You need to lose in a competition, if your competitor is a ‘genius’. I experienced this in my life. I was forced to lose in all the games of chess I was made to play by a genius against his self. He was an architect of modern Bengali journalism, and also a renowned writer himself and a remarkable enthusiast of Bengali songs and modern Bengali writings. If you were sitting in the middle across his wide long table, you would no way miss the watchword under your nose: ‘You are before a Genius’ (exact words I fail to recollect)--- in a round shaped label, printed in color, pushed under the glass of his table top. He was Santosh Kumar Ghosh, ‘The Boss’ at Ananda Bazar Patrika, where I worked at the news desk after my stint as their War Correspondent. I was 27 then.
I have had never come across such a big-headed person, who treated himself a Godfather of Bengali journalism and literary writing, more so when he was drunk. He loved to get into it almost at every night fall, and would occasionally walk around the office, balancing himself supporting anything his short arms could reach at. He would not leave the office till he was satisfied that the Paper was ready for print without any visible mistake. True, he was almost faultless in it at any point of time.
In his attire he was a perfect Bengali baboo beneath the well-known arrogance of the community. His was short height, looked, mistakenly though, a strong built, with a round skull thickly studded with strong curly salt and pepper hair. He wore milky white dhoti with elegantly dangling frills covering the toes of his shining black pram shoes. His thin lined mustache helped his thin lips to smile all day long. He was an endless smoker of cigarette.
Once I was the night editor, and was holding the fort. In our time Ananda Bazar Patrika was printed in letter press process, when if even a comma was to change, we had to go through fresh composing till final plate making. The night editor was to ensure the final print of the city edition. Not so unexpected, I saw Santoshda (in Bengal’s newspaper and literary world suffixing ‘-da’ to a name was most intimate and respectful address) was inching towards my desk while swaying in all directions. He reached my table, balanced himself with his hands on it and waved his neck towards the printed dummy of page one, already spread, and looked at me; his forefinger was already studded on a photo. ‘What’s this?’ he almost roared. I was dumbfounded. What could happen? I quickly ran my eyes through its caption. It was okay. No mistake was there. The caption story was on abundance of Mango cultivation. He blinked at my baffled face and roared again, ‘Where’s the news?’ I trembled, ‘In page four.’ He calmed down at it and softened his look, ‘How would your reader know that? Write here’, he tapped the end of the caption, ‘News at page four, or, at least, News inside’.
That was he. You can’t help saluting this Academy awarded writer for his addiction to Bengali journalism. Before he joined Ananda Bazar Patrika, Bengali journalism was stereotype. Reporting then was judged by the length of its narratives. Santosh Kumar Ghosh discarded the practice and revolutionized the news writing. He introduced human touches, social comments and made the news reader’s friendly. He preferred to ‘take’ the reader to the spot of the news, instead of ‘informing’ him of the news. Thus from his time Ananda Bazar Patrika turned to be a reader’s personal newspaper. He changed its language too. It shook off its archaic construction of sentences (now retained only in its editorials for a feel of its age and tradition) and brought in spoken language instead. Indeed doing so he risked frivolity in print media, and had to select more writers than hard core reporters/journalists. Thus, at one point of time, Ananda Bazar Patrika received notoriety more for producing writers than news. Santoshda’s famous banner heading on Jawaharlal Nehru’s death: ‘Nehru Aar Nai (Nehru is no more)’ was zenith of a new language in Bengali journalism.
He implanted more an awe in me than a pride in being near to him. And for that I could never go the other way if the call was from his closed wooden enclosure. At any point of time, during my duty hours, the personal peon of his would come and tap the junior’s shoulder with a wink. And in flash of a moment I would be spreading the chess board silently with a lifeless stretched smile.
Before the genius it was a charmless game,easier though. If I would play with all seriousness and concentration and manage to ‘kill’ any of the white pieces, he always played with white to lead every game, he would immediately snatch it from between my loosely held fingers, and put it back to its place saying like, ‘I knew that well. I was only watching if you could play that good.’ But when on killing one of mine I would move my hands for a return gift, he would affectionately be philosophical, ‘This is a gentleman’s game, Arun. Touch-and-move is the rule.’ Even so I enjoyed playing with him for I considered it a great honor to play against a great name and influence of those days.
I knew Amitabha Chowdhury, News Editor, my chief in the desk, another legend in Bengali journalism, kept me under his close watch. But even so I was a bit on, since I was preferred by the second man in the hierarchy of the organization.
One day Amitda, exasperated with my riches to play and packing for home, warned me,‘Joint Editor calls you to play, fine. But mind it; your day’s work will continue to pile up till they are attended to the end.’
I do not remember if I was happy hearing that. But getting a shelter under another legend might have lured me to prank with Santoshda. Or else how could I so cleverly be desperate?
On a next call, I was calm in spreading the 64 square chess board. Santoshda, as usual, was sitting by the center table and watching me closely. I was sure that I will finish the game as early as possible to minimize my time for going home late. As soon as he pushed his knight upward center, I pushed my pawn to the fourth square of the right arm. He moved the other knight, I pushed a second, offering for his knight to gobble up. He grabbed it with a winning smile. Now I opened the left arm the same way, he moved to the right and by the next move he killed my pawn. And I was open to be check-mated after hardly three or four moves. The mistake I made was I didn’t feel sorry for the losses, which, could easily be exhibited by uttering “Isssh!’ or ‘pstch!’ or ‘Oh ho!’ and the likes.
And that was it. In no time he exploded in a fit of rage, ‘Is this the way one plays chess?!’, and splashed the chess board up, to hit the ceiling, when the pieces started raining all over the room. Before I could close my eyes and hang my head in fear he started abusing me in whatever words he could fit in at that moment : ‘You-- a rat, a cockroach, an worm from the gutter….. and many such toothless abuses I am unable to retrieve now. At this sudden turn of the game I was indeed shaky, and engaged myself, quietly, collecting and counting the pieces those rolled, tumbled, jumped to hide under the sofas, tables, chairs etc. Santoshda kept on roaring and I silently walked towards the door. His abusing stopped immediately. He sounded soft, affectionate and philosophical, ‘Come. Sit here. It’s a great game, Arun. You need to play it with your brain. Come on, I will show you, how to play it intelligently’. I had no way but to return.
Honestly, I cannot remember, how this opponent-ship ended. But I know well, it happened soon after.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Thursday, August 19, 2010
An Evening with Subhas Mukhopadhyay
One evening, in the early 1990s, the great Indian poet from Bengal, Subhas Mukhopadhya landed at Delhi airport from Kolkata. I was there to receive him. A man with his flowing bushy silvery hair, a relatively larger face, cleanly shaved and slightly stooping, that was Subhasda, as fondly called by everyone even little closer to him. He came out with a young girl, a co-passenger in the flight. A bright strong middle height young girl from the North East, I could guess.
‘She is alone and does not know her way to the hotel. We would first drop her’, he said not even trying to guess my inconvenience. He invited the girl in his husky feminine voice and started for the car parking. I was a bit surprised. Whenever I met him, wherever, I never found him a front-runner. He always behaved like a child, who stretches his fingers to hold someone’s to follow. Here he behaved a commander. However, I discovered, her to be dropped in the north when we were for south. And it was already passed ten at night. His worries for the girl’s safety were no wonder to me.
I knew him a man of deep affection. His look, as I found, strangely though for a poet, always remained unoccupied. Strange for it was him where the Bengali poetry took a new turn; strange for it is him where social realities in Bengali poems begins. How the eyes of such a poet could always remain unoccupied? His living, where nothing looked strange, may give us a clue. A large part of his house, despite his under-the-carpet financial constraint, was occupied by destitute relatives and stray animals. He had three adopted daughters as well.
That night I found Subhasda extremely suspicious about Delhi’s road safety as it is an impulsive interpretation of the Kolkatans till today. Was it out of worries or his anti-establishment trait? Once he was a hard core communist, but when I met him first in early eighties he was calm. I am not sure if that were a shift of his ideology. His poems, however, never conform this with certainty.
Subhas Mukhopadhyay had been awarded with the most coveted Jnanpith Award, the highest honor a creative person in Indian literature can wish for. I am not sure if he had received the honour by then. He had come to Delhi to attend a poetry reading session next day. I was among the organizers. It had been always a pleasure and affluence to be with him in exclusive.
Subhasda kept on telling the girl about the unsafe character of India’s capital, ignoring the fact that he was slipping needless fear into the head of a new comer from a faraway, almost disconnected, land. Needless talk may be but was it for he had no other topic ready at hand to justify that needless journey? I tried to dilute the unfounded perception, but failed, may be for Subhasda’s short hearing.
When we reached our destination, ‘Hotel Sartaj’, a 3-star hotel in the south, it was almost midnight. We checked in a decent room, which was booked early. Subhasda, with a deep ‘shooooss!’ sank himself in the bed, and before going for a wash, asked me, ‘What about a drink now, Arun?’ I knew any hard drink outside home was very costly in Delhi, where Bars were out of reach of middle class people, Subhasda loved relatively cheap Indian Rum though. Hotel Bar was closed by then. I opened the room’s little fridge and looked at the price pasted on its inside door, and hesitated for my pocket. At this he lifted himself, squeezed his pupils on the door and got a shock. He quickly turned to me as if in great distress, ‘Oh my! Arun, what to do now? I can’t sleep without a drink!’ His last words sounded almost begging. I well knew he is one of the leading poets in India, but financially one of the poor citizens too. He never took up a job; he lived only on publishing his writings. I knew why I cannot ask him to pay and drink, and I knew too why I cannot pay for him then. I felt ashamed of me.
Once I was in-charge of Kolkata’s first Children’s Book Fair’s publicity and some of its programs involving authors and children. Subhasda was one of the invited writers. Tarapada Roy, a ranking writer and poet, on their day, called me aside and said, ‘I have a request, Arun. The honorarium you are paying may be O.K. for others, but certainly not for Subhasda. Please buy him, at least a pint (half a bottle) of Rum. He loves to drink Rum.’ That evening I bought one for him on way to his home. In streak of a moment this incident flashed in me. Embarrassment took me to the bottom. Once I didn’t buy him a full bottle, despite pocket-full of money, and now I can’t buy him even a peg!
In despair, at that late night, I rang up my friend, Sasanka Sekhar Mukhopadhyay, senior to me by 36 years. Sasanka Sekhar was my friend, philosopher and guide. I was his joint editor of the Bengali literary magazine, PRANGSHU, he started well after his retirement. He was known amongst us as ‘the last British Bengali’ for his suave, graceful, and a refined gentleness. I did not hesitate to wake him up at that odd time. I knew, his was the right place at the moment since every evening he would have a shot of his magic potion, a peg of Rum. Sasanka Sekhar took no time to welcome us.
Did Subhasda notice me speaking? However, he didn’t ask me anything, nor I expected him to. I hanged the phone and said, ‘I have a place. Let’s go. It’s hardly half an hour drive.” Subhasda simply followed me out of the room.
When we reached Sasanka Sekhar’s house in Chittaranjan Park, it was well past midnight. We found his baithakkhan’ (the office-cum-drawing room) brightly lighted, as if the evening was yet to bump. He and Durga Devi, his children’s writer wife, welcomed us with all warmth.
After a short exchange of pleasantry, we sat around a low height center table, and to my wonder, in no time I found them old friends meeting after a long time! When it was discovered that Durga Devi and Subhas Mukhopadhyay were born in the same year, 1919, and Sasanka Sekhar was 10 years older than them, they travelled more closer and shook off addressing each other as ‘Apni’ (Respected You) and switched over to ‘Tumi’ (You, a friend). I was stunned at his amiability in such an outlying relationship. I had found none so relaxed at Sasanka Sekhar’s place earlier, not even Shakti Chattopadhyay, the most lovable easy-going legend. Subhas Mulhopadhyay is not a romantic poet, I knew, but what I didn’t know, he was such an intense family man elsewhere too. He left no prank to treat Sasanka Sekhar as a friend-in-law, and delighted Durga Devi as from his childhood town, Krishnanagar, where he was born. I knew they were born in two faraway places!
Durga Devi offered us dinner with meat curry and fried rice before we rose to depart. We could not know when and how she cooked such fresh delicate delicious dishes even when attending her ‘guest-friend’. That might have been the secret of the girls from other side of Padma-Meghna rivers.
All the way back to the Hotel, strange to me, Subhasda, uttered nothing about the visit or the drink we had there. It remains a catch to me till date. On our way back we talked something else concerning next day’s (the day’s) program.
‘She is alone and does not know her way to the hotel. We would first drop her’, he said not even trying to guess my inconvenience. He invited the girl in his husky feminine voice and started for the car parking. I was a bit surprised. Whenever I met him, wherever, I never found him a front-runner. He always behaved like a child, who stretches his fingers to hold someone’s to follow. Here he behaved a commander. However, I discovered, her to be dropped in the north when we were for south. And it was already passed ten at night. His worries for the girl’s safety were no wonder to me.
I knew him a man of deep affection. His look, as I found, strangely though for a poet, always remained unoccupied. Strange for it was him where the Bengali poetry took a new turn; strange for it is him where social realities in Bengali poems begins. How the eyes of such a poet could always remain unoccupied? His living, where nothing looked strange, may give us a clue. A large part of his house, despite his under-the-carpet financial constraint, was occupied by destitute relatives and stray animals. He had three adopted daughters as well.
That night I found Subhasda extremely suspicious about Delhi’s road safety as it is an impulsive interpretation of the Kolkatans till today. Was it out of worries or his anti-establishment trait? Once he was a hard core communist, but when I met him first in early eighties he was calm. I am not sure if that were a shift of his ideology. His poems, however, never conform this with certainty.
Subhas Mukhopadhyay had been awarded with the most coveted Jnanpith Award, the highest honor a creative person in Indian literature can wish for. I am not sure if he had received the honour by then. He had come to Delhi to attend a poetry reading session next day. I was among the organizers. It had been always a pleasure and affluence to be with him in exclusive.
Subhasda kept on telling the girl about the unsafe character of India’s capital, ignoring the fact that he was slipping needless fear into the head of a new comer from a faraway, almost disconnected, land. Needless talk may be but was it for he had no other topic ready at hand to justify that needless journey? I tried to dilute the unfounded perception, but failed, may be for Subhasda’s short hearing.
When we reached our destination, ‘Hotel Sartaj’, a 3-star hotel in the south, it was almost midnight. We checked in a decent room, which was booked early. Subhasda, with a deep ‘shooooss!’ sank himself in the bed, and before going for a wash, asked me, ‘What about a drink now, Arun?’ I knew any hard drink outside home was very costly in Delhi, where Bars were out of reach of middle class people, Subhasda loved relatively cheap Indian Rum though. Hotel Bar was closed by then. I opened the room’s little fridge and looked at the price pasted on its inside door, and hesitated for my pocket. At this he lifted himself, squeezed his pupils on the door and got a shock. He quickly turned to me as if in great distress, ‘Oh my! Arun, what to do now? I can’t sleep without a drink!’ His last words sounded almost begging. I well knew he is one of the leading poets in India, but financially one of the poor citizens too. He never took up a job; he lived only on publishing his writings. I knew why I cannot ask him to pay and drink, and I knew too why I cannot pay for him then. I felt ashamed of me.
Once I was in-charge of Kolkata’s first Children’s Book Fair’s publicity and some of its programs involving authors and children. Subhasda was one of the invited writers. Tarapada Roy, a ranking writer and poet, on their day, called me aside and said, ‘I have a request, Arun. The honorarium you are paying may be O.K. for others, but certainly not for Subhasda. Please buy him, at least a pint (half a bottle) of Rum. He loves to drink Rum.’ That evening I bought one for him on way to his home. In streak of a moment this incident flashed in me. Embarrassment took me to the bottom. Once I didn’t buy him a full bottle, despite pocket-full of money, and now I can’t buy him even a peg!
In despair, at that late night, I rang up my friend, Sasanka Sekhar Mukhopadhyay, senior to me by 36 years. Sasanka Sekhar was my friend, philosopher and guide. I was his joint editor of the Bengali literary magazine, PRANGSHU, he started well after his retirement. He was known amongst us as ‘the last British Bengali’ for his suave, graceful, and a refined gentleness. I did not hesitate to wake him up at that odd time. I knew, his was the right place at the moment since every evening he would have a shot of his magic potion, a peg of Rum. Sasanka Sekhar took no time to welcome us.
Did Subhasda notice me speaking? However, he didn’t ask me anything, nor I expected him to. I hanged the phone and said, ‘I have a place. Let’s go. It’s hardly half an hour drive.” Subhasda simply followed me out of the room.
When we reached Sasanka Sekhar’s house in Chittaranjan Park, it was well past midnight. We found his baithakkhan’ (the office-cum-drawing room) brightly lighted, as if the evening was yet to bump. He and Durga Devi, his children’s writer wife, welcomed us with all warmth.
After a short exchange of pleasantry, we sat around a low height center table, and to my wonder, in no time I found them old friends meeting after a long time! When it was discovered that Durga Devi and Subhas Mukhopadhyay were born in the same year, 1919, and Sasanka Sekhar was 10 years older than them, they travelled more closer and shook off addressing each other as ‘Apni’ (Respected You) and switched over to ‘Tumi’ (You, a friend). I was stunned at his amiability in such an outlying relationship. I had found none so relaxed at Sasanka Sekhar’s place earlier, not even Shakti Chattopadhyay, the most lovable easy-going legend. Subhas Mulhopadhyay is not a romantic poet, I knew, but what I didn’t know, he was such an intense family man elsewhere too. He left no prank to treat Sasanka Sekhar as a friend-in-law, and delighted Durga Devi as from his childhood town, Krishnanagar, where he was born. I knew they were born in two faraway places!
Durga Devi offered us dinner with meat curry and fried rice before we rose to depart. We could not know when and how she cooked such fresh delicate delicious dishes even when attending her ‘guest-friend’. That might have been the secret of the girls from other side of Padma-Meghna rivers.
All the way back to the Hotel, strange to me, Subhasda, uttered nothing about the visit or the drink we had there. It remains a catch to me till date. On our way back we talked something else concerning next day’s (the day’s) program.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
History and Bangladesh
History and Bangladesh
A few days back, one of my Facebook friends sent me a mail. An article by him in Bangla, published in a newspaper, was attached to it. The article was on ‘bangabandhu’ Mujibur Rahman’s contribution in liberating Bangladesh and also his undaunted leadership in rousing aspirations of the people of East Pakistan and ultimately leading them to the Liberation war.
My friend sent me the article to know more about the liberation war since ‘not much materials are available these days’, he said in one of his Facebook posts. He approached me since I was a war correspondent for Kolkata’s ‘Anandabazar Patrika’ to cover the liberation cry. I reached East Pakistan four days before the Pakistanis started calculated massacre of the people.
I was surprised reading the article and wondered, how a newspaper, if it is not a mouthpiece of a party or of a person, could print an article blacklisting many major positive happenings, when much water has flown down the Buriganga foduring the last 40 years. If going by the twisting and retwisting of history in the hands of the rulers of Bangladesh starting from Mujibur down through Zia, Ershad, Hasina , Khaleda and even the so called care takers, this article may not surprise any.
I wonder, because the young writer, in his mail, looked serious and genuine, and I know many books, journals and research papers genuinely recorded abundantly the facts leading to this War, but how come this amateur historian does not find them? Have these been destroyed during the process, I brand as twisting and retwisting?
This Youngman has written the article entirely based on hearsay, and managed to get them published for larger circulation. But I wonder, to cite a few, how people of today would know that there was a Moulana Bhasani, who blended Marxism and Islam for the benefit of millions of religious Bengalis, who were known as East Pakistanis? Who would narrate the power of leaderless student community who hastened the fall of Ayub Khan’s shrewd rule? Who would give credit to Ayub Khan for hastening the Independence of Bangladesh? It was he who boosted the young emerging political force by establishing educational institutions to every district and down further to sub-divisions and thanas, even to villages. It was he who benefitted country’s youth force by helping them connecting each other through an efficient newly constructed road network, when telephones were for limited affluent and radio was under government control.
It’s really painful that Bangladesh is struggling to read its own history that has been distorted and destroyed by her own people.
Friday, May 7, 2010
The Indian Genius
This morning I was surprised seeing a photograph of Nitin Nohria, the first Indian to put in the chair to head the Harvard Business School. It was published in Times of India's Kolkata edition. I was sure I had a photograph which was taken last year in 2009 of a child who amazingly looked to be one of one year old Nitin's pixs. I was delighted and felt a streak of pride since the child is my grandson!!!
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
How to Reach a Surgeon in Kolkata
I had a failed cataract surgery in Delhi. Recently I came to Kolkata on an official visit. Some of my friends suggested visiting some well-known eye hospitals in the metropolis and understanding the extent of the failure. I was sweetly surprised that they were not taking names of any individual ophthalmologist or surgeons, but of the hospitals and institutions. In Delhi we always go by individual’s success rate not by that of the institutions they are attached to. Even the qualitative fame of the hospitals is measured by the attached list of these famed individuals. Hence I was delighted to visit a few and settled on three such institutions. I was happy when I found each of them diagnosed my setback as the same i.e. I need vitrectomy, cortex removal and repositioning of earlier implanted lens.
My dilemma started when I agreed to go for this major surgery. Where to go now for this risk? I did not know the competence of the surgeons, nor my friends or their friend’s friends knew any. How to go by an institution? Should I look for its architectural convenience or by its system in flowing the patient from one desk to other or by the size and complicated mechanism of the instruments used? Should I go by the look of the surgeons or that of the working people? I did not know what makes an institution more famed than competence of the protagonists running the show! Should I go through the history sheets of its founder or by the amount of wealth he put in running this business? There is no denying that in our country Health Care is a profit making business. And all these thoughts knotted my dilemma beyond my control.
However, I took a breath and went out to boldly to identify one. I should compare every aspects of Health Care to identify their qualitative situate, I resolved.
I could mark one out of the three I went earlier to. It was Sanakara Nethralaya, in the eastern suburb of the metropolis of Kolkata, at Mukundapur. I visitede the instituition for about a month on different days (during Feb-March, 2010) and what impressed me most was I interacted with only one individual at all the stages from Registration till finally deciding on the complicated surgery. I interacted with dozens of secretaries, assistants, technicians, office assistants, HRD officials, nurses and not less than nine doctors at different stages but, amazingly, I had a feeling that I talked to and guided, assisted, cared, examined by only one individual. The modulation in their voice, their decibel level, their personality all were in a straight level of vibrations. So many hospital personnel were running, sitting, assisting, examining but for me it was one person only. Except for the doctors, whose behavioral pattern was amazingly well orchestrated and tuned into one, all other persons seemed know everyone’s function at any point of time. An outsider like me needed only to differentiate a patient from the hospital personnel. Presence of no third person could be felt around. What acumen in offering Health Care!
I had my surgery with great faith. My recovery will be slow, I am told by the surgeon, and I trust him. I have no reason to disbelieve a person made of so many eyes, hearts and hands!
Note: My daughter,living in the US, all along protested my experimentation in searching a right place, instead of a right doctor,later told me that the person who had hands on my right eye was one of the bests in India, as per her search with various professionals.
My dilemma started when I agreed to go for this major surgery. Where to go now for this risk? I did not know the competence of the surgeons, nor my friends or their friend’s friends knew any. How to go by an institution? Should I look for its architectural convenience or by its system in flowing the patient from one desk to other or by the size and complicated mechanism of the instruments used? Should I go by the look of the surgeons or that of the working people? I did not know what makes an institution more famed than competence of the protagonists running the show! Should I go through the history sheets of its founder or by the amount of wealth he put in running this business? There is no denying that in our country Health Care is a profit making business. And all these thoughts knotted my dilemma beyond my control.
However, I took a breath and went out to boldly to identify one. I should compare every aspects of Health Care to identify their qualitative situate, I resolved.
I could mark one out of the three I went earlier to. It was Sanakara Nethralaya, in the eastern suburb of the metropolis of Kolkata, at Mukundapur. I visitede the instituition for about a month on different days (during Feb-March, 2010) and what impressed me most was I interacted with only one individual at all the stages from Registration till finally deciding on the complicated surgery. I interacted with dozens of secretaries, assistants, technicians, office assistants, HRD officials, nurses and not less than nine doctors at different stages but, amazingly, I had a feeling that I talked to and guided, assisted, cared, examined by only one individual. The modulation in their voice, their decibel level, their personality all were in a straight level of vibrations. So many hospital personnel were running, sitting, assisting, examining but for me it was one person only. Except for the doctors, whose behavioral pattern was amazingly well orchestrated and tuned into one, all other persons seemed know everyone’s function at any point of time. An outsider like me needed only to differentiate a patient from the hospital personnel. Presence of no third person could be felt around. What acumen in offering Health Care!
I had my surgery with great faith. My recovery will be slow, I am told by the surgeon, and I trust him. I have no reason to disbelieve a person made of so many eyes, hearts and hands!
Note: My daughter,living in the US, all along protested my experimentation in searching a right place, instead of a right doctor,later told me that the person who had hands on my right eye was one of the bests in India, as per her search with various professionals.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
That Man in Darjeeling Mail!
I was traveling by the most popular North Bengal link train from Kolkata, Darjeeling Mail. This train got its name many years before the independence of the country. Possibly it was named immediately after Darjeeling was annexed to British India getting a chunk from Sikkim, and when the need to connect the picturesque hill retreat was felt by the rulers in the British India’s capital, Calcutta.
I have had traveled by this train in all its changing routes since 1960s. After the partition of the country its run was laid along a long circle. Its straight run from Calcutta to the north through Santahar and Parvatipur (now in Bangladesh) chugging over the Pakshi Bridge on Padma River was stopped for divide of the land. Then one half of the new alternate east bound route from Calcutta was marked up to Sahebganj in Bihar where the River Ganga (upstream of Padma) was to cross by Ferry Boats. The other half of the route was from the northern bank, Sakrigalighat, and it ran through north eastern part of the divided Bengal to reach Siliguri. This is the station where the narrow gauge Toy train awaits you to take you up to the picturesque hills of Darjeeling.
The journey this time began 10 in the night to reach the destination after 10 hours in the morning. I had begun the same journey by 43 Up/44 Down (now 2343/2344) earlier in different times. In the sixties journey used to begin at around 7 in the morning to reach Siliguri next morning. In the mid seventies it was around noon. Later it switched over from evening to night.
In the sixties there was no reservation system for the lowest class, favorite to the Bengali office going babus. Reservation came into effect in late sixties. Even so journey to North Bengal was a great adventure, full of surprises. I was recollecting some of the earlier happenings wrapping myself in the cozy comfort of the First Class AC class of the same train where, during our college days, elbowing for a square feet space to sit for the entire night was a great struggle.
The word Darjeeeling Mail immediately reminds me of a strong person, both of his hands amputed from elbows, holding a weighty jhola around his neck, full of glass bottles of cold drinks, an opener daggling from his neck in a string. He would constantly keep hawking ‘Thanda Khaiben Babu, Thanda! (Would you like to enjoy cold drinks, gentlemen! It’s cold!)’. You ask for one, and immediately he would pick up one bottle with his elbows, put it between his knees, his elbows would then hold the opener and ‘ uncork’ the fuming fizzy drinks!’ I was 17/18 then. He was a rock determination to me-- a home fleeing teen age boy! I learnt from him that everything was possible in life. How could he travel from compartment to compartment even when a mail train was in run? During those days there was no concept of vestibules in trains. He would hold the window rods with his elbows and would reach the door of the next compartment, and with such a great ease that none felt to look at fit. How he could do that? I dared not ask him for I felt the question could be too idiotic to a person of his stature.
He used to appear between Bolpur and Rampurhat or nearby stations, I fail to recollect exactly. Is there anyone who could tell me his name and where did he live? Is he alive till date? I did a horrible mistake not writing about him even for once in my 12 year run weekly column (1992-2002) in a daily from Kolkata.
I have had traveled by this train in all its changing routes since 1960s. After the partition of the country its run was laid along a long circle. Its straight run from Calcutta to the north through Santahar and Parvatipur (now in Bangladesh) chugging over the Pakshi Bridge on Padma River was stopped for divide of the land. Then one half of the new alternate east bound route from Calcutta was marked up to Sahebganj in Bihar where the River Ganga (upstream of Padma) was to cross by Ferry Boats. The other half of the route was from the northern bank, Sakrigalighat, and it ran through north eastern part of the divided Bengal to reach Siliguri. This is the station where the narrow gauge Toy train awaits you to take you up to the picturesque hills of Darjeeling.
The journey this time began 10 in the night to reach the destination after 10 hours in the morning. I had begun the same journey by 43 Up/44 Down (now 2343/2344) earlier in different times. In the sixties journey used to begin at around 7 in the morning to reach Siliguri next morning. In the mid seventies it was around noon. Later it switched over from evening to night.
In the sixties there was no reservation system for the lowest class, favorite to the Bengali office going babus. Reservation came into effect in late sixties. Even so journey to North Bengal was a great adventure, full of surprises. I was recollecting some of the earlier happenings wrapping myself in the cozy comfort of the First Class AC class of the same train where, during our college days, elbowing for a square feet space to sit for the entire night was a great struggle.
The word Darjeeeling Mail immediately reminds me of a strong person, both of his hands amputed from elbows, holding a weighty jhola around his neck, full of glass bottles of cold drinks, an opener daggling from his neck in a string. He would constantly keep hawking ‘Thanda Khaiben Babu, Thanda! (Would you like to enjoy cold drinks, gentlemen! It’s cold!)’. You ask for one, and immediately he would pick up one bottle with his elbows, put it between his knees, his elbows would then hold the opener and ‘ uncork’ the fuming fizzy drinks!’ I was 17/18 then. He was a rock determination to me-- a home fleeing teen age boy! I learnt from him that everything was possible in life. How could he travel from compartment to compartment even when a mail train was in run? During those days there was no concept of vestibules in trains. He would hold the window rods with his elbows and would reach the door of the next compartment, and with such a great ease that none felt to look at fit. How he could do that? I dared not ask him for I felt the question could be too idiotic to a person of his stature.
He used to appear between Bolpur and Rampurhat or nearby stations, I fail to recollect exactly. Is there anyone who could tell me his name and where did he live? Is he alive till date? I did a horrible mistake not writing about him even for once in my 12 year run weekly column (1992-2002) in a daily from Kolkata.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Lets Respect Life
It was 6.15 this evening in Kolkata. I found a 10x5x 6 ft stack of concrete boulders blocking 50% of the busy
I stopped before him and asked naively, ‘How could we get those concrete boulders out of the road?’. He replied, ‘It’s none of my business. Ask the corporation.’ ‘When would you act then, after a death at the spot?.’ He replied in his cool, ‘You are right. If only anything happens there.’ I wonder, when would we learn to respect a life before we jump to respect a dead body?
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