Shuvashree Chowdhury's Blog, page 39

How And When, I Became A Calcutta Loyalist.

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How and when, I became, a Calcutta loyalist, or self-appointed brand ambassador of the city – if you like: why I feel such a deep sense of personal achievement on the release of my husband’s book “Longing, Belonging, An Outsider At Home In Calcutta,” and more so, that he dedicated it to me.

In was in early 1998, that I joined the service-quality department of the most reputed Indian domestic airline of the time, reporting to the expatriate head of service-quality and training, at the head office in Mumbai. He had just joined then, from a reputed international airline. My joining the department was after a three year stint with the airline, wherein I had worked mostly in Calcutta and had also been a trainer in east India. In my new role with the service-quality department, singly based in Calcutta, the rest of the department in Delhi and Mumbai, I had the opportunity – on roster, to audit the ground and in-flight services of all stations, which by that time were all major cities of India. At the start, since the first week of joining, when I attended departmental meetings in Mumbai, later inter-departmental ones, I was the recipient of much humorous criticism, on behalf of the city I was based out of – namely Calcutta.

Everything seemed to be wrong with the city, or so I was communicated – in all exasperation and sympathy. This was by the rest of my 6-8 member team based out of Mumbai and Delhi, who like me had also just joined. But Calcutta’s maligned reputation, didn’t need much prior research to establish. I being its sole representative could only but swallow the information with much stinging humility. The criticism, as humorous as it seemed to the rest of the team, ranged from lackadaisical attitude of staff and management with examples, to defiant non-adherence of codes of conduct. Some of the examples being – Calcutta airport loaders were never in uniform; they were missing from designated customer-interface points and well…the list was rather long.

Now, it’s not that I can defend the issues that were thrown at me on Calcutta, but I was, in the next few years, privy to much that went on in all other stations including Delhi, Mumbai and Chennai, which was never as much an issue as it was when it happened in Calcutta. There were times, in Mumbai, when on an audit or a meeting, I personally offloaded baggage on to conveyor belts in the arrival hall, along with senior management, after all staff went on an indefinite strike with little prior warning. But when it happened in Calcutta it was oh, so funny! Then the staff in Delhi, they were often rude and arrogant – including the loaders. In fact, our team members, only two of them, in Delhi were ignored by the rest of the larger team – no one would talk to them civilly, let alone have a meal with them for the reports they churned, though it was their job to do so. But the Calcutta staff and loaders were always the ones who were: oh, so insubordinate! Then in Chennai, the lady staff could care to hoots about grooming regulations – it was against their cultural norms to wear makeup or wax their limbs, shape their eyebrows, but…oh! In Calcutta staff grooming is pathetic!

I can go on and on quoting examples of how when a place or person is maligned, everyone points their fingers at every given opportunity. Thus out of this gross unfairness I encountered, this in latter organisations I worked in as well, arose a sense of loyalty and a need to show Calcutta in a better light and awareness. But above all, to inculcate a sense of pride and belonging to the Bengali/Calcuttan who is usually the most vociferous critic of all, and sometimes unreasonably so.

It took me 5 married years, to sell Calcutta to Bishwanth Ghosh! And over 8 years, to have him release a book “Longing, Belonging, An Outsider At Home In Calcutta.”

All I hope for now is that the book, available at book stores in India, on Amazon, Flipkart and other sites, makes one look at Calcutta in a new light.

In A Green Stretch

In A Green Stretch

In a pine wood with winding mud-tracks,

There’s green stretches where cows graze;

The breeze here bounces off lashing waves,

As it embalms the scent of the sea in haste.

It’s few hours’ drive out of the city here,

A weekend getaway, a charming locale;

Amidst childhood friends I feel safe now,

No pretence I need, to convey all’s well.

The chalet is empty, the others are out,

I opted for a rendezvous with my mind;

It’s been so long since I could spare time,

To romance emotions flurried over time.

Moonlight on my face, I’m awake in bed,

As I listen to the leaves rustle in the wind;

Over the gurgle of the sea rough at night,

I still hear the clamour of thoughts within.

My mind discerns what it must do now,

But my heart puts up a stiff, strong fight;

Between the two I am squashed in pain,

Sitting on a bed of arrows life provides.

Injured the heart never loses its’ yearn,

However much the cognizance of strife;

Till it’s crushed to the very core by fraud,

Defeating, eradicating its trust in mankind.

I must rise over din that crushes humanity,

Listen to the sound of the sea and of life;

I must heal now, raise my soul from ashes

As to live without trust would mean I’d die.

I doze off, my mind exhausted from combat,

Tired of chiding my heart ever ready to trust;

I open my eyes to bright sunlight on my face,

Its faith in humanity I must upkeep, not doubt.

Cold At Your Door

Cold At Your Door

 

All I wanted from you is a little shade,

A little shelter from the rain I desired;

Cover from the torrential pour outside,

A safe haven is all my soul considered.

 

It wasn’t your heart I wanted for myself,

Neither a space in your house did I ask;

Refuge from the torrent is all I coveted,

Till I could find my own bearing, upright

 

You then indicated an illusionary space,

Permitted me a canopy on your porch,

My heart tripped, in the torrential rain,

So you left me outside, cold in the dark

 

Amassing my self-esteem from your egress,

I walked out bare, abashed, a mere wobble;

Drenched, in public view, I stood vulnerable

True love came by, straddled me in its lurch.

 

“Oft expectation fails, and most oft there where most it promises.”

William Shakespeare. All’s Well That Ends Well, act II, i, 145

 

‘EXISTENCES’ – A Collection Of Short Stories

 

“Existences” – A Collection Of Short Stories
by
Shuvashree Chowdhury Ghosh

 

https://www.authonomy.com/book/62365/

 

Dear friends,

I start my birthday year, by presenting to you my latest book – a collection of short stories, titled ‘EXISTENCES’.

‘Existences’ – is the sensitive, analytic and empathetic rendering of a young woman’s insights into the vagaries of human existences from the richness of a tapestry of social experiences in her working life.

 

‘Existences’ tracks the life of a young woman, barely stepping into a career, after the completion of her academic studies. This is simultaneous to her parent’s attempts to get her married off. The stories record her emotional and moral trials, the triumphs and surprises she faces, as she navigates her way through the maze of the corporate world. Six days a week she strives at gaining the attention and respect she deserves, in a male dominated world that is far from kind to a woman, more so if she is good looking. Intelligence and capability are not considered akin to good looks, especially in the case of a woman in our world that is so zealous of stereotyping.

This collection of stories is the rendering of a young woman’s insights into human existences from the richness of a tapestry of social experiences in her working life. The narratives, each short story a unique one, form a collage to help see with clarity those simple things that give meaning to our lives. They are as much about women, as about people, events and life-experiences, from the perspective of a working woman. Sensitive, analytic and empathetic in their approach and depiction of the nuances of human emotions, these depictions do not aim to judge people, rather project humanely, with justifiable narratives, the acceptance of the vagaries of human existences.

Fiction
Short-story

 

The book is uploaded in the link below in full and will be available on this site for a few months.

https://www.authonomy.com/book/62365/

I have to mention here that this is actually my first baby, before my novel ‘Across Borders’, and I must also admit with much humility that I could not find a publisher for it yet. I was repeatedly told that a collection of short stories by a debut writer is commercially not viable. But I have received plenty of positive feedback for it from reputed publishers and senior journalists for the content and the writing, added to the stories being close to my heart. Thus I am not willing to give up my dream of seeing the book in print someday.

I will be very grateful if you will make time to read and leave your valuable comments, reviews and feedback. With sufficient positive feedback, I will get an opportunity to see this book in print.
So I humbly hand over my baby to you…and pray that you allow its entry into the world with your comments and support. Also please recommend and forward the link to friends.

Please click on the link, — https://www.authonomy.com/book/62365/ — and then click the ‘Continue Reading’ tab to the right, to read.
Warmly,
Shuvashree

 

 

Your Hidden Face

Your Hidden Face:

In the rain, on leaves I see your face

Shapeless, green and tenderly faint

Floating in my memory as in a haze

Yet your soul I brazenly embraced

You speak to me as soft as a breeze

Caressing my face, tender on my skin

Drops of rain fall steady on the roof

As loud as your speechless words do

Chirping of range of birds that abound

Trying to drown the sound of rain’s fall

That drips steady drop by drop on walls

But I hear dribs, pure as I do your voice

Dark swimming clouds slowly waft by

Clearing a lighted spectrum in the sky

As a band of birds fly past a lit cosmos

Drawing attention to your smiling face

Now I see your face distinctly bright

The one hidden so long from my sight

It is the one I speak to in my dreams

My imagination now has your sheen

First They Will Laugh, Then They Will Copy: Don���t Give Up

������������������ �� First They Will Laugh, Then They Will Copy: Don���t Give Up

I started playing Tennis at 37 years, at my club in Chennai. The three markers, who taught me in turns, were polite, but evidently not interested, assuming my own interest would be short-lived, as is often the case with women in India starting Tennis late. The other men awaited my retreat from one or other of the two courts, even as the marker upped his speed, so I would tire and leave soon. None of the men, except at times the veterans, volunteered to play with me preferring instead to wait. I felt like a child, running playfully on the court, before a big match is to commence. But I held for at least half an hour, playing four-five days a week, my intense school and college sports participation standing my stamina in good stead. However, it was my self-esteem that would not hold longer, and I soon left to join a professional Tennis academy, run by a national player and her coach husband, though continuing to swim at the club every other day.

At the academy, the coaches and markers were proficient; in professional training clubs they don���t treat women preferentially. The first half hour, was spent in compulsory rigorous enhancement, individually, of our legwork and strokes ��� forehand, backhand, volleys, serves, and all. The second half hour we played either singles or doubles under vigilance of the coach on the numerous courts. Being the only woman playing with a dozen or so men above 18 years, as the one or two women who appeared every other day would drop out after a week at most of the rigour; my prowess in the game improved substantially. On visits to my club now, I would at times display my improved Tennis skills to the three shocked markers, more in way of driving the point that they lacked ability as trainers. They kept asking me to return to playing with them, but I shortly moved to Calcutta.

I joined the veteran Tennis player Jaydeep Mukherjee���s academy in Calcutta within a week of my moving. There I engaged a senior personal trainer, under whose guidance every morning I improved my strokes diligently till I could drop dead and yet he pushed me more. The veterans watching from other courts shortly started applauding my perseverance and also by now my much improved strokes. I decided to take on a bigger challenge. So I went over to the Sports Federation of India (NIS). There at the office, I was categorically told I could enrol only if the coach approved, after meeting me. I marched to the Tennis courts, passing all the other varied sports courts- basketball, football, hockey and sprint tracks. The coach very luckily took me on, signed my application form, after quizzing me for about fifteen minutes. As I was to realise only much later, his sharp and abrupt questions, even as he looked me straight in the eye as I answered, were to gauge my intent.

The young mostly male players, the next morning when I reported sharp at 6 and had finished warm ups, were not interested in playing with me a woman and a novice at that in their view. The group trainings here happen in the evenings. A teenager was sharply instructed by the coach to play with me, even as he looked back dejectedly. The coach, from Delhi, a middle aged, very fit and agile man, with a moustache and a short crop of hair, spoke in a crisp and commanding voice as coaches do, in Hindi. After watching me and the boy playing for a while, he signalled the boy to move out, took his racquet and his position across me. At first he played very gently, and then gradually built momentum and the power of his strokes, gauging mine in turn, along with my agility and stamina. Only after I was bent over, red in the face and panting like it were my last breaths, pleading with my eyes for him to stop, did he let me off, grinning as coolly as if back from an evening stroll.

Anyways, I must surely have passed his test, for the next day on, the coach, put me on to playing with a young man of his choice daily followed by two teenaged boys. So I would play singles, to two boys as doubles partners. The first day, these boys who I learnt were in between classes 8-12, looked at me bored, but were compelled to bear me. The coach watched us from afar, instructing us time to time. It was as he had expected, they were agile and raving to go, but their strokes were not controlled and practised, nor did they have control of the court and the balls. The two would run around wildly on the court, even as I stepped around in anticipation of their moves and of the ball. I knew the court well through practise but more maturity. Any sport, I realised, especially Tennis, is brainwork much over and above legwork or handwork, and I had in time attuned to a mental agility. So it became routine for me to play singles with two teenaged boys every other day. The purpose, the coach told us all stiffly, was so they would improve their strokes, the control of the ball and court, while me my stamina and agility.

In a few weeks, everyone including the men and few girls started playing with me, and asked me where I had learnt Tennis and how long I had been playing. The coach would smile smugly, even as I looked back at him gratefully for his faith, since taking me on; the others were wannabe professional players with potential. I respected his ignoring the remarks they made of his intent, since he often played with me while not with most. He would make me shake hands with kids standing in queue after tournaments, give away prizes and make a speech. The first time he did that, I was reluctant and when he insisted it was to motivate the children, I did so with moist eyes. I felt like a hero.

���If didi (elder sister) can learn to play so well, even at such a late age for playing professionally, you all can be champions.��� He would say loudly in Hindi. ���You know what is most essential in being a champion, it is grit and commitment. I saw the drive, the intent in didi���s eyes the first day she came to enrol.���

First They Will Laugh, Then They Will Copy: Don’t Give Up

            First They Will Laugh, Then They Will Copy: Don’t Give Up

I started playing Tennis at 37 years, at my club in Chennai. The three markers, who taught me in turns, were polite, but evidently not interested, assuming my own interest would be short-lived, as is often the case with women in India starting Tennis late. The other men awaited my retreat from one or other of the two courts, even as the marker upped his speed, so I would tire and leave soon. None of the men, except at times the veterans, volunteered to play with me preferring instead to wait. I felt like a child, running playfully on the court, before a big match is to commence. But I held for at least half an hour, playing four-five days a week, my intense school and college sports participation standing my stamina in good stead. However, it was my self-esteem that would not hold longer, and I soon left to join a professional Tennis academy, run by a national player and her coach husband, though continuing to swim at the club every other day.

At the academy, the coaches and markers were proficient; in professional training clubs they don’t treat women preferentially. The first half hour, was spent in compulsory rigorous enhancement, individually, of our legwork and strokes – forehand, backhand, volleys, serves, and all. The second half hour we played either singles or doubles under vigilance of the coach on the numerous courts. Being the only woman playing with a dozen or so men above 18 years, as the one or two women who appeared every other day would drop out after a week at most of the rigour; my prowess in the game improved substantially. On visits to my club now, I would at times display my improved Tennis skills to the three shocked markers, more in way of driving the point that they lacked ability as trainers. They kept asking me to return to playing with them, but I shortly moved to Calcutta.

I joined the veteran Tennis player Jaydeep Mukherjee’s academy in Calcutta within a week of my moving. There I engaged a senior personal trainer, under whose guidance every morning I improved my strokes diligently till I could drop dead and yet he pushed me more. The veterans watching from other courts shortly started applauding my perseverance and also by now my much improved strokes. I decided to take on a bigger challenge. So I went over to the Sports Federation of India (NIS). There at the office, I was categorically told I could enrol only if the coach approved, after meeting me. I marched to the Tennis courts, passing all the other varied sports courts- basketball, football, hockey and sprint tracks. The coach very luckily took me on, signed my application form, after quizzing me for about fifteen minutes. As I was to realise only much later, his sharp and abrupt questions, even as he looked me straight in the eye as I answered, were to gauge my intent.

The young mostly male players, the next morning when I reported sharp at 6 and had finished warm ups, were not interested in playing with me a woman and a novice at that in their view. The group trainings here happen in the evenings. A teenager was sharply instructed by the coach to play with me, even as he looked back dejectedly. The coach, from Delhi, a middle aged, very fit and agile man, with a moustache and a short crop of hair, spoke in a crisp and commanding voice as coaches do, in Hindi. After watching me and the boy playing for a while, he signalled the boy to move out, took his racquet and his position across me. At first he played very gently, and then gradually built momentum and the power of his strokes, gauging mine in turn, along with my agility and stamina. Only after I was bent over, red in the face and panting like it were my last breaths, pleading with my eyes for him to stop, did he let me off, grinning as coolly as if back from an evening stroll.

Anyways, I must surely have passed his test, for the next day on, the coach, put me on to playing with a young man of his choice daily followed by two teenaged boys. So I would play singles, to two boys as doubles partners. The first day, these boys who I learnt were in between classes 8-12, looked at me bored, but were compelled to bear me. The coach watched us from afar, instructing us time to time. It was as he had expected, they were agile and raving to go, but their strokes were not controlled and practised, nor did they have control of the court and the balls. The two would run around wildly on the court, even as I stepped around in anticipation of their moves and of the ball. I knew the court well through practise but more maturity. Any sport, I realised, especially Tennis, is brainwork much over and above legwork or handwork, and I had in time attuned to a mental agility. So it became routine for me to play singles with two teenaged boys every other day. The purpose, the coach told us all stiffly, was so they would improve their strokes, the control of the ball and court, while me my stamina and agility.

In a few weeks, everyone including the men and few girls started playing with me, and asked me where I had learnt Tennis and how long I had been playing. The coach would smile smugly, even as I looked back at him gratefully for his faith, since taking me on; the others were wannabe professional players with potential. I respected his ignoring the remarks they made of his intent, since he often played with me while not with most. He would make me shake hands with kids standing in queue after tournaments, give away prizes and make a speech. The first time he did that, I was reluctant and when he insisted it was to motivate the children, I did so with moist eyes. I felt like a hero.

“If didi (elder sister) can learn to play so well, even at such a late age for playing professionally, you all can be champions.” He would say loudly in Hindi. “You know what is most essential in being a champion, it is grit and commitment. I saw the drive, the intent in didi’s eyes the first day she came to enrol.”

An Emotional Closure

                                                

                                              An Emotional Closure

An hour ago, I signed a document, in receipt of a token sum of a lakh of rupees, as advance, towards the sale of our family’s business- a printing press in Calcutta. It took just a few seconds, to bring to a definitive closure, a lifetime’s emotional journey. This press was the identity I was born with. It defined my father half his life, and all of mine, till signing this document; the other part of my identity is as a retired professor’s daughter. The part of my identity I just relinquished, the press, was bought in the year 1957 by my father, as a small unit, that he slowly and meticulously scaled up singlehandedly. As a child, I visited the press randomly with mother and sister, to pick up father on the way somewhere, perhaps a movie or dinner, during our school vacations. While at the press, sister and I, we romped around, yet gave steady instructions as the owner’s daughters, to staff who humoured us, on what colours and material we wanted all our text books bound, which fine letter paper we wished our names printed in, the brand of stationery to be selected for school or the font we wanted them named for that matter.

At times, we went over with father to the press, waited for him to wrap up some work at hand, to take us shopping- which he did with great aplomb, allowing us to take our pick of what we liked, usually at the AC market on Theatre Road. We went around choosing, setting aside clothes, shoes, stationery, while he hobnobbed with corporate clients in offices located above in the same building. Then once he was done with the public relations for that day, he would go around, at times accompanied with friends from the offices above, paying up and collecting all the stuff we had set aside at the market, most of the shopkeepers knowing us well. There were those visits to New Market too, where father would briskly accompany us to shops, leave us to choose clothes and shoes, as he disappeared to wrap up meetings with vendors in other parts of the large market. Then he would come back and pay up, cursing our bad choices as he referred to them, even as he sometimes swapped our picks with expensive ones- believing always in quality over quantity. We would then drive home, munching on rolls from Badshah or confectionery from Nahoums, he would have already picked up while we were in confusion over what we wanted to buy.

During Vishwakarma Puja, when all equipment is worshipped, our entire family would spend the day at the press. There was an elaborate Puja followed by a grand lunch, this was also the time when neighbours, clients, vendors and ex-employees visited the press, each treated to a meal or the prasad at least. All in all, as a child, the press in my mind stood for a place for a rendezvous during our school vacations. It was when I was in my 9th standard, as part of my economics project, that I pinned father down to taking me through the basic working procedures of the press and only then cared to understand it stood for business and our family earning- at least a major portion of it. After I completed my Bachelor of commerce degree, while pursuing a course in public relations, simultaneous to learning German, mother insisted I learn the ropes of the family business, and compelled father to take me to the press with him when I was free. He was reluctant, father did not see it as a place fit for a lady, far from envisioning me running it, much rather preferring I marry and settle down as a housewife or simply study more.

At the time of my father’s passing, my mother by then retired from service, was running the business, though far from proficient, what with her teacher’s attitude and lack of tact, having less business acumen than anyone I know. It was only in the last couple of years, that I tried to wean out of her aged hands, the control of the press she now clung to as vestige of her husband’s life, as one would dolls an older child clings to, much beyond their years of playing with them. In taking over the reins, since husband and I were planning to move to Calcutta, and I was deeply attached to this press as one is to one’s home, I put all my mental, physical and financial resources into reviving it, but now with my personal stamp on it. I looked upon it as a home away from home, a place which would truly define me, where I could even stay over if I did not wish to go home the night. So now in addition to new machinery, furniture and smart printed stationery, there was a grilled balcony with plants whose pots were painted colourfully, smartly framed paintings and photos lining the staircase and offices, sofas overlooking the balcony beside a pantry well stocked with snacks, beverage makers and pretty crockery. In effect, you knew on a visit, the place was owned by a woman, but more so a daughter from the portraits of my parents that hung about you.

It was after putting all of my dreams into this project, not the least of which was the efforts into hiring more people, making corporate client presentations and signups, that husband declared his inability to move to Calcutta, the impracticality of it now- in his view. So here I was back to sacrificing my dream all over again, for in no indefinite terms it comes anywhere before family for me. When you let go off your dream mid-flight, after all the effort in taking off, you crash land emotionally. It is as painful as amputation of your limbs, let’s say in this case it be your wings you are brutally eliminating to bring you quickly to hard ground reality. Then in this case, my dream balloon was also wrapped in my childhood memories, fuelled by longing for the essence of my father’s hands, upholding his aspirations for the tree-house he had built in the lonely woods he walked into coming alone from Dacca.

The Rain Song

The Rain Song:

Sitting on my balcony

I watch the green sight;

The top of trees quiver

Their leaves drip light

The sky dark as night

Yet with hints of light;

Crows hop restlessly-

On branches astride

Thunder rips my soul,

Light dazzles my sight;

As sound of steady rain-

Soaks my heart’s quiet

Music playing indoors

Pervades my senses,

Lyrics soft and tender

As if rain in my mind

Amidst gleams of light

Thunder roaring aloud,

I hear soft rain on leaves-

Singing a ballad of my life

PS: I’m scribbling this spontaneously on my notepad, on the spread out 2nd floor balcony of my mother’s house in Calcutta, as I watch the rain, home alone. Happiness is in such little things :)

L

Amidst The Vines

Amidst The Vines

Lonely I stood amidst the vines,
In a pall of temerity, as standby;
You came strolling by the woods,
In search of harmony and quiet

In bloom, concealed from view,
I was timid to step into public eye;
As for long, I was veiled from sight,
Lighting a green stage as floodlight

If visible, I might gleam as sunshine,
Blind viewers from seeing starlight-
Of skills rehearsed over a lifetime;
Thus I hesitated to show my glow

But you caught a glint of my light,
Acknowledged I had my own shine-
Over merely illuminating the stage;
Thus recouped me with flashlight