For a change

The Bengalis called it “change” for short – meaning a change of weather and place. They’d say - “change e jacchi” – literally, going for a change (sic) - “Ektu jal, hawaa badal korey aashi”. So, in winters they’d move base to what was colloquially referred to as the “West” (Paschim) – small towns of Bihar (now Jharkahnd) - Deoghar, Madhupur, Hazaribagh, Ranchi – sometime even as far as Banaras. In summers – it would be to the sea-side of Puri or Gopalpur (Ganjam, Orissa) or to the hills in Darjeeling and Kalimpong. It was bit like the old colonial concept of shifting capital for summers or winters – or the European custom of heading out to the Riviera or the Alps. The self styled “aristocrats” had their summer or winter homes at those places. Others would rent a house or have long-stay arrangements at hotels ( the more “well-to-do” in places like the BNR in Puri or The Windamere in Darjeeling). Though we were nowhere as privileged – going on long vacations was still very much the norm even in ordinary middle-class homes.


So, I don’t remember ever going on a holiday that was less than - at least - a fortnight (something we can't even imagine in today's work-life)। Usually – my father would take leave in the period intervening between Durga Puja and Kali-Puja (Diwali). Quite often, we would travel to Allahabad – where my mother’s younger sister and her favourite cousin lived – and from there head-out in a larger group in another direction. Thus, we toured the Kumaon Hill circuit of Nainital-Ranikhet-Almora, the golden triangle of Agra-Jaipur-Delhi and, on another occasion, parts of Madhya Pradesh covering Khajuraho-Jabalpore.

These were not very organized or planned trips। Travelling in 2 or 3 jalopie-loads (squeezing in 6, sometimes 7 or 8 including children into the old Ambassadors and land-masters), it was like picnic on the road with its fair share of misadventures. Practically every second night we would have to find a new place to camp or pitch a virtual tent at a Circuit Houses, Forest / Dak Bunglows, PWD Rest-houses or the Guest House of a Government Undertaking – greasing the palms of the chowkidar or seeking the benefaction of the junior local officials – or at times make way into the Holiday Home of a company. Sometimes, we were lucky to be able to make use the house of someone distantly known through a relative or friend.

Deem-er Dalna and Dak Banglow Chicken Curry

Rarely did we have a cook accompanying us – so it was usually the women who had to swing into action no sooner had the luggage been dumped into the rooms. While the rice and dal (part of the dry ration and provisions that were carried) was put to boil – couple of the men would scurry to the market for vegetables (and, on a good day, country chicken - otherwise it was mostly eggs for “deem-er dalna” click here for recipe) and their evening’s quota of whiskey (Aristocrat and Black Knight being the preferred brands of those days) . Breakfast would almost always be of bread, boiled eggs and the mandatory banana for the kids. Lunch on the road would naturally have to be in Dhabas – but in towns we would get to ‘splurge’ at a ‘family restaurant’ ( the high points being Kwality’s or Jone Hing in Lucknow, the Niros or LMB in Jaipur – even tho’ the last mentioned was purely vegetarian – and the likes of them) or in the cafeteria of a Tourist Lodge. (For recipe of Dak Bunglow Chicken Curry Click here)


the original 'time-share'

But, there was also a second format of holidays that we followed. Every other year, we would choose just a single destination to go and drop anchor for a month or so. The choice of place would, per necessity, depend on the availability of someone’s house who was willing to let it out to us (usually for free – the ‘token’ reciprocation would be in the form of a dinner invitation at home on our return) . Coming to think of it – this was, perhaps, the older form of ‘time-share’ holidays.

Normally – 2 families (presumably, like minded and compatible) would travel together (3 were a crowd and too many variables to accommodate), as apart from providing the ‘social’ critical mass not only did the holiday economics worked out better as the ‘overheads’ could be split – but also the logistics due to the comfort of numbers. Besides, traveling in a group broke the monotony of long train journeys– often extending beyond 2 nights (tho’ air-fares must have been a fraction of what the ‘low cost airlines’ of today charge, it was not an option even for the most affluent).

On reaching the final station of rest, we would go about setting up a temporary home almost like new immigrants. Life would quickly fall in to a routine – be it the long walks in the mornings to the market at other end of town or the gentle trudge in the evenings to the Military Farm Dairy to get cream for the strawberries. We would very soon be on familiar terms with not just the local grocer and baker – but, at times, even the best tailor of the place from whom – for some inexplicable reason – my uncle decided to order a suit and had to make umpteen rounds to get the fit exactly right. In the process, the rest of us too – including the ladies - had some piece of winter clothing stitched from him. On the weekly trips for encashing Travellers’ Cheques ( as there were no Credit Cards or ATMs then) – the Bank Manager – would not only give us sight-seeing tips but also, occasionally, share little nuggets of gossip about celebrities who would come for escapades to some tranquil hide-outs in the vicinity. . Before long, it would be time to leave and we would go about bidding farewell with a promise to come back soon – which, at least for then, were meant genuinely.

Charing Cross in T Nagar

One such holiday – we had enjoyed a lot was in Ooty circa 1973. Took my father there – at the end of our trip to Wellington, Coonoor, earlier this month - after a gap of nearly 37 years. It wasn’t such a good idea – because, within 3 months of my Mother’s passing away, it only brought back for him a flood of old memories. We drove down Havelock Road to see the house where we had stayed (that belonged to a leading stevedore of Madras). It was now in shambles and a slum had sprung up around it. Shinkows – which, I believe, is not a patch of its old self - was shut for renovation. Among the old shops only Chellaram’s had retained some of its old character – Mohan’s was now like any other touristy shop at a hill station. Charing Cross could easily pass off as a junction in T Nagar, Chennai. Everything else – not surprisingly – had changed beyond recognition with the exception of a few tucked away secrets like the King’s Cliff. What we could manage for him was a panoramic photograph of Ooty shot in the 70s from Elk Hill mounted on the wall of the reception at the Ooty Club – which itself had stood still in time.

Amma

My mother - Jharna - passed away early last Friday morning (4th Dec) after a brief 5 day illness. She was diagnosed with Acute Myeloid Leukemia (AML) the previous Saturday - 28th Nov - which, incidentally, was their 50th Wedding Anniversary. She had no prior symptoms or indication. It would seem like, she was waiting for that day before declaring the close of her innings. I wouldn't know if it was out of sheer prescience that she had instructed us long ago not to plan any anniversary celebrations for them - saying that she'd rather use the money for some good cause later. She was all of 68.

By the grace of God, she didn't suffer too much and was lucid till the very end.Tho' in distress from a pulmonary infection that had set in, she was aware of every minute detail, talking (giving my father and Nina instructions on minor issues of the house-hold) and sometimes even joking with the doctors, monks (Swamis) and nuns (Mataji-s) of RKM who came to see her. She passed away in her sleep at 0100 AM. She had been admitted on Monday (30th) at the Ramakrishna Mission Seva Pratisthan (Shishu Mangal) on Lansdowne Road, Calcutta - a place of her own choosing.

Those of you - whose lives she had touched, would know that she wouldn't have liked to be mourned in her death. But, remembered for the happy times she shared with all of us.

For us life has changed permanently. But, I hope and pray that, she enjoys the same sense of peace and tranquility that was so characteristic of her, wherever she may find her abode of rest.

More on her....some other day....

Feather-weight erotica

I finally succumbed. Friends and family know that there are a few things in life that leave me helplessly weak-kneed. There are some temptations in life I can’t resist for too long. Buying books is just one of them. So ignoring the hype generated by the ‘inspired’ reviews in every magazine and newspaper (including – surprisingly – a high-brow business newspaper, which even carried an excerpt click here to read), I picked up from the new Delhi Airport Bookshop what’s been touted as the first ever anthology of Indian Erotic Writing - Electric Feather: The Tranquebar Book Of Erotic Stories by Ruchir Joshi, Tranquebar Books. In the foreword ‘Indian’ has been qualified as “Indian (South Asian) authors writing in English”.

On the flight, a colleague traveling with me quickly flicked the copy but was equally prompt in returning it when we got off the plane – saying, he didn’t wish to take it home and get the wife all worked up (no pun intended). My lady at home was characteristically nonchalant. "Don't take it along on the long trip ahead", she counselled explaining that she thought it may not be very conducive to my current physical condition, following the minor surgical procedure I had undergone a few months ago.

So, I had to wait till my return last week before taking up the book. I liked Ruchir Joshi’s introduction. Though his justification for doing such an anthology was a trifle convoluted (and, unnecessary I thought), what I found interesting was his account of the reactions he evinced from different established authors whom he had approached for contributing to the collection. But, honestly I couldn’t proceed beyond the first 2 pages of any story that I tried. Each one was more juvenile and puerile than the other. To me they were the print equivalent of the crude desi-porn movies shot with hand held movie cameras that we saw in our college days – courtesy some adventurous classmates who dared to raid their parents’ closets (those were before the days of camcorders and video parlours).


Vernacular Treasures

In contrast, I remembered some of the lovely erotic passages one has read in modern Bengali literature – the writings of Samaresh Basu, Buddhadev Bose, Buddhadev Guha, Sunil Gangopadhyay and so many others. I am quite sure there are similar works in other Indian languages with strong literary traditions – Tamil, Kannada, Oriya, Assamese and, 'oh-how-can-I-forget' – Marathi, living in Mumbai, or even in Hindi, rising above the stereo type of the sleazy paperbacks one sees lined on pavement book shops.

Recently, I remember watching a TV documentary on a developing cult in Tamil literature of erotic poetry being written by a band of young women poets (SheWrite, A film by Anjali Monteiro & K P Jayasankar click here). I wonder, how much richer the collection could have been – if it included translations of real authors writing in real Indian languages. Perhaps, Mr Joshi – educated in one of Calcutta's so called "English Medium" Schools, may not have been exposed to these facets of modern Indian literature (Or else, he may have mildly moderated his assertions such as "we in the subcontinent still live trapped in a cat’s cradle of taboos and repressions").

More interesting than the book, I believe, was the launch event. Read about it here. But, for me the only silver lining is that, there could be life beyond blogging. One can always turn to writing facile erotica.

One for the road...

There were some 30 of us from over 20 different countries spread widely across the 5 continents. The age group varied from early 30s to the late 50s – and I was clearly on the upper quartile. Almost a third of the group were women – though none of the kind to set my heart racing.

We were gathered at an ancient chateau (Bellinglise - it is said Joan of Arc was imprisoned here) converted to an inn – an hour’s drive north of Paris for a company training programme. Situated in the midst of thick woods - the setting was idyllic. The chateau lighted up in the evenings – with the moon reflecting on a lake – looked like an enchanted castle (read a poem of Alan Seeger dedicated to Bellinglise by clicking here).

Being a veteran of many such courses and conferences, I arrived with a small pouch of cynicism in my carry-on duffle bag. My misgivings didn’t turn out to be entirely unfounded – as the faculty came across as - at best - mediocre and the course contents also pretty elementary. But, I didn’t mind. The food was outstanding at every meal, the pace of the programme was relaxed and the schedule light – leaving enough free-time to do our own stuff be it going on long walks and cycling in the forest, soaking in the Japanese tub or simply hanging out at the open bar.

going 'solo'

By the end of the 3rd day a little boredom was beginning to set in. So, when we came to know that the penultimate afternoon has been set aside for ‘solo’ personal reflection by the participants – even the most laid-back amongst us thought it was becoming too much of a ‘time-pass’ and the facilitators were probably taking it a bit too easy.

There was no guideline or brief on what we were supposed to do in those 2 hours of solitary “retreat”. It was meant to be a period of free thinking on any subject – professional or personal – trying to cut off any extraneous thoughts or distractions. However, 3 conditions were stipulated. First, all of us had to leave our mobile phones and Blackberries behind. Second, we had to go it alone – unaccompanied by any of our course mates. And finally, we could chose any place inside or outside the chateau premises except that we were not allowed to go back to our own rooms – throwing cold water on what many of us were secretly contemplating.

breaking the mould

So we dispersed in different directions with our ‘Moleskin’ Notebooks in hand -somewhat skeptically. We saw Bob – from Edmonton, West Canada - heading out towards the Spa, Dimitri – the American-Greek - positioned himself beneath the large cypress tree and the 4 Koreans walked out in a group – chatting, blissfully ignoring the very specific instructions. Tony – our Chinese colleague – who was always half asleep with his persisting jet lag ambled across the drive way looking a bit disoriented and the Americans disappeared into the forest. I chose the lonely trail across the lake.

putting the pieces back together

We all strolled back in around teatime. The usual chatter that surrounds the mid-afternoon recess was missing. People weren’t pensive – but they were palpably quiet. Slowly we adjourned once more into our team rooms. There was a look of expectation on every face - about “what next?”, when Kris – our rakishly handsome and charming Flemish facilitator walked in. But, he was clearly far too seasoned to be drawn easily in to telling us where do we go from there. Wearing a beatific smile, he stared at us quizzically, waiting for one us to break the silence, which - by now – seemed almost ready to burst.

the melting moment

Burst it did and how. Don’t exactly remember who – it just could have been any one of us – suggested that, we could probably share our individual experiences with the group. This caused a virtual eruption around the room. It was as if our collective sensibilities had been assaulted, threatening to violate of our right to privacy. The individual reactions brought to the fore the cultural differences among us. Some were downright offended, others exuded a sense of outraged modesty. The French vehemently shook their heads in dissent; Tony asked “why ?” looking genuinely flummoxed; the girl from Romania got emotionally worked up; the Americans were more vocal – tho’ restrained - in their objections; the lone Korean in our team withdrew visibly further into a shell and the 2 of us South Asians didn’t seem to quite understand what the fuss was all about.

from stand-off to take-off

From the rumblings and murmurs it appeared that we were fast approaching a veritable 'stand-off' that was going to - almost ineveitably - end up in a churlish ‘walk-out’. But then, suddenly - came the moment of meltdown. I think it was Bob who took the lead and said that, he was comfortable about sharing his experience without revealing the details – as they were intimately personal. Soon the trickle became a flow and others followed – as if on cue.

Little wonder, each one’s journey was very different from the rest. But, there was no mistaking that - in our own way - each of us (the four-some Koreans included) had touched a deeper point of consciousness. The result may not have been 'life transforming' – but it had certainly brought home some significant realization – perhaps, disturbing for some – but nevertheless important. And, who knows – it could just be working away insidiously in the sub-conscious to bring about a change – hopefully positive, which we’ll only see much later in retrospect.

take home

In those 90 minutes or so, the atmosphere in the room changed as we discovered a new chemistry of trust and mutual respect between us. That evening the bar was less boisterous – but every one seemed to enjoy their drinks more and even the food at the dinner table tasted better, as did the wine. The women appeared much nicer too.

Looking back, even if this was just one thing we took back home, it made those 5 days very precious and memorable. For me the bigger lesson was, learning - be it in a course or in life - doesn’t always come from cramming but giving ourselves the time and space to reflect.

Anatomy of a gourmet

I think it was a character in John Le-Carre’s latest book – who calls herself a ‘water gourmet’. Can’t claim that ,despite my frequent attempts at alcohol sabbatical, I have reached that stage of ‘evolution’ yet - but, over the years I have come to appreciate more the virtues of aqua-pura.


good food and rude words

Till a few years back, I liked to believe that – I knew a little about food . But, now I am extremely careful and self-conscious while talking on food – even among friends - as practically every other person I meet considers himself or herself a ‘foodie’. Over the past few years, food columns have erupted all over in newspapers and magazines as, indeed, “Food Shows” are hogging prime time on TV. I don’t have the statistics, but I suspect that the maximum number of blogs are written on food. (There is a theory that, the less people cook at home – the more they like to read about food – explaining the booming sales of recipe books and the soaring popularity of TV Chefs like the late lamented Keith Floyd or our own desi-boy Sanjeev Kapur).

[You may call it synchronicity – but while I was writing this piece, I came across on a friend’s tweet the link to an essay written by Buddhadeb Bose on Bengali Cuisine and Food habits way back in the 70s. That’s what I call real food-writing (to read Bose’s full article click here).

One of the finest ‘food-writing’ by an Indian that I have come across is a series “Sukhadyo Subachan” by Pratap Kumar Roy that used to be carried many years ago in the Bengali newspaper AajKal – much before ‘foodies’ and ‘food columnists’ had become so ubiquitous. The pieces have later been compiled into a book called “Mahabhoj” – by Ananda publishers. Those amongst you who can read Bengali and are fans of the pretentious "Rude Food" writings of a celebrity editor, may like to browse thru the book if you can lay your hands on a copy somewhere].


Bruni or Belucci

When it comes to wines – I am quite an illiterate. My repertoire doesn’t go much beyond the Sula, Grover or Nasik Valley and I can hardly tell a Bourdeux from a Barolo - my preference for the latter has more to do with my fascination for Italian beauties like Monica Belucci ( not Carla Bruni tho’ – who to me is neither wholly Italian nor French ) than my love of Italian food. I fashionably dislike Californian wines (just as anything American) be it Napa or Sonoma and feign disdain for Australian Shiraz more as a mark of inverse racial snobbery, just as I praise Chilean vintages as an expression of ‘new world’ solidarity. But, in short – I know nothing about wines – except that the tannins in reds help me get rid of meat morsels from my cavities.

Till such time boot-legged JW Black Label reigned supreme at parties and Chivas was considered a rarity – reserved for special guests on occasions, I could hold forth with impunity on the merits of Islay Malts over their Spey-side brethrens. But not any more, since the Laphroigs and Lagavulins have invaded the living rooms of the yuppy set – who now look down upon the Glen sisters (..fiddich, …livet and …morangie) as passe and for whom the 'age' of Macallans' is only a number on the bottle. Belonging to a generation who grew up on ACP (Aristocrat Premium) and DSP (Directors’ Special) , when Peter Scot was the ultimate toast of social refinement – I, therefore, find ‘Single Origin’ Darjeeling Tea a much safer subject of party conversation. Tho’ hearing of the relative merits of a second - "flush" Makaibari over a Castleton many turn instinctively towards the mens’ room.

In Coffee – Coorg and Colombian were both ‘c’ words for me. Over time – I have learnt that there are a few more alphabets in between like B, J and K…. as in Brazil, Jamaica and Kenya . But, not much has ever happened to me over coffee.

As for Cheese, I don’t even wish to get started. Every time I have tried expound on the anthropology of Indian cheeses - and claim that, the Bandel Smoked Cheese and Kalimpong do indeed have indigenous roots - I have been snubbed short.

the last bastion of a retired parvenu

However, there is still one unclaimed territory remaining – over which I can claim some degree of proprietorship. I fancy myself as something of a massage (as distinct from ‘masseuse’) connoisseur.

I was probably initiated into the pleasures of a gentle oil rub soon after birth by the nurse, who used to subject me to a daily dose of olive oil treatment. But, my earliest memory of a wholesome massage go back to childhood – when we used to go for family weekend retreats to my maternal village home on the outskirts of Calcutta.

After breakfast – the men-folk (including the boys ) would line up in the courtyard with a thin and skimpy “gamccha” wrapped around their waists and would take turns to spread themselves on a mat – under the mellow winter sun. Sohan-lal – our good Chowkidar cum Care-taker of Bihari roots, who was a wrestler in his youth – would give each one of us a vigorous kneading with mustard oil – before pouring buckets of cold water over us straight from the deep-well (‘paat- kua) – while we rinsed ourselves with generous dollops of ‘khol’ (fresh mustard cake) brought from the nearby oil-mill for use as a natural body-scrub.

Though there are European forms of massage – such as the Swedish, I think massage is essentially an oriental art form. It is only in the East that we attach so much importance to the body in relation to the internal physical well-being of a person (referring to it as a ‘temple’ etc) given our more holistic approach to health (think of Aurveda, Yoga or Chinese Medicine with all its emphasis of Yin, Yang and ‘Qui’ - in the latter lies the origins of "cross-gender" massage). In the West, generally – the physique has more of an external connotation as a symbol of sexuality, as it were. Therefore – benefits of massage are not seen beyond ephedrine inducing muscle relaxation or, at best, sensual arousal.

of an ancient art and an ancient trade

In comparison, we give a greater stress on the therapeutic effects of massage. In the orient – I think there are essentially 2 broad systems of massage. The first based on acupressure along the meridians - such as Shiatsu- and the other that involves stretching of muscles and rotation of joints - as in Thai Massage – which, I consider to be something like, “passive yoga”. Variants such as the Balinese Massage combine a bit of both the systems – adding to it elements such as aroma-therapy, which appeals to the western tourist as well as help Spas charge an extra premium.

It took me a while to figure out – “Ancient Thai Massage” was not a reference to the “ancient” lady masseurs in Pat-pong Massage joints – but to the art form taught in Monasteries such as Wat-Po in Bangkok traditionally to blind people due to their heightened sense of touch.

Though Kerala Massage Parlors are sprouting like wild mushrooms everywhere – even up in the Himalayan Hill-stations – it’s not my kind of stuff. I don’t quite relish the veritable oil-bath with the masseurs’ hands running down in rapid motions along the slippery contours of the anatomy. Also, I am deeply skeptical of its much-professed medical benefits being really commensurate with the quantity of oil that is spent in the process.

But, at the end of the day – there is nothing like a good Hindustani Massage. Contrary to popular belief – a good North-Indian ‘maalish’ is not all about pounding, kneading and twisting. A well-trained masseur – usually from the barber (‘Nai’ or ‘Napit’) community – would know basic elements of osteopathy and physio-therapy and use it to r good effect for alleviating many minor ailments of the bones, muscles and, at times also, nerves.

My quest for a good massage has sometimes landed me into odd predicaments. No, not in the Sois of Sukhumvit – as you might jump to conclusion – but in strange places like the Circuit House in Bhedhaghat near Jabalpur, where we had gone to see the Marble Rocks and Duandhar Falls. Half-way through the session, the masseur ran away leaving me dripping in oil and shivering in the cold. I couldn’t even go for a bath as he hadn’t heated the oil on the wood-fired chullah. He returned only after an hour to say with a grin that he had gone off to watch the latest episode of the Ramayana, which ruled the air-waves on TV those days and brought the entire ‘cow-belt’ to a virtual stand-still every Sunday morning.