From the book of notes

There is a distinct opportunism in most of our actions. We plan and enact and convince ourselves that everything we are doing is worthwhile. We seek out happiness as a cure for the malignancy of a destitute realization that we might be insignificant. We look for love but find her acolytes and think we have found her. Having loved and lost being better than never having  loved at all is a lie - there is no loss if there was love. Even if there were, it isn't better. We cannot belittle an emotion simply because we find the need to validate our sensory pleasures by thinking we have been there and done that. Chemically speaking, it is not as simple as eating a bar of chocolate. Evolution is not a concept that wholly understands us. It does not factor in the glib vagaries of our flitting hearts, if there is such a thing. There more certainly is. However there are very few of us that have experienced it or ever will. Many of us will dream of it; then those dreams will wilt and die in the humdrum futility of human endeavor. Evolution did not factor in hope. Then again, maybe that is the greatest lie of all. 'Tis only the deserving that shall find their heaven. 

Salt in My Coffee

To be honest, I haven’t tried anything more potent than alcohol to harm myself yet. Alcohol, though, is the closest friend and enemy that I have. It is a crassly poignant symbolism of the unbalanced relationship that I have with myself. I can drown my soul in a bottle.

Unfortunately life with its singular determination to upset your carefree living thrusts responsibilities in your way. I have a child. I remember its name often enough when I am sober. Otherwise it is just a reminder of a hasty unwanted decision made in stupor. You may have realized by now that I am not the best parent. Nor am I the best partner for that matter.

I wasn’t always like this in the nature versus nurture debate, though. I had been on the winning side for most part of my life. I was an excellent student and a successful professional. There was even a time when I was the most eligible suitor in the region. My mother used to find herself inundated with proposals for me. I used to laugh them off and assure her that I would find my own wife.

Then I found him.

It was a cold breezeless night. The train had come to a halt at my stop. I stepped out onto a near deserted platform. It had been a good day at work and I had a spring in my step. All of a sudden, there was a commotion behind me. Before I could turn around I was ambushed by a gang of eunuchs. Trust the railways to shock you at whatever opportunity they get. I wasn’t really clear as to what they wanted – some of them grabbed at my bag, some at my watch and the others at the chain around my neck (a gold family heirloom). It was a half-crazed frenzy when I saw my saviour step in.

I will refrain from describing him as the God that he was. The wounds still haven’t healed. Nevertheless, that night he managed to pull me out of their grasps and into safety. Even though I knew that if It wasn’t for that initial shock I could have easily taken care of myself, the look in his eyes gave me a comfort and hope that made me feel that this was the thing I had been missing in my life so far. Of course, at that point I did not realize that what I had been feeling was more than just admiration for a fellow man. It was a far deeper emotion. We then shared small talk over a cup of coffee.

People were not lying about the fruits of forbidden love – its veracity has never been more of an enigma in my eyes. I was lost. Like any half-decent Bollywood plot, I was torn between two worlds – one that advocated my heart’s desire and the other the defining duty of upholding the family name in the community. I am still befuddled by how every time we take one step into modernity, we place
the other in the archaic.

It didn’t help that the man that I had fallen in love with did not have a twisted bone in his body. It turns out he was as straight as a rod and happily married.

In the ensuing despair and to stop the emotional blackmail our families are so good at, I met my wife on one of those online marriage portals that mother had signed me up on through a nuisance of a cousin. Apparently the logistics deemed it a ‘perfect’ match. They served coffee at the first meeting. She was dressed beautifully and seemed sweet and demure. However, she was so nervous she accidently mixed salt in my cup instead of sugar. Or maybe she was also in love with a boy somewhere and those were just tears in my coffee.

If life was fair, we would have gone our happy separate ways.

Over the years she has realized her situation. Even age did not make our married life any better. The few times I managed to make love to her sober, I saw his face in hers. Sometimes, I just pity her.

We are a society of dreamers and believers. Yet more often than not we fail at the things that we do. If they were to see life as a journey from one happiness to another, I would be the eternal nomad. I guess that feeling that I should have been born in another time will never elude me. Several years ago, in 2030, the institution of ‘different-sex’ marriage had been buried. To control the reckless rise in population, same-sex marriage had been advocated as the way forward. Orphanages were slowly disbanded as the remaining children of the world were adopted. In our family I have played the roles of husband, wife, mother and father - as the need arose. They called it survival.

I was a strong independent woman but it was my mistake that I had fallen in love with a man. A mistake for which society unknowingly condemned me, love betrayed me of my senses and joy forever eluded me.

Every day I make a cup of coffee for both of us. I put salt instead of sugar in my cup. My wife thinks I am still teasing her about our first encounter all those years ago. Little does she know that I have always preferred some salt in my life.

The son of Modi

My name is Rahul Modi, fondly known as RaMo. I was born in the developed state of Gujarat, just a chariot ride away from the Ramjanmabhoomi and very far from Italy. I am the son of a former tea-seller though that is not how the world will know me. They will brand me as the heir of a neo-patriarchal family, descending from a line of Chief Minister and Prime Minister.

I did not know I had a mother until very recently. I was raised with the understanding that Bharat was my ma and her freedom from evil, my dulhan – quite rang de basant-ish, you might note. It is fortunate that people like Dr. Swamy are on my side. I doubt many others will bother to dig up my educational qualifications and such, especially since they must have realized over the past ten years that those things don’t really matter in this game. Yes, I know I called it a game. I do call it like I see it – though I have been told that’s not the best trait to nurture in politics. I was a distinguished karyakarta, if I may only be saying so myself. I have been taught to forgive, love, live and never give up on my fellow man. This was the basis of progress and it does include, though not being limited to, the empowerment of women and the youth.

However it is this very concept that confuses me – for who is my fellow man? This nation is littered with the embodiment of plurality – from scientists and nurses to policemen and teachers – social and professional lives collide. However that is just one side. On the other hand, is it the person who pollutes our streets, is it the person who rapes our women, is it the bribe giver of the bribe taker, is it the thief or the murderer – who must I call my fellow man?

You will argue that I have in me, blood from an era where those in power stood by and watched genocide. I will quickly evade the allegation, cite court decisions, blame a biased media and finally quote election results– just the way I have been trained to do. Thank heavens for professional P.R. teams!

Speaking of results days, I would like to thank the people of our glorious nation for getting over their attentional blindness from the last decade and giving us this opportunity to serve you. Your whole-hearted support brought tears to my eyes. Even my father, the stoic man that he is, was an emotional bundle of joy that day. Amit Uncle probably had to pinch him in U.P. to get him to fully believe. Alas, I digress from the question at hand – what is the basis to represent a society with so many flaws while garnering each of them equality and justice, not only before the law but in all things. Take even the concept of secularity – is it really individual policies for appeasement to cater to the various faiths that are housed in our nation that unites us. Selective secularism is just the continuance of divide and rule. I do not know if I want to be responsible for constructions that will see my country burn. When does democracy become equality? It can be argued that the religious foundation of my father’s party reflects that of the populis majori. Yet that cannot be why we got the vote we did. We’d never lose if that was the case. Do the people of this nation expect us to cut the supply of beef or declare the nation the homeland of the Mahatma and hence alcohol-free. I do not think these reasons are enticing enough for the modern mind. We shouldn’t even be here to make people answer for their failings in the last decade. I want to be here to lead the way of change. This is where it gets tricky...how do you take men, women, minorities – those that up to now belonged as mere statistics in the vote bank and see them for what they are – the pillars of our society, each one important in their own way. I have heard of this man, Abraham Lincoln, who seemed to grasp this situation, like few did, a very long time ago. I would have liked to go learn more about this. Maybe I will. After May 16^th, the U.S.A. has gone to the extent of offering me citizenship there. How the tides turn!

I have my doubts about the reservation system in place in the country. It seems to have made the ‘general’ category a minority too. I probably shouldn’t say more. Mentioning it is bad for politics, apparently. Yet, there must be some way to amend a 50:50 grant scheme for a 90:10 nation. I have friends who are so frustrated they would go so far as to forge more conducive family names. Fortunately for me though, mine is a name that is going to last.

There are so many things to deal with - social and economical. The point is to make India a strong, developing and inclusive nation. To think we will have to start again from where Vajpayee Sir left off more than a decade ago, to achieve this is a daunting task. These will hopefully not end up becoming just words. However the onion will have to be peeled.

Bearing that in mind, I quite liked the invitation we extended to Pakistan to attend the swearing-in ceremony. I might even claim it was me that set of the spark when I claimed I would probably get along well with the Bhutto scion in days to come. Father took it literally and decided to pave the way for ‘ever-lasting peace’. The things Indian parents do for their children - almost as much as their Italian counter-parts. Of course, the Thackerays were miffed by it – I think father got a distasteful cartoon in the mail the other day. Similarly the Tamils were quite disappointed with our shout-out to Mr. Rajapakse. Well, it didn’t seem fair to call one ex-warring neighbour and not the other. Besides, the photo-op is simply too big to miss.

The right to information, being one of the prime (few – alas, ignorance is not a crime here) things trumpeted by an amulish name-sake of mine, was actually quite a visionary tool. We must give credit where it is due. Jaitley Uncle, will no doubt use his immense wealth of experience in this manipulative web of survival to capture red-handed those truly responsible for black money and its proliferation into our society. If not at least we will make an attempt to do so. You might be condescending of our links to the Ambanis and Adanis. There is a saying amongst us – ‘When Lakshmi, the Goddess of Wealth, catches an auto to come meet you - that is not when you declare a transport-strike’. We are just taking the developmental model from our state (we stand by it being better than Kerala’s) forward. Also Neetu Aunty has always been very kind to me. I still remember the times we spent laughing about that man, Kejriwal’s attempts to blackguard Mukesh Uncle. She even introduced me to Sachin-ji at a Mumbai Indians game - one of the most defining moments of my life – even if he did accidently joined the wrong side of the Rajya Sabha.

Despite what the environmentalist of all things might say, we are not here to uproot trees and mine our lands into the ground. My father even said that we must plant trees outsides our houses. This is a two-fold strategy, it was claimed – twenty years down the line they can be cut down and the daughters of the house married off. They say there is a fine line between genius and insanity. The polls define our genius. However don’t get us wrong, we have seen our fair share of hardship and misfortune on our race course. We understand and empathize with the like-minded and appreciate the gifts of the different. We emerged successful but there are dues to be paid. There are several pulls and twists and turns that need to be successfully swerved by, avoided, granted and yet others that need more innovative ways to put behind us.

We are not an elitist crowd. We do not want another banana republic on our hands. Even our Cabinet Ministers fan across regions, incomes and religions. India will continue to be saffron, white, green and blue. Just any one of them simply won’t do, in the long run.

My father is the Prime Minister of the sovereign, socialist, democratic, republic of India – cloaked in immense power. With our numbers, we are the true representatives of the people of this glorious nation. We are responsible for the road ahead and hopefully we will understand and respect that as the honour it is.

There are promises to be kept; many miles to go before we rest...

Jai Hind!

The Misguided Allure of the Drunken Trail

A man walks out of a bar. A genie appears before him and offers to grant him three wishes. The man thinks for a moment and asks for a bottle of beer that will never go empty. Immediately he is gifted with a bottle. The man starts drinking and right before it’s all gone, it starts to refill. The genie asks about the next two wishes. The man says ‘I want two more of these’.

Dionysus, the Greek god of wine, would be proud of our statesmen. The only body happier than him would be that of the beverage corporation. Factoring in the recent increase in tax, all alcohol should probably be served with gold flakes floating in it. Yet, as long as the buyer can pay, Chivas and Johnny will continue to play. The lines will never stop queuing and pre-game order will be strictly maintained till nine – when the bell tolls for the drinking man.

The hand that offers you your first ever glass is supposed to determine your fortunes against the alcohol demons. Sometimes it’s your grand-father or even father that lets you take a sip from their glass once you’ve entered your teenage years. Then there’s that adventurous uncle that’s curious as to how you’ll react to a little free flow. He will also gently warn you that he will break your legs if he ever finds you in a bar anywhere. That older cousin of yours will happily take you along on one of the ‘picnic’ trips with his gang and traditions of deep-fried freshly shot meat and local toddy in scenic surroundings will be introduced to you. Life has started experimenting.

Social drinking is a curious phenomenon. You are surrounded by friends, most of them regulars at the bottle fest. There are those that manage to muster the will to stick to their principles and not touch a drop. There are those that let their curiosity overcome them – how can you decide what isn’t good for you unless you have tried it? It’s a slow death after all, with emphasis on the slow. All those soft-drink bottles that they carry to the visits far away are spiked with wholesome doses of the white and coloured. The curious ones can test some and continue dancing to the tunes of the journey. It is advisable that you don’t think about your parents that have sent you down here with such great expectations in their hearts. However, just thinking and crying about how your poor mother will react to the notion is enough to make some stop forever. There is swift guilt that spreads through your heart when you hand over to a friend his first glass – you can now only hope he won’t make this a habit. Drinking in a group of mixed gender (where both sexes partake in the pleasantries) has its own perks. When the shot glasses are laid out, lavish outbursts of fun are sure to follow.

It’s also an outlandish way to meet people. Acquaintances turn to friends or frenemies as their souls are bared. Sitting in the midst of relative strangers in say, the hostel of the college that’s hosting the fest you’re attending, surrounded by joyous celebration can put the ‘connecting people’ advertisement in perspective. Birthdays are equally welcome. You borrow money from your homeboys to buy the stuff for them – the circle of life. People forget exams – before or after the paper – as their need suits them. People will be there for you in your times of need, if you can quench their thirst in theirs. You hail back-up for the intermittent fight with a bottle as the informal fee. Sometimes the unprecedented may happen when a young man satisfied with his night’s quota decides to sleep it off on the middle of the road. He feels free to find the best setting for the same by stoning all the streetlights in the vicinity. It is to be noted that being a public nuisance can land you a night in the local station's holding cell once in a while.

The entertainment value in the alcohol business is not to be under-estimated. Vijay Mallya should be sufficient reference. I think most IPL cheer-leading squads have a United Breweries slogan across their chests. The Alcoholics non-Anonymous is a quandary of emotion really. There are the laughter-artists. These are the people who make you laugh and those that laugh at and with you. Eventually everything anybody says will trigger a volley of mirth. The singers and the dancers gather in unison. You’ll swear you’ve never seen such synchronization even at Broadway. Unfortunately violence is not a novelty either. Khushwant Singh was said that ‘9/10ths of the violence in India is due to sexual frustration’. He probably said this with a glass of scotch in hand- thus forgetting to factor in the alcoholism. The daring drunks are the ones that will jump into the lakes from bridges, pretend to throw sticks at the mango trees while sparking the power lines to check the efficiency of our electricity board or drive on a whim to Munnar at two in the morning for a cuppa tea (actually, they don’t have to be drunk to do this).

Alcohol tends to amplify emotion. You see youngsters disappearing into the night on their phone – apparently to coax their better halves to lullaby and sleep – conversations are an outpouring of emotion. Even Cupid would be impressed by some of the dialogue that emanates from those in form. Truly such a thing of beauty must be a joy forever. Red wine is even considered to be an aphrodisiac. However as with everything else in life, there are two sides to this too. A scorned lover unleashes his anger by driving down to the girl’s house in the pitch black of night. He heaps abuse and throws eggs at the (un)holy premises. The next day he rises out of his drunken stupor only to realize that he had egged the wrong house. Those who believe that drowning yourself in liquor is akin to mending a broken heart will be in for a crude shock when you realize that not everything can be forgotten. Sometimes it is easier to believe that it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.

Marriages are a glorious affair with some special ceremonies featuring an almost transparent home-made brew that is potent enough to knock you out if not diluted sufficiently. The bawdy activity of adding liquor to the juice containers is frowned upon by most fathers of the brides. Religious and public holidays come with a license to fill. Setting off fire-crackers in the height of your drunken form is quite a spectacle too with rockets barely flying over your heads and the loud bomb-like innovations tending to burst in your hand itself. The second of October requires prior planning with supplies hoarded well in advance. Any shortage on the day is dealt with by contacting your local saviour who will raise the shutter just high enough to barter bottle and money. Bachelor parties, like election campaigns, also revolve around impressing your men with sheer quantity.

Cocktailing is an art. In fact there is a proper course offered on the subject. After all, that which doesn’t kill you does not always have to make you stronger. There are those that consume the classy brands and eagerly await duty-free arrivals. The average protocol revolves around each person with something in his wallet putting his share into the pot. Ice, water and soda are arranged for. Even water from the nearby stream will do if you’re sufficiently lacking in consciousness. One of the stranger combinations must be the use of Complan as flavouring (forever the Complan boy). Its most potent side-effect will be a night with your head in the closet. The more daring have been found to pour a bit into the glass and light a match to set the contents on fire, finally downing the flaming liquid into the back of their throats.

There is a curious rule about alcohol in moving vehicles. You cannot drink in the confines of a stationary vehicle but you're free to consume all when it's moving. The trick is not to spill while alternating between bumps and potholes on our gracious roads. There are never any glasses when you need them. The pro being their cheapness and the con is their tendency to shatter at the slightest touch. Fortunately there will always be some corner-side kiosk selling all the essentials at any late hour- you pick up a few glasses, maybe some salt, eggs just in case and the lemon-chilli cluster, if you’re into that sort of thing. Floating in the waters - be it your bath tub or a quaint riverside spot - with a bottle in hand is a fascinating way to postpone your high. There are those that take their liquor in better on an empty stomach followed by generous helpings of rich food to wash it down and then those that need their fill of culinary happiness before the bottle cap is unscrewed.

Food plays a poised role in the affairs of the state. As you travel along the famed backwaters, crabs, shrimp and water fowl are the greatest delicacies. The fish-head served is as big as a football, dipped in rich gravy and prawns sautéed to perfection. The duck is stripped off all but the essential and fried or curried as per your specification. It’s all always spicy and tends to complement the bittersweet toddy. As locales change dark tantalizing beef and pork creep into the menus. Tapioca is the side-dish of choice of course. Fried liver and quail are quite sought after too. If you know the right people, you can get your hands on some less-advertised tortoise or fried frog-legs. However, in the direst of cash-strapped circumstances, a packet of quality peanuts is the most touching option. In case the quality is not up to standard, you down a few pegs and call the customer service number on the packet cover and swear in the language of your choice. This is a wonderful stress relief for those that can’t keep their alcohol in without getting on the nerves of at least one other person. Fruits are considered the best absorbents. Arming yourself with apples and oranges at a booze-fest might save you from lying face down in your own bile at the end of the day.

Shakespeare said that it is the evil that men do that lives after them.  However today it lives as they live too. Every time Mohan Lal uncorks a bottle of the big screen, you’ll have clans of ever-aspiring citizenry to test and imbibe themselves into the featured bottle or bar. We cannot argue that he should not drink on screen. That day is not here yet - fortuitously from some perspectives. Maybe a day will come when every movie screening will be prologued by the anti-alcohol ad but that day is not today. Also, more often than not, the film will show us a brief moment of drunken euphoria before the consequences of the same drunken abyss are released. The pity lies in the fact that we see only what we want to – the first part. The say the average alcoholic drinks only for two occasions – happiness and sadness. Fortunately and unfortunately these would come along more often than you’d expect, for at the end of the day we are but human.

If the state were mapped on the basis of bars, beverages and toddy shops, there are quite a few people who would never lose their way. The inside of most booze caves are dark and dingy. It would seem that the inhabitants are afraid to show their faces lest they be recognized by others of the same ilk. It could also be a management ploy to con the drunken man for what rights could he exercise once he’s tottering on all fours. As some attention-seeking celebrity once sadly said ‘It is only us drunkards that do not have rights’. Even so it’s all good until they have run over some unlucky pavement dwellers in their flashy Beamers and blame the bar-tender for not recognizing that he had served beyond the consumer’s limits. Thankfully the legal system does not decree that server should be omniscient, but it does say that drinking and driving is against the law. Most metropolitans even offer home delivery services. You don’t have to step out of your house and you will never run out. Some would argue that we had nothing to lose. Statistics show that women were happiest with this development.

There has been a hazy picture of pub culture painted by the media amongst the everyday students. As in the recent ‘exposes’ in one of our bigger cities, where every-day partygoers are pictured  and displayed as indecent human beings that are the root cause of humanity’s frailties. This was taken over the top recently when girls getting into a cab after a party were videoed and flashed all over television and news dailies as a drunken vulgarity. The curious part is the girls in question weren’t even drunk. The gratifying part is they were law school students that took the irresponsible media contingent to court.

As long as the constitution grants those over twenty-one to purchase and consume their own liquor, nobody should have the right to deny anybody else their right within their rights. The only factors that should matter are where the money comes from (your parents don’t give you an allowance to drink in normal situations) and the medical implications of the consumption. There are those that balance the credit of the booze with the debit of starving for lunch and breakfast. Early graves are rarely easier to achieve.

Alcohols, hard as it maybe to believe do have benefits when consumed with the right choices in the right quantities. While researching your alcohol before consumption is not such a bad idea, a brief summary of its goodness can be listed as follows. Wines are said to significantly cut down on your chances of having a heart-attack and even reduce signs of aging. Aged spirits like whiskey come with cancer-fighting antioxidants. A shot of brandy contains the same antioxidant potential as 90 mg of vitamin C. Vodka acts as a relaxant and de-stressing agent, effective for inducing sleep. Tequila can dissolve fats and reduce cholesterol. Beer reduces the incidences of kidney stone formation and improves blood circulation. It would seem advocating that hospital rooms come equipped with mini-bars is not unwarranted.

The average young drinkers find it a great difficulty to control themselves. They drink until they are drunk and then they drink again until they have but passed out. Actually most of them do pass out. Habitual heavy drinking can result in cardiovascular diseases. Throat cancer comes along with the tendency to smoke while you drink (more whiskey will not save you). The traditional cirrhosis of the liver is when your liver becomes so scarred and corroded that it is fatal. It's hard to predict which drinkers will develop cirrhosis. Sometimes, people who drink huge amounts never get cirrhosis and some who don't drink very much do get it. Gastritis occurs due to inflammation of the pancreas by liquor. Dementia, depression and seizures are accrued to uncontrolled alcohol intake. These reasons are probably why those mini-bars aren’t set up.

Somebody once said that alcohol was necessary for man so that he could have a good opinion of himself, undisturbed by the facts. 

The problem with drinking is that if something bad happens you drink in an attempt to forget; if something good happens you drink in order to celebrate; and if nothing happens you drink to make something happen.  Despite this crass eventuality you could say that all’s well that ends well, provided it does end well. The bumper sticker on the booze wagon should read ‘Everything in moderation including moderation’. Be safe.    

Stuck

I jumped for joy and got stuck
It can't be a weight issue
I am bones, thin skinned and all that
So why didn't gravity play a role

It must be fake euphoria
Shallow highs I myself created
An allure of the inconceivable
To hide from realistic phases

Doing something you have to do
To do something you want to do
Is a mind pacifying notion
By some failure of a psychiatrist

To put your hand in every pie
And never get a bite
To fall in love every second smile
And then wallow in loss' plight

Sigh, it's probably the age
Not too many eons have we spend
Flitting through life's sanguine tinge
And time is our best friend

The transformation of ourselves
From exuberant youth 
To responsible citizen
Is like a wild west movie - full of shots and sins

Shotgun! He had called
The front seat was his
They drove in holiday spirit
Down roads with twists and dips

Something jumped out of nowhere
They swerved out of control
His side ploughed into bark
And left was nought but dark

He was gone the moment it struck him
No lasting pain
No crys of anguish
Except of those that love him

Deep remorse comes with the thought
Maybe it's survivor's guilt
We did lose a friend and brother
There is nothing that can be done

Only the good die young
The rest of us will live
And pay its price
Memory is all we will have now

I jumped for joy and got stuck
But who am I to whine
There are those that will never jump again
Swallow my pride, I must

We owe it to the lost
To save those that might have hope
And to play out our roles
Live, love, forgive and never give up

Helen

What can one say about the face
That set to sail a thousand ships?
The most troubling question that would arise
Is pity we could not see it.
 
    Aphrodite promised her as a prize
    Many a man chased after her
    All to find a wife
    Was she plagued through life?

She left behind family and child
Some say she ran hand in hand
Others describe scenes more vile
'Cross seas she was carried through

     Had she no greater thought in mind?
     Or are love and its concubines
    Just so worth its price?
    All the same, she found herself lost

Eye to eye, nose to nose
The rest was curtained by time
The first few days were love drunk
Paris must have been fine

     Somebody once claimed of peace
     That to achieve it, we need war
     So came the fleets
     And Trojan and Greek went asinine

It is not only the good that die young
Life is a gift or sorts
That is tested by the length
Of the gap between each breath

    As they died out there
    She was slowly spurned
    Men and women became beasts
    Cursed and left to weep

Then he died, she found another
He too died or was killed
Did she have a hand in it?
Was the horse one of her sins?

    Many questions are left unanswered
    By the daughter of Zeus
    She probably sought not glory as a lover
    Merely a moment that would last a lifetime

City of Joy

Moving from one state to another is said to make every Indian feel like a foreigner in their own country – such is the diversity that the nation enjoys. The pomp and splendor of its multi-faceted cultures gives it its own USP. Yet even in this difference, if we were to look closely one would find vestiges of a fine cultural inter-linking. Everything comes from somewhere and goes somewhere. Calcutta is that somewhere.

The age-old capital of the most glorious times of British India, the city still enjoys an ethereal sense of regality; so much so that at times it is in stark contrast to stark reality.  Having gotten its name from a nearby shrine to the fearsome Goddess Kali- Kalikata- this melting pot of societies can indeed be one of the most feared tests of survival for mankind.

He walked out of the station to see a sea of everything one could possible imagine. People were selling anything that could be sold, displaying all that was to be displayed (a service that could be availed of through a minimal token fee), hawking, gawking and walking. Little children, forcefully deformed at birth to appeal to one’s inner sympathy, begged on its streets. Old men and women, emotionally marred by years of slow deterioration of self-respect in the name of survival, sat at the entrances and exits with their alms-cups out-stretched. Those who could traversed the great platforms of the station foraging, like hyenas, for even traces of anything that could transformed into something for their smaller children sitting at home to eat. The older ones, those who had crossed the age of five, would have to fend for themselves.

 Stepping out into the city you were greeted by a cacophony of vehicular frenzy. The trademark yellow cabs- either Ambassadors or Padminis- awaited your beck and call. Double-decker buses leaned like little Pisas en ruote. Those who could not afford to support the prices of fuel, had the option of human horses, or rickshaw pullers as they were popularly known. He stood and stared at men who were spitting out paan, or blood, as they pulled their carriages laden with over a hundred kilos of fellow man or his goods. Having come from a more gentler part of the south of India, this was not the greeting he had expected.

Job Charnock was the Britisher responsible for the city’s birth. His name is still remembered in the little ways such as the name of a House in one of the city’s more prestigious schools – La Martiniere. The city was built to be the ideal center of business and pleasure. Its many industries gave Her Majesty a splendid income while the Hooghly river, daughter of the Ganga, provided the ports and harbours to transport its wares. Over the years it had been host to amongst the most outrageous displays of the power and wealth of the British empire. People came from all over Asia and Europe to par-take in the parties of the city. The Viceroy, decked in the representation of royalty in the nation, played host to all cultural, political and parasitical business enterprises of the day and age. It was a good time- for those who were important enough to enjoy it.

The house that had been set out for him was in a place called Ballygunge. It was originally one of the lesser areas of the cities and once upon a time had been a cheap investment with regard to real estate. The house, or rather apartment, was also plump in the middle of something else that was entirely new to him- a slum. Slums are a matter of perspective. For those who have, they are the lowest to which human habitation could sink- the nest of an unhygienic, often putrid, existence. For those who weren’t as fortunate, the slum was home. It gave them a roof on top of most of their heads. It gave them a community and a social reason to face each coming day. He walked through its narrow lanes, followed by an escort that consisted entirely of hungry stray mongrels and giggling children, gaping at the dark man, who in turn was gaping at everything he could, with the many bags and sunglasses. In the slum the only people who wore those, he would learn later, were the blind. A frail man was his landlord, one of the old generation of true Bengali ‘babus’ of the city. His wife, a round old lady, and he made the man far-away from home as welcome as he could possibly feel. One of the most special things about the house was that it would never have power-cuts. A place without its daily power-cut was almost unheard of in the city. Here however, the Chief Minister of the state had his residence in the same sub-grid as the house.

As a tribute to the success of the British Empire in India, a huge construction was under-taken in the early 20^th century. Contributions to the construction were made by those who wanted favours from the Raj and the construction in itself consisted of white marble from the same quarries that had supplied it to Shah Jahan. It was called the Victoria Memorial and it still stands in the midst of its 64 acres of blooming gardens.Another notable bit of architecture, though this bit significantly more useful, was the bridge across the Hooghly. It was renamed after the great Bengali Nobel laureate Rabindranath Tagore, as ‘RabindraSetu, but is however still popularly known as the Howrah Bridge.

In the evening he stepped out for some tea. A small clay pot filled with sweet milk, laced with traces of imports from Assam or Darjeeling (depending on the vendor’s imagination), was served to him along with a piping hot version of a samosa, called singharas. Food had always enticed him and he resolved to try out the best on offer. Sweets, he learnt, were an essential part of the Bengali life-style. The fragile sandesh that melted in your mouth to the succulent white orbs that were the globally famed rasagollas- all depravity and strife would be forgotten, if only for those few moments. Rice and the hilsa fish or freshly baked rotis and the ‘alu-dum’, a regional potato curry dish, constituted the staple diet of the city. On the way into the city he had tried from the Kharagpur (the home of the state’s IIT) platform, luchis and curry. Kathi rolls were kabas rolled in dough that apparently deserved special mention. Mistidoi, which is sweetened curd, and the Patuligur confectionery were additions to the palette. Each district of the state was renowned for its own particular fare, he was told. If he had the taste, he should visit Flury’s on Park Street or Nohoum’s in New Market. Kathleen and Monginis were also popular attractions. He returned home for his first night in the city, with a stomach, and by extension a mind, that was truly satisfied.

The great famines, the Partition, the wars with Pakistan and China all in turn had a direct impact on the great city. It brought in people by the millions – refugees from their own lands looking for ways and means to earn. Mosques, temples and churches adorned the city-scape. In the puja season the whole city would transform into a whirl of celebration. The beautiful women of the city would dress in the traditional white and red saree and the promenade carrying the effigies of Durga Ma and the elephant headed Ganesha would travel through the city to the mother-river. Mobs would throng the streets and the aura of a holy emancipation would be there for all who wanted it. Yet even the Gods make mistakes- they did after all create the Asuras. Yet they are there to save those should be saved- just like the city – they gave everybody a chance.

He knew there were many famous people from the city. He visited the Missionaries of Charity. People like Mother Teresa had always appealed to him. She represented what he saw to be beauty of the soul. Ronald Ross had found the cure for malaria in this very city. Social reform had come - be it Roy or Vivekananda. The spirit to remove oppression, however fanatically, was shown in the iconography of Netaji Bose. J. Bose and AmartyaSen brought academic and pratical glory to the city. Even in sports, the Dada of Indian cricket, SauravGanguly and even LeanderPaes had their homes here. Satyajit Ray had brought India her first ever Oscar. He then travelled to Shantiniketan.

The Banyan in the Botanical Gardens stretched its arms out so magnificently that atleast a thousand people could sit in its shade at any given time. Even the city’s nature was welcoming. Lotus leaves large enough to carry an entire person, floated in the lake. Squirrels adorned in the three-striped mark of the God Rama had made their homes all over the city. Chowringhee, it was said, even had its own very curious visitors that found affection for concrete jungles intermittently. The Royal Bengal Tiger was not just a symbol of a city but that of a nation. Alipore played host to the city-zoo. Always teeming with people, it is said to be most beautiful to visit in the gap between the monsoon rains. Then the resident peacock sheds all inhibition and dances for all asunder. The audience comes under one umbrella regardless of where they come from or where they shall go.

He was beginning to fall in love. True, the initial glimpses of its squalor might throw people off but the reality is Calcutta deserved to be respected- it offers a potential for redemption to mankind. In this city you could be whoever you wanted to be. Nobody would question you as long you lived and let live. Walking down its streets, he saw couples, hand in hand, smiles on their faces and eyes only for each other. After all, this was the ‘Paris of the East’. It brought back memories. It had been a long time since he had spoken to her. The city does that to you. It can make you feel lonely in a quaint personal way. It makes you long for those people that should be there with you. This was often a good thing. It made you do what was right. As he strolled back home, he realized that he was also happy. Tomorrow, he would go to work. He would be a part of a city that had its very own spot in the very history of greatness.

It is in Rabindra Sangeet that the city finds its soul. In this garden of song, the city’s many faces are revealed. It is a cycle that often overlaps- one of bichitra, puja, prakriti and prem. Diversity, worship, nature and love.It is akin to looking down on earth at the end of an 8^th day of creation. In its people you will find warmth even in the face of strife, life even in at the jaws of death and a joy that is unlike any other.

Once you have lived in its heart,

You would not look with wrath

At life in any which way

For it a city of learning

Of living, loving, forgiving and being

O Calcutta, you are my city of joy.