An explanation

Humorous stories have always been my favourite. I used to think that the stories and snippets that I read from so many sources of Bengali stalwarts would also be appreciated by non Bengali speakers if they could be translated into English.

Retired life coupled with the internet provided me with the opportunity I was looking for.

In his short stories and practically one page anecdotes, Tarapada Roy profusely apologises for his liberal borrowings from others. Needlesss to say, I am doing the same thing and accordingly ask you, my erudite reader, to forgive me if you find a repetition in any story or an uncommon resemblance to anything familiar, which you have read earlier.

My sources are Parashuram, Shibram, Narayan Gangopadhyay and Tarapada Roy.

All set? One, two, three go!

  

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There was a nursing home which had just opened for the day. An elderly gentleman approached the reception and asked, "How's the patient in bed 103 doing?"

The clerk went through the records and said, " Hmm... Temperature normal, bp normal, sugar is within control, stool and urine results are okay. He will be discharged tomorrow."

The gentleman replied, "Thank you", and started walking away. The lady was a little surprised and asked, "Who are you? Are you a relative?" 
" No", replied the gentleman.

"Are you a friend?" 
"No, I am not a friend."

"Are you a neighbour?" 
"No, I am not a neighbour."

"Well then, WHO are you?"

"I am the patient. You see whoever I am asking replies that I am doing fine. The doctors say I am fine. The nurses say I am doing fine. My relatives say I am doing fine. My friends say I am doing fine. My neighbours say I am doing fine. That's why I wanted to find out the truth myself."          

                                                                             

BRINJAL

There are vegetables and then there are vegetables.Until the last couple of decades we were not conversant of the food value of vegetables and how good they were for a long and healthy life.Thanks to the yeoman progress in research, we have come to learn of it in recent years. Strict non-vegetarians have not only done a u turn in their food habits and become vegetarians but there are some who are known as vegans who do not partake any milk products too.

Anyway,to cut a long story short I hated brinjal and its sight and taste turned me off. I was in class IX and an active member of YMCA College Branch. It was then situated at the crossing of College Street and Harrison Road, dutifully re-named as Bidhan Sarani and Mahatma Gandhi Road by the government. In the fifties and sixties its membership sounded like a who's who of Calcutta. Be it sports like table tennis and billiards, writers, thespians and film personalities.Yours truly went to play table tennis and participate in quiz and recitation competitions.

Our secretary was Mr P K Adhikary and he was universally loved by us for his nature and behavior. A Bustee Boys' Camp was to be inaugurated at Ranaghat (Nadia) and he offered to organize a three day trip for YMCA members. Most of my friends immediately registered themselves, it being part of the summer vacation, and I was no exception.

A bus was booked,and around thirty of us with our satchels and water bottles trudged in. After about three hours the coveted destination. It was love at first sight, lush green fields all round, a huge corrugated sheet cover with about forty cots, a temporary kitchen and rudimentary toilets. The icing on the cake was the meandering Churnee river on whose bank this Camp was being constructed.

Without waiting for any further instructions we changed and plunged into the river in our shorts. What followed was total chaos and mayhem. Not only did we swim, tried out different strokes but also tried our best to out swim our comrades in instant competitions. So far so good, but after an hour Adhikary Sir, as we called him lovingly, blew his whistle, and we had to leave the water dress properly and sit down to thank the Lord in prayer.

At this juncture, I felt so hungry as I have never felt in my life before. Freshly cut banana leaves were placed before each of us, followed by salt and a tiny piece of lemon. Next item on the menu was steaming rice. But till now nothing had been served for us the famished souls to start eating.

What came next was a disaster for me. It was a piece of fried brinjal neatly cut length wise. I was in no position to resist the temptation of  attacking it with gusto along with the rice.

I burnt my mouth in the process, but also learnt to savour brinjal from that memorable day!

GOOPEY SAHEBER GAPPO

Some thirty years back, when plastic currency had not intruded on the middle class, most people carried a reasonable sum of money in their wallets and shirt pockets. In Calcutta, even though the country's first metro was  already operational, a large chunk of office goers commuted in buses and trams. Losing their wallets and money wantonly, made the Babus furious. They felt helpless at the growing menace which was attaining an alarming magnitude

Our story begins at this point of time. 

One morning, I received a phone call "Mr. Rakshit? This is the O.C. of Maniktolla police station speaking. One Mr, Goopey Nath Gayen wants to talk with you." Goopey Nath Gayen was informally and universally known as "Goopey Saheb" I asked him as to what had transpired. Apparently, while Goopey had been marketing, one Chhotu Lal, a pickpocket, had tried to relieve Goopey's pocket of its contents. Unfortunately for him, he was not prepared for what transpired next.  Goopey had kept one scorpion in his shirt pocket which  had immediately swung into action and pounced on Chhotu's nimble fingers. The yelp that Chhotu had let out caused a huge commotion in the market and the public (of Calcutta of course) had nabbed them both and escorted them to the Police Station. I immediately went to the P.S., met the O.C. and secured Goopey's release on a personal bond of five hundred rupees.

Goopey Saheb was not a saheb at all. On the contrary, he was a hundred percent Bengali who covered long distances on his Atlas bicycle. His permanent dress was a dhoti, a half shirt and a traditional Englishman's hat (topee), which I believe was his grand dad's.

While discussing the pick pocket menace over a cup of tea one day, I asked him if he could something about it. "Well, I can try," said Goopey. "I have friends in Krishna Nagar, I'll ask them to make some clay imitations of scorpions, to be kept in shirt pockets of  gentlemen in  such a manner that the deadly claws will be visible to  one and all. This will detract pickpockets who will presume these to be real scorpions. Believe it or not, this scheme worked out superbly for two or three months and the Calcutta Police heaved a sigh of relief as did the public. But as all good things reach their inevitable end, so did this master plan, as the rogues also learnt of these imitations and returned to their profession with unparalleled  vengeance. Goopey returned my five hundred rupees on his next visit, claiming that it was from his 25% commission.

Goopey was a man of many accomplishments. A devout Brahmin priest was in need of a guard dog. Goopey arranged for a mastiff for him which only ate spiced spinach and chewed used tooth brushes. Here also he earned his 25% cut!

A cinema hall named Chhaya, quite the old type, was having problems to ensure its continued presence of its patrons. A number of pigeons used to come and sleep on the rafters and defecate on the audience.This led to a near empty night show practically each night. Goopey was summoned and on learning of the problem, suggested hiring two extra high ladders. Each night the ushers would climb the ladders and gently squeeze the tummies of the  pigeons. However, this act had to be repeated for a couple of more days as the birds were quite dumb. Ultimately they would get the message that they were not wanted here and fly away. This plan was remarkably successful and Goopey made a killing with his 25% commission on this deal!

Majority of the urban bourgeoisie had started developing hearing problems due to their constant exposure to the unbearable honking of Calcutta traffic. Unfortunately, hearing aids came at a premium and even the cheapest were priced at Rs 1000/= plus. People, while conversing with colleagues and friends indoor, could hardly hear what was being spoken till Goopey Saheb came up with the ultimate invention of his illustrious career. He started manufacuring and marketing hearing aids at Rs 10/= a piece! One such aid usually consisted of a black silk cord attached to a white button. One had only to jam the button in his left ear and place the cord in his pocket. This would immediately induce the speaker to talk loudly! He used to sell customized aids also, with differently coloured cords and differently sized buttons. These were, however, priced at Rs 20/= a piece. I have no idea as to how much commission Goopey earned on this,but after a couple of months, he paid a visit to my house with a specific task. I had to guide him to apply for a PAN card!

Inspired by Late Raj Sekhar Bose (Parashuram) 's short story entitled Goopey Saheb.Additions, alterations and aberrations are entirely mine. S.R.

Pasha

Pasha

My daughters Misha  and Paroo were about 4 and less than 3 months old respectively. We had jst moved into our own house 48 Surajmukhi at Rajkishore Nagar, Bilaspur. Our domestic help was Dukhalin Bai, a middle aged Chattisgariah lady, who knew the A to Z of taking care of new borns and allied activities. She used to massage Paroo from head to toe, and made her do some exercises, all the time singing " Dighi dighi dighi re, gutki ganiari!" and call her "Raani Bitcoolia".

Under these circumstances, my better half Iti decided that we must have a pet. Accordingly, scouts spanned out in all directions. To cut a long story short, we brought home a 10 day old dachshund, from the DIG's daughter. He was really tiny and could hardly sit. Every hour or so, he cried for milk which was dutifully passed out within 10 minutes. So, one empty carton, was converted into a dog basket, complete with towels, tissues, ping pong balls, rubber bones, et al.

After a long deliberation, we zeroed in on a suitable name for him, Pasha, coined from Paroo and Misha. Besides me, he was the only other male in our family of 6. Dukhalin was our local guardian and stood towering over Iti and the kids (both figuratively and literally). Pasha used to move around, sleeping all the time in Iti's apron pocket. tailor made for him! Our Bai observed, " You have no work, isn't it? So you have brought this dog?"

Iti had her hands full (as usual). I used to leave for work at 10 and return around 7/7:30. One day, I came home around 4 and our good neighbour, Mrs Bhattacharya asked Iti through the adjacent kitchen window, " Is Dada okay? He has come home so early?". Brother, this was the reputation I enjoyed.

Anyway, Pasha started growing by the day and in the absence of Pedigree (it was 1990) was thriving on milk with bread and chicken and rice. About a year later, Iti and our daughters went to Allahabad, Ma was in Calcutta and I was left to fend for myself. I had a small amount of raw chicken, including a leg piece, to cook for the weekend. I decided to prepare it the way I had seen Iti do umpteen times. As it was a Saturday, I reckoned I would be back by 4, and dipped the pieces in a glass bowl in half a cup of vinegar to marinate. I returned in the afternoon and to ensure that the chicken was sufficiently softened, I added two tea spoons of sauce and a sliced tomato. besides these ingredients I also added salt, chilly powder garlic paste and a pinch of haldi powder. Finally, to lend a touch of class to my dish, I put in small quantities of sliced potato, onion and carrot. I poured the gravy in the pressure cooker and after the designated three hoots, switched off the gas, and waited for it to cool.
Half an hour or so later I opened the lid, and observed that the stew looked great but there was something fishy somewhere. Well, being mighty hungry and unable to resist the temptation of tasting my first culinary effort, I took out a large spoonful of the stew and added it to the steaming rice on my plate. My anticipation knew no bounds when I put  the first handful in  my mouth. I immediately threw it out, it was so sour. I could hardly believe that anything could be so horrible to taste! I finished my lunch with a dollop of ghee and green chilly. As the roasted chicken was not to be wasted I kneaded the rice and chicken and placed it in Pasha's bowl
Will you believe it? He smelt it once, and just disappeared before I could even see where he had gone. And dogs, they say, are man's most loyal friend, the traitor!

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.