Kaberi Dutta Chatterjee's Blog: Life and Laughter, page 13

The day I got lost…

It was quite a few moons back… maybe decades…I don’t remember, it doesn’t matter.

Exasperated with what life had to offer me then, I deposited my three-yr-old son on the lap of my responsibility-ducking husband and went off for a camping trip with people I didn’t know. It doesn’t matter who they were. It was a three-day tour into the interiors of Purulia forest, in India, where the only sounds were the swishing of the dry leaves, the only light was the light of the moon and the only food was what we cooked on fire. We slept inside tents and went for toilet deep inside the forests with a stick and a torch. It was wild nature at its rustic best deprived of any trace of human civilization.

This is the time when I started shedding my shackles of bonding one by one. First it was a relief to become just a woman, not a 24X7 mom… Then the terms “man and woman” merged in the face of nature and I became just a “human”, with no name and no identity. I was not anyone’s mom, wife, daughter, friend, journalist or writer. I lost all identity. I was nobody. Then, with the passage of a day, I had merged completely with nature and had no body, no existence… had become just a soul.

I was soon just a part of nature, an insignificant part of creation… another one like a bird, a flower, a leaf or a blade of grass. I had become one with them.

I left the camp members the last day at dawn and decided to get lost. I walked over brooks and dry leaves through the forest, unarmed and barefooted. It didn’t even matter if I didn’t have clothing on. I was way beyond civilization.

I walked for miles in the dawn and climbed a small hill. I sat down on top of the hill, watching the rays of the sun come up. The birds chirped around me, squirrels scampered around, I felt at peace and sat down beside a tree. That’s when I started to cry. I don’t know why I cried… but I howled and cried aloud. And I decided never to go back. I decided to get lost.

Then suddenly something happened. A three-year-old baby’s face appeared from nowhere, stretching out his arms at me…. “Maaaa….”

I wiped my tears. And stood up. I had to go back. I retraced my steps and here I am, today.

But I have walked with my soul.

I am not afraid to go back.

Filed under: Serious matter

Kamakhya Yoni!! You knew about it?

I know I’ll probably lose a lot of friends with this post, since I am technically in that age group when I’m supposed to be religious.

But I am not. That’s besides the point. But I never stepped onto the zones of those who are religious (Hindus, this time) and post numerous photos of gods and goddesses on their social media, whatsapp, etc and have ignored them. I don’t respect the ardent public display of affection about their choice of religion and their way of worship. But never spoke about it. I have seen hardcore realists and journalists by the night, murmur a few inane Sanskrit word which  they do not comprehend, by the day, during worship at home.

It was all fine. I was having a gala time watching all that. Till today.

When I saw someone share a picture of Kamakhya Goddess’s ‘Yoni’ and asked everyone to share that so that they can see a miracle in their lives in a few days. I never share, and I never have any miracles. That’s again another topic.

But what is ‘Yoni’?

Do you know what is ‘Yoni’?

I didn’t know what is ‘Yoni’.

On research I learned it’s not just the female organ in its complete form, it’s a ‘bleeding female organ’!! Look at the picture. It’s a female organ, with blood-like things running down like a river. 

The Kamakhya temple is dedicated to the tantric goddesses. Apart from the deity Kamakhya Devi, compound of the temple houses 10 other avatars of Kali namely Dhumavati, Matangi, Bagola, Tara, Kamala, Bhairavi, Chinnamasta, Bhuvaneshwari and Tripuara Sundari. There is no statue, idol or image of Devi in the temple, but in the corner of the cave in the temple, there is sculptured image of the yoni or Vagina of the goddess, which is the object of worship and reverence. (Source: http://www.reckontalk.com) Kamakhya is supposed to be a very ‘jagrata devi’ (With life, and listens to all your problems, gives you your desire.)

Goddess sculpture in the Kamakhya temple

 

The last I heard was about Shiv Ling. Hindus had forever worshipped Shiv Ling (The penis of God Shiv) for a very long time.

Why Shiva is Worshiped in His Phallic Form:

Once Brahma and Vishnu, two deities of the holy Trinity, had an argument. Brahma being the Creator of the world declared himself to be revered, while Vishnu, the Preserver, argued that he commanded more respect. A colossal Lingam which was the Jyotirlinga appeared before them. Both were awestruck by its increasing size. They both forgot the quarrel and decided to determine its size. Vishnu took the form of a boar and went to netherworld and Brahma swan flew to skies. Both the deities failed to accomplish the task. Then, Shiva appeared out of the Lingam and stated that he was the progenitor and should be worship in his phallic form and not in his anthropomorphic form. Shiva Lingas are made of stone and are carved or naturally existing. They are made of metal, gems, wood, precious stones and transitory materials such as ice.

(Source: http://www.Hindutva.info)

My fingers shake to type this… but dear Hindus. Do you really have a dearth of Gods that you now have to worship their sexual organs? You don’t consider it abnormal bordering on perversion to apply vermilion on the above statue’s vagina??? And how long had been doing this? And how many of you KNOW what you were worshiping???

We blame the Muslims for their tyrannical ways. We blame Christians for being too fundamentalists. And we Hindus are just a culture, a harmless way of life, that many, many people are adopting. I had been in splits once when a Muslim friend asked me as I related the tales of Goddess Durga to him: “Aaap saap ko bhi pujte hain? Kamaaal hain!” (You worship snakes too? Terrific!)

But this shakes me up. Where are we going with our Hindu religion? Who told you you could worship a woman’s vagina, a blood-filled vagina. Who gave you the right to do so? And do you know, that a real woman who is having her periods is not allowed to visit the temple?

The temple of Kamakhya as in all Hindu ‘Mythology’ has a very interesting story of its origin. It is one of the 108 Shakti peeths. The story of the Shakti peeths goes like this; once Sati fought with her husband Shiva to attend her father’s great yagna. Despite her husband Lord Shiva’s disapproval, Sati had gone to attend the universal ‘yajna’ organised by her father Daksha. Shiva was not invited, and was also abused by Daksha. Unable to bear the insult, Sati committed suicide. When Shiva came to know that his beloved wife had committed suicide, he went insane with rage. He placed Sati’s dead body on his shoulders and did the Tandav or dance of destruction.

To calm him down, Vishnu cut the dead body with his chakra. The 108 places where Sati’s body parts fell are called Shakti peeths. Kamakhya temple is special because Sati’s womb and vagina fell here.

Okay. That’s a mythology, and interesting story to tell to children. Even I had heard about it. But, are you serious? I mean, do you even think what you are doing in your adult days? You are BELIEVING in that child’s tale!

Who told you that a part of Goddess Kamakhya fell wherever it did and that happened to be her vagina? Who gave you the right to worship a vagina when you’ve been raping them for years? If not on the road, in your bedroom. If Goddess Kamakhya had been really existing, do you think, as a woman she would have liked this? Her vagina on display?

Think, darlings think. Before blindly following what these maniacal tantriks tell you to do. For Islam, we blame the jihadists to corrupt their minds. For  other religions we blame on the fundamentalists. What do you think these purohits and tantriks doing to you?

Wake up, Hindus.

And one more thing. I am speaking from first-hand experience. I’ve been with a tantrik for long enough that he wanted to be there with him for Kalipuja. (Do I elaborate HOW? rolls eyes) I have done my share of planchette and talked with ghosts (whatever…). I’ve been to scores of astrologers to know they only talk with your weak mind. And I have walked away strong knowing that our destiny is what we make it, with perhaps the aid of science, technology, our skills, money and hard work, in that order. We reach where we want to. God may be there. I haven’t turned an atheist yet, but he’s certainly not looking into why Sam pulled Tommy’s hair yesterday and trying to spew a punishment for Sam. He has a Universe to run. We are just microscopic dust in a tiny green ball, that has been very luckily placed in the Goldilocks Zone. Sarkar’s a busy guy.

God only helps those who help themselves… because YOU ARE GOD! You have the power and you just realized it after encountering a orange-vermilion-dumped tree-trunk which you though looked like Hanuman. And you thought you had a miracle. You prayed because you were weak, or you wanted something more and more in life. And then when you because stronger, with time and external support, you owe it all to God, or blame Him for everything.

I was a believer at 20. Was doubtful at 30. Gave up believing at 40. And swaying more the atheism way at 50. I don’t think I’ll meet any God when I die. I’m too inconsequential. I’ll just burn, and vanish. We all will. Like plants. Like ants. Like ant-eaters. Even if I do meet the Sarkar, I have a few questions to ask him/her, that’s besides the point.

It all fell into place. You mean to say that the thousands of refugees in Syria and the children never prayed in whichever God they believed?  You mean the victims of mass rape in Syria and sex-slaves never prayed when they were repeated used for sex and burnt in cages for not complying? What was God doing?

You mean Nirbhaya never prayed?

Just shut up! You morons! Just shut up! You blame everything on God and go to worship her bleeding vagina not even knowing what it is! You pour barrels of milk on Shiva’s penis not even knowing why you do it! You feed stone idols of Ganesha milk just because some moron spread the news. GAWD! That was surface tension that was pulling the liquid up and out of the spoon, before gravity caused it to run down the front of the statue! Science! Basic.

I know I’ll lose a lot of friends overnight, as I am in that age when I should be singing hymns, chanting slokas, performing Karwa Chauth, downloading the ‘Shakti’ app so that my progeny too learns the difference between songs and ‘bhajans‘. But I am slowly turning an atheist.And I can’t go into that realm. … Maybe I’ll be boiled in hot oil when I reach heaven. And tell them I wasn’t boiled here enough.

But till then, I care for you friends. Please don’t post Goddesses’ vagina photos on Facebook to show how little your faith in yourself has been. Please don’t share God’s  Phallic Form as a PDA.

Do whatever you do, even Black Magic, in your little secrecy. The world need not get corrupted. Because these things are like drugs and sex. Public display should be banned immediately.

 

 

 

 

Filed under: For a thought...., Serious matter Tagged: bleeding, Kamakhya, Parvati, Rape, Sati, science, Shakti peeth, Shiva, vagina, women, Yoni

India now… for my friends who never visited it

India booming!

Friends who never visited India, often ask me what is India like? They almost believe India is a lovely land of sadhus, snake-charmers and elephants. I quickly ran to my PC to write this article for them. This might also come in handy for those who are about to visit this quirky land for the first time.

India is a house of extremes. It displays an extravaganza of population, poverty, wealth, corruption, pollution, dishonesty, love, warmth and high-spirited people. (PLEASE read these words over and over again till each of them explodes inside your brain and you become well-armed for the intensity).

India has the most fascinating sites (historical and archeological) and intriguing sights (man-made and natural), and a bountiful range of physical anomalies thrown in — from the snow-capped Himalayas to barren Thar deserts; from the Deccan plateau to a few of the most exotic sea-beaches in the world, from the most orthodox temples, mosques and households, to the daring nude beaches in Goa.

Did you know that India has a medley of a mammoth over 500 languages, 6400 castes, seven religions, two major types of humans… heterosexuals and homosexuals… all living in a disorganized harmony…? Something I don’t think any country in the world could have housed without diligent and regular cataclysms.

Physical diversity too is tricky! One needs to study the country like a textbook for an exam before venturing out. It has places with the biggest floods, most lavish rainfall, driest droughts and bitterest winters, complete with snowfall… all within one country. I think India has the most abundance and most deprivation almost under the same roof.

Tribal women fetching drinking water in Vizag area. Notice the cheerful, gossiping mood they are in.

Let me tell you something interesting. During the ’80s, when I was in my youth, Indians greatly relied on letters, telephones, telegrams and trunk-calls for communication. Computers existed only in certain IT offices and internet was unheard of. Web was what spiders spun and net was something to catch fish in. Hardware was a tool and software never existed. Keyboard was a musical instrument, and monitor and ram were animals.

The new Mings of maple country, and a dynasty of food

A Chinese restaurant in Toronto is serving out an all-time Calcutta favourite

Yes, you heard right. A Chinese man in Canada, speaking fluent Bengali, has an authentic Calcutta Chinese food joint in Mississauga that has renamed the “American chop suey” on the menu to “Calcutta chop suey”.

Being a Bengali, a diehard Calcuttan and a Hakka Chinese food fan, how do I feel about it?

A bit surprised, but mostly thrilled to bits.

Mississauga is a town in the Greater Toronto Area, inhabited by a few thousand Bengalis. Ming Room, the restaurant in question, is owned by Ming Wong, a man of Chinese origin, but born and brought up in Calcutta. Wong studied at St. James’ School and attended St. Xavier’s College on Park Street, and has lived in Park Circus. Renaming the much-loved American chop suey is, thus, more than a menu shake-up. It is in a way, an homage to the city of Wong’s childhood.

Canadians, whose sentiments about most things American are legendary, have welcomed the Calcutta-Chinese fusion ravenously. Indians, Pakistanis and white Canadians alike are visiting Ming Room in droves, treating their taste buds to the oh-so-spicy version of Hakka, Hunan and Sichuan Chinese.

Toronto has a typical Chinatown where you find authentic mainstream Chinese cuisine. While digging into the dumplings there one day, I saw ducks, pigs and octopuses hanging upside-down, being slow-roasted in ovens in the eateries dotting the streets. Most places also had large trays of organs, frying away. To be quite honest, I took a steep turn, and ever since, have restricted my mainstream Chinese explorations to dumplings, or “momos”, as they are called in my hometown.

Then one day, my tryst with Ming Room happened.

Referred to by a friend, I walked into this suave restaurant and found the long-lost menu card of my childhood. Chilli chicken, chicken manchurian, garlic prawn, prawn szechwan, shrimp pakoras, chicken chowmein, chilli fish and the typical Calcutta-style mixed fried rice. Ever since, Ming Room has become my second home. Hungry, angry, joyous or depressed, my family and I celebrate every occasion here.

Last month, on my birthday, we landed up in Ming Room once again. My husband had just placed his favourite order — American chop suey. “We don’t make American chop suey,” said the Nepalese waitress. What? I looked up in disappointment. My husband looked crestfallen. “But you did, till a month ago?” we chimed. She replied stoically, “We serve Calcutta chop suey.”

And peace was restored. Exhilaration was writ large on our faces when the dish was brought in. It looked and tasted just like the American chop suey served at any roadside Calcutta Chinese joint. Mixed vegetables and chicken poured over a crispy noodle nest with a fried egg sitting pretty on top and lots and lots of thick sauce. Only it’s name had been changed. I couldn’t help but feel proud.

The Calcutta Chopsuey

It was not just any dish, but a live connection with Calcutta. And the re-naming was not just some random tweak, but a stamp of belonging on the dish and emotionally invested eaters like me. Distance is a strange thing. Would I relish this as much had I been in Calcutta? Perhaps not. But thousands of miles away, the Calcutta chopsuey assumed inordinate importance, giant proportions in my culinary memoryscape, no less than the Victoria Memorial or the Howrah Bridge.

Ming Wong laughed at my reaction: “American chopsuey, in reality, is an English dish with bean sprouts, cabbages and celery, bound in a starch-thickened sauce. So, when people in Canada initially ordered the dish, they expected the same. They were surprised to see our version, the brilliant Indian twist. Renaming it ‘Calcutta chop suey’ only seemed fair,” he said.

With Mr Ming Wong

Wong has been in Canada for over 20 years now. He immigrated with his family in 1995 and started living in Vancouver. His father was from Shanghai and his mother is a second-generation Chinese from Calcutta.

Wong started his career in Canada in the IT industry. He then moved to New York and worked in the finance sector. Then the 9/11 attacks happened and it changed his life irrevocably. He moved back to Canada, but this time to Toronto.

“In 2003, my brother and I came up with this idea of opening a Calcutta Chinese restaurant,” he recalled. “My brother, Micheal Wong, has worked as a chef in Chinese restaurants in New York, Florida and Houston, but never really cooked the Calcutta style Chinese. However, it wasn’t difficult for him to replicate those dishes as he too was raised in Bengal. He did his schooling from St. Vincent’s, Asansol, and was familiar with the Calcutta palate.”

It has been 13 years since Ming Room debuted. Along with a few other restaurants, it is establishing Indian Chinese or Calcutta Chinese as an authentic form of cuisine in North America.

“The Hakkas are Chinese people whose ancestors are chiefly the Hakka-speaking people from the provincial areas of China,” Wong explains. “Hakka cuisine is the cooking style of the Hakka people.”

The style was adopted in Calcutta ever since the Chinese community started life in India around the 18th century, when they arrived in Calcutta and Madras.

“In the Greater Toronto Area, this fusion food with a burst of spices is very much liked by Canadians and they come back again and again,” says Wong.

Mississauga News has called it the “Best Fusion” restaurant in town, and Toronto Life has titled it “The City’s Best Takeout”. The restaurant has been featured in Omni TV and other Canadian media.

And now, after this piece, Mr Wong is sure to be mobbed at Dum Dum Airport!

Kaberi Dutta Chatterjee

The Menu Card

(This article was published in The Telegraph on October 10, 2016. It’s a full circular journey for me as I wrote once again for the newspaper I began my career in 1994 after 22 years!)

Filed under: For a thought....

A close encounter with the third kind

God did not create them; he created only Adam and Eve.

The are neither. They are derelicts, social outcasts, feared, despised and ridiculed by men and women alike. Their coarse voices, their filthy language and obscene gestures embarrass the ‘normal’ and the ‘civilized’, who will never know what is it to be neither… or both.

The pain in written in their lewd hostility. If nothing else, their unabashed strip-tease is sure to make people shrink away. Yet, at the core of that body, which is neither male nor female but an ungainly mix of both, lies a soft human heart. Eunuchs (or transgenders) eat, sleep, drink, pray, bleed and shed tears just as anyone else.  And they are not considered humans among humans.

Harun Masi (We shall refer to her as ‘she’. She prefers it this way) is the leader of more than 500 eunuchs dwelling in slums scattered all around Chetla in South Kolkata — a place notoriously demarcated as Hijra More. She is over 70 years, nearly six-feet tall, fair, and has a face which is nearly devoid of any wrinkles. Her voice is expectedly male and her long hair, jet black. “I won’t lie, Ma (calling me affectionately), I dye my hair.”

But that was long after the battle was won; long after the stony resistance to talking had melted and she had agreed to talk. At first she wouldn’t yield.

She sent out a messenger saying she wans’t at home; then she had the messenger unleash a volley of obscenities to repulse us. “Can you give us back our vagina?” the messenger challenged, clapping her hands in that manner typical of eunuchs. “Can you? If you can’t, go away!”

But, on seeing our insistence, Harun Masi, first knit her brows and listened to the messenger’s ineffective story. (I had by then managed to sneak inside the lioness’s den.) She then pushed off the only cover on her bare breasts and ignoring me completely, marched towards the road, where photographer, renowned Aloke Mitra (http://www.alokemitra.com/), had come on my insistence. Once she emerged through the flimsy curtains, thankfully, she discreetly pulled the covers back.

“What do you want, babus?”

“We want to talk to you,” I rushed out to save an aged Mr Mitra.

“There’s nothing   to talk about. Please go away.”

“About the government recently granting you voting rights…”

“We already have voting rights. Yes, we vote. We even get voting papers. Ask anybody. There’s nothing to say.”

“Please, can’t we sit inside?”

“No. You can say whatever you want in front of everyone. They are all my sons,” she said, pointing to a thick crowd of people  who had, needless to say, had dropped all work and rushed in to watch this live entertainment or reality show.

“Please…”

Harun Masi is a Hindu by religion. She was brought over to Calcutta from Assam by her Guruma when she was an infant. ” I do not remember anything about my parents,” she recollected, crouched on her doorstep, after she finally relented to our pleadings.

“My parents have died and I have a sister who lives in Assam.” None of them, expectantly, has ever tried to contact her after she was taken away. “Guruma was my mother and my father,” she says pensively. And now that her Guruma was dead, she rules over her kingdom of over 500 eunuchs.

Earlier, it was the dai-s and dasi-s who used to inform them about the birth of a baby in the neighborhood. Today matters are more organised. “The corporation and hospital staff themselves come over to inform us,” says Harun.

Their approach to each family is warm — with the team singing and dancing and blessing the newborn. Matters take a turn once the household refuses to pay or negotiate with them. The demands are often very high. Few want to spend that kind of money and the eunuchs often turn violent and gather around the house to treat the locality to an ugly striptease.

“What may be petty to them, is our bread,” Harun explains. “We need to survive till we die. And this manner of granting blessings to a baby and receiving bakshish is the only way we can earn money.” It is noteworthy to say that even today eunuchs are often not included into the actual society and not given jobs or education.

Not one baby can be born born a eunuch without being taken away by elder eunuchs. “It is our right to take away the eunuch babies. We need to increase our clan,” says Harun.

Of the 5.5 lakh eunuchs in India today (1994), two-thirds have been claimed to be castrated males. In various reports it has been claimed that to increase their clan they kidnap young good-looking male babies and castrate them in a rather crude manner. Many die in the process. A study revealed that in India during the years 1990 to 1992 only 213 infants were naturally born eunuchs.

“Very few are born eunuchs,” confirms gynecologist Dr J.K. Basu. “In some cases infants develop ambiguous sex at birth. A girl, for example, may have male organs. But such cases are rare.”

Harun Masi, predictably, denies castrating males. “How can a baby survive after being castrated like that? And even if he does, how can she develop female hormones?”

To make this a noteworthy point, I must admit that when Harun Masi had taken off the only cover on her bare body earlier, I did get a glimpse of her not-so-well formed breasts.

Says Dr Basu,” It is possible for a male to develop feminine ‘characteristics’ if castrated at an age before puberty, since he develops no male secondary organs. However, there is no possibility of a male growing female organs.”

The eunuchs consider themselves descendants of  Shikhandi (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shikhandi)  in Mahabharata and they worship God Krishna.

The death of an eunuch too has several stories attached to it. One says that they are buried deep in a ditch in standing position with lots of salt on their heads. Another story says the eunuchs are buried at the dead of night under the same bed they died in the same position with lots of salt around them. This is in hope for a normal life in next birth.

Harun Masi, however, refutes all such stories. “God!” she exclaims! “After suffering through the entire life, the least a eunuch deserves is not to be buried in such a crude manner. No, Ma,  we bury the Muslims and Christians and cremate the Hindus, just like anybody else.”

When I asked Harun Masi what is her aspiration and what’s her opinion about the government granting them voting rights finally, she said briefly,”I want to be a mother.”

My full-page write-up that appeared in Telegraph, India, 31 July 1994. Photo by ace photographer, Aloke Mitra.

Kaberi Dutta Chatterjee

(This story appeared in The Telegraph as a full page ‘LOOK’ story, dated July 31, 1994, right after the government of India stated that Eunuchs are humans enough to be able to vote and formally granted them voting rights. Not much has changed over the past 16 years. They still hoard in Chetla and other places and still barge onto people’s premises to demand money by obscene language and vulgar dances. I don’t think much will change over the next 200 years. I had to edit this 1200 word story to fit the blog.)

PS: Things changed after 20 years of this write-up appearing in The Telegraph.  Supreme Court in India just granted transgenders the right as a third gender on April 15, 2014, issuing the landmark verdict recognizing transgender rights as human rights, saying people can identify themselves as a third gender on official documents.

Filed under: For a thought...., Serious matter Tagged: Eunuch, Hijra, India, Kolkata, Supreme Court, Toronto Star, Transgender

Red Marriage

It was the marriage season. Everyone was either getting married or getting an invitation card that carried an invisible demand draft of at least Rs 200. There was, of course, this new concept of “not accepting gifts”. Though taken with a pinch of salt, this was a sure hit with those who preferred to remain perpetually “out-of-station” during marriage season.

Even I was getting married. That was my first marriage and, despite repeated attempts, remained my only one.

I always wanted to marry a tall, dark and handsome prince on a white horse. The reality was a lot different, though. And despite several feeble attempts by me to sabotage a gala ceremony and go in for a quiet signing of papers, my marriage was gleefully red and traditional. I was guilty of being the first born of my parents and my husband-to-be, the only offspring. And hence we were sentenced to suffer 10-long-agony-hours of a red, red, red marriage.

Everything was so surprisingly red about the marriage that I even wore a red bindi to match with a blue sari, during one of my umpteen catwalks that I had to do throughout the auspicious day. I was smiling so much that I felt stifled with the sweetness of the occasion. Everyone was smiling more than I did. My relatives, who last saw me when I was a baby, repeatedly said: Look at you! You have grown up so much!!!

Of course I had grown up! That’s why I am marrying! However, they were too sunk in their self-created affection for me to realize that. Someone brushed a little hair off from my forehead while someone wiped a little extra kajal from my eyes.

The deadline arrived. I was wrapped in a 10-kilo heavy sari, bedecked with every kind of gold jewelery and finally, topped with a flower crown. I looked at the mirror and shrieked! “I LOOK LIKE A CHRISTMAS TREE!!”

Everyone laughed. They were all so happy!

The bor finally arrived and everyone shouted! “Bor eshe geche! Bor eshe geche!“ (The groom has arrived! The groom has arrived!) As if he wasn’t supposed to. They ran toward the entrance. I was tempted to run too, only I weighed too much. Apparently my husband-to-be was looking like a prince!

Was it someone else? The last time I saw him he looked grumpy as usual. Did they make a last-minute switch? I was tempted to look.

Then they placed me on a very feeble square piece of terracotta called ‘pinre’ and lifted me in air. Some of my feminist, still-single friends clapped and joined in the fun. Not to mention, that was the last time I saw them feminist, single or having so much fun.

Even I was laughing. The bor was very glum.  (He later told me that he did not recognize me suspended in mid-air tinkling with so much jewelry and was tempted to change his mind). We exchanged garlands and ended our day of gold and red.

By Kaberi Chatterjee (Right after marriage in 1995. Originally appeared in The Telegraph October 10, 1995. A little edited.)

Filed under: Laughing at life Tagged: Bengali, Marriage, red

The Copybook Technique

RC looked at me across the table and laughed soundlessly. (His name is Ranojoy Chowdhury, but initials were in). “Three answers on ‘e rocks!” his eyes beamed!

This meant, that out of four hand-picked answers written in neatly folded previous day’s answer-sheets inside his socks, three had clicked! All he needed to do now was answer two more, if he was in the mood, or none at all, in the next three hours of the Part I selection examinations. I clicked my tongue in envy. I wasn’t into socks and trousers those days.

RC was realistic and loved humor. Some weren’t. As far as I remember, I had answered seven out of 10 short questions and Kaushik, seated in between me and the examiner, was planning to abandon all. “I’ve answered three long ones anyway, I’ll pass,” he grumbled when I offered  him my unrequited help. “Nope.” He stuck to his laziness. I couldn’t bear to see him leave the hall just because he was too lazy to write an exam. So I coaxed him. I pleaded with him to cheat. I placed my answer-sheet in such a way that he could either make a copy of it in flat 5 minutes or the examiner could throw us both out in flat 5 seconds. The examiner looked at the set-up and yawned!

Kaushik copied four answers reluctantly and rebelled! “F*** I don’t feel like!” gave up his paper and went home.

I was a fresh graduate from a Protestant Christian school when I got the shock. It was a four-hour first-year examination in a reputed college and I had gulped down the entire syllabus as usual, to throw it all up on the answer sheet. Bracing myself for the final moment, I got everything ready — pens, pencils, rubber, ruler, clipboard, guts. But when the question papers were finally distributed, something alien came out from inside the desks of my fellow-mates — BOOKS!

After what seemed hours of going into a paralyzed numbness, I recovered, a little older. The bespectacled, stern examiner, whom I revered before coming into the hall, frowned when the mumble grew louder among the students. “Softly! You can be heard outside!” It flashed through my mind that in school it was a sin even to raise one’s head during exams.

My friend Prabir allegedly had entered a Part II Maths exam hall grumbling: Boss! I’ll never  get 5 marks today! He reported came out of the hall gleaming: Boss! let me see how they deduct 5 marks!

Rajeev had big hands and hence he could hide his cog-notes well in them (hiding was necessary only from his conscience though). As he wrote he read his notes out loud while five others around him copied.

Twenty-five years passed since then.

All of us are happy, well-established and successful family people today, hence… No regrets!

Hello world!

Welcome to my blog!

I started connecting with people after I left them all. Before that I was a grumpy grouch, poring over the computer screen, making pages, running to office and running back home. After I left the country and settled in this peaceful land called Canada, and my basic survival needs were easily met, I relaxed and looked around. I found no one. I started panicking, and thanks to the internet, began to connect with friends, colleagues and enemies like never before.

Thankfully, behind the wall of the computer screen, I could be myself. My real self. Not hide behind a wall of grumpiness to protect myself from invisible hurt.

In this blog, I am posting stories of reality and laughter. Reality, which will hit you like cold water… which you won’t like; and laughter, which will put a smile to your face.

Some of these were published before the internet age. The yellowing newspaper clippings are all that I have of the articles which would have been soon lost if I didn’t start typing them furiously somewhere.

Very soon, I started having almost 200 visits on my blogs after each post. So I started writing more. My blog is also a mutiny against the staid media and publishing houses, which are hounded and bound by so many ethical/moral laws and word restraint before they publish something.

I am born free… therefore I write.

Trudeaumania. Round 2

Justin Trudeau now has to earn it.

Canada has Just voted Trudeau In, majorly to vote Stephen Harper out. Deeply disappointed with Harper’s immigration policies, attitude towards First Nations and minorities, for almost a decade, Canadians voted Harper out, and with profound faith that the country will change, elected the charismatic former PM Pierre Trudeau’s son, ‘Golden Boy’ Justin.

Now Justin has to prove to all Canadians by keeping his campaign vows.

He’s already started off by announcing the withdrawal of troops from Syria and Iraq, and by announcing that he will let 25,000 Syrian refugees in. Let’s wait and watch what he does about the new citizenship law and other vows.

“Justin Just Not Ready” coined by the Harper government, thus, has been proved vehemently untrue by Justin’s landslide victory.

Justin IS ready.

However, it’s true that Justin won a great majority of the votes by default. “Stop Harper” became such an obsession for Canadians that they were ready to vote in anyone to oust Harper. It’s another debate, however, why they chose Justin and not NDP leader, Thomas Mulcair. Maybe Justin’s the man with the “nice hair”. Maybe. That’s why.

Jest apart, now that Canadians have put their faith in this young, rock-star handsome boy, who carries a baggage of an intellectually glamorous father, Justin has to catch the bull by its horn right from the beginning if he wants to win the lost trust of the Canadians.

It’s true. Lately a vast majority of Canadians were feeling like “second class citizens” with the introduction of the Bill C-24. Before that we always knew Canada was our home and nothing could change that. But now we feel insecure in our own homes. Some Canadians I know were already packing bags to go back. That’s bad news for a immigrant-reliant country like Canada.

Canada is wholly supported by immigrants. Excluding the First Nations, all Canadians (or their ancestors) were immigrants. And people are immigrating in thousands every day. Our immigration policy attracts the world’s best and brightest. Our healthcare and social safety net draws entrepreneurs in hordes. Our education system is the best in the world.

Let it remain so. We wish Justin Trudeau a true homecoming in the hearts of all Canadians.

(Published as Editor’s Column, The South Asian News, December 3, 2015)

Filed under: For a thought...., Serious matter

Phuchka, Mahalaya and First Love

What do I miss about Durga pujas? (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Durga_Puja) What do I miss about that undefined fragrance in the air? Or the stacks of bamboo poles strewn around every street corner, sending out a message that the magic is here?

What do I miss about the pujas?

After spending 42 years in Kolkata during pujas, this is the first time I am not only out of Kolkata, I am out of Bengal, I am out of the country, I am 12,535 kilometers away on the other side of the planet — in Canada, for good. Ever since I changed country of residence last year, I had dreaded the thought of spending a puja away from Kolkata. And now I am asked, what do I miss about pujas!

Where do I begin? From my days in frocks, when pujas meant clay being brought in from the Ganges and heaped onto the thakurdalan (raised platform exclusively maintained for the festival)of my ancestral home? We would be running back from school to see how much had the construction of the goddess progressed. From strips of bamboo being tied to form the scaffolding, to chokkhudaan (painting of Devi Durga’s eyes), to 108 alighted lamps flickering on the Durga’s amber face on Asthami, to bhashaan — when I stood leaning on a pillar and sobbed — what should I talk about?

In such a short column what should I speak about? Should I talk about our night-long rendezvous while in college and the overpowering aroma of phuchkas? (a fried road-side delicacy) Or about my first love, the momentum of which amplified during the ‘whole-night video shows’? Or how our eyes conversed during those four euphoric days?

Should I talk about how my son got his first colic pain due to the sounds of dhaak (drumbeats) or about how he spent the rest of his childhood jumping up awake in glee to same beats? Or should I talk about the moments of Mahalaya, (http://hinduism.about.com/cs/audiomusic/a/aa092003a.htm) the chants trickling in through my groggy sleep?

Ma Durga had been through my real and unreal. Through my childhood, my unsteady adolescence and my uneasy youth. She is a part of my beliefs and my atheism, my revolt and my acceptance, been a witness to my struggle and success. She has been my wings, when I flew into foreign lands alone with my son, with nothing but a stamped piece of paper… and no return tickets.

Here in Canada, no bamboo poles herald the ascent of the Devi. No lights adorn the streets. I do not get that familiar smell anywhere. Durga Puja is held in its own ‘big’ way among the Bengali community.

Even though it’s a hot pot of melting cultures, many in Canada do not know anything about Durga Puja. Or even if they know, they know it to be one more festival from Asia.

I do not feel sad. That’s it! I do not feel sad. I am happy that Ma Durga will visit the hearts of Bengal and light up the land once again. I am happy my motherland will remain unchanged. I am happy that whenever I can, I can return to my soil and inhale the puja air. Till then, I can always take a deep breath and smell that familiar lingering fragrance from inside my 43-year-old soul drenched in puja spirit.

Filed under: For a thought....