tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-198582022024-03-23T12:16:20.363-06:00Eve's LungsAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14157665564024320442noreply@blogger.comBlogger178125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19858202.post-71167729576277477842014-03-14T10:08:00.003-06:002014-03-14T20:39:24.537-06:00Memory files - the old gent and his violin <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The bearded old gent normally came on winter nights . Wore a pair of dusty black pants ending at the ankles and an even dustier black coat . I first heard the strains of Fur Elise , though back then, I only identified it as an evocative melody that made me sit still at the window of our 1st floor house at 68 G Purna Das Road . And when it ended I moved the curtain and there he was - playing yet another melody . We were all hanging on to the grill at various windows around the house and my father was hyperventilating about his size 12 feet which meant his old shoes wouldn't fit the gent nor would his old shirts because he was over 6 feet and the old gent was tiny and spare . He surfaced every winter for three years and the memory of his violin playing still gives me goose flesh.<br />
<br />
Years later , much grown up, my bosom friend at that time , AG ( before he became my husband - he was my sounding board , my security blankie , my go to for all problems ) brought up the topic of the violin playing old gent and I was not surprised that he had heard him too as had Sumon who immortalised him in his song O Gaanwala .<br />
<br />
Anyway some time later and soon to be married , I was in my aunt's house on Jatin Bagchi road when like a ghostly memory came the sound of the violin and the gent strolled in down the cul de sac , absolutely bowed with age over his ancient violin which yielded such ethereal music .<br />
<br />
I needed no second bidding to empty out my purse and run downstairs . He took the money with a courtly bow and gestured for me to wait while he played Lara's Theme . Just for me . Memories rushed , mostly good - but still with the power to sadden me . And then he bowed and left , never to surface again .<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><!-- Begin RealTracker code --><script type="text/javascript"><!--
var id=12047647
var ua=navigator.userAgent;if(ua.indexOf('MSIE 3')>0){
document.write('<img src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifree')
document.write('v3.asp?id='+id+'&js=1&to=-360&ref='
+escape(document.referrer)+'" />')}
// --></script><script type="text/javascript"
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3i.asp?id=12047647&to=-360">
</script><script type="text/javascript"><!--
if(ua.indexOf('MSIE ')>0)document.write('<!--')
// --></script><noscript><p><img
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3.asp?id=12047647&to=-360"
alt="RealTracker" /></p></noscript>
<!-- End RealTracker code --></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14157665564024320442noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19858202.post-16407670922506079762014-03-10T10:06:00.001-06:002014-03-14T20:37:40.030-06:00Memory files - Of sattuwallahs and rickshaw pullers <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
At the corner of Purna Das Road and Lake View Road , a man used to set up camp every morning at around 11 am . He would set down his woven basket , crammed with bell metal thalis and lotas , all highly polished with a sheen that would make my mother sigh , under the tree at the corner , near the tubewell . Next , he set up his dusty black umbrella mounted on a tall stick ,that served as a sunshade in winter and a cover from the rains during the monsoons . A jar of pickle, salt , a horlicks jar of a powdered masala, chillies , onion and a stainless steel container of chutney followed . Last he would bring out a rectangular aluminium tin which contained chhatu or sattu , the mainstay of Bihari bhaiyyas for lunch .<br />
<br />
He would pour out the chhatu , mix the salt and masalas and knead it to a fine golden paste which he would cover with a clean rag . Around noon the first csutomers would land up . Parking their hand drawn rickshaws , these rustic men from the interiors of Bihar , raw boned , muscled and yet scrawny , with unshaven faces and gamchhas wound around their heads , would wash their hands, feet and faces at the tubewell and then with a sigh , settle down on their haunches while the chhatuwalla doled out the food on the pristine thalis - a mound of chhatu , an onion , a couple of green chillies and the chutney which was a peculiar translucent green - possibly made with garlic, chillies and coriander . Each man would get a lota of water .<br />
<br />
Oh the relish with which the rickshawallahs and thelawallahs wolfed down their meal - there was something so soul satisfying and the belch after the water was gulped down summed it all up . There was a peculiar discipline too - people arriving late would squat patiently , nearby , no jostling , pushing , shoving or asking the eaters to hurry up even when they were all so evidently hungry- so symbolic of the great Indian watch and wait for their turn <br />
<br />
Mealtime over , the chhatuwallh would then wash up with great care , accept a gob of tobacco or khaini from one of his customers , load up and waddle off .<br />
<br />
Now of course , the chhatuwallh at the corner is gone . Instead there is a bhelpuri walla who sells his wares to the schoolchildren down the road , which leaves me wondering where the rickshawallahs go for lunch .<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><!-- Begin RealTracker code --><script type="text/javascript"><!--
var id=12047647
var ua=navigator.userAgent;if(ua.indexOf('MSIE 3')>0){
document.write('<img src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifree')
document.write('v3.asp?id='+id+'&js=1&to=-360&ref='
+escape(document.referrer)+'" />')}
// --></script><script type="text/javascript"
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3i.asp?id=12047647&to=-360">
</script><script type="text/javascript"><!--
if(ua.indexOf('MSIE ')>0)document.write('<!--')
// --></script><noscript><p><img
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3.asp?id=12047647&to=-360"
alt="RealTracker" /></p></noscript>
<!-- End RealTracker code --></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14157665564024320442noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19858202.post-75869519260849550722014-03-08T02:00:00.000-06:002014-03-10T10:01:52.137-06:00Neither here nor there ....<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My sister commented that it makes her uneasy - this neither summer nor winter phase .<br />
<br />
The sun is hot during the day but with a dry cool crisp underlay , the evenings are cool and breezy and at night I need a blanket , oh yes and the fan on - adds to the fun . Its still too early for the ac , not that I haven't toyed with the idea .<br />
<br />
But the afternoons are something else - the hot smell of the mango trees , elusive but sharp and the long wavering yearning call of the koel right through the afternoon , the nap unhampered by a sweaty body , the cool breeze as the sun sets in blazing fury .<br />
<br />
I wish Nature would stop right here at Spring and not go forward .</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><!-- Begin RealTracker code --><script type="text/javascript"><!--
var id=12047647
var ua=navigator.userAgent;if(ua.indexOf('MSIE 3')>0){
document.write('<img src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifree')
document.write('v3.asp?id='+id+'&js=1&to=-360&ref='
+escape(document.referrer)+'" />')}
// --></script><script type="text/javascript"
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3i.asp?id=12047647&to=-360">
</script><script type="text/javascript"><!--
if(ua.indexOf('MSIE ')>0)document.write('<!--')
// --></script><noscript><p><img
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3.asp?id=12047647&to=-360"
alt="RealTracker" /></p></noscript>
<!-- End RealTracker code --></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14157665564024320442noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19858202.post-27799865138383574242014-02-28T23:23:00.000-06:002014-02-28T23:23:13.035-06:00BENEDICTE <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
At dawn , there is a gentle Northerly breeze which blows in as I open the windows in the dining room . The sun is barely there - a pale golden wash in the dawn sky .<br />
<br />
Two houses down the gardener is at work , collecting the twigs , branches and fallen leaves , making a bonfire in the vacant lot behind the house . Soon the air is filled with the smell of fragrant smoke - like that rising from a sacrificial fire , so much so that I am confused that someone is doing a puja , but I dismiss the thought - it is evidently fragrant wood .<br />
<br />
A conch shell blows and the sun bursts forth and I can smell incense mingling with the woodsmoke creating an impossibly aching feeling of benediction which leaves me feel truly blessed .</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><!-- Begin RealTracker code --><script type="text/javascript"><!--
var id=12047647
var ua=navigator.userAgent;if(ua.indexOf('MSIE 3')>0){
document.write('<img src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifree')
document.write('v3.asp?id='+id+'&js=1&to=-360&ref='
+escape(document.referrer)+'" />')}
// --></script><script type="text/javascript"
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3i.asp?id=12047647&to=-360">
</script><script type="text/javascript"><!--
if(ua.indexOf('MSIE ')>0)document.write('<!--')
// --></script><noscript><p><img
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3.asp?id=12047647&to=-360"
alt="RealTracker" /></p></noscript>
<!-- End RealTracker code --></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14157665564024320442noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19858202.post-41356474533350343232013-08-15T12:24:00.000-06:002013-08-15T12:24:02.501-06:00.. the memory of loss...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Dusk is insidious - it gently eases the hot stifling day into darkness .<br />
<br />
In the small university town where I am headed , it is the most beautiful time of the day . The terrace of my house is a vantage point . I watch out for them each evening , from the distance and then hear the tinny tinkle of cowbells as the cows come closer , raising clouds of red dust with their hooves - theirs is a slow steady rhythmic tinkle , in keeping with their gait , followed by the hurried quick patter of tinkles as the goats follow and sometimes overtake the sturdy bovine crew . <br />
<br />
If you go to the Laal Bandh down Shyambati way , in winter, you can see the migratory birds and as the sky grows darker , they lift themselves up in a huge canopy, showering you with a patter of water drops as they shake their wings and fly towards the sanctuary to rest for the night .<br />
<br />
The sky at dusk , Tota, is an amazing work of art , like the palette of a mad artist - swirls of purple, violet,mauve shot through with crimson and pink and long streaks of faint gold . The last quavering calls of birds flying to their nests, the harsh cawing of a murder of crows as they hoot and catcall their way to their homes calling out to straysas they pass , to gather together as night falls - truly like a bunch of frantic ,young roistering men .<br />
<br />
As I walk home , smoke curls up from the chulaas in the Bihari settlement . Someone blows a conch shell and then suddenly the air is full of the sound of reverberating conch shells .<br />
<br />
A bullock cart passes me and a melody rises from within ,from a flute being played by a Santhal boy perched on the rear of the cart . I stop and watch till they go round the bend of the road and the long drawn melody fades away .<br />
<br />
It is close to dark now , the sky gathering close and the sliver of moon is faint in the sky. I gather my sari around me and swing my cramped legs off the hard wooden seat .The memory of the long drawn quaver of the flute merges into the long whistle of the train engine as we hurtle over the bridge towards my station .<br />
<br />
Come Tota , I say , we are nearly home....<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><!-- Begin RealTracker code --><script type="text/javascript"><!--
var id=12047647
var ua=navigator.userAgent;if(ua.indexOf('MSIE 3')>0){
document.write('<img src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifree')
document.write('v3.asp?id='+id+'&js=1&to=-360&ref='
+escape(document.referrer)+'" />')}
// --></script><script type="text/javascript"
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3i.asp?id=12047647&to=-360">
</script><script type="text/javascript"><!--
if(ua.indexOf('MSIE ')>0)document.write('<!--')
// --></script><noscript><p><img
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3.asp?id=12047647&to=-360"
alt="RealTracker" /></p></noscript>
<!-- End RealTracker code --></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14157665564024320442noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19858202.post-7960531905816683562013-08-02T23:48:00.002-06:002013-08-14T23:53:00.018-06:00.. an ode to Mina <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The first man saw me when I was eighteen . We came to Calcutta to stay at my uncle's house . I was skinny so my aunt fattened me up with mutton and luchis fried to a fine puff , in Dalda ( whoever heard of oil in those days ), chholar dal , plenty of fish and fine basmati rice . They lived in a two room ground floor flat, with my grandmother, who gave up my room ,for my parents and me .<br />
<br />
The first "boy" who came to see me was an engineer from IIT Kharagpur , one of the first batches to have passed out ; he worked in America . On the stipulated day , my uncle ,under orders from my father brought back pastries from Flury's which my cousin ogled shamelessly , the greedy thing . I strongly suspect he bought some cakes for her also because she disappeared shortly afterwards , probably to eat one . My aunt fried keema samosas and prepared trays with her best china .<br />
<br />
My mother washed and oiled my hair and braided it , pulling out a few tendrils here and there , lined my eyes with surma , powdered my already fair arms and draped a pale blue Benarasi sari around me before taking out the gold jewellery - a long mobchain, jhumko earrings and bangles . . My aunt was more casual in her striped cotton sari , her hair in a knot at the nape of her neck , no jewellery except for her bangles and small studs in her ears - but strangely enough when the family came they chatted more with her than with Ma and the "boy" kept stealing surreptitious looks at her instead of at me . <br />
<br />
My mother did not like him because of that . .She liked my aunt even less - that tall , dark beautiful woman so at odds physically with my mother that she seemed like an exotic flower<br />
<br />
Then came others - all well educated , based abroad mostly - there was one that liked me - my aunt chose to keep away from the drawing room , possibly of some diktat from my mother - no samosas were forthcoming this time - they had to do with store bought . My cousin , as usual , banished outside , pulled up the window and peered in unashamedly while we talked . The family went away in their blue ambassador , happy with their choice . I dont remember what the boy looked like , anymore , but yes he was tall and they were happy to get an IAS' daughter for a bride . But then my mother said she did not want me to go so far away - what if I forgot her ?<br />
<br />
Of course my mother did not like any of the boys that followed thereafter . They were either too short , too dark, too tall - she never ran out of excuses to dislike then<br />
<br />
So what with one thing and another , my youth passed and the stream of boys dies down eventually .I stayed on with my parents , first in Calcutta and then in a small university town where my father built a beautiful house and an even more beautiful garden .<br />
<br />
Slowly somewhere down the line my mother died . At first I had this tremendous feeling of freedom , of shackles having broken , then s a strange disquiet , as of an ennui , a vacant space that was so huge it threatened to swallow me, a void in which I was free falling with nothing to save me - it was devastating , this sense of loneliness - I often found myself in the red harsh countryside walking along the tracks - ; I had to be rescued twice , not because I wanted to commit suicide but because I was unmindful .<br />
<br />
I have no idea why my father got me married off when I was thirty five to a man at least ten year older, when all the charms of my youth had disappeared ; not because I wanted to - sex had no charms for me - I had no conception of the act , nor did I want any man to touch me - the thought was repulsive .Touch and the violation and assault on my body ,however , was inevitable - not once ,but many times - a harsh buckling exercise that drained me and culminated in my son being born .<br />
<br />
Now I have no companions except for Tota , my wooden parrot . I have not stirred out of the house for over a year now , except sometimes, to buy staples . The man I was married to, lies on a string cot , dirty feet on view , nails long and yellow,snoring copiously , the loud gurgling long drawn snores of a drunkard .<br />
<br />
I have not taken my medicines for a week now ,and memories of the past engulf me to the extent that I am desperate to run , packing my clothes in a small bag , taking the keys from where the drunkard has kept them and removing all that is left of my jewellery . I also take some money , enough to buy me a ticket on the through train that will take me home .<br />
<br />
I am clear , cogent and untramelled by the effects of the drugs ,that leave me dazed and confused . And I am out of the house -<br />
<br />
For now, I am free .<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><!-- Begin RealTracker code --><script type="text/javascript"><!--
var id=12047647
var ua=navigator.userAgent;if(ua.indexOf('MSIE 3')>0){
document.write('<img src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifree')
document.write('v3.asp?id='+id+'&js=1&to=-360&ref='
+escape(document.referrer)+'" />')}
// --></script><script type="text/javascript"
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3i.asp?id=12047647&to=-360">
</script><script type="text/javascript"><!--
if(ua.indexOf('MSIE ')>0)document.write('<!--')
// --></script><noscript><p><img
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3.asp?id=12047647&to=-360"
alt="RealTracker" /></p></noscript>
<!-- End RealTracker code --></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14157665564024320442noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19858202.post-63829833658594791092013-07-08T09:41:00.000-06:002013-07-08T10:09:11.050-06:00The Weight Loss Club - Devapriya Roy <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Devapriya Roy's second novel is a polished piece of work with superb delineation of character , entirely plausible three dimensional characters who are down to earth and are likely to live with you or around you . She has a superb knack of exposing the foibles and eccentricities of her characters with gentle humour and an indulgent wit. In essence she captures middle class Kolkata and cuts through it with a sharp scythe .<br />
<br />
A terrific storyteller ,her language is fluid and clean ; she has an eye for detail - whether
she is describing interiors , nature or the story of Sandhya's ancestors .<br />
<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-h-8Igco5h1A/UdrjPLzGJrI/AAAAAAAAGfg/XUmBzeh-CvE/s1600/wlclub.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-h-8Igco5h1A/UdrjPLzGJrI/AAAAAAAAGfg/XUmBzeh-CvE/s400/wlclub.jpg" width="260" /></a>The storyline revolves around a housing society , a typical society peopled by a variety of people from different backgrounds - it has Monalisa Das , the typical in your face mother one comes across , pushing their children to heights of brilliance with no idea of their capabilities , there is Meera , the typical Bihari bahu running to fulfil the demands of an exhausting family , Mrs Mukherjee pushing her mutinous daughter into the marriage market, Apu the daughter and Abeer the son , both highly individualistic and tormented by their respective angsts , the Anglo Indian couple tormented by the wife Treeza's morbid depression , Ananda Bose who cares for his doughty domineering sick mother and essentially , the story of Sandhya , the spiritualist who weaves her webs and binds them all together .<br />
<br />
A wonderful read which one has to read in one go !<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><!-- Begin RealTracker code --><script type="text/javascript"><!--
var id=12047647
var ua=navigator.userAgent;if(ua.indexOf('MSIE 3')>0){
document.write('<img src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifree')
document.write('v3.asp?id='+id+'&js=1&to=-360&ref='
+escape(document.referrer)+'" />')}
// --></script><script type="text/javascript"
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3i.asp?id=12047647&to=-360">
</script><script type="text/javascript"><!--
if(ua.indexOf('MSIE ')>0)document.write('<!--')
// --></script><noscript><p><img
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3.asp?id=12047647&to=-360"
alt="RealTracker" /></p></noscript>
<!-- End RealTracker code --></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14157665564024320442noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19858202.post-84980758704365894752013-06-20T21:16:00.000-06:002013-06-22T01:37:48.403-06:00.. and some thoughts on how a Bong Mom cooks <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mBH-LzPq5Js/UcPCn25SXAI/AAAAAAAAGdQ/GWDeqs6_g1I/s1600/203.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mBH-LzPq5Js/UcPCn25SXAI/AAAAAAAAGdQ/GWDeqs6_g1I/s320/203.jpg" width="260" /></a></div>
Sandeepa the Bong Mom is one of my oldest blogger pals way back from around 2005 . I have no recollection of how we met but it has now ended up in a bonding that transcends space and brings us together. Having ordered the book on Flipkart , I waited patiently for it and ultimately ended up buying it from Starmark because I was frankly impatient to read it .<br />
<br />
Reading her eponymous book is like a coming home of sorts because the recipes she shares are reminiscent of my mother's cooking . The book is largely anecdotal in nature bringing together nostalgic memories of an idyllic childhood in small towns , her grandmother's house in Kolkata ,her culinary forays in Bombay and Bangalore and finally America which sees her evolving as a cook . Through all these places she lives in , there is one tough string binding all together and that is , food . Her language is intimate ,personal , humorous , conversational and extremely fluid, enabling her to connect easily with the reader .<br />
<br />
Most of the recipes she shares are from her blog to which I normally turn when I'm at a loss as to how to go about making , say , a labra or alur dom . I swear by her mother's alur dom , incidentally .One gets the impression that Sandeepa cooks with "toribot" which roughly translated would imply with care , elaborate preparations and of course , with love . She cites her grandmother who did not care much for precise measures - basically a pinch of this , a soupcon of that and a smidgeon of something else !<br />
<br />
The recipes are quintessentially Bengali for the most part and the book is divided into sections , covering vegetables , meat ( the roast chicken or pepper chicken s phenomenal and I say this with authority because I tried it out last week ) , the roll - chop-cutlet without which no Bengali jolkhabar was complete when we were growing up , fish and desserts . They are easy to follow and therefore , to cook - the hallmark of a good cookbook .<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AhN-PAMXroY/UcPC5oEG6BI/AAAAAAAAGdY/To5kwedMDuc/s1600/Image(567)13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="277" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AhN-PAMXroY/UcPC5oEG6BI/AAAAAAAAGdY/To5kwedMDuc/s320/Image(567)13.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i3mniLP8_FQ/UcPDDyoBZMI/AAAAAAAAGdg/w7geLTIfrXY/s1600/Image(569)12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="264" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i3mniLP8_FQ/UcPDDyoBZMI/AAAAAAAAGdg/w7geLTIfrXY/s320/Image(569)12.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gIth9OJzwaY/UcPDNJ5dOGI/AAAAAAAAGdo/syenh_VGj4s/s1600/Image(597)22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gIth9OJzwaY/UcPDNJ5dOGI/AAAAAAAAGdo/syenh_VGj4s/s320/Image(597)22.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Her book brings to mind Lila Majumdar's Rannar Boi with its elaborate compilation of recipes from the very easy to elaborate .<br />
<br />
So , Sandeepa , here's to the success of your wonderful book and to many more from your pen !<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><!-- Begin RealTracker code --><script type="text/javascript"><!--
var id=12047647
var ua=navigator.userAgent;if(ua.indexOf('MSIE 3')>0){
document.write('<img src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifree')
document.write('v3.asp?id='+id+'&js=1&to=-360&ref='
+escape(document.referrer)+'" />')}
// --></script><script type="text/javascript"
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3i.asp?id=12047647&to=-360">
</script><script type="text/javascript"><!--
if(ua.indexOf('MSIE ')>0)document.write('<!--')
// --></script><noscript><p><img
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3.asp?id=12047647&to=-360"
alt="RealTracker" /></p></noscript>
<!-- End RealTracker code --></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14157665564024320442noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19858202.post-81444329638758582792012-01-13T22:56:00.002-06:002012-01-13T23:09:07.450-06:00The Reluctant Detective -Kiran Manral<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zM5TtTFvYb4/TxEMrYlZn7I/AAAAAAAAGWI/0T5XNHKNFx4/s1600/2wqg0op.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 247px; height: 325px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zM5TtTFvYb4/TxEMrYlZn7I/AAAAAAAAGWI/0T5XNHKNFx4/s400/2wqg0op.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5697348943073615794" /></a><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Algerian"> </span><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">Kiran Manral scores a bonus with her remarkably well written debut novel “The Reluctant Detective “ – a racy story about Kanan “Kay” , a ditzy overweight shopaholic who maxes out her credit cards , feeds her son fast foods just to stop his tantrums and pokes her nose into two murders when she shouldn’t . In between she lunches , attends dreaded PTA meetings and puts up with a grouch of a husband who treats her like a juvenile and is also haunted by the spirit of the murdered woman .<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">Kiran’s book is full of spots of wry humour and anecdotes which tickle the funnybone ,the impossible longings for a size zero figure – at one point she considers kneeling down before a whip thin maid and begging her to be her personal trainer . Her obsession with her avoirdupois and her contradictory reluctance to ”eat healthy” make her a very plausible character .<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">And that is one thing which is a major plus in Kiran’s novel – the rounded three dimensional characters described with such tongue in the cheek humour – from the TV artiste whose carrer is doomed by her role of the suffering daughter in law in television megaserials , the smarmy small time actor in the Velvet Smoking Jacket , the girl gang ,the husband ,the parents viewed through telephone calls and Kay’s memory , even the little boy Kabir , so reminiscent of bratty little boys used to having their own way and Kay , of course . Very plausible , living , breathing characters , who one might meet at any time .<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">This is possible perhaps , because Kiran draws them from real life people she might know . The wisdom she displays in that she never strays far from the familiar , in terms of people and places , is an appreciable strength and lends deep credibility to her writing .<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">The style is fluid, amazingly fresh and well written and races through to a quick finish . All in all a good read which makes one wish that it was a thicker novel .<o:p></o:p></span></p> <span style="font-size:11.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri;mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin;mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;mso-fareast-language:EN-US;mso-bidi-language:AR-SA"> But that again is something one would have to wait for and nothing whets hunger more than the anticipation of a hearty meal , or in this case a good thick read ! Waiting for another good read , Ms Manral .</span><div><span style="font-size:11.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri;mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin;mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;mso-fareast-language:EN-US;mso-bidi-language:AR-SA"><br /></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">Just a little footnote about Kiran - she is a freelance writer , a blogger of repute and a media consltant from Mumbai. To her credit , she is also a social activist and the </span><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 17px;">founder</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 17px;">of</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"> India Helps which she set post the 26/11 terrorist attacks . India Helps works with disaster victims and has been responsible for the rehabilitation of a number of victims of the 26/11 attacks and others .</span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><!-- Begin RealTracker code --><script type="text/javascript"><!--
var id=12047647
var ua=navigator.userAgent;if(ua.indexOf('MSIE 3')>0){
document.write('<img src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifree')
document.write('v3.asp?id='+id+'&js=1&to=-360&ref='
+escape(document.referrer)+'" />')}
// --></script><script type="text/javascript"
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3i.asp?id=12047647&to=-360">
</script><script type="text/javascript"><!--
if(ua.indexOf('MSIE ')>0)document.write('<!--')
// --></script><noscript><p><img
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3.asp?id=12047647&to=-360"
alt="RealTracker" /></p></noscript>
<!-- End RealTracker code --></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14157665564024320442noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19858202.post-76516811494833223502011-11-17T08:32:00.001-06:002011-11-17T08:35:46.420-06:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
And when winter sneaks up on you and catches you unawares , think back to the scent of green mangoes in a khus basket ....<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-af4f8V9FkhE/TsUbGXrW4WI/AAAAAAAAGV0/ME2sg1QfblA/s1600/mango.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-af4f8V9FkhE/TsUbGXrW4WI/AAAAAAAAGV0/ME2sg1QfblA/s320/mango.jpg" width="296" /></a></div>
<br />
This basket is off to <a href="http://thewellseasonedcook.blogspot.com/">BWW</a></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><!-- Begin RealTracker code --><script type="text/javascript"><!--
var id=12047647
var ua=navigator.userAgent;if(ua.indexOf('MSIE 3')>0){
document.write('<img src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifree')
document.write('v3.asp?id='+id+'&js=1&to=-360&ref='
+escape(document.referrer)+'" />')}
// --></script><script type="text/javascript"
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3i.asp?id=12047647&to=-360">
</script><script type="text/javascript"><!--
if(ua.indexOf('MSIE ')>0)document.write('<!--')
// --></script><noscript><p><img
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3.asp?id=12047647&to=-360"
alt="RealTracker" /></p></noscript>
<!-- End RealTracker code --></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14157665564024320442noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19858202.post-856043685433539032011-11-01T12:32:00.004-06:002011-11-01T12:40:38.597-06:00Black and White Wednesday<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The flurry of activity of little hands on <a href="http://www.bongcookbook.com/">Sandeepa</a>'s blog took me to Black and White Wednesday , a photo event that <a href="http://thewellseasonedcook.blogspot.com/">Susan </a>of The Well Seasoned Cook runs every Wednesday .<br />
Therefore apart from some wonderful recipes that I have been trawling through the last 2 weeks , off and on , there is also some wonderful food related photography .<br />
<br />
Come winter and along with the huge variety of vegetables in the market , comes a haul of fish that Bengalis enjoy only in winter - small pomfret , tyangra maachh cooked with greens , parshey with mustard , the aar and boal, my favourites - full of fat , to be cooked with onions and chillies in a spicy but delicate gravy - the chillies , onions and the spices melding together and complementing each other in a flavourful dish to be eaten with steamed rice .<br />
<br />
So ,in anticipation of the good days to come , here goes my contribution , shot at the local fishmonger's one evening last winter !<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_5FQVLMOjpI/TrA6CbtrLJI/AAAAAAAAGVo/D2teXeOVxeo/s1600/271120094501.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_5FQVLMOjpI/TrA6CbtrLJI/AAAAAAAAGVo/D2teXeOVxeo/s400/271120094501.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
THE DAY'S HAUL </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><!-- Begin RealTracker code --><script type="text/javascript"><!--
var id=12047647
var ua=navigator.userAgent;if(ua.indexOf('MSIE 3')>0){
document.write('<img src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifree')
document.write('v3.asp?id='+id+'&js=1&to=-360&ref='
+escape(document.referrer)+'" />')}
// --></script><script type="text/javascript"
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3i.asp?id=12047647&to=-360">
</script><script type="text/javascript"><!--
if(ua.indexOf('MSIE ')>0)document.write('<!--')
// --></script><noscript><p><img
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3.asp?id=12047647&to=-360"
alt="RealTracker" /></p></noscript>
<!-- End RealTracker code --></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14157665564024320442noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19858202.post-67441416330850843822011-10-29T03:52:00.000-06:002011-10-29T03:52:32.870-06:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iDColaEWKa8/TqvL9faLBXI/AAAAAAAAGVg/ro6M2WvrpkY/s1600/vawa-21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="95" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iDColaEWKa8/TqvL9faLBXI/AAAAAAAAGVg/ro6M2WvrpkY/s320/vawa-21.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
When one talks about violence against women how would one categorise it ? Rape? filial dominance ? wife abuse?Murder in the name of honour?Incest ?<br />
It is a given fact that violence stems from the dominance of women by males advocated from as far back as Manu the mythical lawyer who directs women to seek protection from their fathers , husbands and sons , in short , defines a woman as a possession , incapable of thought or action .<br />
A study of the lives of women down the ages would show a strong sense of discrimination culminating in the treatment of women as chattels or possessions to be used at the whims of males . <br />
<div>
While the statistics for domestic violence and abuse of wives is alarming , cutting across all sections of society , what is even for alarming is the fact that very little by way of punitive action and rehabilitation for women who have suffered abuse .There is also the reality that very few women talk about abuse and coose to suffer silently for various reasons be it economic dependence , societal or parental pressure .<br />
<br />
<div>
India has shocking statistics for female foeticide with Punjab topping the list and Rajasthan following a close second ,with the trend of child sex ratio showing a sharp decline with regard to females in the last few years . Coupled with the cases of female infanticide on the rise , the scene appears to be bleak as successive Governments seem unable to do anything concrete in this respect . <a href="http://www.reliefprojects.org/female-infanticide-in-India.html">http://www.reliefprojects.org/female-infanticide-in-India.html</a><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A friend coming back from a recent trip to Brindavan said he was horrified to count more than a hundred old women sitting silently in the precincts of various temples . They were all from Bengal, abandoned , victims of emotional abuse and neglect equal to physical abuse ,and left to beg for their daily meal . </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Violence against women servants of any age is perhaps as common as physical abuse of a wife . It would be easy enough to attribute the violence to the thrill a bully feels in hitting someone who is physically not his equal and cannot retaliate and is therefore subject to dominance . </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In the December of 1997 , my sister and her husband lived in a small cottage on the grounds of a large estate in Santiniketan. Across the wall lived S , a photographer , his wife and their child - a pleasant young couple much given to going off on trips over the weekend . My sister and her husband , inveterate animal lovers had umpteen cats and dogs around the place and late on a Friday night , heard the sound of keening . It was an eerie animal sound and their first thought was that it was a puppy caught in the wire of the boundary wall . Having checked the rear garden they found nothing . When the keening started again - they went hunting for the source of the noise , and again finding nothing they came back .<br />
<br />
It was then that my sister realised that the sound was very close to the house and sounded louder when she went to the kitchen . And in fact it was from next door As they did not know that S and his wife were away they fiorst called out and on not getting an answer jumped over the wall and went around to the door which was bolted and locked from the outside . When my sister was insistent that the noise was from inside the house , the landlord broke the lock and they followed the noise to the bathroom .</div>
<div>
On opening the door which was bolted from outside they found the servant girl , perhaps 11 or 12 years old , severely malnutritioned and therefore diffciult to make out excatly how old she was -, hands tied behind her back , ankles tied together , the rope looped around her wrists tightly and the neck forced over a metal bucket filled with water and strapped to it so that her chin and mouth were submerged . She was gagged and in an impossible position , unable to move her limbs or talk once she was untied and lifted out from the impossible physical position she had been forced into .<br />
<br />
Very often the perpetrators of violence against women are women themselves . I remember a tragic story from my paternal family . My father's eldest sister a child bride at 10 was widowed at 14 . Thereafter she remained unmarried . A classic beauty , she was pampered and cossetted and ultimately ended up marrying my uncle's friend - the son of a rich zamindari family with princely pretensions and a widower with 2 daughters . When she conceived the first time , her mother - in- law , inveigled her into visiting the family home and there , with a midwife got the child aborted . The process used was horrifying . She was beaten and tied up and then the abortion was performed . That her husband said nothing only reinforced the fact that this had his tacit consent . The second time she conceived , the mother in law and midwife came to their house and repeated the process, this time gagging her so that no sound escaped to alarm the neighbours .<br />
<br />
Thereafter ,my aunt lost her mental balance and could not tolerate children . Although she had her sane phases , she would lapse into another person at times .I remember her once sitting and decapacitating a cloth doll she had given my sister so viciously it turned my 7 year old blood cold . Ultimately she ended up spending her last days on a world of her own rarely bothering to come out of it and acknowledge others .<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><!-- Begin RealTracker code --><script type="text/javascript"><!--
var id=12047647
var ua=navigator.userAgent;if(ua.indexOf('MSIE 3')>0){
document.write('<img src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifree')
document.write('v3.asp?id='+id+'&js=1&to=-360&ref='
+escape(document.referrer)+'" />')}
// --></script><script type="text/javascript"
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3i.asp?id=12047647&to=-360">
</script><script type="text/javascript"><!--
if(ua.indexOf('MSIE ')>0)document.write('<!--')
// --></script><noscript><p><img
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3.asp?id=12047647&to=-360"
alt="RealTracker" /></p></noscript>
<!-- End RealTracker code --></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14157665564024320442noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19858202.post-19046659949099317962011-09-03T01:22:00.001-06:002011-09-23T14:07:41.613-06:00Fugue<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It is still dark when the alarm rings . Her heart is thudding - as if she has run a mile or had had a panic attack - an ominous shadow gathering momentum ,bound to hit her sometime later in the day . Her husband is still asleep , huddled under the quilt . Padding to the kitchen she puts the kettle on for a cup of tea . It is 5 am - pitch dark although she can see a light in the house opposite where the intrepid scholar is probably preparing his lessons . As she drinks her tea she runs through the chores for the day in her mind . All on auto really - the lunch boxes , the clothes , the daily wash, the servants , the food , waiting for the children to return, tuitions, groceries , food to be cooked and eaten, Horlicks to be fed , studies to be supervised .<br />
Opening the fridge she takes out a tray of meat patties, around 20 of them , heavy round flattened discs of chicken, bread,onions,tomatoes,pepper and garlic compressed within, and puts 6into the frying pan ;the burger buns on a plate go into the microwave for warming .The milk slowly bubbles and she adds oats, then the sugar .Takes out sliced Modern bread and the butter from the fridge .<br />
The rich meaty smell of the burgers frying fills the apartment . She hears a sound from the bedrooms and closed the kitchen door gently .Reaching for the biscuit tin she is surprised to find it empty .<br />
Once the patties are fried, the tomatoes and onions sliced , she carries them to the dining table. The smell of the patties is irresistible and she breaks off half and pops it into her mouth where it turns to dust .<br />
<br />
The flat is silent once more . She hates to wake up the children on winter mornings - they look so peaceful sleeping heavily , under their quilts . Her heart fills with tenderness at the thought of their faces - tears pricking in her eyes .<br />
The porridge is on the table cooling .The toaster is plugged into the socket. Time to wake up the children .<br />
It is easy to wake up her daughter who red eyed , clings to her, nuzzling her face in her neck ,wracked by quiet sobs .Another bad dream recurring , she sighs . Gently detaching the child ,she tells her to get to the bathroom.<br />
<br />
The door to her son's room is closed , a thin bar of light visible at the bottom. She opens the door , brow wrinkling to find the bed clean, empty, quilt folded neatly at the foot of the bed , the table where he studies neat ,with books stacked at one end.<br />
<br />
And then she sits down heavily on the bed, heart thudding as the universe threatens to swallow her once more .It doesnt help that her daughter and son stand watching helplessly from the door .<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><!-- Begin RealTracker code --><script type="text/javascript"><!--
var id=12047647
var ua=navigator.userAgent;if(ua.indexOf('MSIE 3')>0){
document.write('<img src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifree')
document.write('v3.asp?id='+id+'&js=1&to=-360&ref='
+escape(document.referrer)+'" />')}
// --></script><script type="text/javascript"
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3i.asp?id=12047647&to=-360">
</script><script type="text/javascript"><!--
if(ua.indexOf('MSIE ')>0)document.write('<!--')
// --></script><noscript><p><img
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3.asp?id=12047647&to=-360"
alt="RealTracker" /></p></noscript>
<!-- End RealTracker code --></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14157665564024320442noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19858202.post-49579531944694208092011-08-09T11:40:00.013-06:002011-08-21T00:20:54.197-06:00Bangladesh - The Golden Age by Tahmima Anam In January 1971 , listening to the radio on a Sunday morning I intercepted a frantic conversation between a woman in erstwhile East Pakistan and her husband who was out of the country . The woman wept screaming that the militia had come around asking for their papers and questioned her about the man's whereabouts . The panic and terror in the woman's voice has stayed with me all these years . Papers, journals and radio broadcasts created an aura of fear about a danger that throbbed so close to the border with Bengal. The savagery which inspired the genocide was born out of an intrinsic hatred and such severe loathing as to attempt the extermination of a race . To quote :<div>"<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; line-height: 24px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><i><span class="Apple-style-span">General <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tikka_Khan" title="Tikka Khan" style="text-decoration: none; color: rgb(6, 69, 173); background-image: none; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; ">Tikka Khan</a> earned the nickname 'Butcher of Bengal' due to the widespread atrocities he committed.<sup id="cite_ref-LATimes_6-1" class="reference" style="line-height: 1em; "><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Indo-Pakistani_War_of_1971#cite_note-LATimes-6" style="text-decoration: none; color: rgb(6, 69, 173); background-image: none; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; white-space: nowrap; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; "><span>[</span>7<span>]</span></a></sup> General Niazi commenting on his actions noted 'On the night between 25/26 March 1971 General Tikka struck. Peaceful night was turned into a time of wailing, crying and burning. General Tikka let loose everything at his disposal as if raiding an enemy, not dealing with his own misguided and misled people. The military action was a display of stark cruelty more merciless than the massacres at Bukhara and Baghdad by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chengiz_Khan" title="Chengiz Khan" class="mw-redirect" style="text-decoration: none; color: rgb(6, 69, 173); background-image: none; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; ">Chengiz Khan</a> and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hulagu_Khan" title="Hulagu Khan" style="text-decoration: none; color: rgb(6, 69, 173); background-image: none; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; ">Halaku Khan</a>... General Tikka... resorted to the killing of civilians and a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scorched_earth" title="Scorched earth" style="text-decoration: underline; color: rgb(6, 69, 173); background-image: none; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; ">scorched earth</a> policy. His orders to his troops were: 'I want the land not the people...' Major General <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rao_Farman_Ali" title="Rao Farman Ali" style="text-decoration: none; color: rgb(6, 69, 173); background-image: none; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; ">Farman</a> had written in his table diary, "Green land of East Pakistan will be painted red"</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;">."</span></span></div><div>
<br /></div><div>
<br /><div>Still later news of the genocide came in - bayoneted babies , slaughtered children , women with their nipples bitten off , imprisoned in barracks and killed mercilessly after being raped in unspeakable manners , men killed by the thousands - intellectuals , academics,doctors , professionals ,ordinary citizens . </div><div>Refugees started trickling in , black with grime , starved , with children hanging from their arms , pleading for a bowl of rice or milk for their children . </div><div> Radio Bangladesh beaming from Calcutta - the strident voice of Mujibur Rehman and the song "Amaar sonar bangla" that reverberated through Calcutta , infusing and inspiring young students with the spirit of revolt , the war of liberation in Bangladesh . Days spent in fear of the Pakistani bomber jets , curfew and blackout , glass window panes with crosses of newspaper and black duct tape , diligently pasted by Ruby and Mukul in our house , studying for exams in a shuttered room , by the light of 2 tablelamps carefully covered around the sides with dark chart paper . And through it all the fever thrill of anticipation as the war progressed and the Mukti bahinis and Indian soldiers led by Lt General Jagjit Singh Aurora routed the Pakistani army and General Niazi . To an imaginative 11 year old this was history in the making , brought that much closer , made that much real by the limited media exposure of newspapers , The Illustrated Weekly , All India Radio and the BBC.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Reading Tahmima Anam's book The Golden Age brought back memories of those days . There is nothing delicate in the story of Rehana and her two children Maya and Sohail . The history of the time is fraught with uncertainties Rehana challenges life at every turn , never accepting her destiny . it is almost as she must push forward - and overcome each challenge and obstacle to achieve what she wants, starting with her children from whom she is estranged forcibly after her husband's death .</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Her character is etched sharply against the turbulent times the novel is set in - her grim determination to sustain her children's participation in the freedom struggle although she as a mother ,is beset with trepidation and anxiety . She is Mother Earth to the young people who land on her doorstep , she is also the tender lover to the injured Colonel, a worried mother who cannot strike the right note in her relationship with her daughter Maya, feeling the girl slip further away, until ultimately they bond much later. </div><div>
<br /></div><div>Although there is enough scope for high drama and emotional interludes , nowhere does Anam lapse into anything remotely maudlin - throughout the book there is a terse containment and an economy of words , space and emotions . The characters and the situations are entirely three dimensional,wholly justifying their existence and Rehana towers over the entire spectrum .</div><div>
<br /></div><div>The book itself has to be read at a single sitting because it is impossible to put down . And when one has finished it , it is almost as if a storm has swept by , leaving one drained but strangely refreshed .</div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><!-- Begin RealTracker code --><script type="text/javascript"><!--
var id=12047647
var ua=navigator.userAgent;if(ua.indexOf('MSIE 3')>0){
document.write('<img src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifree')
document.write('v3.asp?id='+id+'&js=1&to=-360&ref='
+escape(document.referrer)+'" />')}
// --></script><script type="text/javascript"
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3i.asp?id=12047647&to=-360">
</script><script type="text/javascript"><!--
if(ua.indexOf('MSIE ')>0)document.write('<!--')
// --></script><noscript><p><img
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3.asp?id=12047647&to=-360"
alt="RealTracker" /></p></noscript>
<!-- End RealTracker code --></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14157665564024320442noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19858202.post-90385463178410464032011-07-12T10:05:00.006-06:002011-07-12T10:34:56.940-06:00TEEN KANYA – AN ODE TO WOMEN – A TRANSLATION INTO CELLULOID BY SATYAJIT RAY<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-eSLUYJGafzo/Thx3nQ_wf3I/AAAAAAAAGUk/ekE4sx36AFQ/s1600/Dvd_teen_kanya_satyajit_ray.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 211px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-eSLUYJGafzo/Thx3nQ_wf3I/AAAAAAAAGUk/ekE4sx36AFQ/s400/Dvd_teen_kanya_satyajit_ray.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628505150767267698" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; ">Tagore's short story "The Postmaster" is ostensibly a simple story - that of a young man Nandalal, whose comfortable life in the lap of his family in <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Calcutta</st1:city></st1:place> is disrupted by a transfer to a village post office . As expected , nothing measures up to his expectations - the job, the immediate environment and most important the people . He fails to appreciate the beauty of rural <st1:place st="on">Bengal</st1:place> , he pines for home <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>and family <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>. Having nothing in common with the villagers <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>,the only ray of weak sunshine is the general factotum of his one man household - the orphan child Ratan , who cooks ,cleans and nurses him through a bout of malaria . He teaches the girl to teach , chats with her about his family and in the process livens up his life and <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>offers a ray of hope to Ratan who , bereft of any love dreams of becoming a part of his family .Ratan's little tryst with hope and happiness is shattered when Nandalal gets a transfer back to the city and as compensation to Ratan, without an inkling of the fantastic dreams she has conjured up of becoming a part of his household at Calcutta , offers her a generous tip which she is too proud to accept . A simple story , no doubt, ordinary even but lifted to a level of excellence in characterisation and situational narrative that could only come from Tagore .</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-family:Arial; color:black">The film by Satyajit Ray stars Anil Chatterjee as the whining , complaining postmaster Nandalal who cannot reconcile himself to his new environment and Chandana Banerjee as the orphan girl <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ratan. The camera almost caresses the serene beauty of rural <st1:place st="on">Bengal</st1:place> . Ray who had a magic touch with child actors ( think Apu-Durga in <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Pather Panchali,Apu's son in Apur Sansar and the little boys in the Feluda films ) extracts a stellar <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>performance from Ratan who conveys more with her expressive eyes than through dialogue . When the postmaster <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>, ecstatic with joy at his transfer forgets all promises made to the child during their long evenings together , there is a proud and quiet dignity in her moment of epiphany when she realises that people do not mean what they promise on impulse and so she withdraws into herself , treating the tip he gives her with the scorn his action deserves -that money is not the alternative to what she craves - a sense of belongingness , security and a family to call her own .</span><span style="font-family:Arial"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-family:Arial; color:black"><o:p><u> Manihara </u></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-family:Arial; color:black">Ray's treatment of Manihara is pure Gothic . The film opens with the village schoolmaster crossing the ruins and gardens of a house to the ghat on the river which lies beyond , carrying with him his opium pipe and a manuscript . On the steps of the ghat he meets a man draped in a shawl sitting on a lower step, strikes a conversation with him and narrates the story of the people who had lived in the house beyond . The young man is played by Kali Banerjee and his wife by Kanika Majumdar<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; ">We meet Manimala's feet first , shod in elegant velvet slippers and then we see her almost ethereally beautiful face and the exquiste muslin sari she wears . Phanibhushan is besotted with her beauty and would like to claim her entire being but she eludes him <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>. Besotted by her lust for jewels and terrified that her husband would use them to save himself from financial ruin , she plans to go to her paternal house with her jewellery and recruits her rascally distant relative and ex lover , played in<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>a brilliant cameo by the young Kumar Roy , to take her there . For a moment she hesitates because her husband has promised her jewels on his return , if he is successful but the survival of her jewels is uppermost and flinging her keys on the bed she departs .She never returns - except as a wraith ,<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>trying twice to enter <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>and failing and<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>finally <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>succeeding on a full moon light , drawn by the promise of the jewellery </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; "> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-family:Arial; color:black">Besides being a ghost story , Manihara deals on different levels with power , pride, possessions, lust , craving and dissatisfaction and a deep sorrow .A sense of impermanence <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>pervades the film , the river a metaphor for change and havoc<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>in the lives of the couple <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" >The</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; "> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" >subtle play of light and shadows , the sound of footsteps , the gathering dusk, the art deco artefacts in the room over which the camera pans , the sudden rush of sunlight as the camera rushes to the window as if choked by the darkness and impending disaster which the room invokes , moonlit night and throughout the film the strains of the song “Baajey Karuno shurey “ interspersed with the haunting cry of the curlews creates an eerie , evocative atmosphere and brings out the gothic component very forcefully .<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Kanika Majumdar’s</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; "> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; "> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" >Manimala is distant -her eyes are constantly searching </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; "> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; "> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" >,her head cocked to one side as if she is listening to a distant song or a voice within herself . She is brittle and delicate and treading the tenuous line between sanity and insanity .Her eyes </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; "> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; "> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" >glitter with a febrile intensity as she runs her hands through her jewels and adorns herself with them before preparing to run away - the balance having titlted towards insanity and portrayed so effectively . The jewels her husband plies her with and which she guards fiercely are a substitute</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; "> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; "> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" >for a deeper craving- perhaps to experience love in its fullest form and not just as a plaything , perhaps for a child .<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; ">In the short space of about an hour we are caught up by brilliant performances and tremendous cinematography - almost a distillation of a larger canvas done in miniature <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family:Arial;color:black"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> <u>Samapti</u></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-family:Arial; color:black"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>In a sense Samapti or The Ending is the lightest in texture and mood and peppered with a great deal of humour . The story of a girl’s transition from unmarried bliss to marriage – a story of coming of age – the confusions , the ensuing hilarity , perception of mockery of the institution of marriage are played out consummately by Soumtira Chatterji and a very young Aparna Sen who transcends the boundaries of a tall gangling teenager to a woman who realizes what marriage , affinity and love could mean . Ray’s superb touches are there<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>in the scene where Mrinmoyee discards her wedding bed , socal norms and shackles to run away and play on her swing in the moonlight <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>, each upward propelling motion of the swing , reflecting itself in the sheer joy of living that only freedom can gift , the puzzled expressions on the girl’s face when she cannot decipher what she is required to do as a married woman – a set of rules , customs and bindings which have no meaning and the moment of realization when she perceives that she loves the man she is married to .<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-family:Arial; color:black">In a sense Samapti is an ending to the freedom of childhood , and stepping towards adultoohd and maturity .</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-family:Arial; color:black">Tagore’s sensitivity and his exploration of the feminine mystique and psyche were far beyond his times . Ray has captured each nuance of his sensitivity and translated them on to celluloid with such consummate mastery that even if one were one not to read Tagore in the original , it would be a stepping stone to understanding this Renaissance man .</span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><!-- Begin RealTracker code --><script type="text/javascript"><!--
var id=12047647
var ua=navigator.userAgent;if(ua.indexOf('MSIE 3')>0){
document.write('<img src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifree')
document.write('v3.asp?id='+id+'&js=1&to=-360&ref='
+escape(document.referrer)+'" />')}
// --></script><script type="text/javascript"
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3i.asp?id=12047647&to=-360">
</script><script type="text/javascript"><!--
if(ua.indexOf('MSIE ')>0)document.write('<!--')
// --></script><noscript><p><img
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3.asp?id=12047647&to=-360"
alt="RealTracker" /></p></noscript>
<!-- End RealTracker code --></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14157665564024320442noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19858202.post-10500227563944502692010-11-04T01:50:00.008-06:002010-11-04T13:07:08.594-06:00Light Flies and Bees On the Road and One madmanThe people downstairs have got laser lights from Bangalore and instead of doing just the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">usual</span> fairy light loops on the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">verandah</span> have also looped in the strands of laser fairy lights . Once lit they hover over the road in a circumference of about 6 feet in a web of green, red ,blue and chrome dots circling constantly like a swarm of bees or mosquitoes in the gathering gloom just before it gets dark.<br />As magical as it is to the little boy who lives downstairs , it is even more so to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Pagla</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Kanai</span> , one of the triumvirate of mentally ill vagrants who people the area , the others being Bob Marley II and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Khyapa</span> .He approaches the lights warily and swats at them with his hand and when they swarm over his hand he tries to grasp them. Then he fishes out a piece of paper from his sack and offers it to the lights , holding it gingerly and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">then</span> d<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">ropping</span> it on the road ; next he fishes out a discarded cigarette packet and drops in under the lights ,<span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">squatting</span> and watching spellbound as the little dots keep circling . Then he twitches , a long involuntary shudder convulses his body and he jumps back a few paces brushing his hand over his twitching face and muttering "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">saala</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">maachhi</span> " , which roughly translated in Bengali is "bloody flies" .<br />Quite a revelation . If not flies , then coloured mosquitoes in a swarm on the road instead of over one's head or even bees . Disarming , accurate and intuitive , is <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Pagla</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Kanai</span> . I shudder to think how tormented he must have been ,his head swarming with buzzing insects all night .<div class="blogger-post-footer"><!-- Begin RealTracker code --><script type="text/javascript"><!--
var id=12047647
var ua=navigator.userAgent;if(ua.indexOf('MSIE 3')>0){
document.write('<img src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifree')
document.write('v3.asp?id='+id+'&js=1&to=-360&ref='
+escape(document.referrer)+'" />')}
// --></script><script type="text/javascript"
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3i.asp?id=12047647&to=-360">
</script><script type="text/javascript"><!--
if(ua.indexOf('MSIE ')>0)document.write('<!--')
// --></script><noscript><p><img
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3.asp?id=12047647&to=-360"
alt="RealTracker" /></p></noscript>
<!-- End RealTracker code --></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14157665564024320442noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19858202.post-30313898772744632872010-10-22T02:49:00.008-06:002010-10-23T11:39:03.968-06:00Aftertaste<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/TMMcYNmrjzI/AAAAAAAAFp0/JlhoiO3V8LQ/s1600/pujo2010.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/TMMcYNmrjzI/AAAAAAAAFp0/JlhoiO3V8LQ/s400/pujo2010.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531295969635438386" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/TMMcXXMDXKI/AAAAAAAAFps/mvJlosl7WUk/s1600/DSC01704.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 299px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/TMMcXXMDXKI/AAAAAAAAFps/mvJlosl7WUk/s400/DSC01704.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531295955028237474" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/TMMbKSjw5JI/AAAAAAAAFpk/2_7B6xL0La4/s1600/DSC01590.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/TMMbKSjw5JI/AAAAAAAAFpk/2_7B6xL0La4/s400/DSC01590.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531294630935585938" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/TMMbJ6fITVI/AAAAAAAAFpc/DMfq1JBKBUc/s1600/DSC01701.JPG"><span><span></span></span><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 254px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/TMMbJ6fITVI/AAAAAAAAFpc/DMfq1JBKBUc/s400/DSC01701.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531294624473697618" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/TMMbJsFl0WI/AAAAAAAAFpU/xW5diikv05I/s1600/DSC01553.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/TMMbJsFl0WI/AAAAAAAAFpU/xW5diikv05I/s400/DSC01553.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531294620608483682" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/TMMSLMYWGTI/AAAAAAAAFpM/hdRHIsuTJ88/s1600/DSC01710.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 245px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/TMMSLMYWGTI/AAAAAAAAFpM/hdRHIsuTJ88/s400/DSC01710.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531284750852299058" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/TMMSK5rPr1I/AAAAAAAAFpE/03_UAG7Qicg/s1600/P9250025.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 225px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/TMMSK5rPr1I/AAAAAAAAFpE/03_UAG7Qicg/s400/P9250025.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531284745831296850" /></a><br />After the maddening frenzy and exhilaration of Durga Pujo comes a lassitude and silence that is unnerving . Images remain . Of the next door maid's two children decked out in what is probably the only new attire their parents have managed to buy - hair slicked back , a red clip resplendent on the oiled hair , squeaking new red shoes , the octogenarian couple , the gent togged up in a fine muslin kurta and dhoti , firmly clutching his ivory handled walking stick , kept for occasions such as this , while his wife wears a flamboyant red bordered dhakai with a thousand bootis in red and brilliant green and Rohan with a pair of red boots which he is reluctant to take off and Tani with her two pairs of ear studs .The spotlight falling on the Durga image . , the 108 pink lotuses and the stray white one which is kept aside ...On Dashami - the idol's brow smeared with sindoor , alone in the truck - taken back the way she came with her children , somewhat like being deported to and from a transit camp.<div> </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><!-- Begin RealTracker code --><script type="text/javascript"><!--
var id=12047647
var ua=navigator.userAgent;if(ua.indexOf('MSIE 3')>0){
document.write('<img src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifree')
document.write('v3.asp?id='+id+'&js=1&to=-360&ref='
+escape(document.referrer)+'" />')}
// --></script><script type="text/javascript"
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3i.asp?id=12047647&to=-360">
</script><script type="text/javascript"><!--
if(ua.indexOf('MSIE ')>0)document.write('<!--')
// --></script><noscript><p><img
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3.asp?id=12047647&to=-360"
alt="RealTracker" /></p></noscript>
<!-- End RealTracker code --></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14157665564024320442noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19858202.post-9425263830328869312010-10-11T12:31:00.010-06:002010-10-13T04:09:54.500-06:00Shiuli , Sharat and Durga ( and a little bit of farmville )I have been playing farmville with an intensity bordering on obsession for the last one month . I have upgraded my farm , grown loads of crops - sometimes two in a day , planning the harvesting so that the plants do not wither . I have bought me a farmhouse and other buildings , housed baby animals , contributed to a school in Haiti and built me a pig pen , created multiple identities to be self sufficient in construction activities .Oh and I have also got mastery signs which shows that I grow certain premium crops . All of which denotes a certain feverish obsession as I have already said. Time to breathe now . <div>I have neglected my blog to the extent that my Indistats ranking has taken a plunge from a mean 77 to just pass 44 . Sad .<br /><div><br /></div><div>That said , this is the festive season . The most beautiful season called "sharat kaal" in Bengali , mystified to a thing of supreme beauty by Tagore in innumerable songs . The skies are a bright blue dotted with puffball clouds which suddenly darken ominously and end in a spatter of rain , only to become bright and sunny the next minute . There is a slight nip in the air at nights and the elusive evocative fragrance of chhatim blossoms .That is the magic of "sharat kaal ". </div></div><div><br /></div><div>And this is also the time when Durga is worshipped . This is the time of agomoni -when Bengal waits for a young woman to return to her father's house with her brood for her annual visit .While she is worshipped as a victorious goddess , she is nevertheless the quintessential girl coming back to the bosom of her family for four days of loving before she is bid goodbye.The songs sung in anticipation of her visit , the agomoni songs, are poignant - hinting at the inevitable departure. </div><div><br /></div><div>On a more mundane note there are traffic jams and hectic shopping , women dressed to the nines in their "south indians" at the mall and at the pavement stalls ,jostling each other to pick up , among all things , terracotta wall hangings , mobiles and doormats,plastic bins , pearlpet bottles .Shopping like there is no tomorrow .The magic of waiting , preparing , is palpable . </div><div><br /></div><div>Driving past my childhood home on Sunday I wept . The garden is now a garage - there used to be a shiuli tree there and in the mornings , little white flowers with orange stems would pattern the grass like a carpet . My favourite pre -breakfast activity was to collect the flowers in my grandmother's wicker flower basket for puja , being careful not to touch any of the caterpillars that lived on and around the tree , shiuli trees being a favourite habitat of theirs .</div><div>There was the window where I curled up with my little sister and my grandmother watching the crowds on Shoshthi waiting for Baba to come home and take us all out .Now of course , none remain of that family except for my sister, who I am not sure shares my memories , and I .</div><div>Today I woke up at dawn . From my bedroom window , I could see the sky , now a dark misty grey .Etched against it was a row of glittering yellow lights on the roof of the South City towers , the builidng itself not visible , an absolutely mundane sight - but nevertheless a sight so magical in my half sleep state as to be almost part of a surrealistic dream ....</div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><!-- Begin RealTracker code --><script type="text/javascript"><!--
var id=12047647
var ua=navigator.userAgent;if(ua.indexOf('MSIE 3')>0){
document.write('<img src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifree')
document.write('v3.asp?id='+id+'&js=1&to=-360&ref='
+escape(document.referrer)+'" />')}
// --></script><script type="text/javascript"
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3i.asp?id=12047647&to=-360">
</script><script type="text/javascript"><!--
if(ua.indexOf('MSIE ')>0)document.write('<!--')
// --></script><noscript><p><img
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3.asp?id=12047647&to=-360"
alt="RealTracker" /></p></noscript>
<!-- End RealTracker code --></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14157665564024320442noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19858202.post-48424267842402937372010-08-28T23:25:00.006-06:002010-08-29T00:04:04.095-06:00In Mumbai<div style="text-align: justify;">In Mumbai the colours of the sky are reflected in the angry gun metal of the sea as they crash against the buttresses . The sea around Haji Ali which normally sparkles iridescent with light in the afternoon is drab,dreary and grey , a colour repeated in the wings of the hundreds of pigeons wheeling above the trees further down .</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/THnzt7acJZI/AAAAAAAAFkI/bzWUpfSI4V0/s1600/240820101906.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 379px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/THnzt7acJZI/AAAAAAAAFkI/bzWUpfSI4V0/s400/240820101906.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510703589432763794" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/THnztcdzpVI/AAAAAAAAFkA/MVJNO3EVknI/s1600/240820101939.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/THnztcdzpVI/AAAAAAAAFkA/MVJNO3EVknI/s400/240820101939.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510703581125387602" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/THnzsueag3I/AAAAAAAAFj4/5yu-1ZDtpQc/s1600/240820101905.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/THnzsueag3I/AAAAAAAAFj4/5yu-1ZDtpQc/s400/240820101905.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510703568779903858" /></a>a colour repeated in the wings of the hundreds of pigeons wheeling above the trees further down the road .<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/THny3t4TogI/AAAAAAAAFjw/Nm_WRkCgixc/s1600/P5230034-1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 209px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/THny3t4TogI/AAAAAAAAFjw/Nm_WRkCgixc/s400/P5230034-1.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510702658087002626" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/THny3J10QdI/AAAAAAAAFjo/MpQy0yjDmSE/s1600/P5230033.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/THny3J10QdI/AAAAAAAAFjo/MpQy0yjDmSE/s400/P5230033.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510702648412881362" /></a><div style="text-align: justify;">In Fort we eat lunch at Britannia on the ground floor of Wakefield House ( no not Weikfield). As there is a crowd we sit outside for about ten minutes, watching a TV crew from BBC doing the rounds . They speak Bengali - all of them . Inside we meet Mr Boman Kohinoor Irani pushing 90 , who seats us at a table and asks me where we are from . </div><div style="text-align: justify;">He's a gallant old school gentleman and suggests we order the sali boti, dhansak , sweet rice and the berry pulao which we devour with gusto . He also wants us to order lime sodas to beat the Mumbai heat . Never mind that its actually very pleasant that afternoon . Later we eat chocolate mousse which is rather like Nutella - thick chocolate clogging your tongue rather than a light airy dessert .</div><div><div style="text-align: justify;">Mr Irani loves us because we are from the land of Tagore , Santiniketan, Vivekananda and Netaji . He professes to hold Netaji in higher regard than he does Gandhi . He is also a devout anglophile and shows us a card from old Blighty with the Queen's picture and proudly declares her to be Queen of the whole world .</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Myth has it that there used to be a live rooster on the counter . Now there is a cat lying supine and being stroked by a small child who hangs downwards from her father's arms . There are 20 kilo rice bags stacked on a window sill . The eating area on the mezzanine has sturdy 60s table fans tacked on to the balustrade to circulate air . The plaster has peeled off the ceiling , the rusted beams are exposed , the air downstairs is circulated by long stemmed ceiling fans and the wall clock , another antique tells the time .</div></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/THny2uJ0mcI/AAAAAAAAFjg/lpsb20irNH8/s1600/New+Folder+(11).jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 250px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/THny2uJ0mcI/AAAAAAAAFjg/lpsb20irNH8/s400/New+Folder+(11).jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510702640980597186" /></a><div style="text-align: justify;">On the Worli seaface , people sit on the broad parapet . Each has their own space , doing their own thing , entirely oblivious to the world .</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Young people , a couple -arms wound around each others' waists , a couple of hijras sitting quietly for a change , munching something from a packet , maybe peanuts, three boys horsing around,two girls with their bags on the ledge y , a group of men , a dog with his ears straining back , four crows - all sitting companionably.</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/THny12cXcAI/AAAAAAAAFjY/YGsAydPqqlQ/s1600/240820101932.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/THny12cXcAI/AAAAAAAAFjY/YGsAydPqqlQ/s400/240820101932.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510702626025992194" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/THny1MbH2KI/AAAAAAAAFjQ/d8QLT-F7CvQ/s1600/240820101931.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/THny1MbH2KI/AAAAAAAAFjQ/d8QLT-F7CvQ/s400/240820101931.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510702614746486946" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">The entire palette is a drab grey - brown-black repeat, except for a woman in a brilliant pink sari ,loose hair and a pallu end which suddenly lifts in the breeze as she plays with an anklet and streams in a vivid pink pennant against the sky.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><!-- Begin RealTracker code --><script type="text/javascript"><!--
var id=12047647
var ua=navigator.userAgent;if(ua.indexOf('MSIE 3')>0){
document.write('<img src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifree')
document.write('v3.asp?id='+id+'&js=1&to=-360&ref='
+escape(document.referrer)+'" />')}
// --></script><script type="text/javascript"
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3i.asp?id=12047647&to=-360">
</script><script type="text/javascript"><!--
if(ua.indexOf('MSIE ')>0)document.write('<!--')
// --></script><noscript><p><img
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3.asp?id=12047647&to=-360"
alt="RealTracker" /></p></noscript>
<!-- End RealTracker code --></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14157665564024320442noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19858202.post-145287590112537842010-08-24T21:29:00.002-06:002010-08-24T21:30:14.791-06:00WORDLESS WEDNESDAYS<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/THSOHkaBWhI/AAAAAAAAFgs/0f7-W4Xbw6M/s1600/Image(754).jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 321px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/THSOHkaBWhI/AAAAAAAAFgs/0f7-W4Xbw6M/s400/Image(754).jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509184504864004626" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><!-- Begin RealTracker code --><script type="text/javascript"><!--
var id=12047647
var ua=navigator.userAgent;if(ua.indexOf('MSIE 3')>0){
document.write('<img src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifree')
document.write('v3.asp?id='+id+'&js=1&to=-360&ref='
+escape(document.referrer)+'" />')}
// --></script><script type="text/javascript"
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3i.asp?id=12047647&to=-360">
</script><script type="text/javascript"><!--
if(ua.indexOf('MSIE ')>0)document.write('<!--')
// --></script><noscript><p><img
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3.asp?id=12047647&to=-360"
alt="RealTracker" /></p></noscript>
<!-- End RealTracker code --></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14157665564024320442noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19858202.post-75465918260136268682010-08-11T09:08:00.003-06:002010-08-11T09:13:04.582-06:00WORDLESS WEDNESDAYS<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/TGK9FGHhGUI/AAAAAAAAFVw/Z7nD6y9qxa4/s1600/140520101448.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/TGK9FGHhGUI/AAAAAAAAFVw/Z7nD6y9qxa4/s400/140520101448.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504169589839305026" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><!-- Begin RealTracker code --><script type="text/javascript"><!--
var id=12047647
var ua=navigator.userAgent;if(ua.indexOf('MSIE 3')>0){
document.write('<img src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifree')
document.write('v3.asp?id='+id+'&js=1&to=-360&ref='
+escape(document.referrer)+'" />')}
// --></script><script type="text/javascript"
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3i.asp?id=12047647&to=-360">
</script><script type="text/javascript"><!--
if(ua.indexOf('MSIE ')>0)document.write('<!--')
// --></script><noscript><p><img
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3.asp?id=12047647&to=-360"
alt="RealTracker" /></p></noscript>
<!-- End RealTracker code --></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14157665564024320442noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19858202.post-31455337669489350832010-08-05T12:25:00.008-06:002010-08-05T12:41:08.478-06:00Of mists, vada pao and a walk in the clouds<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>In the beginning there was the rain. The railway bridge over the Thane Creek connecting Vashi with the rest of Mumbai was draped in mists and rain . And through that grey haze so reminiscent of a Japanese painting rushed a bright yellow train .</div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/TFsD_vFllXI/AAAAAAAAFRo/yp3X2YcyPjE/s1600/DSC01022.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 183px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/TFsD_vFllXI/AAAAAAAAFRo/yp3X2YcyPjE/s400/DSC01022.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501995763269735794" /></a>Soon after the road turned into a river viewed through the wet window pane and then there were the lush green hills wet in the rain , the road a wet slick and thin waterfalls gushing down the sides of the hills .<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/TFsDi0GU79I/AAAAAAAAFRg/ENyKAbIS0wo/s1600/DSC01032.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/TFsDi0GU79I/AAAAAAAAFRg/ENyKAbIS0wo/s400/DSC01032.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501995266398810066" /></a>And then walking into a cloud which bursts on you and drenches you with a five minute shower of heavy rain . You lean over a wide parapet to take in the advertsied breathtaking view of Sunset Point and all you get is a swirling soupy fog with misty vapours drifting upwards which is so strange and beautiful you forget about missing out on the view .<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/TFsCzsJMH8I/AAAAAAAAFRY/Lvqwcf7MVOo/s1600/lonavla.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/TFsCzsJMH8I/AAAAAAAAFRY/Lvqwcf7MVOo/s400/lonavla.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501994456809480130" /></a>And while we are about it let us not forget the vada pao with flecks of ginger in the vada , a long green chilli and a green chutney which explodes in your mouth to be washed down with hot ginger tea and a nugget of Cooper's chocolate walnut fudge .And the bhuttas ( corn on the cob) in the rain .<div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/TFsCb3X6AMI/AAAAAAAAFRQ/daMATNi9XMs/s1600/DSC01090.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 350px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/TFsCb3X6AMI/AAAAAAAAFRQ/daMATNi9XMs/s400/DSC01090.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501994047507136706" /></a><br />You come back and go to sleep at night after partying till midnight and then wake up to see this . Truly magical !<br /><br /><div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><!-- Begin RealTracker code --><script type="text/javascript"><!--
var id=12047647
var ua=navigator.userAgent;if(ua.indexOf('MSIE 3')>0){
document.write('<img src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifree')
document.write('v3.asp?id='+id+'&js=1&to=-360&ref='
+escape(document.referrer)+'" />')}
// --></script><script type="text/javascript"
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3i.asp?id=12047647&to=-360">
</script><script type="text/javascript"><!--
if(ua.indexOf('MSIE ')>0)document.write('<!--')
// --></script><noscript><p><img
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3.asp?id=12047647&to=-360"
alt="RealTracker" /></p></noscript>
<!-- End RealTracker code --></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14157665564024320442noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19858202.post-58259880599954549302010-07-26T11:53:00.007-06:002010-08-26T20:23:57.139-06:00A Chicken by any other Name - I<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/TE3MkxBC2wI/AAAAAAAAFOI/N2BCG2nVsD0/s1600/DSC009321.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498275652094319362" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 275px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/TE3MkxBC2wI/AAAAAAAAFOI/N2BCG2nVsD0/s400/DSC009321.jpg" border="0" /></a>Cooking chicken is pretty boring . Washing the pieces if you have bought it fresh takes the mickey out of me and by the time I have graduated to cooking it I have lost all interest and bunged it in the wok with some chopped onions and garlic and covered it and then praised the Lord when the children have eaten it . Not that I'm on the lookout for chicken recipes , mind you,but when one comes across something as uncomplicated and interesting as this one posted b<a href="http://www.bongcookbook.com/2010/07/giadas-grilled-chicken-with-basil.html#recipe-start-basilchicken">y my blogger pal </a>Sandeepa , then one sits up and takes notice and goes out to buy some chicken breasts , nicely cleaned and trimmed of all fat and picks some tulsi leaves to substitute for the basil and lets rip. The result is not bad although I say so myself .<br /><div>The Recipe - <a href="http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/everyday-italian/grilled-chicken-with-basil-dressing-recipe/index.html">Giada'</a>s grilled chicken with basil dressing , tarted up a little by me</div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498275646228034642" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 256px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/TE3MkbKadFI/AAAAAAAAFOA/KY-OioWBILE/s400/DSC00932.JPG" border="0" /></div><div>500 gm boneless chicken breasts</div><div>1/4 cup olive oil</div><div>freshly ground pepper</div><div>fennel seeds roasted and powdered - 1 1/2 tsp</div><div>salt</div><div>2tbsp lemon juice freshly squeezed</div><div><br /></div><div>Whisk the marinade ingredients together and rub the mix into the chicken and reserve for about 2 hrs .</div><div><br /></div><div>Blend two fistfuls of tulsi or if you are lucky,basil , along with a bunch of mint leaves and 2 chopped cloves of garlic .Add a tsp of lemon juice and some lemon zest along with a little salt and pepper to the blend .Whisk it thoroughly and start adding the olive oil till it is blended through and is a lovely translucent green .</div><div><br /></div><div>Grill <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">the</span> chicken breasts or fry them in a nonstick pan . You wont need any oil . Douse with the basil - mint dressing and serve . I cooked the marinate through and used it as an additional sauce , not that anyone wanted it - the basil-mint concoction was so good .</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/TE3MjCSmYDI/AAAAAAAAFN4/JTYoNcR7m38/s1600/DSC00931m.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498275622371614770" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 168px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Mim6p4JiQLU/TE3MjCSmYDI/AAAAAAAAFN4/JTYoNcR7m38/s400/DSC00931m.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><div>Serve with a good crusty bread , boiled veggies tossed in a little butter and some mushrooms cooked with oregano and peppercorns .</div></div><div><div></div><div></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><!-- Begin RealTracker code --><script type="text/javascript"><!--
var id=12047647
var ua=navigator.userAgent;if(ua.indexOf('MSIE 3')>0){
document.write('<img src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifree')
document.write('v3.asp?id='+id+'&js=1&to=-360&ref='
+escape(document.referrer)+'" />')}
// --></script><script type="text/javascript"
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3i.asp?id=12047647&to=-360">
</script><script type="text/javascript"><!--
if(ua.indexOf('MSIE ')>0)document.write('<!--')
// --></script><noscript><p><img
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3.asp?id=12047647&to=-360"
alt="RealTracker" /></p></noscript>
<!-- End RealTracker code --></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14157665564024320442noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19858202.post-52014757428499212622010-07-20T11:37:00.006-06:002010-07-20T19:58:42.778-06:00Tulika Blogathon 4<p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">This is for the <a href="http://http//tulikapublishers.blogspot.com/2010/06/blogathon-4-rhymes-chants-and.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">Tulika Blogathon</span></a> 4 .</span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">When we were small there were these six page books of "chhoras"or rhymes printed by a Bengali publisher . There were 3 or 4 volumes and they had a rhyme a page with very colourful and detailed illustrations. When I was a child I remember Ma and Thakuma reading out these rhymes When my older daughter was about a year old I was browsing through some books at a magazine stall when I chanced upon the books and promptly bought them to read out to her . My mother followed this up with “Chhorar Boi” a seminal collection of popular Bengali rhymes , with beautiful line drawings that have continued to enthrall children and grown ups alike through generations .<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> <i><b>K</b></i></span></o:p></span><b><i><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">hoka Ghumolo para jurolo</span></span></i></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Borgi elo deshey <o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Bulbuli tey dhaan kheyechey khajna debo kishe <o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><b><i><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Dhaan furalo paan furalo</span></span></i></b></span><b><i><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span> <span class="apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Khajna debi ki?</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span> <span class="apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Aar </span><st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">kota</span></st1:place></st1:city><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> din shobur koro</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span> <span class="apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Roshun bunechi.</span></span></span></i></b><span class="apple-style-span"><b><i><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Like most old Bengali rhymes this was a direct hit at the Maratha marauders who terrorised </span><st1:place st="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Bengal</span></st1:place><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> at that time for revenue against the paddy harvests. The paddy was harvested , sold and the money hidden so that when the Maratha hordes , called “bargis” came the excuse was that the birds had destroyed the crops and the villagers had planted garlic which would take a relatively short time to be harvested . Whether the hordes murdered the Bengalis for their blatant lie or waited till the garlic was harvested for a meagre return,is lost to history .</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial;font-size:medium;">The painting shows a mother rocking a baby to sleep on her lap - the khoka of the rhyme and there is a hazy dreamy background of marauding dacoits on horseback and fields of paddy being harvested .</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial;font-size:medium;">Another one goes like this </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Chaand uthechhey phool phutechhey </span></span></i></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><b><i><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Kadam tolay ke </span></span></i></b></span><b><i><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><b><i><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Haathi nacchhey ghora nachhey </span></span></i></b></span><b><i><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><b><i><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Shonamonir biye</span></span></i></b></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></o:p></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial;font-size:medium;">An elephant and a horse dance hoof to hoof in a grove of kadamba trees on a moonlit night , possible serenading Shonamoni who is getting married .</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Khokababu jaye <o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Laal moja paaye<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Boro boro didira sab unki mere chaaye <o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Khoka phirey na takaaye <o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial;font-size:medium;">It is ironic and predictably so , that Shonamunis or Ranis always got married or got their leg pulled because they could not cook “payesh” ( kheer / rice pudding ) or gazed admiringly at the brother(as in the rhyme above) - a chubby little boy in short dhoti, a red jacket and bright red socks and turban going off to war with a wooden sword and a scowl , thereby occupying a role that was secondary to the boy, small though he was . But given the time in which they were composed women did play second fiddle and therefore this condescension was to be expected.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></o:p></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The fact however , remains that generations of Bengali children have grown up listening to these rhymes which </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">have stood the test of time and I can vouch for the fact that almost every Bengali parent has sung at least one or the other as a lullaby and most children can recite them pat from memory.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">A popular sit down game we played as children was <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial;font-size:medium;"><i><b>Ikri mikri chaam chikri</b></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><i><b>Chaam kaatey Majumdar ,dheye elo damodar <o:p></o:p></b></i></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><i><b>Jagannath er haanri kunri, duware boshey chaal kaari <o:p></o:p></b></i></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><i><b>Chaal kaartey holo bela , bhaat khao shey dupur bela <o:p></o:p></b></i></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><i><b>Bhaatey porlo maachhi , kodal diye chaanchi ,<o:p></o:p></b></i></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><i><b>Kodaal holo bhonta , kha chhutorer maatha </b></i><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial;">We sat in a circle with our palms down on the floor and one person did the counting , going from finger to finger while chanting the rhyme . The finger where the rhyme ended was "out" and one had to fold up that finger .And so on it went ,till one person and one finger remained and that person won the game . There was no skill, no dexterity ,maybe a little cheating but wholly absorbing in a world where only the print media ruled supreme !</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></o:p></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial;font-size:medium;">Roughly translated the rhyme hints at a a lot of activity wherein a Majumdar is cutting a skin off an animal , which if you go by the caste hierarchy strictly , is not his work and Damodar,therefore , rushes up to prevent him from doing it . The rice takes so long to be cleaned for the pot that afternoon has rolled by before they can eat . But there is further travail in store because there is a fly in the rice which has to be dug out with a spade . The spade gets blunt so intense is the ordeal of removing the fly and everyone collectively swears at the carpenter – now why ? I I have no idea ! But it is great fun to sing it out .</span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><!-- Begin RealTracker code --><script type="text/javascript"><!--
var id=12047647
var ua=navigator.userAgent;if(ua.indexOf('MSIE 3')>0){
document.write('<img src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifree')
document.write('v3.asp?id='+id+'&js=1&to=-360&ref='
+escape(document.referrer)+'" />')}
// --></script><script type="text/javascript"
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3i.asp?id=12047647&to=-360">
</script><script type="text/javascript"><!--
if(ua.indexOf('MSIE ')>0)document.write('<!--')
// --></script><noscript><p><img
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3.asp?id=12047647&to=-360"
alt="RealTracker" /></p></noscript>
<!-- End RealTracker code --></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14157665564024320442noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19858202.post-72236002252781931482010-07-16T11:38:00.007-06:002010-07-17T21:37:22.855-06:00The fish we took to the Bride's house<div style="text-align: justify;">On the morning of the wedding , the fish seller brought the fish .Over 6 kilos on weight it was fat and full , glistening black graduating to a silver pink towards the belly .</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Using sindoor the women drew a large dot between the staring dead eyes . They then drew a line upwards representing the sindoor in the parting of a new bride's hair . They fixed a faux goldround nose ring called a "nath" to the gawping mouth of the fish and a faux gold tikli along the line of the sindoor . Then they lovingly dusted it with red and gold powder and fixed a bit of filmy red gold gauze over the fish which looked bizarre but festive .</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">They laid it tenderly on a freshly washed green banana leaf which was placed on a red "kulo" once used by women to winnow out the unhusked rice and stones from rice before the days of cellophane packaging . A silver bowl of turmeric paste ground by three married women , blessed by the old, toothless fat priest and used by the groom first , was placed beside the fish . Along with an earthen bowl of mishti doi and woven bamboo trays with varieties of sandesh they left for the home of the new bride .</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Since it was all rather informal , the two girls strayed to the terrace ,where they saw the fish being slapped around by a dark stocky man in a blue checked lungi . He then washed it clean under the running water and the sindoor flowed away like blood . The "nath" and "tikli" were kept aside carefully , perhaps as gifts for the man's wife. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Washed clean and white the fish lay compliant , yielding even , on the green leaf while the man, whistling , hiked up his lungi , selected a big blade for the "bnonti" and unceremoniously chopped off , first the head and then the tail before homing in on the fish proper .</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The younger girl on seeing her beautiful fish desecrated in this manner , fled in tears down the stairs , while the older one , more astute,thought in terms of what a good lunch the fish would make .</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><!-- Begin RealTracker code --><script type="text/javascript"><!--
var id=12047647
var ua=navigator.userAgent;if(ua.indexOf('MSIE 3')>0){
document.write('<img src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifree')
document.write('v3.asp?id='+id+'&js=1&to=-360&ref='
+escape(document.referrer)+'" />')}
// --></script><script type="text/javascript"
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3i.asp?id=12047647&to=-360">
</script><script type="text/javascript"><!--
if(ua.indexOf('MSIE ')>0)document.write('<!--')
// --></script><noscript><p><img
src="http://11.rtcode.com/netpoll/ifreev3.asp?id=12047647&to=-360"
alt="RealTracker" /></p></noscript>
<!-- End RealTracker code --></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14157665564024320442noreply@blogger.com19