Ipsita Banerjee's Blog, page 5

F: Food #AtoZChallenge

After that article on Dacres Lane, (see D), you may be wondering why I am talking about food. You see, in Calcutta, one cannot NOT talk about food.
Bengalis in particular love to eat. They will spend half their savings on that perfect hills or the prawn cutlet and not blink an eye. Even while eating lunch, they will be wondering what they will eat not only for dinner, but also the evening snack.
In earlier times, most of such snacks etc were made at home. I have happy memories of my mom making evening snacks of dahi vada and nimbi and gaja and chikkis on a regular basis. As families have grown smaller and and people have been moving into unit families, the habit of home cooking has sadly dwindled. Today few brides know the intricate spices for a shukto or will know how to make that mochar chop, much less how to cut the banana flower.
Even otherwise, with the changing times, many, many eateries have spring up all over the city. Of course there are the classics like Shiraz, Royal (for the Calcutta biriyani), Badshah, Nizams, Kusum (for Kathi Rolls), Tangra, Waldorf, Mainland China, Bar-b-q (for Chinese like no Chinaman has tasted!), Mocambo (for baked crab and steaks!), Peter Cat (for Cello kabab), Golbari (for the mutton kasha), Cafe, Apanjan (for the fowl cutlet and fish fry), Zaraanj (for the Raan kabab and kali daal) Kasturi, 6, Ballygunge (for the Bengali delicacies just like grandma used to make), India Restaurant (for the Galauti kabab) etc, etc, etc, the list is endless.  Now loads of newer places have mushroomed all over Calcutta. earlier a meal out meant you headed for  the Park Street area but now you can get a gourmet meal practically anywhere! And food delivery services now ensure that you are constantly satiated!
I'm not even venturing into the five star hotels and the ones like Fatty Bao and (my daughters' favourite) Cafe Mezzuna!
You get the drift?
Food and the Calcutta spirit. Calcuttans and their food. Don't try to separate the two.
And each one of us have a few places we are passionate about. I am certain after reading this I shall be told about the places I have missed/not mentioned!!!     

E: Emotions #AtoZChallenge

                                            Image Credit: emoticons.html


Bengalis are an emotional lot. Hence in the city of Calcutta, there has always been an abundance of it. Whether it were the processions of our childhood or the next door aunty screaming because someone interrupted her afternoon siesta. People in Calcutta are so involved. A cabbie driver once gave me a long lecture on travelling in a cab when I was visibly pregnant. I have lost count of the number of recipes I have exchanged with random strangers at the market while buying vegetables or fish. There was that cop once who caught me speeding and let me go because I pointed to my toddler and said she had to go potty! Living in this city sees instances like this all the time. This city has heart. And passion. Specially when the discussion is about politics of football!
Why, during the World Cup football finals, entire localities are painted blue or yellow in support of Argentina or Brazil. Those two far away countries vie for space in the city, no matter how deep into the night the matches go on. I have had loud amicable arguments with complete strangers because I support Germany, most of them with my fruit seller and mutton seller who are die-hard Messi fans!!!
Calcuttans are sentimental too. They resist change. Just because that floor in that old house was made of red cement by the great great grandfather, they will look forlorn when someone replaces it with pristine marble. Likewise they want to hang on to their old delusions of grandeur and culture even when it is hanging in shreds!
Fortunately (or unfortunately) this is changing. Today, the streets are clean and well lit (although some people will complain about the light in their eye) and people (specially the younger generation) are moving with the times. This is a city on the move. Critics will say we are moving backwards but that is not always the case. It is still relatively safe for women alone. I will not deny that Calcutta does have its fair share of anti social elements and eve-teasers but it's still a happy place to be.
For instance, this is one of the cities that still serve beef. We do not allow anyone to tell us what we should eat or where we will pray. We do not like interference barring the dubiously well-intended, unasked for advice that is freely handed out by friends and strangers alike.
Just because.
No, don't contradict me about this now.
You see, I will get emotional about it!

D: Dacres Lane #AtoZChallenge

                                      Image credit: dacres-lane-food-hood-town-absolutely-not-missing
Dacres Lane. Also known as James Hickey Sarani. That narrow stretch running perpendicular to the Great Eastern Hotel (now Lalit Great Eastern) and Esplanade which was where street food for office goers possibly originated in Calcutta. Located just off the busy Esplanade, it has catered to millions of office goers, a fair number of tourists and adventurous souls like me. To be honest, I have not been there since my youth, considering it faces a bit of dilapidation and there are far more eateries in place. But one cannot deny that this is still a heritage in the city’s food landscape. And we are not talking about phuchkas and chaats and the usual fare you see nowadays. Here, the signature dishes in Chittobabur Dokan is ghughni, stew, fish roll and khichuri, correct me if I am wrong! This entire lane is still strewn with restaurants and food stalls dating back to more than five decades. Forget the few air-conditioned places in the vicinity (there are some ) and you will find yourself on an outdoor (often rickety) wooden bench balancing a steel plate and enjoying one of the most flavourful yet simple meals ever. The stew used to be a favourite; served with vegetables and a big chunk of mutton or chicken, it was humble and comforting. Some years ago international chef Gordon Ramsay had set up a stall in Dacres Lane trying to outdo sales… I do not think he won!Dacres Lane is not for the faint-hearted. Nor for those with a weak disposition. I have not been in years, but writing this has suddenly evoked memories… anyone coming with me? 
For, as Oscar Wilde said, "after a good dinner one can forgive anybody, even one's own relations!" 

C for College Street! #AtoZChallenge

                                         Image credit: college-street-kolkata.html

You cannot talk about old Calcutta without a mention of College Street also known as Boi-para (literally, a locality for books). And what a locality it is! It's home to the largest second hand book market in the world and books call out to you from every nook and cranny. As children, when we went there, it was overwhelming. Those days you couldn't get any decent book except in College Street!  The shops in Gariahat or New Market were pooh-poohed by the older generation, specially my grandfather and no self respecting Bengali would pass up a chance to miss a visit! As the name suggests, College street is located near several of Calcutta’s academic institutions, among them, Calcutta University, Presidency College (now University), Sanskrit College and Calcutta Medical College are but a few. When these institutions came up early in the 19thCentury, that stretch of road between Harrison Road (now M.G.Road) and Bow Bazar became a haven for the city’s intelligentsia.One can spend hours browsing this stretch of road dotted with hundreds of bookshops. And at one time it also was home to India’s biggest publishing houses. The bookstores range from standard brick built affairs to small makeshift stalls made from bamboo, canvas, or even sheets of metal or plastic. Each stall owner can tell you a story that goes back years.  It is said that any book ever sold in Kolkata can be found in College Street. Rare books have been found, hidden between first editions and raunchy thrillers as well as school and college text books. And of course you have to have sampled the staple of  College Street : the Coffee House. In every Bengali’s heart there is no place that has been loved or romanticised as much as the Coffee House. Right from the first time their eyes met, right to the impassioned speeches and political discussions of their youth, to the afternoons of camaraderie, every father has a story to say, every aunt has a tale to tell. Songs have been sung reminiscing those golden days of youth and who is to say how much poetry has been written or imagined in those halls! I leave you with a link to a famous Bengali song, “Coffee House-er shei adda ta aar nei, aaj aar nei”, a song reminiscing the carefree languid days of youth:  

B: Burrabazar #A2ZChallenge

Burra Bazar. Let’s start with the old heart of the city, Burra Bazar. A long time ago, in the 15thcentury BC, long before Job Charnok came by on a sailing boat and “discovered” Calcutta, a family escaped Gujarat with their family deity and travelled to the banks of the river Hoogly and set up their home in Saptagram. They were the Shresthis and they were businessmen engaged primarily in trading of cotton. Those days Saptagram was a prosperous trading port and dominated by Portuguese merchants. After the arrival of the East India Company, the name was anglicized to “Sheth” and later to “Sett”. Yes, those were my ancestors, I come from the Sett family in Burra Bazar which literally means “big market”. Taking the name of their household deity, the Setts set up residence in Gobindapur (present day Dalhousie Square) and it is said that they owned the Lal Dighi. Those days Gobindapur was a dense marshy jungle and the Setts cleared the area and build their mansions there. Due to gradual silting of the river, Saptagram lost its importance and the Setts moved their business to Betor in Howrah. With the advent of the British, Dutch and other European traders, Betor became a major trading centre and the Setts became major players. At the end of the 17thcentury, Job Charnok arrived from Patna and established a trading post. When the British wanted to build a fort in Calcutta to protect their business interests, the inhabitants of Gobindopur were asked to move further north into Sutanati. The fort was then approximately where the present day G.P.O. stands. The (in)famous Black Hole of Calcutta incident occurred nowhere near the present-day Fort William but in the Dalhousie area, but that’s a story for another day. The Setts moved to Banstolla, present-day Hariram Goenka Street along with the family deity, “Gobindo Jew” where the family still resides. That’s the heart of Burrabazar, the old market area of Calcutta where haphazard buildings and narrow lanes jostle for space.Last year a cousin and I went on a long walk around the area and visited the temple. The image is from pictures we took there. That temple where regular prayers are offered on a daily basis along with the strip of remaining houses bear testimony to the prosperity of the Setts in an earlier time. I have many, many memories of that house and the temple. As children we visited often. Now a lot has changed. Families have moved and sold their shares, it is not a place I relate to anymore. But I still fondly remember those long verandahs and large rooms with their glowing crystal chandeliers where we spent many a day and night with our cousins and other relatives. 
The Setts, (along with the Sils, the Mullicks and the Basaks) were the true founders of Calcutta, now lost in the annals of time. Reminds me of a line from a famous book by Richard Llewellyn: "how green was my valley, the valley of those that are gone."

A City of Joy #A2ZChallenge

I've spent most of my life in Calcutta, a bustling old city in the Eastern part of India. They have renamed it to Kolkata but to me it remains Calcutta, a city after my heart. Yes, even with its warts and humidity and countless other flaws.
Remember that book by Dominique Lapierre, called City of Joy? That was a book about my city. The film, starring Patrick Swayze was shot here and a lot of people were very excited. I never watched the movie. You see, I didn't even like the book.
Because the story of "city of joy" showcases only one aspect of my beautiful city. It showed only the underbelly, the poverty and the plight of rickshaw-pullers. That too is Calcutta but that is not all Calcutta is!
So come with me and over this month I will weave some tales, sprinkle some history, draw from my own experiences and try to show you why Calcutta or Kolkata (if you will) truly is a city of joy!

P.S. the picture is of a very old map of Calcutta and Howrah that was owned by my father. I surmise it must be at least fifty years old, see the price!!!

Pratap Chatterjee, Senior Advocate, Barrister-at-law.

Pratapda. My husband’s senior. An imposing figure, I heard stories about him from my soon-to-be husband. I even had the occasion to work with him and I found him frightening. I will not hesitate to admit it. His booming voice and quick questions almost had me hiding under his large cavernous desk which seemed to be filled with every conceivable thing ranging from churan to bottles of palm-candy to books on medicine and homeopathy and computers. He came for my “ashirbad” to bless me and I dared not look up to see his face. I was a shy bride-to-be, made more shy because of the strangeness of the proceedings combined with the amount of strangers in the room.  And trust Vaishali to start laughing and giggling because he wore a wig. I later came to know he suffered from a rare disease that ensured he lost all his hair and hence the wig. Over the years, I slowly came to know him better. He was the rock solid senior we could depend upon in a heavy case. He would ensure he was there at the cost of other matters if he sensed that you were nervous and wanted him there. He never let down his juniors. But that never stopped him from letting you maturing. I remember this one time there was a serious case and he and my own senior were leading me. On the other side was a heavyweight Barrister. My own senior (another gentleman and a different story altogether) was out of town (as usual) and I was (as usual) tongue-tied. When the case was called, there was no sign of Pratapda. I fumbled, I hummed, I hawed, I started arguing. And miraculously, we won. I ran to Pratapda to tell him. "see, you were ready," he said. That was that.
BUT, if Pratapda was on the other side (speaking for myself), I was mortified and feeling thoroughly rattled and unprepared. I wished the earth would swallow me...
I saw his humane side a few years into my marriage when my husband had broken his leg and Pratapda himself came to our house for a conference. It was unheard of, that such a senior man would visit the Chamber of a junior. But Pratapda was just not any other senior. He was gregarious and loud, he had a heart that he tried too hard to conceal, he was a diamond in the rough: he regaled us with stories that made us laugh and he openly announced that women should never be educated, or be allowed to join the profession! Don’t get me wrong. He came from a very erudite and renowned family and both his sisters are highly educated. His wife too was a member of the legal profession. It’s just that he said it to get a reaction from the women advocates around him! He used to be a mite disappointed when I refused to react saying that then he better ensure he found his sons illiterate wives from the villages … those days, (in the 90s) such conversations were not politically incorrect and we got away with it.If you go around court and chat with people, you will find that everyone has a story to say about Pratapda. I agree that not all of them may be to your liking but everyone will have something to say. Because Pratapda was larger than life, he was the one with the wisecracks, the asides in the audible hearing of the judges and even the oft scornful laugh that he barely concealed. He sometimes used to complain that work wasn’t challenging enough. He grasped matters quickly and got bored. That was that. There’s this story where a client, a solicitor and a junior went for a conference to Pratapda. They spent three minutes discussing the case and forty minutes gossiping about everything under the sun. Pratapda told the client that he was dishonest and nothing could save him. The client went home most distraught despite the assurances of the junior and the solicitor. That night and the next day, the client was wondering if he had chosen the wrong lawyer for his case. Pratapda appeared in Court and argued the client’s case and it seemed like he could do no wrong. He came away smelling of roses, he went away happy, having gotten the orders he wanted and shaking his head out of bewilderment. There are many such stories of Pratapda. He was quick, he was witty, he bailed you out of trouble. What could be more important?Personally, we knew Pratapda a little better. His father, Somnath Chatterjee (yes, the ex-speaker of the Lok Sabha) had been my father-in-law’s senior, so the families went back a long way. Pratapda loved good food and he didn’t need an excuse to call us out for lunch or dinner. He always claimed that the food at his place was lousy. Once he served tea (or was it coffee?) and asked everyone what it was. Trust me, even now we are not sure! I cannot keep count of the number of times we have gone out with him and over the years I found myself becoming comfortable around him, even daring to tell him, only a few weeks ago that I had been scared of him because he used to bully us. I still can hear his resounding laughter ringing in my ears. He loved it!Pratapda lost his sister about a year or so ago. I still remember his aghast face as he returned to work, he was heart-broken. Cruelly, he lost his father soon thereafter; last August. I was laid in bed with a slipped disc and could not attend, so I really did not feel the loss. But Pratapda never got over it. He abandoned his wig and seemed more than a little lost. He also hadn’t been keeping well and had to undergo many dietary restrictions, inter alia. Often he would make his way over to our table and we would talk, I would tell him recipes and suggest meals and he would get me to pass on instructions to his cook! He bought every single book that I wrote and read them and complimented me. He teased me about hammering away at my computer in the busy Bar Library and not paying attention to him. He still joked and told his stories but a little light was missing. It was as if he never could get away from that cloak of grief that he wore. For my part, I would everyday make my way to his table at some point of time and chatter with him for a few moments. Share something, ask him a legal point that was troubling me, anything. My biggest regret is that on the day of his stroke, I did not go to him. I had been busy and had a headache. I left early, even skipping a rather important meeting because I really wasn’t feeling well. Less than an hour later I heard of the stroke he suffered in the Bar Library. At our table, where he often used to come and sit. I wish I had been there. I don’t know what would have turned differently, but I just wish I was there. For when I saw Pratapda again, after his operation, in the ICU, on a ventilator, it wasn’t our Pratapda. It wasn’t the man who laughed and joked and told us innumerable stories in that loud imposing voice. It was a man I sadly barely recognised, on a ventilator: something I am sure he never would have wanted. I was leaving town the next day….I heard what the doctors said, I wondered if I would see him again. Sure enough, he passed away a day after I left. My husband rushed back to be with the family as they performed the last rites. I didn’t because I had other unavoidable obligations. I still am away and have not returned home. I still haven’t returned to the Bar Library. I still cannot believe that Pratapda will not come and sit across me and tell me to stop typing. The shradh is on Sunday. I will be there. I know I need to pay my last respects to the most unlikely figure that has come to mean so much to me. But the Courts will be that much emptier because we shall not hear his booming voice. The Bar Library will fall silent because we will not hear his familiar tread. And I know that out of the corner of my eye, I will always be wondering if Pratapda is somewhere nearby. Maybe the door to the Courtroom will open and he will be rushing in … Or maybe if I look around just one more time again, surely, he will be at his seat?
For I cannot imagine that I will not see him again. It hurts to have to say goodbye. 

Worry lines...

I have been ignoring this blog for too long. I've been busy scheduling posts elsewhere (I have been too lazy to post all the links here) and writing poetry and this little sliver of light has been dwindling away in the corner.
In the meantime, a lot of water has flown under the bridge. One girl (Isha) has actually cleared her board exams and managed to go away to college in Pune. Yes, she seems to have settled in nicely with her hostel and classes. The younger one (Amisha) is poised on the brink of her half-yearly exams and soon shall be taking her boards as well. If all goes according to plan, by this time next year she too will be studying in some college away from home and I shall be wondering whose head I can chew up next!
Predictably, Amisha continues to give me a lot of grief... I never see her studying, she is always chattering with her friends or watching some stupid "Blacklist" on Netflix or up to no good on whatever is the trending app of the day! But you know what? I've learnt to just smile it away. Isha always complained that she got all the brunt of my anger and I was much more relaxed when it came to Amisha and I finally think she might have been right. After going through the throes of dragging one child up I guess we are better equipped (read calmer) to handle the second one!
Having said that, I've also been learning a lot from the girls. They are now at an age where I can have a half decent conversation without either of us flying into a screaming rage and they enrich and scandalise me with snippets of their lives. Amisha is now writing a blog (!!!!) and I find her ideas innovative and interesting... despite the fact that her cellphone has now become an extension of her hand! Isha of course is far away and what they say about distance making hearts fonder is completely true. She is also coping on her own, had to visit a dentist without me being there to hold her hand and all in all I'm quite ready to pat myself on the back and say that I can almost see the finishing line!!!
Almost. Because don't forget there's a whole round of college entrance tests etc yet to be scheduled and poked at.
Poked at because you know teenagers. There's a slew of emails from the school regarding college entrance and when I ask she all she does is shrug and say, "Chill." You bet!!! This morning I asked her which colleges she will be applying to and she mumbled two names and there I was having a cardiac arrest because we all know about the rat race and the stiff competition to get into these places. I suspect this girl actually derives intense pleasure from seeing the worry lines on my face!
My bad back has ensured I am in bed most of the time. In a way that is a blessing for Amisha, I cannot hound her as much as I want to, lying in bed and calling for at her is no competition to plonking myself in her room and eating her head and she knows it! She also runs away to the guest room to "study" because then she cannot hear me when I call. I am so tempted to get a remote bell.
So I read books and I think. I also worry about all the things I could have told Isha but didn't... you know those pearls of wisdom, like potato cooks faster if there is no tomato or sour thing in it? That if oil catches fire she should never pour water on it? Like if she rides pillion on a bike theres that little thing you put your foot on, she should not drag her feet about like I've seen people do?
So I groan and grunt and get up and go and tell Amisha. She looks at me like I just grew a second nose!

I swear, I have worry lines running up my arms because of these two! 

To Isha.

Words are superfluous

They roll off my tongue

Like the sweat on a labourer's back

Toiling in the midday sun.

Over and over words failed me

When I first held you on my breast

Unimagined pain, unbridled joy

As you wailed your first little breath.

Words were never adequate

Watching you evolve

From tiny steps to hands that let go

Rippled images that quickly dissolve

Yet my words reached you

I feel them in your heady laugh

Sharp and warm, there were a lot of those

Yet I wonder, were they enough?

You wait for my words

You are certain they will be there

Another throw of hands, another shrug

This mother 'wisdom', another lecture.

But words tire me now

They strip bare this old soul

Forever searching this weary heart

For words that will keep you whole.

I wish I had the magic words

That would keep you forever safe

But I only have only the words I left unsaid

Silence to heal when life will chafe.

Go then, I hold no words for you

Content to watch you take flight

For fly you must and fly you will

On wings that will carry you through the night.

April AtoZ blogging challenge. Theme reveal.

It's that time of year. Almost April. Time for the AtoZ thingie I do. This year my theme is childhood, those memories that make us whole again. Yes, I was a child of the seventies. No mobiles, no TVs even,(just a radio if we were lucky) and stuff like that. Do you remember? Do you want to join me on a trip down that memory lane?
Come, let's meet on the other side.