Summer of '24

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

The numbers I splash,
On a blank canvas,
With stats I choose to sculpt.
Left-brain, right-brain,
Jostling on local train,
Myriad thought bubbles erupt.

Unending beat,
Swirl and retreat,
Bouncing, musical, hypnotic.
Ideas overflow,
Dying embers re-glow.
Bustling, lyrical, chaotic.

Fragrant fireflies
Singing in night skies
Symphonies as yet unfinished.
Opening the floodgates
Places and playdates,
Friendships rekindled, reminisced.

Sprinkling of chroma,
The spicy aroma,
Hazy and dim yet so clear!
Creamy word salads,
Crunchy, crispy ballads,
Quietly screaming in my ear.

Half-baked dishes,
Of zany wild wishes,
Murmurs & shouts of brain fogs.
Oh, such crazy musings,
The silly random cruisings,
As Cicadas debate Bullfrogs.

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

(Inspired by a peaceful & warm summer evening grilling outside with friends, while listening to meaningless debates between neighborhood dogs & bullfrogs like eristic WhatsCrapp unkills.)

Winterludes - II

Hot Water

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

Ah, those winter days of yore in my hometown when one struggled to get out from the warmth under the layers of blankets and comforters. The morning fog used to be heavy, trees and structures barely visible, menacing and mysterious. On those cold early mornings even sun seemed to struggle, unwilling to peek through the thick veil. The air would be crisp, for sure, but not clear, usually a combination of moisture and overnight smoke from the waste burning in the neighborhood gathering spots by the more adventurous. Not much would be stirring outside except for a chorus led by that neighborhood lead stray, the self-appointed guard dog, answering the challenges raised by local roosters.

In those days, the households had coal-fired stoves, the chulhā, in the kitchens. Our house had two - a smaller, portable one used for only non-veg items. In my family, that was not meat or fish, just different egg preparations, usually hard-boiled in an open pot. Even that pot was not used for any other cooking, only for such nirāmish items. Occasional omelets were prepared on a different tava, with little bits of onions and super-hot green chilis. You wouldn’t dream of such tāmasi bhojan being cooked on the main chulhā or using the regular pots and pans while my grandma was still alive. Over time, my mom put a stop of this practice along with the introduction of angrezi silverware (“cutlery”) and dinnerware (“crockery”) for our daily usage. Gas stoves would come to our neighborhood much later which made our kitchen more integrated into the main structure instead of an appendage attached but separate from the main house.

The process of getting that chulhā roaring for chai and nāshtā was a fascinating one for me as a child. This needed to be the very first task in the morning, before most of the family was actually up. Our moms would direct the household help to get some kindling and/or dried cow-patty to get the fire started. Next came some larger chunks of coal of different sizes, hauled in from a big pile in the back of the house. These were added in a precise packing order with smaller ones at the bottom, larger ones at the top. The chulhā was then left alone to hiss, crackle and belch for the next ten to fifteen minutes. Heavy black smoke rose from every kitchen in the neighborhood, slowly diffusing in the morning stillness mixed with evaporating dew, until the coal chunks were glowing to the acceptable redness without smoke.

Very large metal pots of water were next put on the now-roaring chulhā for hot water which was indeed the most essential ingredient and precious commodity for human activity. While cold water drove some  morning activities – teeth were brushed lightning fast, faces scrubbed with impressive, if not faster speed, hot water was the elixir of life during winters. Most of it was reserved for the adults, for multiple rounds of steaming tea, often with neighbors solving the world’s thorniest problems. On some days, though, the kids enjoyed the briefest of baths using the minimal amount of remaining lukewarm water available. Or at least, we splashed the water around in the bathroom, making appropriate “ooooh ooooh” wailing noises. Hardly any water actually touched the body and it was mostly for wetting the floors, walls and other bathroom fixtures to let our moms know that we were following the “next to godliness” level of cleanliness. I suspect the Moms knew this but picked their battles carefully, intervening only when the rings around the collar started getting darker or the air getting ripe in our presence.

I remember waking up early and watching the twisty column of murky air curling up and before the large kettle was put on the stove. The morning soundtrack of the world had not fully started and certainly it was not at a level of the modern-day cacophony. Besides the usual sounds and occasional neighborhood territorial claims of the misguided roosters, the warnings from the stray doggies and a few reluctant songbirds, we were usually graced by a certain Bengali gentleman every morning who made his rounds in the neighborhood. Dressed in traditional monk’s garb, he was associated with the local chapter of the RK Mission aāshram. The gentleman walked around with a beatific expression, singing ho-ray rāmā ho-ray krishna, rāmā rāmā ho-ray ho-ray at a brisk pace, accompanied by small manjirā (finger cymbals) cling-cling-clinging, keeping perfect rhythm with his brisk pace and impeccable chanting. He came around only during the winter months as I recall. Opening my eyes to this beautiful and peaceful symphony of world coming alive was indeed a treat. At the end of the season, he would come around and collect some chandā money. Our extended neighborhood was a mix of religions and I don’t recall anyone ever raising any concerns about their respective faith being challenged nor being stingy with their offerings to this monk at the end of winter. No one ever seemed to exhibit any existential crises or experienced any khatrā apparently in those days over such matters.

Which brings me to another winter memory, that of Shri Brij Bihari Trivedi or BBT. BBT was a short, chubby, middle-aged gentleman with a large belly. A lifelong bachelor, he had a gravelly voice and wore white khādi dhoti and a homespun top generally, with an undershirt if the weather was inclement. He had thin, close-cropped white dome and greying hair on his chest. Imagine the pot-bellied deity but without the elephant head. And he loved laddoo’s as well although I don’t think any modern-day musak (mouse) ever existed that could bear his weight. Usually in the employ of my grandparents at their publishing house and bookstores, he had come to stay with our family for an extended period one winter while my dad was overseas on a six-month research & teaching trip to the UK.

My friend Babul and I found BBT utterly fascinating. In turn, he found in our circle of kids an enthralled audience. He regaled us with multiple stories from Ramayana, Mahabharata, etc. on a daily basis. Besides some occasional embellishments for effect, I later found out that his versions were surprisingly faithful to the original scriptures. He had either been exposed to classical texts in his youth or had studied them during any downtime while working for my grandparents.

BBT did have one peculiar trait though which I clearly remember. He did not think that Krishna was a “worthy” deity, what with the episodes of childhood petty larceny (mākhan-chor!) or later peccadilloes during his early adulthood with the gopi’s, etc. BBT clearly did not believe in second-chances or redemption for Krishna. Ironically, he seemed to be totally oblivious that his name (literally, a resident of Braj bhumi) was a moniker of Braj's most prominent citizen, Krishna himself! The neighborhood kids who joined me and Babul during many of these impromptu storytelling sessions those winter mornings would tease him at the end. He would end his stories every time with Bolo Baccho, SitāRām, with the rest of the kids chanting with Bolo Baba, RādheyShyām! BBT never wavered the slightest, he would just smile, anticipating our rejoinder with a twinkle in his eye. Never did he correct us nor push us to make us change our response.

BBT, wherever you are on this earth or most likely off it now five decades or so later, you were always a gentleman, always open-minded, unfailingly polite and a true human being. On this super-chilly morning in the northern hemisphere, I can still hear in my mind the cling-cling-cling of finger-cymbals from the monk from RK Mission as well as those memories of eager anticipation of the stories of BBT. The world needs many more of the both of you, with all the hot air being pumped in the unsocial media, while what we need is just plain hot water.

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

Photofinish

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

Does anyone else remember those old cameras? The big, boxy B&W ones toted around by a friend of a friend of the family? That stranger who was always seemed to know all the Bittu’s, Baby’s, Soni’s and Monu’s? Was respectful and polite to all the Auntie’s and Unkill’s enough to blend in as part of the family? Hung around on special occasions, the big family gatherings? The eagerly awaited prints arrived weeks later, often blurry and out of focus, tut-tutted by all. The adults seemed to sport stern faces in such family photos, never cracking a smile. Headshots of individuals were often partly sideways, stiff with eyes looking slightly heavenwards with pursed lips. Apparently, those two poses were the easiest to hold for the entire duration of time it took for the film to be exposed. All our early family memories seem to be like that. That is, all except for this one uncle of mine. All his pictures were of large florid face, toothy grin, lips pulled back to expose gleaming white teeth and the upper lip adorned by a stiff and pointy ‘stache curled upwards. Colonel Thirty-two All Out Sahib is what we called him.

We had two, maybe three professional studios in my hometown in thse days. Their main business was the once-in-a-lifetime family portraits and those pre-wedding photoshoots of young ladies. I recall clearly that our family actually had to go to one such establishment called the Alpha Studios in person, dressed in our best clothes. Sadly, it appears that Alpha Studios closed years ago. I do recall that we had the family portrait done, along with a portrait of just our parents. Then us three siblings got photographed individually in various cutesy poses. What makes the occasion truly memorable is the balloonwāllā who was conveniently situated right outside the studio. The photographer suggested to my father to use balloons as props for myself and my younger sister. To our utter surprise, my father, who did not believe in such frivolous and wasteful expenditures under normal circumstances, agreed this one time. I suspect that the appearance of that vendor was not an accident and the studio and the balloonwāllā had some prior arrangements for such sessions with all clientele of Alpha Studio. Myself and my younger sis acquired a large, colorful balloon each. As we were entering the studio, my sis’s balloon somehow escaped from her hot little hands. Much to my amusement and her consternation at this unfortunate event, we all helplessly watched that balloon floating away and out of reach. The audio on that busy, chaotic street was augmented by the wailings of my younger sis.

Neither parent exercised much restraint in those days in public and all three kids got a stark and grim picture of our future selves on the spot if we did not shape up. My older sister assumed an injured air, clearly resentful at the undeserved rebuke, biding her time to exact retribution later from the youngsters once safely out of parental oversight. My younger sister was inconsolable and sobbing, tears streaking down her face smearing whatever make-up had been applied to her for the family portraits. It was then decided by the adults that the one remaining balloon in our possession, my balloon, was to be used for the pictures for my younger sister. The resulting pictures actually came out fantastic. The episode has been discussed a few times in the family lore over the last five decades. My younger sister had a beatific smile on her hastily redone make-up as evident from the pictures. I, on the other hand, have been teased unmercifully by my sisters decades later as my pictures show an unusual puffiness of my cheek clearly resembling that infernal balloon, my balloon which was not in mine but in my sister’s hand at the moment. My feelings were accurately captured by the photographer, smoldering at the injustice, anxious to regain possession of the balloon at the first opportunity, and the unconcealed hostility towards the world in general.

My burning desire to become a shutterbug was ignited with that spark. A few years later, I stumbled across the full-page Agfa Click-III ad. It was of German make and I understand, later made in India with Agfa-Gevaert collaboration. It just leaped out at me from the glossy magazine that I happened to be engrossed in. It was priced at Rs. 35 or something like that, clearly out of reach for me if memory serves me right. I pored over those ads endlessly for all the joys it could bring. I memorized all the details of Click-III in the ad - Meniscus Lens! Aim and Shoot!! Rapid Load!!! Iso-flash!!!! Flash-synchronised shutter!!!!! One ad had a sari-clad lady on one side taking a picture, with a huge headshot of a smiling, mustachioed manly man and the words I SHOT HIM in big bold print followed by ...because I loved him in smaller font. I was smitten with a camera that promised No Adjustments Needed - No chance of Mistakes. For years afterwards, on all the special occasions, the people we met and the places we visited, I would be busy figuring out the best conditions to take that special picture with my very own Click-III, the right angles, the right distances, the optimum light, etc. etc. Detached, observing, click-click-clicking away while others were interacting verbally and physically. All in my mind, alas, since I did not actually possess the camera.

How I envied the tourists who seemed to have an impressive amount of camera gear with tripods, lenses, filters, bags and a ton of other accoutrements, cracking jokes like “What is a click-click-click-BANG sound? A Japanese tourist being hit by a car!” I did not acquire a film-camera of my own until after the grad school when I had a little spare change and splurged my slender savings on a camera prior to a new car or a new bed in my first non-student slum apartment. The camera was a color camera and while the film was relatively inexpensive, the actual photo development process still took about a week and was a bit pricey. I was now a real photo-hound, taking actual pictures of Everything, Everywhere and All at Once! Color film and prints became more affordable eventually.

After a long and successful journey in an industry created by George Eastman, his namesake company had a disastrous near-collapse and had to reinvent itself painfully. Digital photography ate their proverbial lunch as all of us switched our allegiances in a flash, abandoning our picture-taking skills honed over time on film cameras. The iconic company had introduced the ubiquitous phrase “Kodak Moment” into our vocabulary, only to be abused by all Marketing types in all industries. They realized it too late that it had been replaced by "Screenshot" and abominations like "Prosumer". Pixels were nearly free, one could and take a million shots, digitally (literally using one's digits) select and edit the best and delete the rest. Quantity replaced Quality. Kodak's woes have been a subject of many Harvard Business School (BS) case-studies. It is a staple of MBA circles as a cautionary tale of the Demise of the Dinosaurs, a scary fireside story by management gurus in corporate navel gazing retreats.

Which brings me to an old problem vexing me again lately. In the old days with manual film-advancing, I would often forget to turn the crank or occasionally would not forward the film enough on that camera, getting interesting results with double-exposures and ghost images on some pictures. I ruined a lot of film in the early days experimenting until I perfected the “full-crank and about a third” for that camera to get clean, ghost-free shots. My second film-camera had an auto-advance feature that took care of that issue and I forgot all about it until recently.

Something called Selfieitis, the “I am the Main Character” psychosis, is rising to newer and higher levels at an extraordinary pace with smartphones and unsocial media. Unlike the ghost images and double exposures of yore, these days it isn’t unintentional nor self-inflicted. I am told that it is called "photo-bombing" and an invasion by idiotic influencers, pathetic pranksters, cretinous celebrities and power-hungry politicians alike. The Funny Farm also appears to have been infested by these vermin. Lately a lot of my pictures, especially selfies, are being ruined by unwanted ghosts appearing next to myself at public places like bus stands, airports and railway stations. Friends, does anyone know how to solve this, the problem of this Selfie bhoot?

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

Winterludes - I

The Cold Babe

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

[ first posted Jan 2022, inspired by an article floating around in WhatsCrapp, THANDA LEGE JABEY attributed to a Mr. Subir Ghosh of “Hindusthan” Times ca. Nov 2005 (couldn’t find the original reference but see below this post, if you have a link to the original, please share), and a more recent one by a more recent 2015 blog-post by Ms. Purba Ray’s Behind a Monkey Cap is a Shivering Bengali ]

kee sheeth, kee sheeth, omāgo  is an expression burnt into my memory from the days of living next door to māshi mā, mom to my then partner-in-crime, Babul.

The news broadcast from Aākashwāni Ranchi as well as All India Radio, Calcutta had warned about some Coal Babe. This latest item was being hotly discussed by the adults of the neighborhood. The bhadraloks clearly blamed it on modern technology and the younger generation who had no respect for traditional values. They surmised that there were an unacceptable number of automobiles on the roads (none of the families in the neighborhood owned one, and our family acquired the boxy rotundity called an Ambassador years later). Or perhaps it was the Jet engines which were adding to the noise and the weather fluctuations (we had a grand total of one incoming and one outgoing flight on a propeller driven plane at our local aerodrome, as it was called in those days). There was also speculation about the widespread usage of chemical fertilizers instead of natural cow manure. It very well could be due to the ominous “cold war” and atom bombs being stealthily tested by vague foreign powers on islands named after skimpy bathing attire that sounded like zucchini. The consensus opinion was that such an event was happening too frequently, it heralded the coming doomsday in none-too-distant future and none of it was good for mankind. 

My friend Babul and I had more important things to worry about during the winter break so we completely ignored the discussions, choosing to focus on the Hindi news bulletin that mentioned sheet-lahari. This newly discovered expression just rolled off your tongue and was a source of endless amusement to us, expressing, “Oh, sheet, Larry!” every chance we got until an annoyed adult put a stop to it, snuffing out much simple joy in our simple lives.

I had barged into their house when I hadn't seen Babul come out to play at the usual time one winter morning. Those were the days when knocking on door was an unknown concept, employed rarely, and only by total strangers... I walked in only to see him being thoroughly humiliated in front of my eyes. He was being forced to don multiple layers of clothes, and a mankee tupi, a cold weather magic shield, passed down from some relative and several sizes larger than Babul's 8-year old skull. Babul was a child of slender frame and these winter clothes had increased his bulk to twice his normal size. I, on the other hand, had sneaked out from our house gleefully ignoring the standing orders to be properly dressed for the weather, cleverly evading my mom’s ever watchful radar while she was distracted instructing the household help yet again on the same daily cooking and cleaning chores,

Dumb old me, like a true friend I was, I snickered loudly at the look on Babul’s resentful face and stiff, uncooperative body when I should have just stayed mum like the proverbial rabbit and said, ”nuffin’. Like the true friend he was, Babul ratted me out promptly, protesting loudly that if I, his friend, was not properly attired, why in tarnation was he being made to? It wasn’t that cold anyway, this Coal Babe was another example of tyrannical nonsense foisted by the adults upon the kids.

All the homes in those days seemed to have large wooden steamer trunks just inside the front door. You know, the ones with heavy metallic clasps containing of an assortment of hand-me-down clothes collected over multiple generations. Babul’s home was no exception. These clothes, now only in their second or third lives, were not quite ready to be given away to the needy neighborhood hobos. Only when they were threadbare and smelly, those decades old garments were ever discarded by the next generation of people. So māshi mā wasted no time in rectifying the situation and quelled any budding rebellion with a heavy woolen sweater that mysteriously materialized in her hands, jamming it on top of me before I could utter a syllable in protest. In retrospect, no protest of mine would have made the slightest difference, it was a “no-win” situation. Next I know, a rather coarse, scratchy and heavy scarf strongly smelling of Vicks VapoRub was wrapped around my neck accompanied by an explosive “tchāhh!” with an appropriate mixture of exasperation and love. 

māshi mā called out to my mom across the narrow pathway that separated the two homes. The two ladies leaned out their kitchen windows and exchanged the usual morning pleasantries over tea from the warmth of their respective kitchens, commiserating about their two “senseless” (a favorite adjective of theirs) brats who would otherwise be no better than those street urchins were it not for the protective embrace and watchful gaze provided by them.

And thus we ventured out, my friend Babul and I, on that foggy morning, well protected on the upper parts of our physical selves, but the lower limbs were clad in shorts, ready to slay the dragons of the day.

No more thanda lege jabey, thank you!

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

 

(couldn’t find the original reference for this post below, reproduced as being circulated on unsocial media, if you have a link to the original, please share)

 

THANDA LEGE JABEY

By Subir Ghosh
Printed in the Hindusthan Times of 19Nov2005

One phrase every Bengali worth his sweater has grown up with is " thanda lege jabey". It is the ultimate warning of impending doom, an unadulterated form of existentialist advice. "Thanda lege jabey". Thou shalt 'catch the cold'.

'Catching the cold' comes easy to Bengalis. It's a skill that's acquired almost immediately after birth. Watch a Bengali baby and you would know. Wrapped in layers of warm clothing even if the sun is boiling the mercury, the baby learns quickly that his chances of survival in a Bengali household depend on how tightly he can wrap himself in cotton, linen and wool. Bengalis have almost romanticised warm clothing, so much so that Bengali art has found eloquent expression in a form of quilt-stitchwork called kantha. I'm sure wool-shearers even in faraway Australia say a silent prayer to Bengalis before the shearing season (if there's any such season). I'm also sure the very thought of Bengalis sends a chill down the spine of many a sheep.

In winter, the quintessential Bengali's outfit puts the polar bear to shame. Packaged in at least seven layers of clothing and the head snugly packed inside the queerest headgear, the monkey cap, he takes the chill head on. Easy lies the head that wears the monkey cap. With a pom-pom at the top, it's not just a fashion statement; it's a complete fashion paragraph.

I remember strolling down the Walk of Fame in Hollywood on a pleasant May evening. My eyes scanned the glittering stars on the asphalt - each an ode to a Hollywood heavyweight. Suddenly, my ears caught the unmistakable Doomsday warning - 'thanda lege jabey'. I stood transfixed. The Hollywood Walk of Fame is probably the last place one would like to get caught 'catching the cold'. I turned around. There was this Bengali family braving the American chill. The young brat of the family was adamant that he didn't want any more clothing but mom wouldn't have any of it - "sweater porey nao, thanda lege jabey." I need not translate that. Mom won, and the family - sweaters et al - posed for a photograph.

For a race that is perpetually running scared of cold weather, Bengalis have a surprising affinity for hill stations.

Probably, warmth of heart is best preserved in shawls, pullovers and cardigans. In an age when you are judged by how cool or uncool you are, the warmth that the kakus, jethus and mashimas exude can melt icebergs. I wouldn't trade that warmth for any amount of cool. However, the monkey-cap may look cool without the pom-pom.