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.”

Music... Or the Absence of It!

I happened to come across this song today. I was convinced that it is beautiful, when I thought that there is more to it.  It is peaceful.  This has happened to me before, and now that I think, it has most of the time been either  Robi Thakur or a Baul song, or the Bhajans of Lord krishna.

This song talks about Shyam too. The singer, Parvathy Baul, sings about, how it would be wise to keep the love we have for Shyam, in our heart. Locked and hidden. She represents the love for him in various forms and shows us that it is not always necessary to tell the world that you love someone as great as Krishna. Few people can understand the greatness of love after all. So it is not really worth it.

It is rare that I come across good music today. They don’t make it any more, I guess.  I remember, my brother and I grew up listening Abba and Harry Belafonte and Robi Thakur.  Our teenage years went by listening to Jim reeves, Pete Seeger, Beatles, Bob Dylan and Robi Thakur.  Now we listen to Cohen, Nina Simon, lots of Baul and Robi Thakur. Yes, that wise old man was with us through out. You just can’t do without him. He has written for every mood. He helps you get through tough times. He helps you be happier in your happy days and most importantly, he makes you think.

Kids today grow up listening to terribly disturbing songs like lungi dance and Balam pichkari and Fevicol and Sheila ki Jawani and Munni. They are made to believe that music is all about showing flat (or not so flat stomachs)and hip shaking dances. It is all about sexual innuendoes and all about ear splitting noise. I wonder, if their parents’ ever listened to any good music when they grew up, or did they decide to forget everything and call this cacophony music. I wonder.  The absence of good music makes me sad, but I guess it takes a little effort to find out such hidden gems as Parvathy Baul and Anushesh Adil and the likes. And I must say, listening to them is worth the effort.

What's In A Name! They Say...

Twenty three years of my life and I guess I can count the number of times my name has been pronounced or spelled correctly. As a kid I used to come back home from school and sit on the bed, sulking and complaining how no one, not even one teacher pronounced my name correctly. They either called me Sriranjini or for their convenience made it Srironjoni.  And to make things worse for the teachers, I don’t spell my surname by conventionally using the Dutta. I spell it with an A.

Every year when the report cards where given, everyone would be anxious about their marks. But I was anxious about the spelling of my name. I hoped that this time, this teacher would spell it correctly. But somewhere or the other there was a mistake, and till class five, I used to go to the teacher and make them correct the spelling. But then I gave up.

My class mates shortened my name Sriranjani to Sriru, to my horror and disgust. I tried to convince them to not call me by that name, but they won’t listen. So I gave in. In college I became Jini. There is a story behind that. While my name was being enrolled, someone wrote my name as Sriranjohnny (not unlikely, considering, for Bengalis all “a”s become “o”s.). My HOD an old Anglo Indian man said, “So my dear girl, you have Johnny in your name? Like the nursery rhyme?” Some idiot in class shouted, “Or it can be like the brand Jinny and johny!” and there it was.  A new name for me was coined. I was called Jinni for the rest of my college life and much later. Unlike the name, Sriru in school, I kind of liked the name Jinni, and when I went for my post-graduation, I did not give my class mates there another chance to distort my already distorted name.

What surprises me the most is that people get my name wrong even when I clearly spell it out for them.  How is that even humanly possible? This has happened not once but repeatedly.  In certificates of participations to the by-lines of articles I wrote. Even in my school passing certificate, and my voter I.D card and my pan card, my name was spelt wrong. And every time I had to send it back for correction.  

After a point of time, it becomes kind of frustrating. Yes I know my parents were trying to be creative by not naming me a Sreyashi or Ananya or paromita who are produced in thousands every year in Bengal, but then they tried it too hard, and ended up naming me after a South Indian classical Raga. If you are thinking that I have a wonderful voice, you will be disappointed to know, that my music teacher actually abandoned me. See I don’t even do justice to my name.

This is the story I am sure of many other sons and daughters of creative parents.  I guess, when parents name their child creatively, God up there, smiles and makes plans to spoil it all, and have a good laugh.  As the Bengali idiom goes: kana cheler naam Padmalochon. (I am sorry, the translation is not that funny. It is an example of a miss-nomenclature. Like naming me after a classic raga was an epic fail. even the dogs howl in tune.)

So as I earnestly call out to my readers and make a request to spell my name right when you write a comment (I really want to publish your comment, but I want my name to be correct too, right? And my name is right there see? Not asking much of you? Am I? You can even just copy and paste it!), I thank my lucky stars that my parents did not name me Lovely or Sunny. That would have been far more embarrassing I am sure.

P.S. 21.02.14. I came across this while surfing the net absent-mindedly. They have put down my thought perfectly well and in an animated way... pretty impressive. Do have a look.

Emotional Atyachar

I was scrolling through the channels last evening and stopped when I saw a graphic visual of a red heart breaking on screen and the words “Emotional Atyachar” coming out of the broken heart. I have heard of this reality show a number of times, but have never watched it.

Fifteen minutes through it and I was trying to figure out the point of this show. For those of you who haven’t watched it, this is a show where a heartbroken girl/boy comes over and tells her/his story. The cast and crew of Emotional Atyachar, enacts the story for the viewers’ benefit and through it tries to give a message:  Don’t trust men even though you “love” him. Don’t trust girls because they are likely to go ahead and get pregnant with your best friend’s child. Don’t trust your best friend because s/he will go ahead and fall in love with your lover.

I was so intrigued by the idea of this show, that I spent some time Youtubing some previous episodes of the same programme. In one of them, the girl was talking about how she found out that her boyfriend was “flirting” with her best friend, by checking his text messages.  I was left wondering how jobless can the girl be, that she spent “30 minutes” trying to look through his text messages and then taking a back-up of all these text messages on her laptop.  (Mind you. To spy over someone you need to be technologically advanced. It would have been a failed attempt if I would have tried it. I am seriously in awe of the girlfriend.) In another episode, the girlfriend was cheating the boyfriend. She had slept with his room-mate and the boyfriend found that out when she was pregnant and had told him that it was the boyfriend’s child she was carrying. The boyfriend knew it wasn't his, because as he proudly claimed on camera, “humlog eksath sote the, but mein ek pillow ko hug kiye bina so nahi sakta. Toh aap samajh sakte ho, k humare beech kabhi kuch ho hi nahi sakta.” (we used to sleep together but I cannot fall asleep if I can’t hug a pillow. So you know, nothing could have happened in between us.) I pity the girlfriend really! The poor thing might have tried to seduce the boyfriend, and when she failed, she went ahead and happily slept with the room-mate. Justified she was, I must say.

There were many other stupid problems. (I am telling you, it is highly addictive. Not because they talk about serious things, but because it gives you a good laugh.) I was amused and disgusted at the same time by two things. Firstly, the youths, the “future of our nation” are so helplessly jobless, that they would come on such shows (look at the name), and talk about their “personal problems.” Secondly, how trivial their problems are.

They are heartbroken and depressed because they “loved” someone, and that person cheated on them.  Mind you they are “depressed”. I wonder what would the child on the street who has got no shelter to sleep would have to say about it. What would the three year old, for whom, being loved means  two chapattis and some curry, has got to say about this “depression.”

The main problem lies in the fact that we are privileged. We are privileged to sit and claim that we “love” and we “care”.  And by love and care we mean holding hands and roaming about in shopping malls. We are privileged to refuse to look in to the depth of these words.  We are privileged to shed tears over stupid silly problems about not being “loved”. About not being “needed”.  About our “loved ones” cheating on us.

It is funny, how the thin, hungry, homeless 3 year old still smiles at the world, while the rich, fat 30 year old, sulks and cries all the time. I wonder, if being happy and content is inversely proportional to being rich and privileged. I am sure the less privileged would look at this show, smile and say, "Atyachar it is."