AND THEN THEY SAY "I DO".....

"Just see....she has been in front of the mirror for half an hour now!!! How are the rest of us supposed to get ready on time?" complained a random aunty who was last seen hankering a flustered looking random guy to arrange for a car to take her to that new highend  beauty parlour in town.Meanwhile a gang of young girls stepped out into the chilly evening , all bundled in scarves and jackets, to make their way to another beauty parlour close by. And all this while there was high tension in that room full of aunties where everybody was sizing up the others' sarees and the jewellery they were wearing for the night.In this entire pandemonium, let's not forget the men...they were all sitting around a sigdi(a small fire to keep them warm) and downing innumerable cups of piping hot chai and munching on mattri achaar.While here the topic of discussion revolved around Kejriwal, Modi and the now almost defunct Congress, these innocent males were quite oblivious to the different sort of politics that was being played out in the ladies' dressing room.After all buaji had procured that saree from Bengal and mamiji had shown huge foresight when she bought that Kanjeevaram from down south.Suddenly someone happened to glance at the clock on the wall and then utter chaos ensued. The aunties now took it upon themselves to get their husbands and sons to put on fine clothes for the evening while the men reciprocated with embarassed looks which clearly said"why??nobody's going to notice us!!" . In this last hour before the function the ladies forget their enmities and come to the rescue of each other, helping here with the jooda and there with the kaajal.In this hustle and bustle suddenly somebody realises that the girls are missing , along with the bride, and then phones start ringing until somebody remembers that they are in the parlour and a car needs to go pick them up.But we all know that it's going to be a couple of hours till the girls make an entrance.

It is a chilly December evening but looking at the females one could easily mistake it for a June wedding in Delhi.While the men have been practical and donned suits and sweaters, the women would not make such an abysmal mistake and hide that beautiful Banarasi under a Pashmina.The drinks are already being served and the men receive warning looks from their wives to go easy on those colourful liquids, but for once they decide to look away.It won't be a long before an uncle gets really drunk and starts dancing all by himself up on the stage or before he starts cracking santa banta jokes, but for now things are under control.The D.J is already belting out dance numbers on the music system but there is a certain reluntance on the part of the ladies and the gents to occupy the dance floor.They are all waiting impatiently for the younger crowd.Suddenly there's a lot of cheering and laughter near the entrance....of course it's the bride and her cousins and friends.The girls look pretty in their pink, gold, yellow and blue lehengas while the bride walks in demurely, as tradition demands.The D.J looks happy as he starts belting out favourites with these ladies...and soon the dance floor is taken over by these young girls with their thumkas and nakhras.  One of the cousins is bold enough to walk over to the bar and get  a drink. For the younger ones she is already a hero. Then starts a highly intricate series of events where a didi is asked to go request a bhaiya to get  drink for them in what looks like a glass of coca cola to the moms and dads.When these drinks actually arrive , the cousins nonchalantly make their way to the bhaiya one by one and get their share of the "cold drink" ....bless these poor innocent souls!!!!

There's a commotion on the dance floor now...finally one of the uncles has had enough to drink and is now proceeding to enthrall one and all with his nagin dance skills.And that is the cue for the older ones to come to the dance floor and show their moves.This madness can only be broken now if they announce dinner. Because while weddings are supposed to be about the vows for ever after for the bride and groom, in india , for everybody else, they are about the food.After all, was the matar paneer matarry enough or the bhuna ghosht bhuna enough??

Of course there are other aspects to this sangeet evening, some new romances budding in young teen hearts, some phone numbers getting exchanged or even that look across the room for that special person, but the fun lies in listening to buas and mamis and chachis teasing each other good humouredly or one of the damadjis to suddenly get into one of their moods and start complaining about arrangements, the food, the crowd, the sky and everything under the sun.....but that's a story for later......

THAT LITTLE YELLOW HOUSE IN PAKARIA

I have only visited once….but that house haunts me till date. They say your roots beckon you always and I forged a connection with that house at first sight.  I hope to go back and make a home of that structure some day.

When I first saw it, the house was old and dilapidated, the walls crumbling down in many places. It was home to spiders, bats, stray dogs and vermin; all of whom were disturbed by our arrival. There were cobwebs all around and dust hung in the air. There was definitely that air of neglect that you see in such old houses but you could also sense that this was a grand residence at some point of time. I could imagine the roses in full bloom in the front garden with its yellow wall with intricate designs running all around. And a little twisted cobbled path through the garden which led to the veranda with its big round pillars. You could see the family seated on armchairs in the veranda looking out into the rain and sipping piping hot tea. This veranda led into a long passage which led to rooms on either side. My memory fails me here but I find no trouble in imagining these huge rooms with polished teak four posters and a huge chest of drawers in a corner. Of course these rooms must have held items which spoke of the personal lives of their inhabitants; maybe a half written letter to a lover, maybe a rose preserved for years between the pages of a book, an odd ring here, a precious fountain pen there. And of course lots of unspoken memories. This passage ended in a room which might have been used as a baithak where the family sat around during lazy winter evenings while in a corner the lady of the house prepared the night’s dinner. What most fascinated me was the winding rickety flight of stairs off this room. I cautiously made my way up this flight of stairs to come upon a different world altogether; for here the sky was the limit, you could see lush green fields for miles and the sun reflecting off the surface of the little rivulet that coursed round this part. I can only imagine what fun the family must have had sleeping on the terrace during hot summer days gazing far into the stars, telling each other stories of ghosts and witches and of days long past. And it is here that I realise, that the picture I painted might not be very accurate. I have been brought up listening to my grandparents talk bout this house which was built by their parents. And it is a fact that with time you only remember the good memories while you let go of the bad ones. This is what happened here. It was a happy house with lots of grandchildren and laughter and mirth ….but time can be cruel. Everyone’s drifting apart every second, each person so caught up in their own little world that on occasions that they do meet , they can but behave like people whom you meet on journeys, never sharing their life again, apart from those few hours you spend together. What pains me is when I remember that these people are family….. 

Of Bhuto and more......

I was a little girl when it happened. It was in our old house in 83, Bosepukur Road, Calcutta , on a sultry summer afternoon. It was the kind of afternoon when every living being seeks the shelter of a cool shade and nobody ventures out unless absolutely necessary. The windows are bolted and the curtains are drawn tight across them so that not even a sliver of the harsh sun can creep in. A ceiling fan whirrs lazily in the room offering little respite to the occupants. Air conditioners were a rarity in those days in a middle class home. To stay cool you took log showers with the water you stored in the bucket since morning and then pour copious amounts of talcum powder on your person. People avoided any work even in the house during the afternoons, preferring to stay put on their beds, whiling time napping or reading. It was on one such afternoon that I was loitering around the house while my grandmother, Amma  had her afternoon siesta. I read somewhere that hot weather seems to bother only those who tend to think about it…..how wise the man must have been to make such a keen observation. Because while most other people in the house were in the throes of inactivity because of the heat I was quite eager to make my way out into the veranda where I would usually indulge in dramatizations of whatever situation caught my fancy that day. I would play all the characters in the drama myself and generally while away the afternoon thus. But on this particular day as the mercury touched new heights I was forbidden by Amma to venture out. And while I was searching thus for any sort of activity to keep myself involved I stumbled upon him. He was just sitting there in a corner of the room, quiet and unobtrusive. Not very attractive or inviting, but I was looking for company and he was the perfect companion. He started narrating a story about a ventriloquist and his haunted puppet and I started getting gooseflesh as one usually does after coming across such stories, but I couldn’t stop him.he finished and started another story, this one about a pterodactyl’s egg and how a man stumbled upon it in the dense forests of Dandakaranya. This one was even more captivating than the previous one and by now I was so hooked I wouldn’t let him leave. But as the sun started losing its harsh heat and began its downward journey on the horizon, I had to take his leave. I was supposed to be engrossed deep in my books and if Amma found out I had a companion throughout the afternoon enthralling me with his stories, my few hours of freedom would be spent under her watchful eye from the next day. He promised to be back when nobody was looking. I spent the entire evening in a fervour scouting opportunities to bring him out but he came out only at night when everybody had gone to bed. Under the light of a torch we met again and thus started an affair which has grown into a relationship through the years. At first it was hush –hush but now I have declared my love for him to the world. And today on his birth anniversary, I relived all those stories of the past. Satyajit Ray , you gave me a rich childhood, you gave me company on long summer afternoons and harsh winter nights. You were a security blanket during the evenings when the Kalbaisakhi was raging outside the windows and I would be terrified of the howling winds and summer rain.for all these times I had a story to go back to , be it the spine chilling tale of Khagam or the mystical world of unicorns, be it tales of a man travelling through time to bring back stories for his son or the truly horrifying man eater plant in the forests of the satpura.as I grew older I realised there were many tones to simple stories. Piku taught me that human relationships have many fabrics to them while Patol Babu taught me that it’s perfectly fine to pursue your passion, even if the world does not appreciate or recognize your talents. With time I was introduced to your world of cinema where everyday relationships were shown in their simplicity but the heart and the mind were jolted to their core. “Pather Panchali” begins on such uncomplicated notes with two children in a field watching a train chug by but it goes on to tear your heart out when the old Kakima dies and the sister also leaves for her heavenly abode. Apu takes all disappointments in his stride and moves forward in life through “Apur Sansar” , where subsequently he loses his wife too, but he finally comes out “Aparajito”. His cinema is about real people with real emotions, people who are not willing to give up their life for others, people who do not stop living after tragedy befalls. “Charulata” plays out to perfection the emotions of a wife who is duty bound to her husband but finds her heart longing for another man who gives her the time due to her. The list goes on with Aranye Ek Din, Abar Aranye, Aranye Din Ratri , Feluda , Sonar Kella , Agantuk and many others. They all touched a chord and it is getting difficult to pen down thoughts as they are racing in quick succession through the mind. So I raise a toast to my dearly beloved…..HAPPY BIRTHDAY Mr.RAY!!!!

TO NEW BEGINNINGS....

The light strains of music floated in through the open window into the room.The evening was damp,heavy with the moisture and heat of the day,but she knew that it would not rain tonight.All those years in the hot humid weather of Calcutta had given her the ability to predict exactly when to expect a shower.At this moment she was sitting close to the window looking down into the street below.Her room was on the first floor and right at the end of the street.This afforded her a view of the entire area.At present the CPI-M party office was just starting its evening session with a few of the young men from the area trickling in.The veterans would arrive later in the evening ,after returning from work.This small room at the end of the street had always been an enigma to her.The mystery of not knowing what went on inside the room always fascinated her.She even had a friend whose father was a party member,but she never dared to ask him about the place.The reason was probably that had she actually known what went on in there she would not be fascinated enough.She made her own stories about that room.Many an evening she would just sit there and look at the party workers preparing for a rally in the area,shouting out slogans.Some nights when she could not sleep she looked out of the window at the locked door of the office and for reasons that still eluded her she felt a sense of calm washing over her.

This evening however the party office was closed,it being the Bengali new year,Pouila Baisakh.Everybody was out on the streets in their best panjabis-those high necked kurtas with buttons on the side.the ladies were wearing new banarasis or kanthasilks and heavy gold jewelry.They were out on the streets greeting each other with the customary shubho poila baisakh while gobbling down egg rolls and sandesh and washing all that down with large quantities of coca cola.

She was not a part of this,reason being she was not a Bengali.She was from a bihari family that had migrated to Calcutta in the early 1940’s in search of a living.her grandparents did well in Calcutta nd now they were all living rather comfortably in their houses.The room from where she would often gaze down at the street below was actually her nanaji's room.She spent a large part of her childhood in that house,when her mother used to be at work in a school.Her father used to drop her off at 5b,fern road every morning and it was from this place that she attended school for a good 12 years.when she was young her nanima usually came to pick her up from school but as she grew older she was allowed to walk back by herself from school.That house held a lot of memories for her.There was a small room beside the kitchen that nanima said was hers,probably because she longed for one and her nanima knew this.Her own house at that point of time was a small 2 bedroom apartment where she lived with her parents,grandparents and a younger brother and a horde of other relatives who visited turn by turn.So that small room that she was offered as a young child seemed like a palace to her.That room housed every unwanted furniture in her nani’s place…2 sturdy wooden diwans placed one atop the other,two aluminium almirahs filled beyond capacity with old paperwork,a small puja stand lots of clothes,a Bengali style clothestand and a chest of drawers with an old typewriter above it.if this was not enough there were also stacks of old utensils and bundles of clothes her nanima lovingly referred to as motris under the diwan.there was hardly room left for walking but surprisingly this was the room that everybody gravitated towards.She enjoyed company at times in that room but then there were periods when she wished that she were all alone there.That room was her security blanket.Even now when she is tensed about any exam she remembers that room and how during exams at school she would spend entire days there studying.That room was the noisiest in the house but the concentration achieved in that room is still unparalleled  and now she has a room of her own in a really quiet house.yes that room was noisy what with their being a school next door.Children would rush out during prayer and breaks.Then there was the lady who spent her entire day in the kitchen and sometimes scream out greetings to nanima whilst her pressurecooker squealed in the background.And then there was nanima herself who would come in from the kitchen with a suddenly remembered anecdote or nanima who would spend hours talking to her help,Bela.There was also the small washbasin right next to her room where nanaji used to shave and then come in to see what she was upto.He would look carefully into her notebook and then comment on the manner in which she formed her t’s and b’s.on days she would hear him humming  and it was always the same song..mushkil hai bahut mushkil chahat ko bhula dena.”

Once nanaji took to calling her to watch the sanskar channel on tv ,She hated the pravachans but loved this time that she shared only with him.Nanima she always knew but nanaji was unapproachable to her.It was only later that she realised that it was probably nanaji who loved her more.sure he was strict,he would tell her to improve her handwriting and learn the tables,sure she ran from him when he came out with the encyclopaedia  but then he was also the one who stood with her at the end of the street at night waiting with her, when papa was late in picking her up.He was the one who would take her to the local doctor when she came down with her colds and then making sure that she took her medicines.She misses those days, and she knows that wishing for things to get back to how they were is probably childish.....so she raises a toast to new beginnings!!!!Cheers...