Aye Mere Pyaare Watan........

                                                   Where is the golden river

                                                   Gurgling through the hills

                                                  Where is the music of drums?

                                                  Where does the first ray of sun..

                                                        Wake up the flowers

                                           Where does the smoke rise from the huts

                                          Where does the moon shine on silvery lawn

                                                   My little land, my mother land

                                                            I cry for you..

                                                            I long for you…..

                                                             I miss you so…..

I was born in Ranchi, a little hilly town in the Chhotanagpur Plateau, a summer resort for many. I was nourished with the wind, sunshine and greenery of the beautiful town and that made me a complete Chhotanagpuri at heart. When I left the plateau, I felt as if my heart was uprooted and since then it has been a wanderer. I promised myself to return one day, to this plateau, to the people, to those gurgling waters and to the little whispering hills.

The earliest childhood memories were of the short summers punctuated by sharp showers and hailstorm. Chhotanagpur summers were all about closed windows, hot wind blowing over the green plateau and the wind beating against the shutters and lots of dust. Around mid afternoons, the black cloud would gather its allies and create a powerful storm, which in Bangla, we termed as ‘Kal Boishakhi’. The storm would snatch away the ripe green mangoes from the bowing branches and as a valediction, it would leave back lots of icy hails all over the ground, all for us. We as kids would carry mugs and wear red coloured Bengal Gamchas over our heads to collect the hails (sheel, in Bangla).  How we all loved gobbling up the icy pieces and then collecting the ripe mangoes fallen all over the wet ground!

I always feared those storms and seeing my father absolutely enjoying it and taking the sharp showers on his bare chest would fill me with rage. I, as a child, always thought that storms would be followed by earthquake and I passed on this fear to my little brother too. We, as kids, would shout, shriek and cry seeing the storm and pray, “Bhoomikompo jeno na hoye’. (“God, let there be no earthquake’).

The winters saw us completely inside the quilts, studying inside the quits, drinking milk inside it and wrestling and boxing inside it too. During day times on holidays, my mother would actually warm our bath waters directly from sunlight! During lazy holiday afternoons, we would soak the abundant sunlight, after lunch. The neighbours would gather at a common place, with the kids reading comics or playing and mothers mainly knitting and sharing designs. A short retreat to the warm bed after the sun-soaking was a bonus.

The rainy days would be usually long. Rains would continue for days together and that kept us indoors with our dolls. I cherish playing with dolls on rainy days. This was the season when the neighbourhood dolls were married to each other and our mothers played sporty event managers in actually cooking delicacies for the Putuler-Biye/ Gudiya kee shaadi.

We played a lot of local games, like Pitto, Budiya-Kabaddi, Eye-spy (Ice-pice :)),Kit-kit, Langri-chhoo, Cutting the apple, Chhoaa-chhoyee, Kumir-Danga(Crocodile). And cricket was played with custom-made bats from left over wooden pieces!

Our life was integrated with so many other people. It was all about inter-dependence than independence.  They were our lifelines in so many ways. Our post man chhacha who smilingly delivered the post cards, my final exam result and the parcels, the Nana who would vend moongfali (well moongfali was called Badam by us :)), Tarbooj, Son-Papdi and sometimes sweet jaamoons.

The image of an old lady selling puffed rice to us is so very clear even today. She carried a huge sack of puffed rice on her head and wore jewelleries which fascinated me. She used a local system of measuring the puffed rice.

Thanks to my mother and cousin sister, we knew all that was happening in their lives. I imagined this Nani coming down faraway hills, crossing meadows to deliver the puffed rice at our doorstep.

As clear as this is the image of the curd seller who had a typical sing song way of calling out “Da----heeee’. And then there was the milk seller who would proficiently ride his bi-cycle while having his one palm covering his ears and the other, stretched out while he would break out into some soulful song.

Sometimes local circus was staged in the lanes where young kids showed off dangerous tricks. They walked on rope, tied babys' neck by ropes and swung them around and later collected money/rice from us. Sometimes someone would carry a BioScope and place it right on the road while we children looked through the circular windows inside the bioscope.  I, for the first time came through ‘Gabbar Singh’ and ‘Hema Malini’ through the bioscope. Vendors in one-stroller mobile shop would sell ribbons, clips, kajal and just about everything we wanted, including those colourful hair decorations!

Our life was so close to the local festivals of Sarhul and Karma, festivals which paid homage to Mother Nature for giving us our abundant resources and affluent land called the Chhotanagpur.

The annual picnic to nearby water falls were so much looked forward to. The bountiful Suvarnarekha would cascade through  hillocks in and around the sister-districts. There were hill rivulets whose beds were rocky. We could see the river bed clearly at one time and a little rainfall would speedily fill up the river to such an extent that a jeep could very well get stuck in the middle. Rabindranath Tagore has described such rivers so beautifully as , ‘Amaader chhoto nodi chole aake-baake, Boishak-maashe taar haatu jol thaake’ (Our little river meanders through and during Baishakh/summer, the water is knee-deep).

Our little town adorned a special look during the Jagannath Mela in the Bengali month of ‘Asaar’ (in July). The colorful carnival, the daring circus artists, the sound of the flute, the coloured specks and the big Papads with a sprinkle of rain made those days extra special. The mighty Jagannath, his brother and sister travelled to their maternal aunt’s house while we cheered through. The festival, so big, yet was away from any pseudo-grandeur and was so much OURS.

My heart carries me to the fragrant land and I long for its touch. I have left a little part of myself still there, beckoning me with open arms and tearful eyes.

                                                                Ek pehchaanee see khushboo kee talash

                                                                           Ek boond kee pyas hai

                                                                           Pila do samundar mujhe

                                                                             Na bujhe.......Na bujhe

                                                                                Dil ke kone mein

                                                                             Baandh kar rakhee hai

                                                                             Ek yaado ke Gathri, maine...

                                                                            Salamt meri yaadein rahe

                                                                            Salamat mera watan rahe………



Anindita Baidya
06 Dec 12


Phoographs: From Internet

Kitchen King ho……ya Kitchen Queen..

Picture this:

Wife is in the middle of finishing her Sunday late afternoon kitchen chores, wanting badly to rush under the shower, running up and down, with her eyes on the wall clock and sleeves of the already ‘wet-with-sweat’ nightie wiping off the stubborn sweat on the forehead that keeps coming.

It is a sultry, hot Kolkata afternoon with the exhaust fan totally gone and surely she wants to catch up some nap on a Sunday afternoon.

Hubby arrives to the relief of the wife (they can now quickly have the lunch and have a nap). But her hope is short lived. Hubby is here with his old lost and found class friends whom he met at the bus-stop corner and has invited them for lunch. To add to the misery, he says, “I just got these fish which my friends liked, I think some fish fry will go very well with the mango daal which you have prepared”.

A volcano erupts from the top of HER head but she is still silent, offers some sharbat to the guests and excuses herself quickly to her bed room to change her clothes while showering the volcano ash on her children who are stuck to the television. “Don’t you have anything better to do? Only you have the right to lie down and I am supposed to only work?”

Friends, I am not into any debate on gender roles. I intend to note down some of the funny kitchen tales I have eye-witnessed.

My Ma and Baba had the unsaid rules written very clear. On week days Ma did the vegetable and fish shopping and on weekends Baba got the vegetable along with the ‘Maangsho’ (Chicken/ Mutton). My darling dad would always return, beaming while narrating to his wife, how he outsmarted the mutton seller who tried to sell lamb’s meat . “Bhera r maangsho dichchilo beta…aami bujhe gechi…aami dekhe shune khaashi enechi!” I don’t have suitable words to explain this sentence, honestly. I don’t find a suitable English for the Bangla ‘Beta’. (It is not ‘My Son’, please).

Baba would often ask, just as soon as he finished his Sunday breakfast, “Ki torkari aanbo, bole daao”. (Tell me what vegetables should I get). My mother would first mumble to herself, “Pete gelei shuru” (she meant that he did not have the patience; just as the breakfast is finished, he wants to go). Then she would announce from the kitchen, “Look in the refrigerator and decide what you should get”. To that my wise and patient dad would reply, “Okay, I will wait, tell me when YOU have the time”. That would make my Ma all the more angry and she would march to the fridge, all the way listing the vegetables which needed to be bought. Dad’s mission accomplished!

On the days when it really got late and Ma would be really tired, Baba would, by his own fate, return from the market with tiny little fish (which needs a lot of effort cleaning). My mother would shower all her anger on the vessels and the sink-tap while mumbling, “Khaao…rosher khaaoaa khaao…!”, while I stood at a distance and offer any help she needed!

Well, this gap between the ‘Kitchen manager’ and the ‘Gatherer’ transcend geography and generation.

Ofcourse, in Bengal, the Babus love to go to ‘Bajaar’ early in the morning before going to office so their wife could finish some cooking before they left for ‘Duty’. “Bhaat kheye jaaoaa”, in other words, “Having rice before leaving home” is an important event, an auspicious one too! One should never leave home without eating, if you leave home empty stomach, you are bound to remain hungry throughout the day!

The kitchen rules at the Iyer household is more participatory. Mr and Mrs Iyer both wear the sleeves of the Kitchen Manager. Mr Iyer loves to shop…and stock: at a whole sale rate. So there comes 5 Kg of tomato for a family of two. “We anyway need so much of tomato”. It is no use attempting to explain that rotten tomatoes are of no use! Mr Iyer’s hands would fish out most rotten and ripe bananas, tomatoes and potatoes from the seller and this continued to remain the reason for arguments between the happily married couple.

Well, it was another time when Mr and Mrs Iyer lived in a plush, large house of their own. Later when they shifted to the Pigeon House in Mumbai to join their son and daughter-in-law, old habits of Mr Iyer transported itself with him.

In the pigeon house of a home, Mr Iyer found his Military Connection and started stocking the home with supplies from his Canteen. So six Harpics, ten body soaps, Kilos of dry fruits, shavings creams, talcum powders, spices and much more started occupying the little space. It only made the two Iyer ladies madder. “Dad, there is no war declared, we can buy the supplies every month” the daughter in law pleaded, into deaf ears.

Mr Singh and family are ardent Shiv worshippers. On Shiv Ratri, the entire family observes fast. So while going home for lunch, he decided to carry 5 kilos of bananas, 1 kilo for each member, according to him. His two sons, thinking on similar lines, carried 2-3 kilos bananas each, while they were returning home. The daughter-in-law, being the kitchen manager, bought another 4 kilos. So, here is a family who think alike! Happy FASTING, Singh Saab!

I am sure there are these interesting anecdotes in each one of our lives; while I keep gathering these from my family and friends, I really need to sweat it out this weekend to make space for the 75 kilos rice that has been ordered by my family members to accommodate in my match box size kitchen, wish me luck friends and Happy Space Management.

My Puja diary......and hers

This autumn, one morning, my daughter woke up and walked into the balcony, stood there for some time, breathing in the fresh crisp morning air.   I myself was in the ‘special Puja’ mood, which every Bengali is, a few weeks before the Durga Puja.

With the clear sky, the autumn air, we can hear the footsteps of Sharodiya Durga Puja.

As I looked at my daughter, I wondered what she is felt.  Did my child feel the similar craze, as I would feel, as a child, just before the Puja? Did her heart too sing, “Pujo Aashche?” Did she smell the Shiuli in the air and did she feel the soothing cold? What was she looking at?

Pujo and its arrival has never been the same, after I left my home town about sixteen years back!  As a child,   every single vein in my body would sing to the tune of ‘Pujo Aashche’.  My childhood Puja was marked with the arrival of pleasant autumn in the Chota Nagpu plateau.   The sky would be so clear and in the little town of Ranchi, I could hear the festival arriving, each day. 

The weather would itself tell us what vehicle Durga Ma would be using for arriving during the Sharodiya Puja.  If there were heavy rains during the monsoons, we knew she would arrive on a boat; during the years when we witnessed storms, we were sure Ma Durga would arrive on a horse-chariot.  That was what our childhood fantasy about Puja, was like!

It was also about buying new clothes, piling them up in one bundle in the ‘Godrej’, marvelling at the hoardings of Bata shoe (Pujoe chai notun juto), also buying a nice pair. I remember my parents drawing our little steps on papers for buying our foot-wear, before they left for shopping, sometimes without us.

 Planning the design we wanted for our dresses and buying (once a year) those much desired make-up stuff.  Mother’s special sari would also be bought during the Puja.

The annual visit to ‘Rampuriya’ cloth store in father’s scooter and coming home happy with the shopping was one of the best memories I have.  Ma would stich pretty dresses for me and my dolls and when I was a bit grown up, the dress material would go to the tailor.

Whenever we had visitors, we would proudly show off our dresses to them.  “Eta Mama diyeche, eta boro ma  diyeche”.  And we would keep aside the best one for Ashtami.

The rough sound of Radio-waves going up and down at the start of Mahalaya, has a special sweet memory which no smooth You Tube relay can replace.  In the sleepy dark night, Birendra Krishna’s voice would awaken our heart, soul and wash us with craving for Aagomoni.  We would sleep and also be awake, while the Mahalaya played through the dark into the sunrise.

On Ashtami days, we would take the Prasad Thali to the Puja Pandal and later bring it back; this task delegated by mother was a matter of pride, in itself.  Durga Puja also marked our independence since we could go Pandal hopping with friends and eat some of the ‘Phuchka’ or ‘Chat’.  My mother’s bare feet, adorned with Red aalta,  walking towards the Pujo Pandal brightened the Ashtami mornings.  The Navami would bring with it a stint of sadness that the festivity would now end.  Dashami mornings were spent helping Mother with the Nimki frying.   Me along with my father and brother, cousin, would cut the Nimkis neatly while mother fried and stored them for ‘Vijaya Dashami’.  After witnessing Ravan-Poda in the evening, the postcards were filled up with wishes to the relatives.

Small though was our neighbourhood Puja Pandal, we always returned to it even when we shifted house to some other neighbourhood. I have never again felt this level of enthusiasm about Puja, once I left the little home town, no not even in a bigger place in West Bengal.  In the last few years it was as if Durga Puja started and ended before I even realised, before I even felt ‘Pujo-Pujo’!

I kept trying to fit-in my childhood experiences to the frame of every city, every neighbourhood I have been and it only saddened me more, filling me with yearning for those days.  I tried to recreate the same experience for my child too but it made me more nostalgic. 

So, that autumn morning when I saw my child taking in the air, I thought, did she have the same feeling about Puja? Did she have a similar sentiment which I brought back from my home town, preserved and carried within me wherever I went?

I always tried to give her the joy of buying new dresses during Puja but found that she did not care for preserving those for the festival, as, unlike me, she gets to wear new dresses every now and then.  She does not have to wait for Puja. She does not have a long holiday, so a visit to Puja Pandal is not ‘non-negotiable’.  So, how can I recreate the same Puja for her? I always wondered!

Taking in the crisp air, she said to me, “Amma, I will be so happy when the last period ends today, for this will mark the beginning of my Navratri.  When do we go to buy some new Chania Cholis and shoe for me?”

So, she was waiting for Navratri to begin! And from then, she counted every moment for the Navratri, decked up in her best for Garba, enjoyed the Durga Puja Bhog and on Navami, she said, “Let us enjoy since this is the last day”.

My craving for my childhood Durga Puja came to a pause.  It dawned upon me that my child is building her own memories around her life.  It is not essential for me to fit in my piece of memory in to hers, she has her own set to put together, I need not Script her memories as per my own childhood memory.

So, she enjoyed the Navratri.  Is she happy? Yes.  Am I happy? Now, yes, certainly.  The moment I acknowledged that my own memories are precious and I may keep them safe within me, without trying to fit them in to the present, I was happy.  I have decided to enjoy these ten days, the way it is celebrated, wherever I am, in space and time.

The Autumn wind? Yes, it will come back next year and take my hands back to my beloved birth place but will safely land me back to where I am, at present.

Happy Dusshera to all my friends.

Tahrir.......

Sharon was startled at the shrill sound of the phone ringing in the living room. She threw a glance at the bed side clock. 12 midnight. Who could have possibly called her at this hour?

It was Jacob on the other side. “Sharon, there is a news! You really need to burn your midnight oil and finish this story to be published tomorrow in the early morning edition. You see, I just heard that Rustam Mallik passed away half an hour back. Considering the stature of this great poet, our newpaper really needs to do a lot of justice to him. A marvellously written, well deserved tribute to this great man, thats what I want. And only you can write it! So hurry up and in next two hours send me the first draft. Get all the information you want about him and just do it!”

Sharon’s heart missed a beat. She was surprised and shocked. No, not because Jacob had called her at this weird hour! She was used to this. What shocked her was Rustam Mallik’s sudden death.

And fate had chosen none but her to write a ‘marvellously written, well deserved tribute’ for him!


Rustam Mallik was in news only last week when he received his award from the Head of the State and then he and his wife had appeared in a talk show. His second wife!


In the talk show, Rustam had let his heart out about his view towards the simplicity of life, of his love for Shayari and dedication to many social causes. His wife told the world how she is the luckiest woman on earth to have Rustam as her life partner!

Rustam Mallik was one of the highest regarded poets in the modern times and everyone said that he had a heart of gold and God dwelled in his pen! His poems on the social issues were part of student’s texts and he was the recipient of many prestigious awards, national and international.

So it was only proper for Sharon to search all the articles about him and write down many good words for the departed soul! Jacob knew that she would do justice to this work for the newspaper. Jacob knew her talent very well!

What Jacob did not know was Sharon had a sea of information on Rustam’s life! In her little library, Sharon had collected paper clippings of whatever news she could find on Rustam’s life. She had all the stories which the world would need to mourn the passing away of their dear poet.

What the world did not know was that Sharon carried in her heart, an entirely different saga of Rustam’s life!


She had met Rustam when she was a little girl, of only 6 yrs. Rustam was quite indifferent to this little girl, who tried to reach out to this poet, once. She wanted to hold his hands but Rustam hurried away.

She feebly called after him, “Daddy.....”

Sharon’s mother took her away. Time out! She could not spend more time with her daddy.

Sharon’s mother had met Rustam when she was a demure, young college student. She missed her classes to listen to him at the state sponsored mushayraas. She gradually fell in love with him and did not even know when she entered his life.


Rustam was a married man. Although Rustam and Sharon’s mother remained in the relation, he took all the care not to let the world have even a hint of it.


Mrinalini was too much in love with him to resist him. She was afloat a boat in the ocean of her own emotions and she let Rustam sail her away.


The tempest started when Mrinalini got pregnant with their child. Rustam threw temper, broke the wine bottles at Mrinalini’s house and also injured her badly when she refused to let go off the baby.


Rustam suddenly walked out of Mrinalini’s life, vouching never to come back again! Sharon was born in a convent where Mrinalini had taken a shelter. She later worked at the convent school and raised Sharon.


By the time Sharon was 5, her queries about her Daddy disturbed Mrinalini. Rustam had threatened her enough not to reveal Sharon’s parentage to the world.


Only when she turned six, did Mrinalini promise to plan a small meeting with her father. That was the only birthday gift little Sharon wanted. Mrinalini had requested a brief meeting and Rustam agreed with the condition that the meeting should not last 5 min.


That morning Sharon woke up at the crack of the dawn, bathed and dressed in her best and dressed up her dolls and Teddy too. They needed to see her Daddy too!

Mrinalini held the child’s hand and patiently waited outside the auditorium where Rustam had one of his shows. After the programme he came out and Sharon gathered her dolls and Teddy to meet him. And it was over before she knew it. She had dreamt Rustam taking her in his arms, giving gifts and hugging her. But he did not even hold her little hands and left the child surprised and weighed down with the desire for more.

Mrinalini never seemed to even recognize Sharon’s longing to be with her father. As she grew, her madness for having her parents together, also grew. She never dared to let her heart out before her mother. By then Mrinalini was a completely different woman from the fragile girl in love that she once was.

So Sharon grew up without her father. She kept collecting all the news she could, about him and spent all her pocket money buying his books. When she was a teen ager, she stole herself away from school to hear him at the stage, whenever he was in town; just like her mother did when she was in college.


Sharon was a silent observer of Rustam’s life. When he separated from his wife, Sharon hoped he would return to Mrinalini but Rustam married a beautiful and successful theatre actress and told the world that they were the happiest couple in the world.


When in college, Sharon became bolder and more confident. She wrote to Rustam and forced him to be in contact with her, albeit secretly. His wife and Sharon’s mother were kept in the dark about the acquaintance that was secretly building up. There was mutual promise to keep it in the dark.


Sharon would wait at the entrance and exit during Rustam’s programmes and their eyes would meet only for a while and these moments were enough for Sharon to carry on with her life. She did long to be in his arms, to question the injustice done to her, she wanted him more than anything else but neither he nor Mrinalini ever had the hint of it.


Then Mrinalini left the world. She asked him whether he could be there for the last rites but Rustam refused.


After Mrinalini, Sharons’ life became a vacuum as well as a liberated sky! She could now follow Rustam without being caught by her mother; only Rustam was indifferent once again and slowly stopped all the contacts with her.


Sharon never stopped reading his books and all the articles which talked about the benevolent social work Rustam was doing. He opened orphanages in two cities, was the founder of a blind school, was the director of Association for retiring poets and many more.


Rustam’s life ended before Sharon could know. No, she did not feel the tears wanting to flood her eyes. She now had to write a dedicated tribute to the great poet, who had been a great person and a great social worker in his life.


Kaise karoon bayaan inaayat teri
Hazaaron karam kiye toone
Mere tahrir mein jo na sama sakein
Itne afsaane diye toone....


Sharon took out her files and began her work. The story is yet to come to an end......



Anindita Baidya
16 July 12

Images: From the internet

The final rendezvous

‘Ann.......!!!”

The silence was broken by a faint call from somewhere very far. But it was very distinct and she recognised the voice immediately. And the realisation sent a chilling wave down her spine!

“It couldn’t be him! How on earth is it possible?”




Samay ke uss paar se bhi awaaz deta hai koi?

Tera naam doosre jaha se bhi pukaartaa hai koi?

Annelise ignored the voice and treaded ahead. It was a dense forest and the cold windy morning in January made it difficult to move very fast.

She again heard the voice, “Ann..........................!!!!”

She almost started sweating in spite of the harsh cold wind. Annelise now decided to hurry back to her resort.

The resort manager had informed her that the beautiful Sunrise Point in this part of the Shivalik hills was closed for tourists, since last thirty years! The tourism department had sealed this part and notified the place as ‘UNSAFE’.

She very well knew, why!

Annelise tried to shrug off the thought of the voice calling out her name. Her very own name, ‘Ann’. And there has been only one person in the world who ever called her by that name!

Sahir! Only Sahir!

Sahir and Annelise, the star struck lovers, the prince and princesses of a fairy tale love story, a tragic love story.

They both belonged to very rich families. The two families in the same neighbourhood had built fortune over the generations and their wealth, splendour and dazzle could speak only a small part of the enormous power and strength they had built in the society.

And so, undoubtedly, the highly regarded two families could not allow the two lovers, belonging to different culture and religion, belong to each other. They were like the two banks of the same river, nothing in the world could allow them to meet.

There were tears, there were pleadings, there was violence, house-arrest and unlimited pain and woes at both the sides. Ann and Sahir, however, could not bring their families into a mutual peaceful contract. Soon Ann’s powerful brothers arranged a hasty matrimony for their sister, ignoring cruelly her tears and heartache.

It was with the help of a cousin that Ann managed to sneak out of the busy house and meet Sahir at a remote lane. They had decided to board the next train to the neighbouring station. But hell soon broke loose and both the families discovered that the lovers had left! There was a chase, a bad chase, a long chase and Sahir and Ann headed straight towards the forest, with no idea where the road would lead to! After an hour of chase, they clearly spotted Ann’s brothers and Sahir’s family running towards them like a group of mad elephants. It had not taken long for them to decide the final fate! They looked at each other and knew what they had to do.

In another moment, the two lovers jumped off the high cliff, down, down the rocky hill, rolling past high trees, thorny bushes and steep rocky edges.

Fate had different plans for each of them.

Ann was rescued by a group of trekkers. They tried to help Sahir too but he did not live long enough to even reach the hospital. Ann had remained in coma for a day and much after she had regained her senses, that she actually realised what a crooked game her fate had played!

Death had embraced Sahir while her own life had deceived her and death had deserted her!

After recovery, Ann left the town for good. She lived the years in her own captivity, in some lonely hilly village and had never returned to her homeland. She punished herself for not having crossed the boundary of life and death along with Sahir.

Thirty years later, she planned a rendezvous with the long lost moment and landed up in a small tourist cottage, not having even informed her family. She had borrowed the cottage owner’s car and had headed towards this place, knowing very well that treading inside was forbidden.

Her thoughts were once again shattered by the same faint call, ‘Ann....’ and she now started perspiring badly on her forehead. In the almost freezing cold, she felt very hot with her cardigan and shawl around her. She tried to walk faster but the thick fog made viewing very difficult. Her own legs seemed like heavy pillars and hands trembled badly.

And then....her heart almost stopped beating and she tumbled over a rock. About twenty feet away, on a rock, she saw her scarf, her very own red silk scarf which had her name beautifully embroidered in blue, at one edge.

Ann had tied this scarf around Sahir’s neck just before they plunged themselves downhill. Her cousin had informed that Sahir was buried along with this scarf; a small, last piece of regard for his love, shown by his repenting family.

Ann was in no way looking forward to any more chilling surprises. She ran towards her car and drove it very fast.

The car pulled along recklessly through the forest, cutting through small herbs. Her hands were shivering so badly and had almost lost control.

In all her panic, she missed the ‘Forbidden path’ signboard on the way and drove into the path, still sweating and fighting hard to look through the thick fog. She had avoided looking back or sideways while driving. Some vehicle lights visible through the rear view mirror caught her attention and she looked back while driving at the same speed.

She did not notice the deep valley just ahead and in no time Ann’s car along with her, dived into the deep valley, knocking against the rocks, tall trees, thorny bushes and steep rocky edges........!!!!!

Love Story

She was a young, vibrant, daring and vivacious college student, very active in politics and more active in building a life for her own self, taking charge of it totally.

He was a quiet, serious, struggling man with dreams in his eyes and the entire life packed in one small suitcase, moving around the suburbs of the City of Joy.

They belonged to families which had faced the blow of the Indo-Pakistan partition.  Their families had left everything in Bangladesh and arrived in India with their lives and little hopes tied in small bundles.  Both the families had crossed The Padma river with the hope to return to their motherland, only to soon realize that they had left behind the land, water and sky forever. 

His family arrived at a sleepy town in Tripura and her family settled in Kolkata and life went on.

Destiny had it this way, he went for a course at the IIT Kharagpur and befriended her brother and then he visited her house often. 

And that’s how Ma and Baba met.

Baba helped Ma with her college notes and Ma helped Baba in building secret dreams of a life with this chirpy young girl.  But the quiet and silent Baba was never able to voice his liking for her.

Ma was very sure of what she wants in life and empowered enough to get it.  So she proposed.  He reciprocated and they got married.  They were each other’s first love and now life partner.

Baba worked at Ranchi while Ma continued her Government school job in Kolkata.  Parenthood followed the marriage and soon they were proud Ma and Baba to a beautiful daughter. 

But life is not all roses throughout.  The dagger of the fate cut through their loving heart and they lost their daughter after six months of blissful parenthood.

Shattered and broken, they found solace in each other’s love.  Love had a new definition now.  They had seen one shade of love but now the love unfolded new colours.  Love is support, love is Being There.

They became parents again.  In four years time, they had a daughter and a son.  Ma had already left her job to join her husband after the birth of their daughter.

Not that Love is always sweet words and laughter.  They had their own share of disappointments, arguments and complaints but the various shades of love kept unfolding over them and life went on.  Baba was very busy in building the Cultural and Educational centre of his dreams and Ma, all the while, kept the household grounded and looked after all the needs of the family.  The family extended beyond these four people.  There were relatives to be looked after, there were people to be fended for and the two of them, as one, untiringly delivered all the duties.

They had almost forgotten their own needs; they did not even seem to be a ‘couple in love’ to the children.  For the children, they were two individuals with distinct roles and yet in unison as one: as parents.  They were the two pillars anchoring them to earth and bestowing the meaning to home, to childhood and to their dreams.

Years later, Ma and Baba were once again alone, when the two little birds learnt to fly. 

Love came around in full circle when they reached the twilight years.  It had a new definition, new implication and new shade. 

Soon after retiring from the services, Baba’s health weakened.  The children never imagined a sick Baba.  Ma had those surgeries, Ma had those ulcers and Baba always was there to take control of the situation.  Things turned to be entirely different when Baba, suffering from diabetes, leading to  partial loss of eyesight and kidney problems became dependent on his wife.   So much had changed in their life; only one thing had not changed.  The conviction that Love means support, love means Being There.

During his last few days on earth, Baba would often request Ma to put her hands on him and quietly lie down by his side.  He wanted to be re-assured of her presence, of her ‘Being there’.

That day, before leaving for his evening walk, he looked back at Ma and feebly uttered, “Aami Jaachchi,’ which is a very uncommon phrase in Bangla.  We do not usually say , “I am going”, we rather say, ‘I will go and come.”  Ma, very busy with her Laxmi Puja preparation hardly noticed that it was long past his arrival time.  Only a few minutes later the neighbours informed her that they had found him lying in a pool of blood at the bottom of the staircase.

A hemorrhage and coma followed.  Ma spent the entire night like a guard, near him, refusing to move for even a moment.  She nursed him and pleaded with him to come back..to consciousness.

When the doctors revealed that there was absolutely no hope of coming back and it was only a matter of time, Ma took control again.  She re-lived the marriage vow of wishing the best and only the best for him, she prayed to the Almighty for the best judgment for her husband, she surrendered to the Almighty’s will and thus made their love immortal.

She let him go, he left..they are each other’s first love, they grew old together, they lived their love and wrote their story among many others, on the leaf of time.

Love stories may have an end but it is only the story which ends, love lives forever…………

How I met my would-(not)-be husbands!

We are about to step into the eleventh year of our married life and it seems just yesterday when I was scanning through the Matrimonial pages of the newspapers and highlighting and ticking those matches which I thought would be SUITABLE.

Yes friends, I went through all those…

The Photo-session in a studio, the Matrimonial pages, the ‘Ladki Dekhna’, I was spared of nothing.

I thought it is a good time to pen down my experiences from the past and thanks to my friend Meera for her recent blog-posts on similar subjects which triggered me.

Now, to begin with, I must say that my father was a super-cool guy or I must say that he just did not have those ideas of ‘How to get your daughter married’.  Poor dad, he had thought that his daughter would choose her life partner but then I was almost 28 and informed him that I do intend to marry but have not found a groom for self.  And he found that time is ticking away.

Father would often call me up at my office and instruct me, “While returning home, get clicked at the Roy Studio’.  I would shout, ‘Get clicked this way? In these clothes and with this tired face?’ My father certainly did not have the idea.  After all, he did not have to choose his bride this way.  His bride had chosen him and had proposed and  that’s how they had got married.

That was a dream match-making style for me.  My Ma proposed and led the two of them into matrimony.  But their daughter was not the one to get such a ROMANTIC chance in life.

So I, accompanied by my parents once visited a studio in all those fineries and got myself clicked.  The result was BAD.  We never sent those photographs to any family.  The one photo used by us was clicked by my mother, one fine morning when I was leaving for office.

My first experience of ENCOUNTERING those negotiations was one fine Sunday morning.  My mother and I were leaving for the vegetable market when two guys arrived on a bike, searching for our houses and happened to ask us for direction.  I understood that they were from the family where my father’s letter must have just reached but I acted ignorant.  I directed them to my house,  to the mercy of my cool father and proceeded to the market, much to the surprise of my mother.  But I had attained an age and earned the credibility when my parents believed that I was doing the right thing.  They hardly challenged my actions!  Thanks Ma and Baba!

The guys were still there when we returned.  They were the ‘BOY’s cousins and took a lot of pride in talking about him.  Well, somehow my father (and I) really were not keen on this and so my father asked them (after a week or so) to return my photograph.  This photograph was a very favourite one of mine clicked during one of my study visits but to my dismay, anger and shock, they announced that the photograph had been torn to pieces by their pet dog!

My father’s declining health status and our urgency to get me married followed parallel time line. So my brother and I practically had to take the responsibility of getting me married.  I would scan through newspapers, write letters on his behalf and actually had to coax him to follow up.  To that, my cool guy would say, “If they have the urgency, they will surely call”! My mother would gasp, “What about our urgency!” 

I sometimes felt bad for my parents.  Earlier when they had the age and good health and offered to search for a groom for me, I always stopped them;  sometimes, declining the idea of marriage itself and later assuring them that I would find my own life partner.  And then I suddenly announce that I have not found anyone and they can go ahead in fixing a ‘match’ for me.

But the search continued nevertheless.  Once there was a phone call from Bhubaneswar and my mother talked to the ‘BOY’s’ father.  My mother proudly narrated my education, my job, career, etc and then the (not-so)-gentleman on the other side asked, “Meyer chull aache?”  Which is, “Does your daughter have long hair?”  I was totally put off by this and I said, “Tell him yes she has long hair but is a vampire in disguise.  Would that be good?”

Needless to say, like all my friends, I was also angry and sometimes felt so helpless at people judging a girl by her height, skin colour and length of the hair.  Was there nobody who would  actually know or understand me as an individual?  Sometimes I wondered if I could see some astrologer to tell me what my life would be, ten years after.  Sometimes I wished my parents had married me off at the age of 18 before I had developed any logic, reason or preferences.

‘Meye Dekha’ or ‘Ladki Dekhna’ was a very humiliating exercise according to me.  It was something like buying a commodity and negotiating a business deal but then I ultimately gave way to this also.

 I had already built this distinct image of ‘Ladki dekhna’ (the phrase itself puts me off).  I imagined a crowd of pompous  people (they are ladka-waalas you see) surrounding the girl and the ladies in the family rubbing her hands on the pretext of befriending her, to check whether the girl had applied make up or is she truly fair.  A crowd watching her walk, a crowd watching her ‘Not-Talk’.  A crowd asking her, “Ma…gaan gaao toh’ (Dear, please sing a song) and the girl singing, “Aami jaar nupur- ero chhondo”….Uff! if only I could run away from all these.....

The day arrived.  At my brother’s rented house in Kolkata, some people were about to arrive the next morning to meet me.  By then I had instructed my mother never to use the word, “Ladki Dekhna’. 

My brother was very excited and that drove me all the more crazy.  This was about to be my first experience of its own kind and I distinctly remember, how, walking on the terrace, under the moonlit sky, I had my mind all cluttered, with shades of nervousness, anxiety, disgust.  I also mentally listed some of my (guy) friends who were possibly single/ unmarried/ un-betrothed etc and for once, thought of just calling up and asking, “Hey, care to marry me?”.  Somehow, I just wanted to escape.

The next morning, my pleading of letting me be in my salwar-kurta fell on deaf years; so there I was, in a sari, waiting in the neighbour’s house when they arrived:  the ‘boy’s” elder brother and sister-in-law.

 I must mention that the interaction with them was a nice one.  The elder brother suggested me, “Do not plan your life around marriage.  Decide on being independent; marriage or no marriage”.  How nice of him! Later the ‘boy’ in question met me at our residence at Ranchi.  I had to avail half a day’s Casual Leave and return home and was totally put off by this idea of meeting him.  I was not at all prepared.

This person called my father to inform that he had lost his way and would be arriving in some time.  How I wished he never found the way but I did not have to have my way.  He arrived and the goodies were served.  My parents and my neighbour chatted with him and I was waiting at the kitchen.  Thankfully I did not have to wear a sari this time.  My ‘film-influenced’ Ma asked me if I should carry the tea-tray (obviously she had never faced such situations).  I refused.  So once the snacks and tea was served and savoured (I am sure the person must have started wondering if he could meet me at all, it took so long), I was ushered into the room and to my utter disgust, all others left us alone.  I asked the neighborhood little girl to stay back and she obliged.  I do not remember what we talked except that I was totally at al loss of idea and ended up in 1. Grudgingly informing that I had to avail a leave and  2. Ask him his ‘job description’.  I am sure that was enough to bore him.  We never heard from them until my wedding reception day.   The elder sister in law called to ask if we were still interested and my neighbor informed them that the girl in question is already married.

Another ENCOUNTER was from a family from nearby Chaibasa.  As per my own rules, I again wished that this family would lose the way to my house but they did arrive.  A Crowd.  The ‘BOY’, his brother, sister-in-law, sister and brother-in-law and father.  UFF! One ought to have SOME courtesy as a guest.  Do you arrive at somebody’s place with such a big crowd?

Me, again in a sari, sat with a solemn face (rather nice way of putting it), refusing to help myself to any of the goodies offered.  I did not even see how the guy looked.  Then the ‘sister’ asked me to sing a song and my mother asked me if I needed the harmonium.  I wanted to bite their heads off...of both these ladies.  Thankfully the brother-in-law intervened, “No, no…don’t make her uncomfortable.” Thanks to the gentleman.  I could only see from the corner of my eyes that this ‘boy’ was triple my height and wore a dark pair of goggles.

I was relieved when they left and was not very happy when the next day they called to say that they were interested.  My cool guy, my father unknowingly rescued me.  Some doubt triggered in his mind considering that the prospective groom had being sporting dark gogs during evening hours.  My father demanded a photograph without the gogs on ;).  That put off the guy’s father and he refused.  So there was a mutual refusal.

Small incidences like these continued but I am thankful that I am past those times.  I am thankfully married.  Did I propose? NO.  Did he propose? NO!  How did we get married then?  Well, someday that story will find its due space on the blogosphere......

Dating in style-Bollywood way....

The other day I watched the Rangoli on Doordarshan, over a cup of tea and enjoyed the way the love-birds dated on-screen. I will talk about the particular songs which inspired me to write this note; nevertheless, my mind leaped from one song to another and the way dating style has changed over the years; and thus, my friends, this note....
The one song that immediately knocks the door of my memory is ‘Abhi na jaao chhod kar..’ from Hum Dono (1961). The very first scene in the movie where Sadhna stylishly lights the musical lighter will ever be ingrained in our memory. Friends, can we ever forget the hummable little tune which came out of the cigarette lighter, which remained at the centre of the entire film!

The well dressed Sadhna, the stunningly handsome Dev saab and to add to it the eternal romance in Rafi saab and Asha ji’s voice have made the song The Anthem for the young lovers on their dates.

And then there is the ever-so warmth-filled ‘Dil ka bhanwar kare pukaar..’ from the 1963-Tere Ghar ke saamne. Ever tried romancing on the steps of the Qutab Minar? Dev saab and Nutan ji have shown the way. I often wonder how flawlessly the director and the actors carried the entire song where they had no backdrop but only few steps to walk on and yet not for one moment, they ever let the viewers feel any boredom and monotony. The warm smile and arched eye-brows on Nutan’s face continues to spray freshness on the screen, even today, long after the beautiful actor has left the world!

Not yet late, I certainly plan to go on a Qutab date sometime soon....

And oh! I think I cannot get enough of Dev Saab! My note will remain incomplete if I forget mentioning the rhythmic ‘Choodi Nahi Mera’ from Gambler (1960). Would you not, my dear (girl) friends love to be wooed in style as Dev saab does in this song? Glass Bangles of various colours emerge from his jacket to adorn the smooth silky wrist of his beloved while our hero continues driving and concentrating on the road too. Next time you watch this song, do notice how he throws a loving glance at his date one minute and in the next, concentrates on the road; and then comes out the Cadbury Milk Chocolate which the lovers bite from each other's mouth.

Now the songs which inspired this note. ‘Suno sajana, papihe ne kaha sabse pukaar ke’, from the movie Aaye din bahaar ke (1966). And then the ever-so-green, ‘Achcha toh hum chattein hain’ from the 1970-Aan milo Sajana. Asha Parekh, so beautifully takes the viewers through a series of emotions; from a beloved beckoning her love in Suno Sajana, Asha ji gracefully takes us through a series of rendezvous with her date in Achcha toh hum chaltein hain.

The excitement of meeting each other, the anxiety of being caught, the pain of saying Goodbye are so marvellously enacted by Asha Parekh and ever green Rajesh Khanna. The lyrics are sweet, the melody is nice and Asha ji’s ‘Taaa-ta’ is like a cherry on the cream.

On the lighter side, watching these songs, I often ask my friends, “Hey, does one really need to deck up so much for a date”? The comments of the entire Blogosphere welcome.

One of the most unforgettable dates on the screen has been, "Phir chidi raat baat phoolon kee” from the movie Bazaar (1981). The beautifully penned ghazal, woven around flowers and moonlit night and the lyrically done choreography show the young lovers completely immersed in each other. No one could have perhaps enacted it better than Faarooq saab and Supriya Pathak .

And as the times changed, dating style changed too. Entered with big-bang, the ‘Tathaayiyaa-tathaayiyaa ho-ho..Naino mein sapna, sapna mein sajna’ and “Toh---fa..Toh---fa...Toh----fa...”. An army of friends accompanied the young lovers while they danced on the sprawling meadows and 'daflis' rolled all over and coloured dust rose from the grass. The ladies were dressed like Goddesses and the men were not much behind either. Jitendra saab danced with his body, heart and soul in his favourite white shoes and I was ever-so-awe-struck watching Jaya Prada gracefully dancing so effortlessly in the saris, silkily sliding across the ground.

Come 1990s and the young lovers were left on their own, once again. Maine Pyar Kiya, Qayamat se qyamat tak, Dil, Deewana, had the young birds having their space to themselves.

Exceptions were perhaps the family entertainers by David Dhawan. Remember Govinda and his heroines dancing away to glory in ‘Main toh raste pe jaa raha thaa’, ‘Maine paidal se ja raha tha, unhe cycle se aa rahee thi’! The duo seemed completely unaware of the uni-coloured company (read friends) around them.

I would often joke about the army of guys and girls, who would merrily be dancing along with the main actors, “Unkee apni life nahi hai lya?” I mean, they would dance away as if the romance between the main characters were the only thing which mattered to them in life!

Well friends, there is a long menu for you to choose from. You can choose your dating style by Bollywood from a huge collection.

My dream date? Well, it is from Tollywood. The diva of style and the epitome of romance, the heartthrob of millions, the immortal pair, Uttam Kumar-Suchitra Sen in ‘Soorjo Dobaar Paalaa aashe Jodi aashook besh toh...”
Watch it times and times again and you believe that love and romance is forever.........

Happy romancing!