People II

My first write up on People was a humorous one, where I met only one kind of people coming with only one agenda in mind: getting their children admitted to Sir’s tuition and yet there I saw so many different reactions. I have been spending a lot of time with Sir over a period of six months, and among other good things I have got the chance to see and observe the human kind as a whole. I have come across many parents and students and observed and analyzed them at close quarters and just reached one conclusion: people love to think that they are different and unique; but they are incredibly similar to each other.

As Sir often thinks and talks about how so many people come so close to him and then go away suddenly, I tried talking to a few of them to find out a reason for their sudden disappearance. So a certain X who had spent a considerable amount of time with Sir, spoke to him almost twenty four hours seven days a week over chat for almost a year, had suddenly run out of things to say to Sir. The reason as pointed out by her is that, Sir being a very “serious” man, she can’t think of anything else to tell Sir. And also told me that “Sir is angry” and she doesn't really know why. However she keeps sending chats to Sir asking him, why he is not talking with her or responding to her chats.  Talking to this particular person makes me wonder, if she actually knows what she wants! And if she does know, why does she need to pretend? There can be just two possible things happening: One, that she was never really interested in Sir and pretending the whole time. And Second, she suddenly realized that any kind of relationship with Sir calls for a serious commitment and that scared her.

Another Y, had dropped out of Sir’s life, some six years ago. I tried talking to him too and asking him to come back. Much to my surprise, he promptly replied to my email and told me how much he had missed Sir for all these years, but did not get back to him because he was asked not to. He tried to make me understand that he was all in for a reunion with Sir but he couldn't because “Sir was angry” and he “did not know why.” He however called up Sir to say that he has got “nothing much to say” to him and then told me that it was all “Sir’s fault” that he couldn't talk. But then he kept bothering me about how he missed Sir and how he was important to him and how it is all Sir’s fault that he had to cut him off. Again I ask, why the pretense?

A certain Z, wanted to come back to Sir, and wrote to him telling him how she wants one more chance and won’t disappoint Sir. The day after was spent by her chatting with me and telling me how she missed him and how she wants to come back. How eager she is and all the other things which made me believe that she was really interested. Just twelve hours later she shot an email telling us that she should be left alone and that she is not really interested and again pointed out how it was all Sir’s fault.  I again wonder, why did she have to pretend that she was interested in him?

These are just a few of the many who behave exactly the same way. You might have noticed what I am trying to point out. Without being judgmental, I am just surprised at the incredible similarity between these individuals. Irrespective of age and gender, they all think the same way, behave the same way and even talk the same way. Their way of dealing with certain things is also very similar.

I came across a number of parents as well, and one thing very common in them is that, they tend to think, that since they have given birth to a child, they can treat him the way they want to. They can behave like dictators and treat them like slaves, abuse them unnecessarily, both physically and mentally, and when the child can’t take it anymore and stands up for his rights, the child becomes a “bad boy”, who doesn’t know how to behave. So many people come over to Sir to complain against their sons and daughters, speaking in a way, completely forgetting how they are at fault as well. This makes me wonder about how these parents were brought up! Certainly parents have been the same way generation after generation and like every generation of parents they claim that they are better parents.

I have been teaching for some time and that has helped me meet some more people. Students and parents alike.  Sir often tells about children of 15 being more grown up than the parents who are 50 years old. I realize how true it is. A certain W, had a bad childhood and was sexually abused by her maternal uncle, and is still traumatized because of that. She came to me asking for help. She just wanted to talk to me and eventually to Sir because she hated her counselor. Just few days later, I get a phone call from her mother asking me to stay in my “limits” and not “provoke” her daughter against the woman’s brother.  I wonder did she really think before saying what she did? Her daughter has been sexually abused and all she cares about his her brother. That person, who hurt her daughter, became more important.  I laugh when these mothers come to me and tell me that they love their daughters and are “worried” for them.

I will tell you, she is not a very strange case. She is just one of the many mothers who behave in this way. My mother is no different. They somehow revel in being tyrannical and think that physical and mental abuse is the easiest way to keep their children under “control”. That is how they can gain respect from them and that is how the child is going to “love” them.

The purpose of writing about all these people is not merely to judge them or improve them. It is just a way of expressing my sense of wonder and amazement to the fact that human beings are so similar to each other, in the way they behave. You can actually group them in certain categories. When observed closely, you can notice how desperately people try to fit themselves in that category. Females, irrespective of their age, try very hard to look pretty, have an obsession for shoes, cry for every small things possible, have a strong liking for tall handsome hunks, have to wear dresses that “accentuates” their body (and then shout if men lech at them!), talk about fashion and dresses and make ups, consider reading to be boring (I am talking of the majority of women here, and not about the smaller group who thinks differently.).

Males on the other hand like to pretend to be the “cool strong handsome hunk” types, who don’t have a heart and can’t feel anything. They don’t have emotions and can talk only about cars and bikes and read Playboy and other sports’ magazine.

Parents are supposed to be strict, tyrannical, inhuman beings who can only shout at their children and force them to live their life the way the parents want them to. They expect to be respected and consider their duties towards their children as favors and keep talking about it all the time. If the children stand up for themselves, they are considered to be ill mannered. 

What is funny is that in spite of people being exact mirror images of each other; they claim to be “individuals”. Little do they realize that they are no better than herds of animals who come and go in groups making no significant difference in anybody’s life. I wonder can’t they see each other? Or is it that they like being one of the herd?  

The Box Of Fond Memories

Cleaning up the cluttered book shelf and an old suitcase is messy, but also filled with pleasant surprises. I was looking for a few note books from my school days in an old suitcase and the suitcase soon became a box of memories. 

I came across an old photograph of me and my first ever friend, relaxing in the sun on a winter afternoon. I was hardly 5-6 years old then, and all I was concerned about was the sun setting too early and reducing my play time. That was the biggest worry then, and the biggest responsibility was keeping an eye on my toddler brother and going after the boys who did not give him a chance to be the batsman. The gully cricket was the biggest match ever and cycling around the neighborhood the biggest rebelling act.

Then I came across a few old letters. Yes back then I used to write letters to an old teacher of mine. She used to teach us Bangla and retired and shifted to Calcutta when I was in class eight. She left her address behind and I used to write letters to her. She was kind enough to patiently go through that almost illegible bangla handwriting of mine and reply to me. The smell of those inland letters made me smile and of course the innocence of the words written on them. I wonder if I can still write like that. It is sad how no one writes letters now and the closest alternative now is the email. I have been told a number of times by so many people to write small emails. Alas! I just can't. I am pretty old school here and love writing and reading long emails. Yes now we can chat over the various social networking sites, but then they are not as personal and beautiful and thoughtful as letters and emails.

A little more rummaging through that box of memories and I found an old, pages almost yellow, book by Albert Camus. On the first page of the book was written, "For being an attentive reader, and liking this book so much! --Sir" I remember borrowing that book from Sir and liking it so much and talking about it to him, that he had allowed me to keep that book. It was so precious to the 16 year old me, that I had not displayed it on my bookshelf. 

There were birthday cards and new year cards and gift wrapping papers with small notes from a special someone. An old t-shirt which belonged to the person I first fell in love with. Wrappers of chocolates, movie tickets, and so many other small gifts, and even a glass jar labeled, "a bottle full of sunshine and fresh air from the hills." That was my brother as a seven year old, bringing back fresh air from Darjeeling. I know these things probably mean nothing to so many people, but brought back fond memories to me. 

The final thing I found in that suitcase was a box full of shells. That collection was a recent one. When I was in Chennai, a few friends and I, on a whim went sea digging for shells. Chennai beach has got the most beautiful sea shells ever. We spent almost two hours collecting shells till our fingers were sore with numerous cuts and our back stiff from bending down for so long. But we were happy. We had the best collection of shells ever and we proudly flaunted it around.

These are the little joys of life which makes us happy. Maybe the friend doesn't remember me anymore, or that special someone has drifted away somewhere. The old teacher is no more today. My grown up brother considers it stupid to bring back fresh air in a jar now, and probably Sir doesn't remember giving that book to me. But these things made me smile, and I know what they mean to me. Being responsible and serious is important, I know but then it is the memories of those completely impulsive and careless times which make us smile. Rummaging through this box of memories on a hot summer lazy afternoon really made my day. And may be it is these memories that still help me to be the happy person that I am today.

Pretense: An Easy Way Out

When I was a little girl, just in to school, I was taught not to tell people things that can hurt them. For example, a fat girl shouldn't be called fat. A stupid girl shouldn't be called stupid and some other things. But being the girl I am, I had a hard time pretending, or not telling people what they really are.

I hated pretense as a child and I hate pretense now. But what surprises me is the innumerable bunch of people who love to pretend. They somehow love holding on to it and I don't know what they get out of it?Doesn't it feel like living with a lie? That is not a good feeling I know. So how do they continue doing it for years at a stretch? Or may be even a life time?

It is not only about pretending to call an ugly girl, pretty or pretending to like someone's cooking or dresses or shoes. It is also about pretending to love someone. Pretending about the fact that a certain person is very important, or pretending to be grateful even! 

Small things, small stories tell me how people love to pretend, till their work gets done. I lived very close to the school, and for fourteen years my house was like a telephone booth, a first aid center, a lost and found box and even a "My daughter needs that thing right now" place. Besides giving my classmates a place to wait if they missed their transport back home, my mother provided tiffin to so many girls in my school that it is not even funny. And she did it gladly. A phone call from some tensed parent and she would calm them down and assure them that she would take care of everything. My father even went out of his way to go and drop a few classmates of mine, home, because they missed their transport, and their daddies were too "busy" to come and pick up their own daughters! 

Mothers used (yes USED it is) my house to wait for their daughters to come back from tuition classes, without even thinking that we might have some work to do, and need to go out. They did  not even have the courtesy to ask! 

My father being a gazetted officer, could attested mark sheets and other official documents. He would gladly do it, without much fuss. Naturally, he was taken advantage of. People came with 10-20 copies of their mark sheets and expected my father to sit and sign them all. And being the person he is, my dad did it, till he grew sick and tired of it and stopped bringing his office stamp home. 

We helped everyone gladly, firstly because helping is something good and we should always do things which make us and others feel good. But then is it too much to expect that these people would have a minimum courtesy to feel grateful? Express their gratefulness by at least staying in touch? No sooner did school get over than I lost touch with every one. Now true that I am not a very social person, but then I at least smile at the people I know when I see them here and there! I wonder what are people made of? Is this natural to behave this way? to forget once the work gets done? Doesn't it hurt them somewhere deep down? Don't they have something called the heart? Or at least a conscience? 

I don't know whether I should be grateful for not being like all those I have mentioned above. I mean it must be much easier not to feel anything at all. Not to bear the burden of being ungrateful. Not to have any emotions or memories to make them sad. I am sure it must have been easier... Unfortunately I was born with a heart!

A Not So Happy Holiday

I knew holidays were supposed to be enjoyed. Well that is I think, only one part of the sentence. The complete sentence would be: Holidays in the wild (and architecturally beautiful) places are fun and enjoyable. I am on a trip since the 10th of this month. Six days and we feel that this thing is going on forever and we are not really having a very good time.

Daddy and I made the mistake of planning a trip in this weather. To make it worse we came all the way to Maharashtra, and to big cities. Pune: terribly hot and dry gave us a warm welcome, literally so with cracked lips and nose bleeding. Mumbai, hot again, and extremely humid, is draining us of all energy, by making us sweat, buckets.

I still have two more days to go in this big city of Mumbai which apparently never sleeps. Whatever may be the charm of these big cities, I can never understand, and I don't really want to. After being in five big cities and knowing three of them very closely, I can shout my lungs out and say, "I hate big cities." Though I might write another post, about the trip in details, right now, I don't mind being judged for throwing my hands and legs out and throwing tantrums because I just want to be back home.

There is nothing like home and there is nothing like my small hometown Durgapur. It might be a little behind all these big cities, but it is peaceful and makes me happy. No matter what, It is home!

Phoring

I came to know of this movie from a source I would not trust, but then I am happy that I took the chance. Just a few days back, While I was checking my news feed on Facebook, every next person seemed to “feel happy watching Phoring.”  So I downloaded it to see what the fuss was all about.

I was pleasantly surprised to come across a movie after such a long time with such a fresh storyline. Well many others have touched this theme of adolescent passion, but then this one was different. It covered multiple themes, including God and death, as seen by a 14 year old.

The movie begins with Phoring, a 14 year old boy from a small town in North Bengal, fantasizing about a woman, much older in age than him, and waking up from a wet dream embarrassed. He is basically a lonely child, of a drunken father and a depressed mother. Having lost his only true friend, his elder brother, to malaria, he has no one to talk to but the Gods. His “Thakurs”. He sits by the river on a fallen tree and talks to them about everything. Pleading them to pass him in the exams to telling them about his wet dreams. Well, he talks about his wet dreams, “privately” only to the male God, and is very embarrassed when he mentions it to a “ladies” God.

When he fails his annual examination and decides to kill himself, his “Thakur” miraculously sends someone down to this village school of North Bengal, to make Phoring happy. And yes he is happy. No one ever gave him so much love as this new history teacher did. She understood his love for imagination, and suggested him ways to channelize it in to something productive. Besides, respecting this “Madam” of his, Phoring felt a tug at the heart because of this special privilege.

Naturally so, because when all the boys in his class are madly in love with this teacher, and trying too hard to find out where she lives, he gets the special privilege to visit her often, and know her a little more closely than anyone else. The passion and excitement these 14 year olds feel are portrayed wonderfully. The excitement when Madam, touches his hand or lies down on the bed and a little bit of her legs show. Then there is the jealousy. “Who is that man coming to meet Madam often?” “Why does Madam smile so much when she talks to him?”

He can’t accept the fact that Madam went away somewhere with a friend, without telling him. We also see the jealousy his classmates have against him. The way they make fun of him, because of this heart break. But then we also see the priceless smile on Phoring’s face, when Madam comes to visit him, making him feel all important. The dilemma and uncertainty of a child’s mind about how important he is to a grown up woman is very well portrayed by this child actor (I wonder how they make kids act).

This passion and love goes much deeper. So deep, that one can even give up his normal life, leave his home and go away to an unknown city in search of Madam. Work hard, wash dishes and finally find and meet Madam to ask some unanswered questions. Some questions that had been troubling the little mind for long. 

This kind of love, I think comes when one is innocent. Unperturbed by the vices of the world of a grown up. When one knows how to follow one’s heart and not care about what others say and think. But then Phoring had a very strong conscience. That came out when he conversed with his Gods. The Gods’ voice telling him how he is wrong or how he is being silly is just his inner conflict. His inner voice, stopping him from doing something or encouraging him to go ahead. But his innocent self always asked him to be spontaneous and do whatever his heart agreed to.  Not bothering about what people thinks and finally with time, Phoring learns to deal with his conscience and his conversations with his Thakurs reduce in frequency.

May be as people grow up, they tend to wear a mask, starts pretending to be someone they are not. And then with time, as the teacher aptly says, they forget about the mask. The mask becomes the reality and they tend to hold on to it, unless something traumatising happens and the mask falls off. In Phoring’s dad’s case, his mask of a bad father fell off when he realised that he has lost his son.

What is sad is when this innocence of a child is lost; the love of the untouched heart disappears too. As the movie ends with the Madam promising her student, that she would write him letters, and asks him to reply to them, I wonder, how long will the little boy keep his words? Will he fall out of the need to know where his beloved teacher is? Or will he keep his words and stay interested in the same way that he is now? Will he grow out of this innocence and realise that Madam was after all not that important? Will he lose this attachment and will it be for the good or for the bad? However everything depends on the uncertainty. And no one knows what is for the good and what for the bad. Not even the Gods. Even they fail to understand certain things we mortals do and then we should learn to stop depending on them and create our own stories. Phoring sheds away his dependence on the Gods by saying at the end of the movie: “Thakur, jeta bojhona sheta niye kotha bolo na.” (Do not talk about things you don’t understand.)  Or was he just talking to his inner voice?

About Books and Reading Again

I happened to come across this. Generally I ignore such buzzfeed lists, but then this one was about the stages of a “book addict”, so I decided to glance through it.

Yes reading is an addiction, true and as I go through this list I realise I have gone through most of these stages. I have bought a book on a whim either because everyone was talking about it or because no one was talking about it. And I swear most of the times, I liked those books which few people talked about, or cared to read. But then may be people around me hardly read good books.

Then comes the next stage where either I am hooked on to the book and don’t want to put it down, or it is one of those books which you want to beat your head with because you bought it. I had also sometimes taken the responsibility of promoting the book I like among the people around me. I remember how I went around telling each and every one I knew to buy and read Shantaram.  Sadly very few people enjoyed it. I spent hours trying to figure out why they did not like this book, but then someone told me, “It is such a fat book…” After that I gave up thinking. I knew the reasons.

When I like a book, every idle minute seems like a minute wasted. I remember how I regretted not carrying The Little Prince to school, because there were free periods when I could have read pages.  But I agree the best reading happens may be after 11 PM. True, it is very annoying when so many people looks at you bewildered because you are reading a book while waiting for a bus or travelling in a metro.

Then when you are almost towards the end of the book, comes in the dilemma. I mean I know the book is so good that I am going to miss reading it once I am done with it, but then again, I want to know how it ends. This happened with me while I was reading A Palace of Illusions.

Drifting to the world of the book happens to me often, and then getting attached to the characters of that book. Feeling their pain, being sad for them, being happy in their happiness, Feeling their longing, their love. And then the change in opinion about a character as the story advances. Like I am almost done with Cuckold now, and I felt so many things for Maharaj Kumar and so many things for Kausalya (No I won’t go on about them over here. I don’t plan to write about the book in bits and parts in all my posts.).

I am sure some of you will be able to connect to this list and appreciate it may be. But what is sad is very few people read these days. And I will tell you what is sadder. People buy well known books, so that they can just flaunt it. Ask them to talk about it, and they would become very busy. And what hurts "book addicts" like us is the fact that we lend books happily, to encourage reading, but then people either don't return those books or return them after soiling them beyond recognition. For Heaven's sake, when would they understand that books are like a part of the heart we are giving out?!  I think they never will... Facebook-ing and texting and shopping and other trivialities are more important. When I ask my students to write about their favourite authors and books, they look at me blankly. My heart aches…

My Experiences As A Teacher

About two months ago, a paranoid mother called me up to say that she needed my help. She needed me to teach her daughter. She was sure that the kid would not pass her final exams and wanted me to teach her English.

I did not know how I would be of any help. I mean yes I can teach her English but then that doesn't mean that I can assure her mother that her daughter will pass the examination. I did not know her level of intelligence and how much hard work she could put in. And with just a month to go, I was a little sceptical about taking her up. However, since we were sort of related, I agreed to teach her and help her as much as I could.

The kid was not as unruly as her mother had portrayed her to be.  She was a talkative soul and a little bit fidgety. She loved to ask questions about anything and everything she saw in my room and had an uncommon interest for old coins. No doubt we connected soon enough. Being a children lover, it wasn't much of a task for me to get her to like me. Once that was done, I knew she would listen to me. 

We worked hard, her and me for one whole month. She is an obedient child and listened to everything I asked her to do. Many things she did not like, but she would do it because I demanded of her. Like writing with a fountain pen and writing neatly. Making her understand the prose and poetry was not much of a task. She was a fast learner there. She grasped the text pretty soon and did not have much trouble answering questions from them. Grammar was her weakness and the worst thing was she was scared of it. So I knew I had to overcome a big hurdle there. I had to get the fear out of her.

Slowly and steadily she started getting a grasp of the prepositions and the adverbs and the conjunctions (She was actually good with the conjunctions.). We had a hard time trying to understand the tenses. No matter what I did, she failed to differentiate between the present tense, the present perfect and the present perfect continuous. I scolded her, I drew tables for her. I made her repeat after me. But whenever I stopped, she would look at me blankly, and just could not understand the difference. After repeated tries for about forty-five minutes, we were like in a trance. I was going on saying the same thing and she would just repeat after me. I stopped halfway, to give it one last try, and I was surprised that even though she was tired and frustrated, she could finally differentiate between the tenses. She had not realised that I had stopped and went on on her own. When she saw me smiling, she understood that she had done what had seemed impossible about an hour ago. All her frustrations and tiredness vanished and even though she had tears in her eyes, her tear stained face lit up with a smile, and that was the most priceless smile ever.

I felt the warmth of it and realised the joy of giving. The wonderful feeling which comes with the realisation that I have done something for someone. I could make her understand something she feared to explore, and she was thankful for that. I knew I have touched her heart, when she said, “The tenses don’t seem that difficult any more.” What more can I ask for?

Just a day before her exams, I had given her a revision test, and she faired quite well.  When I told her that she should keep studying like this, she very innocently said, “Oh I haven’t studied at all. I just remembered what you have taught earlier and answering this test seemed very easy.” I knew then I had hit the right chords.

My added gift was that her mother had developed a faith in me, and believed that only I could make her daughter study and make her do well. Quite an achievement no?  I know, this faith would demand a lot of hard work on my part, but then when it comes with these small added perks of love and thankfulness from the kid, I am willing to put in my 100 percent.

Teaching as I have understood requires a lot of commitment and patience. May be even more than parenting. When we are parenting a child, we mostly tend to do it carefully because that thing out there is our blood and flesh. So a bit of commitment comes out of that I guess. But then again we have parents like these, so I won’t comment much. Teaching requires a bit of extra care may be because we are signing up for someone else’s child. Someone who is just starting to know us. We are taking that child’s responsibility and promising her parents that we would take care of her studies. Making a child love us, attach to us and listen to us, requires a lot of patience and hard work. The child needs to see that we as teachers really care for her and then the rest won’t be much difficult. Most important is that we should learn to love the kid first.

A teacher leaves a strong impression on her students and hence being a teacher calls for changing or at least controlling a lot of our own habits. Smoking in front of a student leaves a bad impression of us on that child. Children pick up bad habits very soon. If the teacher picks her nose while she is teaching, they will start doing the same. If the teacher is cluttered with her notes and books, the child will pick that up. If the teacher keeps checking her phone while teaching, the child will learn that paying attention to one thing at a time is not really important. So when we take up teaching, it is not only the particular subject that we are taking the responsibility for. We are taking up the responsibility of the child’s overall development; as a better human being.

Rest assured if you can reach out to the child, there is no other job as satisfying as this one I guess. As a teacher of mine, who has been teaching for the last thirty three years keeps telling me, “It is a job where you are the boss and you don’t have to call anyone ‘Sir’. Everyone calls you ‘Sir’.” I am sure after all the hard work that a teacher needs to put in; s/he deserves to enjoy that privilege. I have just started, and since I am quite enjoying this profession, I hope to touch some more lives and do something for some souls. Leave a small mark may be after I am gone. That is the hope which keeps me motivated and going, and of course that priceless smile. Something I will remember for a long long time to come. I hope to get many more such smiles down the years.

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Due to some silly and some not too silly problems, I removed my last post titled, "A warm Thank You And A Request". I will put that up may be next month, when my blog will be four months old. That will be on the 9th of April. Till then do keep reading and keep me enthused with your comments and visits. 

A Book And A Few Things About Love Again

I was musing about love again, and reading Cuckold opened many more new avenues in my mind. In Cuckold, I came across different kinds of love. Maharaj Kumar’s love for Leelavati. How he treats the small kid as her sister and loves her with all his heart. He considers her as his only connection with Sumitra: his sister whom he lost at a very young age to a deadly infectious disease.

We come across Maharaj Kumar’s love for his sister, Sumitra, whom he still remembers and aches for after so many years of losing her. The wound has healed but the last memories of her is still very strong in his mind. How he hated to sit beside his sister when she was on her death bed, yet could not leave because he knew she needed him. How he hated to see his sister die in front of his eyes, yet could not turn his face away. Made me wonder, is it possible to love someone so much, that we do things which we actually hate to do? May be loving is doing things for others which make them happy, and not really thinking about my happiness. May be someday I would be able to love like that.

Then there is Kausalya, Maharaj Kumar’s dai. This character intrigued me the most (well I haven’t finished the book yet. So I must say, so far.). She breast fed the Maharaj Kumar, thrashed him, when he needed it. Looked after him like a mother, loved and protected him throughout, and introduced him to sex as well. Can we imagine such a woman living around us? Very rare no?  Maharaj Kumar realises his depth of love and yearning for his “mother, guide, protector, friend, confidant and lover” much later in life when he thinks he had lost her. The most precious moment for Kausalya, I think was when, Maharaj Kumar lies down on her sore ugly distorted body and says, “I will never let you go away.”

It hurts me to see how much Maharaj Kumar yearns for his own wife. How much he wants her to love him back. He just can’t do anything that would make her love him. It is sad how he tries everything, from praying to the goddesses to beating her up, but in vain. He just can’t accept the fact that his wife could be married to the “blue God”. It is more difficult for him to accept this may be because, he love Krishna as well. He loved Krishna in all forms and all his ages. He grew up listening to stories about Baal Gopal and reading about the grown up Krishna. He often wondered about Krishna’s varied character and more often than not connected with him. Of all the Gods, Krishna was the closest to him and easier to reach out, and now his wife claimed to be married to that God. It was difficult for him to accept that.

To soothe his heart aches he tried to get satisfaction from the washer man’s wife, Sunheria.  Though he wanted the relationship to be only sexual, he got many other pleasures from her. Suheria could put him to sleep, could ease his pain, could talk to him, and somewhere he thought, Sunheria understood him more than his wife could ever do.  He loved her too… For making him believe that he needed to let go off his worries and sorrows at times. For making him realise that, “Self-pity is an indulgence one cannot afford.”

Then there was the princess. Maharaj kumar’s wife. The poor thing couldn't help it. She understood her husband’s pain. She tried her best to make him happy. She did the little she could. But at the same time she knew she could not do any more. How could she do anything more than that? She was betrothed to someone else. She loved him and was dedicated to him. She was forced to marry Maharaj Kumar as no one understood her love for the Blue God. She wrote letters to the Blue God, complaining about his ignorance towards her. She sang songs for him. She was not even concious about her actions when she sat in front of him to pray. Her love for Krishna was something which I would call pure in the truest of the meaning. She worshipped him, loved him and was married to him. The relationship was so pure that she failed to understand why her husband was upset with her and why everyone called her names. She cried out to Krishna and asked him to protect her honour. Such deep was the trust that she knew that she would be protected. Her love, her Blue God would come to her and take care of everything. Take away all her sorrows and make the "Blue Sun" shine. 

I will probably write more about the book later, when I am done with it. It surely deserves an individual blog post and a much longer one.

Love is like a mirage I think. It is an impression we want to hold on to for as long as we can. It is like a belief that keeps us going. It is like the first shower after the scorching summer. When we can’t find that love where we expect it the most, we feel helpless. We look around desperately try all measures and means to find it and get it.  What we forget is that love is not possessing someone; it is all about giving the person we love as much freedom as they want… It is all about making that person happy, enjoying moments with him, understanding the person, passing through difficult times together and looking forward to spending happy times together.

Some people are born with the capacity to love. To love with a warm heart, anyone who seems to touch their heart. Leave an impression on them. But it is sad how these are the people who don’t get the love back most of the times. The fault or the shortcoming is not with them. It is the incapability of the greater mass to understand such depth and seriousness and take that love. To enjoy the privilege. It is however sad that these people don’t feel the loss. They are not capable of understanding the importance of love may be. It is sad how the world is full of these trivial people: People who would live their trivial lives with a pit of emptiness at the bottom of their stomach, and try to make themselves feel important by going to “happening” parties and buying smart gadgets, Only to realise when it is too late, that someone somewhere loved them deeply and wanted something good to happen to them. But by then it is too late and all they can do is sigh and wish that their minds worked differently when they were younger and when there was still time.

The First Time I...

...climbed that big mango tree in my grandfather’s DPL quarter. My mother looking for me all over the house but in vain. My cousins and I, sitting huddled up around grandma and listen to ghost stories in those stormy dark nights. Playing with kalu and Bholu(My grandfather's pet roadatians). Force feeding them. Giving them baths. The wait for Poila Baishak. ( Bengali New year). The thrill of getting new clothes. Me and my cousins fighting over which dress which one of us would take.

Fighting battles with daddy. Playing the brave soldier. Travelling on his shoulders and feeling like the princess. Feeling the warmth of his hug. Using a camera for the first time. Making daddy pose like a model. My first Diwali. Lighting a cracker, while daddy holds my hand steady…

Requesting grandpa to get our favourite biscuits. Stealing raw mango pickles on a hot summer afternoon. Going to Durgapur barrage during monsoon and watching the water roar and rage as the gates of the barrage were opened. Shouting in the wind and hearing our voices crack. Getting drenched in the rain and doing that awkward dance with my parents watching. The first taste of the hot tea and feeling all grown up.

Holding my new born brother in my hands. Looking at his extremely tiny fingers and toes and wondering if he is human. Watching him sleep. Feeding him at times. Holding that tiny feeding bottle in my hand as he sucks at it. Looking at him with wonder. Feeling his tiny fingers curling around mine as he falls asleep. Feeling that first tinge of jealousy, on realising that I will have to share my mommy and daddy.

My first day at school. Wearing that white and blue uniform and going to school, holding daddy’s hand. My first class teacher, Ms. Disilva. Her kind eyes. soft hands, patting my cheek. My first friend in school. The first time I share my tiffin with someone.  My first medal in sports. The first time I perform on stage, with make up on.

Romping over MAMC township with my cousin. Learning to swim. Making up stories for each other. Going out for picnics. Cooking our first lunch. Building a tent for ourselves. Learning to ride a cycle. Falling down, scrapping our knees. Consoling each other. Staying awake all night and giggling over silly things. Starting to write our first journals...

My first love. That thrill of going to meet him secretly. My first pillion bike ride. The smell of those letters. My first rose, my first secret trip. The first puff of a cigarette.  Stealing money from daddy’s wallet to buy the love a birthday gift. First heart break. First tears for someone who meant a lot. Realising for the first time that love is a chimera and it passes…

My first trip on a plane. Feeling that first rumble in the stomach as the plane takes off. Looking at the clouds from so close. My first view of the mountains. My first trek up the Khardungla Pass. The first sip of Whisky with daddy on a cold night in Ladakh...

First day in college. Feeling grown up. Staying away from home. Taking up responsibilities, making mistakes. Learning from them. Losing my heart again. Meeting some wonderful teachers. Getting the wonderful opportunity of celebrating my 20^th birthday with a teacher singing to me on a silent night in the hills.  Joining the SFI. Going on marches. Standing for the students’ union elections. Winning it. Becoming the Class representative. Being a senior. Convincing juniors to vote for SFI. Attending meetings. The first puff of Marijuana. Getting drunk getting stoned. Being irresponsible. Learning from the mistakes. Promising never to walk that path again.

My first view of the Chennai sea. Connecting with him. Falling in love with nature. first road trip with my friends. Exploring new places. The first joy of sitting with someone on the rocks by the shore and sipping beer, looking at the moon. First time in Auroville. Experiencing the peace of mind. My first job. That first smell of money earned by myself. Giving someone something with my own money. The first joy of financial independence. Setting up my own flat. First failure. First setback. That sense of losing everything... Facing a blockade... Starting from the start again.

Watching myself growing up. Standing in front of the mirror at the age of 23 and promising to be responsible and serious. Looking back and laughing at my own silly self, smiling at the good old memories and trying to bury the horrid past. After all it is all about letting go and moving on… doing new things and creating fonder memories…

Being Naked is Being Liberated

A poster in one of the anti-rape marches organised in Delhi, after the Delhi gang-rape, said: “My body is my Property.” Another one said, “Just because I show my legs, doesn't mean I spread them.”  A third one said, “Don’t you dare tell me what to wear, tell him not to stare. My body is not public property.” The most interesting one was: “I can walk the street naked if I want, but you can’t rape me. I am a liberated, self–respecting woman.”

We are the liberated women of a liberated country. We understand freedom and rights and shout for them. We call ourselves “self-respecting women” but we can’t act like one. Why would a “self-respecting” woman want to, or even think of roaming the streets showing her legs? And if she thinks it is her ‘right’ to show her legs or whatever, why should she shout and protest when a man’s body reacts to a natural urge? Sure, a gentleman won’t lech at or try to rape a girl who is walking past him half naked. But the fact of being aroused by naked bodies unless they are entirely ugly is biological. It is nothing short of cruelty to condemn men for it.  It is like calling women dirty because they menstruate!

Why would a woman like to flaunt her near-naked body and call it ‘liberation’? Liberation from what, I wonder? One reason can be seeing women in the household being oppressed for years. May be they are tired of seeing mothers being beaten up. Not being allowed to do what they want. That suppressed anger might have come out this way. If they can’t stand up against their fathers and brothers, they choose to show their freedom by dressing how they want to.  And they call themselves liberated.

They call it ‘protest against gender bias’ too. If that is so, why are there so few protest marches against female infanticide and ‘arranged’ marriage and in favour of education for the girl child and better opportunities for women in business and politics? Is it that women are by and large incapable of talking about serious things or is it that liberation and equality for them is only about being able to dress how they want to? Why do women need to be vulgar to call themselves liberated (and if they are so keen on their own rights, why would they not accept that others, both male and female, have a right to call them vulgar if they want to?) What happened to claiming equal job opportunities? What happened to saying proudly that I stand equal to a man, because I am equally educated (why are there so few women mathematicians and writers around, even after at least three generations of ‘education’)? And what happened to general human sympathy – remembering that people suffer for reasons other than being women too, and speaking up for their rights sometimes?

As a kid I was always asked to study well, to read a lot of books. I was told, if I am not educated, it won’t be easy for me to get my due respect. Today when I see that “respect” can be gained and measured by the way I dress, or rather my freedom depends on the length of my dress, I wonder, did I waste my time reading all those books? May be I would have been respected much more if my parents had taught me to show my legs to random strangers on the street. Fact: I am still young, and not quite ugly myself!

It is ironical how women from a lower economic strata (e.g. the household helps), buy clothes which cover them decently, whereas women who have loads of money buy clothes that barely cover them. And I have been told, the shorter the dress, the costlier it is. So can I safely say that, decency and self-respect is inversely proportional to the economic strata we belong to? Also these women, from the lower income group have learnt to feed themselves and be independent from a very young age. Something the so called “decent, educated, independent” women can’t even imagine.

Being a woman, I am ashamed to say that I belong to a clan who call themselves civilised but don’t behave like one. When I see women claiming their ‘right’ to roam around near-naked, I wonder: are we going back to the Stone Age? Not wearing too many clothes was normal back then. Only they did not call it liberation or being smart.

Why does a woman need to go around showing her legs and other ‘assets’ on the street? If she doesn't enjoy the way the ‘pervert’ looks at her, she would take care to cover herself as much as she can, or is it that she enjoys that gaze, but cannot honestly say so, and cannot handle it when men ‘over-react’? Is it about the attention she is getting? Is it that she knows that she can’t get that attention in any other way? If so, why can’t she accept it? Why does she feel the need to cover it with a veil of protest? These same women usually cover themselves from head to toe when they stand in front of their fathers and brothers and husbands and teachers because ‘they don’t like it’. Do they forget that there are decent men out there who don’t like to see near-naked bodies of women being publicly flaunted? If women don’t care about what others feel, they shouldn’t shout and expect others to care about their feelings. Should they?

 The offended feminists would say that they are ‘intelligent women with personalities’. So they can do and wear what they want. Men should look at their personalities and not their bodies. I would say, women with personality don’t need to display their bodies. Mamata Banerjee doesn’t need to.  Damayanti Sen doesn't need to. They know they can attract any intelligent or even ordinary men by just their personality. They know if they talk, people will listen. When they walk, men won’t be raping them with their eyes. They will be looking up to them with respect and awe.

Yes I agree that this is a free democratic country, and women can dress the way they want to. But then it is wicked to arouse men and then curse them for it, and very stupid to then complain, “Men only think of us as bodies.” That is what we asked for. If the body is visible to such a great extent, what else can a man think us to be? That is what we wanted when we decided to come out on the street wearing that almost nothing. Why complain now?

Why don’t decent men feel this urge to go about naked except for a very small pair of shorts? Why don’t they call it a restriction on their “freedom”? Because, they don’t want to arouse women so commonly. And also because they consider it vulgar.

J.K. Rowling very rightly said, “Women… they pee in herds.” They literally do so. When I was in school, I used to see three of my classmates going to the wash room together. I wondered how can they all need to relieve themselves at the same time? But then somebody explained how it was necessary because they had the “best quality conversation” there. I used to think it was a teenage thing, but then I saw the same thing happening in college and also when I started working. It may still be acceptable in school, but when women in their mid-twenties and thirties do the same thing, I can’t help but considering it to be a sickness. A sickness to copy each other. Be exact mirror images. That is how wearing almost nothing is “so in”. That is why protest marches shouting for “liberty” and “freedom” is cool. And then they talk about individuality. It would do them some good if they cared to look up the meaning of the word first. No?

We live in a country where the girls, who were once daddy’s darlings, suddenly start becoming a liability, once they cross the age mark of 22. The parents dedicate all their time in searching for the perfect groom for their perfect daughters, and if the daughter is smart enough to find her ‘soul mate’, the parents are after the girl to get her married off. Surprisingly most girls succumb to that family pressure as well. They say they don’t want to get married, but a few tears from the mother and a fake pains in the heart from the dad, and the girl is ready to get married. Independence, freedom, liberation and all those strong words are packed in the suitcase and sent along with the girl to the house of the in laws, to be brought out again, when she will realise that marriage is actually a very serious issue which she can’t deal with. It is better to walk the protest marches rather…

I have recently heard that being able to talk about the vagina aloud now makes women “liberated”.  Poor-Box production is coming out with a play called “Vagina monologues” where five “wow women” talk about “discovering, celebrating and protecting their bodies.” Excuse me for saying this, but women don’t need to ‘discover’ their bodies. Girls do that. (If these women are mothers, I’d like to know what advice they give their own daughters).They don’t need to write a play and spend so much money to celebrate their bodies in public and if they can celebrate their bodies, they don’t need to shout about its protection. If we call ourselves women, we should try to act like one. Where did ideas of privacy, dignity and self-possession go? Is it all about how many ‘likes’ you get on Facebook, and whether you are mentioned on page three, whether you are 15 or 55?

Also, it is funny how we live in a society where women shout about being liberated, but talking about sex and about wanting it with men one loves is still a very big taboo. I have already at this age encountered far too many women who are hypocritical even with themselves: ‘Oh, I don’t think of him that way!’... and how offended they are when they are told their hypocrisy is showing! We can roam around half naked in order to be ‘admired’, but sex should be hushed up, kept under covers and giggled over only while reading Fifty Shades of Gray.  The problem with far too many so-called ‘liberated’ women even today, I think, is that they are far too nyakaa as they say in Bengali (‘coy’ comes close in English, but not quite) to deal with the world on really mature terms, regardless of their age, education and careers. I can’t help but agree with my mum when she sighs and says, “Dark ages are coming. The way some women are overdoing things, soon the government would make it compulsory that women should stay under the veil.” If the feminists are not listening, I would say, for the good! And it is more than strange that while in Iran women are fighting for the right not to wear the veil, in France Muslim women were recently fighting for the right to wear it. What do women want?

People

Over the weekend I was helping Sir with the admissions of the new batch of students. For those of you who don’t know about the madness we faced, read it over here. It is almost the same every year. I won’t talk about this yearly madness and hysteria and repeat what Pupu had already said. Just that over the years, the numbers of students as well as the weirdness of the parents have increased.

I will be talking about my experiences with people. I encountered at least 200 parents over two days, and I met all kinds: the polite ones, the arrogant for no reason ones, the good hearted ones, the “my son is so smart” ones, the hyper ones, the no non-sense ones and the ones who argue without logic and in vain.

The admissions were supposed to begin from 10 in the morning. Some parents were waiting from 7 in the morning! I empathise with the poor kids. I know how irritating it is to wake up early in the morning and especially when it is technically still winter! These are the early birds by the way. They come with the hope of catching the worm, and yes they do so too. They get to choose the best convenient batches for their kids and happily go home relieved. I would put them in the hyper ones category too. They worry too much. For the good maybe. But then waiting there for three hours? What is the point? They could come half an hour before and still catch the worm.

As soon as we opened the gates, a father came rushing to me with a notepad in hand. He gave me the notepad and with a kind but nervous smile said, “These are the boys who will be admitted today.” He had listed fourteen names and thought he could get all the fourteen admitted at once, all by himself. I was so overtaken by his good helpful heart that I had difficulty telling him that we needed all the 14 parents and the boys to be present there. When I finally told him that, he seemed a bit disappointed, but very kindly apologised and said that he would immediately call them and ask them to come over. In my list, he falls under the polite as well as the good hearted ones. I mean, look at him. So kind. So rare.

One very common thing was that, the parents did not bring along their son or daughter. For heaven’s sake, this does not require much brain or logic! They are the ones who would get admitted, not the parents. They would choose the batches. They would read the rules. But of course, how can they come over for even one hour? They have their final exams going on. No not even the board exams. Just the ones which we have to take to get promoted from class 8 to class 9. I wonder what they did all the year round that they can’t even spare one hour for something which they consider so important. I don’t remember studying so much and so hard ever in my life and I was not one of those brainy kids either, and I still sailed through school and college. Either the kids have become unusually dumb or the exams are really tough these days.

Then there was this mother who after looking at the choices of batches, came over to me and said, “Batch four for now.” I tried explaining to her that she can’t decide to put her son in one batch “for now” and then request for a change in mid-session. She was too arrogant to listen (I don’t know where her arrogance came from though.).  She cut me off mid-sentence and said, “My driver is not available on that day. I can’t help it. Sir will have to change my son’s batch. I will make him do it. I did that during my daughter’s time too. And if he doesn't, my son will discontinue from his coaching. Not a big deal!” I was shocked by her arrogance, overwhelmed by her confidence and irritated by her attitude. I sat there gaping at her. Yes I did that. With my mouth open, I stared at her wide eyed. Obviously she was blinded by her own aura to notice me.  Clearly she falls in the arrogant ones category.

While the parents were waiting for their turn to come, I overheard one mother telling another, “My son is so smart; he takes his maths exam by himself.”  Yes of-course she deserves to be proud of her son. Who takes their own exams “by themselves”?  We used to hire people to take exams for us. Hence we passed. Otherwise, our futures would have been in the gutters.

The evenings were the most entertaining as well as tiring. Every child and parent wanted the Sunday batch. Some wanted it because their darling daughters can’t come to tuition without her friends. Some wanted it because then daddy could become the driver. Some wanted it because they stayed too far away (Yes, I don’t know how the distance will be reduced because it is a Sunday.). Naturally, by evening the Sunday batch was full. Some parents were reasonable enough to understand that and choose from the remaining three batches. Some would request in a meek voice with a small light of hope that something could be done. And some would just argue. With us and with Sir as well. As we were trying to explain to one father that Sunday batch is just not available and we could do nothing and there was no point bothering Sir with it, he thought we were not “allowing” him to talk to Sir (I was a little happy inside, because after all he thought I was the boss, and I decide who Sir talks too. I tell you, it is rare that people think of me that way.). In spite of all our tries to explain to him, that there was actually no point, Sir could not help it; he went inside and called for a tongue lashing from Sir. Firstly, for talking to us like that, and secondly for not listening (very few people listen these days, anyway.). This same nagging for the Sunday batch happened repeatedly and every time it got on our nerves, Sir would help us with his most needed stern warnings to the parents. If Sir’s tuition and Sir is so important to anyone, they shouldn't have any problem coming to any batch right? Five years ago, I did not have to nag and haggle and cry and argue.  It just took me five minutes to sign and pay the fees and get out of there.

One father however had a strange reason for wanting the Sunday batch so badly. “My daughter can come to your tuition only by car, and that car is available only on Sunday,” he said. (I gave another of my mouth opened, eyes wide expression.) Also he had the guts to tell this to Sir. Someone, who travelled all his childhood and most of his youth by public transports, Travelled in an A.C compartment for the first time when he was going for his honeymoon, travelled by a car only when he could afford to buy one himself, and never felt the need to send his daughter by car to school or any tuition (Pupu stays in Kolkata now and comes over almost every weekend by bus all by herself to spend time with dad. She is just two years older than this man’s daughter.). I wonder are the kids more nyaka these days or is it the parents who would never allow them to grow up? And then these parents would go out of Sir’s place (after admitting their child anyway), and say, “Suvro Sir is so rude.” Really now! Don’t you think you called for that rudeness? Try talking to him politely and reasonably, you would get the same reception.

 Most of Sir's "friends" who haven't spoken to him for like some 20-25 years, suddenly remember him when their sons and daughters need to be admitted in his tuition. Sir, being the gentleman he is, would smile and treat them quite well. However it became awkward, when those "friends", would come and tell Pupu how he had seen her as a kid and how she played in his lap. Pupu looked at them blankly and gave them a fake smile. That is all they deserved I tell you. It is strange how selfish, people can be. They just remember even their friends only when they need them. They are not even ashamed to come and ask for a favour after not even acknowledging Sir if they happen to pass by him. And then it is Sir who becomes rude, when he refuses to give them a special favour. 

Then there were Sir’s present students from class 10, who had come over to help us. They were our comic relief. One of them, a really smart but humble soul, was so excited every time she saw a car stopping in front of the house, that she would jump up and run towards the gate, shouting, “Look look more students are coming!” No sooner did a parent park his bike, than she would hand him a token and very seriously ask, “Yes, what is the student’s name?” Good for her and for us that the parents did not start thinking that she was handing them parking tokens.

Another one made us laugh and forget our irritations by blatantly passing comments about how fat a dad was or how ugly a girl was, or how short and small a boy was for his age. The best part was she had found at least six dadas cute. She just could not decide who was cuter, and who the cutest. However Pupu pulled the trump card here. We were talking about a certain girl in her school whom she did not like. While commenting on that girl’s nature, she said, “She is nothing more than a fox.”(For my Bengali readers, Khyanksheyal is the exact word she used.) Unfortunately she was staring towards the gate, and her loud uttering of the fox reference, coincided with a father entering. It seemed like she was calling the poor father a fox. I don’t know if he heard her, but if he did, he would surely warn his son/daughter to stay away from Sir’s daughter and all his ex-students.

Coming across all these people was fun, but then it felt strange. Five years ago(it still feels like yesterday though) I was on the other side of this table. I had come over to get admitted, and I was honestly happy, that I had come to a teacher who was not grumpy. He definitely was not rude, like most of my classmates told me, and he was very polite and kind and patient. Now when I am on the other side of the table, I know what it feels like. I know why Sir is rude with some. I know why Sir shouts at some and I know exactly why he is polite and kind to most.

I hope that at least some kids who got admitted, would some day be lucky enough to enjoy what several of us, male and female, 15 to 28, got to enjoy today-- Sir's ability to make us feel comfortable and good around him even while we were working, his own  daughter and us all together. Any ex student of his can get it if s/he wants it, I think: all it needs is a genuine desire to get close to Sir without hangups, which he himself makes terribly easy, actually. If anyone is missing out on that, it's entirely their fault. They never reached out the right way.

When people we know for years can stop talking to us or cut us off completely without any reason, complete strangers can surprise us. Two weeks ago while I was coming home from Sir’s place by bus, I had offered my seat to an elderly man. He was very pleased and we had a conversation. Yesterday, he had come over to my place. He remembered me, took the pain to find out my house and come and pay me a visit. He brought me a small gift too. That was really heart-warming and very sweet of him. Rarely do we meet nice people these days, who mean it when they say that they like you. I am glad that I have been lucky to come across this rare category of nice people in my life. People like my dad, my Sir and this gentleman. And to all those Women, who shout and say, "Men are pigs, lechers and rapists!", I would say, they attract such men towards them. I pity such women. They are deprived from this happiness of basking in the love and care of wonderful men. 

 I have lost track of the categories long back. I think, as you read about the people I have talked about, you can mentally categorise them anyway. It is fun doing that I assure you. Enjoy!

Inspiring People To Read

Giving Birthday gifts was not a big problem ten years ago. Back then kids used to read. It was very convenient to gift a good book and be sure that it would be appreciated. Now it is a pain thinking about a birthday gift. You can’t give a book, because reading is “uncool”.

I was glad to see that some websites like the amazon and The Guardian are making a desperate effort to get people back to reading. amazon  had come out with this list  of 100 books to read in a life time. The Telegraph had come out with this list  of 100 novels that everyone should read and The Guardian had come out with this one about the 1000 novels every one must read. I remember coming across another interesting list of 30 books one should read before turning 30 (I can't find the article any more).

However I came across this one published by The Millions and found it very interesting. They give us a list of the 28 books we should read. The way they have given the list is quite interesting. It appeals to you more because they have touched a personal string. They say that you should read the book which you see someone reading in a train and trying to hide the smile. Or the book which you hear two booksellers arguing about. Or you should read the book whose main character’s name starts with the same letter as yours. And the one you find in the seat pocket of an air plane you are travelling in. In the list are many other interesting points about which book you can read.

It is sensible of the author not to throw names of books at the readers and tell them to read those books. Considering  that most people like to hold on to memories, it would appeal to many that the author of this list had asked us to read the book which was given by our parents after we graduated, or the book we did not read as a part of our high school text. And some might actually go back to the old cupboards and look up for the old dust covered books. Even if they don't end up reading it, memories of those old times would make them smile. Worth it I must say.

As I hope that such lists would appeal to the greater mass who don’t read, and inspire them to read some books, if not all 28, I feel sad that now we need a reason, a list to read books. Earlier it used to be a hobby and the only reason we as kids needed was: “reading makes us happy!”

Benchnama

[On Sir’s insistence and encouragement, I managed to write my first translation. This piece was published by Anandabazar Patrika on 9^th  February, 2014.  I hope I did justice while translating the very well written piece. If not, pardon me. After all this is my first translation. I promise to improve my skills.]

I was a back-bencher in school and college. I work with an IT company now, but the Bench hasn't left me yet. I still sit on the bench. My Louis Philippe Shirt and the Blackberry trousers look at those cabins with yearning eyes. They wish to cross this “benched” mark and sit before those flat screened computers showing various codes. But alas!

It was five years ago that I got this job. The campus placement procedures in my College had started since four in the evening. It was 1:30 in the morning when I was called in. I thought I was tired, but when I was greeted with a yawn by the interviewers, I knew they were in a worse condition.

I was honestly, disheartened with my interview. I had gone in with the expectations that I would be asked about complicated computer programming languages. The panel members asked me to sing a song, and stopped me just after the first two lines and asked me to send in the next candidate. Yes that was my interview. I was sure that I would not get this job.

Next day when the head of the placement cell, put up the list of the short-listed candidates, I was more amazed than surprised, when Nivedita from the electronics department congratulated me for getting the job. We were 250-300 would be B Tech students and all of us were placed in one month’s time.

That was back in 2007, when the companies needed us more than we needed them. There was a boom in the software industry, and apparently, except for the first 10-15 candidates no one had to go through the technical round. Yes it was that simple. As my friend, Sudipto said, “I went in the interview room chewing tobacco, and bagged the job.” I think I was in a better position. I was at least asked to sing.

We happily gave up studying in the final year. There was no point after all. At the end of the day we study to bag a job. When that was already done, what was the point in studying anymore?

It is funny, how nowadays; the seats in the engineering colleges are left vacant. Even after 2-3 counselling sessions, at least 10% seats are left vacant. The colleges literally beg students to fill in the seats. But why shouldn't it be that way? Look at me? More than an engineering degree, what have I achieved? I have a job, but I am benched.

For all those, who haven’t understood the meaning of “Bench”, rest assured, you are no better than I am. You don’t have a future to look forward to as well.  Keeping pace with the increasing number of malls and multiplexes, engineering colleges have raised their heads in thousands. Every year there are at least 12000 engineers. It’s just in the name that some are civil, some are mechanical  some IT and some electrical. After all like the rivers end up in the sea, the various streams of B tech ends up in the sea of Software. In this generation, I can bet you that you won’t find a house without an engineer. But I can assure you that, if you ask any of these engineers, “son, do you sit on the bench?” one out of five engineers would lower his head and smile.

It all depends on the pool. No not the water body, but the human resource pool. As in greater the human resource, more the chances of getting projects.  For instance, a client comes over to a certain IT solution company with a project or a problem.  Suppose they require around 500 people for the project. The company’s human resource is around 850. The impression on the client is that this is a company rich with talented people. Hence more the number of people the easier it is to get projects. My company however likes to deal with foreign clients. Hence the deals are made in crores.

My office in Rajarhat is a fifteen floors building. I work in the fourteenth floor. Sorry, I punch my card on the fourteenth floor. Honestly I don’t have anything to do. If I look back, when I joined this office, after college, I went through an eight months training programme. As soon as the training period was over, I got a project. Then another. In three years I worked in two projects. I dreamt of going overseas with my third project. But there was no third project.

Apparently, the technology is to be blamed. C++ , Mainframe are all obsolete. Hence I am benched.  A few more months on the bench, and God save me, I will be handed the pink slip. I would be asked to leave with an advanced salary of two or three months, and a letter saying, “Thank you for your valuable association.” The HR would smile and say, “downsizing.” In a lay man’s language: “a kick in the ass.”

Who cares about how I am living my life? My day begins with travelling with the thousand others to the Rajarhat-Newtown-Sector Five. We don’t have computers in our office. They are called workstation. I have one too. I swipe my card and after the finger print check has been done, my computer welcomes me with a message, “your company feels for you.”

Passing your time is not a problem for us benched. We can increase our technical knowledge in the library. We can Facebook, we can spend as much time as we want in the smoking zone. No one can tell us anything. We are the benchers. We are the company’s resource pool. It is just the hope of getting a project that keeps me going.

I am left with a blank look, when someone asks me about my work load. I deliberately look past the self- help books in the book stores. There are books like, “How to manage your work stress.” I wish I had some work to be stressed about. I am ashamed of the fact that I have a blue collared job. A fifteen floor office building, but no work. I spend my day sitting idle. Looking blankly at the computer screen.

Earlier I did not care much about the business papers. How do I care about how the cornflakes production would be affected by the rise in the oil prices in Qatar?  But now, that business page is the one that gives me hope. I hardly understand the world economic theory, but what excites me is when the value of rupee falls in comparison to the Dollar. With the depreciation of rupee, we become cheap labour. The cheaper we become, the more important we become for the foreign companies. My hope, that I will be called becomes stronger.

When will I be called? The flat 40% off on the apparels call me every morning. I look with yearning eyes at the attractive offers on the front page of the newspapers. My heart wrenches at the thought of a two nights three days holiday at Pataya. I dream about the luxury cruise and the moonlit nights.

I last remembered Goddess Kali (kali ma) during my campus placements. I now remember Obama. It’s all your whim and wish, your honour. Give me a project please!

The Dog I Never Had

When I got a job, I was excited about a number of things. What topped my list was that I would get a dog. I have my own house now, so no one could stop me from getting a pet. With the salary of a journalist, I obviously could not buy a pet, so I decided to adopt one.

I was staying in Delhi then, and considering the number of animal rights NGOs around, it wasn't much difficult, finding an adoption centre. My first visit was quite depressing. A building full of abandoned dogs. Some suffering from serious physical ailments. Others very depressed and looking at you with longing eyes.

As the volunteer there was showing me around, I came across this huge Great Dane. Something in his eyes drew me towards him. As I patted him on the head, he put his head on my lap and licked my palm. He won’t let me get up. He had the advantage of the weight and the height and hugged me with all his strength. I had made my decision then. Bosco was coming home with me.

There were some complications regarding the adoption procedure, since I was staying alone, and the NGO was sceptical about Bosco staying all by himself for nearly 7-8 hours a day. But the dog’s instant liking towards me and his attachment with me, acted in our favour and they trusted me and let me have Bosco.

We were a happy couple. Bosco and I.  He was a funny dog. I had put a mattress for him, but he refused to sleep there. Every night, he would come over to my room, get on my mattress, push me out of it and sleep there. And if I tried to push him back, he would put a paw on me and sleep there as if cuddling me. He won’t eat unless he saw me eating. So we would have dinner together. He was highly protective of me, and won’t let even my friends come in to our apartment unless I told him that they are harmless people, and I loved them. I even had to hug my electrician to let him in.

I don’t know if Bosco picked it up from me, but he loved smoking. Surprised? Well, not really smoking, but he would eat up my cigarettes, if he found them. He would carefully eat the tobacco and throw the butt away. It was funny, but then there were chances of him spoiling his liver, so I couldn’t let him smoke. To save a pet, I lost a smoking partner.

He would chat with my friends too. If I would leave the chat window open, Bosco would slyly come up to my laptop and randomly press buttons with his paw. My friends knew it was bosco sending his greetings across.

 One major problem was leaving Bosco alone all day. He was an understanding dog, and would happily bid me goodbye when I left for office, but my neighbours told me, he would stand in the balcony all day, looking expectantly. Waiting for me to come back. He was lonely. And for those of you who know how dogs are, they feel lonelier than we humans do. Depression attacks them, sooner than it attacks humans. 

They are deeper than we human beings are and they feel much more strongly than we do. In six months’ time, I saw Bosco becoming quieter. He was not the same cheerful dog any more. He would sit in one corner of the house, with his head between his paws. He refused to go for his walks and then slowly stopped eating.

He started losing hair, and soon he was reduced to a thin mass. He refused to welcome my friends home. No one could come near him. He would snap and often bite. I was scared for him, and realised my mistake. I had wronged the innocent creature. I had brought him alive to deal with my loneliness and now, I had reduced him to a lonely being.

One day, as I was sitting across him, and looking at him, I could hear him talk. “Why did you bring me alive, when you had to leave me all alone?” I looked at him with tears in my eyes. His accusing eyes bore into me. “You are not lonely. You have friends. What about me? I was happy inside your head. I was happy being a figment of your imagination. Why did you have to talk about me to your friends? Why did you tell them stories about me? Now I feel real. Alive. But I have nothing to hold on to. Don’t do this, forget me. Wrap me up in your memories, like you used to do earlier. Don’t call me back.”

 I was left wondering. Is it true that he is just a figment of my imagination? But I can see him. How can it be possible? “You can see me, feel me talk to me only when you are alone. When you have nothing to do. When loneliness eats you up. Haven’t you figured that out yet?” came the reply. Yes he was right. I knew he was there, only when loneliness engulfed my heart.

I lifted my eyes to look at him, and he was gone. I ran to the kitchen to check for his bowl, even that was missing. His mattress was gone. I cried out his name. Desperately trying to convince myself that he was real. Bosco did answer to my call, but from inside my head: “you won’t find me in the house. I am there with you always, in your head. This is the only place where I can be alive. Where I am real. The sooner you accept that, the better for both of us. I am the dog you never had.”