development

South City Mall geichhilam.

Ki bhir.

Roga, roga. Paangla - paangla young girls. Kshoya chehara. Bansberia-Belghoria types.

Quarter metre kaparer tiny Tee shirt pore "MOM" "MOM" kore chitkaar korchhe.

Tar porei holo " I want ........."

All with a twang.

Call for Coming Home

" Aei Raju, avyas karte es"

The Prep bell going "Dong" "Dong"

"Buli, ebar opore chole eso. Porte boso"

All calls for coming home. Getting indoors. Sitting down to study.

Today the afternoon sun cast long bright beams on my bright red floor. Through the tall barred windows came the noon sunlight streaming in. On the floor, on my bed. The cats lapped up the pre-lunch sunshine sitting on the designated blankets.

Skippy, a warm orange glow.

Chico, sleek and shiny ...... and yet there is so much of him, the fat-cat that he is.

Iago, stretched out to cover his own one-acre plus to trespass on to Chico's acre.

As winter comes the sun changes its angle of entry into my room. It also signifies that is it time for the family to come home. That may not be entirely possible any more, nevertheless it is a call. A call for the children to come home. Each to 'bag' their own space in the sun, to 'bag' his/her own pet, own book.

Are you coming?

Volume and Bounce

I went to the SRA this evening for a perfectly straight forward musical evening. The usual mixture of the Sarangi and the Tabla and Carnatic Music. A very enjoyable experience indeed, till this stranger sitting next to me descended on the scene. She even managed to take away Bickram Ghosh's thunder ....... quite literally.

She was giving me looks. I could even say "queer" looks. I am mortally scared of these 'same-sex' people and had one foot ready to jump up and change seats or whatever. Suddenly, just as a small alap ended, she leans across and whispers " Where do you get your hair dressed?".

The fact of the matter is that my hair (all of the 2" crop that I maintain) is completely undressed, denuded, bare and naked. I was totally foxed and then she gave me a 'leg up' so to say ....... "Who is you hair dresser, dear?" (Why does she say 'dear'?)

Ah! This answer I knew and promptly gave her the name of the very pleasant lady who gives me the hair-cut that I occasionally need.

This lady sniffed and sneered.

I did a mental sneer and turned my attention back to Bickram Ghosh.

Two minutes of silence.

A reverie and a close inspection of my hair in the semi darkness.

Then another whisper, "My dear, your hair is in a mess".

"So what's it to you, lady?" (Except that I am polite at all times.)

I answered with a 'quite so' nod. Ghosh was particularly brilliant this evening and was demanding attention. Rightfully so, too.

The woman carried on about my hair..... its cut, its shape, morphology and what not.

I eventually (with the half-ear that I was giving her) gathered that she was some sort of a hair specialist.

Now, all those who know me will agree that my hair is perfectly fine. A salt and pepper mixture of clean hair, which is shampooed regularly. No trouble with my hair whatsoever.

I asked her, in my very best 'special' English, "Are you a hair stylist?"

"No, no. I am a hair trainer"

I nearly fell out of my chair.

"You are a WHAT?" This in my very best 'street' English.

Oh, Madam was highly offended !!!!!!She puckered up her mouth, sniffed some more. but at least allowed me to get back to the music.

By this time my imagination was fired, and there was a riot of thoughts in my head. I have heard of horse trainers and dog trainers. I can do with a cat trainer for Chico and Iago (even if I have to shell out some cash). There are snake charmers, but not trainers. Shoes that we wore when we were young were called trainer shoes. What does a hair trainer do? I thought hair had no nerves (that is why it does not hurt when cut), therefore no intelligence either. So how could hair be trained????

Bickram Ghosh be damned, I had to find out now. I made a few attempts at polite conversation, and got the story out of her.

Her name is Diva (do not even think of sopranos and operas, dear readers..... this female has a whisky-rich husky voice). She is from Bombay (which by itself is a very dubious introduction).

And of course she trains hair.

"How do you train hair"? I asked.

Hair must have Volume!!! Gleam!!! Sheen!!! Life!!!

It has to bounce and swing.

Shine and glow.

She should write a doctoral dissertation on it. She was in ecstasies of ........ words fail me.......

I instantly thought of Rituparna with her ardent desire to have hair with 'volume and bounce'. This lady carried on about how poorly 'arranged' my hair was.

"It has 'volume' however". said Diva.

"It needs 'treatment' " , Diva said. I was looking for tongs and scissors which she might be carrying in her very flashy purple pseudo-leather bag. She gave me the name (clean out of my mind now) of her establishment on Park Street/Wellesley crossing. There she trains hair and dresses hair. That is her profession. She also trains females ("Only girls, dear") who in turn.... 'trains' hair. Very complicated indeed.

Things were simpler in my childhood when my horribly unruly hair had to be put in two tightly drawn braids. Now of course, no matter who says what I will have my hair 'undressed and naked" in the 2" Eton crop that I find very suitable.

I escaped from the clutches of this lady with all my hair intact, thinking of the likes of Rituparna. Hoping they do not fall to 'training' their hair. Yet in my thought was a remote desire of disciplining Sajani's hair. May be Sajani can be sent to Diva.

What says you???

Barsati Days

The other day, an young colleague of mine was telling me of her 'barsati' days in Delhi. I told her how I used to manage ..... in a 'barsati' .......30 years back.

My 'barsati' was a classy one by standards set in those days. It had a 3ft x 5ft kitchenette attached to my rather large 12ftx12ft room. Nevermind the fact that I did not and could not cook. The whole set up had a large terrace and a toilet (not attached) right across the terrace. One had to run back to the room in the freezing winter chill after a bath. The bath had no hot water. The provision was never there, and the contract (if one existed) did not have a clause for hot water. I always bathed in cold water and in the algid Delhi winters I thanked by parents who did not encourage such 'luxuries' in my childhood. However, there was always enough cold water, and in summer I could bathe as many times as I liked..... which was a luxury, given the water shortage Delhi had at that time. The terrace door did not latch properly and would be open all day or all night. Thankfully, the bedroom door latched and I kept it locked. Tejpal, the landlords son often came to the terrace with a mongrel dog, and every time I had to shoo him away. Tejpal and Bobby (the dog) must have had a field day when I was away. At times the terrace door went bang every time the wind blew hard, and bits and pieces of string was needed to keep it shut.

In those days we had no cell phones, no Maggi noodles, no cheese cubes, no packet milk, no microwave. We had a lot grit, though. And ingenuity.

Since there were no cell phones, phone calls to and from home was restricted. There were no PCO booths either. I had to go to the local Post Office every Sunday morning at 8.30 to make the weekly phone call. It was sheer punishment on winter mornings to have to hike 3km to the post office. But Ma's voice at the other end took away all the cares and weariness of the week. I could talk to my dog, my Dad, my sister and that 20Rs trunk call kept me alive through the coming week. I never failed the weekly call home. Actually this weekly phone call system was something we all followed. We were a class of 45 with 38 non-Delhi students. Only 4 girls. (2 from Bengal, 1 from Pune, 1 from Orissa). We all made these weekly phone calls ..... different timings, different days of the week ...... but we all saved and clung on to the phone call money. It was a religion of sorts.

Cooking was a disaster. Total disaster. The landlady provided a dinner of a kind (roti/dal/dahi), but never ever had I existed with no breakfast. And no milk. A tin (a pink and white tin of Amulspray) of milk powder was sent from home. Hardly the real stuff. After much cajoling the landlady agreed to boil one seer of milk for me every morning. As I said, there was no packet milk. Milk was delivered by the milk-man. Good, rich, creamy milk, which the landlady would boil and I would go down to collect. I had to buy a 'patila' for the milk. However, I could not drink the entire one seer in the morning before classes. There was no refrigerator. In the heat of a Delhi summer, milk cannot stay fresh. I had a flask. The storage system in-a-flask did not work. I also had a water bottle. This unique article I do not see any more. It was a aluminium tubular flask coated with a brown blanket-like material. A cockscrew cap and a wide webbing belt strap. This water bottle was common enough in those days (I think it was an American GI standard issue), and my aunt had given it to me to keep water cool. I could not drink 'sada paani', the mem-sahib that I was. Anyway, the remaining milk was put in this blanket covered bottle, the stopper screwed tight, tied with string and lowered in the 'paani tanki' to keep the milk cool and fresh. And delightfully cool it was when I came home after classes to drink that 'paani tanki' milk. All my friends made fun of me, and even the young colleague smirked when I told her about it. Notwithstanding all such jibes I carried on with the milk-cooling system, and thankfully Auntieji downstairs was never any the wiser. My kitchenette was bare. My aunt in Delhi had provided me with two Spode dinner plates and a Royal Albert breakfast cup. The breakfast cup (a twin of the one Ma used every morning at home) I used and I still have it. The Spodes I did not dare use. I eventually got Auntie-ji from downstairs to give me a very colourful Melamine plate.

There was no microwave oven, no gas connection either. I got hold of a classmate (from Madurai), and the Tam-Brahm brain and the Bong brain got together to buy two red and yellow Janta stoves. To be run on kerosene. We even smuggled some kerosene out of the canteen, and spent an entire evening in his barsati (his landlord was away) trying to solve the intricate process of igniting a janta stove.

At one point of time Chaitanya screamed " Arre, ye janta stove hai, ya. The plebians use it throughout the country. Do you mean to say we educated elite cant get to light a janta stove?"

Well. We could'nt.

Eventually we got hold of Karan from the College (Karan was a Dosco and had done his Dukes) to teach us how to light a Janta stove. We learnt, and from then on hot water could be made on the Janta stove in my kitcheette. And toast. And boiled egg. Nothing more. I survived on Horlicks. And Viva was the variant. Toast and jam was always there. No Maggi. No noodles. No pre-made soup. There was Essex Farm's tinned sausages though.......sometimes. And canned baked beans....... once again, sometimes.

Auntie-ji allowed no friends upstairs. Not even with her approval. In fact two things she did not understand at all was

a) why should I have friends to begin with? "padai ke liye aye, naa?"

b) why were most of my friends boys? and "caste bhi alag ........"

The fact that there were only 4 girls in my class was never considered. However, with time she mellowed a bit, and came to allow us to sit on the steps of her veranda. All of sat there on summer evenings, chatted, sang songs, Auntie-ji sometimes joined in. She sometimes served tea or may be chilled water. We all washed up . We all loved it. In fact my house (not the barsati, but downstairs) was the favourite haunt of the entire class. Auntie-ji put up with us till 7pm and then shooed us way. She did not always let us in. We knew our limits. We always sat on the steps, never entered her living room, and went around to the kitchen door to wash our glasses. Or even to say 'bye when we left. Auntie-ji never did get to go to college. Neither did her son. She kept a very strict eye on the company I kept as also my studies. Without fail everynight she would quiz me on the lectures I had attended that day, and if I had done my 'home task'. She meant Library work. And she meant well. For the fear of lying to her I tried to squeeze in Library reading from 7 to 9pm .... before I went to collect my dinner.

I survived on little those days. Coming home was for Summers was common to all. I got Rs300 as pocket money. That was a princely sum. Many of my classmates got half of that. From the 300 a train ticket had to be purchased. My train ticket to Howrah on the Deluxe cost Rs 85. The Deluxe was a delux train. Nearly everybody took the Janta Mails which went in all directions from New Delhi Station. But that 85 rupees had to be saved. Dad did not give extra money for coming home. He paid for coming to Delhi end of the holidays. Holiday train ticket and term end Exams always coincided. I needed money to Xerox notes, money for extra food during late night studying ....... all these extras I could not ask from home. Kailash ran a side business. He was an electrician. He lent us money for the train ticket nearly every time. I would repay him when I came back after the holidays.

When I heard about my colleagues 'barsati' , my own 'barsati' of 30 years vintage flashed by. It made me nostalgic for many hours.

The Obscure Goa

This article is about Goa. However there are a few things that need to be clarified.

Firstly, all of these small facts came to me from a young man who spent a few years in Goa, came to love it, and saw Goa in different perspectives. The views are not necessarily my own.

Secondly, the person explored Goa and brought to me several mementos…. but not all. Therefore I cannot vouch for the authenticity of all of the stories here.

1. The State of Goa gets its name from the word ‘Govarasthra’ , meaning the land pf cows and cowherds. However, the boy quickly realized that milk in Goa is expensive and is supplied by the ‘Nandini Dairy’ of Karnataka. Further research led to the finding that Goa was named after the “GWA” or “GUA” grass that grew on the coastal marshy edges, and the Portuguese called the land Gwa, the British changed it to Goa. I can not vouch for this theory, but sounds interesting.

2. Goa is known for its beaches, but Goa has more rivers than many other States. Granted, not all of them are big and grand rivers, but they are rivers all the same, which meet the sea in marshy tracts. The larger rivers are the Zuari, the Mapusa, the Mandovi . The smaller ones like the Setsia and the Ranas are no larger than creeks. They are beautiful, though and worth a visit.

3 Goa grows a few varieties of very sweet mangoes. This fact I can vouch for, because I ate them every summer. The names, as far as I can recall are Mankurad and Fernandin. Both are smallish red and yellow mangoes very similar to the ‘sindur kouta’ of Bengal. Excellent mangoes, which always left me wondering why the State did not promote these two varieties. Next time you are in Goa in summer, do taste these mangoes.

3. Goa has sand, but has a red lateritic soil which is found on the slightly higher level than the beach….on the plateau tops and the escarpments coming down to the flat flood plains. This part of Goa, the young man said, is really beautiful and unspoiled. There is hardly any tourist trade here and the forests of teak and sal on a moonlit night can be ethereal with the forest floor bathed in the dappled silver light. This is particularly true in the forests of Morle and Shigga.

4. Now, this fact is obscure and I can find no one to vouch for it. Laurie Baker, a famous architect built a small low-cost hut for an old village lady. The hut I was told is an architectural marvel. It has a thatched roof, built on bamboo pillars. There is a natural skylight for the heat to escape and the diffused sunlight to come in. The inside of the hut is as cool as air-conditioned, and a central courtyard allows total circulation of air. However,I have some sketches of this hut in a remote South Goa village. The old lady is called Thankamma and she ” is a very good cook”.

5. Goa, I was told is a land of Forts. There are several forts and some citadels. All of them are in a state of disrepair, and is open for anyone to walk in. The more famous ones like the Aguda Fort and the Tiracol Fort attract a fair number of tourists. The smaller ones on the plateau top are unknown, sometimes unnamed and I was told ‘fascinating’. There is even a fort called Cabo da Rama, after the mythological Ram of the ‘Ramayana’. Ram took shelter in Goa, and the fort was built for him. All the forts exhibit excellent brick-work and water-supply system.

6. Can not miss the Feni (Fenny) of Goa. What you may not know is that Feni is totally country liquor. And for this same reason, is not for sale outside the State of Goa. The young man clearly told me that Feni can be made from cashew nuts or from coconuts. Southern Goa grows more coconuts and therefore makes coconut Feni, and Northern Goa grows cashew nuts to make Kaju Feni. This lad brought some of this Feni to me. Very potent, very fiery. Ideally to be mixed with a sweet juice. However, I was given to understand that this stuff “is had all the time…..plain”. The so called ‘branded’ ones are “Reals” and “Big Boss”. Make a note…. Sattari tehsil has the best Feni.

7. I have had this very peculiar samosa called ‘egg samosa’ brought all the way from Goa. It is like no other samosa I have ever tasted. These are small flattish ones, filled with ‘egg bhurji’. Spicy, but tasty. These I was told are available at a small restaurant in Panjim called “Sartaj”. From the same shop was brought to me (in a flask) the lime juice-soda that they make. Though every time I have had this, the soda had gone flat, I will agree that for a commercial lime juice this is the best I have ever had. Quite near to Gatorade.. “Sartaj”, I was told “does a mean Biriyani and a potato bake”. Sartaj, I suppose is worth a visit.

8. Christmas time, this young man got us bebinca and dodols and guava cheese. Much traveled and much treasured these used to come to us a little squashed, but they were much awaited. I was told Pasteria in Panjim, and George’s in Panjim made the best bebincas. I never knew which packet came from which shop, as they were all wrapped in brown-paper, but these are delicious Goan desserts which should not be missed.

9. This lad often talked about the flea-markets of Mapusa (Friday Market) or of Anjuna (Wednesday Market) where everything from clothes to books to T shirts could be bought. These markets had live music and Goan women brought to the market their local cuisine. A plate of Goan fish-curry and rice could be had for Rs. 30. I do not remember much what this guy told me about these markets, except that the both times he went, his pocket was picked !!! But these markets sell Goan pork sausages with poee (bread or pau) which is not available in any shop.

10. The two bookshops I constantly heard about was Broadway at Panjim. These people let their customers browse and read with comfort. To boot, they keep the book aside if you want to come back the next day. The other book shop this boy frequented was Literatti at Calangute. This shop was a little way out for my resource person, but there was the owner Divya Kapur (I think I have the name right) who served chilled kokum juice and cold coffee for customers who spent the day there. Of course, at a price.

11. I was told with great emphasis that Goa had the most beautiful churches, and I never had any reason to disbelieve. Francis Xavier, the Basilica, the Don Bosco Church ….. I heard of so many. What impressed this boy was the complete and total 4 voice choir at St. Inez at Panjim and a Latin Mass at 7am in a small obscure Church in North Goa. I last heard a full Mass in Latin about 40 years back in a Chapel in Darjeeling. Not only for the architectural value, I do believe that a Full Mass in a Goan Church is not to be missed……specially a Sunday Mass.

12. A small item. A small bottle of home made chepnim (mango pickle) and a small bottle of prawn balachao was brought by this young man. Home made by one Auntie. I think most Goan homes make these. Try to scout around and buy some. Taste some. Enjoy.!!!!

Not all these are my views or my take on Goa. It is just that these interesting topics do not seem to be discussed on general travel sites on Goa, and yet this lad shared his find with me, and I found the ‘finds’ interesting.

Hope you can scout around for the obscure Goa, next time you go there.

Gopipur and East Anglia

Deep in the valleys of Garwhal, in Gopipur I met Bela last week. Gopipur is 5km from the nearest metalled road and about 350km from Landour, which itself is a small sleepy town.

Gopipur is less than a village and by the English Town and County Planning standards (if applied in this instance) it would probably rank as a hamlet or isolated farm. Gopipur has about 15 small huts, housing about 70 people. No school, no clinic, no post office, one tea-shop. Just acres and acres of hilly pasture land with sweet green grass and hundreds of cattle. The entire village depends on grazing and though they are not nomadic, they are certainly shepherds by occupation. Rearing milch cattle. Pure unadulterated milk is Rs. 10 a seer. They have not heard of kilograms. The rate is " dhai rupaiya pau". Sweet, thick creamy milk. Bela lives in Gopipur. Does not go to school. At least not in summer. In winter, when it is cold, a Masterbabu comes from the town, spends three or four months at Gopipur and teaches all the children the basics of grammar, arithmetic, alphabets and what not. Funnily enough all the children I met and the women too are more or less literate. They all read Hindi, and a little bit of English alphabets even the 5 year old knew. Left me wondering why we could not have the same system in the cities. School for 4 months. Holidays for 8 months!!!!!!

Any way coming back to Bela, her beloved Baba had been all the way to Pithoragarh (another small town in UP) and had brought back a pair of strappy tinsel coated sandals for Bela. For Bela that was the ultimate in fashion, and she dearly wanted to wear it. Her strict no-nonsense mother had put an embargo......not till Diwali. The footwear was kept wrapped in newspaper and sunned everyday (I never got to know why the daily sunning was needed), much admired by all the village folk as it glittered in the misty sunlight and all of this watched by the totally enraptured eight year old.

This pair of sandals and Bela's dark deep dreamy eyes took me back 45 years in a fraction of a second.

Long time back in the bleary and misty shores of East Anglia I spent a winter holiday. On the dead flat marshes of Suffolk it was an intensely cold winter. There was the high sea wall on which we used to walk and play. If you know this part of Suffolk, the sea wall near Lowestoft

is a lonely stretch, on one side lay the bleak grey sea, howling and raging with the wind which was always bitterly cold. On the other side of the sea wall lay the wide expanse of heathland, rimey grass dotted with winter-black whin bushes and dry gorse bushes. A wide pale sky touched the heathland somewhere far way. In this bleak landscape played Norah and Robin and of course yours truly. The sea wall was slippery and wet, and we ran along it as sure footed as only children can be. Norah was the daughter of the local P.C. and wore a pair of red leather shoes with bright silver buckles. I had never seen such a pair of shoes. All I got was the regular black boots for school wear and of course the three striped Adi Dassler hand crafted grey suede shoes. These Dassler shoes were good, comfortable but they could not match the clop-clop sound and the brightness that Norah's shoes brought while playing on the sea wall. All winter I yearned and longed for such a pair. I even went to the extent of asking Mother.

"Red shoes?", she said.

"What's wrong with the black shoes?"

Too bad Ma never understood these things.

The whole bleak winter we played and ran on the rimey heath, on the sea wall, on the straight sandy coast-road. All the time I longed to have a pair of red shoes. They never came. I stuck to my solid black boots and thought that if Norah was not the P.C.s daughter, a clever theft could be arranged between Robin and me. Such luck was never to be, and I left for School in February wearing my black school shoes (albeit a new pair).

While my children were growing up Rita gave a pair of red boots to Sajani (Numbo's old pair).

Sajani wore them to her playschool. However, I never got to wear a pair of red shoes....not ever.

Silver sandals in the bright and green Gopipur, and red shoes in a blear wintry East Anglian landscape. Two little girls, separated by a whole generation and a half. Yet the difference is so very negligible.

Teachers.

Teacher's Day come and go
And with every year I learn more
More than I ever teach.

I noticed that on every Teacher's Day ..... at least in recent years ........ it is the old students and ex-students who wish/greet/phone/visit/mail/write. The present students I teach are not always so enthusiastic.

Possible conclusions :-

a. We as teachers are less effective as the years go by.

b. The present lot of students are not sensitive to our teachings.

c. What we teach is a life-time learning for the taught, and that is why the old students come back to us with love and affection. The present students have not yet realised the value of our teaching . However, they will one day.

I copy-paste here on this page a mail which I had sent to some of my students (ex-students) in October, 2005. After 5 years, my sentiments remain the same.

I could not delete Arik's reply to my mail for some "HTML error". I have not disclosed the other recipients and their replies.

Nandini ma'am,

I am fairly certain that most people in this email would agree that you were an inspiration and that you transcended the textbook definition of teacher to become a mentor. If not, we would not have kept touch with you over these years :) ... don't worry about me just yet ... worry when I go to Iraq for my next assignment in January!

Regards,
Arik.

Nandini Dutta wrote:

The past few weeks saw the passing away of three of my educators. I shall not call them teachers.

One was Mother Marie-Claire, a nun at Loreto who put up with my outrageous ways with love and compassion (the hallmark of Loreto education). Never was there a harsh word, no matter how wicked my behaviour. Loreto education is so very wholesome. It sees you through life.

Then passed away my Economics teacher at College. A scatty and eccentric lady , who opened up my mind like no one had before. The modicum of academic discipline I possess today, I owe to her.

The third was dear IG (IGPatel) who saw me through my wild and wilful days at Delhi .Though he did not teach me as such, but he and his wife (Bibi) were always around for any intellectual discussion/argument. Many a times he acted as a 'sounding board' to the rather far fetched and immature hypothesis and paradigms that I presented to him at regular intervals. We ripped the topic apart and that by itself was a great learning process.If today I'm known to be argumentative, its because of IG.

A mere RIP or a prayer does not do them justice.

What I regret today is the fact that we as professors being in the academia, perhaps have not been able to impart to our students (through the years), a greater part of what we received from our mentors. I rue the fact. It is not just me, but many in our generation (professors and teachers) who received so much from our teachers, and yet, perhaps could not pass the same to the young minds that we teach/taught. My apologies

In introspection

Nandini Dutta.

Those at Univ., have fun. Arik, I worry for you. The rest take care. Priya, do mail.