At the payment counter

There’s nothing called a free lunch in this world. Literally. The meal at my office costs me forty rupees- a subsidized amount, they say. This is India- so we waste paper and pay by cash. I had the exact change today. At different points in my life, I have been surrounded by people who would not give you the balance (i.e. when the person has it) even in exchange for his/her life! (Exaggerated? Reconsider!) Now, when someone actually doesn’t have the change, there is nothing more panicky than to be in a situation where (s)he is asked to pay fifty-three bucks for a burger and (s)he has in the wallet only five-hundred rupee notes, fresh out of the ATM. (S)he would curse the taxation system for the price of the burger culminating into such an incredibly absurd figure. Such a situation is not uncommon; I have seen frowning helpless faces at both ends- the buyer and the seller. Thankfully, I wasn’t in this position today: as I said, for a change, I had change today.

Now that should have made both the guy at the counter (to be read henceforth as “G@C) and me happy (the former should have been elated, in fact). But I handed over a couple of twenty-rupee notes: one impeccable, as if fresh out of the mint and the other tattered, hoping to sneak past a couple of more hands…somehow.

Oh boy, you should have seen the expression of the G@C; it was a mixed response for sure. I had deliberately kept the “old” note underneath the “good” note while handing them over. Obviously, he is an expert when it comes to handling notes- he slid one note over the other and instantly found what was hiding beneath.

G@C gave me a look which clearly said-“Man, I do this every day- you cannot deceive me” but smiled. I must say- he is a courteous gentleman!

He held the “old” note and gently said, “Sir, ye note change kar di jiye”

I knew I had two more twenty-rupee notes (now you know who would die for change) in my wallet which would pass on as “average”. I was sure they were acceptable. I took them out and before handing them over, asked him to return both the notes. He was startled. I saw it in his eyes- he didn’t want to part with the “good” fresh currency note. He only wanted to exchange the “old” note for an “average” one.

What happened next- whether he accepted my offer or kept the earlier notes- is another story. But what would you have done?

Are you willing to part with the “good” because it comes with the “not-so-good”? Or do you want to settle with the safe bet: the “average”?

The last half hour

(My sleep, assuming the next morning is ‘working’, is divided, on most days, into two unequal halves- the first usually sound six-and-a-half hour and the last eventful full of sounds half hour before waking up; this piece is a tribute to the second half)

Bathed in the rays of the virgin sun

Oh, wait- Poetic lies!

There must be sun somewhere

But doesn’t it care to sneak in,

On a tranquil winter dawn.

A thin blanket pacifies the raw breeze

That takes shelter in my room;

Ah, I always forget to shut the window

Before I go to sleep.

But I have been woken up

By distant horns on roads,

Blarings of senile engines

And occassional screeching tires

Brushing past the wind

With a whooshing sound.

Then I pick up the cellphone

Lying leisurely beside my pillow;

And as I try to look at the time

It asks for the pattern password

Such a turn-off

In those blessed moments of ‘half-sleep’.

As trembling fingers vie

To get the pattern right,

Digital figures glow-

Oh, there’s still twenty minutes of sleep.

Turning from one side to the other

Restlessly crawling-

Won’t I get up for pranayama,

As I promised Baba?

Five more minutes of sleep- without bother.

There’s something more disturbing-

Ah, the dripping sound

Incessantly invading my thoughts

From the bathroom-

Again I forgot the plumber

Wish I’d saved his number!

With every passing minute

All these sounds turn scary as hell

Louder than ever;

The horns, the tires, the crows, the water

And finally the ‘music’.

I promise to myself-

I’ll never let me hate that beautiful song

Because it’s the morning alarm!

Erring orchestra

The orchestra before the city czars

So elegantly arranged with guitars

Keyboards, percussion and brass

By the master who conducts the class.

Melody flows into the audience like a boon

When suddenly the piano goes out of tune

The music is no longer a serene lagoon.

Listeners wake up from a sweet dream

As if to a loud scream

The master has to decide before it’s late

How to bring all instruments in unison

To help complete their slumber-

Sensational, sound and with passion.

The Price Tag

There is a price tag attached to every item of clothing so elegantly hanging in this outlet. This tag is to be borne by the cloth until the time someone decides to buy it. This dress badly wants to grace the body of some beautiful girl. But, no one is buying it. The price is too high for some and despite desperately being in love with the dress, cannot afford it. There are other shoppers in the same outlet to whom the dress is too “cheap”- they would rather prefer some international brand and thus decide against spending on it.

Now, this dress and this tag are tethered for a long time and they are so integral to each other. Without the dress, the tag is useless. The dress can of course do without the tag but- consider a case where the tag is replaced by some other tag; the dress might in fact end up being sold to someone else for whom it wasn’t meant.

Despite the tag being so important to the dress, it always wants to get rid of the tag…..

Reality and dreams

Aching body wastes away on bed

From last night’s sleep

As it merges into the day ahead.

Dreams never let me get up,

My body clinging to them

Wishing for a magic final lap gallop.

They always said-“Dream, dream”

They didn’t tell me to wake up

And get behind the wheel.

From the mind of a wounded …

How does it feel when your hands have just been run over by a truck? It’s like dwelling in a weird world between pain and numbness. But you don’t know yet if your hands are safe. You’re too afraid to look at them. You fear they are mutilated- probably blood is oozing out relentlessly, turning the white bed-sheet pink. And you’re trying to look from the corner of your blurring eyes if it actually is what you think!

Now, this is what you told the “truth-seekers”- You remember having seen the truck approaching you. You stood still smiling because you thought it would stop- you thought it belonged to a very good friend. But it hit you hard, leaving you in a stupor. You still don’t know if it was your friend. You know, in any case, that he resembled your friend greatly but that you’d by no means want to believe that it was your friend.

So what is it that makes you sad? Is it the fact that you are in a state of distress and a friend is the reason? Is it because despite knowing for sure that he was your friend, you stood there, wanting to be crushed under the wheels of his truck because you had once wronged him and his benevolence reminded you even more of your pathetic actions, and you just wanted an excuse to end the friendship to get rid of being bled internally every day?

The point is: Whoever is wrong, whatever aggrieves you- you have injured your hands.

Durga Puja and Bengalis

What is it about Durga Puja and Bengalis?- So many have asked me this question and without a doubt, they were all non-Bengalis. Well, because you cannot explain to them in a sentence the importance of this festival in the life of a Bengali, I respond with lame lines as-“It’s the greatest festival in Bengal”. Not that it is incorrect; that might make you to think that Durga Puja is Bengal’s Christmas or Diwali or Id. Again, I am not the right person to compare from an unbiased point as to which festival is “greater”, if any at all, as I will be tempted to sing in favor of the autumnal celebrations in Bengal where I have grown up and share special sentiments with.

Speaking (writing actually) of Durga Puja makes me nostalgic because Durga Puja is all about homecoming. Referring to mythology, the Puja is celebrated when Maa Durga visits her home with her family. That in no way should make you think that during this festival, women return to their parent’s home, although that still remains an open choice. In fact, this festival is about togetherness and spending quality time with family and friends. This festival thus assumes greater importance for those staying away from their home. Although every homecoming is equally welcoming and refreshing, if the son/daughter doesn’t visit the family during the Durga Puja, it is extremely painful for both the parties because the very spirit of festivity is done away with and the festival becomes just another formality.

Wait is another important element. Bengalis wait for these four days in constant anticipation the entire year. So, it’s not just a four-day festival. The preparation phase is extremely important in setting up the mood for the gala annual event. It all starts with collecting the clay for the idol. It takes months to carve out an idol to perfection. Thousands of idols are created for installing them in pandals all over the state and outside. The real enthusiasm begins with the painting of the eyes of the idol on the day of the Mahalaya. Traditionally, the artists observe fast before painting the eyes of the Goddess. The non-artists, like us, wake up at 4 in the morning to listen to the Mahalaya chant in radio or television. And this is probably the only time of the year youngsters do not resent about their parents waking them up so early. I don’t remember having missed the early morning chant over radio or the dramatic rendition on television during my stay in Bengal.

If I said that the real enthusiasm starts with Mahalaya, it is only with respect to the religious part of the Puja. Actually, it all begins with buying of new clothes. Irrespective of whether you are rich or poor, whether you already have clothes that would suffice the next three years, whether you earn or not- you visit the crowded stores to get a new dress- not necessarily for yourself but for your family and relatives. And in turn, you get many. As a child, I remember comparing the count of dresses acquired during the Pujas with friends. Do not faint if I say that the count ranged anywhere between 7 to 17! (This is no exaggeration)

Another inseparable part of pre-Durga Puja shopping is definitely magazines. Publishers in Bengal do not miss this opportunity and each one of them vouches for the best collection of novels, poems, short stories, comics and what not! Teenagers and adults have their own choice of magazines and books but reputed authors and publishers ensure to treat readers of all ages with the best Sharodshankhya or Pujobarshiki during the festive season.

Finally, arriving at the actual celebrations- pandals are set up and there’s a good bit of rivalry as to which para’s (locality) pandal looks the best. Club members toil hard day and night before the event and during it to ensure that their pandal draws a huge crowd. In recent years, “themed” Pujas have been in a rage. One has seen pandals based on a potpourri of interests ranging from the ancient Harappan civilization to dictator Saddam Hussain, from Bengal’s all-season favorite Tagore to cricket, from cinemas to religions, from music to basically anything under the Sun. One would definitely be taken aback by the incredible ideas which go on to the making of the pandals. If you go out to see what goes in to their making- be prepared to find leaves, fruits, glasses, plastic, jute, paper, bamboo, gold, bangles, clay-cups- and this list keeps growing each year.

People flock with friends and family, untiringly hopping from one pandal to another all day and all night (no kidding!). Your ears will be used to the sound of the dhak (drum). Believe me, this part of the year, drum becomes more important than music CDs.  Chaos is so integral to this activity and still no one needs to manage it. It’s the only time you’ll find people smiling in long queues. Important part is- this has got little to do with religion. Atheists and non-atheists gather for a treat with equal enthusiasm. Religion, caste and economic status take a backstage as they walk in crowded roads, awe-struck by the themed lightings all along the road, hand in hand. No wonder this festival is being deemed as the largest outdoor art festival in the world.

Pandal-hopping in Durga Puja would be incomplete without street foods. I don’t remember a day when I didn’t stuff my stomach with rolls, kebabs, pakoras, phuchhkas from those unhygienic stalls. But trust me, you won’t fall ill during the Pujas- the Goddess doesn’t allow you to! A gourmet or a gourmand?- that’s the big question but most Bengalis are- either of the two. Intertwined with all these and an inseparable part of the celebration is the adda- the gathering with friends over snacks to discuss about anything and everything- opinionated that Bengalis are!

Dashami is the last day of the celebrations when the idol is immersed. This marks the return of Maa from her father’s home to that of her husband’s. People (don’t be surprised to see more women than men) of all ages dance all along the walk from the pandal to the river-ghat, accompanying the Goddess and her children, chanting hymns in their name. The immersion is followed by hugs among contemporaries, touching the feet of elders and distributing sweets.

It’s one time of the year when we assemble to bow down before the might of the feminine in a greatly patriarchal societal structure. The spirit of this festival transcends all boundaries in the life of all Bengalis across the globe. It’s that time of the year when your heart yearns to meet that old friend who you fought with at school, the old teacher who kept you standing all through the lunch-break, the old town or the city roads you treaded to rise to the stature that you are today. Durga Puja is all about being united with the past for a few days and waiting for the next year’s celebrations with higher hopes:

“Aschhe Bochhor abar hobe” (It’ll happen again next year)

And what time could have better suited the event than when the sky is clear, sunny but not hot, cold but not shivering, half past the year but in spirit like a New Year.

The fruit-seller

An old man in tattered clothes

Sells fruits in a handcart;

A dim oil lamp aids his aging eyes

While the town is brightly lit.

A few minutes, and there is darkness-

People around him are annoyed

By frequent power-cuts.

For the brief interval

Before the town is illuminated again

With generators and inverters,

Who bears the only light in the town?

The old man in tattered clothes.