tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-179292522024-03-14T11:24:43.353+05:30On The Ganga MailAccount of a journey. Destination: salvationBishwanath Ghoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09499834715638337891noreply@blogger.comBlogger579125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17929252.post-14162083491643296622021-01-08T21:43:00.008+05:302021-01-08T22:15:58.632+05:30The Story Of My Cats: Arrivals And Departures <p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt; text-align: justify;">Today I formally complete a year in the active service
of cats — a year that feels like a lifetime because, thanks to COVID-19, a better
part of it was spent at home in their company. It was on the night of 8 January
2020 that I found two cats, not more than four or five months old, peeping into my
verandah from the grille gate.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">At the time I only had Dude, who was more of a visitor
than a pet — which is how he still is. Sometimes he would come every day,
sometimes he would be missing for days, even weeks; if I happened to I spot him
on the streets, he would sometimes make a noise in recognition and sometimes
look through me. When he came home he never expected to be fed; he just wanted
to spend some time and enjoy the attention. It was in his company that I wrote <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Aimless in Banaras</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Dude was home when these two kittens showed up exactly
a year ago. Hearing me make welcoming sounds to them, he sauntered out to the
verandah to take a look. He wasn’t quite amused by the visitors, but at the
same time remained indifferent. I got some milk for the two tiny ones, and that
was that — they stayed on. I named them Chunnu and Munnu.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">The wife, when she noticed them a few days later,
renamed them Tinni and Minni, which worked out well because soon the two were joined
by their sibling, who was conveniently named Rinni.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">So there was Dude; and there was the trio of Tinni, Minni and
Rinni. I began to order cartons of Amul milk from a neighbourhood shop and
Whiskas on Amazon. In no time the three were joined by their mother, who was
promptly named Linda by the wife, who strictly adheres to the convention of
giving English names to pets.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Cats being cats, while they liked to be fed by me,
they wouldn’t allow me to touch them. They remained suspicious of me for a long
time in spite of my giving them food and cleaning their poop. Eventually they
came around, one by one. The most joyous moment was when Minni — the most
beautiful and expressive of them, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">most</i>
beautiful I’ve ever seen — allowed me to stroke her. As the proximity with them
grew, I discovered Linda wasn’t their mother after all: she had testicles. She
was renamed Jason.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">One fine afternoon I discovered that Minni, my
favourite, was pregnant. The bulge in her tummy was growing by the day. I cushioned
a carton with rugs to make things easier for her, but the night she went into
labour (precisely when Modi was making his <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">atmanirbhar</i>
speech), she left home, with her siblings following her.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">The following morning the rest of the cats returned. I
was hurt that Minni had chosen to deliver elsewhere. The same evening she too
returned, her stomach no longer bulging. She began sticking to me longer than
usual, and that made me wonder whether she indeed had a kitten or kittens lying
somewhere else.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Then, on the morning of May 20, just hours before
Cyclone Amphan hit Calcutta, she bought a kitten in her mouth. At first I
thought it was a mouse and began chasing her out, but she pleaded with me to
let her stay. This encounter was as human as it could get and even today fills
me with guilt. The moment I realised it was her baby and not a mouse, I lifted
them both and placed them in the carton, which I hadn’t dismantled.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Minni, however, was too small herself to be a
responsible mother, and two days later the kitten died. The death was followed
another discovery, that Tinni was now pregnant. The culprit was none other than
the one we thought to be their mother: Jason.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Tinni, unlike Minni, wasn’t the emotionally dependent
kind; therefore I didn’t find the need to set up a carton once again. On May 28
— yes, I remember the dates by now — I saw Tinni on my bed, feeding her
newborn. It was so tiny that I instinctively named it Chhotu.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Each morning I would walk down into my study wondering
whether I would find Chhotu alive. I would exhale in relief when I found that
he has. Chhotu was exactly two months old when Tinni, his mother, disappeared. Fortunately,
he had begun eating solid food by then, but he was suddenly lonely. He wanted to
play with Minni, his aunt, but she was pregnant once again and didn’t appear
inclined to indulge him. But over time, she adopted him and when she once again
delivered — three kittens this time — on August 18, Chhotu was the happiest. He
had not only got new playmates but he was also getting to drink Minni’s milk.
She would feed him and lick him as if he too was her newborn.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Ila, Bella, Stella — these were the names given to the
new ones. When they were a little over two months old, Ila and Bella
disappeared. Stella, who was bonding with Chhotu, stayed put. Then one morning,
Chhotu, about seven months old by now, also disappeared: only the night before he
had been extra cuddly.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">By the time I left for Banaras the day before
Christmas, there were only two resident cats: Minni and Stella (renamed Steven
once it developed genitals). There was, of course, Dude, who likes exclusivity
and now prefers to spend time upstairs; and there was Rinni (the sister of
Tinni and Minni), who regularly came for food. From Rinni’s belly, I could tell
she too had given birth and was still feeding her newborn(s): I was curious to
take a look but, after all the emotional rollercoaster, was glad that she had
given birth out of my sight.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">The morning after I returned from Banaras, as soon as
I opened the doors of my study to let in sunlight, I found a tiny and
exceptionally hairy kitten curled up on the bed I’ve created for the cats in
the verandah. It was Rinni’s kitten. When I stroked its head, it woke up and
looked at me in alarm — the most beautiful kitten! It sprang out and went out
of my reach and regarded me from a distance: “Who the hell is he!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Rinni, who could never fully overcome her suspicion of
me, had obviously brought the little one here in my absence because she felt it
safe. But now that I was back, the kitten could no longer occupy the verandah
and at the same time not go back to where it had come from. As a result, the
tiny thing caught a cold and once the condition got worse, it surrendered. I
arranged for oral drops and a nasal spray and handfed it boiled fish. Today, about
a week later, the kitten who ran away from me insists on sitting on my lap.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">In fact, both are sitting on my lap as I write this: Steven
and the little one. These are all I have at the moment. I am not counting Dude,
who remains a visitor, and Minni, whose behaviour has suddenly changed after my
return from Banaras; she’s overnight become quiet and withdrawn and hardly
comes anymore; the primary reason, I suspect, is the presence of the tiny one.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">As the two cousins sit on my lap, I am trying to enjoy their warmth
as much as I can. One doesn’t know how long it’s going to last. That’s the
thing with cats: you can never be sure. Unlike dogs, they have a mind of their
own and do their own thing, and sometimes, in doing their own thing, become
vulnerable to circumstances.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">But I’ve learned to live with these uncertainties. All
thanks to Banaras. In the earlier days, I would rely on the maid for the poop
to be cleaned. On most days, I paid her extra money for this unpleasant job.
Then I told myself: “If I can feed them, why can’t I clean their shit. The
person I am asking to clean is also a human like me.” I realised that I was
doing a far better job than her. Why did I say Banaras? Because Banaras teaches you that
nothing is too disgusting, and that life gives you both: flowers and shit.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">And then, Banaras also teaches you that life is all
about arrivals and departures — it is not in your hands to restrict either, you
can only learn to live with them. The cats don't belong to me anyway; I didn't go looking around to adopt them, they came to me. Our common maker has merely assigned me the job of feeding them and cleaning their shit as long as they are with me. So here I am, glad that I could put some of
the learning to use.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Bishwanath Ghoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09499834715638337891noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17929252.post-46536476086912858962020-10-17T21:09:00.003+05:302020-10-17T21:21:54.590+05:3015 Years of Ganga Mail<p style="text-align: justify;"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">There was a time when this blog was all that I had. Facebook was still hiding in the future, my books were still in the womb of my ambition. I did have a column in the newspaper I worked for back then, and even though it was a slice-of-life column where I had a wide canvas, which I often painted with personal experiences, the voice was that of a journalist and not a writer.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">It was this blog</span><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 18.6667px;">, therefore,</span><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;"> that helped me find my voice as a writer. For several years I nourished this space like a sincere gardener, growing plants of several varieties. Today the garden has gone to seed. Thoughts are now shared on Facebook. Once upon a time I would pour myself a drink and expand on a thought </span><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">— sometimes as mundane as the moon, or idlis, or touch </span><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">— </span><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">to produce a decent blog post.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Today Ganga Mail completes 15 years. I have nothing much to say on the occasion </span><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 18.6667px;">— </span><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">there's a lot to say actually, so much that one is better off being reticent </span><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 18.6667px;">— </span><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">but since the milestone needs to be marked, I am taking the easy way out by sharing a small portion of something I wrote this evening: </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif;">In Chandannagar, some of the shops, sitting slightly
apart from one another, happened to be tuned into the same radio station. Or
maybe the whole of Chandannagar had just one station. The song that was playing,
therefore, accompanied them for a while as they parked the car and walked
towards the Strand: </span><i style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif;">Gapuchi gapuchi gam
gam, kishi ki kishi ki kam kam</i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif;">. A lightweight song — from the film </span><i style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif;">Trishul</i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif;">, now a childhood memory — which
still drenched him with youthful freshness.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif;">‘I have a
confession to make,’ she said.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif;">‘Go on.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif;">‘I know the opening
lines are silly, but I still love this song. As a kid, whenever someone asked
me to sing a song, I would sing this.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif;">‘I love it too,’ he
squeezed her hand. ‘And what a coincidence, only the other day I was reading
about this song in a book. Sahir Ludhianvi wrote this song, and it’s not a
typical Sahir song, but it seems the opening lines were given by Yash Chopra,
who thought they would catch the attention of the younger generation. I think
he was so right, because even today the song feels like someone handing you a
chilled bottle of Limca while you are walking in the sun.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif;">‘Didn’t Sahir write
the songs for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kabhie Kabhie</i> as well?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif;">‘Of course!‘<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif;">‘I love every
single song from that movie.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif;">‘I would like to
tell you something.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif;">‘What?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif;">‘First let’s settle
down by the river.’</span></p><p></p>Bishwanath Ghoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09499834715638337891noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17929252.post-9766903754612697692019-12-30T22:07:00.002+05:302019-12-30T22:45:09.590+05:30A Small Prayer For Myself As I Step Into 2020<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">In my memory — I just turned 49 — no year was as
eagerly awaited as 2019. Elections come every five years and those five years
usually pass in a blink, but the 2019 elections were crucial: will Narendra
Modi stay or go?</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Modi hasn’t gone, but 2019 is going. Passage of time
is the most powerful force on earth; no government or ideology can stop it — not
even God. The boulder rolls on and eventually snuffs out everything — egos, ideologies,
thoughts, greatness — before new life sprouts on the flattened land, only to be
revisited by the rolling boulder decades later.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">In other words, nothing lasts. What exists today,
won’t be there tomorrow. You never know when you are going to come in the path
of the boulder. So make the most of today. Be happy. Be happy with — and grateful
for — whatever little you have. These aren’t my thoughts; they are borrowed — from
Banaras.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">2019, for me, was synonymous with Banaras. About seven
of the 12 months were spent writing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Aimless
in Banaras</i>; the remaining five waiting for it to come in the market. Now that
I have a copy sitting on my desk, I can say that 2019 is ending on a satisfactory
note. My first book, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Chai</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Chai</i>, came out in 2009: that makes it
five books in 10 years. Not bad.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It is a different matter that the five books haven’t
made much difference to my life, though it is extremely gratifying when some
reader or the other writes to say that my work has made a difference to his or
hers. My life remains pretty ordinary. Only this afternoon I had to walk all
the way to the ATM to pay the chap redoing my mother-in-law’s mattress. The
ordinariness is difficult to gauge from pictures on Facebook.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Not that I am complaining. 2019 has been enriching in
ways other than monetary. I made whimsical but memorable purchases, such as acquiring
a Mont Blanc 149 and a Pelikan M1000. I acquired good friends. I developed a
new-found interest in plants. I developed a new fetish for leather — pen sleeves,
pen holders, rucksacks. I did up my study — decorated with plants and pictures —
and finally have a space of my own, which I share with no one except Dude, the
cat. All my life, until I moved to Calcutta in August 2018, I’ve never had a
proper desk because I was more comfortable writing lying on my stomach on the
bed or a mattress. My mind didn’t work unless I was reclining. Now my mind
doesn’t work unless I am at my desk, sitting erect.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">That way, yes, someone visiting me after a gap of 10
years would tend to believe that I’ve arrived. The truth is far from that. Personal
tastes may have changed — as they sometimes do, with increasing age and
exposure — but the struggle remains. And the struggle is essential — equivalent
of the water and sunlight that a plant needs to grow. Going by Banarasi wisdom,
struggle too is Shiva. So the five books are mere milestones, not arrival.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Only one prayer I have for myself as I step into 2020:
that I become a practising Banarasi. Life becomes a lot easier when lived the
Banaras way. If you want to know what I mean by that, read <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Aimless in Banaras</i>.</span></div>
</div>
Bishwanath Ghoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09499834715638337891noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17929252.post-20952716402674827642019-08-08T01:45:00.000+05:302019-08-08T01:45:07.768+05:30August and I<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">My mother is now a memory. But memories of the August afternoon
I cremated her in Banaras remain fresh. There are pictorial reminders, too, of
that afternoon, hidden in some forgotten folder, but I have no desire to access
it.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">My mother died on 28 August 2009. I received the news
in Chennai, flew to Delhi the same evening, and the next morning took an Indian
Airlines flight to Banaras to cremate her. She would have turned 59 on 31
August.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">At the time I was an unpublished writer. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Chai</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Chai</i> was still in the press — I had no idea when it was going to
come out — and I had just begun work on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tamarind
City</i>. The road ahead, as a writer, was still foggy. But while waiting at
Manikarnika Ghat that afternoon, watching several pyres — including hers — slowly
reducing into ash, I resolved that I must do a Banaras book someday. The thought
transformed me from a grieving son to a writer who was collecting material. Her
death was no longer a personal tragedy but an event I was going to report.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">About a week later, when I was in Kanpur, killing time
as I waited for the 13th-day ritual, the advance copy of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Chai</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Chai</i> arrived. Shortly after I returned to Chennai, my head
tonsured, the book appeared in shops and on October 15, a formal launch was
held. At the time I worked with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Times of
India</i> and my office was barely two kilometres away, and on my way to work I
had to cross the Balaji temple on Venkatanarayana Road. When the manuscript was
still with the publisher, I would tell Lord Balaji: “If <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Chai</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Chai</i> sells 10,000
copies, I will get my head tonsured at Tirupati.” And now I was telling him: “Since
you already got my head tonsured, make sure it sells 10,000 copies.”</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Chai</span></i><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Chai</i> went
on to become a blockbuster. Then came Tamarind City, in 2012, followed by the
Calcutta book, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Longing</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Belonging</i>, in 2014. Banaras was
forgotten. Finally in October 2015 I set out for Banaras and spent nearly two
weeks there. But that was when the idea of the border book struck me: 70th anniversary of Partition was nearing and I realised that if I had to produce a
timely book, I must start right way. The Banaras notebook was put aside and I
began working on what became <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gazing at
Neighbours</i>, published in August 2017.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">I could return to Banaras only in December 2018. Thereafter,
no looking back. The notebook I had put aside filled up in no time. By now I
had relocated to Calcutta, where I had finally set up a proper study. I would be
at my desk by 9.30 in the morning and write till lunch time. As lucky charm I
would wear a shawl gifted to me in Banaras by the writer Kashinath Singh. Once
winter melted away, I placed a piece of cloth — sent to me by a well-wisher
from Banaras after he got it blessed by Lord Vishwanath on Shivaratri — on the
backrest of my chair.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">The book got done in six months. It should be out
soon. This is the fastest I’ve done a book. Perhaps because of the discipline.
I had firmly told myself two things: 1. To write at least 400 words a day; and
2. To not reproduce stuff already known about Banaras.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Since we are into August, when memories of that
afternoon make their annual visit, I find myself somewhat amazed by the timing.
The book is going to mark 10 years of my mother’s death — and also 10 years of
my becoming a published writer. As if destiny demanded this timely tribute.</span></div>
</div>
Bishwanath Ghoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09499834715638337891noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17929252.post-11620421059145777602019-08-06T11:34:00.000+05:302019-08-06T12:38:45.008+05:30One Year In Calcutta<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">On the night of 13 January 2001, I boarded the Tamil
Nadu Express at New Delhi station, carrying a large suitcase and a bag. The
suitcase had all my clothes and documents, while the bag exclusively contained music: a two-in-one and dozens of cassettes. I was a faceless man — one of the
countless journalists seeking sufficient elbow room in the city of Delhi — who
had decided to move to Chennai simply because he had not never set foot in that
part of the country. I didn’t know a soul in Chennai, and once the train began
to move, even my newly-purchased Nokia 5110 lost connection, cutting me off
from the rest of the world during the 32-hour journey. I had turned 30 a few
days before, but I was born again on 15 January 2001, the day I arrived in Chennai.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9AWGr7O1HU4/XUkbJzXuawI/AAAAAAAA968/DVMmvT7f-EMTxtxwryRJpqkeholKXQ-hACLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_5968.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Cut to the afternoon of 6 August 2018. I am standing
in an empty house in Chennai, waiting for the landlord to arrive so that I can
hand him the keys and leave for the airport. All my belongings, accumulated
over the 17 years, have already been shipped to Calcutta the day before. I am
going to travel light when I take the Indigo flight. In the evening I land at
the City of Joy, this time not on a visit but to make a new beginning. I wanted
to move before I was too old to enjoy the delights of the place I had fallen in
love with during the writing of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Longing</i>,
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Belonging</i>.</span></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Today I complete a year in Calcutta. Despite all the
complaints that people — especially those who no longer live here — have about
it, Calcutta is indeed a delightful city. Living is believing. That way I am
pleased with my decisions. I moved to Chennai at a time when most people
considered it back of beyond and therefore got to experience it before it got
crowded. And now I’ve moved to Calcutta at a time when most people with my
background prefer to live in Delhi, Noida or Gurgaon — with some of the best
minds living elsewhere and trying to fit into other cultures, I feel more
important. I am a Bengali who made Bengal his home.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But even after spending 12 months here, do I feel
settled? Not quite. Feeling settled would mean the death of the writer in me.
Even during the 17 years in Chennai, I was frequently spending time in other
places — travelling in order to write — so that I did not become accustomed,
and therefore blind, to one particular place. Even of the 12 months that I’ve
spent in Calcutta, six were spent in Banaras, finishing my next book. No, I
didn’t live in Banaras during that period — sitting at my desk in Calcutta, I
would mentally transport myself to Banaras between 9 AM and 2 PM every day,
before setting out for my office at Dalhousie Square at three o’clock, looking
at Calcutta with fresh eyes all over again, my phone always ready to take
pictures.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">What I find most striking about Calcutta is its lack
of ambition. Bengalis are generally happy with what they have — City of Joy,
after all — as long as there’s fish in the daily meal. For someone used to the
ways of Chennai, it can be irritating as well as amusing to find shops in the
neighbourhood — including pharmacies — shutting for the afternoon. Business
cannot come in the way of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">adda</i> or
afternoon nap.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">During my morning walks in the Central Park, a stone’s
throw from my home in Salt Lake City, I always run into Marwari men who are invariably
discussing either Modi or Money. Only the other day, I overheard a Marwari
gentleman declaring, quite uncharacteristically, to a small congregation under
a tree: “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Main aap logon ko ek sher sunata
hoon</i>” — I am going to recite a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sher</i>
for you all. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sher</i> means a couplet; emerging
from his lips, the word sounded like ‘share’.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">On the other hand the Bengalis I come across — almost
always elderly and an overwhelming minority in the park — can be heard whining
about their health or speaking with pride about their children.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The lack of ambition, in my opinion, helps Calcutta
retain much of the old-world charm. In most other cities, you will find the past in museums,
but in Calcutta the past still stands on the streets and sits in people’s
homes. If you want to see how the world looked or functioned 100 years ago,
come to Calcutta — but come quickly, for things are beginning to change here as
well. Until just five years ago, trams were a common sight in the city, today
you’ll have to be lucky to spot one. But yes, they still run, and I’ve moved just
in time before they become memory.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Should I, then, consider August 6 as the day of a third
birth for me? No, I have merely relocated and not been reborn. The day of
rebirth shall remain January 15, for it was in Chennai that I learned how to
look and feel.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9AWGr7O1HU4/XUkbJzXuawI/AAAAAAAA97A/04J4fLc2Hn0VrZD4W3ALTSJDvIPuPzlbgCEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG_5968.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9AWGr7O1HU4/XUkbJzXuawI/AAAAAAAA97A/04J4fLc2Hn0VrZD4W3ALTSJDvIPuPzlbgCEwYBhgL/s320/IMG_5968.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-StWb_I4EnXE/XUkjaNubApI/AAAAAAAA98E/x6Uv_yb3RHYjBGZ8j__dFmqUMYq-AACigCLcBGAs/s1600/airport.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-StWb_I4EnXE/XUkjaNubApI/AAAAAAAA98E/x6Uv_yb3RHYjBGZ8j__dFmqUMYq-AACigCLcBGAs/s320/airport.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div>
6 August 2018: Saju drives us to Chennai airport; arrival in Calcutta.</div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></div>
</div>
Bishwanath Ghoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09499834715638337891noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17929252.post-5601610878903141862018-10-20T00:25:00.000+05:302018-10-20T00:40:53.624+05:30An Ending And A Beginning<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Today is Vijaya Dashami. Usually
on this day, for the past few years, I’ve been taking the flight back to
Chennai after spending Durga Puja in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Calcutta</st1:place></st1:city>.
This year, however, I did not take the flight to Chennai. That’s because I no
longer live in Chennai. I now live in <st1:city w:st="on">Calcutta</st1:city>,
having moved here on August 6, after having spent close to 18 years in what I
call <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Tamarind</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">City</st1:placetype></st1:place>.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
Why did I move to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Calcutta</st1:place></st1:city>? I will tell the
story some other time. Or may be there is no story at all. Ever since I began
work on <em>Longing, Belonging</em>, in 2011, I found myself belonging as much to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Calcutta</st1:place></st1:city> as I did to Chennai; and this shift
is a mere technicality. It’s like being on roaming: I remain rooted to Chennai
even as I connect with my cultural roots in <st1:place w:st="on">Bengal</st1:place>.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
This morning I woke up very late,
exhausted by successive nights of pandal-hopping. Before lunch I read a few
pages of Bruce Chatwin’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Songlines</i>;
it was a struggle to keep the eyes glued to the pages — so used to they are now
to the phone screen. There was also distraction is the form of dhaak beats,
being relayed from the neighbourhood pandal over loudspeakers mounted on bamboo
poles.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
A part of me wanted to be at the
pandal: to say parting prayers to the goddess, to take pictures of women
applying vermilion on the goddess and on one another’s cheeks. Then an
announcement was made on the loudspeaker: women who still hadn’t done the
vermilion thing could do so only until three o’clock, after which the goddess
and her children would head for the river.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
After lunch I hurried to the
pandal, just in time to catch the last woman, perched on a ladder, applying
vermilion on the fish-eyed goddess. She had barely finished when the men took
over: first removing the weapons, then removing the idols, loading them onto waiting
trucks. I got into the car and asked the driver to take me to the riverside — I
had no particular destination in mind; any place from where I could watch the
immersion — it could be even a boat — would do. I was, however, pretty much
sure that the car would not be allowed anywhere near the river today.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
Near the Maidan I found myself tailing
a Durga-laden truck. “Follow this truck,” I told the driver. We curved around
the Maidan, past the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Eden</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Gardens</st1:placetype></st1:place>, past more
Durga-laden trucks, before arriving at the ghat where dozens of such trucks
were already parked. The air pulsated with the beats of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">dhaak</i> — near as well as distant. I switched on my phone camera and jumped
out of the car.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
The sight, alas, was too
spectacular to be captured accurately with phone or even words. The sun — a soft
orange ball — was swiftly lowering itself on the horizon marked by the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Vidyasagar</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Bridge</st1:placetype></st1:place>. And against its fading light sprouted
numerous silhouettes, of the ten-armed Durga — all beautiful, sometimes
breathtaking, works of art that were being gaped at at their respective pandals
until late last night. And now they were about to be consigned to the river; the
clay would return to where it belonged — the riverbed.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
The immersion was in progress.
People carried the idols down the steps and pushed them, as gently as possible,
into the water, and filled clay pots with the water — <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">shanti jal</i> — to carry them back to the empty pandal in the neighbourhood
where people would be waiting to have the water sprinkled on them. One moment
Durga was there, the next moment she’s gone — another 360 days before she
returns again.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
Why does Durga have to go — months
of labour and excitement washed away in a matter of minutes?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
There are people better qualified to answer that. I have my own answers, though. Imagine Durga idols being made of, say, marble, and installed permanently in neighbourhoods — there would be worship but no fun! Not to mention the loss of annual assured income for hundreds of thousands of people — artisans, decorators, labourers, electricians, caterers, it's one long list. And if Durga did not go, how would the Bengali look forward to her arrival, year after year. Looking-forward is vital to human existence.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I have another way of looking at it. Perseverance — yes, Durga's departure teaches you perseverance. When that beautiful face, admired by millions for five days, goes below the surface of the water, a knife pokes your heart: over those five days the clay face would have acquired a life. And then you start from scratch all over again — again and again.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I walked downstream to Millennium Ghat, descended its steps, put my hand in the water and sprinkled a few drops on my head. The water was not only blessed by Durga — it contained many Durgas.</div>
</div>
Bishwanath Ghoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09499834715638337891noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17929252.post-45281752896150455852017-08-13T15:06:00.001+05:302017-08-13T23:00:13.885+05:30Gazing At Neighbours: New Book, New Horizons<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It's drizzling this morning as I lie down by the window of my Chennai home to write this post.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Some will call it a pleasant day; many others find such weather to be gloomy — it all depends on your state of mind. My mind, at the moment, is somewhere else.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Exactly two years ago, around the same time, I was at the Attari station, standing under a scorching sun, sweating profusely, waiting for the arrival of Samjhauta Express from Lahore. That journey marked the start of a new book, <em><a href="http://www.amazon.in/Gazing-Neighbours-Travels-Along-Partitioned/dp/9386224984/ref=zg_bs_tab_pd_bsnr_2?_encoding=UTF8&psc=1&refRID=BHG5Q2T936K038E59D9J" target="_blank">Gazing at Neighbours: Travels Along the Line That Partitioned India</a></em>.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And sitting by my bed right now is a small carton that contains the 10 complimentary copies sent to me by my publishers. That makes this my 'fastest book' so far: everything — the travelling, the writing, the editing, the revisions, the printing — was done in under two years, even though I travelled far and wide for it, from Punjab in one extreme to Tripura and Assam and Meghalaya in the other.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">As the title suggests, the book records my travels to places that sit on the two lines that Sir Cyril Radcliffe drew on the map of the subcontinent while partitioning India. Yes, he drew not one but two lines — one split Punjab and the other, a much longer line, carved out a province called East Bengal — even though when people talk about Partition, particularly these days, they confine themselves to the line Radcliffe drew across Punjab.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">What makes <a href="http://www.amazon.in/Gazing-Neighbours-Travels-Along-Partitioned/dp/9386224984/ref=zg_bs_tab_pd_bsnr_2?_encoding=UTF8&psc=1&refRID=BHG5Q2T936K038E59D9J" target="_blank"><em>Gazing at Neighbours</em> </a>particularly special for me is the trips I made along the boundary of the erstwhile East Bengal (now Bangladesh): they took me to places I had never been to before and probably would have never visited in my lifetime: what a loss — oh, what a loss! — that would have been.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And the most unforgettable moment from Punjab? Well, it wasn't exactly on the border but in Amritsar, at the Golden Temple, at four-thirty in the morning:</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "book antiqua";"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "book antiqua";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Wearing a
headscarf and my underwear, I stepped into the tank — the pool of nectar. The
water was pleasantly warm and after bathing in it I felt my sensory system sufficiently
refreshed to appreciate the magical hour of dawn. I suddenly saw better, heard
better, felt better. I reflected upon life as I lingered in the water,
listening to gurbani, the words of the gurus, being sung in the sanctum
sanctorum. That’s when I realised why I felt so good."</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The writing of the book was not just about visiting places I might have never set foot in otherwise, but also learning historical facts I had remained foolishly unaware of all my life. For example, independent India was born on the midnight of 14/15 August 1947 <em>without knowing </em>where exactly its boundaries with Pakistan lay: the maps were made public by Lord Mountbatten only on August 17. It's a fact, but I didn't know it — and many still don't.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The travels taught me something as well: that if you actually travel along the border, you will never really hate Pakistan or harbour ill feelings towards Bangladesh. You will find how everything is just the same: from the colour of the crops to the colour of the people. Which is why you will never hear anti-Pakistan cries on the border: you hear them either in the air-conditioned, insulated TV studios of Delhi or on the streets of Mumbai, which is a good 1,000 km away from Attari.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
As Mark Twain noted more than a century ago: "Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts." His words hold truer today.<br />
<br />
So pack your bags. The next best thing would be to get hold of a copy of <em><a href="http://www.amazon.in/Gazing-Neighbours-Travels-Along-Partitioned/dp/9386224984/ref=zg_bs_tab_pd_bsnr_2?_encoding=UTF8&psc=1&refRID=BHG5Q2T936K038E59D9J" target="_blank">Gazing at Neighbours</a></em>. It is equally fatal to prejudice, bigotry and narrow-mindedness, trust me. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="899" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7fNW80rUcPY/WY_8_5knd7I/AAAAAAAAhuc/D175QQ6dZcgIFe2COryLtWvf1_SGaU3rwCLcBGAs/s640/WP_20150813_12_57_52_Pro.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="359" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Behind me you can see the Samjhauta Express pulling into Attari station.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></span><br /></div>
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</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7fNW80rUcPY/WY_8_5knd7I/AAAAAAAAhug/6fO3AgtWzmcvJdwoPRSr2Nvx0zpiH64twCEwYBhgL/s1600/WP_20150813_12_57_52_Pro.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></a><br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SomIP_UG0rk/WZAL9CaMfbI/AAAAAAAAhvI/T9DrF7WlIbcfHtf8TtUb1wKPCoRRFydogCLcBGAs/s1600/DSCN0985.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SomIP_UG0rk/WZAL9CaMfbI/AAAAAAAAhvI/T9DrF7WlIbcfHtf8TtUb1wKPCoRRFydogCLcBGAs/s400/DSCN0985.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Right behind me is the Bangladeshi village of Tamabil, in Sylhet. I stand facing Dawki, a village in the state of Meghalaya.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
</div>
Bishwanath Ghoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09499834715638337891noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17929252.post-90031403019252567042016-10-18T01:55:00.000+05:302017-08-13T09:57:38.108+05:30Of Ganga And Ganga Mail: 11 Years Of A Blog<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I am mildly emotional about October 17 — I never seem to forget the date — because it was on this day in 2005 that I started this blog. That makes Ganga Mail 11 years old.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia";"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The blog was created in a setting similar to what I find myself in right now: a dark room, gently lit up by a lamp with yellow bulb; me reclining on the mattress with the laptop; music playing softly on the speakers connected to the laptop; a glass of whisky and ashtray at hand; an empty stomach. What more does one need to write?</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia";"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I chose 'bytheganges' as the URL because I wanted something unique, something I thought defined me. The truth is that back then, the Ganges or the Ganga hardly meant a thing to me other than that I had grown up near its banks in Kanpur. Little did I know that by naming my blog after the river I had only provoked Destiny into ensuring that my path got intertwined with that of the river's. I even have the evidence.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia";"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I was 35 when I started this blog, and until then, in spite of having grown up by the river, I would have visited the Ganga — I am ashamed to say this — maybe seven times in all, and they include childhood visits. But ever since Ganga Mail was created, our paths have been crossing far too often — and they are bound to keep crossing in the near future as well with even greater frequency and intensity. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia";"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But it would be unfair to hold Destiny alone responsible. The birth of Ganga Mail also marked the beginning of my journey as a writer, and, whenever, as a writer, I followed the smell of the soil in search of my soul, I invariably found myself sitting by the Ganga.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia";"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia";"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><em>Chai</em>,<em> Chai</em>, published in 2009<em>, </em>is my most popular book till date: it is an account of my visits to towns that are famous as railway junctions but about which very little is known otherwise. Many people, for example, know Jolarpet or Guntakal as railway stations, but how many of them are familiar with the towns of Jolarpet and Guntakal? That was the idea behind writing <em>Chai, Chai</em>.</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia";"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">One of the towns I included in the book was Mughal Sarai. I had had childhood memories of Mughal Sarai station. The train from Kanpur to Howrah would make a long halt there: the engine and the staff would change and lunch would be served to passengers in compartmented plates. During my stay in Mughal Sarai during the writing of <em>Chai</em>,<em> Chai</em>, I decided to visit Benares, which was only 10 km away. And even though Benares did not belong to the book, I decided to include it anyway: the emotions I experienced in the ancient city was too precious not to be documented.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia";"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Shortly after <em>Chai</em>, <em>Chai </em>came out, a colleague told me, "My son is only 10 years old, he has read your book and he loves you."</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia";"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I felt extremely flattered, but at the same time wondered why a 10-year-old, growing up in the era of budget airlines, should like a book about railway junctions.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia";"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">A few months later the colleague threw a party at his home. I was invited too. As soon as I reached his place he took me to his son's bedroom and told him, "Here, meet your favourite writer. Won't you say hello to him?"</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "georgia";">The child blushed and covered his face with a pillow. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia";">I removed the pillow and asked him, "Have you really read <em>Chai</em>, <em>Chai</em>?"</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">He nodded.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"Then tell me what did you like the most about the book."</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"The part about Benares," he said and quickly covered his face with the pillow again.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia";"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">That's when I understood that the charm of the Ganga transcended age, gender and location. And also felt mildly proud that I owned — no, not the Ganga — but Ganga Mail.</span></div>
</div>
Bishwanath Ghoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09499834715638337891noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17929252.post-48502699623131913032016-10-08T01:39:00.001+05:302017-08-13T09:54:11.545+05:30Why Durga Puja In Calcutta Makes Me Sad<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Feeling a little emotional about Calcutta tonight, I sat down
to put down my thoughts in writing but I am unable to because the radio is on —
106.2 FM, which describes itself as ‘Kolkatar gaan, Kolkatar pran’ (the songs
of Calcutta, the soul of Calcutta).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
I can, of course, switch off the radio, but that’s easier
said that done when my kind of songs are plating back to back — Bengali as well
as Hindi numbers of Kishore Kumar and R.D. Burman. It is one thing to possess a
collection of these songs and play them as and when you want to, quite another
when the radio plays them. When the RJ plays these songs, he validates the fact
that your choice is far from outdated. In <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Calcutta</st1:place></st1:city>,
someone born in the 1970s can never feel old.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
And just when you think that you know all the songs created
during that golden decade, the radio springs a surprise. Only minutes ago, the
channel played a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9U3_UTx5McY" target="_blank">Bengali song </a>that instantly grabbed my attention: sung by Asha
Bhosle and Kishore Kumar and pictured — as I discovered on You Tube — on Amol
Palekar and Sharmila Tagore in a 1979 film called Mother.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
The song has made me even more emotional.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
I am not alone. This is that time of the year when every
Bengali living in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Calcutta</st1:place></st1:city>
gets emotional. It’s Durga Puja, after all. But why should they get emotional during
Durga Puja, the ultimate season of joy and festivity?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
That’s because they spend the entire year waiting for Durga
Puja, but once the goddess and her four children have taken their positions in
the neighbourhood pandal, realisation dawns that the next four days will elapse
in no time — and that they would have to once again wait for another whole year.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
They would ideally like the calendar to bear only four days —
sashti, saptami, ashtami and navami — and make life an everlasting celebration,
but that would be like trying to hold on to the sand in your fist. The sand slips
out: day by day, month by month, year by year. And that’s how we get old.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
Fortunately for <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Calcutta</st1:place></st1:city>,
the end of Durga Puja does not mean the end of celebrations. Durga Puja is
followed by a host of other festivals, lasting throughout the year, before Durga
Puja stages a grand return once again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
But for a Calcuttan, a lot can change between one Durga Puja
and another. One may not be around to see the next Durga Puja in the neighbourhood
pandal for a variety of reasons: one could find a new job and move to another city,
one could get married and move to another city, or one could just die of
disease or accident during the intervening 300 or so days. To be present at the
neighbourhood pandal during Durga Puja is an assertion of being alive — and that
explains why the festival is such an emotional event.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
I may not be a true-blue Calcuttan — I have been living in
Chennai for almost 16 years — but of late even I have been marking my attendance
on Planet Earth by visiting Calcutta every Durga Puja. That is why I feel so
emotional today — that the festivities must come to an end so soon. Can’t good
things last a little longer?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
</div>
Bishwanath Ghoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09499834715638337891noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17929252.post-17708144089896456182016-07-10T02:34:00.000+05:302016-07-10T04:08:59.236+05:30Some Thoughts About Chai, Chai — Over Whisky<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Yesterday morning my publishers mailed me reviews of the Hindi translation of <em>Chai, Chai</em> appearing in three leading Hindi dailies <span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">—</span> <em>Dainik Jagran</em>, <em>Dainik Bhaskar </em>and <em>Jansatta</em> <span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">— and that set me on the reminiscence mode.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">I signed the contract for the book in November 2006, seven months after I got married <span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">—</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> my wife sometimes jokes that while she brought me all the good luck, I brought her only bad luck, which is probably true <span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">—</span></span> but it wasn't until July 2007 when I started travelling for it. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">I no longer remember what took me so long to get started, but I do remember receiving calls from my anxious publishers, who had already paid me an advance of Rs. 50,000.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">So it was in July 2007 that I formally began my journey as a writer, when I stepped out of Itarsi station on a drizzly evening. I had no expectations to live up to, not many travel writers to look up to <span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">— my reading was limited to Paul Theroux and William Dalrymple. I had only a vague idea how a book was to be written <span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">— and the idea was, basically, to have fun and let things happen to you, rather than you chasing things: if things didn't happen to you, so be it.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></span></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">I no longer remember when exactly I made the journeys to the other places described in the book <span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">— yes, Mughal Sarai was in November 2007 <span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">— but I do remember finishing the journeys shortly before 5 March 2008, when I joined the <em>Times of India</em>. The paper was soon going to launch its Chennai edition.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></span></span></span></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">And then I sat on the project for months together, as I coped with pressures at the new workplace. It took a couple of more calls from the publishers to get me started with the writing, and once I got into the rhythm, there was no stopping. I would write from midnight till 4 a.m., wake up at 11 and go to the gym.</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">I emailed the manuscript in March 2009 and, after spending two days in Pondicherry, went to Kanpur. I had no idea I was seeing my mother for the last time.</span></span></span></span></span><br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Back in Chennai, as I awaited the publication of the book, I began to pray. I lived in T. Nagar and my office was located precisely 2 km away, in Nandanam. Every day, I would pass the Balaji temple on Venkatnarayana Road, and I would tell Lord Venkateswara, "If <em>Chai, Chai </em>sells 10,000 copies, I will go to Tirupati and get tonsured."</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></span></span></span></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">But even before the book could come out — it hit the stands in September 2009 — my mother died. As per rituals, I had to get my head shaved. God had turned out to be unfair, unkind. I told Him, "I have done my bit, now it's your turn. Make sure the book sells 10,000 copies."</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></span></span></span></span><br />
This time He heard me.<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong>*</strong></div>
<br />
Today, looking back, <em>Chai, Chai</em> is a book I am at once possessive and embarrassed about.<br />
<br />
Possessive, obviously because it is my first book, to write which I did things I can't imagine doing today: such as getting off at strange stations and, no matter what time of the day or night, setting out in search of a hotel. What if the town had no hotels? Well, I had no Plan B. Neither did I have the luxury of homework: almost nothing was available to read, online or otherwise, for me to get even remotely acquainted with those towns. Everything had to be experienced first hand.<br />
<br />
Embarrassed, because I would do a far better job if I were to write the book today. I would spend more time in each place, search harder, dig deeper. It would be a thicker book, with less of whisky and more of <em>chai </em>— but that would also mean less kick.</div>
</div>
Bishwanath Ghoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09499834715638337891noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17929252.post-42423916151618390562016-07-03T12:16:00.000+05:302016-10-17T23:12:05.294+05:30Have Will, Will Travel<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I often come across this quote, that life is like a book and those who do not travel read only one page.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
When you read those words aloud you also, without realising it, make fun of people who do not travel. But to travel you often need two things: money and will. Many people don't have either, some neither.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
But there are people who travel for a living <span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">—</span> people who spend most of the week in airports and hotels, or in trains or buses <span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">— selling corporate solutions or FMCG products. I don't so much envy those living out of airports and hotels: they basically hop from one boardroom to another, and these days most boardrooms are usually located on the outskirts of a city. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">But I very much envy those who, to promote their brand of tea or toothpaste or chocolate, travel to the remotest of shops, occasionally hopping onto a passing truck or tractor if required in order to cover the areas assigned.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">These fortunate people, since they have one eye fixed on the watch and the other on the target, largely remain blind to the places their work takes them to. They travel, but they wouldn't be called travellers.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Who, then, is a traveller?</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">A traveller, to me, is someone driven by curiosity: What lies there? </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">The <em>there</em> could be a neighbouring town or a neighbouring country or a country 10,000 miles away <span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">— </span>so long as you go there out of curiosity you are a traveller (if you go there only for the sights you are already familiar with, you are a tourist).</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Which also means that you do not really need money to travel. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">I shall always cherish <a href="http://www.thehindu.com/features/metroplus/travel/article2497049.ece" target="_blank">the trip </a>I made to the town of Chandragiri, near Tirupati, in September 2011: I had driven down from Chennai with a friend and together, we would not have spent more than Rs. 2,000. We could have managed with even half the amount had we not chosen to stay in AC rooms.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span id="goog_973124393"></span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/"></a><span id="goog_973124394"></span></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">There is another journey I shall never forget: I even remember the date <span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">— August 4, 2015 <span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">— because it happened to be birth anniversary of my idol Kishore Kumar. On that day, I took the morning flight from Chennai to Calcutta, and in the afternoon <span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">— after listening to a few Kishore Kumar songs on FM <span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">— </span></span>took the flight to Bagdogra.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></span></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">From Bagdogra airport, I was to drive south to Cooch Behar, to work on <a href="http://www.thehindu.com/sunday-anchor/stateless-chitt-residents-no-more/article7516875.ece" target="_blank">a story</a> about the Bangladeshi enclaves that had merged with India just four days before. As the driver led me to the parking, I noticed a car with a red number plate, the registration number painted in the Devanagari script.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></span></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">"The car you are looking at is from Nepal," the driver <span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">— a very nice man called Bindeshwar Yadav <span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">— satisfied my curiosity. "The registration says it belongs to the Bagmati zone of Nepal."</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></span></span></span></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">"How far is Nepal from here?" I asked him.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></span></span></span></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">"The border is not even 30 km. Everything is close from here. Bhutan is hardly 70 km, Darjeeling 90 km."</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></span></span></span></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">My destination,<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> Cooch Behar, was the farthest: <span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">150 km. To come <em>so</em> close to these places <span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">— Nepal, Bhutan, Darjeeling <span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">— and yet not to be able to even peep into them, the thought saddened me. "I must come back someday," I silently willed, even though the possibility of another trip in the near future seemed remote, very remote.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Perhaps the hills heard me. Not even a year has passed since then, and I have already been to Nepal, Bhutan and Darjeeling.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
</div>
Bishwanath Ghoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09499834715638337891noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17929252.post-4794597804032835752016-01-17T22:35:00.000+05:302016-01-17T22:37:05.124+05:3015 Years In Chennai<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Every January I fall in love with Chennai all over again. That’s when the sky is blue and the clouds are white, when the weather is at its pleasant best, when there is happiness in the air and when, for me, the sensations return — the sensations that had gripped me when I first set foot in the city and walked its streets.<br />
<br />
Two days ago, January 15, I completed 15 years in Chennai, and because it is January, the memories of the initial days are once again playing in my mind in high definition. The reason I recall my arrival with such fondness is that I came to live in the city out of choice and not compulsion.<br />
<br />
I was someone who could have idli and sambar for breakfast, lunch and dinner; and I never saw my lack of Tamil as an impediment. If anything, I found it very romantic that people you were trying to communicate with did not speak your language and you did not speak theirs. The ‘language problem’ was a delightful evidence that you had travelled — all the way — to live in a new land.<br />
<br />
In short, I came to Chennai without expecting it to adjust to my ways, and instead came prepared to adapt myself to Chennai. And even though I had come from Delhi — north India — it helped that I was a Bengali, related by my surname to the land that had produced Tagore and Vivekananda. Even though the truth is that until 2001 — for that matter until 2006 — I had barely spent time in Bengal and had a ‘north Indian’ upbringing.<br />
<br />
My very first home in the city was a lodge called J.K. Mansions located on Natesan Street in T. Nagar. The street ran parallel to the famous (or infamous?) Ranganathan Street. Every time I climbed up to or climbed down from my second-floor room, I would notice the hand-painted warning on each landing: “Female visitors not allowed” and “Consumption of liquor strictly prohibited.”<br />
<br />
The first in-house rule was impossible to violate, but the second was violated with impunity because one evening, two days into my stay at the lodge, I found the manager escorting a carpenter into my room and getting the sole window secured with a wire mesh. “What to do, sir, people drink and throw empty bottles out of the window,” the manager explained, “neighbours are daily complaining.”<br />
<br />
I wasn’t one of the culprits because I hadn’t discovered the wine shops of Chennai yet. On the evening of my Day One, I drank at the bar of Hotel Peninsula on G.N. Chetty Road, and on Day Two, I had drinks and dinner with my new colleagues at the rooftop restaurant of Hotel Ranjith in Nungambakkam. I was rich at the time: my father had given me Rs 40,000 — big money at the time — to start a new life in Chennai.<br />
<br />
From Day Three onwards, however, I was having my evening drinks with select colleagues at a ‘bar-attached’ wine shop on Commander-in-Chief Road (Ethiraj Salai), which was right next to a now-defunct vegetarian restaurant called Shamiyana. We referred to the bar as Shamiyana.<br />
<br />
I do not miss anything more in life than the sensations of those initial days in Chennai. Sensations are difficult to capture in words: the nearest you can get to doing that is by recalling memories.<br />
<br />
Such as waking up to songs to Minnale wafting in from the window — who wouldn’t fall in love with the tune of Nenjei poopol?<br />
<br />
Such as remembering, on waking up, that water would flow from bathroom tap only for half an hour — if you happened to sleep through those precious 30 minutes, you were screwed.<br />
<br />
Such as sitting with bated breath in an autorickshaw as he took me flying from T. Nagar to my office on Club House Road (the journey lasted barely 10, at the most 12, minutes) — and feeling the rush of adrenalin as the autorickshaw sped down the hoarding-lined Gemini flyover.<br />
<br />
Such as strolling out of office and stepping into Spencer Plaza, the only and the most happening mall of Chennai, mainly to visit Landmark, the bookstore, and Music World — my two favourite escapes.<br />
<br />
Such as slowly emptying my quarter bottle (180 ml) of Old Monk rum in the company of colleagues-turned-friends at Shamiyana, and very rarely having an additional “ninety” or “cutting” (90 ml) — those days, don’t ask me why, alcohol and ambition went hand in hand; I could dream better while drinking.<br />
<br />
Such as finding wine shops open even on Republic Day (in Delhi, almost every other day was dry day) and escaping death on the Republic Day of 2001 when, returning from an excursion to Mahabalipuram where we all drank vodka sitting on the seaside rocks, the colleague riding the bike lost control and I went sliding, face down, on the road — I survived only because ECR or OMR had not been constructed yet and there was no speeding vehicle coming from behind.<br />
<br />
Such as sitting in the last row at those book launches that were followed by cocktails, totally in awe of those on the dais and eagerly waiting for the bar to open — but secretly hoping to be on the dais someday.<br />
<br />
Such as having dinner from a roadside stall, either steaming idlis or hot parotta with ‘full-boiled’ egg (poached egg tossed upside down on the pan so that the yolk got fried as well) — the steam made you more hungry.<br />
<br />
Such as going to sleep with the songs of Minnale still wafting in through the window, either from a neighbouring home or from the transistor of a watchman stationed close by.<br />
<br />
Such as moving in, after spending precisely two weeks at J.K. Mansions, to the privacy of a flat in nearby Murugesan Street — a street I shared with Illayaraja for almost 14 years before shifting, in November 2014, to a street on the opposite side of North Usman Road.<br />
<br />
The Chennai of January 2001 is not the same as the Chennai of January 2016. Everything has changed — everything — from the time I first set foot in the city.<br />
<br />
T. Nagar, back then, was a residential area which also had commercial establishments; today it is a commercial area where some residential properties still exist.<br />
<br />
Autorickshaw drivers no longer speed because there is simply no space on the roads to turn up the accelerator.<br />
<br />
Wine shops and their bars, once run efficiently by private parties, are today run by the state government and the less said about their condition the better — anyway, the last time I stepped into a wine-shop bar was in March 2008.<br />
<br />
I no longer go to book launches for the free drinks but to see, sometimes, my own books launched. What’s more satisfying is that one of the books is about Chennai.<br />
<br />
My office on Club House Road has now transformed into Express Avenue. Spencer Plaza is a ghost mall. Landmark and Music World have shut down across the city.<br />
<br />
There are far, far more places to eat and drink — and not just Dhaba Express or Harrisons.<br />
<br />
The city limits no longer end with Thiruvanmiyur in the south and Mogappair in the west.<br />
<br />
And as far as music is concerned — correct me if I am wrong — melody is nearly dead. Songs — even those created by the so-called Mozart of Madras, who gave several gems in the late 1990s — come and go. Nothing in the past 15 years to capture the popular imagination the way the songs of Minnale and, to some extent, Kaakha Kaakha did. But then, as far as melody is concerned, the city already sitting on a pot of gold: the music of the real Mozart of Madras, my neighbour of 14 years.<br />
<br />
Three things, however, remain unchanged. Karunanidhi remains the leader of DMK. Jayalalitha remains the leader of AIADMK. And every morning, you find a freshly-drawn kolam outside every door.<br />
<br />
If the city has changed, so have I. Naturally. Fifteen years is a lifetime. I came as a man who had just turned 30, today I am 45 — everything that has happened to me has happened to me in Chennai. So much so that I am no longer able to recall what I was doing with my life before I moved here.</div>
</div>
Bishwanath Ghoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09499834715638337891noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17929252.post-24095053523730561842015-12-26T23:27:00.000+05:302016-05-23T19:04:19.129+05:30On Turning Forty-Five<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">About
a couple of months ago I spent some time in Benares, where one day, while
walking to the Manikarnika Ghat, I chanced upon the Pashupatinath Temple, built
there about two centuries ago by the king of Nepal.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua",serif;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I
was immediately awestruck by the peace that prevailed over the temple. You
could stand on its terrace and gaze at the Ganga without realising you are in
Benares, a city overrun by pilgrims: just the perfect place for a one-to-one with
Pashupatinath, or Shiva — my favourite god.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua",serif;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">But
since the temple is located right next to Manikarnika, India’s most famous
cremation ground, you cannot visit — or exit — it without noticing the piles of
wood or the smoke rising from the various pyres. Was the temple purposely built
near Manikarnika so that devotees could realise that even if Shiva granted
their prayers, they could not escape one reality, which was death?</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua",serif;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I
wasn’t sure of that, but during my stay in Benares, I visited the Pashupatinath
Temple several times, and during what turned out to be my final visit, a young
caretaker gifted me with a poster of the original Pashupatinath Temple, located
in Kathmandu. I wanted to be in Kathmandu that very moment — just to complete
the journey. But I did not see myself travelling to Nepal in the near future,
and so I accepted the poster and told myself, “Okay, someday.” I had no idea,
back then, that ‘someday’ would arrive so soon.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua",serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua",serif;"></span></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I
have been in Kathmandu for the past two days now, and since today happened to
be my birthday, I decided to begin the day with a visit to the Pashupatinath
Temple. I prayed for myself and for people who matter to me, and then moved to
the rear side of the temple — to a terrace overlooking the Bagmati River.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua",serif;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">As
I looked down the terrace, I saw a Manikarnika-like ghat below me —there were bodies
either being cremated or being prepared for cremation — only that the Bagmati
turned out to be so unbelievably narrow and shallow that you could hardly call
it a river. Oh, the familiar smell of burning flesh!</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua",serif;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">On
the steps across the river stood mourners — friends and distant family members of
the deceased — who weren’t directly involved in the rituals of cremation. There
was something very dignified and official — and not impersonal, as it happens
in Manikarnika — about these cremations.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua",serif;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Suddenly
it struck me that I was the birthday boy, who should be celebrating birth and
not observing death, and I moved away from the terrace — but not without the reinforced
realisation that every single birth has to meet death someday.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua",serif;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Perhaps
that is why the two Pashupatinath temples — in Benares and in Kathmandu — adjoin
cremation ghats, so that devotees know that no matter how much they please Shiva,
they cannot escape death.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua",serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua",serif;"></span></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I
wouldn’t have thought on these lines had I been 10 years younger: I would have got
drunk — or had mindless sex — to celebrate my birthday. But once you turn 45,
as I did today, you realise that death is a part of life. It is a different
matter that you still feel your life has only just begun — miles to go before
you sleep.</span></div>
</div>
Bishwanath Ghoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09499834715638337891noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17929252.post-16884586938023379072015-12-03T22:07:00.002+05:302016-05-23T19:05:21.336+05:30Chennai<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Lives lost, homes left</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">pets lost, strays dead</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">plans postponed</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">dreams abandoned</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">opportunities washed away.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">So we start — again</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">some from scratch</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">some after a pause</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">praying for everything</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">but another Rain.</span></div>
Bishwanath Ghoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09499834715638337891noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17929252.post-69296233522275197572015-10-20T02:53:00.000+05:302016-09-18T22:41:48.193+05:3010 Years Of Ganga Mail<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Someday,
my feet could model for Alberto Torresi slippers. That is, if someday my face
becomes famous enough to sell products.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">A</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">bout
five months ago, I bought a pair for Rs 1,700 from Express Avenue in Chennai,
and the humble brown chappals turned out to be the most loyal set of footwear
I've ever owned.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">They
clung to my feet as I walked along the border with Pakistan in Punjab, walked
the border with Bangladesh in West Bengal, Tripura, Meghalaya and Assam (and
sometimes even stepped into that country), strolled though the fields of
Plassey where Robert Clive's forces once met the army of the Nawab of
Bengal, walked on the beaches of Kerala and Karnataka, roamed the town of
Udupi, returned to my hometown Kanpur after a long gap of three and a half
years, walked on the banks of Brahmaputra and the ghats of Banaras.
Wearing them, I stepped into planes, trains, taxis, boats and cycle-rickshaws.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">As
far as I remember, they have been properly polished only twice in these five
months: once, when I had deposited them at the footwear-counter at the Golden
Temple, and again when I stood with a boot-polish wallah at the door of a
moving train (I was travelling from Malda Town to Murshidabad) and he offered
to shine them.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The
other night, as I was leaving Kanpur, my father handed me some money, saying I
must buy new clothes for Durga Puja. I thought of buying a pair of sandals with
that money, something I could wear on formal occasions as well, but instantly decided against it: the pair of Alberto Torresi had given wings to my feet — I never travelled so incessantly as I had ever since I bought the slippers — and I wanted to use the pair till it lasted. Call me superstitious if you like.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Travel: the word defines me today, even though the truth is that most of the time I am absolutely stationary, reclining on bed in the 'Vishnu pose', head resting on the palm (left palm, in my case). </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">But while Lord Vishnu can be seen reclining on a slithery bed of serpents, enjoying the attention and receiving the services of many divine characters, I usually laze on a cotton mattress, alone, my thought process aided by the supply of Gold Flake Kings. On waking up I often wonder where I am, and once I assume the 'Vishnu pose' I reflect on my location.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The other morning when I woke up, I found that I was in a train. My travels were coming to an end, for now. My feet and lower back hurt. In Calcutta, I walked into a Thai spa. After the happy ending, I suddenly remembered the tagline of this blog — 'Account of a journey. Destination: salvation.' And then it struck me that I had coined those lines exactly 10 years ago.</span></div>
</div>
Bishwanath Ghoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09499834715638337891noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17929252.post-1204158386903771432015-10-10T00:39:00.002+05:302016-07-02T23:34:35.101+05:30In Benares, A Satisfying Day Turned Sad<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Today I did
some of the things I had been wanting to do in Benares. I had two freshly-made,
hot <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">rasagullas</i> (only Rs 10 each); I
had not one but three Banarasi paans (the idea was to have only one but I
quickly returned for two more); and, above all, covered nearly all its 84 ghats
on foot — travelling a distance of about 7 km — from Assi Ghat on the southern
extreme to Prahlad Ghat on the northern.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I made the
return journey by boat, choosing to be its sole passenger, for Rs 500. The boat
was steered by two 13-year-olds, though they looked much younger, and as we
glided on the Ganga in the most glorious moments of dusk, I saw something I had
been wanting to see: a body floating in the river. At first I thought it was a buffalo,
but as it bobbed closer to the boat, I could see the outline of a human head.
To be doubly sure I asked the boys, “What’s that floating?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">One of them
replied: “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Laash hai</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">laash</i>!” — It’s a body.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">A rewarding
day on the whole. While I was walking on the ghats, the most exhilarating
moment was the discovery of the Pashupatinath Temple, built by the Nepalese
some 200 years ago, on Lalita Ghat: totally empty, a perfect place to meditate,
and it also gives you a commanding view of the river. Then I lingered for a
while at Manikarnika Ghat, and then walked on before stopping at Panchganga
Ghat, where I climbed up the steep steps to visit the shrine of Trailanga
Swami, considered an incarnation of Lord Shiva.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">At the
shrine, an elderly man, who looked south Indian, was meditating in front of the
life-size figure of Trailanga Swami, also depicted in the meditative pose. As a
caretaker showed me around and told me about the life of Trailanga Swami, the
man got up and came closer to listen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Will you
please translate what he is saying,” the south Indian man requested me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I told him
whatever the caretaker had told me, and then asked him, “Where are you from?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Chennai,” he
replied.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Where do you
live in Chennai?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Thiruvanmiyur.
Why, are you familiar with Chennai?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Yes, sir. I
work with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Hindu</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Wait a
minute, are you —?” He mentioned my name.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Yes, sir.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Well, we are
already friends on Facebook!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The long
walk, in spite of the company of the river and of Shiva, had been quite a
lonely one. Suddenly, I didn’t feel lonely anymore.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">*<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The two young
boatmen dropped me at Shivala Ghat from where I climbed the steps and walked
back to my hotel. My feet hurt but I was happy about the day being well spent,
and that I had no deadline dangling over my head to keep me up all night. I
wanted to have two drinks and go to sleep, so that I could wake up early and
catch the sunrise.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But as soon
as I flung myself on the bed and looked at my phone for notifications — as one
instinctively does these days — I learned that Ravindra Jain, the music
director, had passed away. The smugness evaporated and sadness crept in. I sent
the room boy to get me half-bottle of whisky. Ravindra Jain, after all, defined
my childhood: R.D. Burman came into my life much later.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Geeta Gaata Chal</i> released when I was five or six, and after
the watching the film in the theatre, with my parents, I would often try to imitate
Sachin as shown in the title song — a happy-go-lucky youngster carrying nothing
but a flute and a small bundle of clothes and singing away to glory. I wouldn’t
have pretended to be Sachin had I not been attracted to the song, and if the song
was appealing to even a six-year-old back then, imagine what Ravindra Jain’s
music must have done to the grown-ups.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Needless to
say, most of his songs were a hit those days, especially in the part of the
country where I grew up. The singer might have been Yesudas, a Malayali, or Jaspal
Singh, a Punjabi, but the rendition always made you smell the soil of the Gangetic
plains, the heart of IndiaI</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Since I am a
Kishore Kumar fan, and since Kishore Kumar and Ravindra Jain shared a healthy
rapport as long as both were alive, I would like to present five songs they
created together — songs that went to become legends as well as songs that I personally
cherish:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">1. </span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lzF-eh91wmM" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Ghungroo ki tarah</span></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">2. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZungcXD7oF0" target="_blank">H</a></span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZungcXD7oF0" target="_blank">ar haseen cheez ka main talabgar hoon</a>, my most favourite Kishore solo; </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">3. </span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K0_jpigjv1c" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Le jaayenge, le jaayenge, dilwaale dulhania le jaayenge</span></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">;</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">4. </span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oSZ0DUnaNgw" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Na aaj thha</span></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">; I could die for this song — beautiful!</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">5. </span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CzlvuRrkL6s" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Premi sabhi hote hain deewane</span></a><span style="font-family: inherit;"> — Oh, the way Kishore Kumar throws his voice into the microphone!</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; mso-spacerun: yes;">Very sad that Ravindra Jain earned only a Padma Shri. He should have got a Padma Vibhushan long, long ago — considering his music smelt of the soil of India.</span></div>
</div>
Bishwanath Ghoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09499834715638337891noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17929252.post-20631992613719370332015-06-07T02:52:00.002+05:302015-06-07T21:54:41.512+05:30Fashion TV And I<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Shortly before I decided to move to Chennai — the decision
was taken in the year 2000 — I read a report in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Outlook</i> about how the conservative city was changing and becoming
more hip. To support its claim, the report had cited the opening of a new pub
called Hell Freezes Over, or HFO, where the young and the happening were
descending every night to party until the wee hours.<br />
<br />
The report had contributed, even if in a small way, to my
decision to move to Chennai from <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Delhi</st1:place></st1:city>.
My salary in Chennai was going to be Rs 18,000 per month; whereas in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Delhi</st1:place></st1:city>, even with a salary
of Rs 15,000 or even less, I was going to the discotheque every now and then. I
imagined myself sitting in HFO almost every night, buying drinks not only for
myself but also my new friends and shaking a leg with them.<br />
<br />
Fantasy and reality, however, rarely see eye to eye. Once in
Chennai, my evenings were spent in filthy bars that are attached to wine shops.
To know about those experiences, click <a href="http://bytheganges.blogspot.in/2006/06/drinking-in-chennai_21.html" target="_blank">here</a>. As for HFO, I visited it precisely
twice during the years it remained open in the city.<br />
<br />
After having three drinks in a filthy bar and dinner (usually
parotta and fried eggs, from a roadside stall), I would come back home, read
and write (longhand, because there was computer or internet at home back then),
and because there was no internet, I would also watch TV before going to sleep.
I had two favourite channels at that hour, SS Music and Fashion TV.<br />
<br />
SS Music had a midnight programme called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hot, Hotter, Hottest</i> (an expression
often used to describe Chennai’s weather), whose intention was to arouse the
male audience. It must have been quite a task for its producers to scan the
archives, on a daily basis, and select only those songs that took more pride in
the cleavage than the composition.<br />
<br />
Once the programme got over, I would switch over to Fashion
TV and subject myself to the unending sight of skinny models walking down the
ramp in locations so remote, culturally and geographically, from Chennai. I
would keep watching until I had seen enough topless models — those days you saw
plenty of them. In between fashion shows, the channel would also show footages
of parties held to celebrate the opening of the F Bar (nightclub promoted by Fashion
TV) in some Western city or the other. Back then I believed that if one got invited
to such a party, one had arrived in life.<br />
<br />
Last Thursday, when I walked into office, I found a black,
diamond-shaped card on my desk waiting to be opened. It invited me to the
opening of the F Bar in Chennai. On the one hand the invite didn’t mean a thing,
because a new nightclub opens every other day in Chennai and such things no
longer interest me; but one of the other hand the invitation, seen in the light
of my belief during my younger days, meant a lot. And so I showed up at F Bar
on the night of its opening, and also had the picture below taken — just to remind
myself of the old times when, in the absence of internet at home, I would watch
Fashion TV. Chennai seems to have come a long way, and so have I.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iI0HGzO1H4Y/VXNkOxAqnjI/AAAAAAAADJw/RdKZxzVeh-U/s1600/fashion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iI0HGzO1H4Y/VXNkOxAqnjI/AAAAAAAADJw/RdKZxzVeh-U/s320/fashion.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
</div>
Bishwanath Ghoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09499834715638337891noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17929252.post-77650930864291370622015-06-05T01:47:00.001+05:302015-06-05T09:37:16.255+05:30Maggi And I<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
One afternoon, when I was in the eighth or ninth standard,
two men (one of them bearded) walked into our classroom, carrying cartons. To
each student they handed two yellow packets — our introduction to Maggi noodles,
or, for that matter, any noodles. Since my younger brother also studied in the
same school, we came home with four packets.<br />
<br />
Looking back, it was such a smart move, to target the
children. Some years later, when I had left school but my brother was still
there, a new brand of sanitary napkins — I forget which brand — took the same
route, but the company was stingy unlike Maggi: I remember my brother telling
me about the girls in his class being summoned to the library and handed one
napkin (and not a packet) each, and the girls bringing them back to the
classroom by hiding them between the pages of notebooks.<br />
<br />
Back to the Maggi story: so that afternoon we had four
packets of noodles at home. Since they had come for free, they had to be tried
out. My mother opened one packet and put the contents in boiling water, though
I am not sure if she meticulously followed the instructions printed on the
packet, because what materialised was a plateful of white earthworms with the
masala sprinkled on them. Inedible: I spat out the noodles. Another packet was
opened, but the outcome was hardly any better. I don’t remember what happened
to the remaining two packets. But what I do remember is that both, my brother
and I, came to love Maggi in a matter of months. Once again, I do not remember
how the transformation came about, and that too so soon, but I do remember that
Maggi noodles, back then, came in three flavours — masala, chicken and sweet-and-sour —
and each time we cooked the chicken noodles, our cat would get supremely
excited and demand its share.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Even though I came to love Maggi, I wouldn’t say my life
depended on it. Maggi, to me, was always a great option, but not the best
option: nothing looks more attractive to me than a plate of steaming rice
topped with steaming <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">arhar daal</i>. Add
a few slices of onions and a spoonful of pickle to the plate — that’s the best
meal one can ever ask for.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
But then there are times when you really crave for Maggi,
even when you don’t feel too lazy to cook. In fact, making Maggi, the healthy way,
can be more tedious than preparing just rice and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">daal</i>. My Maggi always contains green peas and finely-chopped
capsicum, carrot, beans and, occasionally, cauliflower. Just when the noodles
are ready, I add to the pan one boiled egg (sometimes two boiled eggs) and finely-chopped
tomatoes and onion. To me that is a wholesome meal.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
There are also nights when I am wifeless and when I am
writing, and when I do not want the thought ‘So what I am going to have for
dinner’ to interfere with my writing — that’s when Maggi comes in handy. And now the
authorities say that Maggi isn’t safe and are taking it off the shelves. But
then, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">what</i> is safe — certainly not the
air we breathe and the water we drink. First
give us clean air and water, then we shall talk about the safety of the food
we consume.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
This evening, as I shopped for groceries at the
supermarket, my eyes fell on the shelf carrying Maggi noodles and was surprised
that the packets were still on display for sale. I instantly picked up a
four-pack noodle packet and put it into the basket. This was at 6.30 pm. By
8.30 I learned, from tweets by friends, that Maggi has been
banned in Tamil Nadu. I felt lucky: anything that is banned becomes more alluring.</div>
</div>
Bishwanath Ghoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09499834715638337891noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17929252.post-19779320184379384852015-05-28T02:08:00.002+05:302015-05-28T02:15:05.900+05:30Why A Writer Must Take Notes<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I wish I had the habit of keeping a diary or
journal, looking back at each day before going to bed or recording thoughts and
impressions as and when they came — of course, leaving out parts that no one
other than me must know.<br />
<br />
No harm retaining the parts the world shouldn’t
know, as long as no one reads your diary or you know how to keep it safe — or if
you have a family that is tolerant of your behaviour. Brutally honest diaries
often make for good, even great, literature; only that they are usually
published — quite naturally — posthumously. One such great work published: <i>The Journals of John Cheever</i>. Must-read.<br />
<br />
Coming back to keeping a journal, I think it is
very important for a writer or an aspiring writer to get into the habit for two
reasons. One, the daily introspection keeps alive your ability to synthesise
thoughts into words. Two, the matter you produce each night adds up to being a
goldmine: you can create several masterpieces out of it, fiction or
non-fiction, without having to invent a scene or a situation, because it is all
recorded in the diary — raw.<br />
<br />
The idea is to always look and listen, and
instantly note down anything you find intriguing or interesting. For that you always
need to carry a notebook and a pen — something I always ignore unless I am out
for a story.<br />
<br />
Recently, while dining at Koshy’s in <st1:city w:st="on">Bangalore</st1:city> — and I had not gone to <st1:city w:st="on">Bangalore</st1:city> for a story — I overheard a
conversation between two old-timers which I thought was worth writing about. I
was carrying a pen, but no notebook. So I quickly jotted down the conversation,
before it vanished into thin air, on a paper napkin. Back home, the wife
discovered the napkin in my suitcase and wondered, even though she is past
caring about such things, if it was a love note. I explained to her that the
scribbling was a conversation I had overheard between two old-timers at Koshy’s:
one of them urging the other to keep coming back for dinner so that Koshy’s — the
old <st1:place w:st="on">Bangalore</st1:place> institution
— remains alive.<br />
<br />
Had I carried a notebook, I would have had no
explanations to offer and got far more details to record. Memory, after all, is
slippery and often fails you when you need her the most, but the written word
is like a piece of rock — the more you write down your thoughts and impressions,
the more rock-solid your story is.<br />
<br />
That is why V.S. Naipaul is such a rockstar,
especially when it comes to writing about places. The <i>Granta</i> magazine, in an issue devoted to India some years ago, had
an entire chapter devoted to Naipaul: it reproduced the first four pages from
the journal that Naipaul kept when he was visiting India — this was his second
visit to the country of his ancestors — to write <i>India</i>: <i>An Wounded
Civilisation</i>. Each handwritten page is faced by a transcribed version of
the same so that the reader doesn’t have to struggle to decipher his
handwriting, even though Naipaul’s handwriting is pretty legible. What the handwritten
pages prove is that there was very little difference between Naipaul’s notes
and the prose he eventually produced — and how important it is to take copious
notes.<br />
<br />
I now wonder if my books would have been richer
if I too had meticulously taken notes while roaming the towns and cities I have
written about. Not that I did not carry a pen and notebook, but the compulsion to
take/make notes always melted away when I found myself in situations worth
writing about. I wanted to live the situations rather than distance myself from
them by taking out my notebook. But there is one way you can not only live your
experiences but also write about them in a distanced manner: by writing a diary/journal
at the end of the day.<br />
<br />
Here is what Vinod Mehta (it’s so painful to
prefix ‘late’ to his name) has to say about Naipaul’s style of functioning, in
his autobiography <i>Lucknow Boy</i>: “Vidia
(V.S. Naipaul) never carried a notepad, much less a tape recorder. One hot
afternoon in <st1:city w:st="on">Lucknow</st1:city>,
after walking through the narrow, filthy lanes of Chowk… we came to our hotel
ravenous and thirsty. Vidia skipped lunch and locked himself in his room to
make ‘notes’. His memory was awesome. He could reproduce long conversations
without getting a word wrong.”<br />
<br />
After a long day, a lesser mortal like me would
rather unwind with a drink or go shopping. It is too much of an effort to lock
yourself up in a room and write down all that you encountered in a day. Had I
done that, I would have taken half the time to finish each of my books and they
would have probably read better. Memories are richer when written than
recalled.<br />
<br />
From now on I am going to follow Naipaul: make
notes at the end of each day while working on a book. I have already purchased six
new notebooks, all world-class, and four new fountain pens, all sturdy and
India-made, so that I don’t fall short of stationery while visiting the city I
am going to write about next. Just that I shouldn’t feel too lazy to makes
notes. It is laziness, more than anything else, that stands between a genius and could-have-been-genius.</div>
</div>
Bishwanath Ghoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09499834715638337891noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17929252.post-25060435177043586152015-05-25T00:02:00.000+05:302015-05-25T00:55:46.755+05:30Beautiful Mind, Ugly End: One Simple Lesson From The Death Of John Nash<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Beautiful Mind</i>, the movie, ended beautifully — you left the
theatre with a tear or two.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
But in real life, that beautiful mind
has met with such a tragic end that you read and reread the news of mathematician
John Nash’s death in disbelief.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
Disbelief not because he died —
he was already 86 and not very far from a natural end — but the manner in which
he died. You expected someone like him to die peacefully in his sleep, having
lived a full life, and not getting ejected out of a speeding taxi that hits the
railing and to lay lifeless on the road.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
Each year, a handful of
bespectacled scientists are chosen for the Nobel Prize: they remain anonymous
until they are named for the honour and, outside their fraternity, continue to
remain anonymous even after they have got the Nobel. It is usually the Nobel-winning
writers who get all the attention and, as far as I know, the only ones who get
to make an acceptance speech.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
In other words, very few people had
heard of John Nash until 2001, when <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A
Beautiful Mind</i>, a movie based on his life, released, with Russell Crowe
playing Nash. By then Nash had already won the Nobel for economics, in 1994, for
his work in game theory.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
The movie’s objective was,
obviously, not to educate the public about game theory but to tell the story of
the beautiful mind behind it — the story of a man who fights paranoid
schizophrenia and goes on to make remarkable achievements in the world of
mathematics.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
And to imagine the man who won a
Nobel and whose life story won four Oscars, lying on the road, lifeless, at the
age of 86. And he had just landed from <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Oslo</st1:place></st1:city>,
after collecting the $800,000 Abel Prize, one of the most prestigious awards in
the field of mathematics. What a way to die.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
The only consolation is that died
with his wife, Alicia, 82. She too was flung out of the cab when it hit the
railing. The accident spared them a lonely walk to sunset, because one of them
would have certainly died before the other had they both not died together.
Very few loving couples, who have spent five or six decades together and who
would feel totally lost in case of them dies, earn that kind of an end. That
way, the beautiful mind had a beautiful ending.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
Only the manner in which they
died was anything but beautiful. And that’s why Nash’s death, just as Nash’s
life, has become hot news.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
After I read about the terrible
accident — on my Facebook timeline, where else — I immediately googled ‘John
Nash’. This is what Wikipedia told me: “John Forbes Nash, Jr. (June 13, 1928 –
May 23, 2015) was an American mathematician whose works in game theory, differential
geometry, and partial differential equations have provided insight into the
factors that govern chance and events inside complex systems in daily life.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Insight into the factors that govern chance and events inside complex
systems in daily life</i>? I guess no one, except God, if there is one, is
entitled to such an insight. Nash certainly did not have that insight when he
and his wife took the cab in <st1:state w:st="on">New Jersey</st1:state> to go
home, having just arrived from <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Oslo</st1:place></st1:city>.
His death, even though his life was all about complicated mathematical
equations, leaves us with a simple lesson: wear the seatbelt. Nash and his wife
weren’t wearing seatbelts.</div>
</div>
Bishwanath Ghoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09499834715638337891noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17929252.post-49306273987685992482015-05-24T00:44:00.000+05:302015-05-24T11:26:26.320+05:30Bengali Woman<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
She walked out of the restroom gingerly, as if not to
distract fellow diners with her footsteps, and took her seat noiselessly — as
if she wanted her existence to be a whisper. "Please be very honest with
me," she said, "am I boring you?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"Boring?" I replied, "I am sitting with one
of the prettiest woman I have ever known. Another beer?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"Yes, please. But am I boring you with my
stories?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"I am a good listener."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"You don't have to be polite. Anyway, now I will tell
you how I met Pascal."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"Pascal, who?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"That French guy I was telling you about the other
night?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<br />
"Ah, your French boyfriend."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"I don't think I can call him a boyfriend. I met him
only once, four years ago, but I can never forget him — never. I preserve his
number, you know, even though I have changed phones. But I have never had the
courage to call him all these years."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"Why?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"What if he sounds different? Worse, what if he sounds
indifferent? There have been times when I almost dialled his number, but I held
myself back."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"Interesting."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"Interesting or silly?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"Very interesting. So how did you guys meet?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"Oh yes, so coming back to the story. I was in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Paris</st1:city></st1:place> at the time — I had
gone there on work. One afternoon, I was at an antique shop, just looking
around, when my eyes fell on a guy who was looking around as well. He was tall,
well-built, the first thing I noticed about him was the tattoo on his upper arm
— it said <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Om Namah Shivaya</i>, in the
Hindi script. Our eyes met more than once; and even though I was curious about
him because of the tattoo, I was careful not to keep looking at him."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"You could have said Hello and asked him where he got
the tattoo from, no?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"How could I make conversation with a total stranger?
What if he wasn't interested in someone invading his privacy? You know how
foreigners are."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"And then?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"Well, he walked upto me and said, 'Hello, I am Pascal,
you from <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region>?'"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"Wow. And then?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"And then he asked for my phone number. But I refused.
How could I give my number to a total stranger? I quietly walked out of the
shop. Later that evening, I went to a bookshop for a poetry reading. Some
French poet had just published a book of poems, which had also been translated
into English. The French part was read by a very handsome Arab — perhaps an
Algerian. And the English part was read by guess who?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"Who?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"Pascal!" A tear escaped her left eye.
"I sat at the bookshop transfixed. It was as if Pascal was reading those
poems for me. How beautifully he read! I kept looking at him. I wanted to tell
him, with my eyes, why he wanted to have my phone number when he could have me!
You have no idea how magical that evening was." </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"And then?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"And then we went to a cafe where Hemingway is supposed
to have got drunk often. You have heard of Hemingway?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"Of course, I have."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"Like Hemingway, I too got drunk, really drunk, but I
remember everything — everything. Pascal drank as much as I did, perhaps even more,
but he was sober. That's the thing with Western men, they usually hold their
drink and rarely get obnoxious even when drunk — unlike Indian men. Indian men
put me off when they drink."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"I am Indian!"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"But you are a dear friend."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"I was kidding. I know I act silly when I am drunk,
though I don't remember putting anyone off. Maybe I have — who knows — one
doesn't remember things when drunk."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"But I remember that evening so well."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"So what happened next?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"Pascal asked me to spend the night with him. He was
staying a walking distance from the cafe, maybe a kilometre or two. My hotel
was far off."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"So you went with him?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"It took me a while to decide. At first I wondered,
being an Indian women, should I spend the night with a stranger — that too a
white man? What will people say? How shall I explain my absence from home to
them? Then suddenly I realised that this was <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Paris</st1:place></st1:city>, where I did not know a soul and where
I did not have a home. It did not matter to anyone, including me, whether I
spent the night in the hotel or with Pascal — and I had already fallen in love
with him."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"So you went with him?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
“Of course. And you know what, one of my sandals broke as
soon we came out of the cafe. I walked with him barefoot, carrying both the
sandals in my hand. He offered to carry me home — in his arms — but that would
have been too much, so I said no. But how romantic, the whole gesture! Once we
got into his flat, he made coffee for both us — and then we made love."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"Was it good?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"I am not going to give you details," she smiled
shyly, taking a sip of the draught beer, "but let me tell you one thing: I
am a small-made woman, even by Indian standards. I am petite. Pascal, on the
other hand, is huge. He has a huge chest. And you know what I found on his
chest?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"What?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"A tattoo showing the portrait of Lord Shiva himself!
That turned me on even more."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"And then?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"Well, when I woke up the next morning, I found the
sheets stained with blood. I cried at the sight of the blood, not because I
felt scared, but because I was elated."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<br />
"Elated?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"Because I had been practising abstinence for many
years. Four years, maybe five years?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"But why?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"You must put that question to my husband. By the way,
he is also a Bengali — like you."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"What do you mean? You are also a Bengali."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
"I am. But I am a Bengali woman."</div>
</div>
Bishwanath Ghoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09499834715638337891noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17929252.post-56518698207786432572015-05-22T23:55:00.000+05:302016-05-23T19:30:20.624+05:30Two Chief Ministers: An Afternoon In Chennai<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The movements of Jayalalithaa, and
the arrangements for her swearing-in tomorrow as the chief minister, brought
traffic in Chennai to a grinding halt today. Fortunately I did not have a
flight or train to catch or an important meeting to attend.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But I did miss work. I got into a
cab this afternoon and had travelled barely 500 metres when, on <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">G.N. Chetty Road</st1:address></st1:street>, I
found myself in a traffic jam. After 10 minutes of waiting on the road, the
driver began to get impatient and suggested that I take an autorickshaw. I
stayed put: autorickshaws don’t fly. But soon I figured that at the rate the
traffic was moving, it would take me two hours to get to work — a distance of
less than 6 km — and asked the driver to drop me back home.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Relieved, he turned into the
first lane leading out of the road but soon, on <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Thirumalai Pillai Road</st1:address></st1:street>, we again found
ourselves in a jam. I decided to walk back home and got off the cab. Soon I
found myself walking past a red building — a typical two-storey <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Madras</st1:place></st1:city> bungalow. I
stopped.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The old-fashioned bungalow has
always been almost a stone’s throw from my home. In the 14-plus years that I
have lived in Chennai, I have gone past the building countless times and occasionally
thought of stopping by, just to take a look inside, because it always looked
deserted and accessible. It was in this bungalow that K. Kamaraj, Tamil Nadu’s
tallest Congress leader, lived after he became the chief minister — and died.
It serves as a memorial now.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Today, I found the gate open and
walked in. Not a soul in sight. I could have been the first visitor of the day —
or, who knows, the first visitor in months, maybe years. The house has been
preserved the way Kamaraj left it: a room with sofas and a single bed; another
room with bookshelves and an easy chair at the centre; the hall with a dining
table and a show case. A simple man’s bungalow. In a small room by the hall sat
two men, perhaps the caretakers, who were chatting away. I looked at the
enlarged black-and-white pictures hanging from the walls, obviously placed in
the recent times, showing Kamaraj with dignitaries from across the world
(including the king of <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Ethiopia</st1:place></st1:country-region>).
The captions seem to have been written by a semi-literate man: <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Leningrad</st1:place></st1:city> is ‘Lenin Grat’.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The walls of the bungalow
separated two worlds. Outside, the noise preceding Jayalalitha’s oath-taking
ceremony; inside, the orderly silence at the home of a man who took oath thrice
as the chief minister. Outside, the noise generated by Dravidian politics, where
personalities tower over principles; inside, the gentle calm of the Nehruvian
era. Outside, a woman was being deified (‘Amma, you are god!’); inside, a
silence brought about by death — not just the death of its one-time occupant,
but also the slow death of his ideology. To understand where the Congress
stands today in Tamil Nadu, one should have spend this afternoon at Kamaraj’s
home, like I did.</span></div>
</div>
Bishwanath Ghoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09499834715638337891noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17929252.post-80356291689092155052015-05-22T02:25:00.002+05:302015-05-22T16:37:57.937+05:30Travel Writing<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
This evening, coming back from
work, I found myself locked out of the house. I had forgotten to carry the keys
and the wife had gone out and was expected to be back in an hour. To kill time,
I had idlis at Grand Sweets near my house and then walked down <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">North Usman Road</st1:address></st1:street>
and walked into New Booklands, a basement bookshop that mainly sells Tamil
books but also has a small collection of English books.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
There, I found a book which had
been missing from my collection for many years now (I have no idea how I lost
it): a collection of short stories by Salman Rushdie called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">East, West</i>, his only work of fiction
that I found easy to understand.I had bought my first copy in Delhi, probably
from one of those bookshops in Janpath, in 1998 or 1999. The price, I remember,
was written in pencil on the opening page: Rs 80. This evening I bought it for
Rs 399. I also bought, for Rs 895, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Travels
in Asia and Africa</i> by Ibn Battuta, the 14th-century Moroccan explorer, one
of the greatest travellers (and travel writers) to walk on this planet.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
Back home, I lit a cigarette and
opened the Battuta book, and in two hours finished 200 of the 340 pages. My
phone remained untouched as I raced through the book, finding it difficult to
put it down having begun the journey across medieval Asia, including <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region>. How
vividly he describes the practice of sati! It is a marvel that such a documents
exists, describing life in 14th century <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region> (even before the Mughals
arrived) — and a matter of great shame that I never read it before. Never too
late, as they say.</div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
I don’t know what exactly got me
interested in travel writing — I am talking as a reader as well as a writer — but
I guess it has something to do with the books I read (and reread) during my
younger days: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My Son’s Father</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Never at Home</i>, both by Dom Moraes, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">An Indian Summer</i> by James Cameron. These
books, even though autobiographical, are mostly about places, and the writers
combine observation with introspection to make you feel you have made the
journeys with them — growing older with them, getting wiser with them. It is one
thing when a writer takes you to a place, quite another when he takes you along.</div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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Incidentally, the very first book
I ever bought (discounting the books on improving your skills with the English
language) happened to be a travel book: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">An
Area of Darkness</i>, by V.S. Naipaul. I bought it sometime in 1993, from
Current Book Depot in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Kanpur</st1:city></st1:place>,
barely months after I began my career as a journalist, with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Pioneer</i>. Naipaul would not call it a
travel book: he would like to call it a book of inquiry; but since the book was
a result of his travels in a foreign land — <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region> — I would call it a travel
book. While in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Kanpur</st1:place></st1:city>
I never bothered reading the book, even though I took great care of it.</div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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In 1994, when I moved to <st1:city w:st="on">Delhi</st1:city>, supposedly the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Mecca</st1:city></st1:place> of journalism, to join the Press Trust
of India, the very first book I purchased there, from a long-defunct shop
called Bookworm in <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Connaught Place</st1:address></st1:street>,
also happened to be a travel book: Michael Palin’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Around the World in 80 Days</i>. I don't remember reading it with great
interest because it sounded like the script of a documentary — it was intended
to be one.</div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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It was only after I bought — and
read — Dom Moraes’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My Son's Father</i>
that places started interesting me. I bought the sequel, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Never at Home</i>, soon after, and a few months after that, James
Cameron’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">An Indian Summer</i>. The
chemistry between the authors and the places they live in, in these books, made
me want to document my own chemistries with places. And then I read a few more
books: George Orwell’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Down and Out in
London and Paris</i>, William Dalrymple’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">City
of Djinns</i> and Robert Graves’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Goodbye
to All That</i>. I became convinced that in order to extract the full value of
your association with a place or places, you need to record your experiences
and share them with readers — in the form of a book. Oh, how can I forget
Hemigway’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Moveable Feast</i>, perhaps
the finest portrait of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Paris</st1:city></st1:place>
ever produced.</div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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In 2001, after I moved from <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Delhi</st1:place></st1:city> to Chennai, I fell
in love with Somerset Maugham. Almost every story of Maugham has the
protagonist travelling to a new land — and travelling in great style. For
several months, I did not have a TV at home and I would invariably have my
dinner — usually hot rice and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">arhar</i>
dal — over a Maugham novel.</div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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And then one day I discovered
Paul Theroux, and thought he was the greatest travel writer ever — this was
after I finished reading <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Great
Railway Bazaar</i>. Soon I was buying books by Bruce Chatwin and Colin Thubron.
Great writers, great places to be written about. Wow. This was around 2005.</div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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Today, 10 years later, when I am
far wiser and have myself produced three books about places, I find myself
worshipping a different set of idols: Ryszard Kapuscinski, Trevor Fishlock,
Jonah Blank, David Yeadon. These gentlemen understand the soul of the soil they
are writing about — and help you write better — but strangely they are hardly
written about.</div>
</div>
Bishwanath Ghoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09499834715638337891noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17929252.post-37429696508079366872015-05-16T01:55:00.001+05:302015-05-16T01:55:28.123+05:30What Piku Did To Me<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
And then <em>Piku</em> rekindled the longing, just when I had settled to the rhythm of my life in Chennai.<br />
<br />
This evening, as I sat in the theatre to watch the film that almost everybody is praising, memories came rushing of all the legwork for <em>Longing, Belonging</em>, my Calcutta book. Today, for some strange reason, I feel the book was written many years ago, but the fact is that one of the characters featured in it was interviewed as recently as 10 months ago: <em>Piku</em> pinched me into realising that I was roaming the roads of Calcutta, looking for material, until only the other day.<br />
<br />
I watched with delight <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">—</span> and a bit of jealousy <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">—</span> as Amitabh Bachchan, playing a 70-year-old Bengali called Bhaskar Banerjee, bicycled around the city, visiting the same places I had visited while researching the book: Maidan, Dalhousie Square, Shyambazar.<br />
<br />
Jealousy, because I now feel proprietorial about Calcutta: I also felt jealous when Irrfan Khan and Deepika Padukone were shown visiting St. John's Church (where I spent a chilly afternoon in December 2012 after having some difficulty in locating the church; where Job Charnock lies buried), and when they spend time by the river in old Calcutta (something I always do during every visit to the city; my friend Sajal and I always go to one of the ghats and take the ferry to the Howrah Station and back).<br />
<br />
<em>Piku</em> reminded me of my resolve to spend my retired life in Calcutta. If things go the way I dream them to be, which includes luck intervening unexpectedly to endow me with riches so that I do not have to earn a living, I shall retire at the age of 50 and settle in Calcutta. Each day would begin with a walk in Central Park, in Salt Lake, and end with dinner in one of the restaurants on Park Street — and dusk always devoted to gazing at the river from one of the ghats. On Friday afternoons, I would pack my bags and take the train or cab to one of those fascinating forest destinations that I've only read about or seen in the movies: Jaldapara, Gorumara, Palamau, Chaibasa — and sometimes to Shantiniketan. Though I don't see the need to wait for Fridays because I would be leading a retired life anyway — it would be easier to find accommodation in these places on weekdays.<br />
<br />
By then, hopefully, some of my sensible friends would also have relocated to Calcutta, and most of these trips would be made with them. Even if they don't relocate, they would, hopefully, come to Calcutta on holiday and travel with me. I would want my life to be a repeated rerun of <em><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aranyer_Din_Ratri" target="_blank">Aranyer Din Raatri</a></em>. After all, the whole idea behind wanting to retire at 50 is to devote at least a decade of my life to being totally carefree while I am still fit enough to savour adventure — and therefore savour life.<br />
<br />
Adventure and the Indian way of life are often mutually exclusive. Indians are so often bogged down by duties and responsibilities throughout their lives that they rarely get to do what they want to do. Take the case of a woman, or even a man, who gets married at the age of, say, 25 and has a child at, say, 27. Until the age of 25, she or he is driven by the demands of parents; from age 25-27 by the demands of in-laws; and from age 27 onwards by the collective demands of the child, of in-laws and of ageing parents. If you are employed, then the demands of your workplace too. When does one have the time for oneself? Can one afford to go to the railway station one cloudy afternoon, just like that, and purchase a ticket to somewhere? The answer is a big no.<br />
<br />
But that's exactly the kind of life I want to live: to be able to walk into the railway station on whim and buy a ticket, or tickets, for the next train headed in the direction of a forest. Basically I want to be my own boss and enjoy life.</div>
Bishwanath Ghoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09499834715638337891noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17929252.post-26856633026588961782015-05-06T10:38:00.002+05:302015-05-09T21:39:39.459+05:30Chai, Chai Chugs On<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Uniformed vendors constantly walked up and down the aisle, selling snacks, as the double-decker train hurtled in the direction of Chennai from Bangalore. One man sold <em>vada</em>s, another sold <em>samosa</em>s, yet another sold bread-omelette.<br />
<br />
What makes snacks even more tempting is the manner in which the hawker calls out. Each develops a signature style over the years, and if his cutlets or samosas make you hungry even when your belly is full, you know he is a seasoned hawker.<br />
<br />
But the most-frequently heard sound in the train that afternoon, quite expectedly, was: "<em>Chai</em>! <em>Chai</em>!" "<em>Chai</em>! <em>Chai</em>!" The hot tea seems to melt regional accents. No matter which part of the country you are travelling, you will find hawkers calling out in one particular manner when selling tea: "<em>Chai</em>! <em>Chaaaai</em>!" "<em>Chai</em>! <em>Chaaaai</em>!" This sameness is the same as the sameness with which arrivals of trains are announced at railway stations across India.<br />
<br />
My train was crossing Ambur station when it suddenly began to rain and the window resembled a sweaty torso. I finally decided to have some hot tea. All this while I had had <em>vada</em>s and cutlets that were ice cold. The vendor, as soon as he had handed me a cup of steaming tea, cried out "<em>Chai</em>! <em>Chai</em>!" for the benefit of other passengers and moved on. I felt proprietorial about the sound.<br />
<br />
More than five years have passed since I wrote <em>Chai</em>, <em>Chai</em>, and even though I wrote two more books after that, it remains the book I am best known for. Which is heartening and also sad. Heartening, because it continues to sell: it is very flattering to find praise still pouring in in the form of emails and Facebook messages even after five years.<br />
<br />
One young lady from Gujarat is using the book for her M. Phil dissertation; another lady from Karnataka is using it for her Ph.D dissertation. I wonder how <em>Chai, Chai</em>, written so casually, is going to help them earn prestigious degrees. But if they find it worthy enough to be studied, who am I to compain? One housewife from Nashik recently wrote to me saying that if someone were to conduct a quiz on <em>Chai</em>, <em>Chai</em>, she would win hands down because she knew every sentence in the book by heart. Another housewife, from Cuttack, said she would sleep with the book placed under her pillow<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">.</span><br />
<br />
Men too write to me, though their number is fewer, and none of them, thankfully, talk about sleeping with <em>Chai, Chai </em>under their pillow. I can never forget a mail I once received from a man in Pune. He had bought <em>Chai, Chai </em>just to gift it to his father, a retired railway officer, but the father died while he was half way through the book. The book lay open, face down, on the father's desk until the son picked it up and read it — and wrote to me saying how much he loved it.<br />
<br />
Now, the sad part. <em>Chai</em>, <em>Chai </em>overshadows my two other books, <em>Tamarind City</em> and <em>Longing</em>, <em>Belonging</em>, even though they are far superior in terms of craft and content. The writing of <em>Chai, Chai</em> was a stroll, the other two was like training for marathon. They may have earned respect, but <em>Chai</em>, <em>Chai </em>got love. Love that translates into sales.<br />
<br />
When <em>Chai, Chai</em> came out, I worked with <em>Times of India</em>. One afternoon, shortly before its release, as I passed the Venkateswara Temple on Venkatanarayana Road while on my way to work, I told the Lord: "If the book sells 10,000 copies, I shall come to Tirupati and get my head tonsured."<br />
<br />
The book had barely come out of the printing press when my mother died. My brother and I had to get our heads tonsured. The next time I crossed the temple, I told the Lord: "Since you have already made me shave my head, make sure the book sells 10,000 copies." I think he heard me this time.</div>
</div>
Bishwanath Ghoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09499834715638337891noreply@blogger.com1