AN ODE TO BIRTHDAY BOY

Mrigank (Mick) Das

Well I don’t know when I joined the DMS group… I think sometime in the fall of 2013… I knew some people of course…but some rather vaguely. Today I can say safely I know all fairly well, and some I know more than fairly well… despite the fact that earlier in life I might have walked past them with nary a thought… The key takeaway from today however is we have to recognize the singular, persistent and herculean effort by the one and only Subhasis Panda…who has a plethora of sometimes endearing, sometimes sarcastic and sometimes jocular nom de plumes: admin, havildar, bapu, panda, Ed Hardy model, subu and subz…    who brought us all together from various parts of the globe…and even conceived a variant of love called LOU that has proved a hit.  In addition he often has absorbed the crossfire from some maddening skirmishes and had the patience to play peacemaker, judge, jury and arbitrator to people in their late forties with a great degree of restraint despite some verbal punches that might have landed on him as collateral damage by uncontrollably irate combatants :)

The other sacred institution that he has established is converting his own home into the modern equivalent of an old friends’ club du jour, where frequent parties are organized that lets grown men (and women) to mingle as old friends with bonds that even Father Time hasn’t been able to crack, and then heartily partake food and beverages that often violate every rule in the medical websites’ well meaning advice for good health and anti-aging panaceas and still feel more healthy and vivacious in spite of it.  

We all run to Whatsapp to check out photos right after we hear of the House of Panda playing host to a party; the coming together for good times or a haven for the sufferers of temporary (or permanent) ennui, personas seeking escape from mundane and non-mundane angst,  the seekers of Utopian fantasies induced by adult beverages or just the escapists from the professional treadmill looking to release the stress from their bloodstreams and then jibber jabber their way into the wee hours of the night with a smile on their face and the joie de vivre of a kid.  

In all cases, LOU prevails… and everyone leaves happy, and even the spouses are fairly forgiving partly owing to their personally favorable experiences, often opting to ignore the slightly irregular gait and the telltale odor of fermented and aged Scottish hops wafting in the air in the interests of the three letter variant of cupid’s potion.

There of course is his hospitality in offering his home for stays by visiting friends, helping friends in need of various and sundry things, like moving stuff,  or needing a priest for last rites, or just staying a few days with him,  including those stubborn friends that hide his favorite beverages :) , or those that have had some significant adverse circumstances going on, definitely underscores his humanity. There is some great fortune that we must be thankful for, as it takes some selfless soul to take it upon itself to explore, locate, enlist and grow this DMS 83 community and then act as an ongoing peacemaker to keep the various branches of this tree from growing stronger and not falling apart…

There ought to be some extravaganza tonight, with different Glens of Scotland contributing their own variant of liquid ambrosia (albeit in a controlled manner and small, skinny portions) plus a smorgasbord of meat, seafood and veggies(don’t forget those veggies) to ignite a wild, no-holds barred party for the Panda…. cheers!

DOWN POUR IN MUMBAI BREAKS ALL RECORDS FOR AUGUST IN 10 YEARS

Pushpamitra Das 

The doorbell rang – I heard it thrice and finally opened the door in a sleepy state. It was 5.30 am. It was the car cleaner who comes daily to collect the keys. I promptly handed over the keys and went back to sleep.

I was woken up at 7.45 am to have my bed tea… I suddenly realized that it's a day declared as a holiday for all schools, colleges and some Govt offices too as we have a cyclone warning even today and all have been instructed to remain indoors... my mood immediately lit up and I started feeling more lazy...

That's when I peeped outside the balcony, looked up, checked the weather, it isn't raining any more, sky looks relatively clearer than yesterday, I wondered will the cyclone come today? I could then hear the normal Mumbai buzz of the local trains (as my home is not far from the railway tracks) over speeding auto rickshaws rushing the passengers to the stations at peak hours ...

Our cook, Priya who comes from a nearby low lying area had already started cooking breakfast and cutting vegetables for lunch and she rushed to open the door as the doorbell rang, it was the tender coconut vendor who comes to deliver 2 tender coconuts every morning.  I asked Priya how were the rains yesterday, she said she couldn't make it to her home as it is still flooded with water and her family stayed at her sister’s place. Yet she was here on time.


It was just 12 hours back - I took almost 3 hours to reach home which otherwise is a 15-minutes’ drive. Till 1am I was watching the news channel viewing the submerged Mumbai, stranded commuters due to the torrential rains, people struggling to reach their homes as the public transportation system has come to a grinding halt, roads were flooded with 3 to 5 feet water, bikes and cars were abandoned in the roads and people walking distances of 20 to 40 kms to reach their homes... buildings collapsing and rescue operations underway... anything that could go wrong had gone wrong.

All temples, gurdwaras, churches, masjids, Ganesh pandals, and individual homes had opened their doors to stranded passengers... Communities and NGOs had sprung into action offering first aid, water, food – vada pau, tea, biscuits, poha, Sheera, to commuters.... The best was Mumbai traffic police joined the locals clearing up traffic by pushing cars out of the water and guiding public. Humanity was at its peak... no religion or caste difference. The only language spoken was humanity and help... looked like god was residing in each such individual.


Come morning, it's a different environment, seems like you have been transported elsewhere, yesterday has become history, the Mumbai spirit is back, seems like nothing had happened or whatever had happened is long forgotten, all are back to work – it is all normal, no one thinks about the cyclone prediction, be it the car cleaner, dog walker, watchman, visiting maids, newspaper vendors, milk man, or driver... all have reported to their respective duties, after the horrifying experience just yesterday. Today is a new day... it's a new beginning.

Vanita (my wife who works with a Bank) was busy calling up all her team members yesterday night checking their whereabouts, status, and ensuring their safety and head count. She is now receiving calls from them seeking approval to operate from a nearby branch of the bank or condoning 60 to 90 minutes for late arrivals to office as they have reached home ranging from 11 pm to 4 am. No wants a leave even for a day... no one is tired enough not to report to work.

Looking at the spirit of these people at times we also muster courage within ourselves to get up and keep moving. I must admit, I was in two minds whether to leave for my work or not... I don't think I have a choice to make – honestly, I am ashamed to choose staying back.

Hats off to the spirit of this city. Mumbai may drown but not the spirit of this city, the zeal of Mumbaikars whatever be the nature of adversity... floods, riots or bomb blasts... the spirit never dies. I sometimes feel it is like a wheel which does not stop or give up rotating and anyone who gets into this wheel becomes a part of it left with no choice – it goes on and on and on.

Random thoughts on new years.

Prelude: 

I began with these thoughts on the second day of the calendar year in currency. The idea was to put it up for scrutiny and criticism at an appropriate time that would justify the mood of the moment; but sadly, the moment has passed, falling prey in various proportions to circumstances and distracting compulsions that promote procrastination. Had it been put up for display, say, in the second week of the year, when people were still going through the motions or just getting out of them, readers might have felt an echo of the text in their bones, so to say. They might have related to it at an emotional level- which is desirable in this context- rather than at the mental level where it will be, no doubt, processed in a way an editor processes the random materials brought in by a frivolous freelancer.

Now, as always with the passage of Time, I am left with the receding trickles of that initial flood of inspiration and try as I may, I can't seem to recreate all the dynamic dimensions and delicate details of the season. Consequently, the reader may feel a difference along the way, where the latter addition carries the article into its finality; perhaps like a change in texture. 

It is, thus, put up to the reader, as an exercise in analysis,  to make out what was written at the outset and what has been added later to complete this article.
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                                                                         Part-!

 The significance of stepping into yet another Year of Mankind's inexorable march into the future cannot be allowed to diminish by unhighlighting the first letters of the latest calendar event celebrating human history in the making. So bright and festive is the general mood, so positive the outlook and so, so predictable the behaviour in that first week of January, that it becomes a social season for just one reason- the advent of (yet) another man-made year; a symbolic, convenient and regularly occurring milestone that is only reserved for Homo sapiens with total disregard for any other biological thing in this universe. 

Which is where I disagree. The advent of another year does not induce enough enthusiasm in me to qualify as anything more than a sceptic to my average fellow-beings. In my support, I say that I find no difference between 31st Dec and 1st Jan, if you ignore the hangover. And I don't find the workload any different from the non-fancied days of the rest of the year. If anything, the wishy-washy bubbling mass of humanity unsettles me and makes me wish I was elsewhere. I sometimes seek refuge in the peaceful solitude of my car, which is probably the only place on earth I can truly call my own.  

So, as a token of my protest against this peculiar obsession all around, I have reduced the aura of the two words by reducing them to lower case.

The ritualistic celebrations surely bring in a sense of camaraderie among the average urban socials, who go around spreading the Happy New Year largesse with a sense of urgency. Grudges, grievances and gripes are kept aside for fear of defiling the glorious gushes of greetings and good wishes. It is difficult not to get caught up in the wishing frenzy, particularly for the upwardly mobile, highly ambitious, lower-rung aspirant who perceives a certain competition in the process and diligently plots a course of action to get the attention of those who matter. In such occasion, speed is of essence and timing means everything. Those who are denied the moments-after-midnight slot must strive for the first-thing-in-the-morning alternative. Latecomers may disguise their failing with a didn't-want-to disturb-you line. Soon the ether is buzzing with innovative posters and video clips on the HNY theme. And then there are messages, mass produced, guilefully constructed to appear personalised, exhaustive in their scope to include every nice thing possible and beginning with 'May'. Mobile phones get cluttered and prefer to hang themselves. Repetitions, although not intended as such, get the better of your mood as you lose the struggle to maintain sanity while attempting to choose which ones to reply to. Then there are the phone calls and the resultant auditory stress.

The other set of enthusiasts do not have this ulterior motive in their wishes. They are the Social Watchdogs. It is their bounden duty to tick off their list to check whether they have inadvertently omitted to shower their wishes on anyone featuring in it. It is also a time to keep a tab on who has participated, who has reciprocated, who has made inroads and who is out on the roads- in other words, the sub-social laggards (different from anti-socials, un-socials or non-socials). They are harmless, although exhausting.

When you arrive at work on the first working day of the latest year, you brace yourself for hundreds of handshakes with your colleagues. Is that such a bad thing? Not if you consider the variety only from an academic point of view. There are the firm ones, as handshakes are recommended to be. However, the amount of pressure to be exerted on the Wishee's hand (by the Wisher) to convey and transfer that overpowering sense of HNY joy into it, is not an exact science and many enthusiasts have been known to cause injury on delicate or osteoporotic recipients. Then there are the limp ones, half-hearted, sometimes wet and slimy, quite like something the fishmonger puts into your extended hand, as a sample from his stock, for inspection. If you try to shake them, they move as if they are no longer attached to the parent body and you may be inclined to hold on to them lest they accidentally fall off from your grasp and get damaged. But the most dangerous are the ones that appear the most innocuous - until they disengage after the niceties, wipe off the nasal fluids dripping out of their nasal orifices and stalk off, with the stuff smeared all over their palm, to find and infect their next victim with their wet, pet virus. It's all academic if you are a casual bystander observing human behaviour, but if you are their doctor you cringe at the thought that they must all converge on you by and by, and offer you their besmeared plates while you offer yourself condolences. The number of physicians suffering from some sort of -itis around their nose and throat by the third week of Jan is statistically too high to be ignored.

In the days gone by (school days), there used to be cards from various desks in various institutions, as well as from friends and relatives, all delivered by the postman between the last week of last year and the first week thereafter. They were used in decorating every available horizontal display space- and occasionally strung out overhead- for the better part of Feb. 

All the personal cards from family and friends could be grouped into three categories: 

A) The Bland Ones - "Seasons Greetings and Best Wishes for a Happy & Prosperous New Year", 
B) The Flowery ones - with elaborate cursive writing, with intricate, syrupy wishes and 
C) The Cartoon Ones - the kids' favourites. The Bland Ones, however, had the best illustrations of wintery scenes with plenty of snow and snow-activities that we Children of the Tropics could only wonder about.

The Greetings Card industry would begin to intrude upon available road-side space at regular intervals, in the form of makeshift stalls, by mid-November. It was a time when almost each household that I knew of had someone in the USA or Going to USA or Preparing to go (to the USA). There were other parts of the world, like England, that had already been colonised by relations. Then there were places like Japan and Australia where people hardly went and lost contact if they did. The Middle-East (in the context of my own experience) was passe. Asia was India. South America and Africa were like Antartica - places on the map where no one went. The GC industry understood all this - and the fact that it would take considerable time for postal delivery across the seven seas - and solved the issue by opening shop well in advance. A visit to a stall was quite like a visit to some art gallery; they had so many varieties and assorted sizes- but they all fell into three economic categories - small, medium and large. We had great fun trying to find the right card for the person in mind and it was curious how we sometimes had two or three choices, each backed by a supporter, for the same person. 

After the cards were addressed, it was my job to paste the stamps and post the envelopes. I had a Happiness ratio arrived at by dividing the number of cards received by number of cards sent, and the higher the figure, the Happier the New Year.

The best ones to be sent, in my consideration, were to people in the armed services. You just wrote : To, so-and-so, c/o 56 APO. That's it. It would reach even without postage stamp, which the govt would grudgingly bear for the sake of it's soldiers. Later, when I was at the receiving end of such postages in the Air Force, I had this quiet satisfaction knowing I was simply c/o 99 APO.

After they were dismantled, I would store them up safely, for they were very handy on occasion. Those were the days when people visited you with their entire retinue, including the fidgety girl and the cantankerous brat. After a while, they would be handed over to me (as I was the eldest) for baby-sitting, while the elders talked endlessly over tea and biscuits. I had found it easy to manage even certain difficult types by innovating some kind of game with these New Year greeting cards. You can't do that with kids anymore. Not only are there no paper cards around for playing games with, but, also, there are no kids who would play with paper cards. And they would rather do other stuff with the cellphone than rummage through the inbox and spam mails for any New Year wishes. The days of the Greeting Card are well and truly over. One gets this neglected feeling that is not assuaged by noticing them on the cellphone notifications.  

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Interlude:

This article was not about New Year cards although it drifted there. It was about making Much Ado about Nothing. However, New Year cards did stand up as a symbol of our transit from the old year to a brand new one. And the emotions and feelings it conjured in individuals was varied in range and content. That's the focus of this article - What makes it such a special occasion?

Today is 31st Aug 2017.

My 50th birthday. It is a day in my lifetime that can be easily defined or referred to. It has an independent entity to it. It becomes so important that I could easily be blamed for spoiling it, if I'm not extra careful in avoiding the usual pitfalls that spoil any day. And, although only a few knew about me the day I was born, there are now so many around the world wishing me since yesterday that I have trouble fishing for the right word to say that it is no big deal.

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                                                              Part-!!

So, I have decided to bring the first part to it's conclusion by saying that the second part is just an extension of the first. A year measured from Jan to Dec, or from b'day to b'day, is still a year. But the transition from one year to the next is always in a single day. and nothing changes on D-Day minus 1.

But, just as in January, we must go through the ritual of wishing birthday boys and girls and making them feel that the world would have spun differently without their eccentricity to balance it.

So, are birthday celebrations necessary? Yes, as much as the birth was. Otherwise, you don't have a reference in time and things wont work well for you in the carefully administered world we live in. You are reminded of all the nice things that you have done, undone or never done. 

However, birthdays differ in their scope to excite people beyond the predetermined limit of one day. These days, what with modern technologies in time perception, that limit is strictly implemented from one midnight to the next. Whereas, the New Year fervour stays on for up to a month (as brought out earlier).

That is probably the best thing about a birthday. You can safely expect it to go away the next day. Why is it so bad? It isn't, when you are with friends who know your true value and the quantum of your worthlessness. Or, if you are convinced about your own greatness and worth. But, if you are introspecting and mentally visiting a few areas in the past which could have been better handled, you might not be amused if a horde descends upon you at office with a measly bouquet from the main lobby and keeps up the cheers until they have been sated with a dose of tea and biscuits. After all, you feel you have been made to pay for for an unworthy cause.

Indians have devised a method to beat this danger. They have multiple birthdays. The Official Birthday is the one in your office records and all other records. It is so ubiquitous that it inspires no excitement. It is the most convenient excuse to hide behind; after all, would you host parties out of occasion? I get a load of messages on a certain day of Feb, mostly from people who take my money for something or the other. These can be happily ignored with no twinges in the conscience. In fact, most Official birthdays in our time were different from the real ones because every parent did their own calculation on how the child's future career would benefit with a deft change in date. So much so, that in one school, the father of one student was hauled up by the Headmaster and asked how he had furnished a birth date that preceded his marriage date!

The other way out is to quote your lunar calendar 'tithi' as your celebration day. You can say a line like,"We always follow 'tithi's" and he who disbelieves is deemed unholy. 

Birthdays are also essential in calculating all age-related things like waist size and insurance premium. 

But, notwithstanding my acerbic views on the subject, birthdays are important milestones for most. For one, it requires absolutely no skill, effort or technique to get from one birthday to the next. People in solitary confinement do it as effectively as the hard-working, ever-struggling family man. In fact, unless you are up in the graveyard shift, waiting for it to occur like some celestial phenomenon, if happens automatically while you sleep. You are 49.999 tonight and you wake up as 50 point negligible with a Golden Glow. Therefore, most people celebrate the day and party at night simply because, if left unattended, the occasion merely passes on into the next day and you have missed the bus. You have lost your time in the lime light and that is not going to arrive for another year unless you struggle and achieve something else for the same attention. 

For the powerful, rich and famous, it is the obvious occasion to show case their social growth curve and underline their current status, to invite and hobnob with the Who's Who and to work out the What Next?! There is a parallel world of food, beverages (both alcoholic and otherwise) and entertainment that caters to these celebrations. Birthdays are serious business for many entrepreneurs and probably the introductory platform for starlets to convert to stars. But that is neither here nor there. 

Simply put, birthdays are nothing but a collective state of mind. It is something remembered by all who matter in your life, including yourself, with the onus on yourself to make the best of it, and end up celebrating what till yesterday was an average year 

Birthdays are Karmic. They are fun in the right company. They are a drain on the budget. And they are as significant as a National Holiday, and quite as iconic at a personal level.

Despite people like me, happy new years and birthdays are here to stay.

My First Passport

Sankalpa Basu

I thought it was excessive when I first heard about it; yet another ID! There were already too many IDs, one for work, one for the library, one for the gym (not that you would ever find me there) and a bright blue store card that gave me a few points every time I shop there.  I also have a Voter Identity Card, which I hope to use someday when I find someone worthy to give my vote to. I have a PAN card too; I don’t know of what use it is to me. Now I had to get myself an Aadhar Card.

I tried to snap out of the negativity. After all, it wasn’t something I could do without. I would need this card to buy a flight ticket, a railway ticket, to open a bank account or even to get money out of the account. I heard that it would be linked to my PAN card, my bank account, my phone number and the progress report of my grandchildren. It was after all just another ID.

We didn’t need IDs in DM School. You knew who you were and I knew who I was. Things have changed; children going to UKG are being tethered to their IDs by colourful lanyards, God knows what they need their IDs for. I didn’t get an ID card in before I went to BJB. I didn’t need it even when I was voting in the student union elections. Thinking back I don’t see what would have been the point of having an ID. Everyone I wanted or didn’t want to know me seemed to know me. The manager of the canteen where my friends had managed to build up a debt knew me and looked at me accusingly, my neighbour from whose garden I stole flowers before daybreak could recognise me from my silhouette and complained to my dad, Hajari sir could recognise me from my fingerprints when I drew hearts on the dusty window panes and pulled my ears. There were of course some who showed no sign of recognition, but then girls will be girls.

Somewhere down the line I applied for a job in UK and for a passport, I expected to get neither. Do you remember how long it took to even get a LPG connection those days? It was an amazing moment when the passport arrived; I imagined of seeing new lands, meeting new people and making new friends. I went and joined the queue before UK embassy in Chanakyapuri for the visa, there were so many people there, all clutching their paperwork like me. It was a cold foggy morning, probably a portent of the weather I was going to see a lot of.  

Passports and farewells go hand in hand; with it in hand a man leaves his own country and seeks challenges in another. Friends raise toasts to the future and reminisce as the so-called dreams come to fruition.  Somehow it feels so much better to have a drink with your old friends, you don’t worry too much about getting blotto and there is always someone to take you home, or you end up taking them to a place of safety.  I experienced some serious bonhomie; embraces, tears, songs, a bit of dancing and everything else before leaving. Would I ever again have friends like this? I didn’t know. I was going to an alien country.

I am a bit sick of the whole ID business. I would like people to be free like flocks of birds as they go to different countries, giving each other company and nest next to each other, and not to be burdened by pieces of paper when the falcons give them chase.

My first passport looks quite old now, its pages are rumpled and stamped, reminding me of all the places it took me to, it is cancelled now and no longer my ID. I looked for it when I heard about the Aadhar card. I look so young and different in my first passport. My first passport is no longer a proof of who I am; it has rather become a reminder of who I was.

Mehfil-e-Musings

Sorry about the tacky title for this post. Social media tends to bring out the different avatars in us - some we are aware of; but mostly ones we have no clue about. Well... some of us were exchanging innocuous conversation (on WhatsApp) about what we were doing - for those in the US it was a Saturday morning and for our pals in India, it was Saturday evening. Need I stress (to give you some context for what is to follow here) - a weekend evening? As this information on a weekend's potential dos and actual shouldn'ts unravelled, a couple of us exchanged a few verses in Hindi-Urdu; not quite shayari, but kinda shayarana musings(if you will)... Here let me share those few verses and a part of the inspirational conversation -

Person A: Hi.. anybody there?
Person B: Teri tanhai
Person C: ...aur tu
Person C: Relaxing at home, B?
Person B: At a friend's place. Having Satyanarayana Puja prasad on a Saturday night :-(

Sipra: 
Tanha ka tha alam
Alarm kahin baji
Aur kahin thi shaam
Kuchh dost, kuchh yaar
Wahan bhi the
Par mehfil to bas yahin hai.

Sid:
Ye tere do labz
Zindagi taaza kar gayi
Viraaniyon me mehfil
Ruswayi mein thandak layi
Ay dost tu aise hi shaamil ho,
Mere caravan mein,
Yeh meri dua hai

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Ab aage aap kahiye...

PRAGUE - A PILGRIMAGE... OF SORTS

Sipra Pati

I am in Prague. Hubby takes a picture of me alighting from the tour bus – he understands my emotions; the near-pilgrimage I am on. Pilgrimage yes, but with no points to touch but the city itself. You see... this is the city where my Dad spent two years of his abbreviated life - a life I barely got the chance to get acquainted with. Needless to say, the sole reason the city held a special place in my heart.

Walking on these cobbled streets of the historic part of Prague makes me feel that I am in all probability walking where my father did... approximately sixty years back. I would be naive to think the city stood still just for me to experience precisely what my Dad had. But then this is the part of Prague built centuries back  – the Royal Castle, St. Vitus Cathedral, the cobblestone alleys, and the Charles Bridge. These monuments have been around since medieval times and underscore the very essence of the city of Prague or Praha, as the Czech call it.

I look around – immaculate blue skies with tufts of white clouds, the hushed chitter-chatter of scores of tourists and the shuffling of their shoes, the shadows of the medieval buildings, the palace guards in crisp grey uniforms and designer aviator shades, people dressed in medieval costumes and posing as statues, World War 2-era roofless cars carrying tourists. I am in the thick of tourist land. I take a deep breath – inhaling the summer air and letting the ‘I am in Prague’ envelop my being. I wonder if my Dad, some six decades back, stood in the square in front of the Royal Castle (as I am) and looked out over the stone parapet absorbing the breathtaking view of the city and its rather grey river. Perhaps he walked down the cobblestone stairway (as I am) into the alleys below and thought back to the alleys in his hometown. Maybe he leaned on one side of the Charles Bridge (as I am), peered into the softly heaving ripples of the Vlatava river (Moldou, in German) and thought of the Kathajodi in his hometown. Perhaps he had then turned and look at the aged-by-time, yet timeless, spires of the St.Vitus cathedral and had wondered about the temples in his home state. Maybe, as he raised his camera and peered at the church through the lens, he promised himself to someday capture the facades and magnificence of the temples dotting Bhubaneswar. Perhaps, when he lowered his camera, he saw a young couple crossing the bridge hand-in-hand, and his heart wrenched a little as his mind went to the young woman he had married and left behind at home in Cuttack. Perhaps he shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers, walked to the other side of this medieval bridge and contemplated over his reason to be in Prague. His walk back to his rental apartment must have been selectively punctuated – by some camera work. Had he longed for his favorite pan-fried ilisi as he looked at the Czech beef goulash being served in the sidewalk cafes of the historic district? Had the delectable Trdlo reminded him of khaja and other sweets from his home state? Had the golden swaying grass in the countryside outside Prague sent his mind back to the swaying paddy fields, lush green against the backdrop of ominous grey monsoon clouds, in his home state? I wish I knew. I wish I had answers to these questions. What I do know is that he wrote regularly to my mother, as he did others; he bought Bohemian crystal-ware, Czech porcelain dinner and coffee sets, and tiny dolls dressed in intricately embroidered dresses – filling their first home with the very flavor and essence of the land he had called home for two years. It is time to break the sanctity, I tell myself – and read those letters.

Time is beginning to run out – hubby and I have to head back to the tour bus before its scheduled departure for Vienna, our base for this trip through Europe. I feel restless; incomplete. I yearn for something – not quite a souvenir (which, thanks to my Dad, our home had more than its fair share of Czech handicrafts); a something I cannot quite put my finger on; a something that would perhaps make me (a rather foolish thought, I admit) feel this city was reaching out to me acknowledging my Dad’s presence all those years back; a something that would make me feel this was more than a whirlwind tour of Prague. Ten minutes in hand before we needed to start our walk to our tour group – and I see this enclosure of beige-colored bricks – each painted in different hues, art, flags, and more. They are just stacked – no cement or concrete holding them in place. The makeshift kiosk next to it solicits passers-by to paint a brick and donate six euros to an organization working with Czech children afflicted with mental health issues. In the past they had used these bricks to build the driveway in one of the organization’s children’s homes and a side of the building, the young girl manning the kiosk tells me. They were not sure what the bricks would be used for this time. To me this was the city throwing me the “here’s your something” ball. All I had to do was cup the ball in my outstretched hands. Five minutes, hubby gently reminds me. I start painting a brick as hubby handles the payment. Paint brushes and I have never had a very compatible relationship; yet I manage to write my Dad’s name on it; add the Indian tri-color to it, and three stars – one each for my Mom, my sister and me. I place it on the un-cemented yellow brick wall in the center of this beautiful city where my Dad had lived for two years. I look at the paint on my fingers and nails, and then at my watch. No time to wash it off, I surmise looking at the lengthening queue at the little street-side water fountain. Time to go, says hubby after taking that last photo. I look at the brick wall one last time, do a little 360 degree turn as I inhale deeply - a whimsical attempt to fill my lungs with the essence of Praha, my Dad’s Praha, intertwine my fingers with hubby’s outstretched ones and will my feet away.

Kolkata to Bhubaneswar in Three Hours

Subhashis Panda

Flight was two hours late.

Started like a Lambretta and as it romped the runway, I think it's silencers fell off. It took time to take off, a little too long. And as it should have soared up to 35,000 feet, it did too, like a tipsy male buffalo snorting to the left. Our seats were 9B and 9C.

Then a drop of liquid fell on Nana, 9C of course. The Akash Sundaris had already started their fair: none to notice that the call bell had been pressed. When I did manage to catch someone's attention, Nana had a four inch diameter blot on his left upper thigh. Sundari took out a paper napkin (don't even think of it) and dabbed on the luggage rack above.

She opened the luggage rack to check the source of the water, tried to move the jam packed variety of bags, but fifteen seconds was not enough: selling sandwiches, nuts and coffee was prime in her mind. She stuffed some paper napkins into the gaps and went back to peddling her limited variety of wares.

Meanwhile the plane had levelled and the sound was much less. I looked up to find a droplet trickling towards me. I pressed the call button and by the time Sundari appeared again I had collected a few drops in my palm.

The lady pilot announced that we would be landing shortly. As the flight descended, the Lambretta sounds erupted again. I looked at Nana; he smirked. "Glide in smoothly, baby", I muttered. Nana smiled and said, "don't worry." The tipsy buffalo landed finally and as the Lambretta sputtered dead, I smiled.

Reflections in Fall

Mrigank Das

Rafting over the whitewater journeys my mind, 

Skipping over the shapely and unshapely stones 

Playing hide and seek with the spawning fish

With the wings like an eagle it does cascade and bounce

Off the banks and shrubbery that cradle the river . 

Sometimes it sees the rays of sunshine

Breaking into a japanese fan of colors 

Piercing through a prism of the cavorting waters

And sometimes it sees the dark sheen of a cloudy day

The same water sometimes flirting and sometimes grim

What fabric does it take to harness and guide

When the winds howl and the skies look feral and night falls

Ask of you what fabric is your self made of  to grit out the storm 

Until the fishes jump playfully again to greet blue skies

And the lovely wildflowers start dancing the tango again

In those dark hours however is the fight

Between the spirit and the flesh

As many a seductress does show their figure

Amber liquids to sensual vapors to white powder each compete

To calm the frenzy of the mind and coddle it to a disturbed stupor. 

Do you have what it takes to stay or change course

And show determination in that fight but not arrogance

Saving other minds that you see getting trapped under rocks

Pinned down to surrender by ever stronger currents

Can you buy freedom, yet not lose yourself forever?

All about (not) getting late.

It was almost half-past-two in the afternoon and I was getting abominably late.  Although  it was a Saturday, and a holiday for me, I had to be back in time to take Mama at 3 o'clock to Puri and the Sands of Time seemed to be running out on me. I was, therefore, quite fretful of this inordinate delay on the part of the concerned desk in completing the pending paperwork. Be it said that I had arrived there before noon, with all pre-requisites in hand, and had been lightly assured that everything would be over very soon - in a way that made me revise my personal definition of the word 'soon', while requesting for quicker compliance.

The Sales Guy butted into my peripheral vision and made me miss out a lollipop on the desultory Candy Crush game I was hunched over.

"Ït's about time," I said, pointing to my watch. The same phrase was written on the dial in a catchy font and the Sales Guy mistook my icy remark for a display of personal pride in the matter of ownership of such a trendy watch. I have no qualms in selecting this adjective for the watch, for he said it in no uncertain terms - "Sir, that is a Trendy watch."

"Forget the watch," I grumbled. "Ï'm getting very late. Aren't the documents ready?" I put a threatening note to that last question.

The SG remained unflappable. That's what I don't like about SG's. They are trained to remain unruffled under duress; something the common man should be offered as a complimentary gesture on booking a car. Especially, if the company's executives idolise the slow and steady principles of the proverbial tortoise while doing their job..

The SG was pointing at a typed fool-scap in his hand. "Sir, kindly check out the details for correctness before we take out the final print." I could see the end approaching and brightened a bit. A thorough reading revealed that he had done a good job, all details being correct in spelling and in place - except for one small prefix.

"Ëvery thing is fine. Just add 'Late' before my father's name."

He was on his cellphone in a twinkle and this was the instruction he passed on. Translated into English, it would read somewhat like - "Listen, Sir said everything is fine. Go to Father's Name and just make it Late. Do it soon, we are waiting."

I processed this weird instruction more objectively than he would ever have done, even if it had been part of his school curriculum. Would the Instructee take the literal meaning of the Instructor's word, or make out the subtle difference between 'Late' and 'late', esp in the spoken form? At leisure, it would have been an amusing thought. But, I wasn't taking any chances now.

Fifteen minutes had gone by, jogging at first and barely crawling by towards the end. That's the measure of human patience - the rate of flow of Time. I ended the ennui with a resounding and abrupt "What happened?"

The SG, who was absently doodling on a scrap of paper, did a sitting jump. I looked him square between the eyes and asserted, "Your instruction sounded confusing. Please check whether he has added Late before Father's Name as instructed. And please ask him to hurry up. I'm getting very late."

He was back on his cellphone saying, "Why are you making it so late? You are taking so much of time just to make the Father's Name 'Late'?" ... and then.. "What? Ok, I'm coming." (Loose translation from the Odia vernacular). He looked at me obliquely and I could see that he looked a bit dismayed before his training took over. I watched him unruffle as I felt myself ruffling up for the nth time.

"Sir, he wanted to confirm about adding Late to Father's Name" he said lamely and I said what amounted to Yes in about twenty words. He had been edging away sideways and, by the time I concluded my opinion, he had left saying "... otherwise it will be too late" leaving me gaping at the unfortunate play of words and making me feel distinctly victimised.

It was a quarter past three when I finally got my papers, corrected with the 'Late' entry, and left the dealer's - very, very late. My only consolation was that I hadn't become Late myself.

A day in the life of Shady Sid - Much ado about nothing.

Siddharth Padhi

It began as a dull and unhurried Friday and the problem uppermost in mind was the usual early morning debate on whether Today was The Day to kick-start my grand plans of achieving a superior physical fitness. This internal upheaval usually lasts until the conscientious part of my brain comes up with a distraction, the easiest at hand being the newspaper. I could blame with some conviction the crispiness of the morning daily, with it's fresh fragrance and crackling pages for this particular weakness, for I'm sure I wouldn't care about a soggy sample. On other days, it could be a cup of hot tea or an interesting discussion on the chatlines.

I'm not one of those chaps whose lifeline is plugged into an alien system (read -Company) that controls and regulates their existence through myriad electronic devices and human schemes. These individuals follow a time pattern dictated by The(ir) System, and having settled down comfortably into their man-machine-organisation interdependence, really hit it off well. They are the guys you point out to your children, when you talk to them about striving hard to be successful in life. On the other hand, I'm rather loosely attached to several organisations, much like an ionic bond, which is kind of detachable and can do equally well with a little substitution here and a postponement there. In short, I do have the liberty to tweak my program at a reasonably short notice. 

My typical working day may be summarised as: First half- TCS; second half- RBI. All else - adjust. It unwinds as the demands pile up. There could be a thing from the past that can no longer be set aside and there could be something new that has popped up and appears important for the time being. If they are accommodated, it's mostly at the expense of TCS and sometimes RBI and is like a time-share concept. (The Zurd says that in India, given enough time, problems generally resolve themselves. I have adopted this as my modus operandi for dealing with drudgery. It is, in fact, this that accounts for the clean state of my diary).

0845 Hrs: 
Last date for processing the IPO. 
Plan: Get it done on the way to RBI. (Few minutes late won't matter).

0917 Hrs:
Get a call from Gotya. His Dad had been keeping unwell and it was time to consider admission into a hospital. I ask him to proceed to the Kalinga hospital and give me a call so that I could come there directly.

Alternate Plan: Go to TCS early and exit on getting Gotya's call. Do the IPO thereafter; maybe in the afternoon.

1033 Hrs: 
Not enough petrol in the car to risk TCS.

Another Plan: Fill up petrol at Sahid Nagar and finish the IPO thing. Go to hospital. TCS- we'll see if something comes up.

1036 Hrs:
Mama has called an electrician for some fault repair and has gone for her classes. (She still teaches at the University). Now I have to supervise this guy.

Fresh Plan: Hospital when Gotya calls.  TCS- we'll see. 

1102 Hrs:
Call from TCS (something came up). The electrical job is almost done.

New Plan: Go to TCS. Get petrol on the way at CSPur. Wait for Gotya's call. IPO- we'll see.

1118 Hrs:
I'm on my way to TCS and I get a call from a patient's phone. It's his wife - in panic mode.  She is incoherent and the call terminates before I can gather tangible details. Busy on repeated redialling. The patient is a diabetic, on insulin and erratic habits and has probably done something irresponsible. Got to attend to him first.

Revised Plan: Call TCS and arrange for sorting their requirements online, by and by. Divert to patient's residence, which is closer to RBI and on the opposite hemisphere of Bhubaneswar as TCS. What about lunch? (I'm supposed to have it at home on the way to RBI)- We'll see. IPO- Afternoon, maybe.

1125 Hrs:
I'm at the petrol pump filling up and get a call from the patient's wife. Things are under control and the patient is resting after receiving some medical attention. No reason now to rush over. Meanwhile, I have crossed Kalinga Hosp. I call up Gotya. He says the admission process is over. will let me know if he needs help.

Plan?? I have an hour to waste and still reach RBI in time. How about a pasta and chicken wings at Pizza Hut?
                                          ----------------------------------------
In the evening the good wife enquires: How was your day?
Me: Hectic. (I give her a brief outline of the c 
She: Did you reach RBI in time?
Me: Yeah, just about. Couldn't be home for lunch.
She: Poor chap. You mustn't run around so much.
Me: Yeah (wink,wink) 

Once Upon a Letter

Sipra Pati 

I recently found a letter written to me by Minakshi in January 1991. Needless to say, it triggered memories of a time when letters were the only means of long-distance communication between friends – the purchase of flowery, coloured stationery to write on, visits to the neighborhood post office to pick up postage stamps (beseeching the postal clerk to sell one stamps, newer and more interesting than the tired brown-on-white Gandhiji ones), settling down on a cushioned diwan propping the letter pad on the knees with previously received letters on the side, sometimes a cup of coffee to stimulate the connection between the brain and the fingers… No sooner did I stop smiling at the image, that I had the urge to share this papery blast from the past with folks who would, perhaps, feel the same flush of nostalgia.

I was not wrong. Well… not entirely. Minutes after I posted the picture, Sankalpa responded – rendering my nostalgic foray into the past a fleck of dust. I had no way of anticipating the ‘what’ the letter would trigger or the roads and inroads my friends would amble into. This much was true – they did not disappoint me! I thought it was too interesting of a conversation to languish in the bowels of WhatsApp drudgery and bonhomie (not necessarily in that order). So here’s the conversation. 

On Nov 28, at about 6.30 pm, I posted the picture of Minakshi’s letter with a caption that read “Long, long ago… when the post office was an integral part of our lives.”

Sankalpa: Those were the days! I could write a letter and tear it up. Nowadays I post on   WhatsApp and tear my hair.

Sushant: Sankalpa, you still have the luxury of tearing something and that too hair. Many will envy you...

Sipra: Why all the drama, Sankalpa - just clear as you go!

Gautam: Yes Sankalpa. For guys like me & Tariq, it's a luxury!

Sankalpa: I have, for your information, almost total alopecia. And I don't think anyone's baldness is better than mine. That is the problem, how can anyone stop himself when he has a dramatic urge?

Sipra: I retract.... Do not... You have a captive audience here!

Mrigank: Thanks for explaining the dramatic urge...someone else I know in my vicinity happens to have the same trait

Sankalpa: Hi Mick, don't you have these feelings, just after you hit the send button?

Mrigank: Kinda do... although some of it is mildly calculated.

Gautam: All of us have.

Sankalpa: I suppose most people have it.

Gautam: You know best doc!

Mrigank: Not being able to tear your hair is still a few cuts better than having someone's vicious dog set on you!

Sankalpa: Is that what happened to you? Gosh! This fellow (who set his dog on you) has a malignant dramatic urge.

Mrigank: No – thankfully I made the progression from acquaintance to friend rather late in life and so the dog wasn't set on me either as a passing fancy or in actuality!

Sankalpa: ‘Can't be too careful these days.

Mrigank: Some kids grow out of their teenage hormones that compel them to set their pet dogs at people that might cross them – you know how it goes Doc. 

Sankalpa: I will give an example. One doc thinks it is right because it is a congresswalah getting hit. I have told him off. I am going have one friend less.

Mrigank: Graphic!

Sankalpa: One of my college friends (a boy) went to see a class mate (a girl). The girl denied she knew the boy. The girl's father set the dog on the boy. True Story.

Mrigank: In my anecdote too I haven't hinted at the gender of the dog whisperer yet... maybe someday.

Smarajit: Kahin woh ladka tum to nahin....

Sankalpa: Not that time. I chose girl friends who either didn't have a dog or didn't have a father or both.  Did you ever have a girl friend who had a dog?

Sipra: Your process of elimination does seem to have a scientific undertone to it, Sankalpa.

Sankalpa: I know, it made my sample size very small.

Sipra: Very smart! But how did you get access to the data?

Sid Padhi: Concentrate on the dog. The jaw size matters.

Sankalpa: Whose jaw size?

Sid Padhi: The dog, not the GF.

Mrigank: Depending on the moxy of the girl one of those options could have endangered you still!

Sankalpa: What is Moxy?

Sid Padhi: Are you talking of the dog or the GF now?

Sankalpa: Mick is talking about kulfi. I was trying to remain quiet.

Mrigank: Yeah that's better. Sid – when the ice is thin on the lake it is better not to skate on it… 

Sid Padhi: I had to clarify.

Smarajit: It's the dog… 

Sid Padhi: So it's moxy by proxy.

Sid Padhi: I had a dog who had a girlfriend. She was quite a •itch•. Parding your beggon, kister monductor. 

Sankalpa: I knew you would find it difficult to resist. You must have been itching.

Sid Padhi: At the right place at the right time.

Sankalpa: The pleasure of a good itch scratched! 

Sid Padhi: The only real pleasure in an eczematous wretch.

Mrigank: Moxie not moxy.

Subhashis: Moxy is noun.

Sid Padhi: You are out of context here. We are discussing the pleasure of an itch, well scratched.

Subhashis: I am following.

Mrigank: Thanks Subu...

Sankalpa: Why is Moxie better than Moxy?

Subhashis: Your North American usages

Sankalpa: I don't like either. Reminds me of amoxycilin and paroxetine and other work-related things.

Mrigank: It isn't, but someone forced me to believe I was wrong... but you guys came to my rescue.

Sankalpa: So you weren't wrong and no one had set their dog on you.

Mrigank: No one had set their dog on me – no, but they shared their feelings of being tempted to set their dog on other people 

Sid Padhi: All the best with the moxy. Carry on. Amoxy – that which is not moxy.

Baldness, dogs, girlfriends and their fathers, itches and antibiotics, the tussle between the American and British usage of words – this was much more and beyond the expected oohs, ahs, sighs, and the odd chance of someone playing the curious cat and asking me about the contents of a letter written a quarter century (yes… the number is right; the collective us are at a point in life where this unit of time can be used in reference to ourselves) back – but oh, for the many digressions of the human mind!

A couple of acknowledgments and disclaimers: 

Some of our friends gave me a blanket ‘go ahead’ in repeating their statements (thank you for the trust), while some wanted to be sure about what exactly I was quoting (I would have done the same thing). Thank you Sankalpa, Gautam, Mrigank, Subhashis, Siddharth Padhi, and Smarajit for a fun conversation that did test (to some extent) the distances a human mind can travel... and some.

I took the liberty of omitting talk that flowed in between pertaining to things that did not emanate from or pertain to the letter. I also omitted the emoticons punctuating the conversation, which was more a compatibility issue than anything else. The conversation has minor edits pertaining to spelling, punctuation, and the occasional grammar, all which are not priority in a fast-flowing conversational atmosphere, characteristic of WhatsApp.

********

Sports Day Dreams

Mick Das

There is this person you may all know that as all young boys of his age had a desire to be a school age athlete. He had this secret longing to take the podium on sports day. Not that he didn't try - he tried year after year. However the school sports day would come and go and he would never be able to impress anyone or tell his parents that he won something. His parents were quite Ok with it actually.  Because this slightly chubby geeky boy with an unruly mop of hair used to do quite OK on the school's annual academic day and in some other competitions that related to academics.  However the greatest disappointment was that Sports day came and went with different sprints, high jump, long jump, javelin, hurdling, long distance running and many other events and even some hokie pokie ones like slow cycling and sack race and kabaddi, but although he tried, there was always plenty of seeming athletes who were better than him.

In 6th grade the disappointment came and went, and in 7th grade the same sequence was repeated. Even the slow cycling wasn't slow enough, the boy's partner in the sack race usually had two left feet and so they couldn't even scrape the bottom of the barrel. Couldn't make the kabaddi team either...boy was all forlorn and sad at the end.  All the so called 'popular girls' cheered for the winners and this  boy came home empty handed once again and to drown his sorrows doubled down on the next novel to hide his pain and disappointment. His skill set in the languages, science and math did not translate to the sports arena. Even all the evenings playing cricket and soccer with the colony kids didn't help him any on the biggest stage with the biggest spotlights.

On to 8th grade with no fantasy in sight...
Somehow this boy had developed an unlikely friendship with two chinese boys whose family ran a chinese restaurant in town; John and Peter Wong. The chinese boys liked this geeky boy because he was very nice to them and had hung out in their restaurant often eating some yummy chilli chicken and learnt a lot about their family. They had a sister Daisy who happened to be the geek's sister's friend too. So a bond had developed. The boy told his sad sport's day disappointments to the younger of the chinese brothers John.  John was pretty moved. Both the chinese brothers were quite athletic and did pretty good on Sports day. So John had an idea and he shared with this boy... and a plan was hatched.
As 8th grade rolled on, every day at recess or in Physical Ed class the two chinese brothers and this boy would practice a certain skill. Now this skill had a peculiarity in that it has some physics and body mechanics to it which wasn't trivial.  The chinese boys were very magnanimous.... and very encouraging as coaches. Finally they told the boy that he would take the podium. The boy was very skeptical... he wasn't a jock and he knew it.  But he enrolled for that particular event.  Hopefully the 'popular girls' would see it and realize he could excel in more than just exam scoring.

The 8th grade Sports day rolled around with a lot of fanfare. The school principal was there, a lot of the teachers, the usual ensemble of girls and boys and the games began.  Then that particular event was announced. Our boy's name was called.  There were a few encouraging cheers since he was well known for reasons other than sports... but those cheers did not hide the tenor of 'what the heck is he doing participating in this event?'  Doesn't he know this will be embarrassing for him. Two Punjabi girls who liked this boy even asked him to let it go.. but the boy was stubborn. He didn't want to let down John Wong (and his chili chicken :)).

The event was Discus throwing. Some very athletic lads came up, but they didn't know how to throw the discus. They just hurled it like a rock without trajectory or spin. Then Johnny came up and pirouetted 360 degrees and sent a superb parabola arcing through the sky with great spin and came up first place in the measurement.  A couple of others tried after that with little success. Our boy, as usual was called last borne of the knowledge that he was just a footnote to be ignored and humored as he won accolades for the school in other regards. They almost hoped he had left the arena. But he hadn't. He came up and inspired by his two chinese friends who stood there and encouraged him, did the same pirouette as John and sent the discus with spin with the body mechanics that John had taught and the thing flew skyward in a parabola, magically arcing the sky. Not as good as John's but it was good - the discus landed a few feet behind John's marker.  Nobody noticed - this boywas no good on this field anyways. But the event was over, and the microphone announcer called the names on the Podium of the discus throw. John Wong - first, the slightly chubby boy with the mop of unruly black hair - second, and God only knows which poor sod got third. The 'popular girls' did cheer... some of them who were the boy's sister's friends even came up and offered their congratulations. The dream had come true!