Notun Kore Pabo Bole - Breaking Frontiers in Rabindrasangeet

It is raining…pouring in fact.

The monsoons have provided a perfect backdrop as Sahana’s voice fills up my small antechamber, and I wonder, how in the world do I
transmit this feeling of unison- with the lyrics, the raindrops and the all-pervading calm peppering her impeccable notes. Yet, I must write about this latest foray into the world of Tagore Songs, breaking the shackles of a hegemonic Vishva Bharati straitjacket. I simply have to.
The danger, needless to say, lies precisely there. There is this sheer euphoria of rediscovering the 19th century Genius in terms of today’s sound, in the realm of unchartered territories of choral harmony, electronic soundscape. And this makes it nearly impossible to objectively view the experiment. But then luckily have tasted the works of Joy Sarkar, Abraham Mazumdar, Durbadawl Chattopadhyaye and Amit Bandhopadhyaye in the domain of alternate arrangement of Tagore songs. Hence probably getting an unaffected perspective was a wee bit easier.
Talking about affectations, let’s get going with the post mortem. While Sahana’s tonal quality, the ‘jawari’ or the microtones and the presence of ‘gamagam’ or wavy resonance is enviable, her gayaki and diction is still affected by the Shantiniketanesque drawls and stretches. Something, if one doesn’t hear her speak, might put it down as a tool specially invoked for singing of Tagore songs. Hence, the criticism that she doesn’t sing in the diction she speaks in is alluring, though not quite valid as I have found out. But beyond that slight affectation, there is something very unique about her voice. There is this tinge of melancholy, which for some songs is a huge blessing, and for some, a constraint which needs conscious care. For example, when she sings ‘Ki jaani kishero laagi praano kore haaye haaye’ (Phule phule dhole dhole e) or ‘Ekla diner buker bhetore byathar toofan tole’ (Oi je jhawrer meghe)…I feel these lines were written for her voice. But then, in the same song ( Oi je jhawrer meghe), this melancholy is a constraining factor as it dampens the nervous energy which one associates with the trembling anticipation of the song. In fact, Oi je jhawrer meghe is probably one of the most intriguing renditions in the album. In places, she sounds deliciously somber and fills up the senses with a strange melancholy, probably a result of a very adolescent feel to her rendition…painting the image of a 15 year old child-woman down with fever, looking out of the window into the impending monsoon. In other places, she sounds slightly insipid and, to borrow from William Porter, paints a gray pigeon sitting on a gray roof against a gray sky- the energy of green is missing from the soundscape.
Legend and the CD inlay leaflet has it that, it is this soundscape the alchemists like Joy Sarkar, Arnob Sayon Chowdhury are after…to find the golden sepia which will elevate the compostions and lyrics of Tagore to the still unexplored land of El Dorado. And there, Arnob succeeds, and how. He goes for a mélange of synthesized instruments, flute, esraj, khol, tabla and creates magic- in all, but Etodin je boshe chhilem. Probably, there is an inherent bias in yours truly against the contrived nature of lyrics and the commonplace predictability of the composition…but somehow it seems worse than it usually sounds with the techno horsehoof beats and strings sustain. But barring that, Arnob leaves an indelible impact on the listener’s mind- be it the Himalayan majesty of the Drupadi Tomarei koriyachhi jibonero dhrubotara and its dulcet esraj prelude, or the tinkling beats of the playful Tumi kon pawthe je ele. Masterstrokes? Bringing out the distinctive beauty of the Desh raag by a beautifully woven esraj interlude in Oi je jhawrer. The thoughtful and discerning use of two stage choral harmony in Phule phule dhole or Aamaar nishitho raatero, the latter giving a distinct feel of a lonely, silent night where even heartbeats have an echo, following in loyal harmonization. Or the pearl drops as one enters ‘Hridoyegogone shawjolo ghawno nobino meghe’ and one can almost feel the pitter patter of the ‘Rawsher dhara’; in More bhabonaare ki haawaaye maataalo. More bhabonaare, which is credited to Tagore, but is actually composed by Shushil Bhanja Chowdhury, is probably the most visual of the arrangements, the pearl drops and the bass guitar collaborating to etch out a fantastic vascillation of thoughts, aided by gusts of the monsoon winds. Then there are conventional touches like the flute in Tomaar khola hawa and the tabla in More bhabonare, which to Arnob’s credit, sound amazingly fresh.
What is also fresh is Sahana’s take as a communicator in some of the songs. While she is not that effective in songs like More bhabonaare, Tomaar khola hawa (in both songs Arnob’s arrangement clearly overshadows her in efficacy) or Kon puraaton, in some songs the delivery is ethereal. Tomarei koriyachhi suits the austerity of her diction to the hilt, and her confession, her surrender is immortalized by her superbly restrained emoting. In Aaj jyotsnaraate, she makes an impact despite the precedence of a similar yet brilliantly minimalist version of the same. Joy Sarkar was the arranger in that version, and Sraboni Sen was the singer…hence establishing a separate identity for this version was not easy. But she, in collusion with Arnob did so with élan, imparting the sad, wistful tinge remarkably well. Phule phule dhole dhole was exquisite as well, not the least due to her beautifully delicate and smooth delivery. But the piece de resistance remains Aamaar nishitho raatero baadolodhara, a song which despite having a few heavyweight interpretations by reputed names, I believe Sahana has made her own. You would only notice Arnob’s ubiquitous use of bass on the third or fourth hearing, for the first two times, you will want to soak your blues in the divine grains of her voice. I tried very hard to shake off the hangover of my first exposure to Arnob-Sahana’s magic in an experimental, unpublished rebel CD, few years back during the days of the copyright. A CD which also featured other singers like Manoj and Manisha Murali Nayyar, Vikram Singh and Aditi Paul (the Indian Idol aspirant). Sahana’s only song in that collection was Aamaar nishitho raatero, and it captured my imagination like no other. Nothing has changed, I guess.
In all, Notun kore pabo bole rocks. Blues and pops, rather. And as winds of change sweeps across the vast landscape of Tagore songs and their presentation, the album goes a long way in establishing the fact, that times they are a changing. And changing for the better, if you ask our generation. Tagore himself once said, that however well-paved and rosy might be path of tradition and convention, it is only by traversing the thorn-strewn alleys of innovation and re-interpretation which can bring creative emancipation and evolution.
A number of people have started taking to those demanding streets of glory and you know what? It’s about time too….
Time to savour the rainbow of interpretations.
Because the skies have cleared now.
Because it has stopped raining…pouring, in fact.

My Hindi Male Playback Singers Playing Eleven

My playing eleven traveling to Mars for the Inter-Galactic Cup for playback singers…

Manna Dey- An opening batsman in the classical mould, who can adapt remarkably to any conditions…be it swinging taans or seaming emotions. Had trained under coach KC Right which probably accounts for the correctness of his shots. Who can forget his epic Ketaki gulab juhi innings where he encountered the bouncers from the terrifying fast bowler Josheph Bhimson with consummate ease. That smooth flowing Har taraf ab yahin afsane under the demanding pitch conditions of Madan Gardens. Or for that matter the delicate, quivering, late-cut laced innings Ae mere pyare watan when he represented Afghanistan in a voice modulation exhibition match. A batsman for all occasions really, but generally underrated and with a low profile due to lack of Actor endorsements.

Sonu Nigam- Partnering him would be the young blood recently grafted into the team after a string of solid performances in the domestic arena. Started off with idolizing the icon of Hindi Playback, Md.Rafi. Strengths…solid classical defence, ability to go over the top in the first fifteen overs for songs in the ODI s, remarkably fit with arrogant fielding capabilities. Weakness…to go over the top, playing irresponsible shots to clear that fielder at extra murki or yodel, and as a result terminating a budding innings. Has been reined in by his domestic co-player, S.E.L Lotmore, off late with surprisingly good results.

Md.Rafi- Has served HFM for years (though the last years before retirement, depended on a lot on the past laurels for the National Selection) and is undoubtedly one of the main pillars of the team. A legend, a remarkably humble genius…when he bends his voice, and then his vocal chords caress the notes through the covers like an affectionate knife through butter, the result is a sheer treat for the audience. Has the full repertoire of shots, though looks a bit ungainly when tries the unconventional madcap paddle.. patented by a different member of the team. Looks the best when playing in tandem with Sachin in the domestic circuit, for he brings out the best in him. Their most famous partnerships include the Hum bekhudi mein against the Andaman XI, a long standing and playing HMV record. Similarly, Polygram record for the last wicket in the 1970's, Mera Man Tera Pyasaa in the evergreen Navketan grounds. But when partnering someone like Laxmi Ratan Dholak-laa, looks bored. Again has a solid defence set in the classical mould, where he actually smells even the half-notes when in a forward defensive posture. An ideal one-down candidate.

Kishore Kumar- The most enigmatic member of the team and a very media-shy person who hates post-match conferences. An all-rounder in the truest sense of the word, has a more than useful composing arm which can bowl you over with disarmingly simple deliveries. But it is his batting which is the main crowd puller. Very unorthodox style, but superbly effective mostly. Is a complete natural, has an utter disregard for coaching book manuals and depends on his ear-voice co-ordination for last minute improvisations. And he has god-gifted timing as well…when the ball of emotions hits his timbre, the wooden sound is one of the sweetest around. He is famous for his reverse sweep yodels amongst other unconventional shots- one of the finest innings of his in this regard is the one which he played for his home production county in the treacherous Jhumroo Talaiyya grounds. His coming of age innings came in the 1969 World Cup, where he pulverized the opposition with a triple hundred partnering an indisposed Sachin with Rahul as a runner. Along with Md.Rafi, the fulcrum of the batting order- when they hit them, they stay box-office hit.

Shankar Mahadevan- Again a new entry to the team, with a reputation of picking up runs at a frantic pace with impeccable shot selection. Also has represented the planet in Inter-Galactic tournaments for Fusion and Carnatic musicians. Though an all-rounder with brisk discotheque pace mixed with sentimental slower ones, he can make the cut solely as a batsman. Holds the HMV record (though for a non-film club match) for the fastest innings Breathless, where he scored about three stanzas in one delivery (The record was challenged later, though!). An utility member of the team, with a small but impressive history of good performances against classical pace, contemporary leg-spin of dance numbers and dibbly dobbly medium rhythm of love songs. Memorable performances include Jaane yeh kya ho gaya against Armaanian National Team and Aasmaan ke paar shayad while playing for Rockford county with S.E.L Lotmore.

Amit Kumar- Completing the list of batsmen, would be the mercurial talent of this member whose robust hitting have left many a ears craving for more. Being short on technique, he makes it up with his lazy elegance and powerful baritone of the bat. Had a very bright start to his career under the captaincy of and in partnership with Rahul, but lost the plot somewhere due to an inexplicable indifference. The grapevine has it that it was due to explicable differences with the Board, but whatever it may be, a definite selection for my team. One of his earliest innings, Bade achche lagte hai, in an partnership with Rahul again, is etched out in public memory..though my personal favourite remains the tremendous Daur-e-khiza where he stitched a remarkable partnership batting with Kishore Kumar. Does have the penchant for unconventional shot selection, and probably the only one in the team who can hold a teeny-weeny candle to Kishore Kumar in that regard.

Hemant Kumar- Though he was first selected as a composing wicketkeeper-singing batsman, somehow he is more well-known for his batsmanship. But in reality he is a very limited batsman with just one god-gifted aspect- the sound of his timbre, or in other words, his timing. In fact, the famous words of S.O'Leal, if God were to time his strokes, he would do it like Hemant. Would, on many occasions, wrongly accentuate his footwork, but would still get away due to this divine timing. On the other what is hardly given its true recognition is his composure, while wicketkeeping. His is a simple, uncluttered approach to the orchestration of his movements behind the stumps. Something so fluid, so dulcet….that when in his movement behind the stump, he would be poetry in motion. Such is his charm, that when he would sledge Zaraa nazron se kehdo ji, nishana chuk naa jaaye and the batsman would inevitably miss the line of the ball and get stumped, the batsman would turn around and say "Play it again, Hem".

Talat Mehmood- A medium fast bowler whose run-up is as smooth as a dewdrops sliding off palm leaves in the early morning hours. Effortless approach to the singing crease, and not a single crease in his action which lets go of the note in a sublime delicacy of movement. A famous ghazaler of beer, a down to earth hardworking member of the team, he is an invaluable asset. And unlike some tearaway bowlers like Sajjad Whosane and Anon Malik who have had short stays in public memories due to injuries, absolutely non-existent attitude or verbal duals. Most of his great performances have come in the Yusufkhana grounds, his favourite stadium and his best bowling performance personally has been the one in response to his pain at the match-fixing allegations leveled against the team…Sham-e-gham ki qasam…

Mukesh- Slow Right Nose bowler, had strangely laboured and technically faulty action. With great mass appeal because his honest approach to the game, believes in the old school of thought which resulted slow, sad, flighted deliveries, which would probably take so much time to reach the batsman, he would get frustrated. But his talent lies in the fact that after five pedestrian deliveries would impart a deadly one and would hit right at the middle stump of the heart. A very deceptive customer who can bowl a very ordinary delivery, which will grow on you, and you will be taken by surprise by the extra bounce. Case in point, that remarkable over that he bowled in Khai-i-aam (renamed as Asharjah in 1981) in UAE…a googly in Woh subah kabhi to, a venomous snorter in Chinoo arab humara and the faster one in Aasmaan pe hain khuda…was promoted up the order to two down for nasal pinch hitting under S.O'Leal's captaincy for the Anand Cup and did a decent job. However Manna Dey admitted in a post-match conference that he thought the match situation demanded Kishore Kumar's exuberance which could have sealed the issue faster.

Yesudas- A legend in the local circuit, probably his heavily accentuated south-on action cut short his career, But probably one of greatest who have taken to the red cherry, and wielded it with supreme control and undisputed mastery, especially when it came to classical swing bowling. Impeccable line and length of rendition, his famous exploits include ripping through the opponent with a breezy Jaaneman jaaneman in Chateau S' Batelet in France and the Chand akela/Koi gaataa main so jaataa with opening fast bowler J.Dev. An automatic choice.

Hariharan- Has the variety in the ouvre to bamboozle any batsman. Be it Yo-yorkers or Bandish-bouncers, Love song late swings or Depressing doosras, he has delivered them all. The television graphics crew does have a problem when he swings (and seams and spins) into action. Again with a plethora of remarkable achievements to boot in the local circuit, his foray into HFM arena has been especially fruitful with the partnerships forged with opening bowler AR Rayman, the pioneer of electronic bowling shoes. Both, aided by technology, have bowled spells of great character and melodic content. His excellent performances include the match saving Sun ri sakhi, the Chanda re (on not exactly a flat pitch though) spell and Nahin saamne in a friendly at Naini-Taal. Will share the new ball with Yesudas, with an alaap.

P.S. The reserve bench would have Suresh Wadkar, Bhupinder and Sukhwinder Singh. So martians, here we come....

An Ode To the Timeless One (Published in The Hindustan Times, 4th January, 2006, co-authored by Anirudhdha Bhattacharjee)

All characters and incidents in the following article are real. Any resemblance with any imaginary person or incident is purely co-incidental.
These lines are a part of a crucial disclaimer which should dissuade the readers from construing this piece as an abstract from a Greek Tragedy. But be warned, even in this case, Fate treats the Hero in the most ironical of manners. He is betrayed by the benefactors of his deeds in the cold logic of commercial viability, he is wrapped in solitude till the very end, fame and success are mischievous class mates in an eternal game of hide and seek, and he departs for Olympus with one last flourishing bang. We speak ofRahul Dev Burman…..the one composer in Hindi Filmdom who truly transcends time and musical taste.
We are not exactly sticklers for tributes, for Death often is the missing masterpiece which has uplifted many an under-achiever and also-ran to reasonably legendary proportions in the world of Hindi films. But the sheer range and pedigree of tributes which has swelled in favour of Burman Jr. demand serious introspection. When on one hand giants like Pt. Shiv Kumar Sharma, Ustad Amjad Ali Khan and Pt. IIlayaraja swears by his genius, senior colleagues in the stature of Salil Chowdhury hailed him as the ‘The only true musical phenomenon in the last twenty years’. While Manna Dey and Majrooh Sultanpuri, who put together, have worked with almost the entire Who’s Who legion ofthe musical fraternity, certify his supremacy, every discotheque or pub resonates with his creations still today. Even the modern music makers like Jatin-Lalit, Anu Malik, AR Rehman or Pritam never fall short of naming him, even when pushed to the situation where they can take only one name. Is there a key to the secret of RD’s longevity, reach and timelessness as a music composer?
There are some answers which have been generalised over the years. That he could get into the exact mood or situation, that he poured every drop of his inspiration and creative energy into planning the movement of the song, that he knew how to best use the voices of Kishore and Asha, that he knew when exactly he neededthe little extra from Lata or Manna Dey….so on and so forth. But most significantly, RD felt the pulse of the era. The early seventies were politically troubled times. Hippie Cult, Flower Power, Naxalite, Leftistetc. were buzz words in college and university canteens. The taboo associated which these elements were being rubbed off at a breathtaking speed. RD, himself a rebel, infused the rebellious elements in his creations. In a sense, he wanted to break away from the shackles of bondage which had made Indian film music a monotonous, predictable affair, more often than not; where a sitar or a veena replicatedthe basic tune, a surfeit of violins played the raga movement on which the song was based, the tablas and the dholaks played the normal 2-4 / 3-6 beat, where the beat pattern of the ‘mukhda’ was religiously replicated in the antara. And this insight, something on the lines of how Salil Chowdhury interpreted the genesis of a new musical package, was his most coveted secret in the string of success he had in that period. His works in a lot of way were Anti-Establishment in the realm of Hindi Filmdom. To begin with, he broke the norms of conventional rhythm. He brought in exotic beat patterns like Bossanova through Maar daalega dard-e-Jigar ( Pati Patni) . He could compose an exceedingly soulful number like‘Kya Janoon sajan’ (Lata in Baharon ke Sapne) and maintain the rhythm via the electric guitar, using the leather sparingly in the form of a congo and not the tabla as practised over the years by traditionalists, way back in 1966. He utilized the Madal tarang to devastating effect in songs like Tere bina jiya jaayenaa (Ghar) or Mehbooba Mehbooda (Sholay) . Then, he moved away from the usual cluttering of huge orchestral arrangement of industry bigwigs. When a whole lot of upcoming composers were keen to emulate the number of musicians used by Naushad or Shankar - Jaikishan, RD was riveted to the staid, modest rule passed on by his father who insisted that the number of instruments should never outweigh the singer's voice(‘Lota gayegi aaur ek instrument baajega’ remains the Senior Burman’s one of the most well-known remarks). Thus, even his loudest and fastest songs (for eg:Maine dekha ek sapna (Samadhi) / Yahan nahin kahungi(Mr Romeo) ) were arranged in an uncluttered manner to impart an unhurried feel.
The cynics might ask that this rebel in the man might have won him favours in that era, but how did his music transcend time? That answer lies in the sheer completeness of his music- RD brought to our film music a fresh look, an unsullied vitality, as a composer who was at ease at handling Western harmony,Indian melody, Ethnic flavour, Latin rhythm and recording technology. His thorough knowledge of both Indian classical music and Western chord system also came in handy in composing songs that were a mix of multiple ragas and chords. Pandit Ajoy Chakrabarty, once demonstrated the use of multiple ragas, Khamaj &Kalavati, in the song ‘Kuch to log kahenge’(AmarPrem). Paradoxically, an arranger can clearly identify that the progression is definitely chord based! Pacham digged the concept of jamming, a term of common usage in Western music, and many of the tune and rhythm forms were the result of his jamming sessions. But in carving out the final output, he kept his own counsel and ultimately, like his father again, followed his own hunches and judgements. There was this new sound which he gifted Hindi Filmdom, by using new and under utilized musical instruments and derivatives like the Saxophone, Synthesizer, Drums and Flanger, new recording technology, beat forms, creation of special instruments to convey a specific effect in mind, capture natural sounds and in fact, coercing music out of unsuspecting objects of daily use. Who can forget the memorable banshee wails created specially by an instrument developed by RD for Gabbar’s signature tune in Sholay or the innocuous reso-reso doing the honours in ‘Sach mere yaar hai’(Saagar) and ‘Mere saamnewali khidki mein’ (Padosan)? Or for that matter the empty desks doubling up for percussion in ‘Master ji ki aa gayi chiththi’ from Kitaab? Another remarkable facet of RD Burman’s compositions is that despite having a explicitly existing signature style, his music was deliciously unpredictable. His style of composing was such that one minor note, one truant beat could lift the song to unexpected heights.The last line of the mukhda in Rut hain milan ki(Mela) or Bemausam bahar ke (Bundlebaaz), both otherwise predictably patterned Dholak augmented love songs are cases in point. Or probably the back vocals in Bindiya tarse (Phir Wahi Raat) merging with the main melody like a twinkling stream joining a garrulous river. Or the notational volte face, the twist in progression in the antara of Sun Nita (Dil Diwana) which would make Agatha Christie proud. In fact so all-encompassing was his music making style, so sweeping was his knowledge that he could actually create music in style of other music directors, and sometimes beat them at their own game. The use of dholaks in Kahe ko bulaya (Humshakal) or Sawan ka mahina (Nehle Pe Dehla) can be pitted against any similar treatment by LP. SD Burman’s effortless soulfulness can be traced in Khuli khuli zulphen(Parchhaiyan) or Bada natkhat hai (Amar prem), as can the melodic pyrotechniques of Salilda in Diwana karke(Mere Jeevan Saathi). In fact, HMV, had indeed by mistake, included the Bengali version of the song in a Salil Chowdhury-Lata compilation. Whether be it the classically moulded ‘a la Naushad or Vasant Desai’ song (Humen tumse pyar kitna (Kudrat), Gori teri paijaniya (Mehbooba), Roz roz dali (Angoor), Piya bawri (Khubsoorat), Kajra badarva (Pati Patni), Beeti naa bitai (Parichay), Aao kahan se (Budhdha Mil Gaya) or Bheeni bheeni bhor (Dil padosi hai), or the BappiLahiri-esque dance tracks with synthetic and psychedelic sounds; he was equally at ease.
Like any successful artist, he too was heavily influenced by works of other masters, but in retrospect was labelled a plagiarist by the media. It is another matter that he could keep his unique stamp of authority over the numbers he re-created. Today, most of the originals may have been wiped off from memory, but most of the inspired numbers remain. His inspiration was not the commonly understood syndrome,‘copying the tune’, but extended to incorporation of different forms of tunes and rhythm patterns into his music. This stemmed mainly from his deep knowledge of jazz, Latin American music and Broadway /Off-Broadway musicals. And the way he metamorphosed the original was nothing short of a miracle. Otherwise how can one explain a non-descript musical interlude from Procul Harem’s ‘Whiter Shade of Pale’ turning into one of the poignantly crafted love songs in HindiFilms (Tum ho mere dil ki dhadkan from Manzil)?
But his musical genius notwithstanding, RD Burman was pathetic at promotion. He had no bona fide muscle in the hedonistic Bombay film circle to even voice his opinion, let alone bloat it. At times it appeared that he was the staple punching bag of the media. And his consistent failure at being at the right place at the right time with the right people resulted in him losing many a prestigious project. RD was more of aninarticulate dipsomaniac whose world was confined to his music and his close circuit of friends. But even,those friends, barring few, hardly lived up to their billing. Bigwigs like Ramesh Sippy and Shekhar Kapur dropped him for no tangible reason even after he had given both commercially hit and timeless music for their films. Manmohan Desai, having used RD for AaGale Lag Jaa and Rampur ka Lakshman, his best musicals by miles, never said a word in RD’s favour in the future. He opted for temporal chart toppers and mediocrity, as the music of his films were literally gone in sixty seconds under the onslaught of time. But the unkindest cut of all came when Shubhash Ghai promised him Ram Lakhan, a big banner film which could have revived his creative avalanche, and then later switched to LP, another close associate of his. And while all this happened, RD could only look on from his Juhu verandah, behind the dhoti he had put up to prevent anyone from seeing the ‘great’ RD unemployed. Talk about Greek Tragedies and how!!!
RD Burman is a brand today. Music companies recover their cost in a twinkling when they repackage his music which he non-strategically gifted to turkeys like Chor Police, Adhura Aadmi, Sitamgar, Garam Masala, Mardonwali Baat and Namumkin. From sophomores to old hats, everyone reveres him to the extent of divinity. Only if this appreciation was devoid of the Van Goghian lag, he wouldn’t have died a lonely death. Only if there were people who would give him a chance to challenge new frontiers in composing, we could have had another Amar Prem or Hum Kisise Kum Naheen or Ishq Ishq Ishq. Only if Fate (of the Greek Tragedy variety) hadn’t proved his dazzling comeback to be his swansong...Only if……

Celebrating Brahma (Published in The Telegraph, 26th August; with trivia inputs from Anirudhdha Bhattacharjee)

If the 70s in Hindi film music was to be mapped, there is no iota of doubt about who the Holy Troika would be.
The musical team of Laxmikant-Pyarelal would be Vishnu, hugely popular with an enviable appeal that would reach the commonest of Puja rooms. LP battled and duped the demons of Box-Office Failure with Vishnu-like cerebral use of power; choosing the right banner and rationing their talent.
Blissfully unaware of most worldly matters and lost in the marijuana of music would be R.D. Burman or Shiva: destroying all established notions of rhythm and arrangement in HFM and dancing his Tandav to the tune of true World Music within the paradigm of Bollywood.
But moving away from these charismatic gods and the bloodless wars between Shaivites and Vaishnavis, our cynosure is the third of the trinity. Like Brahma, who has only a sole temple after him, even at the peak of their powers in the 70s, the Kalyanji-Anandji duo always remained in the shadow of the two giants. KA’s contribution is scarcely the stuff drawing room uproar or tumultuous exchanges on e-forums are made of; it is hardly evaluated with the same intensity. But, almost quietly, they continued to rub shoulders with the big names for two decades or more, with fervour and tenacity.
Kalyanji Veerji Shah, the life and soul of the duo, was the son of a prospective grocer who took interest in musical instruments from a very early age. At an age when a child learning an instrument is wowed at, he developed a musical instrument called the Pattar Tarang! His innovative streak continued as, after being incorporated in SJ’s orchestra, with Hemant Kumar, he ushered in HFM’s first electronic sound through the German instrument claviolin. Remember the haunting snake-charmer’s been theme from Hemant Kumar’s immortal score in Nagin? Yes, that was Kalyanji himself creating magic. And with these musical escapades he finally caught the attention of Subhash Desai in 1958, and was offered his first independent assignment ? Samrat Chandragupta. This was followed up by Post Box 999, which among other creations had the Hemant-Lata dulcet declaration of insomnia ? , neend na mujh ko aaye. With his third film, Satta Bazaar, younger brother Anandji joined him and the rest, as they say, is history.
The early 60s were difficult, but KA scraped through given the support of producers and directors like Baburao Mistry, Subhash Desai, Ravindra Dave, Pramod Chakravarty and Suraj Prakash who couldn’t afford topnotch composers. But come 1965, and all that changed. Four of their five films, Himalay Ki God Mein, Jab Jab Phool Khile, Purnima and Saheli made it to the top of the charts. In JJPK, they moved away from Kalyanji’s earlier use of heavy orchestra in the SJ or Naushad mould, with startling results. In fact, the year’s success landed them with a couple of prestigious projects like Saraswatichandra and Upkar. While the former had among its National-Award winning score, the hugely popular love ditty in Raag Yaman, Chandan-sa badan; the latter had the ethereal Kasme vaade pyaar wafa sab which became the rage of the nation.
By this time, KA had developed their late 60s- early 70’s style, which was quintessentially an extension of the Bengal School of composing heralded by SD and Hemant Kumar. This mandated the use of limited Shudhdha notes, sporadically interspersed with Komal or Teevra notes, all stressed upon for a lasting impact. In the mellifluous Kishore-Asha duet Aankhon aankhon mein from Mahal (1969), the mukhda is an exposition of this skill, where only the first three notes of any form of music (Sa, Re and Ga) have been woven into the fabric with mind-boggling results. In fact, the same note progression often formed their signature tune and was recast intelligently in fractionally different moulds to create classics like Zindagi ka safar (Safar, 1970), Dil to hai dil (Muqaddar Ka Sikander, 1978) or Mera jeevan kora kagaaz (Kora Kagaz, 1974).
The period 1970-73 found KA at their commercial and creative zenith. The roll of honour included films like Safar, Blackmail, Johny Mera Naam, Purab Aur Paschim, Geet, Ghar Ghar Ki Kahani, Kathputli, Chhoti Bahu, Mere Humsafar, Samjhauta and Victoria No. 203. A very successful relationship was forged in 1973 when they proved to be the mascot for a lanky newcomer from Allahabad who redefined anger on celluloid. Numerous stage shows and hugely successful shows at that, were a direct and important byproduct of this association. However, as years went by, by the late 70s-early 80s, quality began to watch from the wings as the appeasement of the galleries took centerstage. And the trough crept up faster than the crest had arrived.
Viju Shah, one of Kalyanji’s five offspring, tried to give the last shot in the arm with Tridev (1989), but the success was fleeting. The man who brought electronic orchestra to Hindi Film Music, eventually lost out when technology became the heart and soul of the recording rooms. And when Anandji was quizzed on AIR FM, Kolkata, about his favourite Kalyanji creation, on August 22, 2000 little did he know that it would be prophetic.
'Hum chhod chale hain mehfil ko/Yaad aaye kabhi to mat rona..'
Within 48 hours, Kalyanji had passed into posterity.

The Unsung Kishore (Published in The Telegraph, 5th August, 2005)

Come August 4th every year, Kishore Kumar aficionados will indulge in discussing myriad aspects of the maverick who dabbled in most crafts of Hindi Films, but above all was the supreme playback. And songs which are likely to be invoked will be amongst the gems he has bequeathed for billions.

For eliciting melancholy, strains of ‘Chingari koi bhadke’ or ‘Kiska rasta dekhe’…the euphoria of frolic in ‘Main hoon jhumroo’ or ‘Ina mina dika’…the superlatively philosophical in ‘Zindagi ka safar’ or ‘Kuchh to log kahenge’. But search the hinges of the treasure chest, the inner lining of the box covered with the velvet timbre of his voice and one will find a glistening diamond here, a bloodshot ruby there; songs, which courtesy the music companies or the still born films to which they belong, never drifted in to plebian hearts and ears through records, tapes or CDs. The unreleased or not properly released gems of Kishore Kumar, on their own, can give a lot of his more popular numbers a run for their money.

Though handpicking unreleased beauties should have been relatively easy, reality throws up a different picture. And the three songs which come up after a lot of indecision probably vindicate our faith in the Underdog, the Unsung. The first of these also comes with an element of very pleasant, almost divine, surprise. For those who have savoured RD Burman-Asha Bhonsle’s Bengali Puja numbers, the popular ‘Phule gondho nei (1973)’might ring more than a musical bell; it might uncork the sparkle of the nostalgia of their respective decades. This, only till one chances upon the Hindi version of this song ‘Phulon ki zubaan khubsurat ho gayi’ from an untitled production of debatable lineage. The Bengali original is an Asha solo, but here Kishore Kumar joins to take it to hitherto unchartered heights of ecstasy. The song is better arranged, the lyrics are improved upon (the Achilles Heel of Bengali Puja Numbers from RD’s stable), the emoting is optimum- but if not for anything else the song stands out for the incredible entry which Kishore effects with his resonent baritone proclaiming ‘Aakaash koraa hai,aur chand kanwaaraa hai’. Though he goes on to play ideal foil to Asha’s delicious rendition, it surely has to be one of the greatest openings in a Hindi Film Song…unexpected, stunning, regal.

The second in the collection could contend to be the ultimate song in the minimalist tradition of composing. Very little accompaniment, a hint at slight percussions, more like muted heart beats of the song. And truly, ‘Akela hoon main is jaahaan mein..’lives; Kishore Kumar’s virgin voice from the late fifties takes care of that. Inspired by the theme of ‘River of no return’ and written and composed by himself for the unreleased “Neela Aasmaan”(1960), the song had been released around a decade ago in a double cassette by Amit Kumar without finding many takers then. Kishore delivers this song so lucidly that the listener is left almost breathless. One can actually hear him pour out the solitude from the deepest recesses of his heart through the conduit of the refrain…O sticklers for the grandeur of simplicity, a must!

Finally, the third song - probably the brightest jewel of them all. Based on Raga Puriya Dhaneshree, Kishore composed this ghazal in D major scale, using chords in characteristic Kishoresque manner, defying the established norms of chord progression in the particular scale. And all this, in a matter of ten minutes while recording for the theme song of the film Pyar Ajnabi Hai (1980)- another shelved production starring himself and Leena. Much like isolated chapters of a rare manuscript, the song currently exists in two separate clippings of about 50 seconds each. But be warned - don’t hastily conclude anything about the impact of the song from its duration.50 seconds is a significant amount of time. Someone atop the WTC was planning an exotic weekend 50 seconds before the plane intervened. The baker at Pompeii was happily contemplating the shade of the loaf 50 seconds before Vesuvius burst open. In 50 seconds the hummingbird flaps its wings 3900 times and showcases the wonder of Nature. In 50 seconds, Sun’s rays cover 1/10th of their expedition to Earth in order to support photosynthesis or an even coat of tan.

For 50 seconds Junoon-e-ishq captures each and every spark of emotion created when the arrogance of persuasive love takes on the wall of stoicism.

As Potter mania grips the world, can’t help but listen in awe to this one true alumnus of Hogwarts School of Wizardry from Hindi Filmdom!!

Escaping the Pujas

The feeling closed in on me with unerring single-mindedness. I increased the volume of my music system, took refuge in a pen & paper, moved from standard to Patiala measure…but it was a losing battle….When I moved from city-ex to city-why, career was the driving force. And sure enough, I love money. But like again, during so many moments, the aftermath of my decision stands before me and quizzes me on my preference map. Friends, house of memories, at least one face, one known touch- or a rung more on the professional ladder? Do I say, the time stood still then, or do I say it was stagnant?

I am sure I could have escaped this deluge of uncomfortable queries- if it wasn’t for the time of the year. Strange- for the harder I try to severe the umbilical chord with Kolkata, it re-surfaces in some way or the other. E-mail forwards with stills from the latest creation from the potters of Kumartuli puncture my defense. Vir Sanghvi writes with élan what Pujas mean to Bengalis. The skies of Bangalore take on the ‘Sharat’ hue…the indigenous season. Even the sound of ‘ Dhaak’, the vengeful beats leak through the armour of an alien city. Broken images of my city roads, disparate smell of bastard noodles mixed with gleaming beads of sweat on enthusiastic pandal-hoppers , the quiet rustle of new leather on new feet- all prey on, feast on my solitude like ruthless vultures faced with an overgrown wildebeest.

Mauled, homesick, I reach for consolations. Words like pragmatism, professional, stoicism, grown-up, mature are propped up cushions for my aching mind- the walls of my yellow room affectionately ruffles my hair, the floor beckons me to its soft lap. The crystal glass tenderly caresses my lips, AR Rehman medicates my wounds with his latest offering- but as I said before it is a losing battle. In which one is reduced to mendicancy…begging for refuge from city-ex, begging for company from city-why, begging for a uni-dimensional preference schedule from providence, begging for either plain genius or plain mediocrity from life….O yes, I hate the Pujas. Or love it beyond reason.

A Weekend With The Shahs (July, 2004)

It was a chance comment that triggered off the blast, some casual remark about a play being staged over the weekend. Recovering from Friday night excesses, a more detailed investigation revealed that it was only half true….Naseeruddin Shah’s theatre group Motley was actually staging two plays back-to-back over the weekend! Since Ismat Aaapaa Ke Naam was first staged, I wanted to watch it but somehow like the other favourite play of mine, Winkle Twinkle, it suspiciously avoided me across cities like plague. On the top of that, there was this bonus in form of Dear Liar, a play written by Jerome Kilty in 1957 based on the correspondence between George Bernard Shaw and Stella Campbell, a famous contemporary actress. So happily my eyes went about probing the venue and the tickets and all that jazz….when the ticket prices hit me like a malignant eye-sore.
The reaction to a price in terms of demand, as classically defined, is a function of the utility, or rather the marginal utility of the good or service to the consumer. In case of theatre ticket prices, I think history also counts…maybe whether his city has an Academy of Fine Arts or not. Coming from Kolkata, where the Arts are highly subsidized, spending Rs.500 on a ticket seemed slightly weird, but Naseeruddin Shah, Ratna Pathak Shah, Ismat Khanum Chughtai and George Bernard Shaw being who they are, I really had no option. More deserving connoisseurs of the theatre were however left behind though by this prohibitive pricing, and justice favoured the corporate.
And surely enough the Saturday arrived with khadi clad intellectuals, nattily dressed crème de la crème of Delhi and chattering youngsters. There were women who seemed to be coming from the wrong side of the green room, and women who were beautifully intelligent…the men were mostly extremes- paunchy or chiseled. The anticipation was building up like a gas bubble, and I kept on consoling it with nicotine till the second bell rang. And the din quietened. Two figures confidently strutted into the spotlight, introduced themselves as Naseeruddin and Ratna Paathak Shah and took us all to the late nineteenth, early twentieth century.
The Shahs were deliciously British and as they read out the letters, or rather lived out the letters, one could almost feel the intense love and friendship, which bound Shaw and Campbell together. Despite being respectively married, pun intended, it seemed that theirs was a relationship which resembled a harp. There were strings with different intonations, different shades, and different notes- but when played by Shaw’s sharp wit or Campbell’s affectionate arrogance, sounded so beautifully harmonious, so sonorous. The World Wars, Pygmalion, St.Joan and The Great Depression haunted the slightly disappointing props like spirits as the Shahs forged and etched an unforgettable relationship under grease paint, time turning and impressing minds such as mine.
Come Sunday, I was even more excited as the period in which Ismat Aaapaa, as she was affectionately called, wrote, were the Pre-independence years which has cradled some wonderful story-tellers and ditties. Also I strongly feel as simple narrators or story-tellers, women are slightly ahead of their male counterparts…starting from our grannies. And since Motley decided to go in for the narrative style of drama, as opposed to the recreational style, it suited my expectations fine. Three of Ismat Aapaa’s short stories were told with great vigour (accompanied by a relatively pedestrian score by Vishaal Bharadwaj); they came to life as each member of Motley, the Shahs and their daughter Heeba played the Sutradhar and all the characters in each of the three plays. It started with Chui Mui enacted by Heeba who was promising and excellent in patches- the overtly strong Urdu flavour robbed her rendition of some easy flowing humour but her histrionic powers shone through all right. It was a touching tale of childbirth on a train- how a rural woman orchestrates her own delivery and how three upper class women react to the incident, interspersed with an acerbic commentary of status of women in a pre-partition Muslin household in Uttar Pradesh.
Ratna Paathak Shah was in her elements in the next story, which dealt with a love story of epic proportions, in terms of the sheer span of the passion and fecund imagery of the much-touted male ego. ‘Mughal Bachcha’ was all about the anachronism of the Mughal pride in a fast changing world under the British Rule and on a more universal note, the futility of false pride in matters of the heart. Having seen so many Gori Bis and Kaale Mians in my short tenure on this planet, identification and appreciation came very smoothly for me. Mrs. Shah’s body language was the highlight of the story as she recreated the images of the septuagenarian story-teller, of the shy yet angry, eternally optimistic Gori Bi and the haughty Kaale Mian; with consummate ease.
But as if to celebrate the saying ‘Save the best for the last’, the play beautifully climaxed to Naseer’s turn at narrating ‘Gharwali’. This story is admittedly much more malleable to dramatic adaptation and has been indeed adapted a number of times before. However Naseeruddin Shah delivered a one-man powerhouse performance to lift it to newer heights, and tempted me to change the title of this piece to An Evening With Naseeruddin Shah. Luckily for the sake of neutrality, which some wise crack had wisecracked is the greatest prejudice, I retained the original title. Otherwise his impact could might have had its sway.
‘Gharwali’ is the story of a bastard child Laajo and how society instills in her a mix of feminine servility and promiscuity, and she is as Aaapaa puts it, generous with her love, service, body and soul. Her masters change but not her willingness to serve one with virgin honesty of heart. And then she falls for Mirza, or rather the respect he gives her, the dignity, the warm security of a home that she could possess. She even gives up her promiscuous ways, only retaining her boisterous and flirtatious demeanor. It is a story of Mirza who inspite visiting brothels, strongly believes in a righteous distinction between the Andar- mahal and the outside world. How in turn, Laajo becomes his servant, then wife and then again servant is the skeleton of the narrative in form of a satire on the institution of marriage. Their relationship blooms under the master-servant paradigm..it is infact, closest to known data points of marital bliss. Only when expectations creep in with patriarchal dos and don’t with a formal marriage that the relationship sours. Mirza effectively kills off the spirit that made her irresistible to him and in the process, gets frustrated himself with the change. Only when he luckily finds out that their marriage stands annulled because she is a bastard, that he, and subsequently, they find peace. The lanterns in his Haveli are again lit up, ‘phulka’s pampered by her soft, white hands again remind him of his mother’s culinary touch and all is hunky dory. The only difference now, as the closing lines suggest, was that he doesn’t have to hesitate to jump into bed with her as before in their first master-servant tryst…technically his servant, Mirza eventually realizes that Laajo was more of a ‘Gharwali’ than the holy Nikah could ever imagine.
There are actors who make the characters they play turn into them. An art, to be fair to the mega stars of Indian acting fraternities, is not very easy and indeed indispensable for the star system to flourish and rake in the moolah. But what is really difficult is to become the character, to get under the skin. And the Shahs, did just that over this weekend, and more. For it wasn’t one skin or one heart or one mind they had to get into, it was a multitude of them, making their surname worthwhile....truly, a royal treat.

The Other Side of Nowhere

I cannot say I was particularly pleased to hear about my transfer to Agra, not because I felt alien or anything working in a mental home, but just that I would miss my hometown a lot. Even the difficulties there seemed to be very friendly and had this cathartic influence on the flow of my life. But the Hippocratic oath required me to serve mankind, though very few of us grant lunatics the respect worthy of a human being. Hence one fine morning, I found myself neatly unpacking my stuff in front of the attendant of the psychiatric ward.

The place, as I feared, was not very friendly. Somehow it seemed that the place was unwilling to accept a Bengali doctor, since from the time of Lord Curzon there has been this stereotyping of Bengalis of being this cerebral, but soft and almost effeminate race. Hence controlling violent madmen and treating them was definitely not considered to be one of their strong points. And my five-foot five wiry frame did precious little to influence their prejudice.

The patients were as varied as it gets. There was this guy who was reclusive and seen around very little, but whenever he was, he used to strut around like a peacock. He bore a condescending smile on his face, managed a white cap from somewhere, wore it like our Chacha Nehru and expressed great concern for his fellow inmates. He also got hold of a few followers who would his ally in this farce of a King surveying his kingdom sorts. The sight was actually so real and hence so funny that on occasions I had this irrepressible urge to laugh at the 'politician' but restrained myself on grounds of humanity. After all, it wasn’t his fault that he was nutty.

Another crackpot who would sit at the gates, and then chase anybody who passed begging for something, which I could never make out at first. Later on closer attention, I figured that he was begging for money for the treatment of his child, when it known to all and sundry, that he was childless. I had taken up his case for treatment but couldn’t make much progress through the sheath of his complicated syndromes.

The one inmate who really touched me was a child. She would sit for hours and watch the butterflies argue over pollen grains, roll over in mirth in the air and being generally restless. She would keep very still, suddenly leap forward and catch hold of one and softly talk to it as her soft fingers would break the brittle colours of its wings. She would do this for hours, chase squirrels up the tree and imitate the huge ebony-hued crows.

But the worst of the lot, was a rogue who was convinced that he was a doctor and conducted mock sessions of diagnosis amongst patients and, can you beat it, my colleagues! He also had a train of fellow madcaps who played along like nurses and attendants. It was really difficult to keep them under control when they went violent and often we had to resort to less gentler means ourselves. Equally difficult was the task to convince them that we were the medical fraternity. In fact we never succeeded, for we were grossly outnumbered.

I must stop here.

They have come for my daily dose.

A Tale of Two Schools (June, 2004)

This is a story about two schools.

The first school was more than an institution; where values grew like laughing daisies in an Illustrated Guide to the English Countryside. A newspaper cutting from yesteryears talked about the school under the article head that read, 'A Mother for Rs.60'. Indeed for working parents it came as a messiah where they had the opportunity of letting a number of mothers take care of their kids in their absence. For their adolescence there was Rabindranath Tagore, albeit filtered, and John Lenon and Abbasuddin for music to fill the air. Children entered the school, white and soft, wrapped in home made quilt, and left in trousers hiding hairy legs. The premium was always on honesty and kindness and even though the pressure of the rat race did sneak in through here and there, on the whole it was insulated from the vagaries of the fast competitive world.The infrastructure was hardly adequate, but the real rooms were the hearts. Thus a crowded assembly with the sweet smell of the sweat of your childhood sweetheart was a treat rather than an issue. Issues there were, of the tonnes of holiday homework, but then it is not that meritorious short cuts were not allowed. Most importantly, the academic discipline, which sometimes went overboard, helped getting a grip over the Boards. The final bungee jump was so well rehearsed that most landed like a gentle parachute. The spirit of the school was captured a century or half back when Oliver Goldsmith said of the Village Schoolmaster-
Yet he was kind; or if severe in aught,
The love he bore to learning was in fault.
That is not to say it bred a cluster of bibliophiles. The smell of Monsoon was enough to suspend classes on occasions, where the teacher would suddenly throw away the chalk and the Shah Jahans and the calcium carbonates and say, “ What the heck! Let’s have some songs!” And we used to pour out like the imminent teardrops of an August Kolkata sky, onto our small courtyard. Singing to the skies lines from Tagore, or the Bhatiyali strains of the fishermen of East Bengal. No 'O Sajna Barkha Bahar Aayi' though, Salil Chowdhury or Madan Mohan was barred because the school rightfully feared Amar Utpal or Bappi Lahiri might slip through the door left ajar. There was no laissez-faire but they, like the makers of the Second and the Third Five-year Plan, sought discretion to be a better part of valour and adopted the infant industry argument. The teachers used to join in under the beaming, kind face of our principal who was as unconventionally germane to our all round development as probably Tagore was to the students of Shantiniketan. Each contour of her face spelled exhilarating bliss or unavoidable doom, for her anger was stuff legends are made of. But as the Chinese blessing seeks, we did live in exciting times!!
Time used this wonderful palate to mix and match the vivid colours of my childhood. Stolen glances, a few locks of hair carefully snipped, jealous looks at my childhood sweetheart locked in a kiss- memories of boys who were ‘strange’, of girls who were ‘normal’, of women who were kind, of men who inspired awe. Cuts on my body with gaping flesh and oozing blood, truckloads of runs in the domestic circuit of hand cricket with paper balls, rumbles in the stomach as the results were declared in one gala annual affair all come rushing back as I tell you about this school. They are all there, trapped in the bricks like the heart beats from Poe’s Tell-Tale heart, and what a ditty they recount.

The second school was again more than an institution; it was a polite Tower of London set in the genteel settings of an upper Middle class Bengali diaspora. Where it was better to be British than to be American in mindset, and thus discipline scored over individual freedom. The stiff upper lip seldom stuttered when pronouncing the hardest reprimand, and when young minds were left traumatised, no amount of counter-soothing could bring back the respect that was lost forever. What remained were dark strands of fear like tea leaves in an empty tea cup.
It was a censor board working overtime, sometimes rightfully, but in more cases than not, censoring creativity, dreams and lending a linear direction to the development of minds. All-round didn’t actually have an all-round definition, and there were major chunks of life, which were left out. As a result people passing out from the school had this terrible difficulty of adjusting to the world which became for them a metaphor for magic realism, a page out of Marquez. Where time twisted and turned around characters, partially from their world, partially from another. A world which was left amazed at the lack of exposure of the pass outs to truth, both beautiful and ugly. Things like boys fighting in a muddy football field, like Hercule Poirot solving murder mysteries, like the politics of Indian freedom struggle, like Kishore Kumar yodelling love songs.- indeed love was wrapped in a spiritual and an eclectic packet and delivered very carefully to the sleeping futures of the world. While explaining Lines to An Indian Air or The Highwayman, love had to be dealt with because of syllabic constraints. Otherwise my suspicion is that the School would have only done Horatius and The Walrus and the Carpenter and might have done away with Chapter 20 of our Biology textbook by P.A.Paulose. And staying with The Walrus, indeed very few oysters from the school could find their feet without excess tribulations.
All this however can still be debated, but what cannot be defended was the punishment handed out to a kid who had the misfortune of drawing an old man urinating against a city wall. When Suman Chatterjee pleaded with kids to draw beyond the very English medium Twinkle Twnkle Little Stars and Mickey Mouses, little did he know that a kid would take up his advice, draw how he sees his city and get into serious soup. Even in the highly unlikely scenario of the picture being sketched in the sexual context, the Middle Ages style of discipline was something that did more harm to the mind of the child than correcting it. And you don’t have to be child psychiatrist to conclude that.

Funnily, and I bleed profusely as I say this, the schools were one and the same.

So you think you can tell, heaven from hell?

Friends, Romans and Countrymen...(June, 2004)

A letter made its way through the Indian Ocean and reached a mother in Behala, Kolkata on an afternoon in January 1992. “They are making life so difficult over here..the captain is aloof, I can’t speak my mind in meetings, the fast bowlers are turning it on and the pitches are as friendly as a politician during communal riots”.

Saurav Ganguly’s baptism by fire was indeed scorching; and though the captain did his bit to make the rank newcomer feel out of place on what is considered to be the toughest of foreign tours for a sub continental cricketer, he shouldn’t have complained. After all, he was a professional who was getting paid for taking blows on and off the field, and he should have realized that his kingdom was, at least then, a mere spot on the face of the cricketing world.

Granted that he fought back like the biscuit brand he endorses and rewrote cricketing history when he painted his way to a ton on debut, still that doesn’t change the fact that he has got abominable footwork. And since you don’t need footwork to negotiate the vicious swinging conditions of a London morning and a debut in Lords is something that cannot possibly overawe any cricketer, the century was no great shakes.

If you look at comments by past cricketers, remember Bishen Singh Bedi’s opinion about him for Bedi is one of the greatest batsmen India has ever produced and knows a thing or two about batting under a variety of conditions. Only lesser batsmen and students of the game like Rahul Dravid can make comments like when it comes to the off-side there is God, and then there is Saurav. And even nowadays when he is in pathetic form, there are certain irritating elements who remind that very few people have their averages above the 40 mark in both forms of the game? How asinine can one get….

He is impolite and a disgrace to the Indian spirit which he amply showed during his soccer fan like vandalizing of the Mecca of the cricketing fraternity (where a security guard once rightly insulted a non-English vagabond who answers to the name of Sunil Gavaskar) when he twirled his shirt after winning just another one day international. Few former Indian captains rightfully censured this act for this contradicted the soft, graceful loser image Indian cricket had painstakingly acquired over the years through insipid body language and fatalistic performances on field. After all the term Hindu rate of growth should have its cricketing reflection. Some people also have this habit about mentioning a similar and more provocative act by Andrew Flintoff on Indian soil and on field, and directed towards Saurav (updating their county dynamics). But they forget, Flintoff is from the country that invented the game and gave us Railways and table manners. And for God’s sake, that was the venerable Lords and this was the lowly Wankhade.

After all, when you are abused on the field, you are supposed to listen like a freshman if you are from the subcontinent. Sunil Gavaskar and Javed Miandad (both had this penchant for Dennis Lillee) have trodden the dastardly alternate path and not done much for their countries. Thus we definitely don’t again need someone who promises to give it back in equal measure.

Did someone say India’s most successful captain? O yes, even I’ll do a good job of going out in shorts for the toss and taking gambles right and left. Selection and backing of newcomers is also something that has happened in the past with much better results. It is a matter of common knowledge that Arshad Ayub, Venkatapathy Raju, Rahul Sanghvi, Bhupinder Singh Sr. and the rest have left an indelible mark on Indian cricket which can never be dreamed of by the potential of the likes of Harbhajan Singh, Yuvraj Singh, Zaheer Khan, Ashish Nehra, Mohammad Kaif, Irfan Pathan and Lakshmipathy Balaji. And as you can make out they are all Bengalis it makes Saurav one of the most partial and parochial captains of all times. Overseas victories, beating the world champs at home, retaining the Border-Gavaskar and in the process changing Australian views about Indian batting spine, Pakistan triumphs, World Cup performances- an unusually high number of flashes in the pan. God, he is so lucky.

Even a Mandira Bedi can make out that he is terribly suspect against short-pitched stuff. The sublime 144 at the placid Gabba pitch, though, is something to be discounted - the chin music doesn’t have those extra pieces of orchestra if it is not on a fast pitch like Galle and with an opposition like Bangladesh. The same discount holds for the two blinders of 74 and 77 that he gifted to the two fastest bowlers in the world only recently. The less said the better about his fielding…his catching in the slips is outrageous, Anil Kumble will surely vouch for that. Again, what can I say about his running between the wickets, the lazy regal person he is, he takes the short cut to scoring runs, hitting elegant fours and titanic sixes! What a shirker!

And yes, don’t get me wrong; for I have come to bury Saurav, not to praise him.

From Bad to Verse

Poetry is something, which is intimidating for me, for usually it comes with the silent suggestion that I transport myself through years/places/mindsets to reach that line of thought which would qualify me to say good or bad. So in that sense, more than poetry itself, the appreciation of poetry that is something that has always seemed an abstract and somewhat whimsical exercise. Hence when I laid my hand on the e-version of ‘Kourob’, a collection of conversations at countryside excursions to discuss and dabble in contemporary Bengali poetry, I was expecting it would be impressive on the whole but tangential to my cerebral sphere. Fortunately I was only correct about the former.
The first of this line of the conversation was a result of the foray of three eminent persons in Bengali literary spheres into the wilderness of the Chandipur beach hign on rum, pomfret and the symphony of lonely Nature. They called it the ‘Kobita Camp’. The discussions were obviously coincidental but threw up so many questions, and every one quite fundamental, that my apprehensions about comprehension were soon dispelled. And the feeling persisted with the subsequent tête-à-têtes that were recorded for the sake of similar intrinsic value. Though the answers to the questions were something that came up in fits and spurts of opinion punctuated with a lot of contemporary poetry sessions, they were myriad enough to demand unique answers from the reader. And that is where I stand procrastinating.
The contention of promiscuity and high art going hand in hand is something that has baffled me for a long time. The statistics student in me seeks a correlation which unfortunately doesn’t have enough muscles numerically since both art and promiscuity are attributes and precious very little has been done to cardinalize the kick of Maupassant or the compositions of Wagner to give them the nature of variables. But theoretically speaking such a synonymy might be tenable if causality can be argued out. As ‘Kourob’ enlightened me, Wagner needed intermittent sessions with women in the room adjoining his music room to fuel his composing streaks. The fact about syphilis ending Maupassant’s brilliant but short life is commonly known. Gaugin’s similar end after escapades in Tahiti and Picasso’s life are now stuff Hollywood dollar-churners are made of. Amidst this empirical body of evidence the question of reasoning comes in. And probably, the answers are two folds. As one of my close friends pointed out once it might be due to the fact that they as general artists dispositionally have scant respect for the social roster of dos and don’ts. And maybe it works from the other direction also, where the eyebrows and tongues will crucify middle-class mediocrity or wannabe for seeking newer harbors while justifying or maybe making allowances for the achievers as if they have earned profligacy of hormones through profligacy of genius. Skewed judgements, really.
Extending this to a larger context, the separation of the artist and individual also forms the backbone of many a tempestuous arguments. While there is a lobby that would like to go with the condemnation of the artiste’s calibre on the basis of his personal life, there is another, which believes in the complete separation of the two. (There is always the third; the mediating jury and the fourth; the vacillating metronomes.) Yours truly likes to stay with the first lobby though cannot help but appreciate a few points made by the other one. For example if we take up the case of Kabir Suman who has been accused of being a wife-beater, the condemnation camp always argue that how can the same hand which does such a dastardly act (with no reference to the context of the incidents for that is never reported) write a love song which inspires an entire generation (and I am being literal here). Since Kabir Suman is the best thing that has happened to Bengali lyrics after Rabindranath Tagore, the contradiction, the ‘hypocrisy’ of his creation becomes more naked. But when contradiction is the only reality, which never contradicts its self-existence, would that be reason enough to pillory the bard? Don’t we whistle from the front rows when William Blake comes up with a ‘Did he who made the lamb, make thee?’ Yes, we do. We do that when we love our city whose dirty underbelly swallows thousands of Vestel Virgins in the Temple of Instincts.We do that when we pick our nose in the sly after sniggering at somebody who gets caught. We celebrate contradictions with pomp, why this parsimony when it comes to Mr.Suman? And the argument breaks down even more with other celebrated wife-beaters where their creation and their conduct is not at direct loggerheads. Imagine searching for Tatum O’ Neal’s scars in McEnroe’s backhand down the line!

However the interesting teaser that emerged from the three authors’ evaluation of the state of contemporary Bengali poetry, was the classic case of how the mainstream works like a city, slowly engulfing the suburbs and the mofussils that once mocked its hegemony. The vibrant little magazine movement had by then degenerated into something similar to what the leading Bengali daily then had institutionalized – an arena for ‘you-scratch-my-back-I-scratch-yours’ outlook with rare quality checks as far as poetry was concerned. Hence these little magazines slowly started becoming the part of the very mainstream it once sought purge by blood and ink. I call this a teaser because it has almost become fashionable to belittle any mainstream injudiciously and when the three cynics go back to the mainstream for publications (which they have to for their ego and digestive tract), they are part of the same cycle albeit consciously. And yet what they contend cannot be wished away; monopoly power is not a myth even in an abstract medium like poetry. In fact it being a language contingent to tastes and preferences, and the factor X and the fact that poetry appreciation often reminds me of the fairy tale- ‘The Emperor’s New Clothes’, I would suspect the incidence would be more. Then what does one do? Maybe raise more questions till the clouds bursts, Bastille falls and general equilibrium arrives like a placebo to minds, down with confusion….

The Love Triangle

They were an unlikely couple. Not the least because the girl was about three feet tall, and the guy was a good six, apart from being much less good looking. It seemed that the man had much to say, to which the lady was putting up a reticent front. There were only a few disapproving shakes of the head and a few patronizing smiles from her. But the chemistry was shining through the neon lights of the pub and it didn’t take a behavioral scientist to decipher that they were completely in love with each other. The pub. Like the Indian eateries on the better side of the Atlantic has Shahrukh Khan pinned to the walls along with Chicken Tikka on the plates to evoke nostalgia, the All American Diner boasted of an authentic Yankee décor. Probably constructing an alternate reality for the nephews of Uncle Sam amidst Monroe, Carter the magician and Babe Ruth endorsed commercial vying for space. For the moment the ‘pale-faced’ steps out of the restaurent, it would be back to tour guide illustrated tropical heat of Delhi- with mercs and people and cows and people and beggars and people and ABN Amros.

The humble roots of yours truly through a regimented English-speaking upbringing at school and dispersion to an alien city had transplanted enough spunk to the plumules- so that ensured I didn’t feel out of place in the swanky place. And that allowed me to have a look around whence I spotted the couple. Theirs was an interesting scene- the lady was toying with a dilapidated potato wedge and the man was doing his best to impress her. His tone varied from the authoritative to the imploring but scarcely produced a scratch on the demeanor of the lady apart from what she willed to part with. She had a quiet yet gay spirit about her that I found beautiful. They were discussing the weather, merits and demerits of a particular school and watermelons and to the extent common decency allowed me, I could get snatches of the conversation-

“So, don’t you like water melons?”
“They are big. And watery.”
“…..mangoes.”
“ No, no, no…”
“…..playing with potato wedges..”
“ I want it today. Now…”

The Sunday evening had its usual numbness..a sort of vacuous, memory less aura, something in the line of the awkwardness one would associate with the funeral of a friend’s father. As the evening rolled on, I could sense the change in the visage of the guy. He was getting restless, wistful and quieter by the second. On the other hand, the girl was getting chirpier and quickly swallowed up any torn piece of silence which came floating in here and there. Suddenly, both of them went very quiet and I couldn’t resist leaning forward to closely examine a napkin holder on an adjoining table.

“So, it is eight. Stay well, Yashna.”
“Don’t go, please..can't we…”
“No, Yashna, she will be very angry…”

At that moment the door opened quietly, as if guilty of playing the spoilsport. A lady walked in and from the direction of her proud strut it became evident that the third angle of the love story had made her entry. She was tall and had this accomplished glaze all over her. I could barely see Yashna’s face, but somehow felt from her voice after she saw the lady, that her eyes had swelled up like an eager monsoon sky working on an overdrive.

“OK, Yashna, come to Mummy. Times up. Or do you want Judge uncle to scold Daddy?”

The Last Refuge (May, 2004)

If Hobbes had visited any assembly on a typical day during an average question hour, he would have surely gloated over the potency of his abstract idea. For the State of Nature would never be as diligently brought to life minus his predicted bloodshed, as by the politicians who generally abide by Hobbes’ assumptions about men. (After adding 'generally' before every ‘they’, read on.) They shun death as can be seen from the trail of black men and white cars they leave behind wherever they go. To quote a favorite bard of mine, they almost reek of this policed smell. They tend to be partial especially if it is the matter of a partner in crime or a prodigal son-in-law. Sure they are local in their affections and limited in benevolence…again borrowing from my favorite bard, mostly from military helicopters. Most definitely they are sensitive to slights to be confirmed from maimed citizens or honest officials transferred to the other side of beyond. The only slight point of difference is that Hobbes assumed that they were more or less equal in power and hence vulnerability. Which again can be assumed true for within specific bands of hierarchy. Thus, Hobbes would surely have recommended the submission to a common authority to avoid State of War, an allegory of the English Civil War which ravaged Hobbes' life. Obviously he didn’t live to see Idi Aamin…he might have revisited his stance.

And when politics usurps sensex, cricket and extremely good looking commodities as the force behind the breakfast squabble or the office 'adda', I cannot help but question my subdued political bunsen flame. Politics in college was simple; it was protecting the college from Martians of the Red Planet. It was a bi-planetary milky way with clear distinctions and aims. But when I got starship wrecked in a galaxy which had more colours than a confused kaleidoscope, things got dizzy. Elephants, tube wells vied with hands and flowers, and with constant hammering leading to stars in the day…it was a go as you like. I could match thread for thread with none, and most thread with most thread with very few. And suddenly in the election ambience find myself woefully behind the exit soothsayings, trying to match faces with deeds, colours with promises.

However certain classic duels do come to the fore, for it is a Battle Royale. The Andhra results where the CM got routed because he spent too much time on laptops than on cotton seeds, or maybe thought Telengana was a dated joke, brings to me the classic duel between growth and development. Yes, my professors might shriek and say that there no conflict between, it is a matter of sets and subsets. But that is only if one takes a holistic view of development…free power for farmers is probably an unholistic trait, given the rampaging Gini co-efficient of inequality amongst farmers in India. Or maybe the Italy versus Aryanland duels which uses carbon dating to trace the foreign descendants of an Indian…However, it does bring about some change in the monotony of life’s flow. For example, an elderly gentlemen in my bus back home, who is usually effusive in GDs , has bloomed like a NDTV executive, drawing cross references from 70’s electoral processes, depiction of politicians by Subhash Ghai and the importance of India Shining in forex reserves to make a variety of points. As younger blood joins in, the tete-a-tete becomes even more interesting with forthright questions sometimes met with a straight bat, sometimes with a whiff of nostalgia and dollops of euphemism. As I grapple with the curriculum vita of the candidates and the eternal paradox of extreme Left and Right coinciding like a vicious circle, Lord Krishna, the earliest politician, probably thinks to himself….If you can’t beat them, my child, join them….

How People Miss The Bus

(1)

Leo turned over to ignore the strange chime coming out of her lips. She was about to thank him for saving her from the wicked inferno at the risk of his own life. Instead she started humming a mechanical Fur Elise. When he recovered from the anti-climax, he realized that it was his pink alarm clock, alarmed at his extended slumber. She went up in a smoke; a smoke composed of his boss’s disgruntled face, the tailpipe emissions of the chartered bus and the kiln of the street urchin at the corner of his office. He begun his bargain- how would an extra five minutes make or mar his career. His auto had broken down on the last four occasions he reported late; his mind, in the hazy mode, combed the alleys of reason for a potent excuse. Fit of pernicious vomiting? Food poisoning seemed to be the in thing with canned food and all…so mushroom it was.
Even after the initial five minutes, his hunger was hardly appeased. But this time, the angel in Snowy managed to persuade him to forsake the bottle of Loch Lomond. After a whirlwind tour of the loo, the chase seemed evenly poised- an auto rickshaw didn’t loom large with all-pervasive certainty. Neither did the necessity of an infected mushroom. Ole’ Murphy ensured that the lock hid itself mischievously in some obscure nook, all the socks smelt of rotten sardine and the landlord had something of national importance to say- something about a particular filament of the bulb in the store room. But he wasn’t to be easily daunted; he kept his cool, performed the trivial with stoic efficiency and made a dash for the stop.She always waited for him to pass her by with an appreciative glance for her, so that she could return it with a ‘You disgust me’ look. But that day, he didn’t even spare a micro-look, secretly apologizing for the break and unknowingly increasing her interest in the daily duet by leaps and bounds. As he took a turn he spotted the monster approaching amidst a confusion of dust and Santros. He stepped out, only to be stopped in his tracks by a cruel quirk of the traffic lights and a surge of wheels from the opposite direction. Immediately, a quick glance at his watch- he would be late. Yet again.

(2)

Rajshekhar was far off playing his first match for his club and was in the process of hitting his fourth consecutive boundary, when she asked-
“Rajshekhar, what would be the valency of Oxygen?”
Silence.
“ Did you get what I asked?”
“Ma’m, Oxygen, ma’m…; I think…I know...Ma’m, it is..is it…4?”
“Excellent, I congratulate you on this path breaking discovery. Why don’t we prepare your Nobel speech at 4’o clock in my room?”

There goes another evening with friends down the drain, he thought. But he quickly compromised with the situation and promptly went back to his cricket field where his team (and the cute girl from the seventh) was depending on his crisp cover drives to get them home.Summer was particularly merciless that summer, and the Sun made it a point to squeeze out an “uff” from every pair of parched lips in the city. The golden bath of daytime was cleansed in the virgin sweat of the people just out of shower. The ice-cream vendors were having that extra sabzi for dinner that season and women from conservative homes were picking on apparels as being the first harbinger of revolution. In short, the scene was set for the protagonist of the annual play to make a grand entry- a thundershower. As he watched from his detention chamber, the clouds had formed a makeshift green room, where the actor was going through his last minute rehearsals. And soon enough, there brewed a storm of titanic proportions, and when it came into its own, started ripping out normal activity from the heart of the city. However, here was no rain; somebody was pelting hailstones.
Something in him stirred as he desperately returned his glance towards the tormentor in front of him. The tirade was in full flow, with cross-references to disastrous report cards and his untapped potential and the rest. It wasn’t obviously affecting him in any way- the only thing which was making him restless was the possibility that he might miss the first (and possibly only) hailstorm of the season. That too, due to the ongoing balderdash. For the little pieces of ice was more precious to him than rubies and sapphires and emeralds. Thankfully, he was still untouched by Mammon.When the ordeal was over, it was still raining. And that prompted him to make a last ditch attempt. He was skipping stairs when he rushed, and slipped once, blood-letting to get to one singular piece of diamond. He didn’t mind; his was an age where blood is cheap when compared to a kite out of orbit or dark digestive pills sold by the Nowhere Man. As he finally faced the torrential downpour, he found that it was merely large raindrops that pilloried him. The last piece of an once robust hail was shining near his feet, already decomposed into a semi-puddle. A semi-puddle which despite being made up of multi-refined rainwater, reminded one strongly of the tears of a 14 year old.

(3)

He was locked up for months now; and wasn’t enjoying it a bit. The walls of the prison were slimy with a reddish-grey tinge. His only contact with the outside world were the occasional taps on the same walls. Though voices came floating in knot of unknown languages, he could hardly dispel the thought that his freedom was now a matter of chance. Who were the people outside? Disillusioned citizens of an alien land, discussing how to best use the captive to cull out a chunk from the country map? There were no answers. His captivity, his despair, his loneliness- all added to the misery of the pink chain which tied him down to the floor. Not that he had anywhere to flee, it was just the sheer notion that the fulcrum of his universe had been imposed on him, which was frustrating. The situation, however was better than the initial shock…..

When he came to his senses after a prolonged blackout, and found himself cramped in a smelly, slimy chamber tied down and clamoring for air, he wished for death more than once. From that initial state of utter lack of hope, he reasoned himself back to contention. For if he was indeed left to die, why would she supply him food from suspicious looking conduits in the wall? There must be a purpose, he thought, a desired end to this torment. She took care of the basic necessities and at the turn of three-quarter of a year, he could somehow feel that he would be released soon. The food was getting better by the day, and the mumbling outside was increasing in amplitude. Maybe some negotiation had come through; some terms of freedom had been equilibrated. On his part, there was no symptoms of any Stockholm complex- he could murder to be free. One morning his heart leapt at the sight of a thin ribbon of sunlight coming through the passage leading to his cell. The day, it seemed, had arrived. He could sense a huge commotion, as if a train carrying a matinee idol was pulling into a crowded railway station. Slowly and steadily the ribbon grew into a sheath, as he could clearly see helping hands trying to pull him out of his hole. The walls of the prison were reverberating and pulsating in a strange rhythm, as if speaking to him…urging him to flee immediately before disaster could strike….It was an earthquake, or was it? He was right at the opening at the end of the passage.

Suddenly he felt this suffocation as he slowly saw the world emerge literally like the light at the end of the tunnel. He was pulled out by the rescue team in uniform and all, his chain was severed, but something was terribly wrong. Maybe asphyxia, maybe days of cramping, for some mysterious reason he felt that the candle was flickering like an excited grasshopper, he was slipping, and slipping fast..“ No, I must fight…”

He scraped all his energy from his body and channeled it to prepare for a last ditch attempt to hold on to the planet. He was kicking for a floor to the swimming pool, something to hold on to, something to anchor his life- he was desperate. He wanted everyone, and most importantly himself to hear his scream of life. He shouted aloud, he sought the reassurance of a prosperous pulse, he shook his fist- but to his horror, found that he was unable to move a single tissue of his, he was frozen for prosperity. He could hear people shouting, slapping and shaking him all over, but slowly he found himself melting into nothingness like a sad memory…..“Mr………, the mother is safe, but I am sorry, the child was a still born……”.

Lucknow Notes (May, 2004)

Having traveled to the cosmopolitan Bangalore and the youthful Pune only recently, an official trip to Lucknow, signaled a change in expectations. My previous visit to the city had left a collage of historical markers and seedy hotel walls on my memory toposheet. Subsequent improvements in my professional capacity ruled out the latter, but the former remained post trip; notably the sudden Mediaval gateways bang on main thoroughfare near Kesar Bagh.Lucknow is a close approximation of home. Home as in the bounds of the Kolkata Municipal Corporation.

The reasons are not far to seek- to start with, the dazzling play of white and light orange in the Handi. Good biriyani is not a matter of rarity, as much to my delight most areas have a congregation of eateries. Satyajit Ray’s Lucknavi refrain in Feluda adventures and his inimitable characterization of the city in the masterpiece ‘Shatranj ke Khiladi’ has personally speaking, had an indelible effect. But what has also been remarkable is his use of historicity in establishing the cuisine connection between the courts of Awadh and Lucknow and the streetside biriyani centers of Kolkata. Britishers like Thomas Godwin, one of the central characters of a Feluda whodunit, were aplenty in the post 1857 period. In a disparate exodus, they brought and institutionalized Awadhi cuisine in British Calcutta. Thus the after-dinner burps in Lucknow have been always Kolkatan with a vengeance for me.

On a large scale too, history brings forth obvious analogies. Both are replete with fragments of the Raj, and as extension of the legacy, bureaucracy and its baggage of inertia. As we moved about Gov. offices, nobody seem to be moving in any other direction than the big black hole of Election Duty. It was as if some tribal festival, where all able bodied authorized personnel are happily waiting to be sacrificed at the altar of the Deity. Even without Election Duty, whether it is the paan tainted polite Hindi or the yawn-riddled, rounded Bengali words, the tempo of the words, give-and–take a few, the same. Files move at half a table per hour and work, at a comparable speed. Not exactly our official need of the hour, but personally very reminiscent of known grounds.In general, as I scoured the dirty and crowded underbelly of the city on cycle-rickshaws, I found the essence of Kolkata mingling into my senses with the exquisite Galawat Kabab. It is not that you don’t get sweaty faces peeping out of buses in Delhi or Bangalore, but they have a purpose. These faces, in Lucknow or Kolkata, flow with the general current of life. Complaining, but at a level, enjoying the lack of ambition, the fatalism, the ebb and the high tide.

The Auction (dedicated to Lt.Col.Frank Slade)

“ Ladies and gentlemen, next on line is a magnificent piece of work dating back to 1977 A.D…. Carefully examine the intricate workings of the dull grey cerebellum, how it entwines and folds against itself in a beautiful labyrinth of intelligence…”

The auctioneer gingerly lifted the brain with his scalpel, as the anesthesia imparted from Gandhi’s bills muffled any cries of pain.

“3 lakhs ….” cried one, “3.2…3.6…..3.8”…the calls were coming in thick and fast..
“Ladies and gentlemen, then is it settled at 3.8? Don’t forget it has been honed for years by distinguished names...names that have lit up college alumni lists like snaps of dinosaurs in a learning alphabets textbooks…come on, there must be a connoisseur of such a bright mass of tissues? ..”

The ensuing silence forced the auctioneer to close the bid…after all, there were other parts still waiting on the operation table…

“ 3.8 it is then….going, going, gone…..”
..the hammer confirmed it in its sombre baritone. After the brain was bagged by a researcher looking for templates, it was the turn of the heart to be placed on the altar. There was a slight murmur from the man on the table, the sweet smell of pecuniary anesthesia seems to be fast disappearing.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen, the piece de resistance…never mind the blood clots on the left ventricle…. those are mementos from old friends…in all, I doubt whether you would have come across a finer specimen of the human heart. Aah, the reticence I see must be a result of the green veins locked with the red ones…this is precisely why it is such a rare piece of work…not very often will you feelings of love and hate, satisfaction and disgust, loyalty and betrayal so closely knit together for a single entity…shall we start at …hmm...1.5 lakh.?
“That man had lust…would not pay more than a couple of thousands…that too, because the arteries would be useful for cradling my love-child….”
“Lets be fair man, 90 thousand would be a decent amount..”
Desperate situations, desperate measures…the auctioneer settled it for exactly a lakh.

The rest of the auction went off pretty smoothly, interrupted only when a child started wailing when its father lost out closely on the right hand…something which he fancied despite the underdeveloped biceps, because he wanted to keep the long artistic fingers adorned with corrugated nails. The happiest were the Prohibition Authorities, because they got the exact liver which they were looking for their Anti Alcohol Campaign funded jointly by the World Bank and Indian Association of Milkers. However, a fashionable lady wasn’t far behind in going home with good deal. And a good deal she took indeed, a malleable, shining, almost new spinal chord perfect for using as a hair ribbon. After the table was almost as empty as the auction room and the auctioneer was exhausted but happy with his day’s efforts, it was time to pack up. And the nurse cum auction assistant obliged with the ususal favour before enquiring –

“ What do we do with the left-overs , sir?”
“ Hmmm.…what do we have here…just the appendix and the soul …and both are raising a hell of a lot of stink…hell...haah, isn’t it apt that we have Cereberus with us to help us out?”
“ Right sir, the appendix is ok but I think even our faithful canine will not accept an amputated soul…he has been seeing a lot courtroom drama and blind army officers and raving Al Pacinos…”
“ Well, in that case, just burn it… and if unfortunately, the Bhagavadgita is indeed based on empirical observations…just get rid of it...anyhow…don’t want useless rubbish turning this disciplined operation theatre into a manger.”

A Letter To An Erstwhile Miss Sen

Dear Bonolota,

It seems I got your e-mail by a quirk of fate…you don’t seem very keen on updating your address list. Even then I cannot say that I am not extremely happy at receiving your mail. Good to see that unlike your address list, you have at least changed your ID to accommodate the new surname. It actually looks good on you, gives you that exciting mystique of a stranger’s name. Or at least half known.
Strangely the lives and times around me have the same quality as your address list- they are not updated. The campus still remains the timeless wonder, with endless torchlight processions, dhabas dotted with knights, rooks, pawns and needless to say queens and the boulders which bear the touch of lovers from last night. And with Polia Boishakh celebrations around the corner, I see the boys getting boisterous and girls skirting the issue, amidst stolen glances and nervous giggles. And the usual sight of the president running around madly looking for somebody who will make him even more worried.Though Sravasti’s sculptured walls hardly frequent the place, there are fleeting appearances of what seem distinctive faces. In general, though, it seems that God has stopped creating women- he churns out sophomores at the dozen, figuratively speaking exquisite, but cerebrally speaking, retarded. My Monday-en existence is only peppered occasionally with Salinger or the Burmans, the rest would require, as Jeffrey Archer once put it ironically, a writer of greater calibre to hold your attention. Dreams now take the 8 45 chartered, yawn exactly at 3 and return amidst a jamboree of sweaty bodies. The brightest spot off late has been the discovery of a place which sells excellent pork products, so I have been making merry. I guess you remember how I used to hog when it came to pork….
And maybe you are not worried anymore about my smoking habits, but I’ll tell you anyway, there has been epsilon improvement - from daily arithmetic mean of nine to seven. The standard deviation has however increased mainly due to my Saturnine cycles of blues and very bright yellows and greens and reds.I know that this mail might not elicit any reply on the grounds of propriety, but, as you know I have never cared much for that. A sentiment that might be appreciated if it is properly done with carefully designed kneeling on the middle of the road with pink straw, not if you are replying to an intimation of an ID with a changed surname. Anyway, give my love to Mohinder and the one who is hopefully around the corner…. and stay well.

Regards,
Rhiju.


P.S. Our culvert today assured me he’ll not tell anyone, that you very sweetly farted once while singing Asha Bhonsle to me. So don’t worry….

The Blinding Light

The night was unusually bright with small bulbs, twinkling like fireflies seen through a rainbow.

It was like any other festive night in a typical Indian calendar, where worries and curries climaxed in the incessant pratter of men and women. I was, after my usual fill of vodka, music and cricket, heading for my hostel room. Not that I was bored, for surrounding me were faces known, dear and a few, I daresay even interesting. There were the usual digs at budding affinities for the opposite sex and the usual concerns about the impending load of the threatening semester. Actually this usual nature of things put me at comfort more than it bored me, so it wasn’t monotony which made me make my move. It was, in fact, a sudden urge to play the harmonica…something I often do break the rhythm of life’s soiree.

The people also picked their poison…some headed for the dance floor, while some for the modest chairs which looked comfortable, but often belied their appearance. Some simply floated around from huddle to huddle, punctuating the conversations with their invaluable inputs before commenting on the tough, fibrous nature of the mutton. I was about to give the party a slip, when a voice from nowhere cornered me..
“ Hey, are you off?”
“ Was thinking about it…what about you?”
“ I have to stay yaar, she is keen on dancing today. Can’t even bargain, was a neat half hour late . Anyway, I have a favour to ask of you.”
I had exactly thirty rupees in my wallet and marginally more in my account, my class notes resembled the footprints of a beetle after revelry in ink and was universally considered to be extremely irresponsible and absent-minded. I was desperately looking for reasons which could make me a remotely useful Homo Sapien.
“ You see, there is this guy…
New to the place? Sight-seeing? No way!
“.. who is blind and has to return immediately to his room. Since his hostel is on the way, could you possibly….”
Aaha! Infinitely better proposition….
“Sure, not a sweat! Where is he? We can leave immediately…”

After being duly introduced to the guy, who turned out to be from the same School of Social Sciences, which housed my academic ambitions, I promptly took him by his arm and set off. His was a wiry frame, with gaunt cheeks and a cinematic pair of goggles that probably sheltered the socketed deformity. As I whistled along the saffron street lamps, he asked whether I liked music or not. A stupid question, I thought, after all, who doesn’t- but politely answered in the affirmative. Not the least because I realized I must have taken refuge to many such questions to strike up a polite conversation on a number of occasions.

The chill in the air was unmistakably being replaced by vacuous heat with each passing day now and as I shepherded my newfound acquaintance, I felt tiny beads on my neck. The roads matched my love life in vicissitudes and the fact that the campus was born off the guts of the Aravalli range seemed significant than ever before. But much to my delight, soon I saw the bright lights of his hostel approaching. Suddenly this feeling of deep satisfaction overtook me; in fact I could almost feel smug expression overtaking my face. After all, for however much trivial, I had been useful in helping the less fortunate. My eyes have actually helped a fellow member of the race overcome his handicap…even though for a short time. As I increasingly fuelled this feeling with even greater sounding words, and felt headier with each passing moment dripped in the wine of altruism, the hostel gate arrived.

Then, suddenly, it happened. Like the solar eclipse, which takes the crow by complete surprise, a power cut presented itself in its total darkness. Not expecting one during this time of the year, a faint ‘shit’ escaped my lips. Though I had come to this hostel a number of times, the delightful maze of umbra and penumbra in front shook me up a little. Forcing my eyes, I stepped ahead with his hand in mine…

The first stumble was actually the lighter one, with a grand one around the corner. It was then when he said-“ Let me take it from here…now you are in my territory”.
He suddenly gripped me and started walking with a confidence of a young boy walking the streets of Kolkata on a ‘Bandh’ at 12 noon. And sure enough he negotiated the bends, the turns and the stairs with consummate ease before leading me to his room and offered a seat…the tables had turned on the Messiah.

The night was unusually bright with a power-cut that persisted for the next four hours.