The Pursuit of Happiness

I have been thinking lately. I have been thinking hard. Not that I seldom practice it and hence I have to blog (read brag) about it, but then there is something unique about this particular thought.

I have thought about this since long time. When I was a child, still this thing kept me worried. And that worrying thing is nothing but a question: “What is the purpose of life?”

When I was a kid, one fine morning, while playing with my friends, I fell, and I was crying. Suddenly I realized, I was crying for myself. As I had a feeling that my “self” was not in the so called happy mode. I wanted to see if I could do away with the crying part, and I could laugh. I tried and I succeeded. Of course for a brief stint though. I hadn’t paid much heed to it. And my parents and the others around me, found me to be very brave and courageous.

That was not the least true. I am a coward and everyone who knows me a well, knows this about me. I am scared of everything around of me. Not necessarily I cry though in every situation. But I do.

I remember I was scared of lying to my mom when I was a kid. So after flunking a number of math problems in class IV exam, I came back home and lied. I knew I had got a couple wrong, and my upbringing told me that was an unforgivable sin. My parents never would beat me, but still, I feared the very worst, and lied. I am afraid of failures. In games, or in exams. That’s why I was pretty much a studious student till my fourth grade. I feared coming second and studied even harder. All these fears were allayed off one day.

When one by one they came true. I was no longer the best player among my friends (not in cricket, not in football not in TT), neither I remained the best student in the class (came second in fourth). All these slowly ragged the fear a bit down. Things I could do so well, when I was afraid of them, were not my forte any longer since I faced those very fears. In a way, I won over them.

Coming back to the topic, crying and laughing became an experiment for me. I have laughed at strange circumstances where none would have thought of, though never actually tried crying when I should be laughing. Probably it was because a moment of laughter is too dear a thing to be wasted in meaningless tears. The thought that these experiments gave rise to, was of profound importance and gave me a belief which made me what I am today.

I started believing a human being is who he wants to be. The circumstances do play their part in shaping you. I am no master at human psychology to deny or to trifle at that. But I believe I am who I wanted to be. And of course you are who you wanted to become. These played a part in going forward in my thought process and ask a few more questions.

I wanted to know if I am who I wanted to become, then in reality, who I am or rather who I wanted to become. I hope I am not perplexing the reader with too many complex sentences. Then I started asking, why I wanted to become what I have become. What was the purpose that led me to it?

While growing up, slowly trifle things took over my mind. Trifle things like, studies, career, job, onsite, dollar, rupees, pound starlings, and girls and many more. I never took care of thinking about these things anymore. The other day, I was talking to my mom over the phone. And we were joking about my aunt’s devoted faith in Shri Ravi Shankar ji’s “Art of Living” gyans. My mom had a confused state of mind whether to pursue what others are so devotedly pursuing. She said, at her age, people should be devoted to God. She should be now, thinking about religious matters and should be set free from all the trifle things of life. She thought, all her life was spent in trifle things anyway. And now as she nears that ninth gate towards eternity, she should remember the One who sent her here on earth to fulfill her duties. I could not help but laugh. And at the same time, my questions which always had bothered my subconscious came back to me at once.

What was the purpose of human beings life? I, at once, realized that it’s not fulfillment of duties that people think they should be doing. Rather, it’s a pursuit of happiness that human beings are here for. That pursuit of happiness makes what you are. And being happy is the goal of life.

poriborton

akash ta ajkal neel nei jeno
ektu ki fyakashe lage na?
dhnoa jetuku ure mishe jai kolkatar bukete
sei gondho ta ar baki thake na

e sei gondher kotha bolchi ami
jake buke tene bishonno batash
mati te norom hat bulie dito
gaye makhie dito meyeder deergho shwash

ghorar keshor gulo elomelo kore dito
sei haoa ta ajo boi naki? moidan jure?
dupur e nidra jeto shohor er pran,ase
chola bhaja becha dokanir chokh jure

ekhono protikkha kore keu keu,
bhabe bodol er bodol hobe konodin
niswa dhulo mesha strand road e tanga
sobdo tulbe ghorar naal er orthoheen

bose theke theke prostor hoe jabo ami
ektu ektu kore ter pai buke
nihsobde hana dichhe faka gohbor
chokh duti gachhe kotore dhuke

chokher majhe sei neel ta dekhte pai
jei neel hariechhe akasher theke
sei haoa boye jai jothore jothore
ke jane khuje more kake

ekhono chhelemanushi kotha ase mukhe
gombhir protyuttor muchhe dai hasi
ekhono uttejona neche othe shirai
nei bhalobasa makha sei chumu rashi

Hostel Part III

Hostel days are gone into the yellowed pages of my past now. And yet so near they are to me. All those bawals, ragging, teasing girls from the darkened hostel balcony, stealing food from canteen, night adventures to Bishu paji’s dhaba come back on idle afternoons. They still cheer me up and enlighten my day.

The other day on yahoo messenger we met. 6 of college mates. Two in London. The rest in the US. And 80% of them married. But all we talked about is hostel. And our life back then.

Lets look at some hostel lingo:

Bawal: verb | a fight, quarrel. Apparently for no good reason.

Magibaz: adjective | a guy who is always after girls and with girls. A rude word usually used for swearing.

Caora: adjective | a guy who is naughty!! Well that’s what I call an understatement.

Bedo: adjective | a guy who is an avid prankster.

Tomar bhai hoechhe: a phrase | usually used to sedate an opponent, a swear sentence meaning you have got a brother. Apparently indicating….. Mail me if you still don’t get the meaning.

*C: an adjective | this is equivalent to the English F word. Anything can be suffixed with a C word meaning you c like that adjective (prefix to C) or by that object etc.

So(n)te: adjective | A guy who is relatively well behaved and well mannered.

Jatha : adjective | A guy who looks considerably older than he actually is. Depending on how old he looks he can be also called kaka.

Kaka: relational adjective | A guy who comes to hostel to sell newspaper, breakfast, food, kabadi, or who is caretaker, who cooks food at canteen, who cleans the campus, in all a guy who is not a student or a teacher. Even a librarian once was referred to as Kaka.

Banka: Noun | the aspiring HOD of EIE (at our time he was aspiring and later on fulfilled his aspiration).

Dobka: Adjective | usually a girl with big boobs.

Pre-Historic Dadu: Noun | The legendary grandfather who looked like a dinosaur who has not been fed for 1 million years. Favourite trend was lighting a cigarette for 2 puffs and then extinguishing it to have it later. An IITian and a respectable figure.

Jackson: Noun | The most respectable figure around. The then HOD of EIE.

Toton: Noun | The Hod of CSE. Needed n no of attempts to utter a word correctly. Where N is his degree of excitement.

TechnoPakhi: Noun | A mate of mine. Nicknamed like this because of his exceptional figure. Needed two underwears to hold the jeans hang on to his waist.

Chhok: Verb | this is machination to get a girl.

KKD: Noun | Many believed he was some sort of relative to the JKD. But one of the most notorious and loved guys around.

Appo: Noun | this is Kolaghat version of Dating. Usually performed on the numerous culverts in the campus or deserted lanes in the township or in minimarket nearby.

Chaton: Noun | Ragging.

I think this much is enough for today. Will come back with more from direct heart of my hostel…

Breaking Out ... Alone for the first time

I had just given madhyamik.

I was 16 exactly.

And had a 3 months gap in front of me

I wanted to go somewhere…somewhere alone.

Obviously there were huge obstacles….mom's tears and dad's precautionary NO. And to add to the injury there was my sister constantly teasing me as BABU which rightly said is a nickname my mom used to use but in this case became a pain in the arse.

i was adamant

More so because my mate Pat had been to odlabari all alone riding an intercity train which runs through the baikunthapur forest range and described me (with great deal of envy causing tone) the beauty of the journey...and it seemed to me like an adventure only shankar (of the fame of mountain of the moon) could achieve.

I was desparate.

I was eager and keen to show i am no kiddo.

I wanted to show the world that I too can take on those challenges.

Also the possible beauty of the road engrossed me...the simple train journey became like a hitch hiking adventure

and after much bickering
and a bit of water shedding
finally I got a nod from dad

Now when I look at it
After having traveled all the way to the other part of the world it looks kiddish to me. But then it was a small step which built up the hunger in me to look for the unknown. The journey wasn't a long one. It was only from Siliguri to farakka
where my uncle aunt and there two daughters stayed.

Dad was a railway service man. He got me a ticket in the second class sleeper on Kanchunjangha express. A train which will stop at farakka junction after 6 hours since the time it starts from NJP AKA New Jalpaiguri Station.

That day my dad didn’t take his cycle while going to the station which was his office too. He and I boarded a rickshaw from our home. I left home, my mom, didi and dadu back there standing at the doors. It was time to move on. It was time to face the world. As the rickshaw moved on along the roads of Siliguri I could still hear the chants of “Durga Durga” from my mom. I could see the pale face of my sister. And my dadu’s trembling hand giving ashirbad while I did a traditional pranam.

I was feeling weak. I was thinking of jumping from the rickshaw and running back to mom’s lap. The warmth of my dad beside me in the rickshaw reassured me. Dad was telling me how to face things. Those last minute suggestions you know. How never to talk to a stranger. How never to take anything from a stranger. And those instructions while were delivered to boost my morale were in a way denigrating it. But I didn’t chicken out. And How I thank god for giving me enough courage for not shitting in my pants while I alone in the platform waited for the train.

The train was late for 4 hours. I waited and waited. My dad came and went back to work. And all the time I was wishing dad should be there when the train comes. Or else this could be the last time I am seeing my dad.

It was supposed to happen at 12 O clock noon. It finally happened 4 pm. Dad was losing patience and asked me a few times to leave the plan and go home. I was determined to take it on. I was not a guy to chicken out. I had to prove to my own eyes to be a grown up.

When finally the train came, I boarded it, and watched back to my dad’s face. There was no worry. He was quite confident I would make it. He was worried alright for the time I would reach farakka, but then my uncle had given word that he would be there with his car at the station.

The train started. So did my loneliness. There were some people sitting along with me. A big fat marwari guy. Who could not frighten me much as I knew before he tries anything silly I could run away. There were a family with a small kid who was crying hard. I smiled at the kid, and told in my mind, “grow up kid, at least you are going with your mom!! Look at me…I am all alone in this world.”


Things got bad soon. We reached guisal. The famous train accident site! And the train stopped due to some signal failures. It was like amazing actually. A train a man made creation standing in a place from where, where ever you see you could only see miles and miles of paddy fields. I wanted to go down to look out and see the beauty. But parents’ words held me back.

I opened the window and felt the cool wind all over my body. It was giving me strength and suddenly I felt I have crossed 2 hours or 1/3rd of my journey already. Out of nowhere there were chai walas. I had a tea. And dozed off. Then when I woke up, the train had just started and it was 8pm in the night.

I wasn’t worried much. But I was thinking if my uncle could not manage to come at that late night what I would do. And thinking hard only did weaken my confidence. And slowly I left it at that.

It was growing darker. I never knew that even when it’s completely dark it still goes on to become even darker with time. It was something new I was learning with every moment and I was fascinated with life that was around me.


I opened my diary I had, and started scribbling something. This caused me to doze off very soon. I woke up with a shoulder jerk from someone!!

A stranger!!

A guy in mid forties with specs on, and looking like a TT was pushing me…

“Khoka, are you the son of Mr. PK Paul? The CRS of NJP?”

I was shell shocked…this guy knows it all!! Bloody hell what is he!!

Then I nodded and the guy was all smiles..”Don’t be afraid khoka…Your dad just wanted me to check out whether you are alright or not!”


I was thinking, “jeez dad!! You are embarrassing me in front of every one here!!”

And was reasonably annoyed at the same time I felt it funny too thinking about my dad pacing up and down from bedroom to drawing room in worry. And my mom sitting in a corner with an all gone face. And I knew how much they love me!

I reached farakka alright. At night 2 am. My uncle was there despite a storm warning. And in his 1972 premiere I reached his bungalow quite safely. Masi told mom had called at least 10 times by then. I called them up and with that my first journey to the wilderness was over…

It was not as much full of beauty, revelation, adventure as probably pat had faced or not 10% as romantic as Shankar in the mountain of moon, but that was a very original experience which I still cherish. Life was not going to be same again.

Hostel Part II

[This is a continuation of the earlier story I did about my hostel life. The same precautions and parental guidance are valid in this case too. ]

Hostel helped me to grow up. Our college and hostel was located in the same campus. It was far from the city. So there were hardly any time pass apart from playing football or cricket in the afternoon after college is over. We spent our time by going college, by not going college, by drinking tea at chacha’s shop just outside the campus, or eating the fabulous ghoognee(a chatpata dish made of chhola) with mudi.

Ragging days were over and it was time to befriend between ourselves. Freshers welcome was coming soon. Every college has its own heritage of giving fresher’s welcome. Ours was the fabulous choreography, of course by our senior girls. None admitted it but I am sure everyone loved it. There were really beautiful girls giving us a dancing welcome, something we had never thought we would ever get, not even if we someday win a nobel prize. And our mind raced. For seniors, whoever reads this post, “No, we strictly didn’t fantacise about your girlfriend!”. We were a bunch of loosers on the second floor. None of us were handsome, none of us ever capable of doing anything in life. We stayed in the anonymity of our second floor life. Ground floor and first floor knew that there are people who are there on top of them, but none really knew who are these morons. We became friends through this united second floor feeling. And there came a blow.

As soon as the ragging days were over, people came out with their own ideas of harassing other people. When I say harassing, it was not exactly harassment, it was simple fun but sometimes a bit overboard. At least the person on whom the prank is being played will definitely think so.

I remember one night after a tough day at college (having done woodworks at the workshop it was definitely one of those rare physical labour days ) I was sleeping hard. Suddenly a splash woke me up. I was so deep in sleep that suddenly it felt like a flood has come into my room. and I woke up, in the darkness I could figure out a guy moving outside my room through the open window. I woke up to fully to realise a dirty underwear hanging on top of the mosquito net of my bed giving that flash effect!

My friends and I retaliated. We invited those two guys who did this to play prank on two of the other guys from our floor. They agreed not knowing the gangster move we played beneath this. They had cocme to scare the two of the most peaceful guys of our floor. And the plan we had was, as soon as they come, we have to shout as if thieves have broken into. And then give those two a nice beating. The plan went on excellently and the next morning, there were cries of pain from two rooms.

These were petty hostel rivalries. These faded away as we grew up. Slowly there formed groups among ourselves.

1. Group A: group of nerds. Every college has them. They read hard, usually bespectacled, use a lot of PJs and laugh out loud at them. Some people considered me to be a part of this bunch initially due to good results in the beginning. As my results went down gradually, they lost all the hope they had about me and I was no longer (not even in ppl’s thoughts) a part of this.
2. Group B: group of Casanovas. These people were hugely interested in girls. From day1 they had their eyes set up on picking up girls. They talked about which girl to be picked up. They used to bet on who will pick which girl. They even went on to bet which hostel guys will have all the girls and all stupid stuff.
3. Group C: group of sports buff. A lot of my friend circle belonged to this group. This people ate, drank and dreamt of sports. There were people who used to play football after coming back from college then during the evening, there started the looong period of table tennis, carom volleyball etc. And if it was winter, we had our beloved cricket and badminton tournaments.
4. Group D: group of street smarts. The most respected group of the college. These were the people loved by all. They might be short on funda, short on their patience to study but they had a brain to overcome all. These people usually featured in all activities of college enthusiastically, scored good ranks and had a high CGPA.
5. Group E: group of addicts. By addicts I don’t mean cocaine or heroine though. But I am sure there were a couple of fellows regularly taking those. The most popular in thing in hostel was N10 tablets. Another spasmo tablet. Never knew what they are for or what pleasure they gave to these people. Some of them ruined their lives. Some, when I last heard, were on the verge of doing the same.
6. Group F: group of madhatters. I love to call them so as essentially these people never fit into any known types. They were a brand of their own. Some of them singers, some of them poets, some of them loners, some of them gamers and some of them most creative people on earth!

More to come on this…a lot more groups were there. Stay tuned…

Hostel part 1

[This post is for consenting adults only! I bear no responsibility for those echor e paka, less than 18 year olds who read this! a guardian must accompany them while reading this post, and decide whether or not to let their sons to an engineering college hostel! For girls who have lived in the pinky pinky paradise of their mother's lap the following post might seem to be rude, for the guys and other type of girls this was my life in hostel and I am being absolutely honest about it...There will be more posts coming on it as time passes by]

No dude, this ain’t gonna be the review of the Quentin Tarantino flick. Those are not as amusing as real life can be. Trust me my hostel life was ruder, violent and a step in the guy’s world with a hilarious touch on it. A whole new world where you get to know guys from Bengal’s remotest places to the posh and sexy ones telling us stories of hooking with a high class escort! Life was never as educating as this.

I went to a residential engineering college in West Bengal. Life one fine day became different for me. There you go alone in a completely different world devoid of any parental insurance, empty of motherly care. It was a man’s world.

First day when I faced ragging I just came to the college to get admitted. My father was with me. He was a man of middleclass values and morality. Already pouring his anxiety in my ears as words of wisdom and advice, he was visibly worried to let his son be alone. There were those much feared tribe of people around, the so called seniors looking like street goons with their unshaved faces. I got called from a second year hostel. My father waited outside. I, worried and nervous, went ahead towards the hostel while my father waited on the street. It was a classic scene. I was growing up.

My first ragging with my father standing nearby was not much exciting. It was a bunch of kind seniors who were good natured and asked me couple of half wit questions before asking me to go join my father.

As time passed by I grew into the hostel. Or rather hostel grew inside me like a parasite. Or better to say probably a mutual symbiotic relationship was created between me and hostel. All the hostilities from the seniors were nothing before this growing bond. This was a bond which taught me life.

I still remember the first few days, every day after college some or other seniors used to call me. I was probably one of the most unlucky guys around. I was a quiet calm fellow always living in the shadows. But somehow my hunters would find me out. I was pretty naïve at that time. Having come from Siliguri I didn’t know many things. Yes, I hadn’t seen a full porn movie yet. It was banned on siliguri cable not even on the late night. I hadn’t known the local slang for masturbation! I didn’t know the exact terminologies of a female anatomy. I didn’t know cursing to the fullest extent.

So the ragging sessions became learning sessions for me. I learnt all these things plus a few more. I learnt how to read a news paper when after every word you insert “My C***k” and then after another word you insert “your c**t”. I learnt what will be the trajectory if a drop of water falling from tip of Madhuri’s nose to the very end and places it would travel. I learnt how to calculate PCM of myself. I learnt also how to propose to a senior girl!

Our college in that manner was civilised when we joined. None actually got me naked and spanked me on my butt. None actually ordered me to have a zebra fashioned moustache (probably because my moustache was quite thin and unnoticeable that time). None actually made me play “lalu bhulu” with a fellow guy. And I am thankful to my seniors for these. As, if I were asked to do these things, God knows what I would have done, but for one thing was sure the guys who were coming to join this hostel as our successors, things could only get worse.

Calcatian’s Don’t Bite……………..2

Since I am such a comment hunter and my reader(s!!!???!!!) have threatened me of not giving comments until and unless I write some good things about Calcutta, here I am and there you go.

Calcutta as was portrayed in my previous topic looked like a city of brainless dumpers (god knows what that means) or in other words a city of modern English educated smarties. Which I am afraid is a too much of generalization of a city which far far greater than any other city of India in colour, in culture and in liveliness. If you want to see Calcutta and its life in true colors, u have to come with me for a ride which I took on last Wednesday.

I was supposed to go to a bank at Girish Park. When I finished my work, it was 1pm and I still had quite sometime at hand. I chose to roam around and capture some of the city moments in my camera.

1. I traveled to Park Street. I went to the place where thousands of people came together to do a civilized protest against the mysterious death of Rizwanur Rahaman. I sat on the pavement, there was nothing worth capturing there at that point. There was nothing which I could take a snap of and show people that see this is Calcutta and this is how the people of Calcutta are. That is a pity. But sitting there at the pavement, I could feel the energy, the sentiment and the same sympathy that those people had who came to light a candle for a guy who is from a different religion, whose life probably doesn’t have similarity to any of ours life, who was born anonymous and death made him famous. I have little to do with Rizwanur’s death and nor do I know what all went in between the husband and wife’s families. I was simply amazed at the response people gave and the way they accepted a muslim fellow’s marriage to a rich hindu girl. I am sure if you were in somewhere south or somewhere west of India, this would not happen. Bravo Kolkata.

2. The next stop was at Victoria memorial. I still remember the day when my parents brought me to this architectural wonder. I looked at it with awe. This time was no exception. I looked at the memorial, and was lost in memory until something broke my spell. A guy, in yellow t-shirts and jeans was saying to a girl, “bolo amar bou hobe?” [“Tell me,will you be my wife?”]. and quite amazingly the girl responded with a soft and quite Hollywood style kiss on the guy’s lips. A sweet simplicity which is the bloodline of this city touched me and that sweet sound of the kiss kept on ringing in my head and heart for the rest of the day. People suddenly have grown up here.

3. The last part was the most tiring of my journey. I was returning home and I had to catch a local train from Dumdum junction to the suburban area where I live. It was a train fully crowded. And as usual there were hastles at every station. People had to struggle with great vengeance. In Agarpara stop, I noticed an old man (I guess his age would be somewhere near 75) running after the train and jumping on to it with an amazing dexterousness. Kolkata lives at the age of 75 too. It struggles to live on, and it succeeds. Then there was this boul(a kind of singer from the Vaishnava Sect) who started singing a song in the tune of a rabindrasangeet in that jampacked train. Then there was this blind kid, who had a speaker on his back, a harmonium hanging from his shoulders and singing, “ek bar bidai de ma ghure asi” and suddenly I was all emotional. May be it owes a lot to the fact that I have been staying abroad or that I love my mother tongue dearly but still I would give credit to the city which stays, at this age of superfast globalization, a virgin when it comes to its people and their unscathed lifestyle. These trains are the bloodlines of Calcutta, and they truly portray the life of it.

Don’t know whether I have blabbered a lot in this post or I have talked nonsense too much. May be I’m a sentimental fool to think in these lines but these were the moments which touched me quite a lot and I am just being true to myself.

Dadu

I have always been influenced by elders. Elders have always blinded me with their achievements, their struggle for existence and success in it, and their advices. Now that may not be much of a thing what a “Kool” dude would have wanted to do. But I did.

I will talk about my grand parents today… well don’t have that much time to talk about all of them but let me talk about at least one of them here.

He is my mother’s father- Rabindra Nath Halder. He was the one who probably had the biggest influence on me. From my childhood I have heard people saying this is the guy who fits in perfectly in his grand father’s shoes. Well truly I wish I could.

He was a great personality. I have never managed to see him young, quite obviously as he is my grand dad. But I can imagine his youthful glory days. He was tall and stout. His eyes were intelligent and expressive. And he had a memory which I have never seen in anyone else.

When I look back into my life, I try to recollect my earliest encounters with his wit, intelligence and thoughts, I go back to a day of summer when I came to Kolkata to spend sometime at our always so beloved didabari (although the house was owned by Dadu, as we called him, it was named after our much loved dida, grandmother).

Dadu used to call me and start with 4 liners of a poem. Most of them I have never read nor have I heard anywhere. And in some cases lines of poems which I should be knowing but forgot because of my usual lack of concentration, and after reciting those lines, Dadu used to ask me tell me dear, who has written these famous lines?

I, as should be the case, lost the duel of intellect most of the time. I was no match to his memory. But those losses those questions and answers those battles of intellect made me determined next time I will not forget this. And I will prepare more. I wonder at the age of 70 how he remembered all those poems which he last read probably during his college days. And mind it, later on when I have seen his health breaking down, when I have seen his bent structure, when seeing him I have been afraid and thought about my own future, still he was spot on with his poems and those 4 liners.

Sometimes I wanted to run away, and play with my cousins. Sometimes I didn’t want to talk to Dadu about literature and I found some ways to avoid him. Just what the youth does…I guess. But now I feel guilty that by doing so, so many enlightening sessions I have lost. So many inspirations never reached me. Probably I would have been a different person had I been a bit more enthusiastic.

Dadu apart from all his literary abilities was a man of great abilities also. He was a civil servant, working as a magistrate for Govt of West Bengal. He was a proud Govt Official and wanted me to be one. He had always wanted me to go the same route and even higher. When I resisted saying that there is nothing but corruption in govt officials he never believed me. He talked about high ideals and people like Mahatma and Bidhan Chandra Roy.

When I started going to college which was quite near to Kolkata, I started to look at Dadu from a bit different angle. I wanted to analyse him. I wanted to know him as a distant person would have known him.

But I never really could actually. Whenever I looked at him, my respectful eyes and my love for him never let me look at him like a distant person. I was close to Dadu, much closer than his own son could ever get, and much closer than anyone else I got to know.

I used to come for every weekend to Dida bari. Our childhood fantasyland had already lost its charm immensely by that time. I will tell that story some other time. But those weekends was a sense of responsibility that grew inside me. Those two old people who despite their difficulties of survival (as they were living on their own at the age of 84 and 74 respectively my Dadu and dida) expected me to come home every weekend.

Every time my train got delayed, Dadu would stand on the nook of the road, expecting me on one of the numerous autos that passed by. I would take Dadu on those Saturdays to Bank when he needed to pick up his pension. A meagre amount for a magistrate though. And he was growing old, his hand used to shake quite a lot while signing.

One day the bank manager denied him his pension as his sign was not matching. What an irony. A life long devotee of honesty, a brilliant scholar, an honest govt official, a judicial magistrate is begging for a peanut amount (3000 rs)!!! The bank manager confidently asked me to prove that he is RN Halder who holds this pension account.

I fortunately by that time had come out of my small time naivety. I called my uncle and (Dadu’s son) who was a big manager of the same bank and only then the matter got resolved. And when it did, I told the manager, this is what happens to honest people in India. Why bother being one?

Dadu was in pain. He was humiliated, trembling. And I was in pain too.


My Dadu left me left all of us 3 months ago. On his bed while asleep. He faced much pain during his last few days. But his death was peaceful. I, who claimed to be the closest one to him, was sitting in UK in a restaurant having a glass of wine. I have never felt guiltier of my existence since then.


I am crying now. But surely he didn’t want me to. When I talked to him last over a phone and he was on his deathbed, Dadu just had one wish that time. He wanted to see me. Which I could not. I am crying now and I can hear his rhythmic voice chanting lines from Rabi Thakur and then sudden question “bolo to Ankan, er porer line ta ki?”

Some senti talks....

Slowly a feeling of indifference is growing in me. And I am not enjoying it. I know that i have a responsibility towards my family, towards my country and to myself by fulfilling the other wishes. But slowly and steadily something deep inside me tells me, "what the heck".

May be I am tired and may be I am stressed. Does it happen to you all? At one point of time you just want to leave all that you have and be free. Alone with yourself.

Long back I wanted to become an ideal son. I knew my parents want me to be the first boy in the class. I fought for it. I tried and studied hard. Sometimes I succeeded and sometimes I could not. But then a sense of who the hell cares came into me. I slowed down. I forgot my targets and i wanted to enjoy. Started reading all those wonderful novels which were there in my bookshelf during study hours. Started Sharat Chandra when i was in class V. and gradually my marks graduated downwards. It’s funny how I reacted to it though. In the year 1991, I got admitted in to Siliguri Boys High School. It was a huge school with a huge bunch of kids accumulating in the campus from all over the city. It was the best school for the middle class Bengali speaking people. Although everyone actually agreed that the study standards are really low in that school but the results of higher secondary and secondary are really good. Also the class I belonged to, having one’s kid reading in Siliguri Boys was a status symbol at that time. My parents wanted me to read there too. As my elder sis was already in Siliguri girls the onus was on me to “go get it Boy!!”

I tried hard as usual. And I was in.

So there I was with 300 other kids of the town there sitting in a filthy room with a tin roof, without any ceiling fan sweating like hell. I realized life in here is not gonna be easy. I prepared myself for the intellectual battle that awaited there. Then came the first exam. And the result also followed. I was eighth among the 300 and obviously it was a bad result. I scored 50% marks in Bengali which is below my standards. Now I never knew who actually set those standards for me and neither do I wanted to know but I knew that was awfully wrong to get so low marks. My father went to the school asked for a review or a scrutiny or anything for that matter. Finally it was revealed that I actually scored much more than those meager marks. And I finished second. I stopped crying(all these times I was crying because I could not make the mark I could not make my parents happy).

I can tell you that’s called Bengali middle class life story. That’s how all of us belonging to this typical class grow up. Half in fear of not making others wishes come true, half in fear of not finding others wishes same as our own wishes.

The followed a frenzied saga of high and lows. One exam I reached top the next one I was down to the ground. Probably the exam I would reach the top (not quite the top though I never became first in that school) the effort I would put in for that would do a negative effect on me and the next one would pull me down drastically. My mom found out this trend very soon. She became relaxed in a way. She used to tell me this time results are going to be bad just don’t run away from school I am not gonna hurt you when you come back. Things will be fine.

They are great people - my parents. They always wanted me to do great. I was a kind of apple of their eyes to sudden stardom. A fame that is not-so-easily touchable by ordinary people like they were. But they never pushed me. They never gave up on me although I could never really fulfil their hopes of becoming first boy of the class.

I suffered miserably in secondary. I was down with the result. I didn’t cry as I was a grown up by that time. But my mom understood what was going on in me. One summer afternoon when I was standing on our terrace and looking blindly at the sunny and abandoned streets of Siliguri she came and told me,”good that you didn’t do well this time may be the next time you would..remember the rule of alternate success!!” I started laughing and that was one moment in my life when I understood what role parents play in your life in your success.

I did fairly well in my HS. My name came into the front page of the local newspaper. And I called my mom with the news from a telephone booth that although this time also I could not fulfill their dream and could not become first in the school, still my result was fairly well and I am the 8th in the district.

She was crying. All she wanted is this bit. A fame, a glory for her son. When in her all “have not” life she can really forget all the poverty and all the mediocrity that scathe our lives. We have come one step further. We are no longer ordinary.

I really never did well after that. Never could be anyone worth a mention anywhere. And my mom since then has been deprived of that heavenly smile that I cherished for so many years that came after that.

Now that I wanted to write about something else and have come to something else I have suddenly realized that after all I am not so much indifferent to everything. Let my love forget me, let my life forget me. There are still two people on another side of the earth who still cares and waits in silence for the days of glory for me. They are my ma and baba.

Samsing Travel- Written in Bengali

tokhon ami Kolaghat college err second year er student...bari theke onek dure hostel e din katai..second year complete kore ekmaser chhuti te deshe firechchi...desh mane holo Siliguri...tomra kojon siliguri cheno jani na kintu siliguri amar kachhe khub e basto ar modern shohor ekta...ebong oboshyoi gola bajie ami tokko kori kolkatar loke der sathe je kon kon bapare siliguri bhalo...to sebar siliguri ese jothariti amra char murti hoechhi ek jot: ami , Piku, abhirup ar sanjib...sobai boys' school er bondhu...sebar hotat pratik e dilo prastab ta chal kothao ghure asi.. ami bollam,'ghurte jabi kire ekhon to almost barshakaal charidike khali brishti bonya'...kintu bakirao utsaho peye galo tai ami o raji hoe gelam...
kintu kothai jaoa jai?? jaiga thik kora ta khub mushkil er kaj hoe daralo...nana munir nana mot..keu bolchhe darjeeling..keu bolchhe karseong..keu bolchhe funtshiling...keu bolchhe kalimpong...keu abar soja gangtok...kintu kono tai amder monoputo hochhilo na. karon esob jaiga guloi amader bar pachek kore jaoa hoe gachhe..tokhon pratik e dilo idea ta..oi amader idear bhandar chhilo chirokal...bollo je chal samsing jai! Samsing?? Abhi bollo seta abar kothai re? keu konodin naam sone ni... but that was the whole idea...emon ekta jaigai jaoa jekhane keu konodin jai na...jekhankar shanto sundar jeeboner bhagidaar hoa...jekhane nodir jole pa chubie bose thakle thandai jokhon payer lom gulo khara hoe darai tokhon tar onbhuti ta ke nijer kore paoa. eisob onek kichhu asha nie ar adventure hisebe berie porechhilam amra charjon.... 2 b contd
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Bari te esei chechamechi jure dilam...ma bag dao...sweater dao...ei dao sei dao...packing korbo...ma kichhui jane na esob voyonkor plan sune akash theke porlo...porer din jalpaiguri te bonyar red alert roechhe...ghontai ghontai local cable channel balason, teesta, mahananda sobar water level nie report aschhe...Kintu amrao beparoa...jabo jokhon thik korechhi tokhon jaboi...ekta bag e kichhu habi jabi jinish dhukie nie berie porlam...Bari theke cycle nie pikur bari...sekhan theke soja bus stand... kintu bus stand e ese mathai porlo baaj. sob bus cancel hoe bose achche odlabari te bonya hoe gachche ar kono bus jachhe na oi route die. Kintu latest khobor paoa obdi chalsa te tokhono haalat thik thak sutorang chalsar bus gulo ghure ghure jachhe. thik kore fellam je ar tahole chintar kono dorkar nei...oi ghuronto pothei ber hoe pora jak. Bus er tkt kete fellam chalsar jonno. Uthe porlam ekta mandhata amoler ekta lorjhore bus e... bus er haalat dekhe abhi bollo bonyai e bus to bhasbe bole mone hoi...karon lohar ar kichhu baki nei puro tai kather toiri tai amader kono chinta nei. Ami o ekmot na hoe parlam na. bus sevok hoe madarihat die jete parchhe na tai bus er route puro ulto dike ghurie deoa hoechhe..bus jabe tista canal er pase je sodyo pathar fela rasta ta roechhe tar upor die. O rasta ta amader khub favourite. Ami ar piku bohudin gie o rastai cycle chalie giechhi onekdur obdi...jekhane boikunthapur forest range suru hochhe tar ektu age ekta swashan ghat achche chhotto ekta naam na jana nodir dhare. sekhane gele ek pash die boye jachche tistar upor sodyo kata ekta canal ar onno dike sei sundari nodi
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ei khane ese amader purono ekta experience bole di...ekdn oi rastai ami ar piku cholechhi. seidintai chhilo bodhhoi prothom dn oi pothe. Char dike gachh gachhalir majhkhane pathar fela rasta...tar opor cycle nie laje gobore dosha dui adventurer. rastar ekdike sei amader priyo nodi ta chhilo. onno dike amader canal ti. ekjon jol die bhora..,joler gorbe gorbini hoe nachte nachte cholechche ...arekjon jeno thik sorbohara...tir tir kore tar jibon nie boye choleche edike odike kono rokom e sob badhar pash katie. onek khon dhore cycle chalanor por hotat kheyal holo je ekpashe nodi ta to ar nei kothai jeno kono jadukar ese ek fush mantar die bata ke dieche haoa kore. amra dujonei khub chintai pore gelam. erokom rata rati nodi ke to haoa hoe jete dekhi ni kokhono...rastar pase canal ta thik e cholchhe kintu onno dikta chhilo onekta nichcu jekhan theke bechara nodita boye jachhilo...to kichhuta back track korar pore ter pelam je nodi ta hotat kore canal er niche ese haoa hoe gache. Amra dujonei chorom excited vugorbho basini ekti nodir abishkar korte cholechhi amra dui adhunik livingstone. cycle nie rastar paser soru paye chola poth beye niche neme ja dekhlam se prokritir aschorjo noi...manush er dara sristi kora ek aschcorjo. Tistar canal ta ekhane ese boye cholechhe ekta bridger upor die..ar tar nich die amader dukkhini nodi ti nijer moto apon bege boye cholechche. Sei nodir jole pa dubie amra dujone bose porlam ekta pathore. mathar upor die tokhon boye cholechhe borshar gorbini canal tar 20000 cusec er chondo nie...payer niche ektara bajie apon pothe cholechche amader dukkhini. Sei din je engineer oi bridge ta baniechhilo tar upor khub sroddha holo ei nodi tike bachie rakhar jonno.. tar ostitwo lunthan na korar jonno. technology ar nature er ei sohobaas e amra dujonei mohito hoe sei khane canal er niche bose joler chonde mashgul hoe gelam.
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fire asi amader journey te. To amader sei chena pothe amra raona holam ojanar sondhane. Elo rangapani. Bus e uthlo besh kichhu chhagal ar murgir jhuri. amar payer niche ek ekta murgi bhorti jhuri lagie die bollo je tumi baba ektu pa die chepe boso..noito bata ra palie jabe. ami o pa die ektu chepe chupe boslam. bus bhorti lok. ar tar modhyei ek badamwala badam bikri suru korechhe. motamuti bus na bole ekta hut bolai bhalo...jai hok kharap lagchhilo na bapar ta. erpor amra chole elam sei canal ar nodir modhye die boe chola pahture rastai. tar opor die amader bus dulte dulte lafate lafate egie chollo. jani na totokhone amar payer chape murgi gulo bikot chechcamechhi suru korechchilo koikata nischoi potol o tulechhilo...kintu kichhui korar nei. obosheshe sei rasta teo chena ongsher pala sesh hoe elo ek notun rajyo. ekpashe ghono bon boikunthapur range. tar theke duek bar chital horin era uki mere dekhe galo kara aj tader shanti nosto korte esechhe. tar por onekkhon bon er majhe die cholar por hotat kore charpas forsa hoe galo. hotat kore onekta akash ese galo amader mathar upor...obak hoe samne takie dekhlam bishal book nie samne sue roechhe rongini teesta. tar neel jol prochondo probaho ar ohonkar er dala sajie. Teesta amar mote duniar sobtheke sundari nodi. er rup er tulona paoa bhar. gorom e ei teesta jokhon tir tir kore shanto hoe boye chole tokhon taake kono gramyo grihobodhu bole bhabte ektu o osubidhe hoi na. jeno sondhyer snan sere pradeep jalate esechhe tulshi tolai. ar jokhon borshai sei teesta hotat kore proloyonkori rup nie cholat cholat sobde kapie dai ...atonke fire takie dekhi sei mohimamoyee rup seeno sakkhat dakate kali.er haat ar tandav theke jeno rokkhe nei karo.
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teesta paar hoe amra probesh korlam jalpaigur jelai. gramer majhkhan die edie cholechhi odlabarir dike jani sameni bonya hoechhe kothao. Prochur lok odik theke chole aschhe edik pane. amra tao egie cholechhi. odlabariri samne ese amader bus ekta onno chhotto rastai dhuke porlo. erpor theke kichhui temon chintam na.ar ektu ghum ghum pachhilo...klanto chokhe chokh lege elo. hotat kore tarapor jokhon chokh khullam bus jure loker chechamechi sune bujhlam chalsai pouchhe gechhi. chalsa theke dhorlam ekta jeep. sei jeep e motamuti 15-20 jon moto lok hoe driver ekgaal hese jeep chhere dilo. chalsa thekek rasta ta hotat pahari hoe uthlo. pahar er ga beye amra charjone uthte laglam samsing pahar er upor. dudike cha bagan er sobuj er majhkhane die amra egie gelam sekhane jekhane ar age jaoar jaiga nei. rastar sesh prante ese ekta chhotto pahari gram...Samsing.

Bookfair in Kolkata

(Saturday, July 01, 2006)

Kolkata Book fair could not be put into words more aptly........read on ...Quoted a post in greatbong.net


I am neither religious nor a big bibliophile. And yet the things I miss most about Calcutta and my old life , without doubt, are Durga Puja and the Calcutta Book Fair.That is because Durga Puja is not only about religion. Just like the Book Fair isn’t merely about books.People. Yes both of them are also about people. And the essence of Calcutta—my favoritest city in the whole wide world.When I close my eyes and think of Book Fair, the sound of shehenai on the public-address system comes warbling back to me—through the many years that have passed. I am flooded by memories—the puddles of water on the Maidan, the discarded bamboo poles lying about, the dust everywhere stirred up by the peripatetic peregrinations of millions, the tattered newspapers flying around in a midafternoon vortex of air, the smell of freshly-printed books, the sense of peaceful hustle-and-bustle all around. All was well with the world.Make no mistake. The Book Fair is about books. Only not just about it.When I was a kid, eons ago Book Fair was The event. It was where I got to spend my birthday money and set sail for imaginary worlds where I would encounter the antics of Satyajit Ray’s Feluda and Professor Shanku, the tall tales of Narayan Gangopadhyay’s Teni-da, the spooky charm of “World’s Best Ghost Stories”, the adventures of Tintin and the surreal comedy of Bantul the Great and the naughty Nonte-Phonte.My memories of these early days constitute strikingly fresh images of a small boy going wide-eyed into the huge pavilions holding his father’s hand tight lest he get lost in the crowd. And his father reaching up the shelves and then looking down and saying—this book is good for you. Let’s buy this.I also remember the feeling of irritation and impotent desperation as this aforementioned father took his sweet time going through heavy books in the boring Oxford book stall while the horrid book agent (who used to sell books at Indian Institute of Management) kept on showing him one new arrival after another. Aghast at the time being wasted on this futile activity, the small boy, with a strand of freshly-eaten pink cotton candy hanging from his nose, kept on pulling at his other hand —reminding him that the Rupa bookstall was filling up. And the “Limca Book of Records” was flying off the shelves like hot cakes.Samuelson could wait. The man with the longest moustache could not.As I grew older, things became different. Baba would come on his day and me on mine. Of course there was one family day—Baba , Ma and me. But bookhunting became more personal.I never liked coming with friends to the Book Fair—I preferred solitude . It was easier to get lost in the crowd while being alone. Also my friends were too much into question papers, GRE big book, competitive exams and VC++ Unleashed —which to me was too much work. And quite against the spirit of the whole thing. I had nothing against GRE test papers and did a fair amount of mugging too—-but thinking of the corporeal world at the Book fair was to me like entering a temple with shoes on. In short, anathema.Just as much a cosmic disturbance as forsaking the pakoras and coffee at the Coffee House stall for the chicken kababs and roast legs from the Arambagh Hatcheries cubicle.Okay I confess. I ate all of them. Because one should never book-hunt on an empty stomach. Or discriminate between the Coffee House laddoo, the Rollick ice cream, the Fish Fry from Benfish and the Paan from Mantu’s.One of the principal attractions of the fair was being able to physically leaf through the books —an experience we seem to be gradually losing in the world of Amazon and Barnes and Noble. And the books that were ideal for leafing through were those lavishly photographed expensive picture books which you would never see anywhere else—-the World War encyclopedias, the National Geographic’s anniversary collection, a collection of greatest pictures from Life magazine.And also those pictorial Kamasutra and erotic massage books —-furtively going over a page or two before a disapproving stare from an older person would lead me to quickly reach for the Complete Gardening and Home Improvement book reclining next to it.Every year of course there was one hyped-up, must-do thing at the Book Fair. Once Jacques Derrida was the special guest[sorry my mistake: not Saki as I initially typed] and a lot of people turned up just because he was “heavy”(or because of the reassuring “da” at the end ). Another time, Shobha De came to promote one of her steamy KLPD novels and a minor riot broke out to see her. Another year the hottest selling book and topic of conversation was , hold your breath, Arindam Chaudhuri’s Chicken and Egg book. I remember asking the popcorn guy to put more butter on my popcorn while he discussed with his mate this great new “management” guy (yes he used the word) whom he had seen in a book-signing session nearby and how he looked like a mahamanush (great man). And was a Bengali too.The magic of books. And the ponytail to provide an aura of intellectualism.However I was not the one to be taken in by the hype. Okay maybe a few times. But in general, I never found the big stores particularly appealing–most of them were just like the other. And I could go to these places any time of the year.However what was unique to me at the Bookfair was the little stalls. They were the lifeblood of the event–totally bereft of commercialization, selling books noone could possibly sell in an economically viable way. Some were motivated by a belief—the Ananda Margis, some by a cause—punish the Rajakars (the Pakistani collaborators during Bangladesh’s war of independence), and some by a dream that had passed them by—old emaciated men peddling thick tomes of Marx and Engels.Then there were the amusing ones—stalls for selling Yoga books by the Ironman of Bengal where one could get weighed for free if one bought one of their books.And finally the foot-soldiers of the fair–those peddling “Little Magazines”—printed versions of what we would nowadays call blogs—poems, small bits of prose, humor, satire, rants–all sold at bargain basement prices. And what’s more the authors were themselves selling it, engaging you in a conversation that sometimes intentionally, as part of their salesmanship was escalated to a heated debate and then asking..no compelling.. you to buy the “Little Magazine” for prices that ranged from Rs 2 upwards.Sometimes the magic of the bookfair lay in sitting down on the ground and just observing people. Because those who love books are as fascinating as the books themselves. The young intellectual–bearded, jhola in hand and a faded kurta. The struggling artist—peddling his pictures and small sculptures. The bald-headed, thick-glassed bibliophile wending his way to Subarnarekha–the stall that sold rare, out-of-print books. The family out for an evening of fun with the packet of shrimp bought from the Benfish stall being the principal purchase. A group of college kids talking and laughing. A couple holding hands, lost in themselves.And me sitting, a bag of fast-disappearing pop corn in my hand leafing through the book of life. Free of cost.In conclusion, my abiding memory of Book Fair would be this man we met a long time ago. My father and I were sitting on the grass. Poverty writ large on his face and his faded, threadbare shirt, he came and started reciting a poem. And then asked my father whether he would like to buy a poem for 10 paisa. (His punch line was ” a poem for 10 paisa”).He had in his hand several printed copies of a small leaflet—each of which had 10 poems written by him. And he was selling it for Re 1 a pamphlet.My father asked him what he did for a living. Smiling shyly, the man said that he is a poet. He lives far away in a remote village in North Bengal and all through the year he goes to different fairs all over West Bengal—mostly village melas where he recites and sells his leaflets. He also proudly pointed out that every few months he comes up with new material.When my father asked him where he stayed during the Book Fair, he smiled enigmatically and the poetic, dignified silence left no doubt as to the fact that he possibly slept on a footpath.My father bought one of his leaflets and after he had gone read a few of them. They were of middling quality—a jewel in the dust this man surely was not.But therein lay the beauty of it. The beauty of conviction. The beauty of dreams. The fact that this man believes that one day he will make it as a poet . And what’s inspiring is that despite the odds he faces every day, he still manages to radiate enthusiasm for his craft—a luminant joi de vivre that comes from believing in what he does.That sales pitch of “a poem for 10 paisa” accompanied with the boisterous recitation—he must be doing this routine about hundreds of times every day, mostly to people who are irritated by his presence (I saw another group on the grass who basically told him to f*** off) and just want this nuisance to leave them alone. Looking at him going about his work, I realized that not once during his numerous sales pitches does his enthusiasm or self-belief waver, nor does he ever sell his poverty and ask for sympathy—not when insulted, not when rebuffed and not when sleeping on the footpath on a cold Calcutta night.That , my friend, is the mark of a true artist.And the Book Fair is where you find him.