Auto-matic writing

It may be just another of those starkly typical days. One stares in amused consternation at the two ladies struggling to manage their enormous shopping bags, while trying to place themselves strategically on the auto seats. One of them, in the mad rush of describing the important personal “shits” (the Bengali tongue chooses not to make an effort to extend the vowel sound during emergencies) that have been faxed to department so-and-so, suddenly loses a shoe, which slips under the auto. After it has been rescued and the minute hand has been given sufficient time to cause a mini heart attack, one tries to settle comfortably in the front seat, with the bag pressed to one’s chest, to avoid an inevitable tussle with driver’s elbow(or probably, out of practice). The auto swerves through Bikramgarh “horn”-ing its way through a crowd of cycles and cows, forcing out an impulsive “uf” from the little petite man who is fighting to keep his cool despite obvious reasons for worry as evident from his frequent phone calls.

Almost 12. The metro must be pulling out of the station now, with people hanging on to waists and hands and limbs precariously as the doors slide shut. There is of course no hope to attend the first class anymore so one relaxes the muscles and leans back to wonder about the next class. Another auto zooms by in the opposite direction-one smiles at the ghosts of the couple seated at the back, one of them explaining something with a passionate vehemence to his recalcitrant listener who is lost in her own doubts and speculations. If one is lucky however, one may find a known face with shining curls bouncing all around the headphones stuck into his ears, as he hops across the road.

The phone may ring. It may a sudden invitation for spending the evening out at a newly discovered coffee shop in Mudiali. Or not. The auto is coming to a stop now. One may find in utter dismay the paucity of “khuchro”s in the purse and start making a pathetically tragic face to beg the auto driver to accept the fifty rupees note. The next metro may leave too. Sigh.

College and Nostalgia

And suddenly like a flurry of bad news, the final year of graduation is upon Us-the crazy, unique, united and terribly self-absorbed Us. The other day, K lamented wistfully that this is all coming to an end too suddenly, too unpredictably, before we have had got enough of it. Maybe it is this irrevocable dread of separation, of the inevitability of the end, that 'Us' prefers to forsake the identities it used to convey and indulge in masochistic nostalgia, by being distant from one another. New faces crowd our rooms, our conversations-the inexorable accusation("you let him take my place-in your heart, mind, and questionably the body") has entered our interactions. The thrill of first-year antlamo has been replaced by an all pervading gross sentimentalism and an imminent cynicism.
This blog entry is inspired by Ritinkar's blog which I tumbled upon recently. Maybe regular blogging, or an attempt at regular blogging will keep me preoccupied. 

Ode to "Chhaad"

Childhood, I have heard many a time, is the sweetest and most beautiful phase of one’s life. Being barely out of my teenage years and having the whole journey of life left, I can hardly pass my verdict on that one. However, a few places that are intrinsically linked to my childhood, and have lost their aura now, do prove to a certain extent that the cliched concept may actually be true.

Chhaad - the place where dreams soared and laughter echoed, followed by the pitter patter of a dozen feet. We, namely the 'children' had  unlimited access to this hallowed precinct, specially  during the 'play hours' in the evening. By a certain unwritten directive, no adult was allowed to trespass while we played. Its amazing how we always had these few hours to look forward to everyday and irrespective of the harsh weather, none of us ever failed to turn up. It was a routine we never broke.

The Chhaad has seen and preserved many beautiful memories. Cricket was something that was initially played downstairs, for obvious reasons, but a certain unfortunate(and allegedly lethal) incident involving a deuce ball and shattering of window panes, compelled us to move our favorite game to the ছাদ. Desperate times call for desperate measures and we had to make a few changes in the rules. For example, we made underarm bowling compulsory, while fours were the only boundary we could hit. Sixes meant the ball flying over the compound wall of the Chhaad, and so they had to be eliminated completely. the wicket was a thin orange line drawn on the white door with a piece of brick. i think we had more fun with our humble arrangements than the para dada -s who were privileged enough to play in a field.

Another popular game that we played and that i'm sure, very few kids have actually heard of,

" khoi doi laban chus goji” remarkably complex game, with two villains namely "bansh" and "konchi". Two pairs of parallel lines running horizontally and vertically , divided the whole chhaad into four large squares, each representing a 'food' room. the most important was 'laban' or the salt room, without entering into which you cannot complete the game. the villains were confined to the area that these lines bordered-they had no access to the rooms. only when the other players passed from one room to another, the villains had to stretch their arms and catch them. this is a the general layout of the game, there were a thousand other rules and regulations and it took us more than a month to fully comprehend the gist of the game. it was a game we enjoyed whole heartedly, and played with utmost dedication-whether we were general players or the villains. the game, I later heard is a well known one in our villages, and has greater social implications. khoi with doi is a staple food, but no matter how hungry you are, salt or laban is the most important spice. hence the significance of the salt room in the game. pretty intriguing, isnt it?

We had seasonal games like badminton in winter and football in the rainy season. we also had something called 'go statue' which we played only when we were tired at the end of the evening. And occasionally we had our most eventful dramas and the chhaad as usual was witness to the hilarious but dedicated rehearsals. 

One thing that i cant help pointing out at this point, is how happy and determined we were in what we did in those 3 hours. We loved the chhaad and each other and most importantly, the present day. Our minds were not suffocated with threatening thoughts of the future and the only confusing decision we had to take was what game to play the next day. The chhaad lies quiet and forlorn these days, with all of us having grown up. This is an ode to the most beloved place of my childhood, the chhaad where we learned to love and live.