There are some books you don't like but still read through because they are supposed to be very famous, very good. There are others which you love and recommend to friends. And there are still others which move you to tears and for a long time after you have finished reading it, sitting on the bed alone in your room, you dont want anybody to look into your eyes for fear of ridicule. It's not that you cant hold back your tears, it's just that you want to give in, you want to cry. And you know the beauty of the story that I am talking about, it's not a tragedy, in fact its far from what you would call a tragedy or even a sad story per se. It's very commonplace , almost mundane in its spirit, yet seen through the eyes of one Rohinton Mistry even everyday occurences take the hue of magical appearences.
If Such a Fine Balance swept you of your feet due to its attention to details and the vast scope at the same time and the imbalance between hope and despair in the lives of its characters, Family Matters brings out perhaps all the emotions you can ever feel: love, hate, anger, compassion, hope, greed, pride, pity, despair, scorn..... I can't even name them. It's the story of a family, an old man, Nariman Vakeel, afflicted with Parkinson's, his two step children Jal and Coomy, both unmarried living in a big house with him, his daughter Roxanna living in a cramped house with her husband Yezad and two schoolgoing boys Jehangir and Murad. When a turn of events forces Nariman to stay with his daughter Roxanna in her little flat, it not only puts to test their financial and material resources but most importantly their spirit. What follows is as intricate and magical (I can't stop using this word!) a description of "family matters" as ever could be. From Murad's coming home on foot for days to save the bus fare for his little brother's Christmas gift, to Jehangir holding his grandfather's hand in the middle of the night while the old man is tormented in his sleep with memories of the death of his beloved Lucy and his wife Yasmin, from Yezad's realisation that in the end a little compassion is all we need to live in this mad world to Roxanna's ever ageing envelopes marked "Bread & Butter", "Electricity" and the likes in to see through the month, from Jal's guilt having failed to stand up to his sister's verdict to Coomy's anger and frustration with life, Family Matters makes you smile and cry at the same time, makes you marvel at the beauty of life itself, of bondage and the complicacies of human relations.
It reminded me of my grandfather and his death. It was sudden. The doctors called it a bolt from the blue. Through Nariman, I could almost hear my Nana speak. The way Jehangir became terrified and saddened by Yezad and Roxanna's fights reminded me of the ones which my parents had during my childhood which shook the world around me.
Family Matters is a beautiful novel, one to be treasured forever, one which I would recommend everyone to read. Don't expect anything dramatic. The novel progresses predictably except for the end where a few coincidences change its shape distinctively. Read it for the simple joy of reading, read it to know all the emotions that exist, emotions we could forget feeling if not reminded.
Monday, September 25, 2006
Monday, September 04, 2006
The Crocodile Man, Steve Irwin, is dead.
I absolutely loved his shows on Nat Geo and Animal Planet. The fact that he died doing the thing he loved the most struck me to be ironic and poetic at the same time.
It is understood he was killed by a sting-ray barb that went through his chest. He was swimming off the Low Isles at Port Douglas filming an underwater documentary and that's when it occurred.
read more | digg story
It is understood he was killed by a sting-ray barb that went through his chest. He was swimming off the Low Isles at Port Douglas filming an underwater documentary and that's when it occurred.
read more | digg story
Thursday, August 31, 2006
A Life Less Ordinary
Think of the world "traveller" or better still, "explorer" and let your stage be the entire globe. What are the names that come to your mind ? Amundsen, Peary, Marco Polo, Columbus, Vasco Da gama, Ibn Batuta, Fa-Hien.......
Ever heard of a certain James Holman? Chances are that you have not. Yet, clocking about a quarter million miles and coming to contact with about 200 different cultures, he was and remains history's greatest traveller in the truest sense of the word. Add to this the fact that he was completely blind and you have before you the most daring, astonishing lives ever lived.
Priced at close to a thousand Rupees, it would be the most expensive book that I bought. Yet going by my book buying instinct for the last three years or so, which is to buy completely random books without any pre-conception solely based on the book cover, title and blurb, I thought I would take the plunge. I can't and I won't even attempt to write a book review here. That's way out of my league and instead of making a complete fool of myself I would rather refer you to http://www.jasonroberts.net/ the website of the author, Jason Roberts who, through his marvellously researched book has tried to accord Holman his due as history's greatest ever traveller.
Poet, doctor, lieutenant, traveller; few men before or since must have lead such a charmed life.
"I see things better with my feet." said James Holman and so he did, embarking on a journey of the globe and experiencing it in a way the sighted could only dream of. For him, his blindness was not a handicap to be pitied upon, it merely meant finding a different way to sense the world. He rode horses, studied medicine in the University of Edinburgh, climbed up Mt. Vesuvius to witness its famous eruption circa 1821, climbed the masts of ships, travelled across Siberia right upto the Kamchatka Peninsula, made friends with natives and in the process visited every inhabited continent on the planet.
He knew no foreign languages, had almost no money, and carried little more than a primitive writing machine--yet he also had a prodigious memory, hyper-acute remaining senses and vast amounts of
personal charm. (From http://www.jasonroberts.net/introholman.html)
As the author found out, there is very little information available on James Holman anywhere in the world. Comparison of the Wiki entries of Holman (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_Holman) with that of Marco Polo (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marco_Polo) is just an example.
There's a famous quote saying "Life should be big, not long" . To me the life of James Holman epitomises this. I won't try to dish out what the book taught me or meant to me personally. Just getting to know about such a life was prize enough for me. Read this excerpt from the book and who knows you might also be prompted to go ahead and read the entire story, one of a life lived to the fullest.
Ever heard of a certain James Holman? Chances are that you have not. Yet, clocking about a quarter million miles and coming to contact with about 200 different cultures, he was and remains history's greatest traveller in the truest sense of the word. Add to this the fact that he was completely blind and you have before you the most daring, astonishing lives ever lived.
He was known simply as The Blind Traveler--a solitary, sightless adventurer who, astonishingly, fought the slave trade in Africa, survived a frozen captivity in Siberia, hunted rogue elephants in Ceylon and helped chart the Australian outback. James Holman triumphed not only over blindness but crippling pain, poverty and the interference of well-meaning authorities (his greatest feat, a circumnavigation of the world, had to be launched in secret).
Once a celebrity, a bestselling author and an inspiration to Charles Darwin and Sir Richard Francis Burton, the charismatic, witty Holman outlived his fame, dying in an obscurity that has endured--until now. (from A SENSE OF THE WORLD.)
Priced at close to a thousand Rupees, it would be the most expensive book that I bought. Yet going by my book buying instinct for the last three years or so, which is to buy completely random books without any pre-conception solely based on the book cover, title and blurb, I thought I would take the plunge. I can't and I won't even attempt to write a book review here. That's way out of my league and instead of making a complete fool of myself I would rather refer you to http://www.jasonroberts.net/ the website of the author, Jason Roberts who, through his marvellously researched book has tried to accord Holman his due as history's greatest ever traveller.
Poet, doctor, lieutenant, traveller; few men before or since must have lead such a charmed life.
"I see things better with my feet." said James Holman and so he did, embarking on a journey of the globe and experiencing it in a way the sighted could only dream of. For him, his blindness was not a handicap to be pitied upon, it merely meant finding a different way to sense the world. He rode horses, studied medicine in the University of Edinburgh, climbed up Mt. Vesuvius to witness its famous eruption circa 1821, climbed the masts of ships, travelled across Siberia right upto the Kamchatka Peninsula, made friends with natives and in the process visited every inhabited continent on the planet.
He knew no foreign languages, had almost no money, and carried little more than a primitive writing machine--yet he also had a prodigious memory, hyper-acute remaining senses and vast amounts of
personal charm. (From http://www.jasonroberts.net/introholman.html)
As the author found out, there is very little information available on James Holman anywhere in the world. Comparison of the Wiki entries of Holman (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_Holman) with that of Marco Polo (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marco_Polo) is just an example.
There's a famous quote saying "Life should be big, not long" . To me the life of James Holman epitomises this. I won't try to dish out what the book taught me or meant to me personally. Just getting to know about such a life was prize enough for me. Read this excerpt from the book and who knows you might also be prompted to go ahead and read the entire story, one of a life lived to the fullest.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
In Good Company
The mercury was soaring and so were our spirits. It's not everyday that you get an engineering degree (2 in fact !), it's not everyday that you get to wear a rather gaudy orange gown and roam around crazily clicking pictures of yourself and your friends as if the world were coming to an end, it's not everyday you come to the place you spent five years of your life and for some unfathomable reason it feels different to the point of emptiness.
It's as if life has changed gears. "Kitne baje ki Train hai ..." has been replaced by "Kis Flight se jaa raha hai...... Jet?". Card has replaced cash, 3 bedroom apartments have taken the place of hostel rooms, people you used to live your life with were scattered, found and scattered again. But in between all these, it's the time spent together, time spent gossiping and giggling, time spent over a bottle of beer or vodka, time spent over sumptous meals ranging from Chicken Lasagne to Kukkad Kebab to Railway Mutton Curry that linger in memory.
The Convocation was a fantastic weekend. Late nights at a dear friend's house, spent with the best buddies you will ever have, the awesomely boring dress rehersal and the final convocation ceremony highlighted by a very relevant speech by Azim Premji (who also happened to quote from Thomas Friedman's "The World Is Flat"), the mayhem that followed afterwards under the scorching sun with the photo sessions, the beer sessions at Masala Junction and Scorpion Moon so typically spent discussing "life ke funde", the weary eyes, the throbbing headache; the two days were eventful to say the least. To add to all the excitement was the realisation on landing at the New Delhi airport that you have forgotten to bring your return tickets, the solitary auto rickshaw to be seen at 2:00 A.M charging Rs 600 to go to NOIDA, the Airtel roaming facility ditching you at the moment you needed it the most and the sweltering heat and humidity which made sure that my love for Bangalore went up by quite a few notches.
Nevertheless, things got sorted out, I got my degree(s), met friends, went to my hostel where again the feeling of emptiness was the most dominant one where I had expected nostalgia/sadness/belongingness and finally was back on the Jet Airways flight to Bangalore.
At the airport there was more good company as another dear friend and fellow Bangalorean was found arriving from Chennai having extended his working days in a week from 6.75 to 7.00. The Bada Saheb that he is meant we got to go to his home where we had Britannia GoodDay biscuits (the Brand being important for the fact that he works in ITC!) and then had the company ki gaadi drop us at our house.
The fun and frolic of the weekend spilled over to the 15th of August also. Sure it was the Independance Day but to admit candidly, it was no more than a holiday for me. So I got up at around 9:00 and then helped my friend prepare sandwitches for breakfast which was fun, what with boiling potatoes and all. The rest of the day didnt seem to promise much and was about to be spent lazing around alone perhaps reading a book. Then suddenly the Bada Saheb called up informing of the expected arrival of another and his unexpected availability for the entire day. Soon they were near Maharaja Hotel, the landmark near our house where I went to pick them up on my now famous bike which has become the laughing stock in some circles and at the same time has elicited mixed responses of "Cool.. but thoda aarbit nahi hai ..." from others.
After that it was time for lunch which we had at one of the best restaurants I have been here in my short stay at Bangalore. Sahib, Sind, Sultan, modelled as a old time luxury railway coach proved to be the perfect blend of ambience, great food and a bill that won't empty your wallet. I have always wondered at the effect a good lunch or a dinner with good company has on an individual. For me it's the best part of any day and the gourmet that I am, the potent combination of food to tickle your taste buds and friends to spend entire lives with, was and still remains, one of the few moments to savour and relish for ever. Add to that I had my inspiration as far as the quantity of eating and the choice of non-vegetarian items goes, eating alongside me.
The afternoon rolled into the evening as we lazed in our house under the weight of the immensely heavy lunch reluctant to go anywhere. Two more friends joined us soon. One, my current flat and company mate and the other who was kind enough to give us a shelter when we were house hunting. It was evening and people were throwing around options regarding how to make it memorable. Movies, Pubs, Bowling everything met opposition from someone or the other until finally someone came up with the greatest idea of all time...."Yaar aish karte hain aur chill maarte hain ..." Legendary lines spoken by a person who is little less than one himself!
And so we started chilling out. The glasses were laid and the vodka came out in complete defiance of the dry-day that it was and the ball was aptly set rolling by a series of small anecdotes on the life changing power of alcohol and its wonderful affects when taken in heavy doses. There was the dim light to get the feel, photography bordering on the surrealistic :D and Marilyn Monroe in her famous pose to stare at and debate whether she was mischevious or out and out sensous. Thereafter it was a laughter riot for almost two hours at a stretch as two or three of us took centrestage to narrate the most weirdest, funniest, insane, improbable, logic defying, gross and downright mindless incidents of hostel life that you will ever hear. So much so that our jaws and stomach started aching. By the end of it all we were at our wits end. In between this there was also a walk down to the nearby Corner House for a taste of Death By Chocolate and Black Forest with Vanilla Ice Cream and Chocolate Sauce. The night was getting better and better and better.
Finally it was time to sleep and it was decided to lay all the matresses together (5 in all) to accommodate the 7 people we had. Then somebody had the idea of the night. Why not sleep on the terrace. The insanity of the numerous anecdotes had had their affect on us and so an instant decision was made and we went up the stairs on the terrace to sleep with the sky and the clouds as our roof. There was a chill in the air as we debated on the colour of the clouds and their movement. One of us who happened to be sleeping at one extreme end also had the fear of a coconut falling and hitting him to contend with due to the proximity he had with the beautiful coconut tree that stands next to our house. So after few moments of giggling we finally went to sleep.
Daybreak saw a return to sanity which lead us to scurry to the warmth of our house. Slowly the guests left and the house was quiet once again. A weekend gathering was planned at one Samarkhand which was vouched to be the best restaurant he has ever eaten in by none other than our very own Bada Saheb.
Now as I sit in my office with so much time so as to write this entire blog in one go, I eagerly await that weekend, that gathering which brings so much fun and happiness that for once I tend to forget the ends and the means which have been troubling me. I am beginnning to think that maybe life's all about these little moments, inconsequential to the world but immensley satisfying to the self, maybe no matter what you do and where you are, happiness is after all, a state of mind, it's about being in good company.
It's as if life has changed gears. "Kitne baje ki Train hai ..." has been replaced by "Kis Flight se jaa raha hai...... Jet?". Card has replaced cash, 3 bedroom apartments have taken the place of hostel rooms, people you used to live your life with were scattered, found and scattered again. But in between all these, it's the time spent together, time spent gossiping and giggling, time spent over a bottle of beer or vodka, time spent over sumptous meals ranging from Chicken Lasagne to Kukkad Kebab to Railway Mutton Curry that linger in memory.
The Convocation was a fantastic weekend. Late nights at a dear friend's house, spent with the best buddies you will ever have, the awesomely boring dress rehersal and the final convocation ceremony highlighted by a very relevant speech by Azim Premji (who also happened to quote from Thomas Friedman's "The World Is Flat"), the mayhem that followed afterwards under the scorching sun with the photo sessions, the beer sessions at Masala Junction and Scorpion Moon so typically spent discussing "life ke funde", the weary eyes, the throbbing headache; the two days were eventful to say the least. To add to all the excitement was the realisation on landing at the New Delhi airport that you have forgotten to bring your return tickets, the solitary auto rickshaw to be seen at 2:00 A.M charging Rs 600 to go to NOIDA, the Airtel roaming facility ditching you at the moment you needed it the most and the sweltering heat and humidity which made sure that my love for Bangalore went up by quite a few notches.
Nevertheless, things got sorted out, I got my degree(s), met friends, went to my hostel where again the feeling of emptiness was the most dominant one where I had expected nostalgia/sadness/belongingness and finally was back on the Jet Airways flight to Bangalore.
At the airport there was more good company as another dear friend and fellow Bangalorean was found arriving from Chennai having extended his working days in a week from 6.75 to 7.00. The Bada Saheb that he is meant we got to go to his home where we had Britannia GoodDay biscuits (the Brand being important for the fact that he works in ITC!) and then had the company ki gaadi drop us at our house.
The fun and frolic of the weekend spilled over to the 15th of August also. Sure it was the Independance Day but to admit candidly, it was no more than a holiday for me. So I got up at around 9:00 and then helped my friend prepare sandwitches for breakfast which was fun, what with boiling potatoes and all. The rest of the day didnt seem to promise much and was about to be spent lazing around alone perhaps reading a book. Then suddenly the Bada Saheb called up informing of the expected arrival of another and his unexpected availability for the entire day. Soon they were near Maharaja Hotel, the landmark near our house where I went to pick them up on my now famous bike which has become the laughing stock in some circles and at the same time has elicited mixed responses of "Cool.. but thoda aarbit nahi hai ..." from others.
After that it was time for lunch which we had at one of the best restaurants I have been here in my short stay at Bangalore. Sahib, Sind, Sultan, modelled as a old time luxury railway coach proved to be the perfect blend of ambience, great food and a bill that won't empty your wallet. I have always wondered at the effect a good lunch or a dinner with good company has on an individual. For me it's the best part of any day and the gourmet that I am, the potent combination of food to tickle your taste buds and friends to spend entire lives with, was and still remains, one of the few moments to savour and relish for ever. Add to that I had my inspiration as far as the quantity of eating and the choice of non-vegetarian items goes, eating alongside me.
The afternoon rolled into the evening as we lazed in our house under the weight of the immensely heavy lunch reluctant to go anywhere. Two more friends joined us soon. One, my current flat and company mate and the other who was kind enough to give us a shelter when we were house hunting. It was evening and people were throwing around options regarding how to make it memorable. Movies, Pubs, Bowling everything met opposition from someone or the other until finally someone came up with the greatest idea of all time...."Yaar aish karte hain aur chill maarte hain ..." Legendary lines spoken by a person who is little less than one himself!
And so we started chilling out. The glasses were laid and the vodka came out in complete defiance of the dry-day that it was and the ball was aptly set rolling by a series of small anecdotes on the life changing power of alcohol and its wonderful affects when taken in heavy doses. There was the dim light to get the feel, photography bordering on the surrealistic :D and Marilyn Monroe in her famous pose to stare at and debate whether she was mischevious or out and out sensous. Thereafter it was a laughter riot for almost two hours at a stretch as two or three of us took centrestage to narrate the most weirdest, funniest, insane, improbable, logic defying, gross and downright mindless incidents of hostel life that you will ever hear. So much so that our jaws and stomach started aching. By the end of it all we were at our wits end. In between this there was also a walk down to the nearby Corner House for a taste of Death By Chocolate and Black Forest with Vanilla Ice Cream and Chocolate Sauce. The night was getting better and better and better.
Finally it was time to sleep and it was decided to lay all the matresses together (5 in all) to accommodate the 7 people we had. Then somebody had the idea of the night. Why not sleep on the terrace. The insanity of the numerous anecdotes had had their affect on us and so an instant decision was made and we went up the stairs on the terrace to sleep with the sky and the clouds as our roof. There was a chill in the air as we debated on the colour of the clouds and their movement. One of us who happened to be sleeping at one extreme end also had the fear of a coconut falling and hitting him to contend with due to the proximity he had with the beautiful coconut tree that stands next to our house. So after few moments of giggling we finally went to sleep.
Daybreak saw a return to sanity which lead us to scurry to the warmth of our house. Slowly the guests left and the house was quiet once again. A weekend gathering was planned at one Samarkhand which was vouched to be the best restaurant he has ever eaten in by none other than our very own Bada Saheb.
Now as I sit in my office with so much time so as to write this entire blog in one go, I eagerly await that weekend, that gathering which brings so much fun and happiness that for once I tend to forget the ends and the means which have been troubling me. I am beginnning to think that maybe life's all about these little moments, inconsequential to the world but immensley satisfying to the self, maybe no matter what you do and where you are, happiness is after all, a state of mind, it's about being in good company.
Friday, August 04, 2006
And Life Goes On.............
Remember the first time your father let go of the bicycle and you discovered one of the most amazing miracles of everyday life, your first crush in school, the first day in college, the first drink...... There's something about these firsts which persist in our memory irrespective of their actual quality. So are the lasts, but I will leave them for some other day, some other time. For now let me celebrate the new firsts that have been happening day in day out in my life.
After three weeks of intensive search finally we had our house, a first of sorts for most of us. The peculiar house renting rules in Bangalore meant that I had the priviledge of writing the first cheque (2 in fact) of my life. And what a first that was. With one swift stroke of my hand, Rs 1.5 lakh had been payed to our landlord, albeit in a postdated manner. The first salary followed soon after, soured somewhat by the hefty amount that the IT took away. Strangely I didn't feel anything particularly exciting on receiving the salary. The transition to the salaried class was very everyday to say the least.
A couple of days ago I had a chat with a very close friend and that too after quite some time. To say that it was one of the highpoints of my life after coming to Bangalore wouldn't be an overstatement. I have always seen him as one of the most level headed guys around. The clarity of thought he presents when you are talking with him tends to leave you amazed though there are some topics in which this very same clarity and in depth knowledge makes you run for cover. Anyway, if you happen to be regular reader of my blog, you would know that I have Lost Control, and though I am yet nowhere near finding the solution, yet chatting with my friend was so soothing that I felt a strange calm descend on me after that. He told me how even he is unsure in his own way of his life ahead, in a different level and context though. We chatted for quite a while on these issues, of life and finding a calling and in between he came up with his trademark straight-from-a-science-journal advices. I don't know whether it was what he said to me (which was mostly on the lines of take it easy and it happens to everyone) or simply the effect of talking to someone you like, someone you look up to in a certain way, someone who knows you, I went back home a happier man.
It's strange to think about the number of things we demand to stay happy, to feel in control of ourselves, to live. The first few days in office were without any instant messenger, GMail or Orkut and needless to say we were almost at our wits end. At home there was no TV and no computer. A month into this city and the home still looks the same though the office space has changed to only "No Orkut ". The one thing that has significantly changed though is that it doesn't affect me anymore. The hiatus from orkut hasn't stopped my life. It hasn't infact changed anything so as to say. I still talk to people who matter to me. I wouldn't mind having a TV when I come back from office, but its absence has meant that I spend more time reading Thomas Friedman's wonderful commentary of the age that we live in, titled The World Is Flat.
I think we tend to bring more and more things in our lives in an attempt to make it happier, more comfortable, more liveable and more engrossing and end up making it more complex and more dependent.
I don't know what's making me think about all these things these days. I was never the person to think about anything other than the present. I have acted on instincts in most of my decisions in my life. Maybe the lack of work is prompting me to have all these thoughts in my mind, maybe its the first job blues which has triggered off this introspection phase. Whatever it is, the one thing that is definite in all this sea of confusion and chaos is that right now I am doing what I like doing the most.......talking to me.
After three weeks of intensive search finally we had our house, a first of sorts for most of us. The peculiar house renting rules in Bangalore meant that I had the priviledge of writing the first cheque (2 in fact) of my life. And what a first that was. With one swift stroke of my hand, Rs 1.5 lakh had been payed to our landlord, albeit in a postdated manner. The first salary followed soon after, soured somewhat by the hefty amount that the IT took away. Strangely I didn't feel anything particularly exciting on receiving the salary. The transition to the salaried class was very everyday to say the least.
A couple of days ago I had a chat with a very close friend and that too after quite some time. To say that it was one of the highpoints of my life after coming to Bangalore wouldn't be an overstatement. I have always seen him as one of the most level headed guys around. The clarity of thought he presents when you are talking with him tends to leave you amazed though there are some topics in which this very same clarity and in depth knowledge makes you run for cover. Anyway, if you happen to be regular reader of my blog, you would know that I have Lost Control, and though I am yet nowhere near finding the solution, yet chatting with my friend was so soothing that I felt a strange calm descend on me after that. He told me how even he is unsure in his own way of his life ahead, in a different level and context though. We chatted for quite a while on these issues, of life and finding a calling and in between he came up with his trademark straight-from-a-science-journal advices. I don't know whether it was what he said to me (which was mostly on the lines of take it easy and it happens to everyone) or simply the effect of talking to someone you like, someone you look up to in a certain way, someone who knows you, I went back home a happier man.
It's strange to think about the number of things we demand to stay happy, to feel in control of ourselves, to live. The first few days in office were without any instant messenger, GMail or Orkut and needless to say we were almost at our wits end. At home there was no TV and no computer. A month into this city and the home still looks the same though the office space has changed to only "No Orkut ". The one thing that has significantly changed though is that it doesn't affect me anymore. The hiatus from orkut hasn't stopped my life. It hasn't infact changed anything so as to say. I still talk to people who matter to me. I wouldn't mind having a TV when I come back from office, but its absence has meant that I spend more time reading Thomas Friedman's wonderful commentary of the age that we live in, titled The World Is Flat.
I think we tend to bring more and more things in our lives in an attempt to make it happier, more comfortable, more liveable and more engrossing and end up making it more complex and more dependent.
I don't know what's making me think about all these things these days. I was never the person to think about anything other than the present. I have acted on instincts in most of my decisions in my life. Maybe the lack of work is prompting me to have all these thoughts in my mind, maybe its the first job blues which has triggered off this introspection phase. Whatever it is, the one thing that is definite in all this sea of confusion and chaos is that right now I am doing what I like doing the most.......talking to me.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Lose Control
No, it's nothing to do with the RDB smash hit number except maybe for the fact that I can relate more to the College ke andar hum zindagi ko nachaate hain, College ke bahar zindagi hum ko nachaati hai .. quote. It's been a feeliing that has been prevalent for quite some time now. Why am I doing what I am doing.
Call it a repercussion of not getting what was my first choice as life after graduation, or the fact that throughout my life I have never been very good at anything. Nothing seems to excite me for long and it spans all realms of my known world from computer science to geography (my favourite sublect in school), from literature to music. I have never been able to master any thing, never gained supreme authority even over one small topic; not one musical instument, not one author, not one language (and this includes english, hindi and bengali). Until now it didn't matter, or maybe it did but I didn't feel it. Till yesterday my familiarity with most things was my strength. Today, viewed from a different angle I feel shallow. Suddenly I am not sure what I want to do with my life.
Do I want to be software engineer (actually I am already supposed to be one). Do I want to be an investment banker. Do I give CAT this year. What if I don't like management and fail miserably. What about a job change. Do I actually want to do a job, any job. If not then what. Why can't I do something else.
All those "Where do you see yourself 5/10 years down the line......" questions seem to make so much sense now. Here I am sitting in my office with nothing much to do, spending most of the day surfing the net, chatting and reading some documents, wondering, is this what I am meant to do, is this my life. It's not that I despise it. That would have made things easier. Worse, I am nowhere close to the solution. I have seen my batchmates and fellow bloggers follow this path of introspection throughout their professional career (which is one year) and get nowhere near the answer. Then again sometimes I let go of all this and say to myself "What the hell, just do what comes your way and try to make the most out of it. That's what you are supposed to do....". So there are these two voices in my head, much like the friend and the fiend in Launcelot Gobbo's comic Scene in The Merchant Of Venice and I can't make out whom to follow. Sometimes I think that whatever I do (for a living that is), if I consider it the means to achieve the ends (which are things that I love to do, some of which would require me to be financially independent) then all's well. On the other hand the second voice tells me it's the journey that counts and not the destination so if the means itself are not worth the pains the ends never will be.
Why am I not good at anything. I see people all around me, my friends mostly, who are very good at something and it ranges from various aspects of computer science to physics (mainly optics), from running a factory, working 6.75 days a week to being doctors. I hope I soon find my calling in life and when I do I hope to have the courage to follow it. For a third voice in me says that there are no ends and means, there's only one thing and that is Life.
Call it a repercussion of not getting what was my first choice as life after graduation, or the fact that throughout my life I have never been very good at anything. Nothing seems to excite me for long and it spans all realms of my known world from computer science to geography (my favourite sublect in school), from literature to music. I have never been able to master any thing, never gained supreme authority even over one small topic; not one musical instument, not one author, not one language (and this includes english, hindi and bengali). Until now it didn't matter, or maybe it did but I didn't feel it. Till yesterday my familiarity with most things was my strength. Today, viewed from a different angle I feel shallow. Suddenly I am not sure what I want to do with my life.
Do I want to be software engineer (actually I am already supposed to be one). Do I want to be an investment banker. Do I give CAT this year. What if I don't like management and fail miserably. What about a job change. Do I actually want to do a job, any job. If not then what. Why can't I do something else.
All those "Where do you see yourself 5/10 years down the line......" questions seem to make so much sense now. Here I am sitting in my office with nothing much to do, spending most of the day surfing the net, chatting and reading some documents, wondering, is this what I am meant to do, is this my life. It's not that I despise it. That would have made things easier. Worse, I am nowhere close to the solution. I have seen my batchmates and fellow bloggers follow this path of introspection throughout their professional career (which is one year) and get nowhere near the answer. Then again sometimes I let go of all this and say to myself "What the hell, just do what comes your way and try to make the most out of it. That's what you are supposed to do....". So there are these two voices in my head, much like the friend and the fiend in Launcelot Gobbo's comic Scene in The Merchant Of Venice and I can't make out whom to follow. Sometimes I think that whatever I do (for a living that is), if I consider it the means to achieve the ends (which are things that I love to do, some of which would require me to be financially independent) then all's well. On the other hand the second voice tells me it's the journey that counts and not the destination so if the means itself are not worth the pains the ends never will be.
Why am I not good at anything. I see people all around me, my friends mostly, who are very good at something and it ranges from various aspects of computer science to physics (mainly optics), from running a factory, working 6.75 days a week to being doctors. I hope I soon find my calling in life and when I do I hope to have the courage to follow it. For a third voice in me says that there are no ends and means, there's only one thing and that is Life.
Monday, July 24, 2006
Hello Bangalore
Act 1, Scene 1
Me: I was calling to inquire about the 3 BHK house in Koramangala......
Voice on the other side(VOTOS): Are you Bachelors?
Me: Ya , 4 of us
VOTOS: .....
Me: OK sorry for bothering you..
Act 1, Scene 2
Me: I was calling to inquire about the 3 BHK house in Levelle Road....
VOTOS: OK...the rent is 25 K with 10 month deposit
Me: Ah.. that's a bit high for our budget...Thanks anyway..
Act 1, Scene 3
Agent: Aap phele house dekhega to immediate lega ....bahut achcha .. independent duplex house... 2 Kms from MG Road...
The house turns out to be around 6 Kms from MG Road.
I have always wanted my life to be eventful. To have experiences which can be remembered forever. A month into Bangalore, that wish has been pretty well taken care of by the powers that be. Office has been pretty normal so as to say with the usual process of induction, training, getting to meet new people and doing other routine jobs. It's the weekends and the time spent commuting between office and home that has been the flavour of the month.
Imagine two fresh engineering graduates with a decent paying job and families to support them financially, roaming in MG Road (if you have been to Bangalore you would know what it is) with a total amount of Rs 40 in their pockets, unsure of where to sleep at night. On top of that one of them had lost his wallet a couple of days ago so has no debit/credit card and the other has the good old SBI ATM card, a memento from the student days gone by, which, true to its character acquired over 5 years, boasts of a princely amount of Rs 43. It's as pathetic and hilarious as it can get, both at the same time. Yes, this was my friend and me. That we managed to call up our friend and had the most expensive dinner in Bangalore till date is another story.
Commuting in Bangalore at peak office hours can be a frustrating and humiliating experience and to add to that when you don't have you own home and are staying at your friend's friend's (yeah that's not a typo!) house for well over a fortnight, which is about an hour's bus/cab/auto drive from your office, things tend to get a bit edgy. As a result, simple things like arriving home in 20 minutes instead of the 45 or so, dishing out only Rs 20 instead of the usual 36 brings immense pleasure and satisfaction.
And yet amongst all these seemingly frustrating and unnerving experiences there's always that dinner with friends at an open air restaurant designed like a beach with sand and the sound of the surf with one Raja playing "ajeeb daastan hai ye..." on his mouth organ and guitar (yes both at the same time !) and then singing "Wonderful Tonight" which makes you realise what a fine balance this life actually is.
"A Time To Make Friends"..said the huge banners in Germany and even here in Bangalore new acquaintances were being made both in the office and the at places I stayed in, some of which soon turned to friendships.
But all these incidents take a backseat when it comes to the real adventure. One which has been going on for the last three weekends and at times splilling over to weekdays too....House Hunting.
3 BHK, close to MG Road, close to Bannerghatta Road, good house, good locality (you know what I mean by good locality !), within our budget, splitting of the 10 month deposit into two parts and no landlord interference. The list of parameters to be satisfied was long and so was the search for the perfect house. Project "Bangla Mile Nyara" started with two people and moved from strength to strength as more members joined in the search. There were close to a score of houses seen, in heat and dust, in rain and wind, some at places where you can't differentiate between the road and the two drains on either side of it when it pours, travelling by bike, car, foot and mostly by auto rickshaws, getting so fed up of paying Rs 12 (the minimum fare) to the auto driver (some of whom swear by the name of Baba........ Rajnikanth to the the average Indian!) that you almost wished for a Rs 12 currency note to be introduced by RBI for this very purpose, standing at crossroads like vagabonds with the Eicher Bangalore map, pen, cell phone, Ad Mag and Free Ads spread around, alternately looking at the newspaper and the map to ascertain the location of the house, ringing up agents and landlords repeating the same starting sentences, circling up entries in the paper and then crossing them out as house after house falied to pass our stringent requirements; Project "Bangla Mile Nyara" was living up to its hype.
There's a lot more to write about, a lot more to think but for now let's leave it at that.
Act 2, Scene 1
Us: So can the deposit be split into 2 equal halves.....
Landlord: hmm.. OK that won't be a problem....
Me (to agent): Can we pay the commission after we get our salary
Agent: OK... boss theek hai..
Meanwhile somebody calls up from above: Yaar terrace mast hai .. dekh jaa aa ke....
Us (to Landlord): So we will come tomorrow to sign the documents...
Hello Bangalore................
Me: I was calling to inquire about the 3 BHK house in Koramangala......
Voice on the other side(VOTOS): Are you Bachelors?
Me: Ya , 4 of us
VOTOS: .....
Me: OK sorry for bothering you..
Act 1, Scene 2
Me: I was calling to inquire about the 3 BHK house in Levelle Road....
VOTOS: OK...the rent is 25 K with 10 month deposit
Me: Ah.. that's a bit high for our budget...Thanks anyway..
Act 1, Scene 3
Agent: Aap phele house dekhega to immediate lega ....bahut achcha .. independent duplex house... 2 Kms from MG Road...
The house turns out to be around 6 Kms from MG Road.
I have always wanted my life to be eventful. To have experiences which can be remembered forever. A month into Bangalore, that wish has been pretty well taken care of by the powers that be. Office has been pretty normal so as to say with the usual process of induction, training, getting to meet new people and doing other routine jobs. It's the weekends and the time spent commuting between office and home that has been the flavour of the month.
Imagine two fresh engineering graduates with a decent paying job and families to support them financially, roaming in MG Road (if you have been to Bangalore you would know what it is) with a total amount of Rs 40 in their pockets, unsure of where to sleep at night. On top of that one of them had lost his wallet a couple of days ago so has no debit/credit card and the other has the good old SBI ATM card, a memento from the student days gone by, which, true to its character acquired over 5 years, boasts of a princely amount of Rs 43. It's as pathetic and hilarious as it can get, both at the same time. Yes, this was my friend and me. That we managed to call up our friend and had the most expensive dinner in Bangalore till date is another story.
Commuting in Bangalore at peak office hours can be a frustrating and humiliating experience and to add to that when you don't have you own home and are staying at your friend's friend's (yeah that's not a typo!) house for well over a fortnight, which is about an hour's bus/cab/auto drive from your office, things tend to get a bit edgy. As a result, simple things like arriving home in 20 minutes instead of the 45 or so, dishing out only Rs 20 instead of the usual 36 brings immense pleasure and satisfaction.
And yet amongst all these seemingly frustrating and unnerving experiences there's always that dinner with friends at an open air restaurant designed like a beach with sand and the sound of the surf with one Raja playing "ajeeb daastan hai ye..." on his mouth organ and guitar (yes both at the same time !) and then singing "Wonderful Tonight" which makes you realise what a fine balance this life actually is.
"A Time To Make Friends"..said the huge banners in Germany and even here in Bangalore new acquaintances were being made both in the office and the at places I stayed in, some of which soon turned to friendships.
But all these incidents take a backseat when it comes to the real adventure. One which has been going on for the last three weekends and at times splilling over to weekdays too....House Hunting.
3 BHK, close to MG Road, close to Bannerghatta Road, good house, good locality (you know what I mean by good locality !), within our budget, splitting of the 10 month deposit into two parts and no landlord interference. The list of parameters to be satisfied was long and so was the search for the perfect house. Project "Bangla Mile Nyara" started with two people and moved from strength to strength as more members joined in the search. There were close to a score of houses seen, in heat and dust, in rain and wind, some at places where you can't differentiate between the road and the two drains on either side of it when it pours, travelling by bike, car, foot and mostly by auto rickshaws, getting so fed up of paying Rs 12 (the minimum fare) to the auto driver (some of whom swear by the name of Baba........ Rajnikanth to the the average Indian!) that you almost wished for a Rs 12 currency note to be introduced by RBI for this very purpose, standing at crossroads like vagabonds with the Eicher Bangalore map, pen, cell phone, Ad Mag and Free Ads spread around, alternately looking at the newspaper and the map to ascertain the location of the house, ringing up agents and landlords repeating the same starting sentences, circling up entries in the paper and then crossing them out as house after house falied to pass our stringent requirements; Project "Bangla Mile Nyara" was living up to its hype.
There's a lot more to write about, a lot more to think but for now let's leave it at that.
Act 2, Scene 1
Us: So can the deposit be split into 2 equal halves.....
Landlord: hmm.. OK that won't be a problem....
Me (to agent): Can we pay the commission after we get our salary
Agent: OK... boss theek hai..
Meanwhile somebody calls up from above: Yaar terrace mast hai .. dekh jaa aa ke....
Us (to Landlord): So we will come tomorrow to sign the documents...
Hello Bangalore................
Thursday, June 29, 2006
A New Life
As I boarded the B'lore bound Jet Airways flight from Dum Dum airport, Kolkata, with the tickets of 2 more between B'lore and Delhi already booked, two thoughts kept me occupied: 1) had France managed to qualify for the 2nd round to give Zizou one last shot at glory & 2) the lines from the song "Thoda Paisa" by Aghosh "..jahan bhi jaenge, jaenge flight se aha, are aha. Aur Sunday manaege Friday night se haan.....". Viera and Henry made sure that the talismanic Zidane gets another chance and later the perennial underachievers Spain made sure that Sunday will see a repeat of the '98 finals between the favourites, who are yet to show their Samba Magic to full effect and a team which has somehow managed to scrape through with most of their players in the twilight of their career.
It's been 5 days since I landed in B'lore after having a fortnight's break with my parents in Bokaro which followed a momentous event in my life; that of my completing my final project, graduating and becoming an engineer, the reason for my hiatus from blogging. I have always been a here, now kind of a guy. Future plannings, setting long term goals, looking ahead are things which I am seldom able to comprehend though I tend to think about them a lot. So as I stand at a crossroads of my life, I find myself at a totally alien environment, that of the software industry, in a city which is fast loosing its charm to outsiders though the weather is still awesome especially if you happen to come from Delhi, unsure of what I want, unsure of the course of my life in the next one year, hoping to find my true calling. It's a big jolt to say the least. Make no mistake though, I am neither worried nor sad. It's just that things haven't yet fallen into place for me here. Instead of the twenty odd familiar faces that I used to see everyday, now I see only one, the 3 to 12 sleeping schedule has given way to a 3 (Thank God there is the World Cup) to 9 one. Office is mostly boring and banal. The guest house is pretty impressive and most importantly has a TV. The soccer has been dramatic though predictable and is destined to get better in the final stages with the prospects of a Ger-Bra or Arg-Bra Finale. Krissh turned out to be more melodrama than super hero so hopefully Superman Returns soon.
The fortnight long vacation with my parents was spent packing my wardrobe with formal wear or cotton casuals as the brand would name them, replacing my 4 year old 3310 with a flashy one with camera and radio and what not (I don't remember the model number) and mostly basking in the glory of becoming a graduate, trying to fathom the reason why my parents were so happy when I hadn't done anything more than allowing things to take their own course. Somehow I knew things are going to be very different and it was a time to let go. Let go of not washing yourself or your clothes till God knows how long, let go of living day in day out with lots of people and noise around you, let go of familiar places, let go of your Dad's money, let go of your lifestyle for the last 5 years. Suddenly the proud and spontaneous answer to an elderly gentleman's query or a lady's with two beautiful daughters in a train to "Kya karte ho beta...." had changed to a very everyday and commonplace just another face in the crowd types. It was time to let go of student life and take a step towards the professional one. Meanwhile I also had counselling sessions with two more new entrants to the college I left and the hopes and aspirations of the boys as well as their families were so akin to those of mine and my parents' half a decade (wow that seems long!) ago that it almost seemed I was doing it all over again.
So here I am, in the garden city trying to find my footing (and more importantly a house!), waiting for more friends to arrive in mid July to lend a bit more familiarity to this place, hoping also that the next blog is not this bad and random.
It's been 5 days since I landed in B'lore after having a fortnight's break with my parents in Bokaro which followed a momentous event in my life; that of my completing my final project, graduating and becoming an engineer, the reason for my hiatus from blogging. I have always been a here, now kind of a guy. Future plannings, setting long term goals, looking ahead are things which I am seldom able to comprehend though I tend to think about them a lot. So as I stand at a crossroads of my life, I find myself at a totally alien environment, that of the software industry, in a city which is fast loosing its charm to outsiders though the weather is still awesome especially if you happen to come from Delhi, unsure of what I want, unsure of the course of my life in the next one year, hoping to find my true calling. It's a big jolt to say the least. Make no mistake though, I am neither worried nor sad. It's just that things haven't yet fallen into place for me here. Instead of the twenty odd familiar faces that I used to see everyday, now I see only one, the 3 to 12 sleeping schedule has given way to a 3 (Thank God there is the World Cup) to 9 one. Office is mostly boring and banal. The guest house is pretty impressive and most importantly has a TV. The soccer has been dramatic though predictable and is destined to get better in the final stages with the prospects of a Ger-Bra or Arg-Bra Finale. Krissh turned out to be more melodrama than super hero so hopefully Superman Returns soon.
The fortnight long vacation with my parents was spent packing my wardrobe with formal wear or cotton casuals as the brand would name them, replacing my 4 year old 3310 with a flashy one with camera and radio and what not (I don't remember the model number) and mostly basking in the glory of becoming a graduate, trying to fathom the reason why my parents were so happy when I hadn't done anything more than allowing things to take their own course. Somehow I knew things are going to be very different and it was a time to let go. Let go of not washing yourself or your clothes till God knows how long, let go of living day in day out with lots of people and noise around you, let go of familiar places, let go of your Dad's money, let go of your lifestyle for the last 5 years. Suddenly the proud and spontaneous answer to an elderly gentleman's query or a lady's with two beautiful daughters in a train to "Kya karte ho beta...." had changed to a very everyday and commonplace just another face in the crowd types. It was time to let go of student life and take a step towards the professional one. Meanwhile I also had counselling sessions with two more new entrants to the college I left and the hopes and aspirations of the boys as well as their families were so akin to those of mine and my parents' half a decade (wow that seems long!) ago that it almost seemed I was doing it all over again.
So here I am, in the garden city trying to find my footing (and more importantly a house!), waiting for more friends to arrive in mid July to lend a bit more familiarity to this place, hoping also that the next blog is not this bad and random.
Friday, May 26, 2006
A Steel Plant and also my home
About a fortnight from now, I would be leaving Delhi for good. The city which I first visited as an eight grader, the city to which I came as a complete stranger like so many others (especially from the part of the world I come from!) to chase my dreams, the city which has been my home for the last five years. But if you are thinking that I am going to chronicle my five, rather six years of stay in this city or enumerate the reasons why I have fallen in love with it, you are in for some dissapointment. For this post is not about Delhi, it's about a small city I spent my childhood in.
I grew up at a place called Bokaro; Bokaro Steel City to be precise. It was a beautiful place to grow up. I remember the look of astonishment on one of my mother's uncle's face when he visited us for the first time, for inspite of being in Bihar (yes it was in the pre Jharkhand days) about which more often than not an outsider forms a definitive image in his mind, he found Bokaro to be a place he would love to spend time in. For a child like me, growing up in Bokaro was one of the best things that happened to me. It's a small city and so everything was nearby ranging from the shopping centre to the hospital to schools. Kids could play on the colony roads without any fear of intrusion of vehicles, go to schools in groups riding a bicycle, play in the rain, go picnicing during winters. To a fourteen-fifteen year old, life possibly couldn't be any better. The only big city that I had been to as a kid was Calcutta, the city I was born in. And since the stay was never too long, I failed to associate myself with it.
It's difficult to write about something when you have so many memories of it. You don't know where and how to begin. It's like meeting your best friend from school after a long time. There's so much history between the two of you, so much to talk, so much to catch up on, that you find yourself at a loss of words.
My first memories of the place go back to the Nursery School I attended, a mere five minutes walk from my home, a distance which I used to cover on my father's Jawa in the morning and with my mother in the afternoon, harping about the happenings of the day. I still vividly remember one particular day when this ritual was broken. Classes had ended earlier than usual on that particular day and as was my wont, I looked out of the window of my classroom to catch a glimpse of my mother waiting there for me. To my horror she wasn't there. I waited for about ten minutes in the sun waiting for her to arrive knowing little that she couldn't possibly have any inkling that my classes had gotten over. But for a four year old kid, his parents are supreme beings, capable of doing anything, knowing everything and being anywhere when he needs them. Anyway, it took a great act of courage from my side and one of benevolence from the rickshaw-wallah who used to carry some of my friends and who knew me and my mother, to finally alight on the rickshaw and head towards home. It was about halfway through the distance that I saw my mother. I immediately got down from the rickshaw while the rickshaw-wallah explained the situation to my mother. The crisis was over.
There were children of all ages in my neighbourhood and all of us used to play cricket together; even the girls (though all of them sadly were didis for me). The lack of a field nearby meant that everyday from about four to six in the evening, the small bylane in front of our home would be turned into a cricket field with a concrete pitch (who said in India cricket is played on slow low wickets :)). Cars would be made to vanish, the ladies would take care not to sit anywhere near the pitch in fear of green spherical objects being hurled at them, passerbys would wait for the action to get over before venturing to cross the field, mayhem would reign supreme for two hours and yes, I almost forgot, some cricket would also be played. Sometimes the venue would change too. The concrete pitch would be replaced by a clay one, the girls would be banned, there would be no leg side play, the lack of space meant that the only shots which got you runs were the square cut and the tendulkaresqe straight drive, a bus tyre would replace the stumps (God knows where it came from), nicks would be considered out, the friendly tennis ball would make way for the mean deuce ball and the punishment for hitting the glass window pane was to register a complain at the nearby maintenance office.
The Bokaro I grew up in was a very calm and laidback city. There were no traffic lights, no public transport buses on the roads, people knew who their neighbours were. Everything was very simple, very easygoing. The city was there because of the Plant and not the other way around so apart from the fact that most of the population comprised of people who worked there and their families, it also meant that that entire city had a very structured and planned look about it. True there were no multiplexes or Nike and Adidas showrooms but who cared. I had my friends, my family, the weather was great, school was fun, teachers knew you by name and often became aunties when you met them in the market places. The place where I lived was called the Russian Colony. Several Soviet experts used to live there earlier during the days the plant was being set up and though quite a few of them remained then and the majority of the place had been populated by Indians, the name had stayed. I remember one Mr. Edward, a Soviet expert who was my father's colleague and friend and his wife Madam Ella. We used to go their place once in a while and they also came over at times. My father was fluent in Russian so while he conversed in Russian most of the time with them, I and my mother managed with English. I remember seeing Edward uncle in a golden kurta my father had given him and aunt Ella in a saree which my mother had given her. They looked beautiful. He was older than my father. In fact he had a grandson who was called Anton and since my pet name was Taton, I reminded him of his grandson. He loved me and so did I. A few years later, he left Bokaro, forever.
The colony had in its centre, what we kids used to call, a jungle. It was basically a quite densly forested area with a few foxes as the only wild inhabitants. What it also meant that during the rainy season you could sit on the balcony of your home and see the rain falling in the jungle and the water making small streams in the mud. There were also the sparrows, the hummingbirds, the koels and the parrots to be seen. In short, it was a very green city with lots of trees and parks, little pollution (the steel plant was on theoutskirts of the city) and no water or electricity shortages. I used to boast about it all the time when faced with the power cuts in my maternal grandfather's home in Silchar which we used to go during the summer vacations. Life was good and I was as happy as one could be.
Gradually the years rolled by. Scooters replaced the bicycles, tuitions replaced cricket, we moved from Qr. No. 3016 to Qr. No. 1019, a few friends left, some things changed. I came to know about life in another city called New Delhi and all of a sudden, Bokaro became smaller and ceased to be the best place in the world. Nevertheless my family was still there and the bimonthly visits continued. But with each visit, the city kept shrinking. Delhi is great and spending my college life here is probably one of the best things to have happened to me but whenever I go to the place I spent my childhood in and walk the streets which used to be our playground, go to my school (which warrants a post in itself), visit old acquaintances; the floodgates of memories open up. I feel a strange calm descend upon me and however bored I get there after a few days, the day before leaving is always difficult. My father would be retiring in another four or five years and move to Kolkata. I wonder after that if ever I would visit that place, the place who's name more often than not brings the same statement from people I have just met..."Bokaro... oh Steel Plant....". Yes, Steel Plant but also my childhood, my home.
I grew up at a place called Bokaro; Bokaro Steel City to be precise. It was a beautiful place to grow up. I remember the look of astonishment on one of my mother's uncle's face when he visited us for the first time, for inspite of being in Bihar (yes it was in the pre Jharkhand days) about which more often than not an outsider forms a definitive image in his mind, he found Bokaro to be a place he would love to spend time in. For a child like me, growing up in Bokaro was one of the best things that happened to me. It's a small city and so everything was nearby ranging from the shopping centre to the hospital to schools. Kids could play on the colony roads without any fear of intrusion of vehicles, go to schools in groups riding a bicycle, play in the rain, go picnicing during winters. To a fourteen-fifteen year old, life possibly couldn't be any better. The only big city that I had been to as a kid was Calcutta, the city I was born in. And since the stay was never too long, I failed to associate myself with it.
It's difficult to write about something when you have so many memories of it. You don't know where and how to begin. It's like meeting your best friend from school after a long time. There's so much history between the two of you, so much to talk, so much to catch up on, that you find yourself at a loss of words.
My first memories of the place go back to the Nursery School I attended, a mere five minutes walk from my home, a distance which I used to cover on my father's Jawa in the morning and with my mother in the afternoon, harping about the happenings of the day. I still vividly remember one particular day when this ritual was broken. Classes had ended earlier than usual on that particular day and as was my wont, I looked out of the window of my classroom to catch a glimpse of my mother waiting there for me. To my horror she wasn't there. I waited for about ten minutes in the sun waiting for her to arrive knowing little that she couldn't possibly have any inkling that my classes had gotten over. But for a four year old kid, his parents are supreme beings, capable of doing anything, knowing everything and being anywhere when he needs them. Anyway, it took a great act of courage from my side and one of benevolence from the rickshaw-wallah who used to carry some of my friends and who knew me and my mother, to finally alight on the rickshaw and head towards home. It was about halfway through the distance that I saw my mother. I immediately got down from the rickshaw while the rickshaw-wallah explained the situation to my mother. The crisis was over.
There were children of all ages in my neighbourhood and all of us used to play cricket together; even the girls (though all of them sadly were didis for me). The lack of a field nearby meant that everyday from about four to six in the evening, the small bylane in front of our home would be turned into a cricket field with a concrete pitch (who said in India cricket is played on slow low wickets :)). Cars would be made to vanish, the ladies would take care not to sit anywhere near the pitch in fear of green spherical objects being hurled at them, passerbys would wait for the action to get over before venturing to cross the field, mayhem would reign supreme for two hours and yes, I almost forgot, some cricket would also be played. Sometimes the venue would change too. The concrete pitch would be replaced by a clay one, the girls would be banned, there would be no leg side play, the lack of space meant that the only shots which got you runs were the square cut and the tendulkaresqe straight drive, a bus tyre would replace the stumps (God knows where it came from), nicks would be considered out, the friendly tennis ball would make way for the mean deuce ball and the punishment for hitting the glass window pane was to register a complain at the nearby maintenance office.
The Bokaro I grew up in was a very calm and laidback city. There were no traffic lights, no public transport buses on the roads, people knew who their neighbours were. Everything was very simple, very easygoing. The city was there because of the Plant and not the other way around so apart from the fact that most of the population comprised of people who worked there and their families, it also meant that that entire city had a very structured and planned look about it. True there were no multiplexes or Nike and Adidas showrooms but who cared. I had my friends, my family, the weather was great, school was fun, teachers knew you by name and often became aunties when you met them in the market places. The place where I lived was called the Russian Colony. Several Soviet experts used to live there earlier during the days the plant was being set up and though quite a few of them remained then and the majority of the place had been populated by Indians, the name had stayed. I remember one Mr. Edward, a Soviet expert who was my father's colleague and friend and his wife Madam Ella. We used to go their place once in a while and they also came over at times. My father was fluent in Russian so while he conversed in Russian most of the time with them, I and my mother managed with English. I remember seeing Edward uncle in a golden kurta my father had given him and aunt Ella in a saree which my mother had given her. They looked beautiful. He was older than my father. In fact he had a grandson who was called Anton and since my pet name was Taton, I reminded him of his grandson. He loved me and so did I. A few years later, he left Bokaro, forever.
The colony had in its centre, what we kids used to call, a jungle. It was basically a quite densly forested area with a few foxes as the only wild inhabitants. What it also meant that during the rainy season you could sit on the balcony of your home and see the rain falling in the jungle and the water making small streams in the mud. There were also the sparrows, the hummingbirds, the koels and the parrots to be seen. In short, it was a very green city with lots of trees and parks, little pollution (the steel plant was on theoutskirts of the city) and no water or electricity shortages. I used to boast about it all the time when faced with the power cuts in my maternal grandfather's home in Silchar which we used to go during the summer vacations. Life was good and I was as happy as one could be.
Gradually the years rolled by. Scooters replaced the bicycles, tuitions replaced cricket, we moved from Qr. No. 3016 to Qr. No. 1019, a few friends left, some things changed. I came to know about life in another city called New Delhi and all of a sudden, Bokaro became smaller and ceased to be the best place in the world. Nevertheless my family was still there and the bimonthly visits continued. But with each visit, the city kept shrinking. Delhi is great and spending my college life here is probably one of the best things to have happened to me but whenever I go to the place I spent my childhood in and walk the streets which used to be our playground, go to my school (which warrants a post in itself), visit old acquaintances; the floodgates of memories open up. I feel a strange calm descend upon me and however bored I get there after a few days, the day before leaving is always difficult. My father would be retiring in another four or five years and move to Kolkata. I wonder after that if ever I would visit that place, the place who's name more often than not brings the same statement from people I have just met..."Bokaro... oh Steel Plant....". Yes, Steel Plant but also my childhood, my home.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Thank you for the Music - 1
Even as the train ground to a halt in New Jalpaiguri station, hawkers and peddlers had already started making their way into our compartment. If you have ever travelled by train in this part of the country you would know what's the predominant item that all of them carry around. From digital watches to cameras to two-in-ones (yes this was early 90's and two-in-ones were still in fashion) contraband from across the border used to be sold as openly and matter of factly as anything under the sun. Being a ten year old kid, most of these flashy gadgets did not catch my attention unless it was a Yo-Yo with neon lights or a toy airplane or perhaps something which made a lot of noise. So it was but natural when I requested my father to let me have a look at "that thing" when one of the peddlers came to our berth and turned on the demo of the Casio SA-1. For the uninitiated, the Casio SA-1 is the smallest model of the synthesizers or keyboards or Casios as they have also come to be called, that are available in the market. Anyway, my father was both surprised and amused by this request as I had never before seen such a thing and so he thought that I had obviously mistaken it for another toy which did nothing but make a lot of noise.
Being a single child has its advantages and although I can assertively say that I have never been a demanding one, yet there was and still is an unspoken, unwritten code of understanding between my parents and I which grants me the right to request for anything I want anytime but at the same time respect their opinion about the same. This has done wonders to my relationship with my parents and in twenty four years of my existence I have almost never had to ask for anything to which they have had an objection.
Coming back to the incident, soon I had the instrument in my lap as the peddler started pressing some buttons and keys, showing us the various beats and tones that could be produced from it. After he had been done with his customary demonstration I finally had the thing to my own. So I started fiddling around with the set of black and white keys trying to produce a semblance of the latest Bollywood hit (I have no rememberance of the exact song) and to the surprise of all and sundry present there including me, within a minute or so I was actually playing it. For me, the journey had just begun.
Like most Bengali parents, mine were also very keen that I take to some form or the other of creative art. So it was around the time that I had moved into second grade that they decided that music was to be my leisurely activity. Tabla was chosen to be my instrument and to make it more interesting, my father himself decided to take classes in Hawaiian Guitar at the same time. The fact that the tutor they chose for the job was an expert in both the instruments certainly helped. Soon however owing to my father's lack of time (12-14 hour shop floor duties in a Steel Plant can drain you out) and my excess, it was me who was taking lessons in both, learning the nuances of Teentaal and Raag Yaman Kalyan at the same time. Within a year or so, though, the Guitar lost out to Tabla primarily because Zakir Hussain had become a household name and there was nothing else I wanted to become and also due to the fact that I realised that I was far better in understanding rythym than harmony. As luck would have it I had to change tutors too often and though each of them had their own ways and styles which ultimately helped me, yet it was unsettling in some ways. So two years down the line I had a new tutor who like my father was also an employee with the Bokaro Steel Plant, was undoubtedly the best Tabla player in the city and also a strict taskmaster. I still remember the way he used to keep a talcum powder case under my right wrist and hold my arm so as to make sure only my palms moved and the rest of the body remained still. I adored and respected him for his skills but more so because he taught me the most in the least time. So last year when I met him in a Durga Pooja pandal and touched his feet he introduced me to his wife and kid as "This is Atish, the most disciplined student I have had..." , it meant a world to me, not because discipline is the last word I can associate with myself now but because after all these years he still remembered me and that was prize enough.
Meanwhile my exploits with the SA-1 continued as I discovered that playing tunes was not that difficult a job and could be done in solitude without anybody's help. Soon I graduated to a Yamaha PSS-390 which had 4 octaves as compared to the former's 2. My desire to learn playing it properly (like the piano that is) meant that my parents were forced to look for another tutor. Surprisingly there was only one man in the entire city who knew how to play the piano decently. Or at least that's what we came to know from various sources. Soon I was taking lessons in Western Music, its wierd notations, the treble and the bass clef, sharps and flats, practising playing with both hands, learning chords. A whole new world was opening up to me. Sadly enough all of these lasted a mere three or four months as my tutor had other priorities and I was left stranded on the doorsteps of a wonderful world, one which I could see in all its glory but one where I could not reach. So there was no Mozart or Beethoven for me and I had to contend playing popular numbers from Bollywood.
Coming back to my first love, the tabla, my second guru also didn't last long owing to his similar working hours as my father's. It was about that time that a music academy opened in our city. Needless to say I got enrolled. Classes were held in the evening thrice a week which meant a compromise in my playing schedule. But such was the interest and enthusiasm that I used to reach the academy 15 minutes before time to practise on the best set of tabla. It was a different experience from the past two as it was more professional and had the air of a proper institution unlike the last ones which were held in the homes of the students. It was also probably the place where I, so as to say, flourished as there was more exposure. We used to have regular concerts in which the students used to play in groups. I also learnt to play the Pakhawaj and the Khol.
All this while I grew up on a regular diet of Rabindra Sangeet or songs composed and written by Tagore. There sure was Bollywood music in plenty, especially after the advent of the cable TV but as far as buying cassettes was concerned, it was mostly Bengali music. It wasn't that my parents discouraged me from listening to any other form of music. It was just that I simply loved it. Old songs from bengali hit movies, songs sung by Hemant, Kishore, songs composed by Salil Choudhury, folk songs, I loved them all and there was no need to go anywhere when so much was yet unexplored. Looking back today I feel glad I had those days, I feel delighted to have listened to those songs, because given the type of songs that I now hear, those days seem aeons ago.
Soon it was time for the first important examination of my life and although it had been nearly eight years since I had played the first bol, yet the change of tutors ensured that I had just about managed to learn the instrument for five years. Soon the pressures of the board exams and then the engineering entrance exams took over and my tabla tutor was replaced by others teaching organic chemistry and the like. In the meanwhile I also started dreaming of playing the Spanish Guitar (not the boring Hawaiian !!) and sing along with my friends sitting around a bonfire although I didn't know how to do either of them. So three years went by and then another as my quest for a degree from a particular engineering college took precedence over all other things that I loved. As fate would have it, the same place would soon make all my musical dreams come true............
Being a single child has its advantages and although I can assertively say that I have never been a demanding one, yet there was and still is an unspoken, unwritten code of understanding between my parents and I which grants me the right to request for anything I want anytime but at the same time respect their opinion about the same. This has done wonders to my relationship with my parents and in twenty four years of my existence I have almost never had to ask for anything to which they have had an objection.
Coming back to the incident, soon I had the instrument in my lap as the peddler started pressing some buttons and keys, showing us the various beats and tones that could be produced from it. After he had been done with his customary demonstration I finally had the thing to my own. So I started fiddling around with the set of black and white keys trying to produce a semblance of the latest Bollywood hit (I have no rememberance of the exact song) and to the surprise of all and sundry present there including me, within a minute or so I was actually playing it. For me, the journey had just begun.
Like most Bengali parents, mine were also very keen that I take to some form or the other of creative art. So it was around the time that I had moved into second grade that they decided that music was to be my leisurely activity. Tabla was chosen to be my instrument and to make it more interesting, my father himself decided to take classes in Hawaiian Guitar at the same time. The fact that the tutor they chose for the job was an expert in both the instruments certainly helped. Soon however owing to my father's lack of time (12-14 hour shop floor duties in a Steel Plant can drain you out) and my excess, it was me who was taking lessons in both, learning the nuances of Teentaal and Raag Yaman Kalyan at the same time. Within a year or so, though, the Guitar lost out to Tabla primarily because Zakir Hussain had become a household name and there was nothing else I wanted to become and also due to the fact that I realised that I was far better in understanding rythym than harmony. As luck would have it I had to change tutors too often and though each of them had their own ways and styles which ultimately helped me, yet it was unsettling in some ways. So two years down the line I had a new tutor who like my father was also an employee with the Bokaro Steel Plant, was undoubtedly the best Tabla player in the city and also a strict taskmaster. I still remember the way he used to keep a talcum powder case under my right wrist and hold my arm so as to make sure only my palms moved and the rest of the body remained still. I adored and respected him for his skills but more so because he taught me the most in the least time. So last year when I met him in a Durga Pooja pandal and touched his feet he introduced me to his wife and kid as "This is Atish, the most disciplined student I have had..." , it meant a world to me, not because discipline is the last word I can associate with myself now but because after all these years he still remembered me and that was prize enough.
Meanwhile my exploits with the SA-1 continued as I discovered that playing tunes was not that difficult a job and could be done in solitude without anybody's help. Soon I graduated to a Yamaha PSS-390 which had 4 octaves as compared to the former's 2. My desire to learn playing it properly (like the piano that is) meant that my parents were forced to look for another tutor. Surprisingly there was only one man in the entire city who knew how to play the piano decently. Or at least that's what we came to know from various sources. Soon I was taking lessons in Western Music, its wierd notations, the treble and the bass clef, sharps and flats, practising playing with both hands, learning chords. A whole new world was opening up to me. Sadly enough all of these lasted a mere three or four months as my tutor had other priorities and I was left stranded on the doorsteps of a wonderful world, one which I could see in all its glory but one where I could not reach. So there was no Mozart or Beethoven for me and I had to contend playing popular numbers from Bollywood.
Coming back to my first love, the tabla, my second guru also didn't last long owing to his similar working hours as my father's. It was about that time that a music academy opened in our city. Needless to say I got enrolled. Classes were held in the evening thrice a week which meant a compromise in my playing schedule. But such was the interest and enthusiasm that I used to reach the academy 15 minutes before time to practise on the best set of tabla. It was a different experience from the past two as it was more professional and had the air of a proper institution unlike the last ones which were held in the homes of the students. It was also probably the place where I, so as to say, flourished as there was more exposure. We used to have regular concerts in which the students used to play in groups. I also learnt to play the Pakhawaj and the Khol.
All this while I grew up on a regular diet of Rabindra Sangeet or songs composed and written by Tagore. There sure was Bollywood music in plenty, especially after the advent of the cable TV but as far as buying cassettes was concerned, it was mostly Bengali music. It wasn't that my parents discouraged me from listening to any other form of music. It was just that I simply loved it. Old songs from bengali hit movies, songs sung by Hemant, Kishore, songs composed by Salil Choudhury, folk songs, I loved them all and there was no need to go anywhere when so much was yet unexplored. Looking back today I feel glad I had those days, I feel delighted to have listened to those songs, because given the type of songs that I now hear, those days seem aeons ago.
Soon it was time for the first important examination of my life and although it had been nearly eight years since I had played the first bol, yet the change of tutors ensured that I had just about managed to learn the instrument for five years. Soon the pressures of the board exams and then the engineering entrance exams took over and my tabla tutor was replaced by others teaching organic chemistry and the like. In the meanwhile I also started dreaming of playing the Spanish Guitar (not the boring Hawaiian !!) and sing along with my friends sitting around a bonfire although I didn't know how to do either of them. So three years went by and then another as my quest for a degree from a particular engineering college took precedence over all other things that I loved. As fate would have it, the same place would soon make all my musical dreams come true............
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