Lie to the world

Lie to the world

That’s eager for only your best,

Unwilling to be cozy in a shade-

But bask in your sunshine,

Not by your side on your death.

Lie to the world

That rides your ambitions,

Smirks at the stumbles-

Vilifies your troughs,

Sings paeans to your crests.

Lie to the world

That trades love for success,

Charts convenient definitions-

Left ear loaded with preaches,

And right, loathing those ideals.

Lie to the world

That wants you to only win,

Discourages imaginations

Of a more harmless world,

Saying, ‘It’s another lie!’

Colors & Blindness

He’d learnt to navigate in the dark;

Without seeing, feel in her eyes the longing lurk,

Hadn’t differentiated the good from bad, happy from sad;

His imagination knew no bounds

Restricted only by incoherent sounds,

Curves of her nimble fingers,

Odor of the favorite cologne,

And food of which he knew not the taste

Everything he’d always imagined was best;

A blurring line separating dream from reality-

Both black, some lack of clarity,

Unsure, unprepared to see other shades,

When he opened his eyes after decades,

Colors ruined his world.

Song & Death

A shadow pitch black, the sun trekking up the mountains,

The braked trickle of incessant sweat-

Pungent and refusing to obey gravity;

As the old warrior receded to his rustic roots, learning

Defeat was overrated and valor glorified-

Only her songs still rang in his ears.

His gunshots misfired, clouds sheathed the weapons

Vulnerable tents veiled the tense, his pretense-

Up all night, measuring his breath, decaffeinated-

Listening to crickets chirping, and other unknown animals

All tied in a common thread, a rhythm-

Only her songs still rang in his ears.

Unending battles turning gory each day,

Demotivating wait at the behest of political mercy

Death no longer prime, cries stopped shattering skies

Bodies and souls covertly meeting in transience

At the death of the dark, while the sun was away

Only her songs still rang in his ears.

Promise of opulence the state left unfulfilled,

Men drearily dragged him to his hut,

In a box wrapped in colored cloth;

She opened the doors to shocking silence

And the numbing discomfort eased only as-

Her songs rang in his ears.

Roommates & Marriages

Assignment of roommates in hostels is like arranged marriages. Besides having to sleep together (umm, on separate beds though, thankfully) with little or no prior introduction, the ‘roomies’ as they are fondly called, are in general privy to information that most others (including parents) are usually not. Naturally, the ‘secret’ that one shares with another while slipping into one’s sleepwear very often tend to be of a nature that begs not to be taken beyond the boundaries of the room. As such, it is important that a certain level of trust builds up in the initial days. It seems that the analogy of the arranged marriage makes some sense after all.

This is my 6^th year in a hostel. And 9^th, living away from home.  Except that I have learnt to call wherever I live, my ‘home’. Oh, and I have shared room or flat with 8 different people at different points of time, all these years. That makes me quite promiscuous- even without considering their genders (actually, that disclosure would make things worse).  It turns out that like in any marriage, my roomies and I have lived in decent harmony. Except for trivial arguments and lasting-less-than-a-day fights, again like in any marriage.

I cannot but appreciate the tremendous level of tolerance for other human beings (sometimes, animals) that we are born with. Or is it acquired? Whichever is the case, the way humans adapt makes me wonder. Someone who cribs about he or she not being allotted a cubicle in the new office happily shares room with other newly-introduced people at his/her new home. This leads me to think that we are ‘selectively private’ beings who are disciplined by the needs of the time and our relative positions in our ‘sub-societies’. That we do not have to make any conscious effort toward switching these roles of being ‘private’ and ‘public’ to different set of people probably points at one aspect of human superiority.

Going back, it so seems that compatibility would never be an issue if two unknown human beings of relatively similar educational status are put into a room. Interesting how education can be a great equalizer. With some effort and compromise from time to time, of course. Again, the quantum of compromise would depend on the nature of education one had previously had. That is a different debate, altogether. But the uncanny number of parallels which can be drawn between assignments of hostel rooms with arranged marriages leave me awe-struck. If nothing, it should give enormous confidence, or at least adequate solace, to people ‘desperately’ looking for love marriages. And my feeling is- this number is growing. Peer pressure is likely to be the top reason.

The difference that one might point out is that roomies are not to live together for life, and as such, stakes are much lower, which is why perhaps people tend to be more considerate and accommodating, thinking at the back of their mind- ‘Oh, it’s gonna be only two years, and then he’ll be gone’. That leads to the idea- what if marriages were considered two years at a time? And renewed for the next two? But that could have serious consequences on a newborn or a baby. Of course, human beings being ‘inhumanly’ adaptive can grow up without one or both parent- but that is not the ‘normal’ order unless the majority of the society accepts to raise children that way. But, in general, it would dismantle the structure of the society in the sense of how children are raised, with one parent playing the good cop and the other the bad cop, and so on. That brings me to the last leg of a string of inferences: one of the main objectives of why we live is to probably help others live, grow and sustain. Else, we could live all our life in hostels!

Road to happiness

He punched his tickets and rushed to board the 9:12 AM train. Local trains in Mumbai reminded Arun of the story where a glass full of stones still had space for sand and that same glass could still absorb water. No guess as to how many people could be jammed in a compartment would be an overestimate. Bank balance and time balance dictated that he took the train to office. The early morning sweat dripping off the forehead onto a neighbor’s freshly ironed shirt, the unintentional shoves of survival and the abuses that concealed frustration were his incentives to do better at the annual appraisal.

“One day, I won’t have to take the train. I will take the taxi. God willing, I will have my own car”, he thought. Every day. Almost.

On other days, he thought, “I am new to the city. Who knows, maybe, I will get used to this?”

“No way!” he countered himself. Not much of an argument, though.

Arun spent the first thirty minutes of his time in office everyday cursing the traffic in Mumbai and his fate, discussing the former with his colleagues and the latter to himself.

Three years had passed.

Arun had learnt the tricks of the game. He no longer feared the crowd. He no longer envied the Audis and BMWs stuck in the traffic jam in a parallel road. He did not loathe the smell of the sweat. He did not find the shoves and pushes rude. He found the abuses amusing. He had learnt to laugh at the jokes of his fellow travelers. He started to find the occasional breeze refreshing. Now that he had learnt which door the sun shone brightly at, he could find an appropriate spot that struck a balance between the heat and the cold.

He had made acquaintances. The ones who did not ask beyond where he worked. Not how much he earned. Not his career plans. They did not ask the very questions he was uncomfortable with. He often wondered, “How did they know?”

Then he thought, “Maybe, they were all like him.”

Before he got down, Arun waved them good-bye. He now spent his first thirty minutes in office differently. He listened. And laughed over tea.

When he got back to his cubicle, he sat down relaxed, watching the Windows machine boot up. Those forty seconds. He knew the solution to a major puzzle he could not crack three years back.

The answer was Tolerance.

With practice, he had mastered it. He was happier.

Happy Independence Day

Bankim knew he was running late. He hastily slipped into his trousers and quickly buttoned and zipped it, his eyes all the while fixed on the television screen. The Prime Minister was readying himself for hoisting the National flag. Bankim glanced at the wall clock- it was past 7 AM and the minutes hand was steadily moving from 12 towards 1. He knew the clock was running around five minutes early. Bankim had developed this habit of setting the clock before time since his school days- when during examinations he would never be able to finish the last question, adjusting the time helped Bankim pace his answers a little better. Quickly drawing two fingers on the crease of the backside of the collar, Bankim turned up the volume of his television. The National Anthem would start in a few seconds.

‘Do you know what’s worth fighting for…’ rang his cellphone. He was taken aback by the ringtone but realized that he had set it only last night.

Couldn’t have chosen a worse time, Bankim thought to himself- whoever was calling had no sense of timing. After all, it was the morning of the 15^th of August, when the nation of 1.2 billion was gearing up for, umm…a display of, patriotism. As Bankim lifted his phone from the dining table onto his palm, he noticed that the call was from an unknown number. But more importantly, it began with +1. Bankim exhaled a deep breath and prepared himself. He muted his television set.

Hello?

Am I speaking to Mr. Bankhim Chatterjee?

Yes? Who’s this?

Srinivasan. I’m calling from San Jose.

Sir, I’m really sorry… I am running a little late. I will be in office in 10 minutes. I’ll be on call as soon as I get there. This traffic congestion in Mumbai! You know, Sir. Terrible.

Bankim could see the National Anthem playing on the television. It was on mute. He couldn’t muster the courage to turn on the volume lest his boss discovered that he was still at home. The honking of vehicles on the road next to his apartment kept his hopes of passing on the lie alive. The Prime Minister was standing upright, his right palm exposed, steady. The camera panned slowly away from the fluttering Tricolor and scanned the crowd- an uncharacteristically disciplined one in attention position.

I understand, Bankhim. But will our customers understand? You should have anticipated and left from home early.

Bankim was silent. His eyes were fixated on the television screen.

Bankim, you still with me?

Sorry, Sir, I’m here.

I am requesting the customer to postpone the call by half an hour. They’ll shout at me for this. But there doesn’t appear to be a better way out. Is half hour good?

Yes Sir.

Bye.

Goodbye Sir.

Both hung up.

Bankim angrily muttered, Happy Independence Day, Sir.

Bankim did not unmute the television. He turned it off. Next, he slipped his feet into his oversized shoes, tied the laces, hurriedly combed his hair without looking at the mirror and left with the door-key in one hand. He pulled the door hard and it shut aloud.

While in the auto-rickshaw, he saw kids running around with tiny flags. He was reminded of his childhood when he went to school for the flag-hoisting ceremony, his father cycled him straight from the school to the field to watch the ‘parade’ and heard patriotic songs blare from the loudspeakers installed at random locations. Bankim hated himself for working at a place that had holiday on 4^th of July but not on 15^th of August. What kind of independence is this! I will quit my job today itself, thought Bankim.

The auto-rickshaw came to a jolting halt.

How much?

Sir, as much as you wish. Today’s a special day. My grandpa fought with the British and got us independence. The government still couldn’t decide whether to reward him. How can I ask for anything?

Carefully drawing a hundred-rupee note from his wallet with the tip of his two fingers, Bankim handed it over and left without speaking anything or waiting for change to be tendered. On the way to the elevator, he thought- I was over-reacting, maybe.

He reached his seat and hurriedly dialed the conference number. From the other side, he could hear the client join the call.

Happy Independence Day guys, said an American voice.

Superphone

[This is my entry for "In Search of Incredible" held by Asus and Indiblogger . Click here to know more about the campaign]

As Dhiren sat back on his comfortable sofa to relax after a tough day at work, he heard a voice- “Your electricity bill is due tomorrow. If you don’t pay, you will incur a fine. In that case, tomorrow, you’ll have to order a ‘simply veg’ pizza instead of your favorite ‘Chicken Golden Light’.” Dhiren frowned. Irritated, he shouted at Zenie, “Then, make the payment! Use the same card I used last month.”

He got up to get himself a cup of strong coffee. By the time the coffee-maker had brewed for him a dose of energy, Zenie happily informed, “Boss, it’s done. You can now have the pizza of your choice tomorrow. By the way, Frominos is offering a 20% discount on ‘Chicken Iniesta’. You might want to try it out- sentiment analysis on customer reviews shows that your friends have really liked it!”

Dhiren was impressed. “Order it tomorrow once I get back from office.”

“Noted, Sir”, replied Zenie.

Dhiren had some homework to do for an important presentation the next day. He wanted to download some reports and read them up. But he was too tired and wanted to watch an episode of The Big Brag Theory. He called out to Zenie, “TBBT Season-3, Episode-8”. In 10 seconds, Zenie had opened up the flap in front of the phone, projected the screen onto the wall, looked up the video on the web and had already started streaming it.

“Wait, Zenie”. The video paused.

“Zenie, after I finish watching this, I want to read the latest Gartner and Forbes Reports on social media and mobility. Have them downloaded. It’s important.”

22 minutes later, when Dhiren had finished watching the video, the flap on the phone shut and he heard Zenie speak, “Reports downloaded. Read up.” He ignored and went off to the balcony to breathe some fresh air.

By the next hour or so, North-bound breeze had conspired with the exhaustion of the day to put Dhiren to sleep on his easy chair. A shrill Zenie shook him up, “Wake up, Sir! There’s a meeting tomorrow and you haven’t gone through the reports yet.” Dhiren was terribly angry. Reluctantly, he said, “Take me to the summary.” As the report automatically scrolled down to the summary page, he glanced through it. The next morning, however, those reports saved Dhiren from a bashing. As he walked out of the meeting room, he smiled at Zenie and quietly uttered, “Thank You.” He drove back home and in 30 minutes, a pizza-boy carrying ‘Chicken Iniesta’ was at his door ringing the bell. Dhiren thanked the pizza-boy, looked at Zenie and thanked him as well.  

I want Dhiren’s intelligent phone. A personal consultant. It’s called Zenie- the 21^st century Genie.

Uttarkashi Diaries: Part 3

“It’s impossible for you guys to be able to reach Dayara”, smirked the middle-aged man managing the roadside eatery at Bhatwari, a village on the way to arguably one of the most beautiful destinations in the district of Uttarkashi- Dayara Bugyal.

In local language, Dayara means ‘high altitude’ and ‘bugyal’ is a meadow. Whatever that is supposed to mean, we had to kill time through our extended weekend (remember, it was the ‘Holi’ weekend and we had to come up with unholy plans for the day before). Believe me, breathtaking views on mountainous terrains are not worth it unless you’re out of breath. That calls for long, difficult treks. The length of the trek has been debated over the last week and no one has so far been able to guesstimate with confidence. (To give the readers some idea, a few websites claim that it is 8 km long.)

“Huh! We’ll definitely complete it” - reacted each of us in our own way, yet in unison, and marked by a confused blend of emotions which was dominated by disagreement, disappointment and disapproval. As Gi prepared to pay for the breakfast, the man remarked again, “You neither have the right shoes, nor the right clothes for the trek. There would be 5 feet thick snow. You guys won’t make it! What food are you carrying?” We replied, “Chips, biscuits, chocolates” to which he smirked even more derisively. Enough! We had gotten ready by 6 on a Sunday morning for this trek; there was no way he could demotivate us.

As the engine of the car forced itself to pull us through the hostile roads, we were overwhelmed by the first sight of the army of snow-capped peaks lined up before our eyes. As the wheels came to a halt, we realized we had reached the village of Barsu from where we were to start the trek.

We started off at quarter past 9, asking solitary villagers about Dayara and the path that led to it, and we were terribly disappointed by their vague responses. The beginning of the trek was made of steep, stony steps. “Is the trail entirely like this?!” Some villagers nodded; others- we felt- weren’t sure what we were asking. “Is there snow at Dayara?” One woman responded negatively. Confused, we started moving. By the time we had covered a kilometer, Pa had revolted against having to continue any further. Sa had managed to keep her part of our herd by employing some old trick. Others, who were tired themselves, chipped in to keep her (and in turn the group’s) morale high. We made sure we took frequent breaks in order not to wear ourselves out early in the trek. We rested whenever the view was good, and whenever it wasn’t. Having walked what then appeared to us a 20 km already, we had our lunch (a meager and unhealthy composition of chips, biscuits, chocolates and a few sips of water). Meanwhile, we were happy to see the first strip of snow, which then onwards appeared in more abundance than we would have possibly liked.

The crooked twigs we had collected on our way supported us through the slippery white floor. We kept moving past one patch after another carefully. By then, we had managed to keep the thought of exhaustion off our mind by focusing on short-term objectives of conquering small strips of snow, one at a time. There was no signboard anywhere and we had no clue how far we were from our destination. That didn’t keep us from moving, though. Often, whenever one of us thought we had walked enough and the scenery around was really admirable, we paused to decide whether we should stop going any further. We’d brought that old saying which had something to do about ‘the journey and the destination’ (and by the end of the journey had progressed to ‘the means and the end’) - up so many times that we feared being beaten up by the rest of the group for serving monotony on top of fatigue.

We were not even sure if we were moving in the right direction; the only footsteps to follow in the snow was the occasional trail left by some animal. When we had almost decided we had had enough after walking on snow completely, and not just on patches, something triggered us to look beyond the horizon of white which was visible to us then- something I still don’t know if we should be regretting or not, for after ascending the part that covered our sight, we could see right atop the mound of snow, a small tin shade (looked small from that distance). We instantly knew it was Dayara! Now that we could see it, there was no looking back. The next part happened to be the toughest. It was an exceptionally sharp ascent for the ones without any trekking equipment. Our shoes dug into snow badly at every step and we could hardly move. Still, we made short strides, digging a “knee-full” of snow every time, lifting the legs and heading upwards. What appeared to be the last leg of the trek wouldn’t get over; our energy had gotten drained completely. As each of us made our way to the tin-roof shade after a thrilling five hour long journey, we experienced elation and relief. We were surrounded by white; we had conquered the white!

We took “time-outs” in our own way. Gi chose to take a dip in the ‘lake’ there. I bet the water was damn cold. After having spent about quarter of an hour clicking pictures, eating, chatting, relaxing and drying our clothes, we decided to leave. We had to get down before dusk, to avoid the slippery surface of the snow in the dark. The trek downhill was almost a cakewalk, compared to the ascent, except that we had run out of water and had to fill our bottles with snow and wait for them to melt to be able to quench our thirst.

Not sure if we ran, were scared of the dark, followed shortcuts or were just plain fast, our sprint led us to Barsu where our car waited, faster than we thought: in almost two hours. We proudly shared with Sachin-ji, the driver, our success story! On our way back, overjoyed at having accomplished the difficult trek, we wanted to give a few words of advice to that “rude” man from the roadside eatery who had predicted that we wouldn’t make it to Dayara. Sachin-ji persuaded us not to get involved in an argument with an ignorant someone. In India, no one challenges a Sachin. Too tired, we let go.

About a half an hour drive later, Sachin-ji mustered some courage. “You guys didn’t go to Dayara. It was a different place. Dayara must have had more snow and you couldn’t have had made it without proper shoes and equipment.” Our jaws fell. It was like shattering a child’s dreams. It was like waking up someone from a beautiful dream, with the news of a death. Later, we confirmed with others that we had really not gone to Dayara.

That we couldn’t have gone due to heavy snow is another story but the way the castle of dreams, pride and achievement was first carefully erected and then brought down was painfully heart-breaking at that instant. After enough contemplation, I realize that I have no regret for not having made it to Dayara. After all, we did not know if it was Dayara, or not. We did our best, pushed ourselves to a point we can talk about in the future. If not Dayara, someplace else; but we created our own path in snow, out of nowhere. If that is not commendable, what is?

Uttarkashi Diaries: Part 2

Daily accounts are good only for a historian. Call me a pessimist, but I am confident that forty days and forty nights of event log would in no way result in a story as gripping as that of Alibaba. Not that it would otherwise, either. Indeed, I am caught in a dichotomy of having to shed the ‘excess fat’ of details like in meat and having to bring out the intricacies of trivialities that form a major component of any work of art. Here we go- walking the tightrope.

As I try to dig out of my inadequate memory what I (and perhaps, my readers) would think would be interesting enough to chronicle here, the most significant change that I am being constantly reminded of is the weather. From dark clouds to bright sunshine, from clear star-studded skies to light drizzle, from numbing wind to unkind heat- we had our share of all in just seven days. While predictability is boring, surprise is sometimes unwanted. For most people, that is. We knew we couldn’t afford to pay much heed to the whims of Nature if we were to make good use of our sojourn.

Well, there wasn’t ever any “to do” list. But, by virtue of local opinion and popular choice, it turned out that Nachiketa Taal was already impatiently queuing up for a place in that imaginary list. Sunday morning and we couldn’t sleep till noon- we would’ve cried foul had we not ‘salivated’ at the prospects of what was told was in store for us. Ha and Pa chose to stay back. Reduced to eight now (Gi made a late entry to the group the previous evening), we walked up to the stand to board a taxi which would drop us at Chowrangi (pardon the spelling errors, if any: our eyes stopped noting inconsequential details after our time with a local Babaji at Chowrangi, or whatever). Having stuffed our stomachs well with boiled maggi and hot paranthas, we headed for the Nachiketa Taal (henceforth to be referred as NaTa). A welcome board greeted us to the 3-km trek.

We chased the turns of the beautiful trail. Everyone has a different way of looking at such treks and sadly, I can only present mine. Like a bee rushing at the scent of a fresh flower, I kept looking for what lay beyond the next curve. The first sight of snow-capped peaks thrilled us. As I waited for others in the group to join me, I concealed myself in grooves, secretly appreciating the colorful coexistence of green, brown and white. Slippery surface of patches of white carpet occasionally slowed down Aa and Ma. In order to ski without the skiing boots for a good part of the latter half of the trek, we had to carefully mix the platter of joy with a dose of caution.

A momentary disappointment struck as we got a glimpse of the ‘lake’. Not sure what to expect at the end of a beautiful yet tiring journey, we were probably confused. The urban lakes had unconsciously created a new but contrasting perception of its primordial anatomy. With time, we started to experience the calm that was characteristic of NaTa. With remarkable serenity did it welcome our noisy team. This tranquility was contagious.

It started with interesting chats with a Baba. His answers were outright sarcastic in the beginning, somewhat amusing in the middle and relatively ‘proper’ in the end. Less interesting story (am I being too polite here?) about the inception of NaTa which blended mythology with history, followed. Next, we headed for Yamraj Gumpha. We found a snow-covered stretch beyond which there was a small streak of land in green. That was all. So, we assumed that the Gumpha lay hidden beneath the layer of white- moreover we were more concerned about returning before it got dark. We had little doubt that the snow would pose greater threat in the dark. As clouds turned darker, we knew it was high time we left.

The return trek being mostly downhill was relatively easy. Also, the confidence of already having traversed the same path once boosted our speed through the jungle. As we completed the trek before sundown, our stomachs begged for food. Maggi and paranthas were ordered. Egg, plain, vegetable, aloo, onion, mixed, everything. More chocolates were bought than anyone ever had. We gulped them all. The taxi sped through the bends at alarming speed as it took us back to Uttarkashi. We held on to our seats, too tired to ask the driver to slow down, as we looked out through the glass.

Uttarkashi Diaries: Part 1

Prelude: Thrown off the shelf

June to February. That’s nine months- almost the same time as human gestation period. On hindsight, there’s glaring similarity. Management studies had shaken us all of the many myths and clichés which were so ornately treasured by us before we took on the ride. The rollercoaster ride had to end with a jolt. They had conveniently named it DOCC: Development of Corporate Citizenship. For the uninitiated, it’s our jargon for Rural Internship! And six weeks, we believe (and I do so even as I write this piece), is a long time. If there was any relief in the whole story, it was probably the location. Pilgrimage was certainly not on my mind. Snow-capped mountains were. Prospects of treks were. A long holiday in a hill-station free from the cycle of assignments, deadlines and grades was what we were hoping for.

March 1, 00:05 HRS, Bandra Terminus Railway Station. As the wheels of Dehra Dun Express rolled reluctantly, we settled down, putting our bags and selves together, struggling to keep off our mind the thought of having to spend over forty hours inside the train. A grand description of the journey could get me a call from the Ministry of Indian Railways, and as such I’ll refrain from doing so. In short- trash talk, card games, music, funny songs on RaGa by Na, books, food, more food, sleep, more sleep, boredom, more boredom- sum up most part of our journey. Getting down at stations (and there were 98 of them!) was fun. Getting back on while the train had started to move was even better. [Kids and their parents: please read the underlying caveat]

Welcome to the North

March 2, 17:35 HRS, Dehra Dun Junction. Having braved the demanding (more in terms of mental health than physical) journey, we were elated to get off board what had been our home for the previous 41.5 hours. We split, as the girls moved to their relatives place, and the guys jumped into an Auto-rickshaw to find for themselves a place to stay for the night. Hotel Balaji got to host us. It turned out to be a decent place free from the hustle and bustle of the main city. Hot tea in cups and warm water from taps greeted us. After making full use of these, we had some snacks (the spring-rolls were freaking delicious! Fried chicken was great, too). We entered a small roadside restaurant (‘restaurant’, really?) named ‘Oberoi’ for dinner- we were the only customers. In little time, we realized that the guy at the reception was the cook as well! The food didn’t disappoint us, though. Butter-chicken, paneer, roti and rice- enough to put us to sleep after a tiresome travel.

The next morning, we gathered at Prince Chowk to leave for Uttarkashi. 2 Boleros with back- seats full of bags and front ones full of us! What was promised to us a 5 hour journey turned out to be 7 hours long. Our voyage was punctuated by a faulty rod between the wheels and had to be repaired. Music, gossip, a few lame games, football-munching (‘football’ here is a chocolate candy wrapped in football-like skin) - that more or less formed the major part of our journey. Oh did I forget the hot paranthas and maggi in a dhaba on the way- couldn’t have imagined a more perfect breakfast. As broken roads led to the town of Uttarkashi, we could sense the kind of damage done by the floods last year. The river Bhagirathi continued to accompany us till we got down at Joshiyara.

“Aap sabhi ka swagat hai. Hotel Relax me aap log aaj ‘relax’ kijiye”, said Gopal-ji, who is the project manager at the NGO here. The first time we laughed at the joke. But by the time he had repeated the same joke two more times, we were off to our rooms with our bags.

Relax: Grihapravesh, Day 0

We were not really expecting to be awed by either the interiors or the facilities. I must say there was no major disappointment. The warmth of hospitality covered up for whatever was missing. As I looked out of the balcony, my eyes absorbed the green of the magnanimous mountains that shelters the town. Still recuperating from the devastations of the flood, this town had tractors, earth movers, donkeys, men and women working incessantly toward making it as beautiful as it was before the calamity. The cold was getting unbearable before we saw the thick blankets arranged on our beds.

Food was simple but served hot. I cannot yet understand why I couldn’t get myself to like the food at my hostel (which was menu-wise better and possibly more hygienic) but loved every bit of the food cooked here. The hardcore non-vegetarian in me has no answer to the question of how I am enjoying the vegetarian food here.

Food is best served hot and sleep is best served cold. The latter with blankets, of course. That was one reason I always wrote about winter when they asked me to essay my thoughts on my ‘favorite season’ in school. Anyway, tired, we said- “Let there be darkness”- and we fell instantly asleep.

Day 1: Formalities & NIM

The meeting with the NGO people appeared bland before the hot Aloo-ka-Parantha breakfast that preceded it. Introductions occupied center stage; no majorly inspiring event. I have no intention of making the journal boring by repeated mention of the meal menu- therefore, I’ll skip. That gives me enough time and space to write about the biggest event of the day: a trek to Nehru Institute of Mountaineering (or NIM, as it is popularly called). They said it was 3 km long one-way. We’re in no mood to argue that it was twice as long- or so did our under-confident watches say. However, being in no hurry, our legs didn’t feel the distance as badly. The shutters opened and closed at the changing poses of Nature. Ashutosh Gowarikar’s crew was shooting for a television serial named ‘Everest’. Unfortunately, the main attraction was absent. Yesteryear actor Milind Gunaji was present though. There could be a separate blog post analyzing him, and it would, I bet, be a sorry tale. The cold ensured us of continuous refills of caffeine and theine in inappropriate quantities throughout the day. The walk downhill was easier. The trek however took its toll only as we got inside our blankets. Interesting or ironical? Or both?

Day 2: Change in weather

As if the falling mercury wasn’t enough- it had started drizzling. Dark clouds, like soot hanging from the ceiling, covered the mighty mountains. That meant we could stay back in our blankets longer without feeling guilty. Ru had to head for a field visit while it hadn’t started pouring, only to be deceived minutes later. Sa and Ka (and I don’t know who else, because I was sleeping) got us hot samosas in the evening and we indulged religiously in them. The night had real surprise in store. Some dark liquid with magical powers was poured into 8 glasses. If I knew what happened next, there would be no fun. And we wouldn’t be awed by the magic either. 

Vidyang dehi

Durga Pujo is definitely the biggest festival for Bengalis and the most elaborate one for sure. We- Bongs- look forward to this mega annual event in a particular year the moment the previous year’s gets over! Four days of intoxicating celebrations, and the long preparation preceding it! When I look back to the time when I was really small, all that was good. The vacations in school were even better.

But, it was Saraswati Pujo that qualified as my festival- it was closer to my heart. Probably because I was paid more attention to during Saraswati Pujo, and that’s all a kid wishes for. The goddess was part of the household. She never complained if the fruits were sour or if the Rangoli (or as we call it, Alpona) was asymmetric or if the size of the idol as so small that even I could carry it then.  There was a strange character of humble acceptance that Bengali households had attributed to this goddess. I haven’t really seen that with many Hindu gods, I must say.

Right from visiting the market with Baba to get the idol and the accessories to waking up early in the morning to help Maa arrange things neatly in front of the idol, I was an integral part. All my books were stacked right next to the Goddess of learning. And this was one chance to part with studies. Ironical as it might sound, this is truth. Of course, I always took full advantage by keeping the History book, and in the later years the Biology book, out of my shelf and next to the Devi for as long as possible!

Then, there was this green-colored variety of sweet plum called ‘Narkel Kul’ (literally, coconut plum) which was offered to Her. For some reason, students were forbidden to eat it before Saraswati Pujo. But no one dared take a chance in fear of affecting one’s grades. Mind it, the timing of the Pujo (late January or early February) is such that one can hardly keep out of the mind the thought that annual examinations are approaching.

As a teenager, I came to know of Saraswati Pujo being the Bengali Valentine’s day. Girls dressed in bright saris and boys in stylish pajama-punjabi (i.e. kurta-pajama) created an environment so amazingly colorful that there was no way you could take your eyes off them. This was one day when boys could enter girls’ schools and vice-versa without being questioned. Definitely, one of the best parts of this festival was the bhog served- it usually was a platter of melting khichdi, some spicy vegetable, fried egg-plant, chutney (typically made of tomato and date), papad, sweets and payesh (kheer). Believe it or not, even a hardcore non-vegetarian like me found this finger-licking delicious!

Along with my friends, I roamed all around the small town I grew up in, dropping by any of the relative’s or friend’s or teacher’s house to taste food- a wonderful exercise indeed. Being every household’s pujo, practically no one disappointed us when we visited. There are trivialities like this I can go on write about this festival but I’ll let it end abruptly- only to allow me to write about the rest some other time.

With time, Durga Pujo gained prominence. It’s probably been four years now that I could be part of Saraswati Pujo. Essentially, the trivialities of this Pujo by way of repetition every winter became so part of me that it hurts to divorce them now. This festival was simple, affordable, devoid of ostentation and very very personal.