Vishwakarma Puja

17th of September is an auspicious day. Vishwakarma Puja is celebrated all over the country on this day. Unlike other festivals, the date of this Puja does not change from year to year. Lord Vishwakarma, we have been told, was the  (and still is) the architect of the gods, the builder of  the magnificent structures and palaces in which the gods happily live with their spouses.

We, the ordinary mortals, believe that he is the primeval god of all machinery and tools from a small screw to a space shuttle! All and sundry engineering instruments and tools are worshipped by the mechanics, operators and owners. After the Puja is over and the Prasad distributed, starts, what we Bengalis call, the Pet-puja. This consists of demolishing the piping hot khichoori of moong daal, mutton kosha, papad fry, tomato chutney and of course rasgollas. This is perhaps the only day in the year, when the top boss and the regular workers all take their food together, customarily seated cross legged on the floor.

 At Calcutta on this day was held the famous kite flying competitions. In our childhood this was this was the event  of the year, and there was hardly a terrace which did not boast of one or two boys(even girls) flying kites, and trying their best to out manoeuvre the others by cutting through their strings

The build up to the Puja started a couple of weeks earlier, with trial runs. Assorted kites of different colours, shapes, sizes and designs were flown from the roof tops. They carried different names like, mukhpora,pet katha,chadiaal. There were so many technical terms like ruddir maanja,karnik,ek bogga,lethe khela,tene khela, etc. It will take a concise Bengali to English dictionary to accommodate the entire gamut of the jargons. Neither do I possess the capacity or the courage to attempt such a herculean task.

As our terrace was one of the highest in the area, quite a few friends and acquaintances used to come and take advantage of the height. One year we had a noted sitarist who was our neighbour Shantada’s guru, as one of the guests. He was simply brilliant! With one kite he ripped apart the frontal sky. At another time, my mother had cooked rasgollas which were a tad tough. One of my friends observed that they would serve as perfect pellets to be thrown at people who tried to snatch the strings of others’ kites, within their reach. This sinful act was known as hafta, comparable to foul deserving a red card in football.

 I had an immediate neighbour, Shantibabu, who was my age and temperament. We used to fly kites together from our terrace, taking turns to hold the lattai (type of a spindle, to hold the string) and the other person would fly the kite. In a particular year,Shantibabu and I decided to prepare our own manja or specially honed string, to slice through others’. We ground old bottles of vicks vaporub, sulekha ink, and kissan squash to fine powder. A strong paste was prepared from extracts of various plants (there was no feviquick then to come to our aid). Two thrown away bamboo poles, used for dusting cobwebs, were placed at two ends of our terrace. While I went on releasing the string from the lattai, Shantibabu went on applying the paste as we completed round after round of laborious walk from one pole to the other in the scorching sun. By evening we found that the manja was dry and the tenor and texture appeared to be just right! This was to be our main weapon for the great combat of tomorrow. After being satisfied with the tests (cutting and bruising our fingers at multiple places in the process), we re-wound it on the lattai.

We could hardly sleep that night. Morning saw us atop the terrace and thankfully the sky was bereft of any clouds. We began our battle with great expectations. Unfortunately, the quality of the manaja was not good enough. One after the other we went on losing kites. Thoroughly disappointed we wound our home spun manja and shifted to professional ones. This led to a considerable improvement in our performance. At the end of the day we took stock of the situation. It was 7 losses to 11 wins. A disappointing start to our manja manufacturing careers.

In the following year, when the season was a fledgling, we tried our luck with our home made manja of last year. Well what do you know? In a span of 3/4 days we had sliced through the strings of all the kites of Maniktolla, without a single loss of our own!

Alas, kite flying is no more, that Calcutta is no more! We do not hear the skies reverberate with the shrieks of  Bho- mara and Bho-katta. 

Jasidih

We, the young brigade of Dum Dum branch, were a bunch bursting with energy to spend as we liked. It was winter, the annual outing was overdue, and something had to be done about it. Long meetings followed one after the other and finally the destination was agreed upon – Deoghar. It had two spots of tourist interest, the famous Nau Lakshma temple and the Trikuth hill. We could hear them beckon!

Christmas was on a Monday and so we bought 22 return tickets and assembled below the famous clock on platform 9 at Howrah station. In spite of the proverbial laggards we found ourselves duly ensconced in our coach on time. I saw that Swapanda was carrying a paper wrapped item which he was handling with remarkable adroitness.

It was biting cold and we finished our supper in minutes. Some of us fell asleep immediately, while others started playing desi poker, called teen patti with rock-bottom stakes. Pranab called early next morning to inform me that the train had stopped and to ask whether I would like some tea. I was game since I was, quite literally, shivering from head to toe. We asked for two bhaars (earthen cups); thankfully the atrocious plastic glasses had not yet infringed upon our dignity! It cost Rs2/= and Pranab gave the vendor a Rs 5/= note. Within seconds, the train started and we called the chae wallah to return the change. By the time he had collected the required sum from his various pockets, the train had started to move on. He started running behind us with the money in his hand but our lead only increased, and the last we saw of him was standing helplessly, staring at the moving train. "Pranab," I told him, "this man was running after us to return Rs3/= and not the other way round! This is the real India."

We reached Jasidih (the rail head) pretty early. It was freezing cold. All of us resembled “Nakur Mama”: that immortal creation of Parasuram. We were covered from head to toe save just the eyes and nose! The only way to keep ourselves warm was by rubbing our hands and all sorts of similar movements! A bus was waiting at the station and we pushed ourselves in. Subrata had taken care of all the arrangements and soon we found ourselves in front of a spacious old-timer of a house.

After a heavy breakfast of boiled eggs, bread and butter, hot pantuas (gulab jamuns) and steaming coffee, we set out for our local sight-seeing. We hired 4/5 tangas and visited the famous Nau Lakshma temple. It was spotlessly clean and the austere surroundings charmed us. We went in search of a lunching joint around 2 p.m. All the restaurants had Bengali signboards. We picked one named "Aadi Dadar Hotel" and ordered rice, jhuri bhaja, daal, phul kopi kalia, machher jhaal, and dahi. We were unanimous in our pronouncement that none of us had ever had such a scrumptious meal in our lives!

After visiting a few more temples, we bought some peda: the mouthwatering delicacy of Deoghar. Hard bargaining led us to buy 60 Kg at Rs 30/=. As it was getting late we finished our supper early. The frugal meal consisted of roti, mutton curry and salad. The restaurant lights kept blinking on and off throughout the meal. We were told this had been the situation since time immemorial! We returned to our “resort”, and made ourselves comfortable with the limited blankets available. Most of us shivered the whole night, that being Mother Nature’s way of keeping her children warm!

Early next morning after breakfast, we left for Trikut hill, in a minibus. Subrata, the knowledgeable one, was our guide. He gave us some valuable tips. We should walk slowly, together, and not accost or irritate animals under any circumstances. We were to make as little noise as possible. These action points were only to ensure we returned intact!

I was one of the few who decided not to push my luck any further and stayed behind, at the “base camp”! After 4/5 hours our comrades returned without any major mishap. Only Kamalda had sprained an ankle and that was giving him considerable pain. After another filling meal of rice, daal, sabji, egg curry and sweets we came back to the villa. At around seven we vacated the place, tipped our "Man Friday" handsomely and proceeded to Jasidih Station. Little did we know that our travels were soon to be replaced by our travails!

Firstly, we came to learn that due to an agitation, all trains were running very late. As true Indian citizens, this did not come to us as much of news. What we were unprepared for was that there were no trains running at all! We spent a couple of hours in this state of shock, not fully able to comprehend the reality. Only one thought kept bugging us, if there were 22 staff members absent at work tomorrow, all hell would break lose! 

I also noticed that a number of bhaars were being bought from the nearest chae wallah, but not the tea. My comrades were disappearing from sight in groups of 5/6 and when they returned, another lot was performing this disappearing act. Only Kamalda went on uttering the choicest of expletives under his breath, while seated on a broken crate. Being the proverbial dullard, I could not understand the reason behind this behaviour till Pranab clarified, “They are going to unlit areas to finish the whisky brought from Calcutta. But due to his sprained ankle, Kamalda is unable to join them in spite of contributing his share!”

Six hours or so later, when we had failed to board the two trains that had stopped for a few minutes, Debuda came up with a brilliant idea. Two of our spokespersons went to meet the ASM and parted with some quick money. It worked wonders, as we saw later. (Fortunately, Anna Hazare was in the Army then).

The next train “waited” till all 22 of us shoved ourselves in one of the coaches. We were now precariously placed. Most of us were standing, while the remaining ones had had managed to carve out a slice of the nearest seats, to rest their posteriors. All the windows were tightly shut. Pranab managed to wriggle himself to a top berth. This turned out to be lethal. 

A boy of about 10 was sharing this berth with an adult. He went on farting at regular intervals - mini blasts of the horriblest stench one can imagine! Finally, Pranab asked him, “Tum ne kya khaya beta? Poora gas ban giya, 22.4 litre?” He offered his seat on the perch to me in exchange of my uncomfortable crammed position, which I politely, but firmly, refused. 

In the adjacent coupe, things were hotting up. Kamalda, still smarting over his futile investment, had forcibly sat down on a berth already being shared by a middle-aged couple. The gentleman was naturally irritated, and a heated argument ensued. Ultimately, he screamed, “Jaanta hai hum kaun hai?” Kamalda snapped back, “Tum Haridas Pal hai, ekbaar Asansol aane to do!” (We were still very much in Bihar).

Thankfully, the altercation did not proceed much longer, as all concerned dozed off. Early morning we reached Howrah safely but totally zapped. I am not likely to forget our X’Mas at Deoghar easily.

Picnic

Ah! Those were the days! I remember them fondly as being full of fun and frolic, carefree times - “as free as the wind blows…” 

We were employed at a nationalized bank in Calcutta. Our “core” group consisted of Debuda aka “Kendriya Sarkar”, (we also had a Rajya Sarkar) Swapanda, Tapanda aka “Paka Sur”, Siddhartha, Subrata, Sasanka, Pronab, Ajoy and yours truly. We played TT, we staged plays, and we organized cultural programmes. During lunch recess, especially in the winter season, we used to park ourselves in front of S.N. College for the sight of women. In spite of all these “extra-curricular” activities, we worked and worked sincerely. Usually, there were no tasks kept pending, except during “work-to-rule” periods.

Arranging a cultural programme and a picnic, in winter, were two of our annual rituals. The cultural evenings had to be meticulously planned, well in advance. First, we had to contact the artist or group which our cultural committee had decided on. A percentage of their fee had to be paid in advance to ensure their participation too, we had to make an advance payment to have it reserved on the day.

The real problem started from this time onwards. Raising funds is never an easy task, especially for bankers. We approached our clients and by coaxing and cajoling and after repeated visits, could procure the promised amount, ostensibly towards an advertisement in the magazine to be distributed at the function. The functions went off well and the following few days were spent discussing the escapades of the evening.

The picnics were another cup of tea altogether. I remember one in particular. It was perhaps the winter of ’82. After finalizing on the date we zeroed in on a picnic spot out of the three or four cosy nooks at our disposal. The marketing was distributed among  our colleagues so as not to pressurize anybody. Oh and yes, a super deluxe bus (2X2 seater) was booked for our excursion. Magnum-sized cooking utensils were hired, the pick-up points finalized and then…?

We set out early morning for our destination. Our dresses were colourful - this being winter - the mood was jovial, songs were a-plenty and a general feeling of bonhomie was there all around us.

The picnic was in full swing. Breakfast consisted of boiled eggs, well-buttered sliced bread, cups of steaming coffee (after P had tasted the ‘Milkmaid’ and certified that it was successful maintaining its earlier standard); pray, what more could one desire?

But there was to be more. The liquid elements which had been contributed to by some of us had to be done justice to. The corks were unplugged and the sessions began. We, the teetotallers, became mere observers, somewhat akin to the third umpire of today’s one-day matches. There started a “spirited” performance around us. Some started dancing and others recounted their prowess of yester-years. We hardly knew that we had so many poets and singers amongst us. So much talent! Being politely interested yet keeping our eyes all around we waited for the processing of the main courses. 

At this juncture, S, who had had a peg or two more than his optimum level was observed walking alongside a nearby pond. Within seconds of our warning him to not head in that direction, with a big splash, he was in! Thankfully, nothing serious transpired. However, since his clothes were completely drenched he spent the rest of the time wearing a borrowed jacket over the cook’s towel.

Around 3:00 PM we sat cross-legged on the grass in traditional Bengali style with banana leaves serving for  plates. Piping hot rice, ghee, fried potato, daal, fish kalia, mutton curry, chutney and sweets completed the full course. They disappeared at the same pace as they were being served!

The return journey was quite sombre. It was observed that most of us were dozing off. The participants were dropped off at various places on the route back, closest to their homes. Only S along with P came to my place. As the former’s wet clothes needed some more time to dry, they were put on hangers and the fans were switched on at maximum speed, even in that chilly evening. This set-up did facilitate the drying process, however.

Obviously, my buddy did not want to answer some awkward questions back home. As to how he managed it, only he can tell. But, three decades have passed  and I doubt whether he remembers it himself.

CBS

Like millions of others, the world over, my school days were definitely the happiest times of my life.

I was a student of Calcutta Boys’ School which was passing through its golden era. From the times of Ashoke Sanjay Guha through Ranjan Bhattacharya, Surya Sekhar Bhattacharya, Anup Sinha to Swapan Chakroborty and others, our school churned out country and state toppers at regular periodicity.

Besides studies, our seniors and contemporaries carved out a niche for themselves in high profile talent search scholarships like NSTS and JBNSTS bagging about one third of all the awards. That’s not all; we excelled in sports as well. At one time, if my memory does not betray me, we were winners in th Patterson Memorial Inter School TT Championships, year after year. It was our alma mater that could boast of Dipak Ghosh, who represented the country in the 1952 Stockholm World Championships. It was Mr Clifford Hicks, our principal, who always referred to him as the “great Dipak Ghosh.” Besides TT we were well known for our prowess in football and other extra-curricular activities. We used to do really well in quizzes, elocution and debate competitions.

Mr Hicks was an institution by himself. He had nurtured and developed CBS from a fledgling to a magnificent giant eagle, monarch of all it surveyed from its imperious heights.

Mr Hicks had certain traits that made him stand out toweringly among contemporaries- both metaphorically as well as physically. He was about 6 feet in height with a matching waistline. His booming voice was enough to send shivers down the spines of one and all. He was “famous” for his caning. Corporal punishment was a common feature in those days like in many other schools, some four decades back.

Discipline was the watch word, along with tidiness, punctuality and good manners. He used to demonstrate certain issues personally, often enacting the item for our benefit! Our chapel session was a daily source of many such pieces along with reading of the Bible and an invariable joke to culminate the day’s programme. I cannot ever forget some of his actions and observations. While remonstrating a boy for not covering his mouth while yawning, he commented, “I can see your intestine!” He’d also advise us before our summer vacation, “Don’t make your home a refuelling station by day and a parking lot at night. Your parents should feel dejected and not relieved when the vacation is over.”

And again, “When the telephone rings, don’t jump to grab it. Let it ring a couple of times more and then respond at your convenience.” He used to jump from the podium and swing his massive hand mimicking one grabbing the receiver! I shudder to think what he would have done in these days of our inseparable mobile phones.

“When there’s a banana peel lying on the road, pick it up and throw it into a waste bin close by. Don’t stand to observe the next person slip on it!”

Yet, when Ramanathan Krishnan, Jaideep Mukherjee and Premjit Lall beat the formidable German team at the South Club, Calcutta, Mr Hicks immediately declared a holiday! The reason, India had reached the Challenge Round of the Davis Cup for the first time!

All good things must come to an end; our school days were no exception. We phased out into different professions, settled in life and had our own school going children. I often wonder whether Mr Hicks would have been relevant today. No doubt what he taught us has made us what we are now…Thank you Sir!

Raj Bhasa

Our national language, Hindi, was never my strong point. I used to dread the Hindi classes even in school.

Our Hindi teacher in the lower classes was Mr Roy, an elderly stern gentleman, with a shock of closely cropped white hair. He fired random questions at us and whenever anybody gave a wrong answer or acted “funny”, he would go up to the boy and use his standard expression, “Oh! My child…!” and his entire arm would quiver in anger. This was usually followed with a rap on the head!

Mr Roy was replaced by Mr Dikshit in middle school. In many ways the successor was diametrically opposite to the former. Both in mannerism and looks- Mr Dikshit was short and plump and had oily black hair parted at the side. For incorrect responses, we were lovingly beckoned to the front of the class with a mild invitation, “Aaiye saab!” When the offending party was within range pat would land a “flying slap” known as ‘udon chati’ in Bengali on the head of the hapless victim. It didn’t hurt much save one’s sentiments and of course ‘prestige.’ With this background in Hindi and with atrocious marks, I passed out from school and bade Hindi good-bye.

Ha! Little did I know what was in store for me... After joining SBI, I was posted in a town in Madhya Pradesh. We had a fair number of staff and officers, none of whom knew any Bengali. However, their English matched my Hindi with some very rare exceptions, so my awkwardness was not one way.

On this particular day, it was raining torrentially and a lady staff member from my team wanted to go home early and she came up to me to ask for permission. Out of consideration for her, I asked,” Thik hai madam…Aapko chhati hai naa?” She looked at me with a peculiar expression, replied in the affirmative and left.

In the evening when I narrated the incident to my better half ( incidentally from U.P.) she laughed and laughed until tears streamed down her cheeks. “You are lucky she didn’t charge you for harassment or abuse. Chhati  in Bengali means an umbrella but in Hindi it means chest. Better stick to English if you don’t want to get thrashed someday.”

I paid heed to her advice from then on.

Staff College Induction

Friends! Probationers! Countrymen!

Lend me your ears!

I come to bore you, not entertain

The good that probationers do, is oft forgotten

The mischiefs are remembered for generations.

Generations may come and generations may go,

But it will not be the case with us, you know.

This august batch of December ’82,

Is exactly whom I’m referring to.

We gents keep to ourselves and as for the dames,

They are all determined to keep their surnames

Unchanged, till thy Kingdom come,

We wish them luck, and they’re welcome

To pursue their careers in all seriousness.

The campus proves the short-sightedness,

Of the planner who planned it all,

Fully knowing that the dining hall

Would have to be reached by a rather long walk

And whoever’s with you, wouldn’t dare talk

For fear of digesting he’s taken,

And finding himself hungry before saying “Amen”.

Beholding the geysers we gave a joyous cry

Only to realize that the taps remained dry.

As the saying goes, “it’s the early bird

That catches the worm” or so we’ve heard.

Hence we return before the stipulated time,

The guards are surprised to find Mr. Chida doesn’t sign

Anymore at the register, kept at the gate

Little do we know what’s in our fate .

Blindly are we following all the rules

For foreign postings are awaiting us fools,

It’s just like the donkey’s carrot

And we are indeed a determined lot.

We will remain eligible bachelors all-

If USA’s unavailable, there’s always Nepal!

Frankly the classes have been a bore

Barring the periods in which we swore

To become true bankers, and serve the bank,

That’s yours and mine, and for the Common Man

On the street, or maybe in his hut

Who has kept his eyes and ears shut.

It will be us, the probationers of ’82,

Who’ll bring the Bank closer, to these people too.

We are enjoying our stay, here, at Hyderabad,

That’s why we say folks, "State Bank Zindabad!”

Grand Hotel

While completing my graduation I found employment as an apprentice with the oldest and most posh hotel of Calcutta- The Oberoi Grand. Well, to say the least, the ambience of the hotel bewildered me. The magnificent Reception counters were made of mahogany, the Ball Room had sparkling glass doors with shining brass door knobs, the Conference Rooms were aptly titled “Burdwan” and “Coochbehar”,wall-to-wall carpeting, the commissionaires in their splendid turbans, bushy moustaches and spotless white uniforms, all these fairly swept me off my feet.

There were also pretty lasses called “housekeepers” who maintained cleanliness and perfect upkeep of the guests’ rooms.

Like all other gents of my age I thought of myself as the handsomest man around. One day, as it transpired, a certain Ms. Meena and I found ourselves alone in the elevator. To break the awkward silence she asked me, “Are you from the catering college?” “No,” I replied, “I’m from Ananda Mohan College.”

Well, as you may have already guessed, this incident brought to an abrupt end any romantic ideas I may have secretly nurtured.

Private Tuition

The year 1972 found me just passing out from school with nothing much to do. (Please notice the stress is on nothing!) As the results of other school-leaving examinations were yet to be declared, the colleges were due to open only after some time. As was the wont in those times, I searched around for private tuitions.

A young gent of class I was my first disciple. He had four sisters ahead of him in the family hierarchy and being the proverbial “son” as well as being the youngest child of the family, he was quite a character.

At that time film star Rajesh Khanna used to be the super hero and the film “Amar Prem” had been recently released. One day my student, all of five, asked me, “Sir, have you seen yeh kya hua, kaise hua? My sisters watched the film yesterday.” For one of the rare occasions in my life I was left dumbstruck!

With some effort I tried to maintain a straight face and replied, “Let’s get back to your lesson, shall we?” Mind you, this was four decades ago and we call children of today “precocious”!

Test Match

The year was 1964, the season, winter. The best of climates in Calcutta. No sweltering sun, no torrential rains and a definite “nip” in the air. The Siberian cranes along with other feathered friends were flying hundreds of miles to their winter abode- Calcutta.

This year, we had some non-feathered guests also, the M.C.C team led by M.J.K. Smith. The English side was coming here to play one match of the Test Series. Among their stars were Colin Cowdrey, Ken Barrington and John Edrich.

India was being led by Mansur Ali Khan aka Nawab of Pataudi. The team had an array of celebrities, Polly Umrigar, Dilip Sardesai, Chandu Borde, Farrokh Engineer, E.A.S. Prassanna, Ramakanth Desai, Salim Durrani and M.L. Jaisimha.

Then, a boy of class IV and an avid follower of any sports, be it cricket, football, table tennis or athletics, I was a regular subscriber to Sport & Pastime. Dutifully full page portraits and action photos of my divas were cut out meticulously and pasted in my scrap book. The very mention of their names turned me starry-eyed!

Imagine then, the excitement in this young mind when I was told that I would go to the hallowed Eden Gardens to witness the opening day’s play of the Calcutta test match! As expected, I could hardly sleep the whole night. Aseshdada, my friend, philosopher and guide (all of three years my senior) came to our home to escort me.

The teeming multitude of people slowly making its way towards the galleries was by itself, awesome. The stadium was covered with tarpaulin and bedecked with festoons and hoardings of Boroline, K.C. Das, Vicks Vaporub etc. Young boys were distributing colourful vizors and tiny score cards, and I helped myself to a few of both. The experience of moving in that sea of humanity was one of its kind; colours of all shades were around me, so were lunch baskets, haversacks, water bottles, binoculars. You name it, it was definitely there!

We went in after our tickets had been verified and climbed a few steps to occupy our allotted seats. As they were all numbered I wondered how far number 1 would be from 70,000!

The players were practising on the field. I peered through my binoculars and could hardly believe my eyes when I spotted some of my idols!

After half-an-hour or so, I asked my escort, “How long will they practise? Won’t the match start?”

He stared at me in stark horror, which could not be misinterpreted. “The match is going on. It had started a couple of minutes before we even took our seats.”

So much for being a budding sports buff!