Abhik Dasgupta's Blog, page 4

When Stars descend on earth ..

Recently a best-selling author who also writes inspirational quotes for the youth had advised them on social media not to wait getting selected in jobs advertised on media, where landing a job is like winning a lottery; they should rather concentrate on building contacts, as maximum job selections in our country go through the route of personal referrals. He is absolutely right but I don't think he deserves accolades for actually pointing out the 'Jugaad' culture in executive language, the one we and our ancestors have been growing up with since Independence. But wait. Sometimes we Indians become emotional, particularly while watching Bollywood flicks and begin to question the system like the hero. It is then that these dazzling stars descend from the sky with tissue papers to console us and preach the legitimacy of the system. We let our brains to graze out in the grass and return back to our prejudices and beliefs once again viz. everything happens for a reason, we have to raise the power within ourselves to seek the impossible, hard work fetches rich dividends and blah. blah. Amongst the many avenues of online businesses that have opened up post - digitalization of India a remarkable one has been the ones launched by motivational speakers and inspirational gurus who make their incomes by posting videos on YouTube, like other lifestyle coaches. Though varying in the ways of approach and analysis of the problems the fundamental solution offered by all is the same. 'Acceptance of the system in entirety and finding ways to adapt to it'. 'Don't ever think of changing anyone, anything. You only need to change yourself', goes their mantra. These stars are not new, but over the ages they have only adapted and upgraded to reach to a wider audience; as the common people hypnotised by their stardom have forgotten to reason. They've been duped into disregarding the hardships, contributions and sacrifices of those who led to social and economic reforms, the fruits of which everyone continue to savour. If Raja Rammohan Roy would've accepted the prevailing hindu customs like others, sati, polygamy and child marriages couldn't have been eradicated. If Iswar Chandra Vidyasagar wouldn't have championed for women education and widow remarriage, the history of women liberation would've trailed many years behind . Many revolutionary scientific inventions/ discoveries had progressed through societal objections, protests and threats before they could see the light of the day. If software developers didn't think out of the box, streaming videos on internet wouldn't have been possible; the very basis of these life-changing (?) businesses. It's a pity though that the men who sacrificed their Iives for the welfare of masses are hardly remembered let alone becoming stars. Seeking temporary relief from the stresses intrinsic to life in a third-world country and the urge to run away from reality, live in a make-believe world is perhaps the reason why star worshipping has become a characteristic trait of every Indian. When rich people successful in different spheres of life from movie industry to sports, politics and business pose as persons living next doors in front of the camera and supports an idea, campaigns for a cause or endorses a product, how could the common people not be influenced ? This sort of mass hypnotism is utilized by the business houses in promoting their products/ services and political parties in procuring votes. The huge number of people who'd recently got a taste of digitalization and tempted to spend hours on social media fighting virtual wars are easy targets as their capability in accessing the usefulness of a product or efficiency of a political candidate rested in the number of likes, shares or views of posts pertaining to these products/ people. A survey by a news agency on facebook just before the recently concluded 17th Lok Sabha Elections revealed that few educated youths in the country are aware about the election process or basic knowledge of Civics. Sometimes the challenge while exercising the voting right lay in making a choice of the least worse of the candidates or pressing the NOTA button. But what the 'Chalta Hai' (fitting oneself into the system) attitude fails to realize is that amendments are always necessary in any system to make it work faultless over a period of time; like the games and apps which needs to be updated continuously to make them work effectively. And 72 years after independence is sufficient time elapsed to consider reform in the electoral processes, alike amendments in Constitution, articles/ sections of laws in our country. Since a child gets admitted to school, his/ her parents know very well that beginning with school admission they will now have to manage ( read 'Jugaad' ) their child's education for 15 or more years. It mattered little whether their wards were meritorious or duffers, but without knowing the right people or having enough bank balances so as to manage 'on the table' and 'under the table' negotiations well, their sons and daughters could never advance further in studies or make a niche for themselves in their careers, later on. Nevertheless a large section of the youth traveling to other countries in search of jobs speaks volumes about the nation's economic condition; let alone having to bear the brunt of the local unemployeds there. The matter becomes of utmost concern when the young generation gets misled into spreading hatred based on caste, creed or religious differences and their career ambitions take the backseat. The children of affluent parents then find it justifiable to squander their parents' money, daydream or engage in self-destructive activities; while the ones from lower socio-economic groups gets lured by the terrorist outfits over easy money. India's efforts in curbing trans-national terrorism to attract foreign investment, negotiate lower international trade rates and boost tourism industry in such circumstances would get further challenged due to the spurt in domestic terror breeding within the country itself. © 2019. All rights reserved.

Illness

Is it really necessary to speak my mind ? Won't you understand otherwise ? But why ? Does a flower proclaim itself to the world when it blooms ? Or seek being marveled at its fragrance ? Does the wind ever complain of not being acknowledged For carrying the fragrance of many springs Or for not having its existence felt with all your senses ? If I want to catch you Do I have to run after the wind now ? If spring pays me a visit Shall I have to ask her to wait in the attic Or tell her to come some other time Now that you're still to recover from your illness Now that you're still afraid to spread your wings ? © 2019. All rights reserved.

Chutki mashi

This was during those times when I stayed in my Mashibari (my maternal grandparents' house) in Kolkata. Many had made their temporary abode there, I had found, as my grandparents loved being in the company of people. There were distant relatives who had come for some purpose in Kolkata and desperately needed a place to put up at night, while there were some who simply poured in from nowhere. Besides my three aunts, Dadu-Dida (Grandfather-Grandmother) and myself there would always be three-four more people, all gracefully living in a two-roomed rented accommodation and the commotion would sometimes become unbearable. Amongst the guests, the ones I met the most when I came to stay there was this friend of an aunt who had married against their parents' wishes and it was in this house that the rituals of her Bowbhat and Phulsojja was done. I remember her husband to have gifted me an animated book which popped-up princes, fairies and palaces when opened, as a token of appreciation for my coming second in Class three; which I had treasured for a long time. This man went a long way in helping me get the initial break in my career after passing out of college. He belonged to a bonedi (aristocratic) brahmin family, which had abandoned him for marrying a lower caste kayastha girl. The story of his growing up alone, since the age of twenty-two from a deplorable unemployed lad to becoming the general manager of a reputed construction company is an inspiration for many. Suddenly one day a woman arrived at the house, all alone and since then a hush fell in the family. She was about twenty two to twenty-five years of age, dark-complexioned, with long hairs extending upto her knees, but the signature trait in her appearance, which I remember to this day was her plucked eyebrows above a pair of eyes which reflected compassion. I learnt she was the daughter of my Dida's childhood playmate in Bangladesh and hence another of my Mashi (mother's sister). Her name was Sandhya, but she being the youngest of my aunt's, I called her ChutkiMashi. She was very reticent in nature and when everyone would be jolly making, she'd sit secluded at a corner, ruminating. At that age, though most of the grown-up conversations would be held away from me lest I grow curious about them yet a few fleeting remarks like 'Arre o to or borer shathe thaktei parlo na ( She couldn't get along with her husband) .. 'Biyer por oirom ektu-adhtu shobaikei maniye nite hoy' ( Every girl has to make little sacrifices after marriage) about her wouldn't escape my ears. Did I meet her husband ever ? I asked. 'O Yes .. you have ', my mejomashi ( middle aunt) would say . 'Manas jamaibabu had once visited our home with a big hilsa fish, have you forgotten so soon ? 'I immediately remembered the bearded man more for his fish and few odd habits than being the husband of my aunt . I had never seen anyone walking into the house clad in a dhoti-kurta before, dangling a fish in hand, a pot of sweets in another; the scene being amusing for no obvious reason. When he squatted for his lunch, I found him starting with the meat and fish items (these were actually main courses); mixing both the curries with dal and other subzees , smearing his hand badly in the process. Long after he had left, there would be discussions about his eating habits followed by wrinkling of noses. During the little time he stayed, he hardly spoke and while having lunch when Dida asked him how he was doing or about Sandhya, waving a handfan all the time with the electric fan spinning at full speed above; he answered only in monosyllables. At that age it was hardly possible for me to guage the issues between a husband and wife, let aside understand what marriage was (other than being a necessary custom for a grown-up man and woman to stay together in a house other than their parents' and bring home babies blessed by God in a year or two); but that she didn't accompany her husband and later he didn't come to drop her at her aunt's house, appeared strange. Chutkimashi seldom went out of the house and when she did, she preferred to go alone. Where she went neither anybody knew nor had the courage to ask. But once out of sight the whisperings about her would return back. 'Teen bochor hoye gelo ekhono kol phanka'( already three years has passed since marriage and there's no good news yet) , I once heard my grandmother say about her, to which my mejomashi remarked, 'Odbhut meye ekta .. ei bhabe kotodin cholbe ? ( She's a peculiar girl .. how long does she think of carrying on like this ?) 'I'll have to talk with Samir .. God knows what happens to young girls, nowadays. In our times we too had issues, but we always had the greater picture of our families in our minds and trifles couldn't alter that picture' .. Dida retrospected. 'I tell you there's something wrong with that girl. If she didn't like Manas and had anyone else in her mind, she should've let us known before marriage. Now since I'm the matchmaker I'd be blamed' . Samir was Dida's jamaibabu , being the husband of her country sister; a man whom everyone feared and avoided due to his reserved nature and short temper. Since the demise of his wife a year after giving birth to their youngest son 'Shankha', he had retracted more into his shell and if it wouldn't have been for my grandparents, his eldest daughter could never have been married off in the traditional way. But then again, it had been just three years and the marriage had reached rock-bottom. 'Sandhya had inherited her father's nature ..' Dida reflected. 'I know how difficult it has been to bring up a daughter in the absence of a mother, particularly during those times when she needed her the most' But Chutkimashi always smiled and talked to me whenever I went up to her .. She would take my head in her lap and run her fingers through my hairs, telling me stories of the native place of her parents, the ones she had heard from her mother; much to the raising of eyebrows by others. Since she came to know about my fondness for rosogullas, she'd never stop fetching the sweets for me from the market through my mashis; while never failing to bring a potful home, the few times she went out to the market herself. I once gathered enough courage to ask her about Manas meshomoshai , though I had been warned by my other aunts. 'Why doesn't he come and stay with us for a couple of days ?' I thought she'd scold me, but she kissed my forehead instead and looked into my eyes. 'Your meshomoshai is not happy with me, babai. He finds fault with my family, my education, the colour of my skin .. there are many things you'll understand once you grow up .. don't bother yourself with these now .. do your studies well and be real educated .. ' As for me It was her duskiness I found to be most appealing .. the pair of affectionate eyes and plucked eyebrows complementing the colour of her skin; and I wondered how could Manas meshomoshai not find her to be beautiful. The house was undergoing civil maintenance work and there would be empty pans scattered hither-thither in the corridor abutting the kitchen, washrooms and rooms of other tenants ; requests to the landlord to get them arranged by the contractor in a corner having gone to deaf ears. Besides me there were other children of my age who could get hurt, the corridor being the primary area for playing hide and seek games. Perched on the wall bordering the pump room, I was enjoying sliced green mangoes dipped in blacksalt along with a friend, watching the construction workers; as Chutkimashi kept on lathering her hairs with shampoo in the washroom, the thick stream of white soap coming out of the waste water pipe smelling of shampoo bottles I had looked into so many times out of curiosity . For the first time I heard her humming a tune and I wondered whether it was from any hindi film I had watched at a neighbour's house. The TV was yet to make it's royal entry in the house and the radio blared news all the time, with my Dadu glued to it leaving us with no other option. Both of us started giggling watching the gamcha to have fallen off the head of a worker while mounting a pan of cement when suddenly I myself slipped down and fell. The next thing I remembered was a severe pain in my forehead and a stream of liquid flowing down my cheeks followed by a feeling of nausea. Then all of it happened within moments. A deafening shriek from my friend brought my aunt running from the washroom and taking me in her arms off she ran again unheeded of her wet sari and head wrapped in foam with my other aunts following suit. The family physician raised his brows upon examining me and immediately referred me to the nearest hospital, stating the case to be beyond his capacity. I still remember the doctor at the hospital asking me to be brave when he was about to sew my skin. My forehead had hit the edge of an iron pan on the ground when I fell from the wall. I had twelve stitches on my left eyebrow and had been spared of my eye closely, I learnt later on. 'You have brought the child at the right time. If it had been late, there could have been complications due to excessive loss of blood,' the doctor had stated. During the time the doctor attended me I could never miss another face beside him amongst the other worried ones, the one with the most compassionate pair of eyes in the world, looking down at me. Like a storm she had come, and so did she leave one day. When I came back for my summer holidays next time, Chutkimashi was gone. No matter how much I persisted in knowing her whereabouts, nobody would tell me. I started crying, appealing my aunts to take me to her for the last time, but they didn't know where she was staying presently. Later on when I grew up I learnt that she had eloped to Chennai with a man living near her parental house in Bongaon, who had a business there. Nobody kept track of her since then, including her own family. It was as if she didn't exist for them at all. Now that I know all the probable causes that could've led to her walking out of a relationship solemnised before so many relatives, friends and neighbours; I get inclined to asking myself what if she had stayed put, drinking her tears her entire life to honour her father's prestige, to stop people calling her names behind her back, being the good girl society had always wanted her to be, like many others ? Others might rebuke her for trying something out of the box, but to me she had been a brave woman indeed. His father would never have accepted a lower caste Namashudra as his son-in-law. After all everyone has a right to live their lives the way they want with dignity and self-respect and why should somebody be held in bad light for trying to do just that, only because she is a woman ? As to the question of how easily she could shower her affection on a boy of ten years who wasn't even her distant kin was something beyond my comprehension and it is perhaps the mysteries shrouded around a woman which will always attract me and hold her in divinity. Many would argue that taking a young boy to the hospital after an accident was a humanitarian act. But what they ignore is the fact that she was taking her bath when the incident occurred. At that moment her motherly instincts took precedence over the need to protect her modesty from the world and she didn't waste time in changing her clothes or wrap a towel around her head to prevent her embarrassment while walking down the road through a swarm of people. © 2019. All rights reserved.

Chameleons

Since my coming to stay in the building complex, I could never stop being marvelled at the dress sense of Ghoshbabu and Duttababu living in the apartments, next doors. Clad neatly in trendy suits and pants every morning, with ties peeping smartly from inside their coats; these two men resembled more of TV chat show anchors than clerks or accountants. Looking down to their feet what grabbed the attention instantly was their shoes with the pant cuffs resting on them in style; and it seemed they competed with each other regularly in making their footwear outshine the other. I had the opportunity of travelling with these polished, grave looking gentlemen in mini buses a few times and watch them speak in soft tones, over monosyllables of 'Hmm ..' 'Thik achay ' (It's OK) and 'Ami dekhchi byaparta office e giye ' (I'll surely look into the matter once I reach office) while keeping their mobile phones glued to their ears, gesturing the conductor with their hands to wait when he asked for their tickets. A little while ago before changing into the suited and booted attires, they were playing the kurta-pyjamas -chappals wearing middle-class bengali bargaining for a kilo of bhetki (Barramundi fish) or trying to reduce the price of pui saag (Malabar Spinach) by a rupee. The versatility with which they changed roles could've easily sent tollywood or bollywood directors running behind them with tempting offers to sign them for their films . Again when I found them in the shopping mall on Sundays wearing skin-fit jeans and pulling their T-shirts below their waists in a desperate bid to hide their potbellies, I immediately remembered the idiom 'When in Rome, be like a roman'. Whereas while buying vegetables and fishes they fought over the wide disparity in prices by citing all nearby markets and coming out victorious after reducing a few rupees, with airs of having won lotteries ; at the shopping mall they waited impatiently at the billing counters to sport a number of debit/ credit cards from their pockets, being the least bothered about the price tags of their chosen picks. I've found these men along with many others to manuovre the narrow road abutting our complex bustling with traffic, undeterred by the heaps of sand and stonechips spilling in round the year from the building constructions or water-logging following a spell of wet weather, like skilled gymnasts; and only to create furore during adda sessions, later on. Since young they've been taught and tamed to be like the cats who would eat fish but wouldn't like to wet their feet .. Even when lifts stopped working in our complex, leaving these fifty plus aged men with no other alternative but to brave out climbing up six floors' stairs, panting and holding their knees with grimace ; they would never complain to the authorities for the fear of being out of their good books. Each year after the budget session, they would whine about the unjustified increment of maintenance charges, but during the General meeting they'd keep mum. Both of these men continue to hold executive designations year after year, by some mysterious circumstances; without getting involved in any affairs of the association other than attending meetings in their typical suited-booted attires and engaging in sycophancy with the secretary and president. When they could get into the forefront of all affairs, how could they be left behind from cultural activities ? You'd find bookshelves in their flats with fat volumes of Tagore, Bankimchandra and Dickens gracefully sitting on them, to name a few; with pages hardly ever turned on. Come Poila Boishakh (Bengali New Year Day) or Rabindrajayanti (Rabindranath Tagore's birthday) and these people would lose no opportunity in organizing cultural fests and proving their oratory skills with pre-written speeches; while watching poem recitations, songs and dance performances sleepy-eyed, clapping and cheering up the performers like rehearsed acts of a play. Both Ghoshbabu and Duttababu owned cars but seldom took them out, except while going for shopping or dining out with their families. 'Just see how much the cost of diesel has gone up,' Duttababu would raise his eyebrows'. And they cleaned their vehicles themselves. Sunday mornings would find them in three-quarters shorts and T-Shirts going down under their cars. ' 'You won't believe how much the cleaner guy said he'd charge for this little job. It seems everyone is aiming at the middle-class' purses these days. From domestic gas .. ' Ghoshbabu would start voicing his grievances, sweating like a pig from the sweltering heat; his face and hands smeared with ink. 'The GDP growth has slowed down .. look at the price of rupee falling'. Only about two years back, I was surprised to hear him motivate people with 'Its being little gruelling on our parts, but this will be effective in the long run', while standing in queue for hours infront of a bank, in a bid to exchange a bunch of banned notes for equal sum of money. Each morning I find them waiting eagerly for their pool car and once they squeeze into the little space inside between thighs and elbows of office colleagues, they close their eyes to hide from onlookers' amused glances; ready for change in roles again. The change in governments can never affect the psyche of Ghoshbabus or Duttababus except their lifestyle . Earlier they rode in buses, minibuses and local trains happily; now they ride cars .. earlier they enjoyed watching films in local theatres, now they can't do without the PVRs .. earlier they found everything at the local markets, now they visit the shopping malls at the drop of a hat. But over the years they never stop criticizing the governments of failing to usher in industries, solve unemployment problems, rid the country of corruption and all those nationalistic stuff as a favourite pastime over cups of tea and cigarettes; all the time concerned actually about feathering their own nests. © 2019. All rights reserved.

The Indispensable Gift

I could never take to wearing the look of a perfect gentleman in my life unlike others; and the 'go-as-you-like' habit stayed with me even when I entered the corporate world after college. Later on my wife would never get tired in her endeavours of making myself fashionable in order to get along well in my life. Even if I could buy the idea of walking along my office corridor with several prying eyes measuring my shirts and trousers or my bosses trying to gauge the brand of my outfits during presentations; I simply found it difficult to understand how anyone's gaze could go down to my feet on the ground to watch my shoes yet avoid collision with passers-by at the same time. Little did I know that the importance of the most trivial of things would manifest itself upon me soon in such a harsh way so as to completely change my philosophy regarding fashion. I had to attend a training at our head office in Mumbai and had given in to my wife's pleadings of wrapping myself in trendy office wear at the last moment. I even went to the extent of carrying a number of pairs of shirts and trousers along with other essentials in a large sized suitcase, all for a one-day workshop; just in case I needed them. While returning back I had reservation in side lower berth of my train's compartment and hence was forced to watch shoes and slippers of every kind, besides taking in the stench from the toilets. People carrying pairs of additional slippers for a one-night journey appeared bizarre to me indeed. Not that a train compartment bustling with people was less stranger. Come every station and people have to buy something to eat or drink. While some would be brave enough to get down and fetch the teas, coffees and mineral water bottles themselves in the few seconds the train stopped; others preferred buying through the windows and needless to say, the side lower passengers had to bear the brunt. Often teas and curries would spill into the seats and the matter would be settled with a fleeting expression of 'Sorry' or sometimes even by the display of sixteen pairs of teeth. After completion of dinner when the cacophony of people chatting in various languages, clinking of utensils and laughter subsided and the lights were put off I tried to get some sleep, happy to be returning home soon. The next morning I made the awful discovery of having left my chappals at my hotel room and then looking under my seat I got the shock of my life. My newly purchased pair of BATA shoes, the only ones that had travelled with me to Mumbai was gone now and a shiver went down my spines upon realizing what that implied. I dreaded to imagine a thousand pairs of eyes watching me in my Van Heussen outfit, pulling an Aristocrat suitcase; while walking barefeet on the Howrah platform. More than the loss of my branded footwear, it was the embarrassment which bothered me. Leaving aside the initial inhibitions, I started looking below the seats hoping the shoes to have been displaced by the movement of feet, while explaining everyone how they had got stolen; all the time being bombarded by curious glances and suggestions from every quarter. One man, in his early forties swore to have seen my pair of shoes with the kids who came to clean clutter early that morning, after listening to the description. 'Run to the next compartment. They might not have got down yet and you can catch them red-handed.' Though well aware of the futility of the exercise, I ran with people tsk-tsking and giggling behind my back; but to no avail. Returning back to my compartment with a heavy heart, I asked some of the men who had sympathized with me a little while ago if they could lend me even their chappals, promising to courier their wares back the next moment upon reaching home. Some of them gave me a blank expression as an answer, while others looked away. During that one hour I found myself to have turned into a hopeless beggar, requesting for slippers in place of alms; as people warded me off blithely. I had accepted the inevitable in my mind when I asked a young man if he knew the nearest place in Howrah station where I could get a pair of slippers, immediately after getting down from the train. When he corroborated my fears of his ignorance, I took to my last resort, wondering why the idea hadn't struck me before. 'Will you sell me your chappal ?' I asked the man. He blinked his eyes and then gave a broad smile. 'You have lost your shoes, isn't it Dada ?.. Don't worry .. it happens .. here take my slippers .. though it is an old one but I think it will serve your purpose'. 'Could even winning a lottery have made me happier ?' I asked myself. I found the man to be a villager from his accent, but more than that I discovered something which brought my spirits up. I asked for his address but he denied. Out of courtesy I asked him if he had another pair of slippers with him to which he nodded. I knew that he was lying, as I had found only a pair of chappals lying beside the slippers he gave me; the best present I could've received from anyone at that time. Since that incident I always made it a point to sleep embracing my shoes wrapped in plastic while making a train journey; indifferent to prying eyes, giggles and brickbats thrown. After all, 'Juta hai to jahan hai' (If there are shoes, then there's the world), I reminded myself .. And yes, I took to grooming myself well everyday. © 2019. All rights reserved.

Mind

How long will you keep quiet ? How long will you keep me away ? The one who weaves garlands with emotions effortlessly On what pretext does she hide her heart now ? Just when my dinghi has left the shore And it's sails has started fluttering in the wind Why can't your flowers of jasmine Guide it to your bank ? Were those paper flowers then ? Speak to me, my mind .. speak to me You're not confined to any place or time Then why melt down in relationships to become clouds Why smear the sky with dream particles ? The traveler who waits at your doors Expecting to get drenched If you can't give him shelter Don't ward him away Let him keep awake rest of the night outside Like few dried leaves of poetry You're endless .. the ultimate Your heart can't be unaware of mine Why do I have to wait in hiding like a thief then ? For you to light up like a spark How long will you keep on acting to be cruel Through your insults .. indifferences Will you be able to convince yourself That you never ever loved me ? © 2019. All rights reserved

Waiting for Dawn

1. Staying awake throughout the night For your two forwarded words Not a word more nor one less Measured dialogues .. measured walks Measured nibbling .. measured sleep Measured laughter .. measured cries Only unrestrained vanity standing tall Like the great China wall You can't surrender No matter how much you try 2. Every night I wait eagerly to watch a storm But there are only sand storms now Rain evades me in the last moment If I think of getting some sleep at night The dreams would disturb me, I know Strange dreams without heads or tails The T20 between dreams and reality The futility of watching a fixed match But still I look out to see the moon And the sun in the morning Perhaps .. Maybe today .. © 2019. All rights reserved.

Living happily on credits

Generally during the first week of every month I found them. Those evenings while returning from work, my eyes would inadvertently move to the roadside grocery shop abuzzing with customers. They were mainly sexagenarian people, chatting and laughing amongst themselves while buying their household wares. Even in the few seconds it took me to pass by, my eyes didn't fail to recognize those bits of long, crumpled up pieces of paper they held in their hands which I was so familiar of. I wondered what caused these men to wait tirelessly in a crammed up space facing all adversities of weather round the year leaving a number of supermarkets nearby, where they could make their purchases in the comforts of large, centrally air-conditioned halls; with so many brands to choose from. Suddenly one day I discovered another shop adjacent to this one, selling similar goods. As I was wondering how I came to miss the shop and whether my eyes needed an immediate check-up, I found the shopkeeper sitting lazily at a corner with a sullen face, practically warding off flies. I couldn't wait much longer to unravel the mystery behind the state of affairs and stopped by for a packet of noodles, a bottle of soya sauce and few other things; the very next day. I found the man to be a silver-haired septuagenarian, wearing a thick pair of spectacles and slow in reading labels and movement; as could be expected of his age. As he packed the items with utmost care after brushing off the dust gathered from their staying on the shelves for long; I took the man to a side and out of the corner of my eye saw the other shop. He immediately sensed my mind and nodded gravely. 'All sales are on credit Dada .. Not a single customer pays immediately. They keep on making interim payments as they pleased and desist finalization of their dues till 'Poila Boishakh' (Bengali New Year day), when new accounts are created. Since I don't give credit, customers don't flock at my shop. Just tell me, why should I ? Do I sell inferior/ outdated commodities or charge exorbitantly ? The shopping malls offer discounts only for bulk purchases, whereas we allow whatever is possible on retails, keeping a little margin; but people are simply not willing to buy with full down payment. 'But doesn't such low sales affect your business ? I tried to sound involved as a way of courtesy, now that the mystery of 'overflowing crowd at the grocery shop' came to light. 'My son goes out with sarees and dresses regularly; squats on the pavements in Gariahat. My wife does some knitting jobs of women's apparel .. we manage somehow. The new taxation rules have made lives difficult for small businesses like us .. and allowing credit sales on top of that .. Earlier I too used to .. But now my grandchildren are growing. You must be aware how costlier everything has become now. Don't know how long would I be able to run the shop ..' the old man unfolded his story in a single breath. This incident made me ponder over the growing trend in credit shopping. Unlike earlier times when owning posh apartments in the city or four-wheelers was considered to be elitist whims and fancies; now they are available on EMI. From trendy smartphones, laptops and other gadgets to fridge, TV, washing machine .. everything can be acquired on credit .. many with 0% interest loans. Those who had earlier watched these indulgences of a group of people with longing are now in raptures over the opportunity to flaunt an aura of fake affluence around them. Recently, while on a rickshaw ride on my way to work, the rickshawpuller was telling me the story of his family's struggles in making ends meet, since their exodus from Bangladesh; post-partition. But unlike himself he wanted his only son to get established in life and left no stone unturned in looking after his nutrition and education. With little savings from his earlier income pulling a hired rickshaw, he has recently bought his own, the one I was riding on. Now his son studying in first year of college has demanded a motorbike from his father and he was adamant! Anyway .. buying flat, TV, motorbike on credit can still be understood, but groceries ? Only the other day my wife sent me on an errand in the evening. Upon finding the grocery shop of the good old man closed, I was just about to step inside the adjacent shop when I found myself to have stepped on someone's toes. A fierce scowl and clenching of teeth followed inevitably with 'Dada ektu dekhe cholun ' (Hey, watch your feet man, will you ?), despite my rueful grin, and I wished the man had rather trampled back on my foot in order to settle the score. Just when I had reached the counter after standing for about an hour in the queue, I found a pair of tiny hands brushing past my trousers. 'Give me an egg, half a kilo potatoes and quarter kilo onions Uncle'. No sooner had the shopkeeper complied with the young boy's request, after jotting down the items and amounts in a diary than a married woman wearing an orange coloured sindoor in her hair parting and clinking glass bangles arrived from nowhere , followed by few other bhadralok (Gentlemen) and bhadramohila (Ladies). I could recognize some of them to be living in the apartments abutting the road. They took out lists and waited with endless patience till they were handed over their wares and their transactions noted down in the diary. Upon asking the middle-aged, ever smiley shopkeeper why this undue preference to customers who bought on credit, the man showed his yellow, beetel stained teeth. 'You rarely visit my shop Dada .. but these are my old, loyal customers. How can I anger them ? © 2019. All rights reserved.

Mask

Today we are passing through a difficult phase in the history of human civilization . The lure of materialistic comforts are slowly causing degradation in moral values. I know many of you will wrinkle your noses after reading these two lines. Those who're into the habit of going with the tide will argue that now is the best time for living life to the full . 'Eat, drink and be merry' is their mantra. However those of us serious in realizing our ambitions often forget to sit back and enjoy life. Then again when we fail we go deep in frustration. We fail to realize that happiness is a state of mind, not a commodity which can be purchased at the tap of a button. Today we are passing through a difficult phase in the history of human civilization . The lure of materialistic comforts are slowly causing degradation in moral values. I know many of you will wrinkle your noses after reading these two lines. Those who're into the habit of going with the tide will argue that now is the best time for living life to the full . 'Eat, drink and be merry' is their mantra. However those of us serious in realizing our ambitions often forget to sit back and enjoy life. Then again when we fail we go deep in frustration. We fail to realize that happiness is a state of mind, not a commodity which can be purchased at the tap of a button. Today we are passing through a difficult phase in the history of human civilization . The lure of materialistic comforts are slowly causing degradation in moral values. I know many of you will wrinkle your noses after reading these two lines. Those who're into the habit of going with the tide will argue that now is the best time for living life to the full . 'Eat, drink and be merry' is their mantra. However those of us serious in realizing our ambitions often forget to sit back and enjoy life. Then again when we fail we go deep in frustration. We fail to realize that happiness is a state of mind, not a commodity which can be purchased at the tap of a button. Being brought up in such a fast-paced environment we're geared into seeking everything instantly .From the recharge of our mobile phones .. booking movie tickets .. learning courses .. procuring a job to getting established in life .. we don't have the patience for waiting to get the product/ services of our choice from many sequential routes other than directly from a single shop window. We don't want to go through the hassles of making mistakes .. try different avenues .. learn and grow. In other words we all want to be Mr. & Mrs. Perfect without working hard. But we've not always believed in this lifestyle. The consumerist society decides what we should hear, see, wear and buy, according to the needs of industries. The effects has not just been limited to our lifestyles, but has extended to our relationships as well. Today without buying rich presents for our girlfriends/ boyfriends on Valentine's Day or for our spouses on their birthdays/ wedding anniversaries, our love remains unconvinced. Our houses remain susceptible to negative energies if we don't buy gold/silver coins on Dhanteras; Many businesses have evolved/ are flourishing today, cashing in on our emotions .. relationships. Our choices are influenced by media advertisements and we're hardly able to compare and decide upon them logically. Then there are canvassers and influencers, who paint rosy pictures in order to sell an idea/ way of life which actually caters to certain products/ businesses. They come under many guises .. Babas, motivational speakers, even friends. The idea has become only to market and sell just anything under the sun in order to generate revenues .. ethics doesn't matter anymore .Like the saying goes 'A good salesman sells ice even to an Eskimo' THE POEM 1 'How are you ?' I ask him like old times .. And find a mimicked smile staring at me A mocking remembrance of a civilization .. That once had heartbeats .. Now only the putrid smell of death fills the skies Since when have you last enjoyed A rain drenched afternoon .. Soaked in warm remembrances ? When was the last time you hugged someone tight .. And melted into a sea of truth .. faith and surrender ? The days when happiness knew no bounds of hearts Or human sufferings brought tears to your eyes ? 2 Once there were men who used to sing .. write .. play Those who weaved dreams of revolution They've become nautch dancers now .. Monarchy smiles .. Class .. Religion .. Caste .. Gender The divisions never fail to fetch dividends .. The promises of socio-economic reforms The sickles have blunted since long Now only wines flow instead of our blood .. Our crumpled up cries die inside our throats 3 The sound of machine guns silences the sounds of hunger now Drums and bugles announces lie after lie As each new Sun dawns .. They check them out to fit their faces well Watch the 'Sold Out' tag tied to their collars with pride .. Stooping low to the brink of humanity to please their masters Who sold their hearts to become rich Our love .. sorrows .. hopes .. self- respect .. All have become commodities now Our lives are stolen in the guise of friendship .. 4 Once they held promises of paradise Your scent had mixed with my sweat and blood then When I try to find shelter in your breasts now .. The stench becomes overpowering again Your love could've made me a martyr .. Why did you turn into an ambitious river ? Your banks having been inundated .. Where on earth can I close my eyes in peace now ? 5 I know the thing wouldn't spare me even The more I try to tear it off .. It presses tight along the contours of my face .. I can feel it's pressure on my lips .. cheeks 'Accept .. Obey .. Adapt .. Smile .. You're no different' It hisses into my ears No .. No .. No .. I protest My eyes are blindfolded into seeing only happiness .. Wiping out the tears .. and everything that is discordant I can't breathe .. the stench is so overwhelming .. I want to scream my lungs out and let the world know I'm not happy, and I can't pretend to be I look out of my window and find a procession of mimics .. People without eyes .. ears .. mouths .. brains .. feelings Marching past in a pack to the tune of ruler's anthem © 2019. All rights reserved.

The Great Art of Shopping

I don't know how many of you will agree with me but the experiences of buying vegetables from the local market at some time in our lives went a long way in development of our career skills in marketing and negotiations later on. In our family, my father never trusted anyone with that job. Even when we had grown up and started going to college, we didn't qualify for it. We all knew that he loved to linger in the market place; chatting with the vendors, comparing the vegetables, varieties of fish sold and checking them out well before buying. Often the daily consumables would become abundant in our house and my mother would complain. At other times when there were guests, she would suddenly remember the coconut necessary for the 'chingri malaicurry' (shrimps prepared in a paste of mustard, poppy seeds and coconut) or 'chana dal' for 'dhokar dalna ' (lentil curry); eying the contents of the upturned bag and father would lose no time in running back to the market again and again. Later on in my life when I was required to visit the market regularly, I would simply place the list prepared by my wife before the vendors, entrusting them with all the duties of scrutinizing and selection; leaving me to just carry the stuff home. It has been years and hardly had I been duped in quality, rate or weight as all the sellers were familiar faces; but try how much as I might I couldn't take to doing the job earnestly. My wife turned out to be no less a shopaholic than my father. I can hardly forget my ordeal at 'Big Bazaar' the first Sunday of every month. Holding the list in her hand with elan, my wife would move around the stacks; now picking up a bottle of pickle, the next moment putting back that tin of fruit juice; as I trailed behind languidly, pushing the trolley . It would be hours before I'd find my cart to be spilling with bottles, tins and cardboard boxes of all colours and sizes; my brain initially trying to register the moving in and out of commodities, now convinced of the futility of it. When we'd finally head over towards the billing counters at last, my wife would let out a scream. 'Oh God, we forgot the rice and wheat!' It goes without saying that I'd be the one to be blamed. There would be no point in arguing that it was she who prepared the list and had warned me not to poke my nose into her shopping, save only keeping watch of the stuff; which I had diligently followed. I dreaded the idea of going out for shopping with her due to two reasons; the first being the great deal of pottering it involved, while the second was the extent of haggling with the prices, wherever it was feasible. When it came to buying churidaars or kurtis for her daily use, my wife preferred Gariahat; the place which offered the choicest range of women's apparel in the city at throwaway prices. Upon reaching the location, she would lose no time in getting into business; pushing through the crowd with renewed vigour, unheeded of the peddlars' banterings and eyes fixed on the wares displayed on the ground; leaving me to follow suit . After she'd made her choice, sifting through almost all the stock in the area and the seller had declared the final price, she'd start arguing to reduce it to an amount which would be generally one third of the offer price. The dresses would be taken away and put back on stand immediately and the seller would return to other customers, signalling his indifference to the bargain; but the moment we'd turn back he'd cajole her with 'Didi ar kurita taka deben' (give twenty bucks more please Madam) and the bargain would be struck at ten more than what she had willed to pay. It was still a relief If the deal ended that way. Otherwise, we would have to hang around his shop, pretending to be checking out wares of other peddlars; waiting eagerly to hear him call us back or in the worst circumstances volunteer to buy the clothes at his price, shedding all inhibitions. Even if the bargain struck would be the best as claimed by my wife it certainly wasn't worth the time and energy spent; but who'd explain that to her ? Many times I'd tend to lose my patience, particularly when the shopkeeper sneered with 'Dada apnara ektu age dekhe gelen (You had checked with my shop a little while ago) or would remark offensively 'You won't be able to buy it at your budget.' My wife would appear unaffected. If she liked a dress, both of us knew she'd buy it in the end and if not she'd move on but not before taking it out with the man. 'Don't teach me. I know you mark your stuff at four to five times the price you buy them from the factory outlets and all of them are defective'. And then ushering me to come along she'd dash away muttering, 'Come, there are no dearth of shops here', leaving the astounded shop owner shouting ' Just show me one defective piece Didi and I promise I'll give it for free ' It would be almost three hours since our meandering around the streets of Gariahat and the exercise was such back-breaking, literally speaking; that everytime I felt like squatting on the pavement. Sensing my trauma she'd finally call it a day and we'd return home after buying a few trivial things like handkerchiefs and kitchen towels but not before letting her resolution of coming alone a second time known. 'Shopping is certainly not the cup of tea of men who lack patience or the flair for bargaining,' she'd tease, feigning seriousness. (DISCLAIMER : This article is intended to bring a smile to your face. Any connection to places, events, businesses and characters in real life is coincidental.) © 2019. All rights reserved.