Keventer's and Thakuma

"Khoka baaere berochhish?",Thakuma piped up from behind the ash colored curtain which needed a wash badly but no one cared to. It was slowly getting dark and more so because it was overcast today. I answered that I was just going to have a walk in the Curzon park and would be back in a while. "please care to bring some jhaal muri for me,khoka.".I smiled and made my way to the main gate.

I didn't forget to take my umbrella with me-the tattered old wellings which Dadu had got as a gift from Mr.Saunderson. It is a priced posession, Dadu used to say. always treasure it.This does not happen everyday that your master gifts you something.It was a big thing for a Sahib to gift an Indian employee something. And Dadu was good in his work,Baba used to say.

As I waited near Chowringhee to cross the road,it started to drizzle.People were scuttering across in their dhotis looking for a nearby shade. The road was washed with the sweet smelling rain and the sky was splashed with dollops of oranges and grey. The wind was howling and two or three bare-bodied street urchins danced in the shower. I waited under the shade of a nearby flower shop as it was raining hard and it would be practically impossible to save my umbrella in the rain.

I was giving some private tuitions and managed to make some kind of income at the end of the month. After Baba's death,our family was in a crisis,emotional and financial. There were no bread winners in the family. And Ma did not agree to seek help from Kaka. It was a mess with the expenses that my higher education required. I was the only hope but getting a job was difficult. Mukul mama did help me by arranging for the job of a clerk but the office was very far away and I couldnt bear the conveyance expenses. So finally i settled for private tuitions in my neighbourhood. I was not paid handsomely but somehow I managed to run my family consisting of 4 members.

Today it was something special.The Mukherjees increased my salary by 5 rupees and I was on cloud nine. it did not matter that Sumonto was not a very sharp student. Money mattered more to me. I had seen a beautiful scarf in a display window of Keventer's last week and how i wished to buy it for her ! It was light blue in colour and had exquisite floral designs on it. The salesman Mr.White educated me that this scarp had recently come from their "home" and that it had become very popular "there". A stong desire gripped me to buy it for her but it was difficult as it was maasher shesh and I did not have enough money.

But now i had been paid by all the seven families and I had enough money to buy the scarf and save some too.

It was drizzling and I thought it proper to cross the road and visit the shop now. The huge double decker buses honked at me as I crossed the road and the traffic surgeon urged me to walk faster. My dhoti was already covered in splashes of mud and my glasses were wet and it disrupted my vision. On the other side of the footpath I gave a beggar a sparkling 2 paisa coin.

There it was ! The scarf was still displayed in the window of Keventer's.Soon I found myself walking with the scarf carefully wrapped with a red paper. It was getting late and I had to rush home. As i walked past Curzon park the thought of having to curtail some expenses in this month because i bought the gift came to my mind but it did not bother me. My steps were quick and I whistled a rabindrasangeet till i reached home.

The first thing that i did was to keep the gift carefully under a blanket in my room. Then i made it sure that I open my umbrella and keep it for drying in the verandah. As I asked Ma to make some tea for me and i began to empty some Muri into a steel bowl, Thakuma entered my room

"ki re khoka? Koi de. Muri ta aanli?"

It had began to rain again.

Prof.Ganguly slapped me on the back and asked "what's the matter,Ghoshal?you have been standing in front of this photograph for more than 20 minutes ! what are you thinking?Give your imagination a rest,proffessor. why don't you enjoy the drinks?".

I smiled wryly.On the special request of Osheema I attended this exhibition of photographs taken in the 1950s Calcutta. This particular photograph showed a rain drenched Chowringhee crossing,lonely and gray. A tram line intersected the road and there were people in white dhoti and kurtas scattered here and there. A group of Memsahibs were about to enter a taxi. It was peaceful,distant yet so near. One look at this photograph transferred me to a different time,a different era, a different setting. i dont know why and how but things just came to me... Slowly i made my way towards the drinks table.

When i came outside we were greeted by a huge rally called by a firebrand woman political leader for the rising inflation in the country. The news stated yesterday that she even threatened to call a bandh if the demands of the common people were not met by the government.Sudeenly the mobile rang. It was Mishti. "Hi dear. when will you come home? Sunny had been asking to go and visit the zoo today. cholo na please. we can call up Sumitra and family too....". I told her about the stuck-up and said that I would reach within an hour or so.

"Oh yes please bring the clothes from the laundry while you come.pay him. it will be around....say..."

"1 second,Mishti,let me check...."

"ki holo?..."

I opened my wallet.It was maasher shesh.My mind wandered back to the chowringhee streets,Keventer's and Thakuma...

The story of the coconut.

Once there was a coconut.

Among other fruits.

One season it rained and the fruits said that the coconut had turned pink from brown. The coconut saw himself in a mirror but could not see any change in colour. But the fruits were correct. they had to be...

And Voila ! one fine day,the coconut really turned pink !

One by one the fruits came to him and asked him "coconut brother ! why do you look so pink today?".

"I was always so",the coconut smiled.

Now the fruits enquire whether the inside of the coconut is white....

But the coconut does not look into the mirror anymore....

The Third man.

I was never a good cricket player but I loved playing cricket. And I loved it well. Sometimes in our lives the intention behind an action matters more than the consequence.

Passionate about the game, I used to play in the field in front of our building amidst swings, see-saws and the old chaanpa gaach. Bikels used to be wonderful. The sun never tortured me in the mornings during holidays. No matter how much I sweated and no matter how frequently my oval specs used to slide down my sweaty nose, it didn't matter. It didn't matter that footwork wasn't in my batting dictionary, that I must have played 20 to 30 shots only during those days on the leg side, that my reflexes betrayed me while going for catches, that some of my leg spins used to land way outside off stump, that I was called "great player" by my friends for bringing in emotions in the field (I used to put all my heart into the game) and also for not being such a "great player" after all.

I remember how I pretended to sleep but actually waited for the grandfather clock to strike 4pm and would scurry for the nearest jeans and tee and how I used to skip stairs and set my feet upon the brown soil of the field. This used to be preceded by Kirons and Bimbos shouting aloud my name from the field inviting me to come down -- I live on the third floor of my building. I felt on the top of the world as soon as I set my feet on the ground.

There was Ricky, Babu, Jijoe, Arka, Bhutu, Shumon, Tuhin da, Puchku, Babai, Ashish da, Sagar da, Babu da, Chandan da and Butu -- friends and dadas who used to play with me. And of course there were kids who played with us too. We never discriminated or underestimated one's potential. At least I didn't.

The funny thing was that we used to spend more time setting the field and criticising others than playing. seriously, it was fun. Great fun. We used to cheat a lot (though I remember rare instances of me cheating in the games). One of us was famous for his on-field temper and he used to take away the ball, bats and the wickets with him to home as soon he felt that the ball should not have hit his wicket or it was a great sin for a fielder of his team to not drop a catch to dismiss him. But he was sweet with his red face every time he could not get his point across.

Another used to consider cheating as apart of the game and I used to be in his team most of the times.I used to overlook the cheating part if we won (Ahem!).

Tuhin da with his leg spin, Bhutu with his effortless sixes and Arka with his slow left arm deliveries sparked the magic on field.

Ricky and Bhutu used to break window panes the most (I broke three times...all were my home's panes). The ball would occasionally wander off to the "jungle" (overgrown shrubbery, nay, an unkempt jungle really) near our field and sometimes make its way to the neighbouring colony, P and T.

And who can forget the white kurta pajama clad ( haven't seen him in any other dress till now) professor who used to scream at the top of his voice whenever we went to retrieve our ball from his shabbily maintained garden.

Uniformly, I proved to be an essential pinch hitter and my luck as a bowler was satisfactory. In fact I enjoyed bowling much better than batting. I still have spurts of fantasies about running down the pitch and bowling 150kmph swings to batsmen. I remember being enterprising and inspiring as a captain even if we lost the game.

Our cricket games used to be followed by brilliant shorts of luko churi in (and sometimes outside -- the cheating continues) our compound.

Rains used to play spoilsport and a day, wasted, would dampen my spirits. Some days we used to play at other fields in the complex and also in front of Arka's house or Butu's house. In the bikels there used to be days of high satisfaction and days when I thought that two matches were too less for the day. But I had to return home eyes on the ground and heart on the field waiting for the next day. Even when private tuitions started in full flow, I used to glance at the field full of swarming passions and leave for a long walk to my coaching class.

Nowadays Kaustav asks me why don't I come down to play the occasional cricket games. The thing is nothing is the same and it's not the same fun anymore. Nowadays, I like watching others play. Occasionally I sit near my living room window and observe a game with intent, excitement -- maybe like how the 12th man would do in a game of cricket. 

The crunch !

Brand communication can be very powerful.

ITC has been building hotels and packaging chana masalas, biscuits, matchsticks and agarbattis for years now. Known for its huge span in the market and, at times, under-recognized market value, the poyshadaar company has come with another food product -- this time a potato chips brand -- and is using the communication tool of advertisement well to make us crunch some of the tangy and crispy Bingos.

The recent ad on the TV has tickled the funny bone of viewers, all right. The story is set in a Chinese or Japanese (inventions you know) studio where some shabbily clad bozos create sound effects of talkies by using their feet, a belch, a brush -- and even by munching the crispies.

Over the months, the Bingo ads have appealed to the light and fun loving tastes of the audience...be it the spoof on the Tele Brands commercial (with a cat named Jemima et al) or the pawngo vaango okurango Tamil-edged ad, the Bingo ads are loved by all and I believe that the sales of the potato munchies have shot up too and the ads have been a major contributor to the profits. The commercial in question targets our love for crunchiness and new flavours, which the company has successfully cashed in on.

I believe that the ad could have been a bit shorter and better elements of sound effects could have been introduced. The element of surprise is maintained as a first time watcher cannot gauge that the commercial shall be actually on chips.

After satirising the Tamils and the old doc who certifies a woman as being preggy as she craves for Achari Masti (remember Salaam Namaste), the agency (dunno the name) uses paao wrinkly chinamen to a successful effect. 

So much for selling chips,though!

Please, the next time you rip open a pack of Bingo and enjoy the crunch, please don't think about Godzillas romping about or have doubts about your inflated tummy (sip a bit of Gelusil, insted). 

Bingo! :-)

Cell-o-dependence

I love music...and it wont be exaggerating to say that the tring trings (actually more of beep beeps and God-knows-whats) of my cell phone is one of the best sounds in the planet. We have all become so very dependent on our mobile phones.

I do take the license to use the word "we". But "I" am really. I cannot imagine my daily life without the blue and white Nokia 1108 (3yrs aagekaar) model with a one-eye lighted display and completely faded keypad. For me, it's the best mobile phone in the world.

Some days back,the rubbery-looking plastic material stuck on the earpiece disappeared. It turned loose many days prior to that and due to my negligence, I had to pay the price. Well, literally, I still have't. I am yet to buy a new facial for my rickety set. Will go for the duplicate maal, which is priced at 90 and 120 rupees instead of the original one, which will set me back by a cool 500rs. But one thing is for sure. I can never throw away this cell phone of mine.

Rusty as it is, it has served me for 3 long and eventful college years. I have a plethora of memories attached to this phone. I hang out with my mobile, carry it to places of worship and the pukurpaarer bazaar; I eat with it by my side and generally keep it in my jeans pocket. Hey I even sleep with my mobile (arre yaar mera bhi number aayega!).

It's as if my friends and relatives peep out of the 150 storage capacity inbox list and with every 'No space for new messages' display my hand involuntarily turns heavy to delete an SMS. It's funny really how even a simple cheez can become your constant companion just because you have got used to it. The SMSes, the phone calls...cant do without them. You can very well call me a dependent maniac (you better don't coz you are one too) but I just cant do without this device.

Oh by the way! This was just an attempt to entertain myself as I was a bit bored. But at the end of the account I am even more bored, the only saving grace being the fact that you too are thoroughly bored by now. Ghum pachche.

Of STDs and Missing your partner.

The new Airtel ads are a must watch. Surprising us with the sparkling new combo of R. Madhavan and Vidya Balan, the promos are definitely aired to target our sensitivity and emotions.

The dark setting makes us feel cosy and the hush hush whispering by the (newly?) married couple make us long for our loves by the bedside (wink wink!).

The music is weak -- pathetic,to be frank. Someone bring in the Rahmans of the ad world please.

I find the bedside story better than the lift wala story.

Attractive.

Getting Started

I have just created a blog and I wish I don't delete it after 5 mins or so as I did previously.
Many a times, impulsiveness has taken the better of me.