm.

Now everyone has a laptop with wifi facilities. A mobile phone. Yet, communication is prioritised.

Calls are not taken. Not returned. A call taken may mean a snarl over the phone. One is left with the feeling '......perhaps i shouldn't have called.' Email access is ever so easy. Yet, mails are not answered. Ignored.

I long for the good old Trunk Call days, with the postie coming twice a day.