Musings at Mori Road

Khokoner Maa (Khokon's Mother)

noreply@blogger.com (LearningMate Times) — Sun, 21 Sep 2025 21:15:00 +0000

It was the evening before Mahalaya, and Mori Road was once again bedecked like a bride—resplendent with rows of shining lights and people rushing about, putting the finishing touches on the pandal that was getting ready to welcome the Goddess. The evening before is always busy, and as usual, I was delayed with chores. I eventually found myself at Chandu’s kirana store, asking for a long list of things—much to his disdain, as he hates being rushed.

“You’re always in a hurry,” he admonished while attending to a demanding customer.

Nearby, a boy of ten or twelve was negotiating hard with Chandu for a few pieces of chocolate.

“It’s my father’s birthday tomorrow—can you give me a discount?” he asked.

Chandu was not one to part with discounts, but I suppose the boy had been at it for a while, and finally, he gave in.

“I don’t have change,” Chandu said, as the boy handed him a fifty-rupee note.

The boy turned to me and asked, “Uncle, can you help with change?” I obliged and settled his bill with Chandu.

With that done, the little fellow grabbed his chocolates and scampered away. I finally had Chandu’s attention.

“So you do have a heart after all,” I teased.

“Let’s get your business done,” he replied curtly.

As I walked back home, the sound of drumbeats grew louder. My ten-year-old self resurfaced, pulling me to the balcony, from where I could see the Goddess arriving. That sight still makes me want to play the drums and dance with the crowd. Among them, I spotted my young friend from Chandu’s shop, dancing joyfully as the idol entered the pandal.

Dinner was served, and I was called back to the table. We finished dinner and while my wife retired for the day, the doorbell rang. To my surprise, it was the same boy from Chandu’s shop, standing with a bag full of laundry. Behind him stood a petite woman, presumably his mother, her saree drawn modestly over her head. She looked shy, eyes cast down, while the boy spoke.

“I’ve come to collect your laundry, sir.”

I looked at the boy and his mother, confused. It was true that my laundry man had not come for several days.

“I am his son, and this is my mother,” the boy explained. “My father has been unwell for some time. My mother and I are helping with his work.”

It struck me that, though his father had served me for years, I did not even know his name. Our relationship had been purely transactional: he collected my clothes, pressed them, took his money, and left. We had never exchanged a word.

“What is your father’s name? And yours?” I asked, guilt tugging at me.

“My father’s name is Topon, and I am Khokon,” he said.

Their names sounded distinctly Bengali. Curious, I asked, “Where are you from?”

The boy hesitated, but his mother spoke softly: “Sir, we are from a village in Bengal. My husband and I came to Mumbai after marriage in search of work. It has been fifteen years now.”

I was stunned. Never had I imagined Topon was from Bengal.

“We are Bengalis too,” I said.

“Yes, my husband had mentioned that,” she replied.

“What has happened to Topon?” I asked.

“He has had fever and weakness for many days. The doctors haven’t been able to diagnose anything. He taught my son and me the work, and now we are managing as best we can,” she said, her eyes lowered. Almost apologetically, she added, “If our work isn’t good enough, please bear with us. We will get better.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “I have some clothes to be pressed for tomorrow. No rush, just deliver them anytime tomorrow. And don’t worry—Topon must have trained you well.”

“Can I have a glass of water?” Khokon asked.

I fetched one. He handed it first to his mother, and together they shared a few sips before thanking me. I returned with a few chocolates.

“Here, these are for you—and wish your father a very happy birthday,” I said.

The boy’s eyes lit up as he thanked me.

“Can I deliver the clothes early tomorrow morning? Around 7 a.m.? I have to drop my son to school before heading to my other jobs,” his mother asked.

“Of course, 7 a.m. is fine. And if it’s difficult, no problem—just bring me two pairs for tomorrow’s Mahalaya. The rest can wait,” I assured her.

With that, they tied up the clothes neatly. The boy helped load the bundle onto his mother’s head, and as she balanced it gracefully, they made their way down the stairs.

The next morning, sharp at 7, the doorbell rang. As no one was up, I answered the door. It was Khokon, holding my freshly pressed clothes.

“I’ve got the two pairs you wanted for today, the rest will come later today” he said.

“Thank you so much.”

As I counted the money, I asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

He paused and then said, “I want to open my own dry-cleaning shop and have my own business. And, sir, Baba said not to take money for your Puja clothes. He thanked you for the chocolates. And since last night, his fever is gone!”

The boy’s happiness was infectious. But he was in a rush, so he darted off to school.

As is tradition, every Mahalaya morning, we later gathered to listen to the Chandi. I strolled onto the balcony with my cup of tea. As the chants floated through the air, I saw Khokon and his mother walking to school. She held his hand, dressed in a white saree with a red border. A light drizzle had begun, and she shielded his head with the edge of her saree.

“What are you staring at? Come and eat your breakfast,” my wife called.

“She is here,” I said instinctively.

My wife looked at me, puzzled.

“I mean, Pujo is here, darling,” I corrected.

The clothes I needed to wear were pressed to perfection. "The laundry man is not coming but your clothes are pressed. Dont tell me that happened by divine intervention !" she said. I smiled.

The magic of Mori Road continues… This time, it was Khokoner Maa.

Happy Pujo, folks. I hope this Pujo brings you loads of joy and happiness.

Gift of the Stranger

noreply@blogger.com (LearningMate Times) — Sun, 06 Oct 2024 06:38:00 +0000

A tap on my shoulder and as I turned around he asked me “Do you remember me?” It was the evening before Mahalaya and this time it was even more special. I was back for the Pujo after a gap of five years but flet like a lifetime of being away. “How are you sir?” he asked again. It has never been my strength to put names to faces and it is even more embarrassing when the person greeting you seems to know exactly who you are.

Mori Road was busy and bedecked like a bride for the Navratri festival to follow. In a few hours the Goddess would arrive to the beating of the drums. I managed to put on a sheepish grin to acknowledge his presence. “I am fine” I muttered as I tried to match his face to just anyone I might have known over the years.

He was a short gentleman, well endowed around the middle, with a perfectly rounded face that was well complimented with the light reflecting off his gleaming scalp. He wore thick rimmed glasses and had a smile that would endear him to anyone including a stranger. He almost looked like he had jumped out of a R K Laxman cartoon as I scanned him closely. This is a face you probably see almost every day all around you and not notice them, and so it was an even greater challenge for my old greying cells to give this face a name.

“You don’t remember me?” he asked. It is best to admit defeat in such circumstances, although I was pretending as though I would almost recognize him any moment. “No, frankly I am not able to place you. Sorry about that.” And just to be civil I added “You do look familiar”.

He grinned and he seemed to be beaming “You may not remember me, but I can never forget you” he said. Now that got me worried as there were was a chance that this would not end well. Looking at my expression he said “ It has been ten years since I met you at the Pujo pandal during Shondhi Pujo. I was the person who bought you the lotus flowers and that made you really happy” he said. That was the trigger I needed. It all came back. The whole episode - as if it was happening in slow motion yet again.

This was many years back. It was Shondhi Pujo and our team busy setting up the stage for the Puja to follow. The preparations for this Pujo are very elaborate. It is also considered the most auspicious time of the five days of the Pujo as Ashtami morphs into Navami with the invocation of the Goddess in the form of Chamunda (the most fierce form of Druga) to defeat the demons Chanda and Munda, who symbolize arrogance and evil. The Puja is considered sacred for many other reasons but that is for another day. The preparations for this Pujo amongst many other things need 108 lamps to be lit and 108 lotus flowers to be offered to the Goddess. The Pujo timings are sacrosant and the whole affair takes about 45 to 50 minutes.

We were almost set and I was doing a last count of the lamps and the lotus flowers as we checked off everything with ten minutes to go. I counted once, then twice and then in total distress a third time - each time I got a count of 105 lotus flowers. I decided it was best to declare this to Mon Kaku (we called him Mon), who was the master of ceremonies. To share some context, Mon in his past life was a fighter pilot with the air force, had seen enough action in the wars India fought, was a judo expert, a yoga guru and even in his late eighties, stood tall and elegant in his saffron robes which evoked awe and respect from anyone who saw him. He had several fans in the audience in the Pujo.

“Mon, we got 105 and I don’t have anything to back the shortage of lotus flowers ! Sorry, I should have planned this better !” I said apologizing. He knew I was panicking and kind of crestfallen. He called me aside and sternly told me looking me squarely in the eye “I believe there are 108. And so do you”. It was a kind of command, but I did not still get what he said. “I counted thrice and each time I got 105!” I said. “Just can you tell yourself that you have 108?" And then he added, with the quintessential twinkle in his eye and pointing to the Divine Mother “If she needs 108, maybe she will arrange for it. No go watch the crowd and we need to start in five minutes” and dismissed me.

I was feeling kind of guilty. People had assembled for the Pujo and Mon was making the final announcement with minutes to go. The count down had begun. As I looked around, I saw this short, stout, bespectacled man with a balding head, huffing and puffing and making his way through the crowd. He was trying to reach me and had something in his hand. I stepped up towards him and as I met him, he was gasping for breath. He clasped my hand and said “Sir, I have a request, I have bought three louts flowers. One for my wife, who is not well and the other two are for my two daughters. If you can offer these flowers to the Divine Mother for the Shondhi Pujo, I would be eternally grateful. Please sir, don’t refuse” he said.

I was stunned for a moment. In a spontaneous gesture of relief I gave him a big hug, I grabbed the flowers and with less than 30 seconds to spare before the Pujo began, I waded through the crowd and handed them over to Mon. Mon looked at me questioningly “It just came, someone got them” I quipped. He grinned ear to ear and threw his head back with laughter. With that the priest blew the conch shell and Shondhi Pujo began.

It had been a while and I must have been staring at his face recollecting all of this for what may have seemed like an eternity to him. “Sir, you seem to be lost. I am not sure you remember me” he said raising his voice above the din of the traffic on Mori Road. I came out of my stupor and it was as if I had found a long lost friend. For some reason, I hugged him again. “Of course, I remember you sir. You saved my day with those flowers that day. What are you doing on Mori Road?” I asked. “I moved here a couple of years back and live down the road. I did not see you at the Puja for the last many years. Imagine seeing you today here. You know you gave me a medallion from the Mother's feet after the Puja got over that day and I have kept that over the years. It bought me a lot of luck and things have always looked up for me ever since. I am really grateful” he quipped. It had been a while and I had to complete some chores “I need to head home, but we should catch up sometime” I said.

He motioned for me to wait and I saw him run to his car perked on the kerbside. He came back quickly “Please, these are a box of sweets. I had bought a few boxes today for some people, but I want you to have this. I would be really happy if you took them. And tomorrow is Mahalaya”. In the way he said it, I felt compelled to accept the gift. With warm handshakes and wishing each other the best for Pujo, we parted ways.

I returned home. My wife said “You have been gone for a long time. And what is this?” She asked looking at the box of sweets. I realized I had not asked the name of my friend in our interaction. “Someone gave it to me near Chandu’s shop. I don’t know his name”. My wife’s expression said it all. Strangers don’t usually gift you expensive Sandesh (a form of Bengali sweets). “Every Mahalaya it is some episode or the other with you. In any case these are really good. We can have them tomorrow” she said.

The next morning with the chants of the Chandi and the voice of Birendra Krishna Bhadra, Mahalaya dawned, the eastern sky draped in hues of golden orange. As we opened the box of sweets, it was evident that the magic of Mori Road lived on. Happy Pujo folks. You never know how a stranger jumping out of a comic book may surprise you all of a sudden.

Master Moshai

noreply@blogger.com (LearningMate Times) — Thu, 19 Oct 2023 01:20:00 +0000

It was that time of the year yet again. It was the evening before Mahalaya. I had to run a few household chores and ran down to Chandu’s store to get my supplies for the next day. Chandu was busy and this time of the evening was his peak hour. I waited for my turn and was growing impatient by each passing minute when I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Master Moshai.

Through the years I had lost touch with him and hardly ever met him. I first met him when I was in eight grade and my parents thought it prudent to have me under his tutelage given, he had a great reputation as a teacher. I was marched off, somewhat against my own wishes to join his tutorial. The final approval came after an hour-long interview that my grandfather had with him to satisfy himself of his credentials. My grandfather christened him Master Moshai and I grew up knowing him as that. Otherwise, Mori Road knew him by a different name.

“How are you?” he asked in his booming voice. He still stood to his full height of six feet two inches, his moustache curled up at the ends to make him look like an army general and the kurta pajama he wore was impeccably ironed. Age had painted his face with some wrinkles, and he wore his trademark thick rimmed glasses, giving him that air of gravity that drove fear and respect in the hearts of his students.

“I am fine sir, good to see you. Has been a long time. Do you remember me?” I said stepping back in reverence. “Yes, I remember all my students. The memory still works. Of course, many of them may have forgotten me. You look older than you are. Stay well” he said, with that he ordered his supplies, and I gave Chandu my list too. Chandu ran around and had two of our bags on the counter soon and ushered us out of his shop.

I went back home and having handed over the bag to my wife, settled down with the TV remote. “What have you got? This bag has none of the items I asked for!” she exclaimed. I jumped out of my couch, only to find that it was true. “Chandu must have made a mistake. Let me check with him.” I said in defense. Before she could respond, I grabbed the bag and ran down to Chandu. “You are back again?” Chandu asked. I expressed my disappointment to Chandu and told him that his mistake had caused me a great deal of domestic stress. Chandu looked inside the bag and after a few moments burst out laughing “My dear fellow, you took the bag of the tuition master! And I am sure he has taken yours as well.”

While Chandu found it amusing I did not. I decided to head to Master Moshai’s house and ask him if indeed he had taken my bag. At the very least, I could return the things that belonged to him. I rang the doorbell, and he opened the door. “Oh! What a surprise. You really came to visit me?” he asked. “Yes, but…I mean I think we had our shopping bags exchanged. I got yours and I guess you may have mine.” I said sheepishly. “Ah! That explains it. Wait here and I will go and check. I have not opened the bag as yet.” he said and disappeared inside.

The drawing room was quite the same as it was almost 40 years ago. I had spent many evenings here sitting at the dinner table pouring over my books. The old grandfather clock that I always stared at blankly when I could not solve a problem was still ticking away. The room was sparsely furnished as always, with the cane sofa set that had a old world charm, the rocking chair where Master Moshai used to sit often in deep contemplation, and the antique fan on the ceiling. The only modern amenities, a television and a refrigerator, also seemed to keep a watch over time and seemed decades old. One of the walls had shelves full of books of various kinds and on the other wall was a world map which he used often when teaching us geography. The only addition to this map I noticed was a set of pins placed at different parts of the world map - as if someone had visited them.

Master Moshai was back and he had my bag in his hand. “You are right, and age is getting to me. Here is your bag. But at least this bought you to my house after decades” he said. “Yes, I used to sit on this chair, and you at the head of the dining table” I said pointing to my chair. “I see the world map, with all the pins on them. Have you been traveling to these places?” He threw his head back and there was that booming laugh “In a sense yes. But through my books and research. Since I lost your aunt some years back, I started visiting them, one place every six months. These are places I always wanted to visit with her.” With that he led me to the shelf where he showed me the most rare collection of books and traveler guides that I had ever seen. “Once I have finished with a place, I mark it on my map. These books are my window to the world and it’s history. For a retired person, this is the best way to travel the world.” He proceeded to show me all the detailed notes he had made for every place on the map, filed away neatly in his cabinet.

“I remember Auntie used to make us the most delectable Kheer around this time of the year. I have very fond memories of her” I said. “Yes, she loved the festival time.” For a fleeting moment a tinge of sadness crossed his stern countenance and then he said “Your aunt loved Bengal and Durga Puja. Come let’s visit Bengal today”

I did not want to disappoint him. We sat down and he pulled out a few books from his shelf. I was in the same chair and he at the head of the table. It seemed we had traversed forty years back and I was in his history class. We went through the times of Job Charnock, Suraj-ud-Dualah, the battle of Plassey and the eventual establishment of British rule through the East India company, the origins of the Durga Puja and the establishment of the first community Durga Puja, and much more filled with the nuances and contradictions of history in between. He kept shooting questions at me, most of which I did not know but managed to answer some.

I had finished two cups of tea and it had been over an hour now. I had to head home and I got up to bid him good bye. “You must be traveling given you are in the software field. What is the place you would like to visit next ?” he asked. “Africa, I find it fascinating, never been there” I said, as I exited his door.

I got back and my wife was curious as to where I had disappeared in search of my shopping bag. I triumphantly held the bag up and said “Got the right one”. She was not impressed given I had little explanation for the time it took.

It was the morning of Mahalaya. We got up to hear the chants of Chandi ringing in the spirit of Pujo with the glow of dawn. As we sipped our morning tea, my doorbell rang. It was the boy who worked at Master Moshai’s place. He was carrying a tiffin-box full of kheer, a book about Africa and “Smiley”sticker.

And a hand written note “Son, here is your window to Africa. And while the Kheer will never be as good as your aunt made it, I still follow her recipe. And the sticker - you forgot, I gave them to you and all my students who managed to save their pride. You did well last night !” For all those years I knew Master Moshai, my image of him as a stern personality, a strict disciplinarian, almost incapable of emotion melted away.

My wife asked “What is all this?” I replied, “Our ticket to Africa dear” “Every Mahalaya something weird always happens with you. Come we have work to do. But the kheer is really good” she said as she tasted it.

Pujo was here again and the magic of Mori Road continues to live on. This time it was Master Moshai. Happy Pujo folks !

The Behalawallah

noreply@blogger.com (LearningMate Times) — Tue, 27 Sep 2022 15:16:00 +0000

If you sat idling on my balcony in the late afternoon or early evening, chances are you would be treated to some soulful music. From my growing up years, I have seen him ambling along playing his “Behala” and the tunes he played had become a part of me over the years. I have enjoyed many sunsets listening to his renditions. He would often stop and play to people who showed him some interest in the hope he would sell one of his instruments. The instrument he played was a small Voilin like thing, with a two strings and a strange bow that was somewhat bent. My mother called him the Behalawallah and I grew up knowing him as such.

He had noticed that I was an avid listener perched on my balcony and often waved to me. A couple of times when we crossed paths, he even suggested that I buy one of his instruments but I had politely refused. Though the urge to hold one of them in my hand always remained. As the years rolled by and as life got busy, I stopped noticing him. Or perhaps he had gone away some place else.

It was the evening before Mahalaya and as usual I was busy with the household chores for the puja preparation next day. I was down to Chandu’s kirana stores with my list of things and as usual Chandu was super busy. “Wait, you always come riding a horse” he said. I waited, being admonished by Chandu. I dug into my phone to read the latest FB post, but something drew my attention away. The same soulful notes drifted through the evening air. I turned around and I saw him walking towards Chandu’s store. It was the Behalawallah.

He had grown old and the wrinkles on his face were prominent. He had acquired a hunch and the weight of the bag on his shoulder seemed heavier with age than before. He used to be tall and well built and had a radiant smile always. He now wore a thick pair of glasses and his turban was white instead of the colourful Rajasthani ones he wore years ago. He hobbled up the steps, slid the heavy bag of instruments off his shoulder, and asked Chandu for a glass of water. Chandu obliged. “Business has been bad today, on the eve of Navratri” he told Chandu. He of course did not recognise me after all these years. “I am not surprised” Chandu said. “You are playing that same old tune for years together. Play something different. Some Hindi film songs.” The man nodded “I only know very old songs. The people today will not relate to them” he said.

“Why don’t you give it a try?” I interjected.

He peered at me through his thick glasses. And raised a finger trying to remember if he had seen me before. “Second floor balcony. Now do you remember?” I asked. It took him a few seconds and he broke into a radiant smile, his wrinkles stretching across the face with his grin. It was a smile that stays with you for a while. “Maybe, I will try” he said. And after drinking the glass of water he left. I also left soon as Chandu was too busy and I let him know I will be back the next morning.

The evening had an air of expectancy. The Goddess was going to arrive soon. I went home and sat on the ledge of the balcony waiting to welcome her. As I waited, the sound of his Behala wafted through the air again. But this time it was different. He started with Raj Kapoor’s “Awara Hoon”. He played near the chai shop and the people there turned their attention to him. An elderly gentlemen walked up and started encouraging him. He then played numbers from Dev Anand’s “Guide”, “Chalte Chalte”, “Mera Naam Joker” and a whole medley of songs. As he played, a motley crowd of people gathered around him and clapped. A young boy took what looked like a tin and started keeping the beat. Two children even danced around to the tune and all of a sudden there was an impromptu celebration. Mori Road was having it’s street corner show !

As I listened to the music, memories came flooding back of the growing up years. Of my mother’s fondness for Dev Anand and Rajesh Khanna, my fascination for bell bottom pants, the printed sarees my mother loved wearing, the one large sun glass she had as a prized possession, of being marched to the tailor with her to get our clothes stitched before pujo, of going to the Pujo in my father’s second hand car with the thrill of the wind in my face, of afternoons in the puja Pandal sipping Thumps Up, Campa Cola and Gold Spot, and rushing to the evening rehearsal before Pujo with my parents. Life was simple and often before Pujo, my father would call over Shankar Kaku his good friend, and we would have long musical evenings that ran well into the wee hours of the morning. As he played more tunes, memories of us huddled as a family around the radio listening to Binaca Geet Mala by Amin Sayani, or in the later years see Chayageet when Baba could afford a television came flooding back. Life was simple but beautiful. I found myself smiling.

As these memories flew by with every tune he played, the sound of the drums and cymbals started becoming louder. The Goddess was on her way and my Behalawallah stopped playing his music which was now drowned by the oncoming procession. “I hope he gets some of his instruments sold” I thought to myself.

The next morning the sky had a brilliant orange glow. It was a majestic dawn with the sounds of the Chandi Path ringing in Mahalaya. I had to go down after breakfast again to Chandu’s shop. As I stepped out, I saw him sipping tea at the chai shop. I nodded in acknowledgement and told him “Last night was fabulous” He smiled and said “Yes, after many years I felt like a performer. I also sold some of my instruments.”

I felt obliged, as he had taken me on a wonderful trip down memory lane. I felt I owed him. After a pause, I instinctively asked him “Can I buy one of your instruments?” He was surprised and somewhat taken aback “Of course, of course, please. It has taken me a lifetime to sell you one !” he said. “Yes, it took that long, but last night you touched the right chord. Your songs were awesome and I have seen every one of those movies.” I said.

I returned home with the Puja offerings in one hand and a Behala in the other. My wife looked at me and said “What have you got this time?” “It’s a sort of Behala. I wanted it since I was a kid” I stammered. She stared me down and said “Every Pujo something wierd happens and this time it takes the cake”. I smiled. I knew Pujo was here again and Mori Road still holds out it’s magic ever year without fail. Happy Pujo folks.

Tambi

noreply@blogger.com (LearningMate Times) — Sun, 10 Oct 2021 03:10:00 +0000

Mori Road has now it’s own food court and much to my disappointment the food court is right under my balcony window. It is an assortment of unauthorized food stalls and is not international in it’s spread but you could certainly claim national coverage. Right from the breakfast hour the stalls start serving till well after sunset. Idlis, Dosas, Pav Bhaji, Puri Bhaji and even to my surprise sweets from Bengal are sold.

As a result, a motley crowd of people assemble under my balcony every day especially during the eating hours. These are folks who are office goers, taxi drivers, students at the nearby school, folks from my colony and even the local policemen on the beat. Lately the food stalls had arranged for basic seating amenities.

I certainly did not welcome the intrusion under my balcony. It was a perch I often enjoyed sitting in solitude, just watching life amble by. Now it had become so busy. Added to that the local counselor had set up a huge lamppost with five halogen lights that lit up the area almost like daylight after dark. The lights shone right into my house, so it irked me even more. It was like invading my personal space.

The busiest person in the food stall was a boy called Tambi. From my balcony, I could hear everyone yell “Tambi” all the time and he would come running and do their bidding. A little like the genie from Aladin’s magic lamp. He did everything around the place from cleaning the tables, to setting up the stalls in the morning to washing the dishes etc. He even managed the sales when his seniors were not around.

Tambi and I often exchanged glances, when I stood at the balcony and he seemed like a friendly fellow. He would wave and I would smile back. His trademark was that he never missed having three horizontal white lines on his forehead and had a loosely fitting half pant held in place by a belt. His shirt was a bit long and covered most of his half pant and he wore floaters most of the time. I guessed he must have been from the southern parts of India.

It was the evening before Mahalaya. I had to head down to complete a few chores. Chandu our local "kirana" shop owner had a bunch of customers at his doorstep. I had a long list and I needed his attention. “Come back in ten minutes. Am really busy now. We will complete your list”. I did not want to take the flight of stairs back to my house yet again, so decided to wait it out near Tambi’s food court. “You are finally here. Welcome.” Tambi was grinning. “What will you have sir?” I smiled “Oh, I am just waiting around here. I don’t need anything.” I said. Before I could say anything Tambi was back “Please have some tea and it is free from our side.” And he held out a “cutting chai” from serving tray. I obliged “Thank you!”

As I sipped my tea, the unexpected happened. The entire area was plunged into darkness. It did happen at times in our area. “The transformers must have given away again” I thought. Tambi was running around now, making sure all his customers felt comfortable. The ingenious little fellow that he was, he got a motorcycle owner eating at his stall to switch his headlight on. “All Ok sir” he asked me. “I am afraid I bought you bad luck. The first time I come to your shop and the light has gone.” Almost instantly he replied “The light is not important sir. How is the chai?” This time he spoke in English. “Could not be better Tambi” I said. I was curious “Do you go to school.” I asked. “Yes sir, the municipal school near the church.” With that we broke into a conversation. Tambi’s real name was Krishna.

Krishna lived with his parents in Dharavi and his family had migrated to the city very recently. The family had fallen on hard times and he worked here at the stall to support the family income. The owner of this “food court” a local chieftain, had granted him permission to attend school in the afternoons when business was low and he would be back at the shop before twilight and work till about 10 pm. “My exams are going on. I hope the light comes back tonight, else I will not be able to study. Since the time they have put up this huge lamp-post, there is enough light here to study at the shop after completing my work. If I go home and study I may fall asleep. I feel tired at the end of the day”

It had been a while since the lights had gone out. It was time to get home and I was sure Chandu would be even more hassled than ever with the black out. I reasoned that it was better to visit Chandu the next morning. I thanked Tambi and offered to pay him for the chai but he would not take it. He gave me a mobile number to call and order things from their shop and he promised to deliver the goodies personally for me. “Best of luck for your exams tomorrow” I said as I prepared to go home.

As I was about to leave, I heard the drum beats in the distance “The Goddess is on the way” exclaimed Tambi and did a small jig. “You should wait a little” he said. Mori Road was still plunged in darkness. It would take a few moments before we could see the procession arrive. The Pandal across the road was ready to receive her. The drum beats grew louder by the minute and the procession came into view. The darkness did not affect the spirit of the revellers and you could see their dancing silhouettes in the darkness as they approached.

The procession approached the pandal and the drums fell silent. In the darkness, it was getting difficult to dismount the idol and take it into the pandal. There was a lot of commotion. I could see Tambi praying fervently to the Goddess. He bowed his head with reverence, and as if on cue the electricity of the area was restored. With renewed enthusiasm, the drums started beating again. Rows of twinkling lights lit up the street along with the halogen lamps on the big lamp post. Mori was bedecked like a bride again. “She bought the light back” quipped Tambi. “Yes, you can study for your exams now”

I headed home, quite late for dinner and my wife said “What took you so long and where is the list of things I gave you to buy? And where were you wandering in this darkness?” “Just got busy with some people downstairs” I mumbled. We completed dinner and I headed to the balcony. Peering over the balcony ledge, I saw Tambi, huddled over a table with his books open, studying. “Wonder what subject he is working at?” I looked up at the halogen lights, Somehow, I did not resent them as much now.

It was the morning of Mahalaya and the sun rose painting the eastern sky in a warm glow of beautiful colours. The chants of the Chandi filled the air with the rendition of Birendra Krishna Bhadra and some beautiful songs. I was at my balcony and Tambi and his crew were back at work early morning setting up court. He looked up and our eyes met. We waved at each other and I decided to take him up on his offer. I took my phone and ordered a breakfast of “puri bhaji” with the “cutting chai”. I looked down and saw Tambi and he held up his mobile acknowledging the order. “What are you doing?” my wife asked. “I just ordered our breakfast. To surprise you. Puri Bhaji and cutting chai for Mahalaya.” She looked surprised. “Swiggy will not find anyone open this early in the morning?” she said. “Don’t worry, this is the local Swiggy at Mori Road and it is express service”

Soon my doorbell rang and Tambi was there with our order. “Sir, here you go. See you are my customer now. But why did you not order anything for the last two years?” he asked. “I was upset with all that was going on below my balcony and the halogen lights etc, but you seem to have resolved that last night with your chai.” I said. “Our chai has magic in it sir. One sip and all your worries will be gone.” he said. I nodded in agreement.

“Hope you are prepared for your exams? What is your subject today?” He paused and said “Science. Do you know plants breathe through their leaves and they have something called “Chlorophyll” to help them make their food? Is that not amazing how it all works?” he said. I thought for a moment and said “Actually it is amazing, only no one ever told me that. All the best for your exams.” With that Krishna smiled and vanished.

We ushered in Mahalaya with the steaming "puri bhaji" and "cutting chai".

Mori Road still holds out it’s magic for this day every year. This time it was a new friend. Krishna a.k.a Tambi.

Happy Pujo folks

The Parking Spot

noreply@blogger.com (LearningMate Times) — Mon, 08 Oct 2018 16:26:00 +0000

I returned from office. These days it had become a struggle to park the car due to some civil construction in our colony. I somehow squeezed into a spot yet again and as I manoeuvred myself out of my car, I could not but help feel a sense of irritation yet again. There was an old Fiat parked next to mine, full of dust. It had not moved from it’s spot for as long as I could remember. “Wonder what it is with Prabirda?” I thought to myself. “Why does he not use his car anymore?”

Prabirda (Prabir Uncle) was a friend of my father. He was by no means a Bengali, but my father called him Prabirda and he did not protest. I also referred to him as Prabirda but addressed him as “Uncle”. They had a group that played bridge together and Prabirda often partnered with my father. For a very long time, every weekend, it was like religion for them to gather together and play all of Saturday or Sunday afternoon. Often, when the event was held at our place, I was allowed to sit in and watch the game. I remember that it used to be a pretty intense atmosphere and the men took their game very seriously indeed. To me Prabirda was what you would call in simple terms a handsome man. Full of life and energy, and he often used to even come and play cricket with our gang of boys. He also played the harmonica (mouth-organ) very well and often when they took a break between two bridge sessions, he would play a tune or two.

It was the twilight hour and the sun had painted the sky in brilliant hues of orange. With the setting of the sun there would be some respite from the October heat. The Pandal across the road is ready again. Rows of twinkling lights lit up Mori Road. The local band was practicing and little children were dancing with joy and with the arrival of the Goddess the street would come alive with fun and revelry very soon. It was the evening before Mahalaya.

As I soaked in the atmosphere from my balcony ledge, the feeling that Pujo was around the corner made me smile. I had to run down for a couple of chores and was at Chandu’s shop (our local kirana store). I was engrossed in completing my shopping list, when I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Remember me?” and as I turned back I could not but help say “Of course, what a coincidence, I was just thinking about you sometime back!” It seemed like a lifetime since I had met Prabirda last.

“Thinking about me eh” he mocked me. “Yes, how are you uncle. I am not joking. I parked my car next to yours today” I said. “No wonder, anyone who looks at my car cannot help but think about me. It’s the most ill maintained car in the colony.” he said. We collected our stuff from Chandu’s store and walked back to the colony. “Do you want some chai?” he asked. It had been a long time and I did not protest. I also had one selfish motive. If I could convince him to move his car, then I could reclaim my parking spot with greater comfort.

We ordered chai at the “tekdi” (small road side stall) outside our colony. Tambi the local boy served us the “cutting chai” that Mumbai is famous for. “They really make this well here” he said. ‘Why have you stopped driving?” I asked as we dug into our first sips of chai. “I have stopped driving since the last year or so. I almost had a fatal accident and was saved by the grace of God. I don’t have the confidence to drive anymore.” he said.

“Then sell the car. It won’t fetch you much, but you will be spared the maintenance” I suggested. That seemed to sadden him a bit. “You know, this car has some special sentiments attached to it. I used to go for long drives with your aunt every weekend and then we would end up eating out or going to the movies. On the last marriage anniversary that I celebrated with her, I went to Carter Road and we sat there for a long time. I even played the harmonica for her. It was our sliver jubilee that day. And the next year she was gone.” He looked at me and smiled. “Now only memories remain.”

We sipped our tea in silence and I said “I remember you playing the harmonica at our house between the bridge games. I still remember your favourite tune – Raj Kapoor’s Awara Hoon? Do you still play?” I asked. “No, that too gathers dust in my cupboard. Never played that after she left me.” I looked at him. He was a sad reflection of his former self. The dashing handsome man I knew had paled significantly both in spirit and demeanour. We heard the drums in the distance and the Goddess was on her way. “Let’s wait to see her arrive” Prabirda said. I agreed and as the Divine Mother entered the pandal, we bowed our heads in reverence and headed back to the colony.

As I bid him good bye and I saw Sankar my car wash person coming up. “Did you tell him to wash his car?” he asked. “Nope, I could not.” I said. Sankar had been imploring me to get Prabirda to get his car washed. This was the wish of many in the colony as well. I am not sure but it must have been the festive atmosphere around but Sankar graciously offered “Tell him to come down tomorrow morning. I will have his car washed for free once. At least if he sees that, he will feel like keeping it clean.” Now that was a plan that I could not refuse. Sounded good to me and I agreed to play the part of getting Prabirda to come down next morning.

I came back and my wife asked me, “What happened? What took you so long? You just had to buy a few items at Chandu’s?” she said. “Well I was trying to ask the gentlemen with the old dirty Fiat car to either sell his car or clean it and park it properly” I said. “Did he agree? Of course, he did not” she said, looking at my expression.

The next day Sankar was at my door at 6.30 AM. “Call him down in half an hour. I would have finished with cleaning his car. At least from the outside” Sankar said. Now I wanted to surprise Prabirda a bit so I went down and sent the security guard to his flat with a message saying that he must come down immediately as his car needed attention. “Don’t tell him anything else” I told the guard.

The guard ran up and conveyed the message, while Sankar and I waited. After about ten minutes, Prabirda came down dressed in shorts and a T Shirt. As he neared the car, his worried expression turned to one of surprise. The car was gleaming and shining. Sankar had done an amazing job and the old Fiat was fit enough to go on a vintage car rally. Prabirda stood for a long time gaping at the car. He looked at me and then at Sankar and gestured as if to say, I am touched. Then he covered his face in his hands and shook his head several times.

I went up to him and said “Are you happy or are you mad at us?” He turned around and gave me a big hug. “Thank you. It looks so amazing. I had almost forgotten what it was meant to look like. Can we take a photo – all of us” he said. With that said, Sankar, the Security Guard Mama, Prabirda and me – posed for photographs around his car. We took selfies and we took some ourselves. The folks in the colony doing the morning rounds also joined in the photo-op and we had about ten or twelve people now collected around Prabirda’s car. It was a moment for celebration for Prabirda and he ordered a round of “cutting chai” for everyone. As the tea arrived, we raised a toast to celebrate the new look of the car making Prabirda smile even more.

“Why don’t you drive her out today? You have the keys in your hand” I asked. He looked at me. “I am not sure he said. It has been a long time since I have been at the wheel. And in any case it won’t start. The battery would be completely out.” he said. There was a driver who was also a mechanic in the crowd that had gathered. The driver said, ‘Let’s give it a try uncle. Let Sankar clean the car from the inside as well.” Sankar was done in a jiffy and the interiors looked good. We were ready.

Prabirda got in the driver’s seat and cranked the engine. The engine sputtered for a while and as expected died out. The driver-cum-mechanic in the group got to work with Sankar and another round of chai followed. Different people offered different suggestions, given that almost everyone had some experience with an old Fiat. After diving into the engine for a while, the driver said, we need to now give her a good push to get her on the way. “We need some divine luck to get her started” I thought. The driver now took over the wheel from Prabirda and we all put our weight behind pushing the car.

We would push her, she would go some distance, the driver would crank the engine, the car would bump violently and then as you felt the engine might hold up, it would sputter and die. We were at this for a good fifteen minutes now and Prabirda said “One last try and then let’s go. Perhaps, I am not destined to drive her anymore”

Each one of us had now bought into the idea of getting Prabirda to drive the car. We were emotionally invested in some way. We prayed hard and every hand available around started pushing the car this last time. It gathered momentum. “Let it roll for some time” the driver shouted. “Faster, faster, faster” someone else said. And then finally the driver cranked the engine hard. The engine whirred and we prayed….and finally roared into life !! It held. This was nothing short of a miracle!

The driver now took the car for a spin to test it out. He came back and said, “She is good.” Prabirda got in the driver’s seat finally. He looked at me and I gave him a salute. This was almost like a pilot going on his first solo flight. He suddenly got out of the car and told us to watch over the car, with the ignition on. He went home and came back with his harmonica. He showed it to me “I am going to Carter Road son, will take a walk and play this as I used to do. Thank you once again and please come over sometime.” he said. “Which tune are you going to play uncle?” I asked. “Raj Kapoor, son Raj Kapoor, it was also your aunt’s favourite, Awara Hoon !”

As Prabirda left, we all dispersed with a sense of accomplishment. I headed back home. It had been well over an hour and my wife asked “Where were you for this long again?” This time I replied triumphantly “That old man with the Fiat – he has moved his car and cleaned it as well. We managed it” I said. “Thank God, you at least managed to do something successfully. I hope you did not offend the old fellow. Now come let’s get breakfast” she said. “Yes, Nothing short of a miracle!” I said.

It was the morning of Mahalaya. I put on the recording of the Chandi Path. As the voice of Birendra Krishna Bhadra reverberated through the air, I felt the spirit of Pujo in the air and the magic of Mori Road was still alive.

Happy Pujo folks and wish you the very best for the Pujas this year.

Mishraji and his Magic Jalebis

noreply@blogger.com (LearningMate Times) — Tue, 19 Sep 2017 05:30:00 +0000

Mishraji was a potbellied man, with a clean-shaven head, and the only prized possession on his head was his ponytail, that was tied in a knot (also known as the Choti). The thin moustache on his well-rounded face gave him an air of benign arrogance. He was always clad in a ‘Dhoti” and “Banyan” and his Dhoti usually was tucked up to his knees, allowing him to work freely. He chewed his betel leaf with aplomb, with often a red stain being visible at the corner of his lips. His shop probably was never painted in years. It had dark green walls lit dimly by a solitary tube-light.

Mishraji was Mori Road’s “Mithaiwala” (sweet vendor). His specialty was Bengali sweets and he had worked in Kolkata in his younger days before moving to Mumbai. My mother often said that he made the most delectable Bengali sweets and I grew up eating a good variety of them.

When I was in school, I used to walk up and wait outside Mishraji’s shop to board my school bus. There used to be the whole lot of us waiting there and Mishraji was at times a good host. There always used to a cauldron of milk boiling and in another large vessel, he used to be frying “Jalebis” (a kind of Indian delicacy). There used to be a motley crowd at his shop every morning and business used to be brisk selling the milk and Jalebi combination.

Often, my friends and I tried to convince him to part with a Jalebi or two. The excuse was that we had our exams and his Jalebis brought us that extra bit of luck. After a bit of cajoling, he used to give in and we felt we had won a hard bargain. Sometimes, I did feel that I did better at the exams when I had his Jalebis, and told Mishraji about that, but he thought I was pulling his leg. “If you want free Jalebis, just say it. Don’t tell me that they bring you luck and all of that.”

After I passed out of school, I rarely frequented his shop. After my mother passed away, I stopped going to his shop altogether as I was never very fond of sweets. It had been years and I had all but forgotten about Mishraji.

It was the evening before Mahalaya. I got home late in the evening. The next morning, I needed sweets at home for the Puja as part of our household tradition. It was too late to get to Sweet Bengal or Brijwasi, where we usually bought sweets. As I was thinking, it dawned on me that my only option would perhaps be Mishraji’s shop. If I could run down, maybe he would still be open. So Mishraji came alive again after many years of hibernation.

I ran down and as I got to the shop, I saw Mishraji hunched over his cash counter with his back to me. Recognizing someone was at his door, he bellowed “Go away, we are closing. There is nothing left now.” I was crestfallen. “Please, there must be something left. I need it for the Puja tomorrow.” With his back still towards me, he dismissed me with a wave of his hand “I am sold out and closed. Bad luck.” he said. The same stern voice I thought to myself. Instinctively I found myself saying “Do you have at least one to spare for some good luck?” That got him. He spun around.

Age had caught up with him. He had acquired thick rimmed spectacles, his cheeks sagged a bit and he was bent with age, but in spirit he looked the same man. He drew up close and peered at me through his thick glasses and it was a while before he exclaimed “You, Don Boscowallah! Am I right?” I acknowledged that his guess was right and re-introduced myself and the fact my mother had been a big fan of his. It all came back to him luckily for me.

“Can you help me?” I asked. He shook his head slowly. “We are truly out of stock. Can you come in tomorrow morning? The same time you used to go to school. I will have something ready for you.” he said. I thought it was a good idea as I would get some freshly made sweets in the morning. I returned home and told my wife that the sweets would be there next morning and there was nothing to worry. I had it all worked out.

The next morning after hearing the chants of the Chandi invoking the Mother Goddess, I went down, at the appointed hour. He greeted me warmly and said “I have made these early this morning. The best “Sandesh”. One bite and you will be in the streets of Kolkata.” As he said this, my eyes fell on the vessel where he was frying Jalebis.

Memories came flooding back and I think he saw me looking at the Jalebis intently. “Do you have an exam today as well eh? Do you want a free one?” he asked in jest. “Your jalebis bought me luck.” I smiled and said. He offered me a couple of Jalebis and I bit into one of them. It was flashback to my school days, moments locked up in time, set free with the taste of the sweet Jalebis.

“Who was the boy who used to be with you, asking for the Jalebis?” he asked. “Oh, Picklu (not his real name). He now lives abroad and has done very well in his life. He is the head of a big company and travels the world.” I said. “Are you in touch with him?” he asked. “I sent him some messages but never got a response. He is a busy person. I am happy he has achieved a lot. It has been over a decade since I last spoke to him. I feel a little odd to call him now” I said. “Send him a picture of my Jalebis. See what happens?” he grinned and said. I took my phone and clicked a few snaps with Mishraji in the background and “Whats Apped” it to Picklu.

To my surprise I had a response back in seconds. “Are you at Mishraji’s place?” his message read. “Yes, standing with him.” I responded. The next moment my phone rang and it was Picklu on the line. “Convince him and eat a free Jalebi for me as well !” he said. We started off and we spoke for a while and he spoke to Mishraji as well. A decade of distance was washed away discussing the sweetness of Mishraji’s Jalebis and our memories of school. Picklu ended by saying “I will be down in Mumbai soon. Let’s go to Mishraji’s shop and then visit school once again.” I said “Would be great to do that. The Jalebis are as good as ever.”

As the call ended, I told Mishraji “Your Jalebis, truly have magic in them. Trust me this time.” With that said, he stuffed a few more of them in my hands for the family. As I headed home, I thought my mother would have been very happy to see the authentic Bengali “Sandesh” from Mishraji’s shop. And, of course, for me it was the Magic Jalebis.

“You are late for the Puja. And where are the sweets? And why have you got Jalebis with you?” my wife asked. “Well, I got them free with the Sandesh. Bonus offer. Our kids have exams and I thought they could do with a few Jalebis. It brings you luck.” I said. “How can Jalebis bring you luck? Every Mahalaya you have something weird to tell me. Now let’s sit for the Puja.” she said. I winked at my kids and told them to try one.

The eastern sky was lit now with the sun peeking out from behind the clouds. This morning felt special. I knew Mahalaya was here again. Have a great Pujo folks. And if you need Mishraji’s address just let me know.

The Divine Footprint

noreply@blogger.com (LearningMate Times) — Sun, 02 Oct 2016 18:07:00 +0000

The man had a striking appearance. He was tall, with a flowing beard and long hair. He wore spectacles but he was dressed rather shabbily with a bag slung over his shoulder. If he was slightly better groomed and wore a robe, he would probably resemble the Bard of Bengal.

As I sipped my morning tea, standing on my balcony, I could not help but notice him. More so, as he was standing still and staring at the ground for a long time. After some time, he knelt down at the spot where he was standing and kissed the ground. He then folded his hands, looked to the heavens and prayed. I sat upright now on my balcony ledge and gave him my full attention. The man’s mental stability was in question.

The man by now had finished his ritual and got his bag off his shoulder. He started walking and turned ninety degrees after every ten or fifteen feet. As if to define a rectangle of sorts. He did this three to four times. Finally he took out something from his bag and marked the corners of the rectangle and started drawing it’s boundaries. Having done that, he stood with a piece of paper in his hand, again still like a statue for a long time.

It was time to get ready for office. I left my perch at the balcony ledge and got ready. As I left for the day, I noticed him again kneeling down, now within the perimeter of his rectangle, huddled over something. It was a busy day at the office and before I knew it, the day was over and it was time to get home.

As I got home, I saw a small motley crowd gathered at the same spot where my friend from the morning was measuring his steps and praying. I had to run a few errands for the house so I got down from the car. Out of curiosity I decided to take a peek at what was going on.

To my utter astonishment, I saw a beautiful painting. The canvass was the road and the frame was the size of the rectangle that the man was drawing this morning. I drew closer. It was the twilight hour and I could make out a huge footprint, inside which was a world of miniature art. I had not seen anything like that before. Like the others I stood quite spellbound for a while. I reached into my pocket and donated to the cash box kept on the side. The creator, the man I assumed to be insane in the morning - sat by the side of the painting, almost oblivious of what was happening around him.

It was getting dark and I headed back home. It was the evening before Mahalaya and I wanted to get to bed early, so that I could wake up at the auspicious hour and hear the Chandi Path. The pandal across the road was ready, to welcome the Goddess the next day. Rows of twinkling lights lit up the street in anticipation of the event. It started drizzling and then it became a downpour. I thought of the man and his painting on the road and felt bad for him. “The rain would ruin that work of art” I thought as I hit the bed.

I got up late and missed hearing the Chandi. I was hugely disappointed as in all these years, I had hardly missed hearing this. I looked out of the window, and I saw him again. He was huddled over his painting and working feverishly. The rain had probably washed out most of his work. As the sun lit up the eastern sky, I could see more clearly. He had probably recreated the entire footprint painting all over again. It looked even better with the morning light.

I dropped my son off to school and was returning home. Since there was no crowd, I decided to stop over and have a closer look at his work. It had a divine touch to it. “Whose footprint is this ?” I asked. He looked up and smiled “Lord Vishnu” he said. “It’s beautiful. Why Lord Vishnu’s footprint?” I asked. “For me, the Lord is walking all over India. Right now the Lord is in Mumbai. The next footprint will be near Siddhi Vinayak. I have been all over India and drawn his footprints everywhere. The last two years I have been covering Mumbai and Pune.” he said.

“I saw you recreate your entire art work from last night. That must have been really tough” I said. “Yes, I did. How can Lord Vishnu’s footprint be washed away by mere rain on the first day of Navratri. This only vanishes when I leave this place” he smiled and said.

You can call it instinct, but I somehow folded my hands and bowed my head in reverence to the painting. As a tribute to his perseverance through the night, I stood for a while and then again proceeded to donate some money to his cash box. “No, please don’t. Most of what I earn goes to charity. You prayed, that is enough. Most give me money, very few pray.” he said.

“What is your name?, Where are you from?” I asked. “I am from the South of India. Since I started drawing the footprint of Vishnu, the villagers called me Krishna. What about you?” he said. “I am a Bengali. I live up there” I said, pointing to my balcony ledge. “ Ah ! Shubho Mahalaya. Did I say that right?” he asked. “Yes. Thank you” I said. “God Bless” he said.

As I walked away, the pandal across the road began to play a portion of the of the Chandi, invoking the power of Durga. The chant of “Ya Devi Sarva Bhuteshu…..” rang through the air. It made my day, having missed it in the morning. I knew Mahalaya was here again.

I got home late and my wife asked me “What took you so long?” I was silent, as I walked up to the window ledge. He was still there. Coincidentally he looked up and waved. I waved back. “And who are you waving to?” she said. “Lord Vishnu dear” I said. “. It’s not funny. You always say strange things on Mahalaya. Come get breakfast.” she said.

Mori Road still has it’s magical moments. Vishnu’s footprint will be gone when Krishna departs. But the magic will still live on for the next few days.

I wish all of you a great Puja ahead.

Mohammed's Wishes

noreply@blogger.com (LearningMate Times) — Sun, 11 Oct 2015 20:52:00 +0000

He had been hawking fruits outside the gates of our colony ever since I could remember. Like many others, Mori Road had found a place for Mohammed and if you needed to buy fruits, you could be rest assured he would give you a good deal. Mohammed was advanced in his years. A tall well built man, he sported a beard that I always felt was immaculately maintained. He was a devout Muslim who never missed his prayers and believed he was doing the bidding of the Almighty by selling his share of fruits.

Years back in search of a better future he had left Bangladesh and made his way to Kolkata and then finally to Mumbai and therefore spoke Bengali. "It is always a pleasure to meet you Babu. I get to speak in my native tongue" he often told me. I usually bought my regular supply of fruits from him.

It was a couple of days before Bakri Eid. I was rushing to office and saw Mohammed in our staircase, delivering fruits to someone. "Hello Babu, I have got some great apples. Do you need any?"he asked.

"I just got some last week. Don't need them now. Durga puja is next month. Come to my place with the best you have on Mahalaya. I will need fruits and get your best pick. Wish you a happy Eid". I said. "Thank you Babu. I am on leave for three days. Busy time with my son, grandson and others. Also there is a wedding in the family coming up."he said. "Enjoy Mohammedbhai, but your fruits are too costly." I said as rushed down the stairs.. "Go slowly Babu, you will reach in time." he hollered after me.

Eid went by. October was here. I was scheduled to travel and would be back in town only on Panchami. It was the weekend before Mahalaya. I went down looking for Mohammedbhai but saw a young man and a small boy seated in his place instead. "Where is Mohammedbhai?" I asked. "I am Ismail, his son. Abbu left us during Eid. He decided it was time to go back to Allah."he said. Pointing to the young boy "This is his grandson. You are the Bangali Babu? Abbu often spoke about you and how he could speak to you in Bengali." he said. I was stunned. An icon of Mori Road that was so familiar, something that I grew up with was gone, just like that. Looking at my face and switching to Bengali, he said "Heart attack, Babu". I spoke awkwardly "I am so sorry to hear this. I knew him from many years. My parents also used to know him". There was silence. There is little that you can say in such circumstances.

"Where do you live ?" I asked to get back to a normal conversation. "Abbu and us lived in Kandivilli."he said. I had no idea that Mohammedbhai at his age used to come all the way with his fruit basket to Mahim to sell fruits. "Do you need fruits Babu? I think Puja is coming up." He asked. "Yes. Mahalaya is next week and I am traveling, so I need some. But who is this ?" I said, pointing to the young boy standing with him. "Mohammed Junior. Abbu called him that. My son. Studies in 4th grade. Speaks little English like you Babu. Abbu was so proud of him. He has his exams coming."Ismail said.

"I will take half a dozen apples. Give me good ones. It is for my Puja. Your father used to be at my doorstep every day during this time." I said. Ismail chose the best apples and as he put them in a bag, Mohammed Junior stepped up with two more apples. "This is from me uncle. Free. Please offer them in your Durga Puja." he said. I smiled and knelt down to ask him "And young man, what should I ask for when offering these for Puja ?" He thought for a while "Ask if my grandfather is happy and also pray that I do well in my exams. One apple for each wish" he said.

"Have you ever seen Durga Puja?" I asked. "No, but I heard a lot from my grandfather about it, and how it was a big festival back in Bangladesh. But will you take these two apples?" he asked. "Yes, I will. Ismail, get him to our Puja." I said. Ismail looked at me and asked tentatively. "Can we really come ?" I could see his hesitation and affirmed "By all means. Please do. Don't think about it. I will treat Mohammed Junior to some lovely bhog and prasad." I said. "I have to rush. Getting late" I said. as I headed back, I heard the words "Go slowly Babu. You will reach in time". Mohammed Junior said. It was my déjà vu moment. For a fleeting second as I looked back, it seemed Mohammedbhai was still there, only much younger.

I got home. My wife was finalzing the list of names on whose behalf Puja needed to be offered. "I want to you to remember two more names for Saptami - Mohammed Senior and Mohammed Junior and keep these two apples aside. They are special." She looked at me bewildered. "I hope this is not a joke. Every Mahalaya strange things happen to you" she said. "Nope, just excited Mahalaya is coming up and the festive spirit et al" I said. And secretly to all of you, the magical spirit of Mori Road still lives on.

Happy Mahalaya folks. Enjoy, the next ten days. Every good wish is a prayer.

An Umbrella for you Mr. Sen !

noreply@blogger.com (LearningMate Times) — Tue, 23 Sep 2014 06:59:00 +0000

Monday morning and the week began as usual. Most of the days in my rush to office I am on a conference call during the drive. This morning was no different. It was drizzling and Mumbai was just about waking up and getting ready to go to work. As I got connected to the conference,my driver eased the car onto Mori Road. This morning was special as I was going to meet an old friend from the UK on the way to work.

Engrossed in the call, I was unmindful as we pulled up at the red light near Mori Road. A light tap on my window. A familiar face. Wrinkled with age, a toothless grin, her “pallu" over hear head, holding a walking stick made with a makeshift bamboo. She had been a part of Mori Road for years, and in all my years of growing up, I never thought she looked any different. It was as if her look was timeless and to me she must have been born old.

More recently, to give her an identity, I had christened her “Khokoner Maa” (Khokon’s mother) given that she usually has a little boy around her. I waved her on, like I usually do on many occasions. Usually she walks on, but this time she persisted. Another tap. The red light was taking more time than usual. I urged my driver to inch ahead, so that she would get the hint and move on. But she stepped up with the car. And then tapped the window in quick succession. I had to take care of this. I hit “Mute” and rolled down the window. Before I could express my irritation, she said “Can I have that umbrella please?”

Now this was a strange request, something that I had never experienced in all my years in Mumbai. I looked at the umbrella. It was gifted to me by my company, a folding umbrella, white in colour with our logo printed on it impressively in blue and green.”No” I said, prompted by years of habit in refusing such requests. Finally the lights turned green, and as we were about to move, she smiled and said “ God Bless you son”.

My car left the traffic lights behind. The connection for the call had dropped. Somehow, I did not want to dial back in. It was still drizzling. “She must be getting all wet in this rain” I thought. The sight of the umbrella started to torment me. Every time I looked at it, I saw her face instead.

We had traveled a bit. “Make a U turn” I asked my driver. “I want to go back to the signal for a moment” I said. My driver has never held me in high regard but this time, he looked at me as if he had nailed it. “We will be late for office sir, too much traffic, and you have to meet someone on the way.” he said. “Just do it and we will make it quick”. I said.

We reached the red light again. Khokoner Maa did not see us, but I could see her tapping another car window ahead of us. “Go call her” I said to my driver. This time he looked at me as if I was from another planet. “Do it” I commanded. He obeyed and she hobbled over. I rolled down my window and gave her the umbrella. No words said, We looked at each other for a moment and as the window rolled up, we waved at each other instinctively.

“Fast, fast, I don’t want to keep the him waiting” I yelled at my driver. “Yes sir, I will drive like James Bond” he said. And so we sped off. I arrived, somewhat late. Parthoda was waiting for me. He was from the UK and a close friend. “Sorry Parthoda, got held up with the traffic” I said.

We caught up on the years gone by and as the meeting came to an end, he said “I have something for you, which I hope you will not find strange.” With that, Parthoda pulled out a gleaming black full length umbrella. The handle was made of rich wood, polished exquisitely, the cloth top quality and looked regal, almost royalty. “Well, an umbrella for you Mr. Sen !! This is from one of the oldest umbrella makers in England. Many famous people have used their umbrellas.”. For a long time I stared at Parthoda and then at the umbrella. “You are looking at me like an owl. I hope you like it” he said. “I cannot tell you how fascinated I am with this gift. You made my day” I said.

As I got home in the evening Mori Road was lit up again. The Navratri pandal opposite my balcony was decked up and there was an air of excitement. Maa Durga was expected to arrive any moment.

From my window I saw Khokoner Maa and the little boy, huddled under the umbrella shielding themselves from the light drizzle, waiting to welcome Maa Durga. In the distance I could now hear the bands strike up their tune. The flags were waving. Maa Durga had entered Mori Road.

Against the wall, my new black umbrella was leaning, looking rather majestic. I reached out and held it. Stretching out to my full height, for a moment it almost felt like royalty.

However, soon my royal stupor was disturbed by a loud burst of crackers. Maa had finally arrived. At Mori Road, like every year, the magic was back in the air. It was the evening before Mahalaya.

The next morning, I welcomed the sunrise with the chants of the Chandi. “Get ready, we have to go to the temple. And where did you get that umbrella?” my wife asked. Notwithstanding her surprised and inquisitive look, I said “ Exchange offer dear. Anyways, now let’s go and seek some divine blessings. It’s an auspicious day. You never know, it’s that time of the year when miracles can happen.”

Happy Mahalaya and have a great Pujo folks !! And open those windows when you hear someone knocking. You never know !

The Divine Touch

noreply@blogger.com (LearningMate Times) — Fri, 04 Oct 2013 07:25:00 +0000

From the time I can remember, Vandana and I had grown up as neighbors. Our apartments were on the same floor and she lived across the passageway. However as we grew up, I became conscious of the fact that she was differently abled with respect to her speaking and mental faculties. I don't even remember the time when I stopped interacting with her and as I grew up I had almost stopped noticing her.

Every time we met in the stairway or downstairs, I used to look down and walk briskly past her in an effort to avoid any interaction - and I am not sure why I did that. Vandana lost her father more recently and her mother was completely bed ridden with illness. Every time I walked past her, I thought about the life she led but then like most Mumbaikars, I was almost an expert at shutting out such thoughts at will. I did not know how to speak to her, what to speak on and like everyone in this city believes, rationalized that I had no time to spare.

It was the evening before Mahalaya and I got home feeling upbeat about the festive days ahead. Mori Road was bedecked like a bride. Rows of flashing bulbs lit up the street and from my window I saw the pandal for Navratri almost complete. I had to run household chores and went down to the "kirana" store run by Chandubhai. Chandu was a baniya to the core and an astute businessman. We were the same age. He kept his store going through good times and bad and I had a revolving credit line with him. I often told Chandu that running a store like his would be my retirement plan and that made him feel good.

This evening as I got to his store he had lit the incense sticks for the evening and was praying. He pointed them at the photos of the several deities he worshipped, turned around with his hand on his head three times at the same spot and then bowed in reverence to them, completing his evening ritual before making himself available for business. Chandu's nephew was there by his side and was about six or seven years old. "Do you pray everyday like your uncle?" I asked. "No, do you think God is for real ? I think these are only photos and statues that he worships." he said. Chandu was taken aback and looked at me in a manner that said "Was that question necessary ? Now answer him !"

To salvage the situation I said " There was someone who saw God for real. His name was Sri Ramakrishna. And there is a story about that." "Tell me about it please" he said. So I told him how a man called Narendra (Swami Vivekananda) skeptical as he was about the existence of God, went to Sri Ramakrishna and challenged him to prove there was God. On one such instance when he was sitting near Sri Ramakrishna, the saint touched him and he had the vision and experience of God. "Wow, he actually saw God?" he asked. "Sort of" I said, given it is too difficult to explain a spiritual experience to a kid of that age. That made the boy think and he turned to Chandu.

"Uncle, can you sit down and close your eyes" he asked. Chandu protested and then obeyed. The boy then closed his eyes and gently touched Chandu on the chest and forehead. Chandu opened his eyes and bore a bewildered look. "Did you see God?" he asked. Chandu looked at me accusingly and shook his head. The boy did not give up. "Lets try this with you, uncle" he said to me. I sat down on the bench outside and he touched me gently again and the same question " Did you see God?" I drew him close and said "Look ordinary people like your uncle and me cannot see God. He is only visible to some special people." He looked disappointed and said "Maybe we can try after a couple of days. It may work. "Sure" I said and having collected my merchandise I apologized to Chandu and bid his nephew good bye. Dinner was waiting and I had to get to bed early as I had to wake up early in the morning.

It was the morning of Mahalaya and I woke up to the chants of the Chandi. It was a wonderful feeling to hear the rendition of the Chandi with the break of dawn. The sun rose in the sky and the morning tea by the window felt extra warm and special. I dropped my son to school and as I returned, I saw Vandana at the entrance to the staircase. I prepared myself to do my customary 'duck and disappear' act as we drew close. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that she was inspecting something in her hand very closely. We have a narrow staircase and as we neared each other, in my attempt to walk briskly past her, I think I missed my step and ran into her and that startled her.

It was a very awkward moment. Vandana stopped and for the first time in many years I looked her in the eye. "Sorry for that" I said. Vandana fixed her gaze on me squarely, but for what seemed to be a couple of seconds, seemed like an eternity to me. She pointed to the ground and then her ear and signaled that she may have dropped an earring from her hand. Now, if you have avoided interacting with someone for a lifetime, it is awkward. It is even more awkward when you make her loose something valuable after all that time. I started looking down and both of us began the treasure hunt. And all this had to happen when you are in a tearing hurry to go and get ready for office. As I was planning my escape, I got lucky and said "I found it !" All I wanted to do was hand it over and leave. "Sorry again" I said.

She smiled and seemed to say "It's OK. Don't worry". And as I prepared to leave, she wished me "Good morning" - this time I understood what she said. It had been more than forty good years that I had stayed here but had never wished her ever. "Good morning" I said. She extended her hand and I reciprocated with a handshake.

We walked upstairs and reached the passageway on our floor. Her door was open and I saw her speaking to her mother. The years of awkwardness now having dissolved to some extent, I asked. "Hows Aunty ?" She returned a thumbs up sign and gestured me to come in. Inside I saw Aunty lying on the bed and as she looked up, she took a while to recognize me. "I am Samudra. Remember me ?" I said.

A flicker of recognition and a toothless grin. "Ah, you have come after so many years. I am so happy to see you. Drop in once in a while. Your mother and I were very close friends and I still remember her. We used to speak almost every day and I miss her." As I wished her well, memories of our childhood came flooding back. Mohini Aunty and my mother used to be standing at the door and often to my amazement used to talk for hours on end. "I have very fond memories too aunty. I will drop in again" I bid goodbye and as I rang my door bell and little did I realize that I was grinning from ear to ear.

"What are you grinning about?" my wife asked as she opened the door. "Nothing, last evening someone touched my head to check out if I can sense God, and I think I just did". I said. "Every Mahalaya it gets all the more weird on this day. Anyway come have your breakfast. We have a lot to do before Pujo" she said shaking her head.

I looked out at the street and the local club was getting the finishing touches done for their pandal. Mahalaya was here and I could feel Pujo around the corner. And I would not have wanted it to begin any other way.

I hope all of you have a great Pujo. And be open to miracles for sometimes getting that divine touch may serve you well. And Mori Road never ceases to amuse me - every Mahalaya without fail.

Shiva

noreply@blogger.com (LearningMate Times) — Mon, 15 Oct 2012 05:18:00 +0000

The rag picker across the street by now was a familiar sight. He had encroached on the pavement opposite my house and I had a clear view of him from my window. Often as I sipped my morning tea by the window, he would be up and about rummaging the dustbin for things he could salvage and sell. We call it recycling.

My feeling on spotting him the first day was one of resentment. Surely we could do with lesser people encroaching our pavements I thought. Over time this Mori Road pavement became his home and he lived there with his wife, kid and a stray dog. He was a tall man, lean, well built, dark in complexion with long locks of hair, and was at most times adorned in only a lungi drawn up to his knees. Which made me feel that he must be an immigrant from the south of India.

As days passed, we started to notice each other, me standing at the window and he perched on the pavement across the street. He would sometimes look up and grin at me and wave and while I had no intention of returning this "good morning" greeting, I would wave back half heartedly, just to be civil about things. More recently, it had become almost a morning ritual as we began to acknowledge each others presence.

But today as I got to the window, expecting to see him, things were not the usual. He was not there, and near the pavement across the street lay a man quite motionless. A sight like that in the morning is not a happy one. I noticed the man wore factory overalls and perhaps worked in one, was of fair complexion and the general disposition was of someone you don't quite expect to see lying on the street. "I hope he is not seriously ill " I thought to myself. "Or maybe he is just drunk and fallen by the wayside. Should be up and running in a while."

As I pondered over his state I saw my "morning friend" appear. He hovered over the man, and inspected him. While he did this, he looked up and our eyes met. But this time instead of waving he pointed to the man and shrugged his shoulders. I really wanted to say, "Splash some water on his face, you idiot" and I think he read my mind. He found water and splashed it on his face. No effect. Then he tried to lift him and get him to sit, but the man's body was completely listless and it did not work. This got me a little more concerned.

I saw the rag picker now put his ear to the man's chest and listen. By this time I was anxious too. "I hope he hears a heartbeat or something " I prayed. The next thing I noticed was that he was looking for a pulse and checking if he was breathing. Confused, he looked up at me hands on his hips, as if asking "Dude, any ideas what we can do now? " My mind started racing. Maybe I need to dial the emergency services. But where is the number. Of course, I maybe able to Google it or maybe I should just go down and check first….!

Except for the rag picker, the rest of Mori Road, passing by did not notice or want to take notice of the fallen man. Life had to move on. As all this was happening, I saw the rag picker walk up to Mama, our local constable. Mama was a constable with the Mahim police station and he had often been posted at our crossing. I knew him as Mama as the whole neighborhood called him.

After lot of gesturing, pointing and waving of arms, Mama seemed finally convinced, and came along with the rag picker to inspect the situation. He prodded the lifeless body with his stick and knelt down to inspect him more closely. It started to drizzle now and yet no movement. It had been a while at the window for me now. Mama and the rag picker now tried to shift the man and got him to a safer spot. “Must be alive” I thought.

Mama left, and as I sat by the window reading the morning paper, I saw the rag picker sit cross-legged near the man almost as if he was keeping a vigil on him. Morning became mid morning and the drizzle gave way to a bright sun. Occasionally he would keep splashing water on his face expecting him to move. The strong afternoon sun was out now. I noticed the rag picker open up a tattered umbrella and this shadow sheltered the man.

One more splash of water and finally !! The man moved his arms. The rag picker yelped and jumped up, dancing around the man. He yelled and Mama came running back. Together, they tried to feed him some water and while he coughed it up violently, bit by bit he sipped the water. The man supported by them now was made to sit and the rag picker offered him a piece of bread, almost as if the man was a guest in his homeless home. This accomplished, the rag picker looked up at my window now, found me there, and again that wide grin and a wave of the hand. We had missed our customary "good morning" today and he seemed to say "better late than never". For the first time I smiled and waved back happily.

In the evening as I went down to run errands for the house, I saw the rag picker. He grinned at me and I smiled back. We took a few steps towards each other and I asked him "So was he drunk or just ill?" "Drunk, stone drunk, but the fellow needed help" he said. "What's your name " I asked instinctively. "Shiva" he said, as he stepped up to greet me. "They all call me Shiva here. I need to go now, have to take my dog for his walk" he grinned again. This time at close quarters his grin seemed almost mesmerizing. And with that he disappeared, almost in a flash.

The next day was Mahalaya. Our family was up early to catch the chants of the Chandi. As dawn broke, I saw him down there grinning and waving. I grinned this time at him too and waved back a full hand. Suddenly I realized that I did not resent him anymore. I was somehow happy to see him there.

My wife asked "Who are you waving to this early in the morning?" "Shiva" I replied. "Shiva? Shiva who?" she asked. "The one you will go searching for in the temple this morning" I blurted out rather instinctively. "I don't know what it is with you. Every Mahalaya it gets more weird than the previous one and this time you are making fun of the Almighty on this day! Come get your breakfast. We have lots of work to do. Puja is around the corner”.

Happy Mahalaya folks. Mori Road never ceases to amuse me. You never know who you will meet next and in what way. Meeting Shiva was great. Happy Puja Folks. Have a blast!

Mori Road, A Sardar, Amir Khan and Me.

noreply@blogger.com (LearningMate Times) — Tue, 27 Sep 2011 11:05:00 +0000

Returning from work, as I entered the colony last night, I noticed a signboard "shooting in progress". Now that was a first, certainly in my colony where I had lived all these years and most certainly at Mori Road!

The whole square was lit up and decked up like some sort of wedding venue. Lights strung down the facade of the building shining brilliantly, the facade had a new coat of paint and in addition to the lights there were lanterns, floral patterns and a small makeshift fountain at the center. The crew with wireless headsets on was moving around busily. Some of them kept ushering onlookers like us back and for a moment I felt like a guest in my own back yard.

Mr. Singh, an old resident and someone who lived on the floor above was standing besides me. I was so intrigued by what was happening, that I did not notice him nudging me till he almost shouted in my ear "I say, do you know that Amir Khan is coming here for the shoot?” If I was intrigued a moment earlier, now I was stunned. The eighty plus year old Mr. Singh was flush with excitement and had a twinkle in his eye that I had not seen in the last forty odd years I had known him. "Amir Khan ? Here, I mean why, and what movie? " I mumbled. "Yes, yes, this is for the Pepsi ad shoot. You see they are shooting a new ad for Diwali and this is the set for that. Our square has never looked so beautiful. Don't you agree. He is going to come in sometime now."

Mr. Singh, actually Kuldeep Uncle, spoke fluent Bengali as he had spent a lot of time in Kolkata. He was a cardiac patient and I often saw him always walking slowly up the stairs. He led a very restrained life, hardly ever coming down from his third floor apartment. More recently he had another cardiac complication that had laid him down, and was advised complete bed rest. And here he was gleaming, waiting to meet Amir Khan. I was happy to see him that way after many years.

“How have you been keeping uncle” I asked. “Am still alive and kicking, what do you think eh?” he said. “Sure, great to see you down here uncle. How long have you been waiting here?” I asked. He had been waiting for 45 minutes now. Kuldeep uncle had seen me grow up. I went to the same school as his sons and with both his sons now in the US, he often invited me to his house for tea, which I never found, time to go. “You should come home one day. You know it is not very far, just upstairs” he said jokingly.

I was not listening again as my focus was on my car where a few people were trying to perch themselves on the boot of my car to get a better view. I protested and made them get down and found Kuldeep uncle chuckling. “Well, that was not amusing I hope uncle” I said a little irritated. “Oh no, I was thinking of an incident, a long time back when one Diwali, someone decided to play a prank and ruined my car. You remember the old black Fiat I had? Someone decided to burst a bomb on the bonnet of my car and the result of that was the whole bonnet went out of shape and the color went from black to white”. And he looked at me intently. “I am still trying to find out who that culprit was. Any ideas?”

Cut and Flashback. 25 years ago. You often do many silly things when you are young and especially in your confused state as an adolescent teenager. It was Diwali and our colony square was lit brilliantly and my gang of friends was bursting crackers. The louder the noise, the greater the thrill. We burst crackers in the open, in a tin can, in the staircase, lit box bombs, the double crackers but something was missing. That kick was not there. I looked at a gleaming black Fiat parked in the parking lot. And when you get a bad idea, there are some guys who just egg you on. I had friends who could simply encourage you to do the impossible. And before we knew it, we placed the box bomb on the bonnet of the car, looked around to see if anyone was looking, I lit it and then we all ran for our life. Seconds later there was the loudest “bang” you could hear that Diwali and I remember hiding for a long time. As I came out, I saw some elders gathered around the car. The bonnet was warped out of shape and the color - yes had gone from completely black to completely white. I did not stand there for long and our gang thought it best to slip away lest anyone would begin to ask.

Later that evening, I met Kuldeep Uncle. He was hovering over his battered car. “Do you know who did this?” he asked. I gulped and then sympathized with him profusely cursing the kind of person who could be capable of such a criminal act.

Fast Forward and we are now standing 25 years later at Amir Khan’s Pepsi shoot. Deja vu. The same type of lights, the Diwali atmosphere, Kuldeep Uncle and me. And Kuldeep Uncle’s question rang in my ears as if he used a megaphone “I am still trying to find who that culprit was. Any ideas?”

Now when you are a middle-aged father of two, I think you develop what is called a conscience or a certain preference for the truth. And sometimes the conscience wins over practical common sense, though you are trying very hard not to let that happen. I hemmed, hawed and then blurted out “Yes”.

“Yes? Did you say yes?” Kuldeep Uncle moved two steps forward. His six feet frame seemed to straighten up and the twinkle in his eye had gone for his eyes narrowed their gaze on me. “Well, I guess I must tell you, if you are looking for the culprit, he is standing right in front of you. It was me.” I said, and I went silent and my gaze fell to the ground.

He surely cannot slap me at this age I thought. I hope this does not affect his cardiac condition further. He may begin shouting any moment now. As a zillion such thoughts I felt a light hand on my shoulder and he said “Young man, what took you so long? I was waiting when you would tell me and I thought you never would.” Words come with great difficulty at such moments. I stammered “You mean, you, you, you actually knew it was me? And since when?” And then it hit me like a ton of bricks. “I knew this all along since the very day you did it. Jaggi uncle saw you folks from his balcony. And don’t stare at me like an owl now. I decided not to tell you or your parents.” he said.

“Why?” I blurted. “Because your parents would have been very hurt, you would have got a hard time at home and your grandfather, who I looked up to would be most disappointed. But more importantly, had I done that, you would grow up hating Kuldeep Uncle, would’nt you? If I had to choose between justice for my damaged bonnet and your well being, you will agree that I chose wisely.”

I did not feel this way for a long time. Hot under the ears, perspiring under the collar and alternating between red and crimson, if I could see my face. “I am sorry. And it took me 25 years to say this. How can I make it up to you Uncle?”

“Ah, now we are doing business. I am not going to let you off so easily young man. If you spoilt one evening, surely I must have the liberty of spoiling one of yours” he said. “Sure, uncle, tell me and I will do anything it takes” I said. “Think it over before saying yes” he smiled, and the twinkle in his eyes were back. I nodded that I was game and he could pronounce the verdict. “Well young man, you have to come and have tea with me one evening and spend time with a boring eighty year old for a couple of hours. And for the time that you are there, you will tell me about yourself for the years gone by. Since the time Binu (his son) left you have never come home.”

“Is that all” I asked. “Now will you do it or no?” he retorted. “Of course uncle. How about tomorrow?” He stepped forward and put his arm around me. “Tomorrow is great. It is Mahalaya and your punishment is that you will be starting this Puja off with this old man. It’s late and I must leave now. It’s been a while since I spent an evening of good adda with someone of my son’s age. See I struck a better deal than getting to see Amir Khan” With that said, he slowly walked away, taking one step at a time, leaning on his walking stick.

It had been a while since I had parked. It was time to head home. “You are late, I saw your car enter a long time ago. Were you standing down all star struck. Well, I hope you met your hero” my wife said. I smiled, and almost instantly said “Yes, I think I just did. I got invited to tea with him tomorrow.” I left her puzzled. “You must be tired. Get some dinner.” she said.

It is Mahalaya today. As the day dawned with the chanting of the Shlokas, I thought of my confession last night and smiled. I can’t wait for the evening to arrive. A tea invite never seemed so endearing. And all the credit for this goes to Amir Khan and his crew.

Mori Road has some amazing folks who live here. And if you have done anything like me in your younger days, take your chances and confess. You may just get invited to tea as well! Trust the festive atmosphere.

Happy Mahalaya folks and Happy Pujas.

An Actor Prepares……

noreply@blogger.com (LearningMate Times) — Thu, 07 Oct 2010 10:21:00 +0000

It was busy as usual and it was my weekly visit to the market. I had missed my visit on Sunday and so this weekday evening it was my turn to make sure that there was enough to cook at home.

I was getting to the end of my shopping list. The sun was setting and I prepared to head home. “Missed your Sunday routine eh” a familiar voice called out. I turned around and saw Probalda (Probal Banerjee) another Sunday regular at the market standing behind and grinning.

Probalda lived alone a few blocks down the road. He was advanced in his years and had lost his wife long back. He had no children. He was frail and with age had acquired a slight stoop. His signature was his walking stick, which had a silver handle.

We had got to know each other over the years at Dulal’s Fish market, where almost all Bengalis between Dadar and Mahim meet up to buy fish every morning and I got to know him since the first fish we shared cut in half. Since then I always called him Probalda.

As we headed home I asked, “How are you?” “Getting along young man. Tell me about yourself. ”Difficult question” I said “Nothing much, have not been having a good year so far. But Pujo is around the corner and things should look up. Guess what, I am acting on stage Porbalda, this Pujo.”

Now that lit him up. He stopped and looked at me intently through his thick glasses. “Which play, what role.” I replied “Kabuliwallah and I am playing the little girls father.” “Have you seen Tapan Sinha’s movie and Chabi Biswas in that? What a classic!’

“Yes, I am afraid that our attempt maybe rather amateurish.” I said. Suddenly he fell silent. Lost in thought. Finally after an awkward silence I said. “You seem lost Probalda. What were you thinking?” “Flashback” he grinned. “Have you read Stanislavsky’s An Actor Prepares. The best book on Methodist Acting – which of course I don’t totally agree with.”

“Were you a stage performer too”. I asked. He smiled “I used to work with Bahurupi and then performed for many theatre groups across the country” “You mean Bhaurupi of the Shombhu Mitra fame?” I exclaimed. “Then you must have been a professional Probalda” “Yes, the stage was my source of livelihood” he said. “I was very young, perhaps in my twenties, when the bug caught me and Shombhu Mitra was God.”

We started chatting and Probalda took me through his flashback. He had done Bengali plays and then he also worked with Utpal Dutt’s group where he worked in his productions in Bengali and English and then went onto doing Hindi plays in Delhi, before finally coming to Mumbai since the money happened to be better here and he thought he could make some money with the small screen television serials opening up for stage actors. But of course, not much luck at that.

It was my turn. “What was your favorite play, which character?” He thought for a while. King Lear. King Lear without a doubt. He paused and that intense look was back again. “Difficult to imagine that I could play King Lear eh. Why don’t you come up?” We were at the staircase of his building and we were at a point I could not refuse.

A sparsely furnished drawing room welcomed me and as we settled down, I noticed pictures hung on the walls of Probalda in various attires on stage. And there right in the center was King Lear. “That, is King Lear.” he said “You look fantastic, a king head to toe” I said. He replied “You must feel like a king and not any ordinary king young man. King Lear is a complex person, whose madness is almost pitiable and whose tragedy is rare.”

Then as if on cue, he walked across, grabbed his sliver-capped walking stick, straightened himself, rolled up his moustache, the glasses came off and his eyes expressed anger and sadness at the same time. And he rattled off pure Shakespeare in such style that for a moment you thought that King Lear was standing right there in front of you.

“Let the character invade your consciousness. Once that happens everything from your posture to your gait to your voice will fall in place. Often it was difficult. To become, King Lear after traveling for 10 kms on a hot Kolkata day in traffic. But then as I donned the attire, I used to invoke the character. Ah. What a feeling. The make up, dress, lights, sound and then the applause. And finally, the Curtain Call. You bow; acknowledge the applause and then it is suddenly all over. But, a king for three hours an evening, for many such evenings nonetheless.”

“You must be missing all of this now?” Dumb question I guess. But asked it. He smiled. “Of course, it is difficult. I do get nostalgic often and the characters I have played often seem like real people I knew that do not exist anymore. Not any different from real life eh?”

It was time I headed home and shook his hand. He seemed a little sad “Great adda and thanks. I rarely get to discuss the years gone by. In any case, all the best for your play this Pujo. Just for those moments you have on stage, imagine that is the world and nothing else exists otherwise. No one can take those moments away from you.”

On getting home, my son opened the door. He had a cape around his neck; sunglasses put on and with a plastic sword in hand welcomed me to the world of Batman, where he fought his imaginary adversaries. He was completely serious and really believed that he was Batman.

Batman needed a villain to beat up. It was my cue and time for my entry. And Batman and the villain had a great time for about an hour. Something I had not done in a long time. I secretly thanked Probalda. Our performance for that hour would have even challenged Stanislavsky and his theories.

My wife returned and found the vegetables still lying around. By now my son and I had both capes (towels) round our neck and wearing sunglasses. He with his sword and me with a plastic maze. “What are the two of you doing? And what took you so long? “ I mumbled back “Right now Batman is on my heels and I just spent the evening with King Lear.” She looked at me and finally sighed “Every Mahalaya it gets stranger. I must be careful the next time. Time for dinner now.”

Happy Mahalaya folks. Here is wishing that all of you don’t miss those important cues, make your stage entry, and play your part to the hilt - for those moments that are yours to enjoy. And if you want to meet Probalda let me know. Mori Road might just begin Acting Classes soon.

The Magician at Mori Road

noreply@blogger.com (LearningMate Times) — Fri, 18 Sep 2009 07:24:00 +0000

A rag tag hat, black trousers with silver sparkling chains dangling from them, a crumpled white shirt, worn out shoes, a coat that was held together with a couple of patchworks - yet he stood tall in the evening sun looking majestic, calling out to the crowd to gather around for the show. He was beating the drum to draw people's attention to the event.

The road right under my balcony has become a venue for many a street performer over the years and with the asphalt surface giving way to a more modern tiled surface, the “naka” (junction) under my balcony at Mori Road certainly looks like the place to perform. And of course, Mori Road will always have a ready audience for the enterprising entertainer, and that includes me.

The crowds had gathered by now and the show was about to begin. It was dusk and the streetlights were just coming on. I had never seen him before. A first timer, at Mori Road for sure. He was a magician, a juggler, a clown and a stuntman all rolled into one. The show began.

Things came out of his bag, vanished into thin air and then reappeared from the pocket of a bewildered man in the crowd. Colored ribbons flowed out of his magic wand and with the wave of his hand he made money appear and disappear. He put on the "clown" mask and deliberately failed at some of his tricks and put on a tragic expression that almost reminded you of Raj Kapoor's Johny Mera Naam. But people laughed. He juggled three, then four, five and six dinner plates. And they clapped. He ate fire and they gasped. He juggled fire sticks and they looked on in awe. After every performance he tried an even more difficult one.

The sun had set and now it was dark. The show continued under the streetlights. A good crowd had collected and people jostled each other for space to get a glimpse of the proceedings. And then he announced the final act "Ladies and Gentlemen, put your hands together for this little girl, my daughter" and a little girl emerged from the crowd. A girl, of about six or seven. She looked familiar but I could not make out in the dark. "Brothers and Sisters, she is going to walk on this rope, and I will tie this high above the ground, and light a fire below, If she falls she will hurt herself, but she is my daughter, my magic will protect her and not let her fall. Please clap for her." The audience roared back in approval.

The rope was tied between two cross poles and her father helped the girl onto the rope with a balancing pole in her hand. She carefully placed one leg on the rope and then the other and looked straight ahead. No fear or doubt in her eyes and nodded to her father. Her father then lit the ground below with an inflammable substance and the fire raged beneath her. It was quite a sight and it got me really tense. The father started beating the drums as the girl inched forward step by step, balancing with the help of the pole and swinging lightly on the rope. The audience was at a standstill and suddenly it seemed that the whole of Mori Road had frozen. The fire beneath now raged on as the girl reached mid way. The local constable watching held up the traffic to make sure that the girl could complete her act.

And then it happened. Mori Road plunged into darkness. The streetlights went off all of a sudden and there was a slight commotion in the crowd that surged forward and someone hit the cross bar to which the rope was tied shaking the entire structure. The girl was now trying very hard to maintain her balance as the rope swung wildly from side to side. Her father stopped playing the drums and stepped forward fearing she would fall, but the fire would not let him get very close. Someone got water and doused the flames and the girl's father now stood below asking her to let go and come down. But for some reason the girl was still there and trying to keep her balance.

Headlights! The local taxi driver saw what was going on and switched on his headlights as his car was parked well positioned to provide light to the event. People gave way for the light as the taxi moved up closer to the site of the performance. People clapped now as the girl steadied herself. Her father announced, "She does not give up. She will finish the game" and started up the fire again and the local street urchin started beating the drum for the girl. This time the audience cheered on every step of the way till she reached the other end of the rope. A dozen hands reached out to help her down and she was soon perched on the shoulder of a bystander. Her father with his rag tag hat in his hand went around and I saw every hand reaching into their pocket to help fill the hat.

As the curtains came down on this final act, almost magically the lights came back again and more brightly than ever. It was the first day of Navratri and Mori Road was getting ready to celebrate and this time the street lighting was indeed special with rows of brightly colored bulbs lighting up in a rhythmic sequence. The crowd cheered even more with the lights coming on. The father announced the close of the show and signed off saying "God is the greatest Magician” and went across to thank the taxi driver.

Years back, Satyajit Ray in the movie Agantuk had Utpal Dutta explaining the concept of an eclipse to a kid using two coins and described it as God’s greatest magic of making the sun disappear for a few moments. On hearing the Magician’s words echoed what the great director had depicted.

As the taxi driver and the girl’s father sat sipping tea I could not take my eyes off the little girl. I now recognized her. I often see her every morning, bag on her shoulder, walking to school by herself.

The father finished sipping his tea. As father and daughter walked off into the distance, they left behind a street that lit up in all it's glory to celebrate the spirit of the little girl and will now stay that way for the next ten days. I headed back inside smiling and told my wife "I just saw the greatest magic show on earth" "Where and who was performing" she asked. " Well,I think it was God under my window" I said. She glared at me and I defended myself "Just joking dear, but look how someone lit up the streets so brilliantly on the eve of Mahalaya".

Mahalaya is here again and I wish all of you a very Happy Pujo and if you look carefully chances are you will recognize some magic in the things happening around you. You just need to keep your eyes “open”.

And you are most welcome to come over for a cup of chai and adda on my balcony and I assure you that you will see some interesting vignettes of life from there.

The Good Doctor

noreply@blogger.com (LearningMate Times) — Wed, 01 Oct 2008 05:02:00 +0000

I often saw him walking every evening with his bag in the hand to his dispensary. He was a large man and with the advancing of years his walk had a slight stoop but he still stood tall amongst most who met him. I called him Uncle having grown up in his presence and him having been responsible for my well being from the time I was born. I had this innate faith in his ability to cure me of any ailment and get me up and running.

Like me for most people at Mori Road, the doctor’s magic potions were something that you just had blind faith on. For every person who visited his clinic, he would scribble something that then went to his compounder (medicine man) who prepared the potion. I often tried to peer through the 2X2 viewing pane half bending down to get a sense of how the compounder mixed these magic potions and it was fascinating to see the mixtures getting ground and packed into bottles and the pills used to be wrapped in small newspapers pellets to designate the dosages. Here it did not matter what your age was, or what faith you belonged to, or even what ideological belief you held. The doctor and his magic potions worked across all these barriers.

Last year as the Pujas approached, I felt a little under the weather and decided that I needed to get myself one of those magic shots. The dispensary was crowded but everyone sat patiently for their turn. I entered and Uncle greeted me in his usual boisterous way and said “Back again?” I found a perch and sat down. I looked around and found that nothing had changed in that place over the years, except for the fresh coat of paint. Uncle still sat on his chair and swiveled around talking to people and then disappeared behind the partition from time to time to examine the patients who he thought needed attention. And on coming out he would scribble his magic potion and off it went into the compounder’s cubicle to get made. It was as if time stood still in that place. From the time I could remember, Uncle still looked the same - his large frame, a balding head, a smile that could make a thousand suns seem small and a handshake that you could feel forever if he ever gave you one.

Everyone the good doctor treated left the place with a smile on his face. And he could talk almost every language you could think of. He was also the local advisor to a lot of people and often their friend, philosopher and guide. For us he had treated four generations of Sens - my grandfather, father, me and now my children. So he was the Uncle to me, that never grew old.

“Come in young man” his voice boomed. I slid in with him behind the partition and as he locked the door behind he said “So what brings you here Bill Gates?” My association with the software world invited this but I enjoyed the banter. “Well, cough. cold and fever. The Pujas are coming and I need to be up and running. So I need some of those magic shots!”

“Everything is instant quickfix for you guys - like instant coffee, instant noodles and instant success. Well, I guess I will give you one of my shots. Come on, collect them from my compounder.” he said. “Thanks and if you give me the formula for your magic potions, I guess I won’t have to come back again.” I said. He stopped and looked at me intently and then a slight grin broke out on his face “ You want to put me out of business young man?” he said. “Anyway, take the medicines I give and don’t miss a single dosage this time. You should be fine.”

I collected the medicines and made my way back home. My wife asked me about my visit and I let her know that the doctor said I would be fine. I finished dinner and it was time for bed - and yes the medicines. I reached for the medicines - as usual, four newspaper pellets neatly stacked and tied with a thread. I opened the first one. As I unwrapped the paper, much to my surprise I found no tablets or capsules inside. It was blank. There was a small piece of paper and it read “Exercise every day”. I smiled and opened and the second pellet. Again - nothing inside for the second dosage and another piece of paper read “Eat on time and Do not overeat.” And then the third one read “Get enough sleep.” and the fourth one read “Most Important - Slow down and Enjoy Life.”

I stared at the four pieces of paper dumbfounded and read them again and again. I knew that the good doctor had a great sense of humor and this was his way to get his message across. For all these years, whenever he met me or my wife, he always wanted me to exercise and get fitter, eat well and have a better lifestyle in general. But to me it was always “doctor talk”. But finally I guess tired of trying to get his message across he probably chose to do this in his own way.

I put away the four pieces of paper but each of those words were now etched in my mind. As I was leaving for office the next day, I saw him again and he waved to me from the distance and said in his booming voice “Are you taking my medicines? I gave you the secret of my magic potions son!” I waved back and smiled and said “Of course Uncle, I am already feeling better now and it is Mahalaya today!” “Happy Pujas “ he bellowed and threw a thumbs up sign my way.

It was Mahalaya again this Sunday and passing by his chamber my hand almost on instinct went up to wave at him. Only that the chamber now has been closed and the only thing that greets you are the steel shutters.

As I stood before his chamber thinking about him, it struck me that I had not been to a doctor for the entire year that went by. I remembered his last words on the magic potion “The key ingredient of the secret formula is the last one - Enjoy Life and Slow Down. You mess with this one and the other three also go out of balance.” As those words came back to me I almost felt that the shutters would open and he would be sitting there and bellowing “Happy Pujas.” And if the shutters did open all I wanted to say was “It is Mahalaya today Uncle and your secret really works.”

But sadly the shutters will never open with him there again. Last winter the doctor decided to leave us and the whole of Mori Road gathered to bid him his final farewell. Mori Road will never be the same again. It will always miss the good doctor but the secret of his magic lives on. Try it - you won’t be disappointed.

Happy Pujas.

The Post Office at Mori Road

noreply@blogger.com (LearningMate Times) — Mon, 15 Oct 2007 18:52:00 +0000

The post office in my lane still looks the same since the last forty years. For years, I had not visited the post office, though I used to be a frequent visitor once upon a time, when my grand father who was an avid writer of letters used to send me to buy him his supply of stamps, inland letters or post letters written by him every week.

The intensity of this activity used to be particularly high as Pujo (as in Durga Puja – referred to as Pujo by Bengalis) approached every year as he probably wrote to everyone he knew to wish them for Pujo. He also used to eagerly wait for the postman ringing our doorbell every afternoon for the reply to his letters. Over the years the postal department knew our address well enough and I remember those delivering letters to our address, simply on the basis of my grandpa’s name being written on the address line, although the rest of the address was often incomplete or incorrect.

That said, the postmen in the area also knew that Pujo was a big occasion for us Bengalis and always expected some special tips for their service every Pujo. And my grandfather obliged willingly. One of them even knew us personally as he was from West Bengal and was a Bengali. I knew him as Harekeshtoda. From Pujo tidings to my report card, Harekeshtoda delivered the good news and the bad news respectively. In the evenings, after his official duties, Harekeshtoda used to sit outside the post office and help people who could not read and write with their letters as a service and made some more money on the side.

It had been years since I had visited the post office. I think it must be more than twenty years. And I had even stopped noticing it over the years. It almost never existed for me on the street. In the age of email and technology I guess these old institutions fade away. Besides the post office today we have a brand new ATM on Mori Road. Another intervention of technology that we take for granted today.

On this morning, I was making my way to the ATM to replenish my depleted cash position. The ATM was getting its cash changeover done and I had to wait by the post office next door. The post office was dimly lit with two tube lights hanging precariously from the ceiling. The walls had lost their paint and now their plaster over the years and the betel leaf stains were even more visible than ever before splattered generously across the wall. The wooden counter across which the post office personnel sat still had that old world teak wood polish – the only sign of the glory of the olden days. A mesh separated the customer from the attendant as usual and you had to half bend and look at the attendant through the gap to strike up a conversation if you needed to. The post office had a unique old world smell and as I took that in, it was pure nostalgia. I ventured a little inside and saw men in Khaki milling around. As my eyes got adjusted to the darkness around, I heard a voice call out in Bengali “Chinte Parcho?” meaning “Can you recognize me?” I turned around and saw an ageing man, with a white shock of hair, his face creased with the first signs of old age setting in hobbling towards me. It took me a couple of seconds, but I recognized him in an instant “Harekeshtoda! What a surprise. You are still here?”. “Well I guess it will be a couple of years before I kick the bucket, young man, but I can still recognize you. These old eyes are still good” he said, peering through his thick glasses.

‘So, what brings you here? I have never seen you in years at the post office. ” he asked. To my embarrassment I told him that I had come to buy some stationery at the post office. His face lit up instantly and he offered to fetch me my stationery from the clerk across the counter. I bought an inland letter, two post cards and some stamps in a desperate cover up attempt. ‘It still looks the same” I said. “Nothing has changed, Harekeshtoda”. He suddenly looked a little sad, perhaps crestfallen. I think I touched a raw nerve. “You are right, nothing has changed, people have forgotten the art of letter writing, and no one writes letters nowadays. It is all about email. The olden days were different. I used to enjoy delivering letters and writing letters and helping people communicate. I knew instinctively if a letter contained good news or bad news. People used to wait for my ring on the doorbell. I have shared their happiness, tears, anxiety and boredom and knew many of them personally. The world outside has changed, but here it only gets darker every day.”

I tried to cheer him up. “Maybe the good thing that has happened is that your bag has got lighter with your age” I said. He smiled. “I don’t mind the bag as long as I had to deliver to people like your grandfather. They don’t make them like that anymore. I used to especially enjoy the time during the Pujo delivering letters to your house.” Pujo was around the corner and it was the day before Mahalaya. I wished him and his face lit up once again. “I am going home to be with my family. In fact, I am retiring and going back. My son is now grown up and married and has a baby boy. I am looking forward to being with my grandson. Just like your grandfather spent time with you. I am so happy I met you before going. I suppose we were destined to meet” he said.

He handed over the postal stationery to me. I shook his hand warmly and wished him the best and a happy Pujo. “Something for the kids” and he stuffed a fifty rupee note in my hands. I protested but he would not listen. “My turn to give back” he said. He smiled and this time it spread across his wrinkled face and that smile froze in time for me, for a second. I walked back, completely oblivious of the fact that I had to withdraw money from the ATM. I reached home and my wife asked me “What’s this? What have you got? Where is the money?” I fumbled and mumbled and produced a bunch of postal stationery much to her amusement. “I bought some stationery to write some letters. Tomorrow is Mahalaya. And here is fifty bucks to buy sweets for the children” I blurted. “I think you have completely lost it. You really need a break” she said.

The next morning while hearing the Chandi Path (the chant of the goddess Durga on Mahalaya) on tape, I noticed the postal stationery on the table. I reached for my pen and my blackberry beeped. There was email to read. But I am not giving up. I intend to complete that letter. At least it feels like old times again during Pujo.

Wish you all a happy Pujo.

The Lead Dancer

noreply@blogger.com (LearningMate Times) — Sun, 24 Sep 2006 16:29:00 +0000

It was immersion day and Lord Ganesha was making his way home. Mori Road was busy again. The drums were beating furiously, and the immersion processions began trickling in from early evening. From the time I was a kid big enough to peer over the balcony, I would stand transfixed and watch every procession and its idol making their way through the street. Nothing much has changed till date much to the amusement of my wife and I still stand transfixed on my balcony watching. Of course I have a companion now – my daughter. As the evening wore on as per tradition the smaller idols gave way to bigger ones and the revelry reached a crescendo. Mori Road was alive again. The street was lined with women, children, the young and the old. And, also a blind man.

He stood quietly by the sidewalk. What made him noticeable was that he carried a lot of garlands in his hands and as each procession made it’s way up the road, he hobbled into the middle of the procession and found his way to the idol and garland it. And he kept at this, walking up at regular intervals and garlanding the idols. At times he even clapped to the beat of the drums and joined the chants of “Ganpati Bappa Morya”. The crowds jostled around him and he got pushed around a bit, but he stood his ground.

“I hope he gets what he wants” I thought to myself. He must have garlanded close to twenty five idols and had one more to go. It was late evening now and I could see a fairly large idol and the procession approaching. The drums and cymbals were beating furiously and the lights of the procession lit up the whole street. A mass of heads and hands bobbing up and down in the air with the beat of the drums slowly made their way to the spot under my balcony. It looked like a grand carnival, with floats, turbaned dancers, firecrackers, and then the grand chariot on which the idol was placed. Truly majestic.

I was engrossed and taking it all in. As I waved to the revelers on the road, I noticed the blind man trying to make his way through this sea of people towards the idol. This was the last garland. He had his red and white stick but it was not of much use. He got pushed and shoved around a bit with all the frenzy. Then he stumbled and fell.

Well in our country it often takes someone to fall to get noticed. Someone from the crowd decided to act and started pushing the crowd away from the man. Eventually the larger crowd realized what had happened and gathered around to help the man to his feet. The drummers and the musicians also paused for the commotion to clear. As the man got to his feet he still held up that garland. People listened to him and helped him towards the chariot. Now the idol was really big and mounted pretty high. This was one idol that would be difficult to garland.

Some people helped him up onto the chariot. The rest of the crowd fell silent. They watched as the organizers tried to explain something to the man, but he seemed determined to garland the Lord. Slowly but surely they hoisted him up high enough to reach the necessary height. The priest in the meantime kept shouting directions to the man to get the alignment right for the garland to fall in place. I thought he would never make it. He was pretty unsteady and it had already been a good five minutes now. Then in one final effort he lunged forward and threw the garland across the last one foot he could not cover. And the crowd roared back and cheered in approval. The garland had found its spot.

The man was lowered carefully into the crowd and the drummers started beating the drums again. He was suddenly the hero and people patted his back and shook his hand. As he prepared to exit, some folks pulled him into the middle and began dancing around him. The rest of the crowd followed. He looked up at the heavens and smiled and then began clapping his hands and dancing with them. Someone took his red and white stick, put the procession flag on it and thrust it into his hands. The procession moved forward and I saw him disappear into the sea of heads and hands, the flag at the end of his stick bobbing up and down in the air. The blind man had joined the party and also become the flag bearer, leading Ganesha back home. I could not help smile and headed back to the dinner table.

I guess I made it back just in the nick of time. My wife had been waiting at the table for a while now and looked at me with amusement “What’s so funny? What’s that grin all about?” she said. I replied almost without thinking “You never know when you get invited to the party and when it is your day to lead the dance” This left her even more bewildered. “I think you are tired dear. Have your dinner and hit the bed. You’ll feel better soon.” I nodded in agreement though I wanted to say “It’s not me dear, it’s Mori Road that is strange.”

The pandal across the road is ready again. It is Mahalaya and it always feels good to know that Pujo is around the corner. I could hear the drums in the distance approaching and as the procession came into view, I could see the flags waving and a sea of hands and heads again bobbing up and down to the beat of the drums. I wondered who was leading this one.

I can’t wait to hear the dhak (traditional drums for Durga Puja in Bengal) on Shasthi (the sixth day of the Puja that marks the beginning of the celebrations in Bengal) now. Happy Pujo. I hope you get to party all through the year and if you get your chance to hold the flag and lead the dance, then grab that opportunity. It is probably your calling.

And if any of you want to know more then just come over for a cup of tea on my balcony overlooking the most interesting street in the city. I can assure you that you will not go back disappointed.

My Regrets, Mr. Lawrence.

noreply@blogger.com (LearningMate Times) — Fri, 07 Oct 2005 14:54:00 +0000

A hundred hands and heads bobbing up and down in unison to the beats of the drums, flags waving in the air and interspersed with the bursting of crackers – it was the evening before Mahalaya and the Mother Goddess was coming home under the blazing lights. It was the street urchins in the front, followed by the band, the men folk with bandanas on their head and then the women and children in their best attire. There was the local corporator, the owner of the local grocery store, the hardworking fisher folk, street urchins and the guys who hung out on the street corner doing nothing – all dancing to one single tune.

Mori Road was alive again and there could not have been a better welcome back home after a hard three months on the road across the western world. The idol placed on the mantle and with the midnight hour approaching the street fell silent again. This was the night of Mahalaya and like all Bengalis I adjusted my watch to set the alarm for a 4 AM wake up call to catch the chanting of the Chandi over All India Radio. The chant is the invocation of the Goddess and is quite an experience to just hear though I do not understand all that is said.

4 AM and I am fiddling with the knobs on my radio but cannot tune into the frequency. I try desperately for another half hour but no luck. I felt really sad as I had missed this last year also due to my travels and was keen to catch up this time. I strained to hear any faint note of the chant through all the static coming through but to no avail. I yanked the laptop out and connected to the net but all I got to hear was snippets of the chant from various sites. It was quite a let down. Disheartened I decided to call off my quest and headed back to bed.

However, I lay wide awake and my thoughts traveled westward, replaying all the images of the past three months. The English Bay at Vancouver, the Manhattan Heights, the London Underground - all started to became a blur after a while as I drifted in an out of consciousness. I thought I was dreaming as I heard a familiar tune play itself. It seemed clearly western. As it grew louder I became more conscious of my surroundings and stepped out on my balcony. A lone man from the band was playing the clarionet and the others were sitting around. To my amazement he was playing Beethoven’s ninth symphony – the Ode to Joy and playing it flawlessly. I almost wanted to pinch myself – here was a person from the local marriage band and playing one of the most popular western classics on a Mumbai Street in the middle of the night!

As he played his co--musicians joined him almost in a jamming session. The local street urchin across the road picked up a stick and waved it around as if conducting the orchestra. It was 6 AM and with the waving of his stick and the accompanying music as if on cue the sun rose and dawn broke on the eastern sky. It was Mahalaya.

Days ago while traveling through the London Underground I heard the tabla being played by a local Englishman in need for money. There are places in the underground earmarked for such people. I almost thought this to be magical and told my wife – you never know what you can expect in London. I wished I could wake her up to witness the magic at Mori Road.

While leaving Vancouver, our building manager Lawrence told me “I am sorry that we could not convince you to stay in Vancouver any longer”. While I shook his hand and thanked for all he had done, I wish I could have explained better. My regrets Mr. Lawrence. I wish you were here.

Santa at Mori Road

noreply@blogger.com (LearningMate Times) — Fri, 01 Jul 2005 09:55:00 +0000

A tug on my arm. The smile of the street urchin, his arms outstretched. Traffic, smoke, heat, footpath vendors, beggars, honking of cars, confusion and an endless mass of humanity headed in the same direction. Yes, if you are guessing, it is Mori Road again. It is Wednesday, the day of Navina (the concept being that if you go to Mahim church for nine consecutive Wednesdays you get what you wish for) and it is also Christmas! Everyone is headed to the Church down the road.

For years, I had not visited the Church down my lane though it is considered to be one of the most sacred places in Mumbai. But this year I deferred to the wishes of my wife, and so on Christmas morning instead of my customary practice of lazing about and dreaming of turkey and chicken, I was very much on my way to church. I fished for a coin in my pocket, almost toppled over with someone pushing me and then lost sight of the outstretched hand. All in a flash. My wife stopped to buy candles and flowers while I hopped, skipped and jumped across all the confusion and at last found myself at the gate of the church.

There was a long winding queue to the altar and we took our place. I paused to get my breath back, while my wife seemed as calm and composed as ever. The church choir began hymns in praise of the Lord seemed to settle life down a bit. I looked around. It was quite a colourful queue and the festive mood was very evident. As time passed, the confusion on the street outside waned away and I became quite oblivious of my surroundings. I was thinking of the year that went by. Collages of people, places and happennings.

A hand on my shoulder shook me out of my stupor. The Sardarji behind motioned me to step ahead as the line had moved on. Till now I had not noticed him. I stepped ahead hurriedly to catch up. I turned back and he smiled. He was a big man with a long flowing white beard and red turban. His face was creased with age but he stood tall. "Long line" he said. And we struck up a conversation. He was from Patiala, and was a cab driver in Mumbai. He had lived most of his life in Mumbai from the age of fifteen and spoke four languages including a litte bit of English. So as the line inched ahead, I stepped through the life and times of Sardarsaab, ignoring the inquisitive glances my wife kept throwing back at me. He had lived a fulfilling life, married off two daughters, had a son who had his own garage and they lived in Malad. In our exchange I told him that we were married this year and he winked at me and said "First Christmas?". I smiled in confirmation.

My curiosity by now got the better of me and I had to ask him. He was the only Sardar in the church. So I asked "Do you come here often?". Again that smile that stretched the creases on his forehead even more. He only came here every Christmas and had been doing this since the time children in his neighbourhood insisted on taking him for Santa Claus. Every Christmas it was his ritual to get dressed as Santa and spend the evening distributing goodies to the children. But he felt to do it with all his heart and be the real Santa he needed Lord Jesus to bless him. So he was here every year. Then he reacheed inside his pocket and pressed some candies into my hand. "Merry Christmas Mr Sen" he said. We had almost reached the altar. I lost track of him as I refocussed my attention to stay in step with my wife.

That evening we had a great dinner cooking at home. I lay back on my couch as the aroma of prawns swirled across my nostrils churining up a good appetite. We had a great dinner. My wife retired as I lazed about watching some TV. Star TV was doing the recap for the year - Parliament attack, Narendra Modi, Gujrat elections, celebreity scandals and the works. I was getting bored and prepared to retire too. My eyes then fell on the two peices of Candy that the Sardar had pressed into my palms. I opened and ate one of them. Well, he must be dancing and playing Santa to the kids in his neighbourhood by now. As the sugar candy melted in my mouth, I imagined that he would have made the perfect Santa with his big frame and long flowing beard. I looked at the other piece of candy. I tucked into my pocket for the night. When I was a kid my stockings used to be full of such candies. I would still love to beleive in Santa Claus. Who knows, he may have been standing in line behind me today. And don't you laugh!

Hope you guys have Santa tapping on your back and filling you with loads of fun in the year to come. As for me, I am going to church every Christmas from now. The two candies are worth it. Beleive me !!

The Magical Night

noreply@blogger.com (LearningMate Times) — Fri, 01 Jul 2005 09:24:00 +0000

Mori Road is busy again. Lights, sound and action. It is Mahalaya, the firstday of Navratri. Durga Puja is round the corner. It is time for celebration once more. I remember as kids we used to look forward to the Pujas and my mother used to march the entire family to the tailor and have us measured up. We used to make for a well-attired family by the time Shasthi (the firstday of Durga Puja) would dawn. From the time I was a kid the Puja grew on me and I became increasingly involved with the Puja. I just liked being therewith the wonderful form of Shakti in Godess Durga. This Mahalaya was a bit of a disappointment as my radio decided not to work and hence I spent mostof the time doing some useless introspecting in the wee hours of the morningwhen the Chandi Path is broadcast.

It had been one helluva of year. A true roller coaster ride. It zoomed past too fast I thought. But I guess in Mumbai every second person doing a bit of'introspection' would think the same. It was 4 am in the morning. I thoughtI meditated for some time and then found myself dozing a little. I was really dejected as this was the first time in many years that I would have missed hearing the chanting of the Chandi on Mahalaya. I decided a breath offresh air would do me a world of good and so strolled onto my balcony. The street was quiet and deserted. But it was lit with rows of little tunibulbs. The Pandal mandap was just across the road. Across the street, there was a small fragile rag picker rummaging the garbage can. I could see tha he had a slight limp. Also it was quite a sight to see him lugging a garbagesack that was bigger than him. A little further down the street the local electrician was working perched high up on his ladder. He was trying to fix a section of the lights that were not working. His ladder was rickety andshaky and he kept looking down tentatively now and then to make sure thatthe ladder would keep holding him up. A lone policeman sat on a stool nearthe pandal and watched the electrician work. He looked quite bored and Iguess was waiting for something more meaningful to happen to him.

As I watched, my mind still kept doing action replays for the year gone by.People, places and oh yes...my marriage!! Useless 'introspection' also brings out the half-baked philosopher in me. It is basically a crude attemptat reassuring myself that I still have some concern left for the world andsociety at large and dedicate a five-minute thought for what I can do with my life for the benefit of society, the downtrodden, the poor and do something more 'meaningful' with my life. Well five minutes must have passedpretty fast as I let out another big yawn and found myself thinking that the next day was a working day.

As I was about to turn back, I saw the electrician sway on his ladder. Something he was using fell from his hand. The policeman jumped up andstood. The rag picker also looked up at the electrician. The electrician at this point was trying his best to maintain his balance. It was rather dangerous. The policeman walked across the street and looked up at the ladder and the man perched on top. He then picked up the tool that had fallen down and gestured to the man on top. In the meantime the rag picker had also limped across. He took the tool from the policeman. As the policeman held the ladder together, the rag picker climbed a few rungs up the ladder and handed the tool to the electrician. He came down and also took hold of the ladder with the policeman. The ladder held steadier now.The electrician took the tool and worked on the wires. In a couple of minutes the entire street lit up. All three of them cheered. The electrician got down and thanked both of them. A lone man on a cycle was passing sellingcoffee/chai. There are a lot of them like that I guess in the city forpeople who need a filler in the night. The electrician stopped the cycle and all three of them had coffee/chai together and chatted. As the three strangers chatted animatedly I felt that they had found something in that lonely night. Was it the lights, or the chai or something else? Am not sure.Then both of them helped the rag picker lug his sack across the street. It was dawn and Mahalaya had begun.

I was happy that Pujo was here once again.It was time to celebrate. Another yawn. It was time to hit the bed again.Mori Road will be busy again for the next nine days.I wish all of you a very happy Durga Puja and as usual, my standing invitation to visit Mori Road and my balcony whenever you want to 'see' astreet. I am going to the tailor with my wife tomorrow to make it forShasthi. See you all.

The Barber Shop

noreply@blogger.com (LearningMate Times) — Fri, 01 Jul 2005 09:03:00 +0000

It was the Sunday before Mahalaya and it was my annual effort to makemyself look good. So I was sitting on the high chair of Popular Hair Saloon with the intention of having a good crop done, though with each passing yearthe crop on my head becomes an increasing challenge even for the best of barbers. So I restrict myself to a maximum of two hair cuts every year so that the barber has enough to harvest.

The months that had gone by had left me with little time to take a look at myself. So as Munnabhai (the barber) prepared his tools to work on me, I took a close look at myself in the mirror. The only proof that I had a decent disposition in my earlier years are my photographs and that is whatI use to usually convince my wife that she did not get such a raw deal after all. Well, except for a new hue of white and grey in my hair and my eyes sunk in a little deeper than usual (a la Marlon Brando), I still could identify traces from my erstwhile photographs still intact.

Munnabhai was back, scissors,comb et al. He stood despondently inspectingmy scalp - no head. I told him not to cut it too short. He looked even more amused. He pondered for some time and then decided to begin from the backof my head where he had maximum scope. Snip, Snip, Snip....he went. I decided to put him at ease, in an effort to reduce the risk of me looking like a disaster victim of a confused barber. So I struck up a conversation with him. The radio was playing Jagjit Singh numbers and that was the starting point. "Do you like Jagjit Singh ghazals?" I asked. Luckily I struck the right chord.

Munnabhai loved music and was from UP. He had come to Mumbai from his village in UP in search of livelihood. Like a million other people, Mumbai adopted him and he became a barber. And he was at this for the last eight years. He had worked in five star hotels and saloons as a "hairdresser"and then decided to strike it out on his own. But ended up here in PopularHair Saloon. Things did not work as planned. I felt a ray of hope when he toldme that his clients had been people like Govinda and Shah Rukh Khan. Ipointed to my head and asked him if he ever worked on Anupam Kher. He laughed in jest and told me not to worry. "Saab, a good man will always look good anda bad man will never look good - the barber cannot really do much. You seemto be a good man"

Well, I did not know what to make of that. Perhaps, he was telling me that the hair cut will not make much of a difference and I should live with it. So I asked "Are there not good looking bad men or bad looking good men?"He shot back " Why were you looking at yourself closely in the mirror? Unless you look good to yourself you will never believe that others will look at you in the same way. And to look good to yourself, you have to first feel good about yourself." Well, I had a philosopher barber but the man had a point I thought. He had finished with my hair cut and then asked me if he could massage my face. Maybe it would make me feel good he joked. I consented and according to him he cleaned out all the dirt from my face.

I thanked him and tipped him before I left. As I walked home I keptthinking about the conversation. I neared the gate of my house and saw the watchman dozing in broad daylight. I nudged him and he stood up in a half salute. Funnily enough I wished him good morning and asked him if he had a rough day. This was not certainly what he expected. He was taken aback and saidhe new born son was sick last night and he did not get sleep but now he was fine. I patted him and shook his hand wishing his son well. As I walkedoff I felt quite amused and elated. I bounded up the stairs and rang the bell. My wife opened the door and looked at me and half covered a smile "Well,you are really beaming this time. The barber really did a good job". That made my day and am beaming till now. So any of you want to see me "look good" catch me at the Puja soon. Am not sure how long this will last. But aslong as it lasts I am making merry. I am going to invite Munnabhai too.

I wish all of you a very Happy Puja.

Mahalaya in Manhattan

noreply@blogger.com (LearningMate Times) — Fri, 01 Jul 2005 08:55:00 +0000

This year has been a hectic year and I had been traveling for the almost two months out of the last three. So while there has been a lot happening at Mori Road – the magical lane in Mumbai where I live, I was not there to usher in Mahalaya – the first day of the Puja on the night of the 13th October. Usually I stay awake and listen to the chants of the Chandi – invoking the Supreme power in the form of Godess Durga on All India Radio. It is ritual that I rarely miss.

However, this time I was on the other side of the world at that time and rushing out of the airport at NY. It was six in the evening and NY was as aggressive as it could get. I managed to jump into a cab and headed for Manhattan. It had been a tiring tour the last two weeks before that. I was feeling exhausted and as the Manhattan skyline appeared on the horizon, I started to doze off. Usually the Puja is a time for intro-spection and when you are as far as in Manhattan rushing through thick traffic – you sometimes wonder why you are a part of such manic madness when the rest of the world was back home preparing for the Pujas.

From the time I was a kid I had never missed a single Puja and Mahalaya was a very special occasion as the family gathered around a little transistor in the dead of night to listen to the chants of the Chandi ushering in the festive season. That sense of excitement has never left me even as I have grown up and I guess for every Bengali Mahalaya ushers in the ten best days of his life in a given year. Any Bengali worth his salt is looking homeward and I was also thinking about getting home as I dozed off.

My cell phone rang and my wife was on the line. It was 4 am in Mumbai and she wished me happy Mahalaya. I could hear the radio play in the background and for my benefit my wife held the phone close to the radio and then I could catch the shlokas of the Chandi clearly. It felt great and for a fleeting moment the distance seemed irrelevant. I thanked my wife and was again conscious of NY and the thick traffic around me.

“Dada – East Bound traffic bhishon bhaari....shomoy laagbe” . I jumped out of my skin. This was chaste Bengali. My cab driver trying to explain to me that the eastbound traffic was thick and it would take more time. “Are you from Bengal?” I asked. Yes, he said. He was in NY for 22 years and had made a living out here. I told him it was Puja time and it was Mahalaya today. He missed his family back home, especially during the Pujas. It had been some years since he had been back home and longed to see the Pujas soon. Visiting the Puja in NY was no fun he said. His children who grew up in NY had never seen a good Puja and he was keen to take them back during Puja at least once. Since he came to NY as a young man, he wanted to go back and settle in his hometown every year after he had just managed to save enough. However, it was never enough and he was still here. He missed all of it – the pandal hopping, the dhak (drums), the fragrance of shiwli flowers, the evening arati – everything.

We turned into Seventh Avenue on Manhattan. Time had flown in chatting with him. This was Broadway (the theatre district) and up ahead was Times Square. Neon lights lit up the square with bill boards of Broadway theatres splattered in between. Bombay Dreams was playing. “If you are from Mumbai you should see this one” my cabbie said. “Don’t the neon lights at Times Square look like Kolkatta in Pujo?” I asked in return. My cabbie smiled. “Yes. But you thought I was from my Kolkatta?.” But of course I said. “Well, the name is Amin-Ur –Rehman and I am from Bangladesh – which is also Bengal. Pujo is also a big festival back there and this time it is even bigger – because the month of Ramzan accompanies it.”

We reached the 56th Street and my hotel. I got off the cab and paid him. He then extended his hand and wished me a very happy Pujo and told me that I was lucky to get back in time to catch Sasthi (the first day of worship). I wished him happy Ramzan and a great Pujo. I told him he was luckier than me. He could celebrate two festivals instead one. He smiled and retorted “So could you.! Take care”. I knew Mahalaya was here and Pujo had begun – albeit in a strange way, but there were miracles possible outside Mori Road also.

It is time to head back and try and find an answer to my cabbie friend. So I will be doing that the whole of next week. Happy Pujas to all of you.