A Forward

A copy-paste from a Forward a friend sent me.

If you mean Whiskey, the devil’s brew, the poison scourge,

the bloody monster that defiles innocence, dethrones reason,

destroys the home, creates misery and poverty, yea,

literally takes the bread from the mouths of little children;

if you mean that evil drink that topples Christian men and women

from the pinnacles of righteous and gracious living into

the bottomless pit of degradation, shame, despair, helplessness,

and hopelessness, then, my friend . . .
I am opposed to it with every fiber of my being.

However, if by Whiskey you mean the oil of conversation,

the philosophic wine, the elixir of life, the ale that is consumed

when good fellows get together, that puts a song in their hearts

and the warm glow of contentment in their eyes; if you mean

Christmas cheer, the stimulating sip that puts a little spring

in the step of an elderly gentleman on a frosty morning; if you

mean that drink that enables man to magnify his joy, and to forget

life’s great tragedies and heartbreaks and sorrow; if you mean

that drink the sale of which pours into our treasuries untold millions

each year, that provides tender care for our little crippled children,

our blind, our deaf, our dumb, our pitifully aged and infirm, to build

the finest highways, hospitals, universities, and community colleges

in this nation, then my friend,

I am absolutely, unequivocally in favor of it.

This is my position, and as always,

I refuse to compromise on matters of principle.

Watering Holes

These days young 15 year olds in full school uniform (tie and belt and badge and blazer) walk into Oly pub on Park Street to have a beer (and I guess a smoke).

Bang in the middle of the day. !!!!!

I am no moral policeman. If it is alright with the pub and the young souls and their parents....so be it.

What really shook me was their attitude. Complete man-of-the-world at 15 years.

My encounters with pubs started pretty much the same age. Except that I was in College at that age, and I never ever enjoyed the outings. Too much noise, too much smoke....... claustrophobic.

However the SXC boys and the Presidency pals were pretty forthcoming on their escapades and very occasionally I accompanied them.

There were some sleazy bars that Calcutta had at that time. Not sleazy perhaps, but definitely not quite 'genteel'. One such one was Paris Bar. This where the schoolboys came to see what 'hookers' were. The beer was warm... never chilled....... because the fridge was non-functional. The whole place would be smoky as hell, and the waiters would wear lungis and vests. I was given to understand that Paris Bar came alive in the evening with the office babus and the policemen and the hookers all sharing the rum and the occasional whisky. The crowd spilled over on to the pavement outside and everyone waited for the free-for-all to start and then join in with gusto and soda bottles.

Saki was another bar. I have always wanted to go there, but never found a male who would think on similar lines. Sanjoy, in sheer exasperation, had said 30 years back..... 'ok, ok. we'll go one day'. I am still waiting for the 'one day'. Saki was for serious drinkers who would drown the sorrows of life in their "chho taka pint' (Rs. 6 for a pint) beer. Of course besides the booze much else happened at Sakis. It was a place for all illicit deals, and my biggest regret is that I never got to go there. It would have been fun...... police raid et al. Complete with chakus . Such side shows used to be part and parcel of Sakis . The office babus left the bar by 7pm, to go back home to their killjoy wives. And from 8 pm Saki came all a-glitter.

New Cathay was unique. Once again the beer was warm. (Actually it did not really matter if the beer was warm....... nobody expected a chilled beer anyway). The crowd was always sleazy, two DC current fans overhead...... hardly being able to slice the thick, heavy 'smoke&sweat' air. Sanjoy and I took Sujit and his girl friend Kaberi there once. Not so much for the beer but to rattle Kaberi a bit. I think we did succeed. In fact it was a huge success. It took everything Sujit could give to dry her tears.One thing though Cathay did a mean chilli chicken. A dry roasted chilli chicken which I still miss.

I wonder if anyone remembers Blue Heaven. A small bar on Beadon Street....may be Cornwallis Street. The Presidency boys went there often. It was on a raised platform. A smallish place with the traditional "cabins" and blue curtains. I had strict orders from home never to go there. I did go though. Only once. With Jyoti and Partha from Presidency. I did'nt last more than 5 minutes. It was too shut-in for my claustrophobia.

The Chungking was a class apart. Slightly more refined. Good food and a better crowd. Not really a bar. It was and still is a restaurant. Which served liquor.

The intellectuals go to Coffee House. The pucca sahib to The Bengal Club. The corporate boxwallah to the Saturday Club. The dedicated golfer to The Tolly. The down and out "chullu khors" to the burning ghats. The young wannabees to Olympia (now renamed Olly Pub). But real men ...... the janta....... go to Paris Bar and Saki and Cathay and many such places which I am sure still exists.

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.