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...