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Jeffrey Archer had to face bankruptcy at the age of 34 before he realized he passion lay in the sphere of writing. The rest is history. Jeffrey Archer is definitely one of the most prolific writers of the current era.
I’m reaching 34 and have not faced bankruptcy yet. However, the realms of creativity have already been knocking on the door in the last few years and the knock has grown louder.
I took up writing about a few years back, inspired by some real creative talents both amongst friends as well as print. Having delved in poetry and prose for a part, I moved to writing short stories; anecdotes from experiences accumulated from traveling as well as living in various parts of the globe.
It is the simple elements of every day life that lures me into flights of imagination and lets my creative juices flow. My subjects tend to be common people and yet with extra-ordinary zeal for life; passion, playing the centerfold of their lives.
My latest venture is a tryst with writing a novel. I started a few months back on the novel, on a project that they may span about a year. It is the desire to publish my work sometime in the future that brought me to wrightsight.
I write primarily, around Indian genre with focus on literary fiction combined with sprays of non-fiction and social aspects of life
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MY ACCOMPLISHMENTS:
- Have published 4 short stories
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MY FAVORITE LINKS:
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MY RESIDENCE INFO:
City: Bergen Op Zoom
State/Country: Netherlands
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BOOKS PUBLISHED:
Prabashi
*Prabashi: a non-native Bengali
******
With the advent of the month of March, winters give way to welcome the months of summer. Even though the months of May and June are the toughest ones of Delhi’s seasons, hearts elate with the joy of going on long holidays and for some, the joy of going home for in childhood days. By the end of spring, mango trees have buds for the new season and numerous hearts swoon at the first call of the kokil paakhi welcoming the season.
Deepak Banerjee fondly remembered yesteryear with nostalgia while pondering over the Saturday Literary Supplement. Every Saturday morning Deepak religiously got up early and then anxiously waited for the newspaper-wallah to deliver the newspaper. However, to Deepak’s annoyance, on some instances the newspaper-wallah delivered a different newspaper or The Statesman without the supplement. In spite of the irritation, Deepak ensured that nobody could deny him a copy of the supplements. This morning, a particular article had opened the floodgates of childhood memories.
Those were the days. School students eagerly awaited the ending of exams and the joy of doing away with schoolbooks for a few days followed the euphoria of preparations that would then start for the anticipated, long awaited holiday trips.
He still distinctly remembered his water-bottle-carrying Bengali friends who would embark on their annual pilgrimage to Calcutta within the first few days of their holidays starting. The holidays of his non-Bengali friends did not fancy him much as most of them (from north India) would spend their holidays in Delhi with a brief seclude in the hills of Shivalik ranges of Himalayas. It was only the holidays of his Bengali friends which enthralled him. His own holidays however, were different.
Deepak’s relatives came from both sides of Bengal, concentrated in northern Bengal and the northern provinces of Bangladesh. Deepak used to spend his holidays in each Bengal every two years. So, each Bengal would get a chance once in only four years in his itinerary. This, of course, was in stark contrast to most of his childhood Bengali friends. They had only one destination and without a miss, every year they would embark on their destined mission; the mission was to spend their holidays in beloved Calcutta. There, ravishing the rosogollas of street-corner shops and savouring the sharpness of the jhaal-muries from hawkers on the local train, lazy rides on the trams, visits to Victoria Memorial and eventful rides on hand-pulled rickshaws formed the core of their visits. His friends would spend hours pondering the slogans on walls. They talked about the shrill sound of the rickshaw horns, the crowded streets of the central Calcutta, and the electric train. They dramatized the act of inhaling smoke bellowing from ever-aging cabs and how they missed stepping on waste outside a bin. And, invariably, every year Deepak’s friends would narrate stories laced with their own colours after they came back from the pilgrimage. The addition of colours often raised Deepak’s eyebrows but he used to gulp down everything that came out of his friends’ conversations. He painted pictures in his mind and created his own version of Calcutta.
Now, Deepak laughed out loud as he fondly remembered how his friend had fallen of a chair once while trying to dramatise a scene from Calcutta.
Deepak’s visits to Calcutta had been seldom. He savoured each visit like the last pieces of meat or fish which are preserved at the sides of the plate to be consumed only in the end. Everything about Calcutta was so alluring and even a distant mention lead to a run through the lanes of his memory. It was much later in life that he realised that these were the pangs of a Prabashi, a non-native Bengali.
But, how did these feelings develop, pondered Deepak. How were the images created? His introspection lead to walk through a memory lane where events had taken place long time back. His first impression of Bengal was formed through Bengali books or rather chhotoder upanyash o rupkotha. Deepak’s father, being a literary man himself, had instilled the habit of reading in him early in his childhood. Realisation of Bengal as a place and not a fairy tale land of numerous stories and storybooks dawned on him when he took up reading books on his own. Characters such as Sindbad, Aladin and Ali Baba gave way to the likes of Batul the great, haada bhoda and Pagla dashu. In fact, on one occasion much later in life he saw the characters of Aladin, Alibaba and others in an English book. He swelled with pride upon finding that his Bengali characters had found a place with likes of Pinocchio and Pied piper. Only later, did he realise that those characters were taken from Arabian tales. The day he learned the truth was a rude awakening for him. Suddenly, his Bengali characters who had spoken so nicely, who had Bengali feelings (from the numerous plays staged during the Durga Puja festival and the fairy tale books in Bengali) and who had been so close to him--his friends suddenly became alien. For days all of the characters haunted him, but they never became Bengali again. Even now, when Deepak sees a play which includes them, this loss still bewilders him.
The world of books used to spark off vivid imaginations in Deepak’s mind. The illustrations would conjure images, their texts would give them forms and his imagination gave them life. He built his own kingdom of imagination in his mind, in his thoughts, in his life.
Like many other Bengali households in Delhi, Deepak’s family used to subscribe to Desh, the multi-faceted Bengali magazine. Desh was not only a magazine, but was more like a family member, a grand old family member. Desh had been in their house much before Deepak was. When Deepak’s father moved to Delhi from Calcutta, Desh also followed. Desh was there when Deepak’s parents grew up, it was there when Deepak grew up, and Deepak firmly believed that it would be there for his children as well. In his childhood, when he was old enough to flip pages of magazines, he would often spend hours going through the contents of this magazine. It wasn’t the stories but the advertisements that caught his fancy. He would think about the advertisements for long hours, lost in thought, shaping images that would one day represent the Calcutta of his dreams. These thoughts would be preserved in the confines of his brain for a long time to come.
There were quite a few Bengalis in Delhi in the ‘70s but not enough to create a substantial presence. And that is why to buy Bengali books, people had to travel to a small place called Gol-market which was on the periphery of the centre of town. Gol-market grew up after the capital was shifted to Delhi and this became the haven of Babus who got transferred to this north Indian city. Gol-market also saw a mushrooming of a few Bengali stores as well, including bookstores. The prominence of the other Bengali enclave of Chittaranjan Park only grew later in the late ‘70s and early ‘80s. And, even then, CR Park was a bit too far for the people to go, as it lay on the south-eastern periphery of Delhi.
There was a bookstore in Gol-market on the main street. Deepak was aware of its existence, as he had seen the red sign-board a number of times from the window of his school bus and while traveling in DTC buses. It was much later that he actually managed to go there. Since he had started reading books on a regular basis, his father had promised him a children’s encyclopaedia in Bengali (Shishuder Bishwa-kosh), but he would have to wait until his next birthday. Growing up in financial constraints had taught him to appreciate the good things in life and books were definitely one of them. He waited impatiently for his birthday to come. In spite of his repeated insistence to receive the encyclopaedia earlier, his father did not budge from his promise. After waiting for several months anxiously, his birthday finally came and his father, as per the promise, took him to that shop.
Deepak, meanwhile, had managed to create an image of the shop in his mind although he had never been to it or adjoining areas. The creation was a result of his vivid imagination and speculations. After waiting for what seemed like an eternity, he finally managed to go to the shop. And the bookstore did manage to live up to his expectations.
After visiting several shops in the older parts of Calcutta, Deepak started associating Bengali bookstores with shops that were housed in the precincts of old buildings, with cool and dark interiors, and this book shop was no exception. A flickering tube-light lighted the interiors, rendering it almost invisible for the most part. Books were kept on the shelves in a disorderly order, many of which hadn’t been dusted after the British had left, or so it seemed. Several wooden cupboards with and without glass-panes lined the wall from one end to the other. Many of those glass-panes had lived through ages and they wore the signatures of these ages in the form of marks of endless fingerprints created by repeated usage over the years. But, the cynosure of the whole set-up was the maestro himself, the owner of the shop, a middle aged man with thick-framed, black glasses. Even though the business was his, his reluctance to move indicated otherwise. Like the old collection which had amassed a layer of dust, the shopkeeper’s body was rendered rusty by non-usage. And, this was evident from the immense effort which he made trying to get up from the chair (with the visible disgust for the intruders like us who just happened to be there in the shop), to find a book. Even though the book was clearly visible, his discomfort was evident, a sage disturbed from his meditation.
In spite of this wonderful experience Deepak had, their ultimate mission had failed. The shop had stopped stocking the encyclopaedia for the lack of demand as more and more probashi Bengalis resorted to English versions, which were glossier and more marketable.
There are some days in one’s life, which etch out memories for the rest of their lives. That day was one of those days for Deepak. The memories of that day are still green in his mind.
Deepak become nostalgic over these memories of his childhood. He missed his childhood days. But, reality was different. Life is one-way traffic and there is no going back. Experience teaches a boy to become a man. But, with experience, man wants to get his childhood back, but that is the greatest irony of human life.
Deepak’s chain of thoughts was suddenly disturbed by their maid. She wanted to clean the area where he sat. He muttered some abuses under his breath but quietly got up and walked to a different room.
Settling down again with his Supplement page, he wandered back into his nostalgic memories from yesteryear.
Dreaming on about Bengal, he remembered another episode, which took place much later in his life. Deepak was visiting his relatives in the small town of Jalpaiguri in north Bengal. One day, while passing through the main bazaar, he came across digests of Batul, the great (characters from Shuktara, a children’s Bengali magazine). Deepak was really fond of the character and Batul was one of his childhood heros. He couldn’t resist the temptation and ended up buying copies from each of its series available at that time. Unfortunately, after returning to Delhi, he tried several times to lay his hands on future releases of those digests, but did not meet with any success.
Even though the flow of Bengali books and magazines was sporadic, they did manage to leave a mark on his life. But, the non-availability of a continuous source of Bengali storybooks was far more overwhelming. Deepak’s quest for knowledge was boundless and to satiate his desire, he eventually had to succumb to the English alternative. The life of a Probashi had not made things easier either. His only source of books was Bengal, when he went to Bengal. But, the shops from yesteryear have long gone. The ugly face of commercialism shows through erstwhile cultural imperialism. And, unlike in his childhood, Deepak does not frequent Bengal now either--the tornado of socio-economic conditions there has made the situation harder for him.
In spite of this deprivation, Deepak still manages to indulge himself when he can lay his hands on some Bengali literature. He still tries to live his dream--his dream to read about his Bengal, on those lazy afternoons basking under the mild Indian winter sun. Or, simply to be huddled under the comfort of a khaita,( kathaa, a traditional Bengali quilt) or a lep, a quilt on a day with an overcast sky or rain-soaked weather. Like his books, Deepak keeps his dreams close to his heart. Maybe, one day Deepak will eventually return back to his Bengal.
With the last thought, Deepak finished his third cup of tea since morning and finished a wonderful article on rural Bengal by Bill Aitken.
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Is the Grass Really Greener on the Other Side
"Sheryl, we're late. Hurry up, we don't wanna be late," Peter said sarcastically, busy surfing the channels from the living room of the modest flat in the posh area of Golf Green.
"Are Baba, let me put on the lip-liner first," shouted Sheryl from the bedroom while putting the foundation on her face. "I think I'll settle for the L'Oreal. See this shade, it goes so well with this soft matte cocoa shade. Why can't they've a similar collection in Calcutta?"
* * *
Partho-Pratim, known as Peter, had moved to Calcutta following his promotion as VP-Business Development, East Zone.
Both Peter and Sheryl were born and brought up in Delhi and the idea of shifting to Calcutta was not a welcome one. Peter came from an affluent Bengali family. Sheetal, known as Sheryl, was the only daughter of Maj. Daljit Singh, a successful businessman. Sheryl had resisted the move to Calcutta vehemently. The initial few weeks, Sheryl sulked and longed to be back in the comfort of their home in Delhi. But as they got involved socially, the situation changed.
* * *
Pradip with his wife Aparna had moved to England, after landing a job with a software company. Raised in Calcutta, Pradip came from a modest background.
He lived in Ilford, a suburb of London. He wanted to be close to his friends. They had joined the same company. His friends also had a similar background. When Pradip landed in Englands, six of them shared a 3-bedroom house. Pradip's life centred around his friends and the Bengali association. He bypassed the other Indians or Europeans and his social circle was limited to Bengalis only. Not only that, he became frozen in time and mind. Even though he worked in London, his soul lived in Calcutta.
* * *
Pradip and Aparna came to India every year around the X-Mas and their visit to India was always restricted to Calcutta or at most they would go to Lilua to visit their pishi.
The euphoria would begin as soon as their British Airways flight landed. Numerous friends and family would come to the airport to receive them. After the initial hugs and greetings, all of them would try to fit in the ageing taxi of a Sardarji along with the luggage. But in spite of the space shortage, happy faces could be seen greeting them.
Hordes of invitations would start pouring from all over. Meeting with people, shopping for the cheaper clothes, stitching clothes, savouring phuchkas, egg-rolls, a visit to Park Street, all these figured in their ever increasing to-do-when-in-Calcutta list.
However, something striking about them on their visit was their adorned pseudo-British personality. They talked about how great every thing in London was and how everything in Calcutta was bad. It was the same set of people when in foreign land are heart-broken and want to go back to India at the earliest opportunity. But when amongst countrymen in India they detest, denigrate and lampoon the people.
* * *
Bishwajit Banerjee, had been a very close friend of the Rays. And two years back, Bishu befriended the Sens and became their confidante during their transition period. "From Delhi to Calcutta -- the rise and fall and rise again of the Sens," Bishu taunted the Sens. Since Sens had not met the Rays, Bishu thought of introducing the two of his best friends.
The party was to be hosted on the eve of the New Year. And amongst his more than two dozen invitees, the names of the Sens and the Rays appeared prominently.
* * *
Pradip wore his new dark grey suit, recently stitched in Calcutta. Aparna wore her new bomkai, a present from her mother-in-law. She adorned herself with 3 gold chains of different length and design, and a pair of thick gold bracelets. To match, she wore a heavy set of earrings. She had bought the gold bracelet in Dubai. That was three years back, when they had managed to get a cheap flight ticket via Dubai and they had digressed themselves from the usual British Airways flight. That year, they had missed the company of Bengalis who flew from various corners of USA, Canada and UK to go back home.
* * *
Sheryl draped herself in a pastel blue silk sari with a low-cut blouse and a bare back with only few strings holding the piece of cloth. The sari was stylishly tucked to enhance her curvaceous body and the bare midriff.
She wore a hair-thin chain of 9-carat gold with a small diamond and a pair of small diamond earrings.
"You're looking sexy," remarked Peter. "God knows how many people would fall on the floor tonight."
"C'mon, don't be a jerk. Tell me seriously, how do I look?"
"You're looking gorgeous, honey! Now, can we leave? The party started almost an hour back."
The couple left for the party in their emerald green Opel Astra, which was given as an office perk.
* * *
The official time for the party was 1930 hrs and Pradip and Aparna kept up the British tradition of punctuality. They, of course, were the first ones to reach.
"Hey, you guys landed up right on time," exclaimed Bishu "Give us a few minutes to tidy ourselves and we'll join you soon."
"Don't worry. We'll manage ourselves"
Aparna picked up the latest Stardust and Pradip started flipping through the Desh.
* * *
"Kirey, kemon achhish. Tui to ekdom saheb hoye gechis. Mama, ki bepaar bolto," Mr. Ganguly who was a childhood friend of both Bishu as well as Pradip asked Pradip about his well being. Since he had moved to Bangalore, Pradip had lost touch with him.
Meanwhile, Bishu's wife Nandini came and announced that the dance floor was ready and asked her guests to proceed to the dance floor.
Both Aparna and Pradip were taken by a surprise. They had expected a party where people would sit and talk till the early hours of morning. This was a first for them. They'd never been to a dance party before. In fact, all these years, they'd glued themselves to the Doordarshan's hungama with their family and friends.
Bishu introduced Ravi Dutta, a media executive as the DJ for the evening.
The floor was fully done up with flashing lights, strobes, disco lights and on the sides, there was a table that housed some sandwiches, noodles, fries, kebabs, and some other snacks, Jug of Rum-punch and some alcohol brought by the guests.
While people were surveying the floor, Bishu announced the arrival of the Sens.
"Look who is here? Come in Peter. How's goin'?" asked Bishu, "Hi Sheryl, you look stunning, as usual." Sheryl gave a hug to Bishu and Nandini.
Pradip and Aparna also scrutinised the newly arrived guests but not for long. The dislike was almost instantaneous. "Dekhechho, Bhodromohila ki osshobhyer moto dress korechhey," confided the aghast Aparna to Pradip about how shamelessly the woman had dressed.
"Astey bolo. Dekhle ora ashtay-ee, kirokom golai joralo," whispered Pradip about the way they hugged each other. "Era to ekdum ultra-modern."
Suddenly the lights were switched off. The disco lights came on and with a loud bang, the music started.
It was the Venga Boys with their "boom boom boom".
"You must be Pradip. Hi, I'm Peter. And this is my wife Sheryl," Peter introduced themselves.
"Hello (which sounded like mellow), I'm Paddy and this is Ap, my vife," said Pradip. The suddenness of his change of mind towards Anglicisation surprised Pradip himself, as was Aparna.
"I believe, you stay in London " continued Peter, now with a British accent. "It is such a lovely place. The Trafalgar Squah, St. Paul's (like Paws) Cathedral, Leicester Squah..." Peter went on.
"When did you to Lawn-don MishtaarPeetaar?" asked the inquisitive Pradip.
The question startled Peter, a bit. "I've been to Singapore a few times" answered Peter with a marked uneasiness.
"Can you excuse us, we'll go and say hello to the Khannas" said Sheryl, nudging Peter. "We'll catch up with you later."
They hurriedly made their way towards the Khannas to the surprise of the Rays.
* * *
While observing the gyrating bodies, Aparna noticed Mr. Khanna pulling Sheryl on to the dance floor.
Suddenly, Bishu appeared from nowhere and pulled both Pradip and Aparna in a swift movement. Pradip and Aparna had never felt so embarrassed. But, with repeated insisting of others, they started swaying a bit, with slight movements of their body. But the awkwardness of dancing in front of so many onlookers was too much to bear.
Pradip was fuming red and Aparna was almost choked with embarrassment. They moved to the side as soon as the song finished. The crowd cheered them for their performance with a loud applause but for them it looked like a mockery of their inability.
It took a while for them to come back to normalcy. But when back in their senses, they observed Sheryl talking coyly to Mr. Khanna and falling literally on him on almost every joke he cracked. In fact, even Peter was not far behind as he was surrounded by three women. One of them was wearing a skirt with such a long slit that nothing was left for the imagination.
Pradip had only seen this kind of vulgarity on TV and cinemas. Even in England, it was not so common and even then most of them were whites and only at times, few Asians. But somehow, Pradip always referred to them as them, as part of an alien, foreign culture.
But to see something like this in his beloved Calcutta was far worse than his worst nightmares. Somehow, Calcutta always reminded him of culture, of Rabindra-Sangeet, of trams, of people, the city of joy. "When did this cultural invasion take place?" he asked himself.
It was too much for them to bear and left as soon as they saw people kissing and hugging each other, to welcome the New Year.
* * *
It was a long drive back home. They'd seen a Calcutta that night which they couldn't recognise. The so-called modernity of people around baffled them. They couldn't comprehend their westernised life-style.
Why had Peter and Sheryl changed their names to Christian names? And why did some of them put on a British accent while speaking to them as if they did not understand Indian English.
Even in London, he couldn't recall having been invited to a party like this. In fact, none of the people, they mixed with, were like this. He'd never ever touched any of his friend's wives.
* * *
"Are you sure they stay in London?" Sheryl wound down her side of the window.
"Well, I don't know. From their looks, the way they talked, their appearance, they looked so shekeeley, out-dated. They looked like the typical Midnapore crowd. I wonder how do they manage in London," Peter said, taking a turn to get onto the main street.
"Somehow, London and Rays don't go together. Did you notice how awkwardly Paddy danced? And what kind of name was Ap. Ape, I think," Sheryl laughed out loud.
"By the way, how's Anil Khanna doing these days. He seemed to be making moves on you," laughed Peter.
"You don't say things like that, OK. The Krishna amongst gopis, did you notice the way that woman in the black skirt was eyeing you." laughed Sheryl.
Their conversation carried on, till they disappeared in the January mist of Calcutta.
* * *
Calcutta remains the mute spectator of changing lives, of changing culture and of changing people. Some people do not change even after staying away from her and some change even staying with her. I guess there is no simple answer to this question.
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Milk Booth at C.R.Park
Although I never stayed in the colony, I was brought up in a place close enough to identify with Chitta Ranjan Park, C.R.Park for short. C.R.Park was originally designed to accommodate refugees from the erstwhile East Bengal and was known as the EPDP colony for East Pakistan Displaced Persons. It was later named after Chittaranjan Das, the legendary freedom fighter, to distance itself from its sordid historical roots of mass exodus. A pocket of Bengalis in the heart of the Hindi belt and in Delhi, the capital of India, C.R.Park is a shining example of the co-existence of different cultures.
This enclave called C.R.Park started in the early seventies with a handful of Bengalis building houses in a jackal-infested area. It has seen its share of pride and prejudice; over the last three decades it has seen more ups and downs than any other locality in Delhi.
To be a Bengali in Delhi and not know anybody from C.R.Park colony was as rare as a boneless hilsa. C.R.Park was for years dominated by Bengalis (mostly from East Bengal) until the builders started capitalising on the weakness of the community; then Afghan Sikhs, Punjabis, and the rest started encroaching on this Bengali stronghold.
The place has the full spectrum of the Bengali society from the poor to the prosperous, although it is dominated by the middle class. The new breed behind the tinted glasses of cars coexist with the office goers of the bus '541'. It is the story of generations caught up between the editorials of Statesman and the employment opportunities of the Hindustan Times. In short, it is the story of the dilemma of the proud Bengalis as an identity amidst the sea of humanity. C.R.Park is the life story of many of its residents. Their lives changed with C.R.Park as it transformed over time.
Life begins early in the morning for the grandfathers and the grandmothers queuing up for bottled milk along with the often benign presence of the housemaids hailing from Burdwan or Bankura. The unique thing about the queue is that there are some who'd come the previous night or in the early hours of morning and put their mark of presence in the queue with plastic bags or bricks or anything which they can claim to be their's in case of dispute.
Although the queue could be annoyingly long, it is seldom a deterrent for the folks queuing up. It is a re-union of sorts. Every morning the household news gets exchanged between the likes of Mr. Das (retd. 1978) and Mr. Biswas (retd. 1981). And this news for them is crisper and more intriguing than the headlines of the Times of India. In fact, during the discussion, Mr. Basu would prudishly join in with the news about the latest sanction imposed on Iraq by UN. Mrs. Bhattacharya will mention the birth of her grandson in the distant land of US of America with great pride. And Mrs. Nandy will break the news of the marriage of her grandson, a graduate of IIT, to a girl who is pursuing her Ph.D. on Santal tribals from Jadavpur University.
The maid Jyochna (twisted version of Jyotsna) will discuss her household affairs by displaying her gratitude towards the Sahib of the house for helping her send money to her sick father. Kusum Kumari would interject by proudly announcing the arrival of the latest model of Maruti JEN (Zen) at their household; listening to her, one would think it was her car.
It is at this site that you can see the last stronghold of the Bangal dialect of East Bengal. C.R.Park, like its bigger cousin West Bengal, has also given up on preserving its heritage of dialects in the guise of propah cultural upbringing of children. It is at the milk booth -- at this milk booth -- the last bastion of the lungi-clad people, that one experiences the past. Lungi, which was once a sort of national dress, has now paved way to pyjamas or churidars or simply to bermudas in the newer generation.
The whole evolution of man seems to pass in front of these be-spectacled babus of yesteryears.
"The rohu bought from Godai was stale. I henceforth, shall not buy from him," exclaimed retd. Maj. Ghoshal.
"Arey Dada, I've told you a million times that Godai was a scoundrel," retorted Mr. Basak. "Did you know, Jagaa has got a fresh load of Potol."
"Arey eki bolchhen, onar ki potol tolar boyosh hoyechhey," ("what are you saying, is it time yet for him to pick up potols (picking potols is referred to the act of dying in Bengali)") sneered the light hearted Mr. Dasgupta. The banters would give away to serious discussions on the new government's foreign policy.
It is such an extraordinary site to see the existence of a culture a thousand miles away from its roots.
These are the same people who one day had dreamed that India and Pakistan would re-unite again and then they'll go back home. But with time, their hopes have dwindled. Few of them have been able to call C.R.Park home but most of them still despair at the loss of their home for no fault of theirs.
These are the people who, when we meet them at their homes, will fondly recall their days and the stories from their Desh where their country homes are still are. Their Desh has been immortalised in their minds, to be taken out once in a while and to fondly flirt with the nostalgia associated with them.
After leaving their Desh very seldom would any of them have returned to see their land. The Desh is an embodiment of their childhood, of their happy memories, of plenty. And of the supreme sacrifice they made for the sake of others.
Coming back to the milk booth, the atmosphere is one of congeniality and of mutual co-existence. And the daily discussions would go on for a while. Meanwhile, the health conscious sahibs and the bara-babus will pass by without acknowledging the presence of their community as they complete their morning walks, prescribed by their ever-aging family doctor.
The shop-keepers will acknowledge by waking up to face a new day.
Few uniformed school children in their pursuit of a better future would approach the new day giggling and chattering as they wait for their multi-coloured private school buses. The buses would eventually arrive like the Goddess on her ever conquering, ever vanquishing mission and of course with the blaring songs of Vaishno-Devi played by the devout bus driver. The parents or the grandparents or the servants would depart after the bus leaves, each going in a different direction. Their strides, slow at first as if under the effect of their previous goal, soon gain momentum when the remainder of things to be done rings a bell in their earlier absent-mindedness.
The existence of different groups in C.R.Park is quite independent of each other. Each group collects and disperses according to their own system. This happens in front of the people at the milk kiosk. They remain mute spectators of the ever-changing face of the colony. Their silence towards others often reflects their own lives. The grand old people have lived their lives through various phases. For them, this is also a passing phase which will get replaced by another system. They have learned to become immune to change.
It happens on the first of January, it happens on the rainiest day and it happens everyday. People do discuss about the weather but it is the existence of the bigger family outside their homes which brings all these people together.
It is the exchange of stories, ideas and news at the milk-booth that kickstarts the life. The only deterrent in the system is when someone leaves either for another place or for another world. But the missing person continues to be discussed till time itself erases him or her from their collective memory. And this discussion fest is disrupted when the counter opens for the delivery of milk bottles. The calmness of the dawn is disturbed by their new goal of getting the milk bottles.
But the life at the milk booth has changed in the last three decades. People have moved on gradually. Affluence has taken its toll here as well. The presence of the grannies is thinning out day after day. Thanks to over-zealous hawkers, milk gets delivered to teh doorstep.
It is not going to be the same again. Like the crassness of the idiot box that assaults the intimacy within the home, the entreprenurial hawker is killing the culture.
However, life still starts at the milk-booth for a few only to end brusquely, and then to wait anxiously for the next day.
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Desiring a shade of gray
"Some of us don't realize but often we see people who get overwhelmed by their obsession of possessing a relationship. Whether it is parent and a child, between siblings or between partners that this phenomenon can be seen. And the phenomena is usually most vicious when it is between partners" expressed August, pouring a glass of wine for Diana seated at a plush, open air French restaurant under the spell of full moon, casting light on the gentle waves of the Amstel river, on the outskirts of Amsterdam.
"Think about those relationships which gets caged within the confines of jealousy and unyielding possessiveness. Just because one is married, has kids; should not mean that human beings should stop getting enchanted by the seductress. Denying that, is like compromising with the very foundation of human being as a living being" continued August.
Redefining the definitions has been the motto of August Bose throughout his life. Born as Agastya in the Indian Capital of New Delhi, August grew up in an environment, which was fiercely competitive and very unforgiving. It is in those environments that foundations of August's radical views were built trying to survive the ordeals of life. But it was the ruthlessness in his views that made it skewed for some.
Diana on the other hand, was born in a middle class family in the suburbs of London soon after the Beatles era. Grew up with Queen's music, never acknowledging the greatness though but only after Freddie died. Raised in an environment, common for quite a few English homes, alcoholic father, managing mother and a competitive sibling is what her childhood was about. These were the vital ingredients that formed the cornerstones for her character building. She emerged as a strong woman with solid independence.
"How about the morals, the social values?" said Diana.
"Society is defined by us. If you see how the evolution of mankind and the society occurred, you will find great thinkers and workers. Those were the people who would dare to question the authorities and take bold steps defying the society. That is how, society changed. What is considered wrong today may become part of society tomorrow."
"But on the other hand, take for example if you have physical relationship outside the marriage, you'll be cheating your wife. You will be depriving her from exclusivity. No woman can accept this with the right frame of mind" continued Diana "Think of all those exclusive times that you spent together with your wife. You won't be able to have them any longer without the other relationship hovering over you as a guillotine"
Diana had spent most of her adult life through several relationships without any of them materializing for long term. The longest was never more than a couple of years and some of them so short, that they ended before they started, hardly lasting through the week. Her argument was that she couldn't think of spending her entire life with just one person. It was simply boring to its core.
But on the other hand, when she was involved with a person, the exclusiveness had to be hers alone.
August on the other hand, after going through a few momentary lapses of reasoning, got married to his girlfriend of 4 years. Seven years had passed since then.
Diana and August both worked for a big multinational company in Amsterdam. But both had left their homeland for their own reason.
It was a few months after Diana had joined that their paths crossed. The first stone was unturned at a conference on a gloomy Monday afternoon. There was something magical about Diana that attracted August. The wave did not flow in one direction either. August's spontaneity in the discussions had not gone unnoticed.
It started off, with a mild banter. And soon, they were exchanging ideas on radical ways of changing work environments, bringing reforms to the existing situation that would have far-reaching impacts on their day to day working lives. The discussions of course, were interleaved with a fair bit of bitching about their respective jobs and just a wee bit of flirtatious remarks as well. And before enough seasons could pass by, their acquaintance blossomed into a beautiful relationship. One of the most important constituents of their friendship was the openness in their discussion. Their discussions would range from the economic passiveness of the third world countries to the social doctrine followed by intellectuals in the first world. What would otherwise be classified as taboo subject, they could freely discuss them without getting themselves involved in them directly. But their relationship was pure friendship. It may be wrong to say that physical attraction never existed, but they both were conscious about their respective positions. August was a married man and Diana wanted to marry an Englishman. Neither would risk taking a plunge from the fear of destroying the friendship.
"But if the other relationship remains hidden, does not surface. Can't that happen?" questioned August.
"Something in woman tells them what their partners are hiding. The women have a sharp sixth sense, which is focussed all the time on their boyfriends, husbands. The sense can pick their partner's behavior in a party, follow them. Their razor sharp senses can capture even a curling of a finger. The way you hug or kiss can tell a story better than thousand words, it can give away your adulterous adventure" expressed Diana. "The woman has her own reasons for not expressing herself in spite of knowing the truth. "
Diana's last relationship barely lasted a week. It was a German boy, a good athletic body but not enough intellectual power to stimulate Diana's imagination. Diana in no time threw the relationship outside the window of her 7th floor apartment in the form of ashes produced by the smoldering of a week old paper. From dust to dust, ashes to ashes; no love was lost on this one.
Human beings lead a dual life, one is their animal self which feels cold in winter nights, feel hungry when smell food and get attracted when sees beautiful creations of nature. A hormone based natural system giving them a feel of desire.
On the other hand, to differentiate themselves from animals, humans laid down rules and regulations in the form of morals, values and society that led to creation of civilizations. The civilized society was characterized by creation of families, marriages, and relationships. And yet there were divorces, murders, breakups, family feuds, which cast a dark shadow on the basic foundation on which civilization, is based. The irony is, with the progress of mankind, the rate of break-ups and divorces have been on the increase as well. Human beings created clothes from the barks of the trees and the hides of wild animals to protect them from the forces of nature. The same clothing became the reflection of their standing in the society and became the garb of shame. And it is exactly, the same clothing which thousands of people are shedding on the numerous nude beaches in the different parts of the world.
"If you don't get enough excitement in the marriage why don't you get away from it. It is your life after all and you will not live forever." Diana mentioned to August.
"But I love my wife and I truly want to spend the rest of my life with her" answered August, the more traditional of the two. "It is not a common practice for Indians to let go off marriages so easily. Marriage for me is far more important than relinquishing physical and emotional desires. Marriages are based on the concept of re-aligning two individuals rather than compromising to stay together. Marriage is a meaningful symbiosis and not a parasitic malaria."
"I understand that. But at the same time, you are talking about desires outside marriage."
"But why not? What is wrong with that? And as you so often mention, in life there is no black and white but shades of gray. So, why can't this be classified as a shade of gray as well."
But strangely, Mother Nature had different designs in her mind. She was trying to do what the two individuals were trying to avoid. The glory of full moon was casting its romantic spell on the two individuals, trying to club them as pupil of cupid. And the special vintage selection, Bordeaux wine added flowers of acceptability to the couple. The intellectual stimulation was putting its little feet in their Garden of Eden.
"I can't imagine having a physical relationship without emotionally getting involved with the person. For me making love and having sex means the same. There can be no sex without love" expressed Diana
"But how can that be? Making love comprises two individuals intimately involved with each other; with their body, their mind, their emotions and their soul. Whereas having sex is like having food when you feel hungry; wearing clothes when you feel cold. It is simply sufficing a biological need"
"How can there be a difference, when a woman can't but help getting emotionally involved when having a physical relationship. And when she gets emotionally involved, it becomes making love. On the other hand, if she does not get involved emotionally then she does not want to be a part of the relationship. So, if there is sex without love, then it is crude example of a rape" replied Diana with her voice rising.
Changing tones, Diana continued "On the other hand as far as physical relationship outside marriage is like the forbidden fruit. Unless you have tried it, you don't know whether you have missed something or not. And the only way, you could find out is by trying it. But once, you have tried it, it might destroy your whole life. "
"But can't the fruit be had, without throwing the life into shambles?"
"You can find out, if you are ready to sacrifice one relation for the sake of the other. There is always a chance that your marriage may not survive and then you have to move to the other relationship. So, if you are ready to take that chance you surely can try."
"But if I somehow can manage to hide it"
"Even walls have ears. What makes you certain that the other person involved will not let it out? How can you be sure? Secondly, as I had mentioned, your wife can make out the difference. Forget everything else. Do you really think that you will not feel guilty or remorseful about the episode? Your guilt may come back years later to haunt you. There are far too many variables and not all may be under your control."
A long time seem to pass before either of them spoke. Both of them pondered on their discussions. August was battling with his thoughts but he could see the weight of Diana's arguments as well. Whereas Diana pondered on what she wanted and what she could have. The elements in their discussions were as hypothetical as they could have been real.
Diana shifting gears, eventually broke the silence and started all over again, "You know, there is a special attraction about married men. It is a sort of an enigma. And remains forbidden for others to share. The allure can be like playing with fire and often people get burnt"
Their discussions it seemed had got caught in a labyrinth, with none of them knowing where the exit was. Both of them talked in riddles through the evening and the night but could not reach any conclusion.
The interlude carried on till the wee hours of the morning. Their mystery remained unsolved when they left for their respective homes. Even after the entire night, they could not allow themselves to be taken over by their physical desires. Somehow, the pleasing shirt or the beautiful hair could not ruffle their beliefs. Mother Nature, herself had to bow in front of their strength of characters. Some questions remained answered, but without those answers neither would rush into it. As they say, "Wise men think, only fools rush in".
They started the evening with black and white slates but ended up smudging it to shades of gray.
"Something are better left to be desired but not be had," will remain with them forever.
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