Transportation in kolkata has become an ulcer for me these days. Not that it was any better five years down the line but back then i spent most of my time scurrying off the pedlar occupied pavements of Howrah trying to get to school on time. But now I guess i suddenly grew up, now suddenly the realisation has dawned on me that the buses in kolkata is an Ulcer after all.
Now I have to make an effort to wake up on time, and make an effort to skip breakfast to run early in the morning to catch the bus to college. But then its a "process" as i find to get to college.
There are no direct buses getting there. So i have to constantly walk the 4 stairs up and down constantly when the bus reaches where it should have reached long before at least to my expectations. But fuck my feelings!
I dunno if its just me but i fnd kolkatans lazy. Generations of fish proteins in the intestines have so modified the "bangali-genes" that even on the roads they move like fishes as if suspended in a fluid medium. In offices their fingers move as if little fins scurrying muddy water.
So anyway they sit in the bus half in coma, submitting to the mercy of the eternal cunning man who drives the bus at his own will.
Is it just me that i wonder who keeps looking at my watch while on the bus!
or is it just the Kolkatans who love to sepend a substantial fraction of their lives on the bus and the other fraction on the dining table eating fish curry.
I beg the pardon of every man i have scorned and every soul who read this far uttering a "sala"in their mind.
But i had to write this you know.
This will be my epitaph before i submit myself to the society of dead ambitions.
p.s: long live "jinnabad-jinnabad" :-)
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Friday, April 11, 2008
unto them thy shall respect
The kolkatans have been tested down the decades for their patience! And on each occasions they have proved to succeed more than satisfactorily.
Since the past decade I have been the only exception if I do not consider them who feel its useless to buy newspapers when it can be managed from fellow passengers on the adjacent seat. These people I respect because they defy the limitations of shamelessness on grounds of humanity and deny any chance of themselves getting to the class of men who prefer to use personal belongings.
Jesus Christ was said to have fed a thousand out of single bread. Men such as these will prove they have fed ten thousand and in the end will have two breads in hand!
Time and again I see them on the streets in organized queues in the middle of the streets with banners of the brighter shades demanding “Answers”
They do not put forward questions though! They are too obvious to be asked, they assume. They shout for answers, people mistake them to be claiming answers form god, but alas!
The seek it from the government…………. On the middle of the road!
But the government gives them a miss!
The government never comes out on the streets!
They find out problems with the most ideal of all situations! For them the modern culture is a hollow sphere!
The last figment disappeared with the Nobel Prize, which is now part of some skinny damsels nose ring!
Alas kolkata why does it sleep when such men seek reason, seek truth, seek the answers of the political nirvana!
Why do we complain when they block roads and burn buses? They are on a quest of enlightment ! must we not honor them?
They are after all a bunch of idiots who are misunderstood! But u must not do so! They are all educated! They all know Marx was the food minister!
They are my personal heroes! One day this city will force me to become another such third class fuck-up. And that day another shit headed free lance writer will read my blog and agree with what I wrote!
But then I will have different view that day!
By then I will have evolved into a monkey!
Friday, January 11, 2008
another travelogue !!!
Things are never quite the same once the festive season thing sets in. Its sort of an infection that’s gets you once you are actually out there on the streets or have your earphones plugged in listening to the radio station playing the same song perhaps for the seventh time of the day.
Anyway I will not beat around the bush. Poila boisakh is a reminder for me that I have to wear the semi-cotton “Punjabi” bought by my mother from “puri” a sea shore city known to all devotees round the globe for temples, to foreigners for local narcotics and to my mother and all other humans of her kind for garments that are not produced anywhere near the town, but which the oriya tradesmen make the Bengali understand so very easily. A pity that COMMON SENSE CAN BE SO UNCOMMON.
Anyway I have put that good for nothing out of fashion thing for two years now and hoped by the this boisakh it would grow too short for me, but I completely forgot that the some garments are evil, they just grow with you.
So excuses aside I finally decided that I would go shopping something I had never done before! I gathered my guts and put together my funds and was on a bus. Now here I wanna seriously say that the fm stations are doing more well than the wireless communications between policemen in kolkata coz the other day I overheard a local sergent saying central avenue was totally blocked and the control room did not know anything about it.
I almost dropped the bus fare I was reaching out to the grumpy conductor with weary eyes smelling of sun and leather, when I heard a mall declaring a whopping 65% off!
I was confused over what reaction I should be having. Should I say “WOW”…but I preferred “WHY?”.
Hmmm…………..I pondered… maybe the owner was heading for a clean and calm life far from the cosmopolitan and by that pledge he probably took some distant days in his schooldays of serving fellow Indians… he was simply fulfilling his oath. What a man of honour he should be…
But the old man dozing in the empty ladies seat evoked sinister thoughts within me… may he was a lying cheat, a shady character, long black over coats… black hats, cigar………..
.
.
.
.
By now the bus was well stuck in a jam near Deshopriyo park and the long queue of cars ahead of us indicated it was more than signal lights playing pranks! Was there an demonstration round?
The footpaths claimed attention! People jostled around! Aunties with their daughters ahead of them, keeping a tight vigil on her movements and an open ear for the best bargain shot at random decibels from the shopkeepers who claimed they were all serving humanity and themselves selling out on loss, and wanted the world to rob them blank.
An occasional street smart. A roadside Romeo with sneaky eyes and an occasional complement for the appropriate……… unexpressed!
I was getting the feel of the whole situation when the bus suddenly lurched ahead…
Finally I reached the mall…. I got in and grew eternally confused. There was multiple choices and I knew only how to deal with four. The jeans looked all the same and yet they had different tags.
The eternal pressure of choice kept building up on me. And I could not possibly decide. I picked up a shirt only to find out it was way above my budget! The best thing was the girls were too quick in this art of shopping.. they just knew what to do, and what to buy.. like it was all in their genes!
I seemed lost in this maze and things potentially looked dangerous when I heard someone say
“ Excuse me sir, may I help you?’
“ Umm…which way is the exit?” I asked
“ Take the right alley” was the perplexed answer.
Anyway I will not beat around the bush. Poila boisakh is a reminder for me that I have to wear the semi-cotton “Punjabi” bought by my mother from “puri” a sea shore city known to all devotees round the globe for temples, to foreigners for local narcotics and to my mother and all other humans of her kind for garments that are not produced anywhere near the town, but which the oriya tradesmen make the Bengali understand so very easily. A pity that COMMON SENSE CAN BE SO UNCOMMON.
Anyway I have put that good for nothing out of fashion thing for two years now and hoped by the this boisakh it would grow too short for me, but I completely forgot that the some garments are evil, they just grow with you.
So excuses aside I finally decided that I would go shopping something I had never done before! I gathered my guts and put together my funds and was on a bus. Now here I wanna seriously say that the fm stations are doing more well than the wireless communications between policemen in kolkata coz the other day I overheard a local sergent saying central avenue was totally blocked and the control room did not know anything about it.
I almost dropped the bus fare I was reaching out to the grumpy conductor with weary eyes smelling of sun and leather, when I heard a mall declaring a whopping 65% off!
I was confused over what reaction I should be having. Should I say “WOW”…but I preferred “WHY?”.
Hmmm…………..I pondered… maybe the owner was heading for a clean and calm life far from the cosmopolitan and by that pledge he probably took some distant days in his schooldays of serving fellow Indians… he was simply fulfilling his oath. What a man of honour he should be…
But the old man dozing in the empty ladies seat evoked sinister thoughts within me… may he was a lying cheat, a shady character, long black over coats… black hats, cigar………..
.
.
.
.
By now the bus was well stuck in a jam near Deshopriyo park and the long queue of cars ahead of us indicated it was more than signal lights playing pranks! Was there an demonstration round?
The footpaths claimed attention! People jostled around! Aunties with their daughters ahead of them, keeping a tight vigil on her movements and an open ear for the best bargain shot at random decibels from the shopkeepers who claimed they were all serving humanity and themselves selling out on loss, and wanted the world to rob them blank.
An occasional street smart. A roadside Romeo with sneaky eyes and an occasional complement for the appropriate……… unexpressed!
I was getting the feel of the whole situation when the bus suddenly lurched ahead…
Finally I reached the mall…. I got in and grew eternally confused. There was multiple choices and I knew only how to deal with four. The jeans looked all the same and yet they had different tags.
The eternal pressure of choice kept building up on me. And I could not possibly decide. I picked up a shirt only to find out it was way above my budget! The best thing was the girls were too quick in this art of shopping.. they just knew what to do, and what to buy.. like it was all in their genes!
I seemed lost in this maze and things potentially looked dangerous when I heard someone say
“ Excuse me sir, may I help you?’
“ Umm…which way is the exit?” I asked
“ Take the right alley” was the perplexed answer.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
When you set out on your journey to Ithaca
pray that the journey is long.
Here in the city of joy of joy no matter how well planned your journey is, your journey ends up long after all. And so excuses form a part of the introductory session in all the “awphish”.
Here in the city of joy there are millions of excuses to be satisfied with.
My purse had ninety six rupees.
My pocket had a one rupee coin.
Its at least 3 kilometers between Camac Street and new empire movie hall. On a bus it would take 4 rupees and fifty paisa and 20 minutes on an average bus considering all is well in the political hemisphere.
I decide to walk.
Paulo Coelho says in his book the zahir that when we decide to do something new even if the roads are old we end up experiencing something odd. For a change i decide to do something i never did before. I decide to spend the one rupee coin.
Consider a situation where we run after a particular item that stings the urge to be bought. We pursue the path that leads to it. And if it is in our limits of expenditure we end up buying it. But what if i give someone a coin and ask him to spend it. Will not there be a dilemma in the mind as to where the coin may be spent? And after it has been spent, will the person not consider if it was well spent.
I have walked down to the crossing of chowranghee and theater road and found till now there are only two things i can buy with it a cheap cigarette and a chlormint. But i decide to resist. Its the lunch time in the offices. In the situation the one thing that i observed was that not all were hungry. But they ate. They demand everything that is included in the price tag. They claim the worth of their money.
There are more paan shops, small ghumtis, more people selling a cheap cigarette, more chlormint. But i resist.
People hand out ads and pages with usual headinngs..”urgent...please note” etc. but not many even care so much as to glance till the second line. I guess urgency has lost its value. The man hands out the same bill at me. Its about a multigym. He handed the same to the old lady walking before me, which clearly shows that the man is not even aware what message he spreads. Its typical these days, his mission is to spread the word which if he does, he will be paid. The old lady almost collides with another pedestrian while trying to read the bill.
I have reached the park street crossing and i still have not been able to spend one rupee. Its strange. All things i find on the road are supposedly much more costlier.
I try to think a little differently. The value of the coin and the value of the articles the cdroms, the key rings, fancy combs, colorful socks are not same. So lets create an analogy. If i know hebrew and i roam in the streets of Kolkata who would know my worth? None. So maybe thats why we are moving with the times. And its the rule of the time that one rupee isnt worth spending at all.
Its almost esplanade. There had been 26 shops selling lunch, 3 selling posters of gods film stars and actresses revealing provocative thoughts, many selling cigarettes and chlormint.
I reach new empire. The one rupee is still in my pocket. There was a helpless man with an open bowl. I go and give him the coin but the thoughts are not passed on.
The journey was long indeed. Took me half an hour at least.
At least it was worth an incident where nothing happened.
When in the end of the road, you find Ithaca poor,
know that Ithaca has not deceived you
but older have you become in experience
and you must know now what Ithaca means
pray that the journey is long.
Here in the city of joy of joy no matter how well planned your journey is, your journey ends up long after all. And so excuses form a part of the introductory session in all the “awphish”.
Here in the city of joy there are millions of excuses to be satisfied with.
My purse had ninety six rupees.
My pocket had a one rupee coin.
Its at least 3 kilometers between Camac Street and new empire movie hall. On a bus it would take 4 rupees and fifty paisa and 20 minutes on an average bus considering all is well in the political hemisphere.
I decide to walk.
Paulo Coelho says in his book the zahir that when we decide to do something new even if the roads are old we end up experiencing something odd. For a change i decide to do something i never did before. I decide to spend the one rupee coin.
Consider a situation where we run after a particular item that stings the urge to be bought. We pursue the path that leads to it. And if it is in our limits of expenditure we end up buying it. But what if i give someone a coin and ask him to spend it. Will not there be a dilemma in the mind as to where the coin may be spent? And after it has been spent, will the person not consider if it was well spent.
I have walked down to the crossing of chowranghee and theater road and found till now there are only two things i can buy with it a cheap cigarette and a chlormint. But i decide to resist. Its the lunch time in the offices. In the situation the one thing that i observed was that not all were hungry. But they ate. They demand everything that is included in the price tag. They claim the worth of their money.
There are more paan shops, small ghumtis, more people selling a cheap cigarette, more chlormint. But i resist.
People hand out ads and pages with usual headinngs..”urgent...please note” etc. but not many even care so much as to glance till the second line. I guess urgency has lost its value. The man hands out the same bill at me. Its about a multigym. He handed the same to the old lady walking before me, which clearly shows that the man is not even aware what message he spreads. Its typical these days, his mission is to spread the word which if he does, he will be paid. The old lady almost collides with another pedestrian while trying to read the bill.
I have reached the park street crossing and i still have not been able to spend one rupee. Its strange. All things i find on the road are supposedly much more costlier.
I try to think a little differently. The value of the coin and the value of the articles the cdroms, the key rings, fancy combs, colorful socks are not same. So lets create an analogy. If i know hebrew and i roam in the streets of Kolkata who would know my worth? None. So maybe thats why we are moving with the times. And its the rule of the time that one rupee isnt worth spending at all.
Its almost esplanade. There had been 26 shops selling lunch, 3 selling posters of gods film stars and actresses revealing provocative thoughts, many selling cigarettes and chlormint.
I reach new empire. The one rupee is still in my pocket. There was a helpless man with an open bowl. I go and give him the coin but the thoughts are not passed on.
The journey was long indeed. Took me half an hour at least.
At least it was worth an incident where nothing happened.
When in the end of the road, you find Ithaca poor,
know that Ithaca has not deceived you
but older have you become in experience
and you must know now what Ithaca means
When you set out on your journey to Ithaca
pray that the journey is long.
Here in the city of joy of joy no matter how well planned your journey is, your journey ends up long after all. And so excuses form a part of the introductory session in all the “awphish”.
Here in the city of joy there are millions of excuses to be satisfied with.
My purse had ninety six rupees.
My pocket had a one rupee coin.
Its at least 3 kilometers between Camac Street and new empire movie hall. On a bus it would take 4 rupees and fifty paisa and 20 minutes on an average bus considering all is well in the political hemisphere.
I decide to walk.
Paulo Coelho says in his book the zahir that when we decide to do something new even if the roads are old we end up experiencing something odd. For a change i decide to do something i never did before. I decide to spend the one rupee coin.
Consider a situation where we run after a particular item that stings the urge to be bought. We pursue the path that leads to it. And if it is in our limits of expenditure we end up buying it. But what if i give someone a coin and ask him to spend it. Will not there be a dilemma in the mind as to where the coin may be spent? And after it has been spent, will the person not consider if it was well spent.
I have walked down to the crossing of chowranghee and theater road and found till now there are only two things i can buy with it a cheap cigarette and a chlormint. But i decide to resist. Its the lunch time in the offices. In the situation the one thing that i observed was that not all were hungry. But they ate. They demand everything that is included in the price tag. They claim the worth of their money.
There are more paan shops, small ghumtis, more people selling a cheap cigarette, more chlormint. But i resist.
People hand out ads and pages with usual headinngs..”urgent...please note” etc. but not many even care so much as to glance till the second line. I guess urgency has lost its value. The man hands out the same bill at me. Its about a multigym. He handed the same to the old lady walking before me, which clearly shows that the man is not even aware what message he spreads. Its typical these days, his mission is to spread the word which if he does, he will be paid. The old lady almost collides with another pedestrian while trying to read the bill.
I have reached the park street crossing and i still have not been able to spend one rupee. Its strange. All things i find on the road are supposedly much more costlier.
I try to think a little differently. The value of the coin and the value of the articles the cdroms, the key rings, fancy combs, colorful socks are not same. So lets create an analogy. If i know hebrew and i roam in the streets of Kolkata who would know my worth? None. So maybe thats why we are moving with the times. And its the rule of the time that one rupee isnt worth spending at all.
Its almost esplanade. There had been 26 shops selling lunch, 3 selling posters of gods film stars and actresses revealing provocative thoughts, many selling cigarettes and chlormint.
I reach new empire. The one rupee is still in my pocket. There was a helpless man with an open bowl. I go and give him the coin but the thoughts are not passed on.
The journey was long indeed. Took me half an hour at least.
At least it was worth an incident where nothing happened.
When in the end of the road, you find Ithaca poor,
know that Ithaca has not deceived you
but older have you become in experience
and you must know now what Ithaca means
pray that the journey is long.
Here in the city of joy of joy no matter how well planned your journey is, your journey ends up long after all. And so excuses form a part of the introductory session in all the “awphish”.
Here in the city of joy there are millions of excuses to be satisfied with.
My purse had ninety six rupees.
My pocket had a one rupee coin.
Its at least 3 kilometers between Camac Street and new empire movie hall. On a bus it would take 4 rupees and fifty paisa and 20 minutes on an average bus considering all is well in the political hemisphere.
I decide to walk.
Paulo Coelho says in his book the zahir that when we decide to do something new even if the roads are old we end up experiencing something odd. For a change i decide to do something i never did before. I decide to spend the one rupee coin.
Consider a situation where we run after a particular item that stings the urge to be bought. We pursue the path that leads to it. And if it is in our limits of expenditure we end up buying it. But what if i give someone a coin and ask him to spend it. Will not there be a dilemma in the mind as to where the coin may be spent? And after it has been spent, will the person not consider if it was well spent.
I have walked down to the crossing of chowranghee and theater road and found till now there are only two things i can buy with it a cheap cigarette and a chlormint. But i decide to resist. Its the lunch time in the offices. In the situation the one thing that i observed was that not all were hungry. But they ate. They demand everything that is included in the price tag. They claim the worth of their money.
There are more paan shops, small ghumtis, more people selling a cheap cigarette, more chlormint. But i resist.
People hand out ads and pages with usual headinngs..”urgent...please note” etc. but not many even care so much as to glance till the second line. I guess urgency has lost its value. The man hands out the same bill at me. Its about a multigym. He handed the same to the old lady walking before me, which clearly shows that the man is not even aware what message he spreads. Its typical these days, his mission is to spread the word which if he does, he will be paid. The old lady almost collides with another pedestrian while trying to read the bill.
I have reached the park street crossing and i still have not been able to spend one rupee. Its strange. All things i find on the road are supposedly much more costlier.
I try to think a little differently. The value of the coin and the value of the articles the cdroms, the key rings, fancy combs, colorful socks are not same. So lets create an analogy. If i know hebrew and i roam in the streets of Kolkata who would know my worth? None. So maybe thats why we are moving with the times. And its the rule of the time that one rupee isnt worth spending at all.
Its almost esplanade. There had been 26 shops selling lunch, 3 selling posters of gods film stars and actresses revealing provocative thoughts, many selling cigarettes and chlormint.
I reach new empire. The one rupee is still in my pocket. There was a helpless man with an open bowl. I go and give him the coin but the thoughts are not passed on.
The journey was long indeed. Took me half an hour at least.
At least it was worth an incident where nothing happened.
When in the end of the road, you find Ithaca poor,
know that Ithaca has not deceived you
but older have you become in experience
and you must know now what Ithaca means
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Derby!
"The life is a race... some run it...others keep betting on it".
The old man and the light
For all those millions who have ever been to the city of joy have at least glanced once at the famous race course that proudly stands overshadowed by the other palaces and monuments that are declared heritage now!
Of course if u ever ask where the famous racecourse is, you will get misleading answers. In this age of orkut and cell phone no one in particular cares about all these things! With the passing ages of time one day this will be wiped away. What would remain is unknown to me. Time takes us all…and we all fall for time.
If you get down at the stoppage of “Hastings” you would only have to cross the road to get there!
And if you go there on Saturday, when the races are usually on, you would find thousands around but one man in particular who would catch your eyes, an old European smoking Indian tobacco!
Old Mr. Kenner is what you would come to know if you ask him his name; “gora babu” is what you would know if u ask the local panwallah selling paan for all they ever knew of him was that he was always there… through the summers and the rains and the winters that rarely sets in this city of joy!
“ What joy be there young lad…. eh?” he would ask
And soon you would know that the Indian summers may have tanned his pale “gora” skin but had never been able to change his accent!
My incident of meeting him is rather an extraordinary one! But not so extraordinary to surpass his tale in this city. The day I met him was a Saturday, I was coming back from somewhere I had gone without my mom’s permission most probably to a movie and I remember well that it had rained that day! I was walking down belvedere road down the national library and past the zoo up to Hastings where I was to take my bus. The street was dark and the lamps were out. The elections were far away. When I heard a voice from the back
“Ye got a light?” he spoke perfect English in the British accent something I don’t come across in this evolving city of a chance “yo!”
“I am sorry, I don’t …” I replied
“What wrong be with ye young lads?” said he “ what wrong be in one puff strong”
“Maybe you should tell that to my mother “ I said certain that he was a tourist.
“Ay, the moms spoil the lads, what age be yours?”
“Just about to be going to college!”
“Learn ye shall all from the books, but what learnt ye from ya life?”
“That I should not be puffing around…” I said rather jocundly
“Tell that to ye son lad… ye mom never ask ye to grow up” and he looked away.
“So sir are ye from England?” I asked
“Wales it be till ’56… India now” and he approached another for a light.
I stood staring at the headlights in the drizzle and before it could turn into a heavy downpour I was up on a bus and away.
The old man had got his light!
***************************************
I meet the man again
Life is not a bed of roses…. Those who live know it well. There are heartbreaks and disappointments, misery and sadness. Often I love walking down footpaths when my mood fails me. It was on this occasion that a disappointment made me meet the real Mr. Kenner I was to know about.
I sat for about an hour at princep ghat watching at the river. I loved coming here alone, as it was really quiet and solace… I could think wonder dream flow away or drown deep within me.
“ Having a hangover is bad for ye, if u happen to be in ye teens too!” came a voice I thought sounded familiar to me.
I turned around to find the same old man staring at me. I saw his face clearly now. A tanned pink complexion and white unkempt hair and beard covered him! He was clad in normal shirt pants, never ironed in his lifetime but unusually clean.
“Do you remember me?” I asked, hoping he would
“Do I owe ye anything?” he asked rather skeptically
“No you asked me for a light one evening” I said hoping that would make him remember
“I do that all the time, but no one minds as yet! So do ye want it back?” he snapped back.
“No thanks, I don’t…” I said adding to the depression I was in.
“What wrong be with ye young lads?” said he “ what wrong be in one puff strong”
“So how do u know I am hanging an hangover?” I asked trying to change the topic of our discussion.
“Saw ye sitting in the sun when there was shade to spare, ye seemed unaware of yeself” said he and lighted a cheap cigarette
I got up and went up to the mount of bricks he sat upon! And sat beside him.
“mathematics do not enter my brains, for some apparent reason i fail to comprehend that and yet do you think I should be ecstatic”
“Ah I see no reason for ye to rejoice” he said “all the same the hangover is not so good either is it? Keep trying ye shall pass someday” and he went on with his smoke.
I introduced myself.
He kept silent.
So I had to ask him his name.
“Kenner” he said with reluctance to pronounce the ‘r’
I did not ask him whether it was his name or surname and was not sure if he would have told it even if I asked, as he was too busy taking in the last puffs of a cheap Indian smoke.
When he had thrown the glowing butt into the bushes nearby he realized I was staring at him.
And I was myself shameless and unaware of the same fact. The pink blotches of sunburn on his otherwise pale skin seemed to fascinate me.
“So what do you do here?” I asked trying to get his attention off the fact that all this time I had forgotten all about my failure to perform and was now staring down his throat.
“Nothing I should be ashamed of” and he went into a long pause. “ I bet on horses” he broke off his pause and went into another, which he broke off saying that he always lost.
“Why do you bet when you always lose” I asked
“Why do ye lads study when ye can’t pass?” he snapped back with wounded pride.
The afternoon was really pleasant. And I went on to hear all about Mr. Kenner, old Kenner as he wanted me to call him.
He was in the British Navy when he came to Kolkata in 1956. But he never went back to England after that. He said there was nothing to pull me back there. He married here but never settled down. His wife died within a few months of his marriage.
“She keeps me here, and I stay. And he showed me a red hydrangea he picked up everyday to offer his love on her last bed where she slept. On Park Street among thousand others of her kind but only one who she was. The setting sun bore testimony to the nostalgia that covered us both under its wings.
He went on to continue that there was no office in this city where he had not served. But he hated the normal men who stuck to positions by sheer flattery of their filthy tongues. He said he had prejudice because others were biased towards him.
“It was the early days of independence… there were riots and problems unimaginable, this was not the city of joy then my lad” he said deeply reflecting the days.
He spoke of every bit of the ethos that existed in this city. He spoke low of the lazy Bengali community that uses the tag of an intellectual race as an excuse for their inefficiency. He spoke ill of the British and the Anglo Indians that were there during that time but never lended him a helping hand!
And then in the dusky sky laden with memoirs of every possible gloom of the bygone days he spoke of the addiction towards betting on horses.
He said he never had any source of income except for a small amount he still received as a pension from the British navy. He said he never won any bet and yet he still bet on horses and always will.
I asked where he lived to which he gave no reply. He started another cheap Indian smoke.
Calcutta was all lit up in neon. Cars went flashing by. Evening had already set in.
“Ye better get going home…ye moms always get angry…ye mom always spoil the lads” he said
I had forgotten completely of my misery of my mathematics exam. I was still lost somewhere in his nostalgia.
I got up and said goodbye and said it was a pleasure to have met him and asked if I would see him again.
“I am always around” and gave a chance smile something I had never seen before.
I got up and stretched myself. And his words “Bengalis are lethargic” pinched me.
I said goodbye and he waved.
“ What joy be there young lad…. in their city of joy eh?” were the last I heard from him that night
3.
No one has a reason to look back these days or live with their past. There is always something to make then go on with their lives. There are reasons to bury the past and live up the present. For old Mr. Kenner all his past was indeed buried on park street cemetery and the present was derby. He never boasted of winning a fortune there and even if he did he never spoke to me anything about it.
He never spoke of any heir or relative here or back home. He seemed to have been cheating life right since the early days of 56 when he landed here, a young sailor of the British navy and never went back, the reason of which lies buried. And amidst a city of intellectuals he found no reason, maybe he chose none. To the apparent naked eye old Mr. Kenner was no more than a selfish old European living somewhere on Ripon Street, who seldom went to the church and hardly read the bible, a man who had no affection for Easter or Christmas, no hard feelings either. He just chose a life of seclusion amidst this chaos inevitable. Daily life was nothing special and derby his life.
Meeting him became one of my fancies. I grew this very strong attachment with the old man. We spoke on various topics and he was always reluctant to go back in his nostalgia, but my insisting made him and through the perfect British accent he spoke in I found a clear picture portrayed in the solace sky of the silent evenings we met on.
I grew very close to old Mr. Kenner. In the days to come I bunked tuitions on several occasions and found no reason to feel guilty. He was no great man I could proclaim of learning something from, he was an average man simple and blunt and I loved him for this reason only. He never spoke of great virtues of life of the ultimate truth that all saints claim to have found. In fact on several occasions he swore and never apologized. He made a lot of racial remarks about my own kind and I could never resist. Not because I could not but because my conscience found his words true.
I remember one occasion when I had asked old Mr. Kenner to speak about his home back in England. He said he lived in a small house in the shire near the dock. I had asked him if it was for that reason that he grew up a sailor.
“No lad I ran away from me home, there was nothing to pull me back there” was the reply.
For a man so vanquished within and so intensely ravaged by the passing sands of time, sometimes it gave me joy to think that here in this city he did at least for one found a love for his live. And yet life is cruel indeed!
All his love now that there existed was something that he lost in every day and yet he was never disappointed to indulge again.
Once I had asked him how much he ever bet on a horse to which he said one day I should go with him to see for myself. I wanted very dearly for that day to come. But we all live our own lives and meeting him became a problem sometimes. But I met him at least thrice in a month even when the exams were round the corner. He was like an ocean of memories and I loved swimming in it.
There were a thousand things about which he spoke he spoke of the goan colony near Bowbazar area which was famous for home made wine. I had heard about it from the film “Bow Barracks” by anjan dutt but he sure did speak a lot about it and the reason he did was because he found the excuse to stay back there only, the excuse that is now no more yet he lives on.
4.
It was a steamy hot afternoon that day. i remember it very well. Every single tree on the dust avenue simply resented the ideas of evening bothering to sway. The traffic police had sought shelter in the shades and the ones who could not manage to get one did not bother too much for the traffic either. That day i felt really stupid to be bunking classes to get to princep ghat for old Mr. Kenner.
I saw him there as usual... on the staircase of the desolate ghat. For the first time it occurred to me that he was actually waiting for me. I was ecstatic but he never let his emotions reveal themselves so he looked pensive as always but beneath that
Gloomy face i saw an unprecedented joy.
"Were you waiting for me?" i asked eagerly.
"Did it ever occur to ye?" he lied abruptly.
"No, I just thought...that..."
"Come with me to derby will ye" he cut me short.
I stared at him will joy. I wanted to go, but my routine life wouldnt let me.
So i had to apologetically refuse.
6
It had been six long weeks since I had met old Mr. Kenner. Since he took me to the race.
The race was not so interesting for me and I found nothing extraordinarily amazing about it.
Still i loved the excursion. Of course i went home late that night and lied the hell out to save a tremendous hullabaloo.
Also I was asked I went towards the Princep Ghat the other day. I could not manage a satisfactory explanation, as I never expected my aunt next door to have noticed me. All I wonder till date is what she had been doing there.
But jokes apart my parents now knew that I had been to that deserted place for some reason I could not say. And indeed I could not mention the real reason coz my dad would not believe my mom and me would stop me. So for six weeks I pretended to be seriously studying although i had left my mind back at the Princep Ghat and the Derby. So I spent long hours at the study pretending to be studying although my grades never really improved.
I was still the only boy in the class who could not do a single integration correctly. For my teacher at school excuses were always ready and for my dad lies were at hand.
So one fine afternoon I bunked my mathematics class and went towards princep Ghat, this time taking the more desolate road by the fort William to avoid being spotted by my extra attentive aunt next door.
I reached the spot, but there was no Old Mr. Kenner.
Eight months had passed since i had met the man who i thought never existed. Last week i decide maybe this was enough time already. Now i was in college, not a school student anymore. The young lad i was no more. In few years time i will have my graduation done and hopefully well i will be getting and average salaried placement. Six months passed away so fast for me that i did not even realize that it really had been so long. Even then in this six months i did not forget the old Mr. Kenner whom i began to admire immensely.
So did go to princep ghat but the place was empty. I waited for about two hours and still i did not find him. I never had asked him his address, coz i thought even if i did he would not tell me. Deep in me i felt guilty at not having been there for about six months.
So came back the other day again and still did not find him. The spot was still the same, cobwebs covered the walls left alone while most others were bore testimonials of frustrated romeos who immortalized their philosophies on the vintage British walls till the municipality came up with a seasonal whitewash on this piece of nation heritage.
But to me this was still a piece of happy memory.
"The life is a race... some run it...others keep betting on it".
The old man and the light
For all those millions who have ever been to the city of joy have at least glanced once at the famous race course that proudly stands overshadowed by the other palaces and monuments that are declared heritage now!
Of course if u ever ask where the famous racecourse is, you will get misleading answers. In this age of orkut and cell phone no one in particular cares about all these things! With the passing ages of time one day this will be wiped away. What would remain is unknown to me. Time takes us all…and we all fall for time.
If you get down at the stoppage of “Hastings” you would only have to cross the road to get there!
And if you go there on Saturday, when the races are usually on, you would find thousands around but one man in particular who would catch your eyes, an old European smoking Indian tobacco!
Old Mr. Kenner is what you would come to know if you ask him his name; “gora babu” is what you would know if u ask the local panwallah selling paan for all they ever knew of him was that he was always there… through the summers and the rains and the winters that rarely sets in this city of joy!
“ What joy be there young lad…. eh?” he would ask
And soon you would know that the Indian summers may have tanned his pale “gora” skin but had never been able to change his accent!
My incident of meeting him is rather an extraordinary one! But not so extraordinary to surpass his tale in this city. The day I met him was a Saturday, I was coming back from somewhere I had gone without my mom’s permission most probably to a movie and I remember well that it had rained that day! I was walking down belvedere road down the national library and past the zoo up to Hastings where I was to take my bus. The street was dark and the lamps were out. The elections were far away. When I heard a voice from the back
“Ye got a light?” he spoke perfect English in the British accent something I don’t come across in this evolving city of a chance “yo!”
“I am sorry, I don’t …” I replied
“What wrong be with ye young lads?” said he “ what wrong be in one puff strong”
“Maybe you should tell that to my mother “ I said certain that he was a tourist.
“Ay, the moms spoil the lads, what age be yours?”
“Just about to be going to college!”
“Learn ye shall all from the books, but what learnt ye from ya life?”
“That I should not be puffing around…” I said rather jocundly
“Tell that to ye son lad… ye mom never ask ye to grow up” and he looked away.
“So sir are ye from England?” I asked
“Wales it be till ’56… India now” and he approached another for a light.
I stood staring at the headlights in the drizzle and before it could turn into a heavy downpour I was up on a bus and away.
The old man had got his light!
***************************************
I meet the man again
Life is not a bed of roses…. Those who live know it well. There are heartbreaks and disappointments, misery and sadness. Often I love walking down footpaths when my mood fails me. It was on this occasion that a disappointment made me meet the real Mr. Kenner I was to know about.
I sat for about an hour at princep ghat watching at the river. I loved coming here alone, as it was really quiet and solace… I could think wonder dream flow away or drown deep within me.
“ Having a hangover is bad for ye, if u happen to be in ye teens too!” came a voice I thought sounded familiar to me.
I turned around to find the same old man staring at me. I saw his face clearly now. A tanned pink complexion and white unkempt hair and beard covered him! He was clad in normal shirt pants, never ironed in his lifetime but unusually clean.
“Do you remember me?” I asked, hoping he would
“Do I owe ye anything?” he asked rather skeptically
“No you asked me for a light one evening” I said hoping that would make him remember
“I do that all the time, but no one minds as yet! So do ye want it back?” he snapped back.
“No thanks, I don’t…” I said adding to the depression I was in.
“What wrong be with ye young lads?” said he “ what wrong be in one puff strong”
“So how do u know I am hanging an hangover?” I asked trying to change the topic of our discussion.
“Saw ye sitting in the sun when there was shade to spare, ye seemed unaware of yeself” said he and lighted a cheap cigarette
I got up and went up to the mount of bricks he sat upon! And sat beside him.
“mathematics do not enter my brains, for some apparent reason i fail to comprehend that and yet do you think I should be ecstatic”
“Ah I see no reason for ye to rejoice” he said “all the same the hangover is not so good either is it? Keep trying ye shall pass someday” and he went on with his smoke.
I introduced myself.
He kept silent.
So I had to ask him his name.
“Kenner” he said with reluctance to pronounce the ‘r’
I did not ask him whether it was his name or surname and was not sure if he would have told it even if I asked, as he was too busy taking in the last puffs of a cheap Indian smoke.
When he had thrown the glowing butt into the bushes nearby he realized I was staring at him.
And I was myself shameless and unaware of the same fact. The pink blotches of sunburn on his otherwise pale skin seemed to fascinate me.
“So what do you do here?” I asked trying to get his attention off the fact that all this time I had forgotten all about my failure to perform and was now staring down his throat.
“Nothing I should be ashamed of” and he went into a long pause. “ I bet on horses” he broke off his pause and went into another, which he broke off saying that he always lost.
“Why do you bet when you always lose” I asked
“Why do ye lads study when ye can’t pass?” he snapped back with wounded pride.
The afternoon was really pleasant. And I went on to hear all about Mr. Kenner, old Kenner as he wanted me to call him.
He was in the British Navy when he came to Kolkata in 1956. But he never went back to England after that. He said there was nothing to pull me back there. He married here but never settled down. His wife died within a few months of his marriage.
“She keeps me here, and I stay. And he showed me a red hydrangea he picked up everyday to offer his love on her last bed where she slept. On Park Street among thousand others of her kind but only one who she was. The setting sun bore testimony to the nostalgia that covered us both under its wings.
He went on to continue that there was no office in this city where he had not served. But he hated the normal men who stuck to positions by sheer flattery of their filthy tongues. He said he had prejudice because others were biased towards him.
“It was the early days of independence… there were riots and problems unimaginable, this was not the city of joy then my lad” he said deeply reflecting the days.
He spoke of every bit of the ethos that existed in this city. He spoke low of the lazy Bengali community that uses the tag of an intellectual race as an excuse for their inefficiency. He spoke ill of the British and the Anglo Indians that were there during that time but never lended him a helping hand!
And then in the dusky sky laden with memoirs of every possible gloom of the bygone days he spoke of the addiction towards betting on horses.
He said he never had any source of income except for a small amount he still received as a pension from the British navy. He said he never won any bet and yet he still bet on horses and always will.
I asked where he lived to which he gave no reply. He started another cheap Indian smoke.
Calcutta was all lit up in neon. Cars went flashing by. Evening had already set in.
“Ye better get going home…ye moms always get angry…ye mom always spoil the lads” he said
I had forgotten completely of my misery of my mathematics exam. I was still lost somewhere in his nostalgia.
I got up and said goodbye and said it was a pleasure to have met him and asked if I would see him again.
“I am always around” and gave a chance smile something I had never seen before.
I got up and stretched myself. And his words “Bengalis are lethargic” pinched me.
I said goodbye and he waved.
“ What joy be there young lad…. in their city of joy eh?” were the last I heard from him that night
3.
No one has a reason to look back these days or live with their past. There is always something to make then go on with their lives. There are reasons to bury the past and live up the present. For old Mr. Kenner all his past was indeed buried on park street cemetery and the present was derby. He never boasted of winning a fortune there and even if he did he never spoke to me anything about it.
He never spoke of any heir or relative here or back home. He seemed to have been cheating life right since the early days of 56 when he landed here, a young sailor of the British navy and never went back, the reason of which lies buried. And amidst a city of intellectuals he found no reason, maybe he chose none. To the apparent naked eye old Mr. Kenner was no more than a selfish old European living somewhere on Ripon Street, who seldom went to the church and hardly read the bible, a man who had no affection for Easter or Christmas, no hard feelings either. He just chose a life of seclusion amidst this chaos inevitable. Daily life was nothing special and derby his life.
Meeting him became one of my fancies. I grew this very strong attachment with the old man. We spoke on various topics and he was always reluctant to go back in his nostalgia, but my insisting made him and through the perfect British accent he spoke in I found a clear picture portrayed in the solace sky of the silent evenings we met on.
I grew very close to old Mr. Kenner. In the days to come I bunked tuitions on several occasions and found no reason to feel guilty. He was no great man I could proclaim of learning something from, he was an average man simple and blunt and I loved him for this reason only. He never spoke of great virtues of life of the ultimate truth that all saints claim to have found. In fact on several occasions he swore and never apologized. He made a lot of racial remarks about my own kind and I could never resist. Not because I could not but because my conscience found his words true.
I remember one occasion when I had asked old Mr. Kenner to speak about his home back in England. He said he lived in a small house in the shire near the dock. I had asked him if it was for that reason that he grew up a sailor.
“No lad I ran away from me home, there was nothing to pull me back there” was the reply.
For a man so vanquished within and so intensely ravaged by the passing sands of time, sometimes it gave me joy to think that here in this city he did at least for one found a love for his live. And yet life is cruel indeed!
All his love now that there existed was something that he lost in every day and yet he was never disappointed to indulge again.
Once I had asked him how much he ever bet on a horse to which he said one day I should go with him to see for myself. I wanted very dearly for that day to come. But we all live our own lives and meeting him became a problem sometimes. But I met him at least thrice in a month even when the exams were round the corner. He was like an ocean of memories and I loved swimming in it.
There were a thousand things about which he spoke he spoke of the goan colony near Bowbazar area which was famous for home made wine. I had heard about it from the film “Bow Barracks” by anjan dutt but he sure did speak a lot about it and the reason he did was because he found the excuse to stay back there only, the excuse that is now no more yet he lives on.
4.
It was a steamy hot afternoon that day. i remember it very well. Every single tree on the dust avenue simply resented the ideas of evening bothering to sway. The traffic police had sought shelter in the shades and the ones who could not manage to get one did not bother too much for the traffic either. That day i felt really stupid to be bunking classes to get to princep ghat for old Mr. Kenner.
I saw him there as usual... on the staircase of the desolate ghat. For the first time it occurred to me that he was actually waiting for me. I was ecstatic but he never let his emotions reveal themselves so he looked pensive as always but beneath that
Gloomy face i saw an unprecedented joy.
"Were you waiting for me?" i asked eagerly.
"Did it ever occur to ye?" he lied abruptly.
"No, I just thought...that..."
"Come with me to derby will ye" he cut me short.
I stared at him will joy. I wanted to go, but my routine life wouldnt let me.
So i had to apologetically refuse.
6
It had been six long weeks since I had met old Mr. Kenner. Since he took me to the race.
The race was not so interesting for me and I found nothing extraordinarily amazing about it.
Still i loved the excursion. Of course i went home late that night and lied the hell out to save a tremendous hullabaloo.
Also I was asked I went towards the Princep Ghat the other day. I could not manage a satisfactory explanation, as I never expected my aunt next door to have noticed me. All I wonder till date is what she had been doing there.
But jokes apart my parents now knew that I had been to that deserted place for some reason I could not say. And indeed I could not mention the real reason coz my dad would not believe my mom and me would stop me. So for six weeks I pretended to be seriously studying although i had left my mind back at the Princep Ghat and the Derby. So I spent long hours at the study pretending to be studying although my grades never really improved.
I was still the only boy in the class who could not do a single integration correctly. For my teacher at school excuses were always ready and for my dad lies were at hand.
So one fine afternoon I bunked my mathematics class and went towards princep Ghat, this time taking the more desolate road by the fort William to avoid being spotted by my extra attentive aunt next door.
I reached the spot, but there was no Old Mr. Kenner.
Eight months had passed since i had met the man who i thought never existed. Last week i decide maybe this was enough time already. Now i was in college, not a school student anymore. The young lad i was no more. In few years time i will have my graduation done and hopefully well i will be getting and average salaried placement. Six months passed away so fast for me that i did not even realize that it really had been so long. Even then in this six months i did not forget the old Mr. Kenner whom i began to admire immensely.
So did go to princep ghat but the place was empty. I waited for about two hours and still i did not find him. I never had asked him his address, coz i thought even if i did he would not tell me. Deep in me i felt guilty at not having been there for about six months.
So came back the other day again and still did not find him. The spot was still the same, cobwebs covered the walls left alone while most others were bore testimonials of frustrated romeos who immortalized their philosophies on the vintage British walls till the municipality came up with a seasonal whitewash on this piece of nation heritage.
But to me this was still a piece of happy memory.
Friday, September 28, 2007
looking into the mirror...blurred with memories
Seldom we are
Who we want to be
Often on the roads
Seldom known.
As hopes and dreams
Rise and fall
And hearts lie bleeding
Pains outgrown.
Time spent now, they say
Is wisdom gained
But what purpose
Do they serve anyway?
As our lives lie
In shattered dreams
And the future sketched
Gone astray!
And yet we rise,
With hopes again
To meet the dawn,
With a fearless heart
Storms and stone
And raging shores,
Yet our lives move on
Breaking shackles apart!
A ray of light, a bit of hope
And a handful of
Bright wishes, still:
Are all we have
In the heart and mind,
With a soul flamboyant
In the pulse we feel!
Early on,
There's no point to regret:
In having hope, however faint
In creative pain,
One CAN always succeed!
Is the locked fact,
The impenetrable event.
Who we want to be
Often on the roads
Seldom known.
As hopes and dreams
Rise and fall
And hearts lie bleeding
Pains outgrown.
Time spent now, they say
Is wisdom gained
But what purpose
Do they serve anyway?
As our lives lie
In shattered dreams
And the future sketched
Gone astray!
And yet we rise,
With hopes again
To meet the dawn,
With a fearless heart
Storms and stone
And raging shores,
Yet our lives move on
Breaking shackles apart!
A ray of light, a bit of hope
And a handful of
Bright wishes, still:
Are all we have
In the heart and mind,
With a soul flamboyant
In the pulse we feel!
Early on,
There's no point to regret:
In having hope, however faint
In creative pain,
One CAN always succeed!
Is the locked fact,
The impenetrable event.
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