Principally Mine

It was a matter of time and now time is the essence of the matter. This sentence might seem a bit weird-worded or it might seem too complex. A little bit insight might throw up some light on it.
Let me turn the clock back to the Fall of 2007. It is a good three years back in time. Life had come to a virtual standstill after passing out of college. The next (big) thing was TATA Consultancy Services and the many people I met there. Some melted away immediately, some hanged on for the sake of being there, some became lifelong friends but one stayed on for the next three years and perhaps forever.
What followed was a like a dream, in the truest sense, perhaps because of the speed at which these three years flew past. It is said that if you do or act in pure thought, happiness follows you like a shadow. I feel blessed in this regard. What followed after shifting base to my home town was pure and profound happiness- be it in the form of regular and repeated visits to the handful malls in Kolkata, occasional visit to temples, visits to ice-candy or pop-soda stalls or be it in the form of (I so hated it) regular bouts of window shopping. So much so that waiters at a particular coffee joint had become friends with me. Laughter and shouts punctuated by occasional bouts of cries made the ambience around so wonderful, the melody of the beautiful voice rang out loud. The present silence contrasts it to a larger extent.
It did not stop there. I have always vouched for Hindi and traditional music and yet here I was listening to music sung by people whose very existence I was unaware of, singing in a language I can only read, write and speak. No wonder our car stereo used to throw up at times. Imagine the agony it (and me) bore right in the morning en route office and on the way back (waiting time excluded). But then happiness cannot be measured on a scale of negativity, it was only to be cherished.
Shakespeare had correctly said, “All the worlds’ a stage and every man‘s an actor”. I can personally relate to a recent and very successful Hindi flick ‘Hera Pheri’. The third sequel to it was acted out on the streets of Kolkata and over coded messages and countless calls; the actors were the two people in the context of this write-up. So very true that it all seemed a dream.
As I sit here alone in the distant land on America, I try to hold the clock back at the times I think of, I try to stop it there. Is God listening?

Footprints on Time

On board BA 036- 24th August:

It has been a while that I have seen the night of day. Since the night of 23rd August, it has been a journey through day time and yet it seems that time has stood still. After almost a day of day light, my eyes have started to yearn for the darkness which soothes up the wounds of the day.

It started at 5 in the morning from Madras and now it is 11 in the day as I touch down in London. Leave aside the time zones, what difference do they make except for numbers? As the sun rays filter in through the layers of plexi-glass windows and the ultra-cumulous clouds beside me, I cannot help but wonder as to what exactly is conspiring? The announcement declares that the outside temperature at London is 15 degrees and the pilot had the audacity to call it pleasant? The shock and awe which I was warned of back home has perhaps set in.


At Heathrow – 24th August:

With plenty of domestic flying experience under my belt, I had expected my transit in London to be a cake walk. Unfortunately, I had put too much faith in myself or better still on the Airports Authority of India. What met me was a terminal with eight floors, two 4-coach trains chugging four floors beneath ground level just to carry your body and booty from one part of the terminal to the other. And it dropped meat an exit which opened up to one of the biggest shopping malls I have ever seen. (People who have seen better, please excuse my ignorance) Incidentally, I was in the terminal 5 of Heathrow. And it had it all. Dior, Chanel and CK were passé. The two burning red Ferraris did fill up a corner. But finally my eyes found what they were searching for. After all, if you are in London, a Chelsea store cannot be too far away.

An hour later and two hundred dollars poorer, I was the proud owner of a Chelsea jersey and a few other memorabilia. Next in line for me was the most important for every Indian flying out- Drop home a call. The calls were hurried and short thanks to the over-whelming call charges here. And finally it was time to give my tired legs a rest. The clock showed 1300 hours. It was still halfway through the 24th of August. My day light saga continued.

On board BA 0289 – 24th August:


The bright sunshine made its way inside again. Sleep in its entirety was a distant dream and the closest I could get to I was close my eyes. My third lunch of the day and still no dinner did not help my cause. They say a picture is worth a thousand words – if only I had my camera to show the state of me. The final call for landing was by far the most eventful thing to happen in this uneventful flight. More than the end of the journey, it meant that I would finally be able to see a night.

The latest hit ‘Inception’ dealt in dreams only, one embedded in another. For me, I was in a time warp. I have travelled for almost thirty-six hours now and have not got older by a day. Perhaps my age has stood still. What’s there in numbers? Get in touch Chris Nolan, I might have just presented you with the idea for your next flick!

C and C in CalCutta

“Dada, ekta cha diyo toh!”

“Spesaal diye debo, saar?”

“Dao, saathe ekta milds o diyo.”

Calcutta, oh Kolkata, known for its artistic and literary flair is also now known to be among the top three cities in India where almost seventy percent of the people smoke. Through many a census, people have reached a consensus that it is almost impossible to find a Bengali who does not smoke and it is ironic that nobody ever did a survey on the other cousin of cigarette. If it were done, then perhaps Kolkata and in all probability all of Bengal would have left every other place behind by miles. The subject of speculation is tea or ‘cha’ as called by one and all.

In almost every corner of this city, on every pavement it will be a rare sight if it is not occupied by a tea stall. These make-shift tea stalls are as much a part and history of the city as is the Ambassadors plying on its roads since time immemorial. The inseparable duo of tea and cigarette has made its way into the hands of almost every office goer, businessman and labourer alike.

From dawn to dusk, the one business that experiences no slowdown or setback is the sale of the two ‘C’s – cha and cigarette. Health issues aside, it is over this combination that most people start their day, catch up at or at the end of the day try to rejuvenate themselves. It is perhaps that invisible string that binds people together, that imperceptible force that keeps life going. It is perhaps one love saga that will not see an end!

Waste Bengal

The shenanigans have started to sound again. The walls are being painted or rather repainted with the colours of political parties, their emblems and requests. Banners have taken their place along roadsides. But most unwanted of all these and many more is perhaps the regular rally at every locality or junction, which throws life out of gear and makes a moment of silence very hard bought. With yet another election coming up, the race for Writers’ has heated up.

The government with nothing worthwhile to showcase in its last thirty years of governance still feels it is the best candidate to take the state forward. The opposition, although a namesake one, does not have the experience or the ability but is still convinced that it will be the lone torchbearer to the progress of the state. It is ironic that despite such an effective government and a confident opposition the state of West Bengal is well on its way to the ruins. The constant bickering and one-up-man ship has left the state in complete mess. It is perhaps the biggest victim of this political drama that unfolds here once in every five years.

The ever insecure politicians have surely forsaken their moral duties and responsibilities towards the state in lieu of their seats. Such is the addiction to the corridors of power, that the plight of the common man is considered secondary in governance. The roads which are repaired bi-annually are in a state of perennial disrepair. Any person, mobile or otherwise, would vouch for it. Shortage of electricity has reached alarming levels. The length of power cuts imposed makes one wonder the significance of having a state electricity regulation board and its claim of regular, uninterrupted supply. Perhaps it is time to go back to the age where lamps were the source of light, bullock carts used to be the mode of transport and people would work from their homes.

At least it would save the time and energy required to travel from home to office on rickety buses, plying on dug up roads with clogged drains unable to drain out the rainwater. For a city with a history three hundred years, it is surprising that every year the civic authorities are taken by surprise at the extent of water logging. This is what remains to happen when the drainage system that runs underground remains to be overhauled despite its age which would be from the time the English conquered India. Such is the condition of the lone metro city in Eastern India, the previous capital of erstwhile British India. I would love to spare a thought for the villagers but deep inside I can feel that their situation is no inferior to ours.

Only if the government could wake up to the difficulties of the common man; only if the opposition would take its time of bashing the government and sing a tune more constructive – this state would surely be a better place to live. It would not be called a waste.

True Blue, Through and Through

As dust settles on the corridors of Stamford Bridge after what has been a long and arduous year, I cannot help but relive the season which has been by far the most memorable in the century old career of Chelsea Football Club. So much so, that the club has made its space in the illustrious pages of English Football history.

Expectations were always an integral part of the Blues campaign ever since the Russian invasion and with the arrival of a high-profile manager, the bar was inevitably raised higher. Quite expectedly, the season began on a high note with every opposition left high and dry. Even the other three of the chosen top four were left licking their wounds after the first leg.

And then, disaster struck. It was perhaps complacency that had crept in the minds of Chelsea’s princes. The year end saw a series of indifferent performances coupled with a few drubbings from unfancied opponents leaving the Blues clinging on to the top spot, barely. Confidence hit the lowest ebb when the Special One returned to The Bridge, albeit with Internazionale, and much to the heartbreak of the Blues faithful, he sincerely plotted Chelsea’s fall; an untimely exit from the Champions League followed; a Roman dream lay in tatters.

Many had expected and had confidently predicted that this season would go down as another season of expectations going up in smoke; another year of so near yet so far. But they had surely underestimated the steel that this team had imbibed. Convincing victories at home and away against the other title contenders coupled with unharnessed aggression saw hapless opponents steam rolled into submission. Chelsea had risen from its ashes- with a renewed belief and an unquenchable thirst.

Captain, leader and legend John Terry marshaled his troops with optimum efficiency which saw a season with the fewest goals conceded. The Golden Gloves followed.

Upfront, it was the magician par excellence, super Frankie Lampard who netted a staggering twenty seven times this season and provided innumerable assists to the ever hungry hit man Didier Drogba, who brought home the Golden Boot after scoring an overwhelming thirty seven goals.

The season ended for Chelsea with an English double which saw them being crowned the Premier League champions and the FA Cup champions. But more importantly it banished the ghost of Jose Mourinho forever. Carlo Ancelotti, the biggest signing in three years, has certainly proved himself more than Special.

Shattered Skies

And finally the skies parted.

The scorching sun had all but torched the living beings here. Soil had turned into dust; trees drooped and greenery browned out. The onset of summer had sent shivers. If this were to be a precursor, then beware- imagine what lay in store when summer would be at its peak! Day after day, the blazing sun sapped dry everything below. Power cuts only added to the misery. Every mouth here uttered the same prayer. Everybody prayed for rain.

Then one evening the blue skies turned gray. The sun hid itself among the clouds. The wind began to pick up. As the dark clouds rolled in, evening donned the look of dusk. Streaks of lightning dotted the dark skies followed by the boom of thunder reverberating in the distance. The wind blew a real gale. The searing heat began to recede; the winds were perhaps messengers of the impending bliss.

The sun had, by now, gone down completely or was too well concealed somewhere in the clouds. Thunder and lightning echoed across the sky. The trees swayed in the wind, panes shattered and roofs creaked and groaned. Banners on the roadsides held onto their ground hard. Rains could be smelt in the distance.

The pitter-patter started. The first few drops hit the dry ground and formed a perfect medley of light and dark. The pour increased. It turned into a drizzle. The surrounding concrete was beginning to lose its colour. A steady downpour followed. And finally torrential rains swept across. The weather cooled down considerably; the mercury plummeted by quite a few degrees.

As I stood, drenching myself in the first rains of the season, I could feel a sense of relief surround me. The rains, I prayed, will clean the air around, settle the dust and replenish the greenery so badly missed.

In Company of Pages

The fan above has stirred up a mighty gale. At full speed, it refuses to allow things to settle down. In this summer though, it is a welcome break from the constant sweating. For the nth time, my concentration wanders. I stare out of the window blankly, my eyes searching the unseeable. Such is the tremendous force of the tome placed in front of me. I have lost track in the maze this book has spun.
If weaving magic into words is a form of art, then Mario Puzo must have been its best student. The subtle importance of every word spoken, the disguised thought that every line conveys is at its best in his writings. Such is the might of his thoughts that every line uttered makes one reflect and wonder. How does he manage to evolve such thoughts? What is his source of insight? Or is it the power of his imagination; sheer mind power?
The surrealistic ideas, so simple yet so intricate; the life in every character, so simple yet so intricate; the vision of the author, so far stretched yet so unpredictable.
All this runs through my mind as I try to concentrate on or rather decipher the thoughts of this great writer, mouthed by one of the most feared, revered and thought about character ever created. It is my fourth tryst with this book and even after three successful attempts I feel there is still a lot more hidden in it; a lot more to read; a lot more to realize. My wandering eyes start their search again. I realize I cannot concentrate; it is perhaps The Godfather’s revenge!

A Knight to Remember

As the murky white ball rose sky high, I could hear half a lakh people go quiet. The silent prayers were ringing out loud. All eyes were fixed on the white ball which still rose upwards. A deafening scream of ‘catch it’ broke the silence and more precisely broke many more hearts. As the ball came hurtling down and landed safely in a pair of hands, the collective gasp and sigh said it all. Was it the beginning of the end?

People were baying for his blood ever since the days he started plying his trade. No sustained brilliance, no youthful exuberance, no mature exertion on his part seemed suitable enough to those hawks. The very thought that the man who took Indian cricket to dizzying heights was never deemed competent enough stands silent testimony to the number of detractors he had. It perhaps sheer irony that his biggest critics were forced to eat their words when every time he led his country, the history books had to be re-written.

To harbour the hopes of a billion people- people of a nation where cricket is deemed to be a religion, is no easy task. And in spite of delivering time and again, he was very easily the target for any blip that occurred. Controversy’s favourite child, knives and scissors followed him like a shadow. But destiny had begged to differ. Every time he got dumped, the return was even more dramatic, the comeback stronger.

Yesterday’s match was perhaps his last in competitive cricket. The curtains may well be down on a very illustrious and glorified career. For the third time in succession, the Knight Riders bowed out in the league stage. But its icon Sourav Ganguly will go down in history as a Knight to remember!