Ribbon streamers and Maharani

Some people, places and days are near perfect.
I took a near-perfect interview and a near-perfect walk. There's this near-perfect road bend where you get a near-perfect cup of tea. I attended a near-perfect aerobic session and walked another near-perfect mile.
Then i met some near-perfect people with near perfect dreams. We ate some near perfect muri and talked about this...these near-perfect dreams. And oddly enough...once we started walking away...something followed, like a determined mongrel that wouldnt be shooed of. And made itself at home in the little space between us, that wouldnt be enough for a person. And stayed put. While we walked on terribly conscious of this stubborn pup and yet oddly comforted by it, talking on as our near-perfect future rose like mist over our far-from-perfect present.

I bought a wedding gift, but i wish i could keep it.
And this wonderful, wonderful old man i met today from whom i bough a scrap of ribbon, upturned his tiny shop to search for a bit of cardboard i could wrap my gift in. And then he went all the way and wrapped it for me with a lot of enthusiasm "thik kore dhor. arre, oi deek ta dekhbi toh, beke jachhe, dara dara, ami korchhi" Oh, and did i mention? He has never seen me before today, and probably never will again? And at the end of the whole thing, he charged me Rs 2, for the ribbon. And threw in a huge grin as well. Gratis.
I...wish i could remember all the things i've been told that i want to remember. Sometimes the words return and crawl underneath my scalp, ever so lightly, so that you just know they are there, but you dont know what they are or who said them.
And when you have a series of near-perfect moments, like today, you come this close to thinking that its all going to be okay, perhaps. There shall be more nice music, and nice roadways and nice cups of tea. And there will be near-perfect people too. Just when you least expect them. If only one could teach the old dog some new tricks. But then, we all need our own security blankets, no?

This is what I wrote in my journal (in the days of Anne Frank and bloglessness) a little more than 5 years ago when i was shifting base in a big way.
9th June 2002: ....I always knew I would have to leave here, I suppose. A part of me has always been an outsider in Bombay, sometimes trying to fit in, mostly looking on with detached indifference since an age where I couldnt even spell those words, let alone knowing what they mean. I dont know if where I'm going to will be any different. I don't know if I care. I just want to get away from the people i'v known all my life. Its not been all bad, it never is all bad. Its just never been close enough. I can't think here. Or maybe I think, too much. Maybe thats the problem. I want to go somewhere that I can do things besides thinking. Maybe, just maybe, inspite of what everyone says, I'll actually like it there. Who knows? Who can say?...

5-years-ago-little-me had quite a way with words, methinks. You can never, never tell whats coming. Do not try.
I always knew I would have to leave here too, but i wish i still had the 5-year-back enthusiasm of looking forward. I don't mind the going away, if only i were going away for something more meaningful. Bitterness just creeps in like horrid black smoke.
Its all ego, really. All ego. And a little of missing the grandparents and my little room by the chhat. Don't kid yourself though. Mostly ego. And self-love. Isn't that what it all is?

City Lights

I'm in love with the City. With its dust and traffic and pollution and aimlessness. With its 3-minute long signals and overstuffed buses bursting at the seams. I'm in love with B.B.D Bag and the Grand Eastern renovations. And Bowbazar and Bidhan Sarani and weird bus numbers from far north and the GPO and the grandfatherly tram conductors.
This has been the most glorious me-day ever. I did everything on my own, inspite of the day being unimaginably hot (this is all before the heavenly thunderstorm) Walked till the ends of College Street till bookstalls had been replaced by sari stalls. Looked through a few incredibly good art books. (Note to self: Go back.) Took a tram ride through the north, all randomly ofcourse, I had no clue what I was getting on and where it was going. North Cal is so picturesque, you can almost lean out and touch it. So anyway, I got off suddenly at a place where the tram stopped, walked around for a bit, looked at old baris, shops and people. Was actually looking for some food, but it was past 12 and they weren't frying kochuris anymore, and thats what I had to have. I did have sugarcane juice though, with lime and everything in a bhar.
Then I walked on some more, I really do not know in which direction, but bus names still seemed familiar, and that gave me confidence I suppose. Intentionally, I walked off the metro route, metros are too easy. I wanted to feel lost, if you know what I mean. Never mind if I had to ask for directions, or call up my dad, it was just the sense of, I don't know...oneness? And I realized that I could not get lost here, it was all too familiar, even though I have never been into these streets before.
How do I put it? It was a connection, one that I had been looking for since a long time with people, places anything. In spite of all irritants, I was really enjoying myself. Its like re-exploring a place you already know about, but its all in your memory, and you have to know it again. It was completing. All the way through unfamiliar to familiar landmarks, Park Street, Maidan, AJC et al, as I returned to my side of the town. Only there weren’t any sides anymore. The entire place was mine.
The City is hypnotic. Just fall in with its beats. Tram beats, dust footstep beats, Conductor chant beats, people, cycles, street food. This is my place. My own.

Tax-ed

I cant believe i'm saying this, I'm like the biggest advocator of public transport--but its so bloody difficult to get around the city if you don't have a car of your own! Its true.
I made my grandparents get out of the house today for dinner at Flury's. Nobody remembers the last time my grandmother stepped out of the house. We practically had to drag her out kickin and screamin! Dadun is 86 going on 20. His face lights up at any prospect of food, and travel (its all in the genes, see?) So anyway, we had a merry dinner, and loads of good nostalgic conversation and everything was great.
Now, my gran doesnt walk too well, its something in her leg, mostly psychological I think. So naturally crossing roads, or even walking fast was out of question. And here we were stranded in the middle of Park Street, all brightly lit up like a Christmas tree, for more than half-and-hour waiting for a willing cab. And it was only 9 p.m. With the road full of empty cabs, yet no one ready to go. They see we have two old people with us, they know bloody well we cant walk or take a metro, and yet they would not go. One rather original dude even reasoned that he couldnt, because his home wasnt that way. So go home, why dont you. Why stop? I kept getting madder by the minute, and guiltier too, expecially coz this whole dinner thing had been my brainkid, and now it seemed that there was no way but to painfully walk it up to the main road with didun, a bloody impossible feat, when you think of that entire Russell Street crossing.
And amidst all this, there is a cop standing smug on Middleton Row, listening to every word we said, with such an apathetic distance, that he could have fooled us into believing he was a statue or something. All those cabs, and he doesnt do a thing.
I don't know if that rule is still valid, but i remember as a kid, there used to be these TV ads which announced that legally a taxi had to take you if it was free, and if it didnt, you could seek police assistance. So in all innocence, i approached him after an unsuccessful 15 minutes. Number one, he pretended as if I had just appeared out of the woodwork, even though, he had been looking on most interestedly inspite of a traffic hitch in Middleton needing immediate attention. Two, I only enquired, if it was always so difficult to get a cab at this time of the err..night. He deliberated a long while, and said that he was after all only a harmless traffic police, and he did not do cabs. Right, so cabs, are not traffic folks. Next time you get stuck at Landsdowne crossing, just you remember that! Third, I ventured a little more directly, if he would help us, given our circumstances, to hail down one. He asked me where I stayed, ran an eye over the group, and coolly suggested we wait some more, or take a metro. "Ei ektu hatlei metro peye jabe" he added meaninglessly and sauntered off. And that was that. Our honourable men in uniform.
And as I was standing there, i remembered all the times I'd been out late in The City (after haggling for permission), they had only been possible coz I had a friend to drop me home. Not a cab ride, but a friend with a car. These are all beyond 10-o clock times, when the metro's shut as well. Even when I do come back on my own, I always have to say that I'm being dropped. Otherwise I can't go. So then what happens to those people who don't have their own transport, and cant bank on metros like others? What happens in places like Park St or Camac St, where buses dont run, where there aren't autos and other convenient things, areas that are too posh to allow such travesty? You might as well put up a sign-"Not allowed if you don't have your own friggin set of wheels." You dont have a car, then why are you out anyway? At 8 in the evening, too! The nerve. Go home now, I say. (Errr, how though?)
What we finally had to do was stand before Music World, while I ran upto Chowringhee to convince a cabbie (godblesshissoul) to turn into blessed Park Street. He was the 12th or 13th one I had hailed down, who finally agreed. There is nothing more infuriating than an empty cab, believe you me. We're all home now, no harm done. Just a bit of a dampener on what was otherwise a wonderful evening, with the old folks understandably a little tired.
Seriously, transport. Something needs to be done. I can imagine Didun not wanting to do this again anytime soon. And can you blame her?
And we wonder why people preach that its not safe to be out late. Safe, schmafe! Unless you got strong walking legs, dont go anywhere, I say. Stay at home and watch Travel and Living. And order take-out.

Grant me an old man's Frenzy

I know my very own Acre of Grass old man. Who vehemently denies being old. With a great deal of frenzy too. So, he isnt much of a poet. Or an artist. Even though he designed bridges. That count?
But I think he and the old Dubloo Bee would have quite a lot in common. For one, he taught me to distinguish between an eagle and a kite. And he isn't scared of mice. And he's the last person I know who will complain about the "rag and bone shop of the heart".

Yesterday he complained as to why Shahrukh said "Ladies and Gentlemen" and "Boys and Girls". And told me to send an e-mail to Siddharth Basu from Grandfather K.C Ghosh.
He is the most grandfatherly person i know, and the least elderly.

I could tell you a lot about him. About how he walked from Burma to India after independance. And how on the way, he lost his friend, and his sister to typhoid, and was one of the few to make it across. And how he took his wife and three kids travelling every weekend, in his own little jalopy. And how he used to walk around the lake four times unfailingly every morning, come rain, sun or hail, at a speed that would make you giddy even thinking of it.
But i wont.
I'm extremely possessive about my memories. And too scared of not being able to express them properly.
But this one is to him. With all his frenzy and zest and anger-oh yes, loads of anger. I wouldnt change you for the world.

Rockabye-baby, on the tree top
When the wind blows, the cradle will rock
When the bough breaks the cradle will fall
And down will come baby, cradle and all.

The March

Sometimes i wonder if this City is for real. I feel like the picture, blurred. Like everyone knows what they are doing, but no one does anything in context with the next person. And it never matches. And all in all its total chaos. Anarchy. Whats happening to this place? How do some people get away with so much? Who makes the rules? Who lets them make rules? Why do we need rules? And why, inspite of rules, is there such a mess?

So here we are in the middle of nothingness. You would think stillness is peaceful, but look around you. Look into squalid state hospitals, into dysfunctional PA systems, into 4-way road crossings, into the eyes of the unrest youth atop garish tempos shouting slogans they can barely pronounce. Look a little further into editorial offices struggling to get the most shocking punchline, into tired reporters misquoting, misrepresenting and generally unaware of whose side they are on, into eerie empty streets during rush hour traffic, into squadron guarded official buildings threatening to burst forth in malice and hate.

And who suffers? Not you or me, even though we may pretend to be pained by what is going on around us. Not the intellectual creme of the City who have denounced their association with the state. Not the people waving scarlet flags and burning down buses in the middle of daylight in the metropolis of the world's largest democracy. Not the men and women in starched ujala-white cotton clothes whose lives revolve around making a thousand visions and revisions while the world crumbles around them. Not the hundreds of people who follow them around and claim to be fighting for a dying cause, and who can, in the same breath demolish antique furniture and civilized living.

No, the ones who suffers are those whose names we either dont know, or are mispelt and misplaced time and again by reporting agencies and by others claiming justice. What they end up as is just another statistic for the state to mull over for a week or two before something else comes up, preferably something more spine-chilling, and preferably something by the Opposition (well, we must take turns you know!) Until then, we dont go to work, we deny other daily labourers of their daily meal, we protest by burning down a BDO and throwing eggs inside the parliament, we refuse to listen, we refuse to speak, we scream from the rooftops and megaphones about the barbaric injustice that has happened, cite name after name, attract media attention, disrupt the last vestiges of normal life that could have been salvaged, all in all, we do our bit.

And as we speak, some more people in the hospitals die, and some more buses are torched in protest, and some more people gravely shake their heads and call the whole thing 'unfortunate'. And tomorrow some more eggs will be thrown, more walkouts staged, while away from prying media and public eyes anarchy will continue in a small nondescript village in Bengal.

All in the name of industrialization, equality, progress, justice, compassion and basic human rights.All in the name of democracy. All in the name of the poor, the down-trodden, the deprived, the deceived.

Yes indeed they are the deceived. They, and thousand others like them who are yet to understand the curious working methods of the people who have made themselves responsible for their destiny. They are the cause and they are the victims. Not the other way round.

And while heated debates continue in plush air-conditioned offices about human rights and the merits of industrialization, a few brave young survivors are left by themselves to put out the fire they did not begin.

Something has gone horribly wrong somewhere, hasnt it?