An American Life

In my first visit itself, I had been impressed by the single most fundamental character of the American society – the freedom and flexibility it provides to an Individual for choosing his or her life. I am aware of the fact that America is a big country and my observation is limited to only one of its states. It is also true that the spectrum of opportunities vary from rich to poor, among different races and colors. Yet, my conviction got stronger in my subsequent visits to that country through my interaction with different persons there.  Incidentally, my first trip to USA was also my very first in any country outside India. As a consequence, during the whole period of my stay, I had been carrying the excitement of a discoverer of a new world, and what a wonderful experience it was for me! After two and a half months, when I came back home, I not only enriched myself with new knowledge and experiences in my own domain of academics and research, but I left also a few friends behind, whom I longed to meet again, and who influenced my views and understanding of the West.  Ingeborg Comstock was one of them. I rented a room in her house during my visit.  My host Sanjit-da (Prof. Sanjit Mitra) told me, “You are fortunate to get a room for such a short visit.  Usually rooms are occupied by graduate students. The rent is also fairly reasonable, in fact, cheaper compared to the market rate. Your landlady is a remarkable person.”  Indeed she was. Ingeborg, around 74 years’ old then, lived alone on her own.  She was suffering from cancer on her hipbones. A few weeks before my arrival, she went through painful chemotherapy sessions. Unless she tells you, you would never know that she was bearing such a pain, that too all alone in her house. She was engaged in all the routine house-hold work with a smile on her lips. If you were a keen observer, you might have noticed that while walking, she was careful enough to put her every step on the ground. She used to walk slowly.   

On the first day of my arrival, I had a quick lesson from Sanjit-da for settling myself in the new environment. In fact he took all the possible trouble and care for the task. He himself received me at the LA airport after waiting a long hours of my immigration check, took me to lunch and brought me to Ingeborg’s house at Goleta, which was about two and half hours drive from LA.  After putting my luggage there, immediately we went for shopping for my daily essentials. He took me to a departmental store, showed how to get different items from its aisles, and introduced to me to different kinds of fast foods kept in a freezer, which were meant for heating and eating only. So that evening after my dinner at Sanjit-da’s house, when I returned to my new place of stay, I was totally exhausted and straight away went to the bed.  Next morning, I had to rush to the University. I got up early and was looking for preparing my breakfast in the kitchen. The kitchen was common to all four of us. There were electric stoves and a microwave oven.  I was planning to make bread-toasts and heat a cup of milk. I needed also to pack sandwiches, fruit, yogurt and juice for my lunch. So, I was looking for the utensils on the racks, and also examining the ovens to know how to operate. I did not notice, when and how Ingeborg stood behind me and was smiling at me.  I greeted her, “Good morning, Mrs. Comstock!”

She answered back, “Good morning!”, and then apologetically told me, “Your name is very difficult to pronounce. But I must try. Please spell it to me.”

I told her, “You may use a short form.”

“No, No. I would like to get the full word.”  

After a few trials she could get my name. Through out my stay she never faltered again, but was always careful to pronounce every syllable distinctly. Then she told me, “Call me Ingy! That’s what others also address me.” 

She showed me then how to use ovens, the places where utensils were kept, the system of throwing trash, the washing machine kept in her garage.  Finally she introduced me to her two pet cats, Pontam and Comura. She said to me, “Meet these two – a gentleman and a lady.  The lady’s name is  Comura, a pure Siamese breed. She is quite shy. She may ignore you all the time. But, Pontam, the gentleman, may try to draw your attention.”

My first day in the University went very fast as I was anxious to settle to my work place with the arrangement of the computer, and restoring my archived data and program in it.  In the mean time I was also getting introduced with other members of Sanjit-da’s lab. Some were visitors like me, and some were MS and PhD students. I was introduced to a few of the faculty members of the Department.  In the evening, when I came back to my new house, I found that the front door was closed and pressed the door bell.  But there was no response from inside. I did it for a few more times. Then I thought that Ingy must have gone for a walk nearby.  I guessed that among her tenants, I was the only person, who came back so early. My other two house-mates, Shan and Aaron, were PhD students, who should be busy enough to spend long working hours in the University. It was quite true. Though I could meet Shan in holidays or in the morning hours (and we became very good friends there after), hardly had I met Aaron during my stay. Anyway, I came to the drive way and started looking for Ingy. She was indeed found around. She was cutting hazes from her premise, which were stretching their branches to the sidewalk. She looked pretty tired and exhausted of her work. By drawing a deep breath she told me, “These are to be cut. Otherwise I may face a penalty for neglecting this work.”

I offered my help to her, but she refused by saying, “I am almost done.”

I asked about the key of the door. She got surprised, “Oh! It is open. Just push it and enter. We never lock the front door.”

“Even at night?” I was confused.

She smiled, “Even at night. Not only that front door, none of the doors, including yours, has any more key. Probably they are lost. But don’t worry. Nothing had happened in my house last thirty seven years or so.”

I never thought of cooking during my stay. I had a full week’s ration of frozen semi-cooked stuff for my dinners. But after two days, I could not simply tolerate their smell and threw all of them to the trash-bin. I requested Ingy, whether I could try my experiments with her microwave oven. I preferred it over regular oven, as I considered it would require minimum manual intervention, as well as washing would be easier. She was hesitant. But I showed her that in the microwave’s front panel there were controls for cooking different items including rice and boiling vegetables. She agreed though it seemed with some reservation. She also gave me the manual of the microwave oven on my request. The fact is that I was also quite nervous to see how it would go. This was the first time I was using a microwave oven. However, I was too desperate to get something eatable to my taste. Fortunately, it clicked. By trial and error, I could get the right combinations of power and time for preparing a few items of my choice. My constraint was that there were no Indian stores nearby. I had to get everything from American stores. But I was happy with my limited options, of rice, red lentils, eggs and a few vegetables, mostly boiled or fried in the microwave. I was thrilled with my innovation. Like every cook, I also got impatient to demonstrate my skill to others, and who could be a friendlier critic than a person who had the least idea of Bengali food. So I invited Shan and Ingy during lunch in one week end for a treat of my indigenous preparations. Shan readily agreed.   But Ingy was initially reluctant. She told, “Chemotherapy has destroyed my taste buds. I do not wish to eat at all.” I told her, “You may try them for a change. This may help you regain your appetite.” She finally agreed to take a little of my preparation. As usual, appreciations were duly received. Shan’s observation was brief,  “It’s good.” Ingy was careful enough to take the pieces of peppers out of the dish.  Soon Shan and Ingy reciprocated. Shan made a Chinese preparation of pork in one week end. Ingy made salads of avocadoes, and boiled spinach. In one afternoon, she treated me with boiled artichoke and taught me how to peel its petals, and savor its lower part with a tip of mionese.  Her garden had an apricot tree, which was full of fruits by then. In one week, she picked a good number of them and served us delicious apricot pie. Soon she became comfortable with my preparations and we used to dine together almost every evening. After our dinner, we used to chat, and sometimes played a few games of backgammon, which she taught me once.

Ingy was a great fan of tennis and golf.  She would never miss a match of Wimbledon, which was being played during my stay. She also liked to read fictions. She introduced me to the world of Tolkien and gave me those hobbit-trilogies to read. She got quite surprised to know that I had not read three volumes of Harry Potter, which created a sensation world wide by then. However, in India, Harry Potter was yet to catch the imagination of our kids. Ingy loved to read those books, and was impatiently waiting for the release of its fourth sequel.  On the day of its release, three of us, Shan, Ingy and I, went to the book-store to get a copy of it. Ingy wore the gown of a witch and gave me a magician hat to wear on. It was fun to see happy faces of all those kids and grownups with their Halloween dresses at the book stores.  Sometimes in the week end, we used to go nearby places. Shan also joined our party. In fact in all such trips, he took us in his car. We visited the Mission Church, on the occasion of the Memorial Day. There an Italian street painting festival (called ‘i madonnari’) was being held. We also visited Solvang, a small Danish settlement, famous for its bakery and crockery. One morning, we went to the botanical garden, which had a fine display of flora and fauna of California.  Ingy told me about her life on various such occasions. She told me about her parents, her sons and sometimes mentioned about her husband, who divorced her long before. From her, I could get a few glimpses of American life, which truly amazed me and made a lasting impression in my mind.  Below I provide a few excerpts of her memoirs.

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She told me how her parents and family members migrated from Germany to USA.  She said, “My father, Rudolf  Henry Meling, was an accomplished carpenter. He used to make home interior furniture and other wooden stuff. My uncle, Rio, was also a carpenter. He came to San Francisco after the earth quake, as there was huge demand of wood work for reconstruction of the city. My mother’s sister also came to San Francisco around that time. They could make a little property there.  Father worked in German army during the First World War. Immediately after the war, Germany’s economy was in a shambles. During that period, in the year 1926, my parents came to San Francisco. I was born there. My mother wanted to call me ‘Theodora’ - ‘Theo’ from my father’s name and ‘Dora’ from my mother. American nurses in the hospital gave me an American name in which those two parts were punctuated and put into a reverse order - ‘Dorothy’. But later my parents changed my name to Ingeborg. After coming here father started his business of making wooden staircases. It was running well.  Then, looking at the improvement of US economy, my father hoped the same for the Germany also. So he sold his business and took us back to Germany with him.  I was three years’ old then. My mother used to say that I did not want to talk in German at all. All the time I used to speak in English.  We did not even stay for a full year in Germany. There was no improvement in German economy during that year. Moreover, the society was going through the turmoil of political anarchy. My father decided to come back to USA again. I never asked my parents, why we came back here. The question never occurred to me in my young age. Later, I did not have the opportunity to ask him.”

Ingy also told me about the days of initial struggle of her parents after their return from Germany, “We went through a lot of hardship and a period of economic uncertainty after our return. Though, my parents tried their best to keep us well fed and nicely dressed. We had very little idea about what was going on.  Those were the years after Great Depression. For two years my father had no job. My mother was working then at a food-store. The family was dependent on her income. After a few months, mother had a fairly good amount of knowledge and experiences for running such a store. She took a loan from a German lady and started her own business. Her business was doing well. Our family got the stability. In the beginning of the Second World War, the navy needed carpenters for building ships. My father got a job there. He was there till the end of the war. In the mean time, my mother sold her business. She wanted to spend more time with us.

At the end of the war, father came back, and once again started his business of carpentry. He used to get many customers, who were looking for new designs of fancy home furniture. One day while working on a roof of a single storied building my father fell from the top. He was badly injured, and had broken his legs. For three months he had to be bed ridden. We thought that he would never be able to walk. But he had a strong determination. He used to do all sorts of exercises to move his feet, and later used to walk in his room with the beats of marching songs.  When my father joined the rehabilitation center for physically handicapped persons, the management there recognized his skill for carpentry. They employed him for training others the workmanship of wood crafts. My father was quite aged then. Still he took this job with a firm commitment and great liking. Everyday he used to go there formally dressed, and taught his students passionately. From there my father retired from his job.

After his retirement, my parents went back to Germany, and lived in their ancestral house.  Every two years they used to visit USA to protect their citizenship here. Second time when they came here, one day my elder sister rang me, and requested to take father from her place. He was suffering from a bad headache. As the kids were making noise at her place, it had been becoming very painful for him to sleep. My mother was visiting one of our relatives then. I went to my sister’s place, and took father to a near-by hospital for a check up. The doctors there looked very concerned, and informed us that the condition of the patient was quite serious. He needed to be admitted immediately. Next day on their advice, we brought my mother there.  Till he was conscious, my father passed all the details of his property and stocks to my mother. He had invested in many good companies. That is why after his death, my mother did not face any economic hardship.  She continued her visit to USA every two years, and lived a full life. Unfortunately my father went quite early. He could not enjoy his life after retirement. He was only sixty five then. That was in the year 1965.”

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Ingy was proud of her two sons, “They are now established. But they worked hard for it. As a person, both of them are gentle, kind, sensitive and good at heart. At times, they had to take critical decisions on their professions and personal life.  When my younger son was graduated from his high school, he almost decided not to go for higher studies ever. It was around 1972 or 1973. We were fighting in Vietnam. Most of the boys in our neighborhood were opposing the war. The Government could get volunteers from neighboring villages, mostly from families living on farming. My elder son was also supposed to join the army.  Fortunately, somehow, he managed to get a reprieve. Of course, the younger was not of that age, and did not face the similar trauma. From his childhood he was fond of gardening.  During that period, people were becoming increasingly interested in decorating their gardens with local plants and flowers. My younger had a passion of hiking over the mountains around. While trekking, he collected varieties of seeds of wild plants, and grew them into saplings in my garden. My garden was full of such small pots containing those saplings. He often sold them in local nurseries. Besides gardening, he had another hobby – to build wooden houses. At the backside of my house, he built a wooden storehouse for keeping the tools and material for his work. He also built a tree house, and used to chat with his friends there. One day, all on a sudden there was a fire on it. It reached to our door steps. That evening I was having guests in my house for the dinner.  When we came out, we saw smoke all around. We called them loudly. They were still in the tree house and came out one by one with caution. I also rang the fire brigade. However, before its arrival, with the help of my neighbors we could control the fire. From his young ages, my younger son used to put someone as his ideal, and he followed his every advice and action devotedly.  So if the person betrayed his expectation, he would get hurt deeply.  When he was in his middle school, one of his teachers planned for staging a drama on “Alice in wonderland”. My son participated with great enthusiasm and interests. He took the role of “Tweedledee”.  But after a few rehearsals, for some reason the idea of holding the drama was dropped. My son got so disappointed and angry! He was practicing hard then – all the time imitating the voice of Tweedledee. His all efforts got vanquished by a single decision of the adults.

One of my husband’s friends had the knowledge of carpentry. My younger son joined him for learning to build wooden houses. When his teacher got an assignment at LA, he took my son with him. My son spent three years there. Then one morning, he came back, and was reflecting on his next course of action. I suggested him to go to one of my friends, who was a professor of English, and who could enthuse others to go for higher studies. The day he visited him, my friend gave him the form for admission to our city college. Next day he took admission. For five years he studied in that college, and did various course work. His interest in his studies grew rapidly. At the end, he used to demonstrate other students different laboratory experiments.  There he developed his passion for Biology, in particular in Botany. Next he completed two years of graduation at UCSB in Botany.  From the UCSB he joined the PhD program at University of Utah. Even after completion of PhD he had to be there for some months. He was not getting an assignment of his liking. Once he got a faculty position in a new University at Nevada. But he was against working in a state, which is run mostly by the earnings from gambling. After some times, he got a position in an independent research laboratory in the campus of Cornell University at Ithaca. Of course, he has to arrange his salary on his own by attracting research grant from different agencies.  He has to write different proposals to these organizations, and if they get approved, then only his monthly salaries for a few years are ensured. Presently he is busy writing such a proposal. He is also an adjunct professor in the University, for which he has to take a few lectures per week and students are also permitted to do project under his supervision.”

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Ingy was fond of her daughter-in-law, and told me how her son got married to her.

“My younger son’s wife is a specialist in green house. She works in the same University, and her responsibility is to maintain their green houses. Two years back, she went to Europe to provide consultation on green houses there. She has a pretty large family – a number of sisters, almost all of them married twice, and having close bonds with their family members. My son met her during his stay at the University of Utah, and married her around ’90-91.  During the ceremony, my husband and I were the only two persons representing from the side of the groom. My elder son was accompanying his brother on the dais as his best friend.  In contrast, the number of members of bride’s family was more than sixty. So during the oath taking ceremony, when the bride asked the assembly of her family, whether they agree to the marriage, there was a great uproar, cheers, and laughter after wards. When our turn came, we shouted to our best to match them. It was really a great fun.

Initially my daughter-in-law was reluctant to go to Ithaca. She did not want to leave her house at Utah, where she spent her previous ten years with her three kids from her first marriage. My son convinced her by nicely summing up that the house where they would stay would become her home. They came to Ithaca and searched for a house. My daughter-in-law got some money by selling her house at Utah. They used all of it for buying a new house there. It was to avoid paying the capital tax on the sale. They wanted to stay close to the University. But they bought an interesting small house a bit far away from it.  The builder of this house did not follow any existing plan of an architect. The main attraction of this house is a twelve acres land around it. There my son grows vegetables, and his wife cultivates flowers.  They are quite happy there. My son made a mark in his research area. He is a member of NSF, and review proposals submitted to the foundation.  My daughter-in-law initially faced problem in getting the right job. Ithaca is a University centric city. Not many opportunities are there. First she was working as a specialist of cultivation of flowers, but could earn little. Then she got an employment in teaching gardening to school kids.  Finally, she got a call from the University, as it was looking for a person to maintain its green houses.  After going through her bio-data, the Director of the University himself gave the appointment. I wished to be with them. But, I could not go there for last two years. I have become too weak to travel far.”

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Ingy also talked about her elder son, “He has been an idealist since his childhood. He was always calm and quiet, not so lively like his brother.  But they had one similarity. He also did not go for higher studies immediately after his graduation from the high school. He was totally devoted to music. My husband was always cross with him, as he was not favoring his obsession.  So as soon as my son turned eighteen, he left the house and rented an apartment in Santa Barbara. The days were not easy for him. How could you earn money just by singing at that age?  Whatever job he got, he used to do it to meet his expenditure – at least to pay the rent and telephone bill. Number of times I also paid his telephone bills. In between, he went to Toronto, Canada and worked to repair and maintain swimming pools. Still today I am not sure what kind of job that was. He thought of settling there. But, in one winter all on a sudden he came here with his four Canadian friends. He was still then an obsessed musician, leading a life like vagabond. When he was around thirty, one day a string of his guitar got torn. The electrical system of the instrument also got so damaged, that it became ineffective. He got quite upset, and became desperate to mend his favorite guitar, but could not get any help. Then he had a strange idea - to learn electrical engineering and   mend his guitar.  Well!  He may not be pragmatic always, but he is passionate. So he took admission in the city college and did different course work, which would help him to get an admission in the Electrical Engineering program of the University.  He developed so much interest in his subjects, that he started teaching mathematics to his juniors. He could earn more than what he used to get previously.

At the age of thirty four, he took admission in Electrical Engineering in the University. He had to take loan for paying his tuition fees. He did his Masters at the age of thirty nine and joined National Semi Conductor in the Bay Area. He was advised to do PhD, but he preferred to work. He left Santa Barbara unwillingly. He was in that company for five years. Now he moved to a new venture of one of his friends. He has to work a lot. He could not get much time for his music. Only in his leisure period, he sings on his own on a guitar. He also has another hobby – charting stars in the night sky. He has a very powerful telescope, and knows how to operate it.  My elder son often visits me. Now I think his relation with his father is eased out. He meets his father, whenever he is in the town.”

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Ingy told very little of herself. She was married around 1948 and the newly wed couple went to Germany. There they remained for a year or two. Then her husband came to Princeton for doing PhD.  She told me, “While we were at Princeton, I used to see Einstein having a stroll on the road. I would try to draw attention of my kids toward him by saying, look, who is walking?” After his PhD her husband took a faculty position. They came to Santa Barbara in the year 1963.  In between they spent a year or two in England and had wonderful times together. However, slowly their relationship got estranged due to an affair of his husband and around 1970, they were divorced. After the divorce, her husband moved to a new house, and married again. Ingy retained their family home as a part of the agreement. She had to struggle in her initial years. Before her divorce, she did not think about joining any profession. She took training on nursing, and had been working as a professional nurse since then, till she has been diagnosed cancer in 1998.  Once she told me, “I have no regret in my life. I am fortunate to live in a wonderful period. I saw the development and growth of my country. I experienced the changing lifestyle with the technological progress and modernization.  I always marvelled at new inventions and discoveries, and enjoyed their fruits of success.”

 On my day of return to India, she came to see me off at the Goleta bus stand, and told me, “You must be very eager to meet your family in India. I am very glad to see your excitement of meeting your son and wife. Your stay in my house was brief, and sadly for me, it went very fast. Before you came here, I was so weak. I had no taste, and was not confident about my movement. But surprisingly I gained my weight, and also regained my appetite. Thank you very much for your company. Do write to me.”

I was glad that she said all those kind words. I also thanked her, and suggested whether she could manage   to continue with my recipe on her own. Sanjit-da, who was also present, told her, “I am planning to bring him every summer. You may see him next year.”   Ingy smiled, and bid me good bye.

That was the last time I saw her. She lived only a few more months after I left, and died in the first week of May next year. I went to Santa Barbara next summer too.  Her memorial service was being held on the day I reached there. Immediately after my arrival, Sanjit-da took me to her house. We paid our homage to the life of this remarkable lady.

12/11/2011

Bhashaan

Sayanti requested me, “Uncle, why don’t you join us?” Sayanti is the daughter of my friend Shyamal. She was a student of tenth grade and her mother had complained me that she had been obsessed with her exams and overstretching herself with study and home-work.  I expected Sayanti to be a bookish and sheepish kid. Instead I found her very jolly and lively. So when I turned down her invitation, stating that I had to return home early, she had a queer expression on her eyes, a mix of surprise and disappointment. I went there to meet my old school mates. Shyamal was one of them. Two of my other friends, Swarnendu and Aloke, were also core organizers of the event. They were busy with the preparation of Bhashaan (immersion) of Goddess Kali. Like many other clubs in my home town, my friends’ club also organizes Durga and Kali Pujas (Two popular Hindu autumn festivals in Bengal held three weeks apart) every year. In that evening, they and other members of the club with their family and relations assembled there to take part in the procession, which would carry the idol to the river, and immerse her into its depth. After many years, I was in my home-town during Kali Puja and could meet my friends on such an occasion. I had a pretty good idea about this kind of procession. The idol would be placed on a matador (a type of motor-van). A generator would be carried on separately on a rickshaw-van to provide power to high-beam incandescent-lamps, which would illuminate the idol and also a section of the procession, where all kinds of people, drunk or sober would dance at the beats of the marching drummers (called Dhulis in Bengali).  There would be high volume of music, usually the most recent popular Hindi song with catchy tune and beats.  In my younger days, I took part in such processions, mostly by managing the crowd, for a while by dancing with my friends. Usually these were gala events during the immersion of Goddess Durga. In those evenings, the main road of our town, which runs across it like its spine, would be completely blocked for any other traffic. Only the processions from different clubs for the purpose of Bhashaan were allowed to move on the road. Along the sidewalks, for a stretch of about two kilometers, there would be gathering of spectators in thousands. Sometimes a casual onlooker from the crowd would step down from the platform of the footpath and exchange greetings with their friends in a procession, by dancing and embracing.  However, the whole affair was an all male affair, where females were the passive spectators of the celebration. The road, on which the processions moved, shares a part of it with the bank of the river Ganges.  All such processions were used to cover that stretch. Their final destination was always the place, where the river turns away from the road. Usually the immersion would take place there, as it was easier to push the idol into the water from that spot. Nevertheless the job required strong muscle power. It used to involve eight to ten persons to lift the idol on their shoulder. Then they would have to make a few rounds carrying the load, and at the same time, maintaining their balance on slanted concrete base of the river-bank (for protection of soil erosion). Finally, the ritual was completed by lowering the idol gently into the river.

Compared to Durga Puja, the Bhashaan of Kali Puja was used to be a low-key event. But the procession itself had the similar characteristics. In this case, it was unusual to have the sidewalks crowded with enthusiastic onlookers. If there was any, most likely the person was out in the street for a different reason. The road was also free for ongoing vehicle. So a major task of the organizers was to guide the procession without obstructing the moving vehicles. However, the whole event would run till midnight. That was the reason for my unwillingness to be part of the party. But, after looking at Sayanti’s disappointment, I felt the guilt of a deserting soldier from the battle zone. So I decided to join them.  

Our town was a small place. In our boyhood, we used to know almost every school going boys of our ages and meet regularly to play at different play grounds. We grew in this town with our clubs. There we played games like soccer, cricket or volley-ball almost daily, hold dramas and musical evenings on the occasion of Rabindranath’s or Najrul’s birthday, celebrated Durga and Kali Pujas, hoisted flags in the morning of independence day, observed Netaji’s birthday, organized sports for young and old,  and were involved in many such activities round the year. Even when we were kids of seven or eight without any serious association of a club, together with a few of my friends we formed our own fictitious sect with a set of rules and observance to our playful events.  My association with Aloke was from such early days.  As we grew older, Aloke started taking lead role in organizing various club activities. In fact, with his shrewd leadership, the club in our village could acquire a playground of its own and got registered eventually. This was the time when we started our college education. However, due to conflict of several interests, very soon, he found himself isolated in that club. So he withdrew himself from it and joined the present one.

It took a few hours to prepare for the final march with the Goddess. The idol was brought out from the pandal (the temporary place of worship during the celebration) and placed on a platform facing it.  Then it was the turn for the married women to perform the baran of the Goddess. The ritual was meant for bidding farewell to her, though for some reasons, the event is called baran, which literally means ‘to welcome’. There was a makeshift staircase, riding which the ladies could reach the Goddess. They greeted her by offering sweets on her lips and tongue. They also pasted the red vermilion (called ‘sindur’ in Bengali) on her forehead. One of the ladies took quite some time to perform this ritual. Like a priest, she slowly waved her folded hands in a circle in front of the idol. She repeatedly carried on same action holding different items and then greeting the Goddess with them. Finally, when all the ladies were done with the event, they played with each other by throwing and pasting vermilion against their faces. Then they started making fun with the men, who were present there, by putting vermilion on their foreheads and cheeks. We also could not escape the attack. I was having a chat with Swarnendu and Aloke and was watching the proceedings. First Shyamal’s wife came and put a decent red tilak (a short vertical line segment centrally placed on the forehead) on us. Then the lady priest caught us. My cheeks became red with her blessings. Swarnendu was the most pathetic. His dresses also got anointed with the blood-red powder.  The kids were also not left out from the fun. Aloke’s daughter came to him complaining about his cousin brother, who was chasing her with the powder. Aloke told, “What is your plan?” She showed him her two bloody palms, and said, “Now it is my turn.” 

When the Goddess was about to be moved up the matador, I noticed that someone was covering the pandal by drawing a curtain, while a lamp was burning inside. On my query, Aloke replied, “No one would have the courage to enter that empty space tonight. This is a ritual from tantra (a set of practices and rituals for worshippers of Goddess Kali). We are following this custom for long.”

I asked, “Is it not dangerous to keep the lamp burning within that premise out of everyone’s sight?”

He said with conviction, “Nothing would happen. Nothing had happened. This is what faith is. You see that boy, Uttam. He donated the thakur (the idol) this year. It means that within a year he is expected to get a job. That happened for each of us, for last forty years. So we have the tradition of getting the idol every year from one of the unemployed youths of our club. It is to be considered a great honor for the boy. He looks forward for this opportunity in his life time.”

Aloke was an avid reader of Bengali literature and essays. He was also a good student in his school days. After the higher-secondary examination, he got admission into a medical college of Kolkata. But, he became so actively involved in the politics of student union, that he could not continue his study and left the college after two years. Then he did his graduation in a general stream. Whenever I used to come to this town, I was a regular visitor to his house. His room was in the roof top, from where we could have lovely views of the river. He fitted a hammock in his room, and I used to enjoy its swing, occasionally used to have a puff on a deshi tobacco strip (called Biri in Bengali), and watch the slow moving ships across the horizon. The river in our town is so wide that its other side offers only a view of dotted horizon. In our sessions, we were absorbed in all kinds of discussion with our youthful dream and interpretation of our own world. In late eighties, Aloke joined the government service after clearing the PSC (Public Service Commission) examination. Around late-nineties, I came to know that for some personal reason, he had left the town with his family and built a house on his own near Kolkata. Since then hardly we met. In fact, we might be meeting after a gap of fifteen years. His father died two years ago. So he took additional responsibility for looking after the family property. His father was a rich man. But he was a very simple hearted person. He started from a very poor condition and through his diligence made a considerable property in our town. He had a business on making iron grills and gates for buildings. However, in later years, he gave up his business to his workers and engaged himself in farming, which involved a wholesome activity of cultivation, fishery, dairy, poultry, etc. Presently Aloke is taking care of his father’s farm and visiting the town more often in the week ends and holidays.

I noticed that Shyamal was standing in front of the deity by riding on the high platform. He was keenly observing the idol and sometimes he was touching her, as if to pick something from her body. I asked Aloke what he was doing.

“He is removing the gold ornaments from the Goddess.”

“Real gold! Do you put them on the idol every year?” I was surprised.

“Oh! There are quite a few of them! Those, who got jobs after donating the thakur, gave these ornaments to her.” Swarnendu replied.

I thought, having ornaments for a deity could only be a custom for temples, or private house-holds. So I wanted to know how they manage to keep them in a safe custody.

Aloke explained, “During Kali Puja, donors themselves give those ornaments to the organizers, and the Goddess is decorated with them. After the puja, they are returned to the donors.”

“In fact, there were more in the past. Now we have only a few.” Swarnendu added.

“What happened to them? Were they stolen?” I asked.

“A sort of. Some of our members put charges against us for stealing ornaments of Goddess.” Aloke smiled mischievously.

“How come?” I wondered.

“Oh! It was dirty politics.” Swarnendu commented with a dejected voice.

Then Aloke narrated the incident. I am providing a summary of it in his own words.

---

“It was the time when the CPM (then the ruling left party of the state) was trying to take control of local clubs. One day, a very powerful leader of the state committee of the party came to us and suggested to convert our small club house into a three storied grand palace. The ground floor would remain to us. The middle part would be a conference room and the top floor would function as their party office. With folded hands, I said to him, “Dada (Sir)! We are habituated in taking simple food on banana leaves. But, we enjoy our meals. We do not want to eat  Rajbhog (a typical Bengali sweet, or etymologically ‘a feast offered by the King’) from golden plates by sacrificing our freedom.”

The leader went with a grudge and then some of our club members including the then vice chairman of the municipality, who were also party cadres, started pushing the agenda. Many of them were the office bearers and went on creating pressure using local administration. A few of us were getting odd calls from the officer-in-charge (OC) of our police station. Even the Sub-divisional Police Officer (SDPO) got interested in this affair and tried to coerce us in agreeing their proposal. But we did not relent. Then some of them indirectly threatened me for my life. I simply caught hold of a few  and flatly told them to go ahead with their plan, if they were bold enough to become so mean and low.  Finally, when they found that majority of us would not relent at all, they threatened with law-suits. You know, I also did left politics in my early days.  I had a fairly good idea, what kind of manipulation these people could do.  I knew where the notebook of minutes of the meetings was kept.  I removed it immediately from that place and kept it with me so that no one could change those minutes. Finally, we had a lengthy meeting with them in presence of their lawyers. All of them tried to convince us about the rights of the executives, which were written in the club constitution. They placed all sorts of arguments, and had almost convinced most of us. Then I played my card. I told them, “If there are rules in the club-constitution, there are also rules for amendments. How are you sure that the executives are given rights to take such a decision which most of us do not subscribe? Show me the minutes of the general body (GB) where the construction and all those proposals were approved?”  They started looking at each other. I produced the minutes from my pocket and showed them that it was clearly resolved by the GB that no such action would be permitted and if they require changing this decision, they need to call again a GBM. So they lost. Even those experienced lawyers could not utter a single word after that. This was the time, when they became nastier. They charged a few of us for stealing the ornaments of Goddess Kali, which they themselves have in their custody. That is the custom here. Every donor brings them out during Mother’s (referring to Goddess) puja and again keeps with them after the ceremony. But we were heavily harassed by the police and threatened to be put behind the bar. Even they were not allowing us to hold the Durga Puja that year. So we met the SDPO and requested his intervention. He asked us, “Why are you so interested to run this club?”

I told, “What is your opinion on this matter, Sir? Do you think, we run a business here?  Do you consider, we earn money for our living from this club? Swarnendu is a Homeopath doctor, respected in the town. Shyamal is a sub-assistant engineer working in PWD. I myself work in a Government office. Many of our members are like us. We are quite busy with our profession. So why do we still meet here, spend our evening,  organize pujas, cultural eves, play cards and table tennis? Why? Is it very difficult for you to understand? It is a part of our life. We enjoy it. I would rather ask what interests the CPM party has in running their office in the premise of our club. Is it also very difficult to comprehend that they would like to dictate us all in their party’s interest?”

The SDPO finally gave us the clearance for holding the Puja. When we went to the police station and asked the OC for the permission, he cut a caustic remark on us, “You went for grasses ignoring the horse! We would see how you manage the affair.”

We said, “Your boss has permitted. So act accordingly. We do know how to manage.”

From that year, a few of our members, in allegiance to their party, left the club. I am sure by bringing false charges against us, they are now repenting. They still have those ornaments, but cannot do anything with them. They cannot sell or display them. Again, they cannot bring them out during pujas. It must be very tormenting for all those poor fellows.”

---

Finally the procession started, and I mentioned in the beginning how I joined it in spite of my initial hesitation. Swarnendu informed me that in recent years they were not permitted to immerse the idol in the Ganges. But the administration made a good arrangement for immersion in the canal of our town, which connects the main river. The place is quite near to their club. The procession would require covering a distance of a kilometer or less to reach that spot. This might be the reason why it was advancing so slowly. No one wanted to finish the celebration so quickly. So at places, it halted on demand from the dancers, who wanted to perform their road show for a while. Sometimes due to the ongoing firework in the front, it slowed down further. Aloke, a bit high and spirited, was at its front. Swarnendu, the gentle and the sober, was in the middle. He was pushing and guiding semi-drunk dancers to bring them into order. Shyamal was at the rear holding the cable of the small generator, which connected the matador carrying the idol, and the rickshaw-van fitted with a sound system and the generator itself. He was cautious about not letting the cable go under the wheel of the slow moving vehicle. A few senior members of the club were also controlling the gathering. There were ladies, wives and family members of my friends and other club members, their sons and daughters including kids starting from age four to fourteen. A few young girls among them were dancing with the beats.  The kids were walking with rang-mashals (fire-sticks producing flames of various colors) on their hands.  They were regularly supplied with those burning sticks by their elders. All of them were marching with great excitement. I found their parents, present there, were not too bothered about their safety, while giving those burning sticks on their hands. One of the club members made a good number of tubris (a type of sparklers) on this occasion and roughly at a distance of every ten meters, a tubri was put to fire producing an instant shower of flowering flames.

When we moved a few steps away from the club premise, Aloke called me and showed me a group of persons sitting on benches in a stall just beside the sidewalk. He told me, “Those were our past members, who left after that incident.” The group consisted of persons from mid thirties to mid sixties. Aloke went to them and exchanged greetings with a few of them and then came back to me. He lamented, “It’s a loss for both of us. All those seniors should have been here and guide us. Otherwise, how our young ones will understand how we had been groomed?  From where, they would learn to respect seniors, if they do not find examples from us? It’s also a loss to all those people. They have now become mute spectators. I requested them many a times. Please come back again and join us. Forget the past. But, they are very much ashamed to enter the club. The party-politics in our clubs has destroyed our culture. Our town was always neutral on this aspect. But it is not so now. The CPM started it, and now the TMC (the present ruling party) might follow soon. Who knows?”  I also have the similar apprehension. It is rare to find a club now, which does not have a political color.  Aloke continued, “The club in our village also has the same problem. It has become now a den of anti-socials. In the initial years, I tried to convince some of the elders not to bring those outsiders. But they were following the party-line. A few years back, one of their houses got robbed. I told the victim, these were those very persons, whom they welcomed earlier. Now he wanted to move from the neighborhood. It’s a sorry situation!”

However, his sadness did not prevail long. Soon he engaged himself in the proceedings. Sometimes he was dancing with the beating drums, sometimes was managing the crowd, and having occasional chats with his friends. It went on for an hour and a half. Then we came to a junction, where another road met from a side. The bridge of the canal was also a few steps away.  The immersion would take place after crossing the bridge at the other side of the canal. At that junction, Aloke made a signal to halt and asked to stop the sound system. He told the senior-most dhuli of the band, “Kaka (Uncle)! What is happening? How are you playing your dholes (indigenous beating instruments)? This is not the first time your group is performing in our procession. But why are we not getting the fun, as we used to have?” Others also supported him on this aspect. He continued, “I am an experienced listener. So far, you have only used three boles (rhythms). You should have played at least six boles.”

The senior dhuli agreed, “Babu (Sir)! What can I say? These are my drummers. They are inexperienced. Never used to do that much of practice. All of us work as laborers. Only during these Pujas, we come with our instruments and play for you. From where would they learn?”

But Aloke did not agree. He addressed the young dhulis there, “Look brothers! I understand you are not experienced. But that is because you do not give time. You do not care to learn. I am also a kaora (slang for the word ‘kahar’, the Bengali caste whose trade is to play drums). I know how these dholes are played. In fact there could be thirty-four boles. Kaka! Am I right?” He looked for confirmation from the senior person. The poor chap was nodding his head with apprehension.

“So, you need to learn and show us your skill. Otherwise, no extra bakhshish (tips) for you!” Aloke added and all the dancers around him cheered at his words with their consent. He further continued, “Follow this man.” He pointed to the senior dhuli. “He is the most experienced. As he plays, you simply follow his rhythm.”

One of the young dhulis then replied, “Dada (Sir)! We will be trying our best. Give us a chance.”

Again the beating started. The dhulis were doing their best with variation of different boles, shaking their heads and exchanging expressions among themselves for better orchestration. The crowd got settled with their rhythm. The kids and young girls too joined the group. My friend started dancing swinging his waist and twisting his legs by raising the right hand with a finger pointed above, while the left hand was glued against his hip. A small kid of five or six year’s old, was giving him the company by trying to mimic his moves. Then, with the change of the rhythm, he kept on making nice synchronized moves by stepping forward and backward. In this process, he became totally engrossed in his feats. He continued dancing without bothering his surroundings. Sometimes he was looking downward, sometimes upward. Sometimes he was shaking his body to the left and sometimes to the right. His moves looked simple, but lively. With the increasing loudness and rapidity of the beats, some of the dancers became more and more hysteric and frenzy with their random jumps, cheers and whistles. My friend went on among them with rhythms and spontaneity with his natural grace, absorbed in the proceedings without worries and woes. Next morning he would be busy with his daily routine and other domestic affairs. But that moment, he was in complete ecstasy with a smile of happiness on his lips. Swarnendu told me, “The party has just begun. Still a full night is left before us. A long way to go.”   

(In the above, names are fictitious, but characters are not.)

5/11/2011

An Italian Resident

We were traveling from La Spazia to Torino.  We, three of us, Jhuma, Bittu and me, left Florence in early morning and came to Pisa. There we spent a few hours in the Miracle Square to visit the famous leaning tower and other monuments nearby.  Bittu was just six then and was not allowed to go up the tower. So we had to keep ourselves restricted in enjoying the green and colorful surrounding around it. From Pisa we came to Monti Rosso  via La Spazia to have a view of long stretch of Italian Riviera, surrounded by marble rocks and cliffs hanging over the sea. In the late afternoon we again returned back to La Spazia, and then in the evening,  boarded the train to Torino. Actually our journey was long enough. We intended to go to Rene via Paris. However, we could not manage to get a direct train to Paris. So we were traveling to Torino, from where we would be taking our night train to Paris. Rene is about 300 Km. from Paris in the North-West corner of France. There we would be visiting a colleague of mine, who was working on lien for a year. We were going to his place to visit Mont Saint-Michel,   an eighth century monastery, and then would come back together to Paris for a series of sight seeing. Our touring cycle would be completed when we would return to Munich after visiting Interlaken and Jungfraujoch, and then hopping through railway stations of Bern and Zurich.  I was staying with my family at Munich then. Our story of merry-go-round will remain incomplete unless I mention that we started two days before from Munich, spent a night at Florence and had a real feast of great paintings, sculptures and architectures of European renaissance.

  I should take a break here without elaborating further our routes and halts of journey and apologize to my readers, if it has created a maze of confusion among these classic tourist hotspots. You may have rightly guessed that we belonged to that class of middle-class thrifty travelers, who wanted to squeeze every bit of their time, energy and resources in satisfying their hungry eyes. So when we boarded the train, we were exhausted after our day long travel. Still we were enjoying the lovely view of scenic Riviera, as the train was following the same route to Monti Rosso on its way to Torino. Outside the window the sea went on sending us invitation in the twilight zone with its series of small tides breaking on rocky shores. This continued till Genoa, about half an hour or so, and then the sea disappeared as well as the darkness dropped a curtain on every animate and inanimate objects outside, and brought us back to its own world of  inertial frame.

 This was also our inaugural journey with European Rail Passes, which we bought from Munich and gave us the entitlement of six days’ rail journey in any class.  Additional incentive of having this rail pass was that we could start our journey with it from 7 PM the day before, which made it effectively valid for 29 long hours. In reality we found that our European ticket checkers were gracious enough to extend the period further with a broad smile. Even the booking clerks won’t advise you to get a ticket if you needed to exceed that duration for a few more hours.  That exactly happened in the very first day of its use. We were little early from our 7 PM official onset and a bit nervous while boarding the train, to know the reaction of our traveling ticket examiner.  Though the booking clerk in La Spazia assured us and did not bother to issue any ticket for our additional hours of journey, our mind was restless on unforeseen outcome of this unwritten code of conduct against the violation of written one. So when we got into the train, instead of taking a first-class coach, we chose a second class compartment to minimize our risk of violation. But to our great relief the European hospitality prevailed and we were settled to the comfort and quietness of the rest of our rail journey.

At the other end of our row, a gentleman was watching us. He appeared to be of Indian origin. He addressed us in Italian and then in broken English he asked, “Are you Indian?”.

We confirmed our nationality. His eyes brightened up. He spoke in Hindi, “From where?”

My Hindi is almost unspeakable. Jhuma continued most of the conversation. She told, “From West Bengal.”

“I am from Punjab. Today I went to Florence for papers. By God’s grace I got it,” he declared happily.  

“What paper?” she asked.

“The residence permit. From today I am a legal person. Now I can bring my wife and son to this country. How old is your son?” he asked her.

“He is just six.”

“My son is in the seventh grade. He reads in an English medium school. He asks everyday to his mother, when he could come here? He would be so happy!” our narrator could not suppress his joy of excitement.

I tried with my limited Hindi, “What do you do here?”

“I work in a Dairy firm. My employers are very nice people. Husband and wife, together they run the firm. I am the only employee there. They depend on me so much!” he continued, “It’s a lot of work. I single handedly manage over 200 cows. Of course, hardly you do anything without a machine. Everything is automated.  Even for drawing milk from  cows. Then you need to feed them, clean them. I work day and night and that is why my employers are so happy with me,” he said cheerfully.

“How much do you get?” Jhuma asked.

“1500 a month. Food and accommodation free! A lot today! You know we have Euro’s now. Earlier we used to get in Liras. But now with the introduction of Euro Italian currency has become very strong. With that money I bought land in my village and bear the expenditure of my kid’s education.”

His name was Bhajan Singh. He came to Italy about seven years ago.  I asked him, “How did you come here?” 

“By a ship.” Then he explained. “First I came to Tunisia by air. You do not require a visa for that country. Only the passport is enough. Then I boarded a ship to Italy. The moment I arrived here I threw my passport to sea. So when Italian policemen caught me, I did not utter a single word. Even not in Hindi. They could not make out my nationality. So what they would do? I was a botheration for them. They gave me a ten Lira note and asked me to go to Rome. But I had my contacts in Paris. There I planned for working in restaurants.  I went there and started working in restaurants. It was a hard life. You are always at the mercy of others and have no identity, no legal status.  I was driven out from one place to the other. Finally I came to this part and got my work in a dairy firm. The place where I live now, is about 50 Km from Torino. Here people are nice. They treat you well. My employer gave me shelter and helped me in getting my papers. They were asking me for bringing more people like me. Italian youths do not work. They do not want to do such a hard labor. That’s why there is a huge demand of people like me.” He paused for a moment and added, “Bengalis too do not want to do such work.”

“Are there many Bengalis?”

“Oh yes! A lot.  They come from Bangladesh. You will find them in Rome, in tourist places,  sea beaches. They sell toys, bangles. They work also in restaurants. They do not earn much from that kind of work. But if you ask them to work in farms, they would run away.”  

“Don’t you go to your village in India?” Jhuma asked.

“I could manage once. That too four years ago! I thought of not coming back here. But what I could do there? If I stayed I would have been involved in village disputes, could have been murdered too! My village was no more a safe place for me.” He sighed, “So I came back again. That was the last time I met my kid and my wife. Of course I get letters from my son regularly. I do not know how to write or read. But my employers read them for me. They even write in lieu of me.”

“Don’t you have holidays?”

“Oh yes. But they pay me twice the amount on holidays.”

“What do they do when you are not there? How are they managing now in your absence?”

“They work by themselves. Today they will come to the station and pick me up.”

During our conversation Bhajan also got a call from his employers and he updated them about the present location of the train. The train was running a bit late. He could speak well in Italian. He also informed us that he was capable of conversing in French. On learning that we would be visiting Paris, he gave us a few tips. “Take care of your belongings and purse in Paris. More so, if you are traveling by metro numbers 1, 4 and 7. Do not board crowded trains.” We enquired about Indian restaurant in Paris. He told, “Ask for the lane Satte Rui. It is near the Gardi’list  (Garre De La East) station and there are a number of Indian restaurants.”

Finally when his destination was approaching, he got up from his seat and came near to us. He said, “Sir! This is the happiest moment of my life. I got my papers. I do not have to worry about my stay in this country. Now I can go back, bring my family here. My son is impatiently waiting for me. He has asked whether he would be able to study in English here. My employers assured me. He would be able to manage here. Your son reminds mine.”

He caressed Bittu’s forehead and put a ten Euro note in the pocket of his shirt.  Jhuma and I, both of us, were taken by a surprise and almost simultaneously reacted, “Please, do not!” 

He did not pay any heed to our request. He said, “My happiest moment sir! Let me share with this kid! Buy something for him!”

He got down on the platform and quickly proceeded toward its exit waving his hands to acknowledge his presence from the crowd.

07/10/2011

A Salesman

In stead of hiring a cab, we decided to return to our hotel on foot. It was a fitting proposition, as the path to our hotel from the conference venue went by the side of the river Nile. We came to Cairo two days before for attending a conference. In our team, myself and Partha (Bhowmick) were the two delegates. Jhuma and Bittu were the other two members with the sole purpose of tourism.  The conference was being held in the Hotel Grand Hyatt and it happened to be the very first day of its proceedings. We came there  quite early in the morning and registered ourselves. The day before, we had a tour of famous pyramids of Giza and Sakkara. In Giza we scaled the walls of two great pyramids of early Pharaohs Khufu and Khafra, and even made an entry into a deep narrow passage of the latter, which led us to the burial place of the king.  But what was most thrilling to me, was the sight of a large step pyramid (of Pharaoh Djoser) at Sakkara, probably the oldest man made structure of this planet still casting its shadow in the desert sand. 

As our presentations were in the afternoon, we had planned for going back to our hotel after the morning session. Our hotel was roughly at a distance of two kilometers from the conference venue. We wanted to have our lunch at a near-by market place, so that after the lunch, Jhuma and Bittu would take rest in our hotel, while both of us would join the conference to attend our sessions. The registration desk of the conference was in the third floor in a gorgeous hotel lobby. Both of our non-delegates waited patiently for the completion of our registration formalities. We also attended a session of our choice, which prolonged their meditation.  However, for anyone waiting in that lobby was not so unworthy. The hotel was situated on the bank of the river. The lobby provided a panoramic view of the city across the river through its wide glass panels. Underneath the serene beauty of picturesque blue river with white boats scattered across kept us captivated and animated. It reminded me of my childhood metaphor and romanticism with the name ‘Neel Nad’ (The blue river) in my own language.

When we came out from Hyatt, we still had  an hour and a half  left to finish our lunch. That was the reason why we took a leisurely stroll by the river side, even though the sun was beginning to get hot. There was nice breeze blowing from the river and at places there were wooden benches under the cool shadow of large trees.  We had no hurry. We took a few shots in our cameras and rested for a while on benches under shades. Eventually we came near to a place where the trail went below a bridge. This was the bridge whose view we had from our hotel room. Our room was in the seventeenth floor of a very old building.  The bridge was connected by flyovers in different directions. The principal one met the junction at Tahrir Square, which was close to our hotel. Mentally I had mapped our neighborhood into two partitions made by this bridge.  At its one side situated some of our places of interest such as, our hotel Iris, Egyptian Museum, the conference venue Hyatt, etc.  The other side remained as an unexplored zone of mystery to me. So instead of marching forward and crossing the bridge, we took a diversion at our right side. We were expecting to find a known landmark, which should guide our route to our hotel. However, after crossing the road and moving a few steps ahead, we reached a junction of confusion. At this junction, the roads went topsy-turvy in all directions. We wanted to go near the Egyptian museum, from where we could easily locate Iris.  But, it was not clear to us which direction we should follow from there. The rough road map, what I downloaded from the net, became useless to resolve our dilemma. Fortunately we found two policemen in front of a palatial building. So we sought their help. But they feigned ignorance of English and pointed to a person, who was standing near them. He was a middle aged person, a little round in shape, bald-headed and of short height. He appeared to be a polished gentleman wearing a grey suit and a tie. He came forward and listened to our query. Then he spoke in broken Arabic pronunciation, “Egyptian Museum! You want to visit. This side.” He made a half gesture pointing across the street. In that direction, a sidewalk mysteriously disappeared by taking a sudden turn. Before moving forward, we wanted to make sure whether we understood him properly. Probably our states of perplexity on such a simple matter aroused his interest on us. So he asked gently, “Are you Indians?” On receiving our confirmation, he appeared to be elated, “I have a friend in India. He lives in Bombay. He is a doctor”. Then he introduced himself, “I am also a doctor. But doctor of botany. I work in this building. It is the US Embassy,” he pointed towards the stately building.  Though I had the curiosity of knowing what kind of job a doctor of botany was doing at the embassy, I preferred to restrain myself and we were about to move forward in the direction he showed us.  But, he was not finished yet, “What are you doing here?” We informed him that we came here to attend a conference. “Oh! Conference! I too had a conference in India. Last year. Are you planning to visit the Egyptian museum?” he wanted to know.  

I replied, “Definitely.”  

“But my friend, this is not the time for you to visit the museum?  Now it is only ten thirty.” He looked at his watch and said, “Now it is the time for groups. Are you in a group?” We had to accept that such a small number might not have the quorum to form a group. He went on elaborating, “The morning time, from nine to twelve is group time. You are normal tourists. Normal tourists enter after that.” This was news to us. I planned our program from various tips and suggestions from the internet. But nowhere this constraint was discussed. We did plan for visiting Egyptian museum next day in early hours. So I got vividly irritated by this annoying piece of information. He seemed to feel guilty by upsetting us and tried to console us, “Still you have plenty of time. Why don’t you go to the city center and do shopping?”  I considered the proposition. Our friend wrongly assumed our intent of moving around. We had no plan for visiting the museum on that day. We wanted to have our lunch then. So a city center would be the right place where we might go, on our way back to hotel.

  I asked, “Is it nearby?”

 “Oh yes. Let me show you the way.” He was eager to help us. I looked at others for their approval. All of them felt the same way. Indeed we had to look for a place to eat. 

He led us through a path, opposite to the direction he pointed before. It went downward by the side of the embassy.  He kept on talking, “I am actually a florist. Do you know who a florist is?” He stopped a while and then continued, “I do research on flowers.” I had to acknowledge his fits with a sound of appreciation and amazement. As he was talking, he was bubbling over with excitement. He asked again, “In which hotel your conference is held?”

 I answered, “Hotel Grand Hyatt.”

“Ah! Hotel Hyatt,” he got excited again, “My Sister is going to marry in Hotel Sheraton” 

“When?” I asked.

“Oh! After two days! What a great party it would be!” he loudly boasted.  I had to congratulate him on such a happy proposition.

I asked him, “How far is the city center?”

“Just ahead of us. I am taking you there.” he assured us. Then after a while he asked again, “Do you know Bedouin?”  

He waited a few moments for our reply. I simply smiled at him. He declared at the top of his exaltation, “I am a Bedouin. My family came from the deserts of Sahara.” I was amused at the sight of such a modern day Bedouin, suited-booted without the conventional robe and hood, as we used to think of anyone but a Bedouin. Finally, we came down to a street.  At the turn of the street our friend extended his warm invitation, “Come my dear friends! Please come to my chamber. I would like to give you my visiting cards.”  He led us to a souvenir shop. There was a woman in her twenties with a headscarf worn around. He introduced her, “Meet my sister! It was her marriage, I was talking about.” The woman appeared to be greatly discomforted by his brotherly affection and declaration of her marriage to strangers like us.  She retracted herself against souvenir-racks to make a space for our entry.  I was also greatly relieved with the realization that the next day we could start early for visiting the Egyptian museum. Our friend offered us chairs to sit, “Please be comfortable and have seats. I will show my collections to you.” Partha and Jhuma still remained standing. They had no intention of sticking to that place. They were signaling me to leave the shop. But from such an interesting person, it was hard for me to make an abrupt departure. So I took a seat.  Bittu also did the same. Probably he was looking for it as he seemed to be tired of walking. Our host offered us drinks, which we politely declined. Then the florist wanted to show us his products of research, the Egyptian perfumes from different herbs and flowers. We expressed our gratitude to him for his good intention of showing us his valuable items, but regretted our unpreparedness to buy any of them at that moment. He was disappointed but did not plead further. He also appeared to be a bit exhausted as a consequence of his concocted excited states by assuming so many roles within such a short duration.  So at last, our botanist cum florist cum Bedouin friend withdrew himself from all his self-reincarnations. He wished us good luck and shook my hand to bid goodbye.

21/9/11

A Football Match

Dave (not his real name) could be in sixties.  He might be in seventies. A lean, tall well built structure, with unshaven chin and casual dresses, as I found him whenever we met during my four month’s stay at his housing complex. He was my landlord. My room was very small, probably converted from a garage, as it still contained the main pipeline of the gas supply for the housing at one of its corner. But it had a kitchen and a toilet, enough space for a single person to manage under a roof.  During that period I was visiting the University of Southern California (USC), Los Angeles.  

The first month I had occasional interaction with him. I needed some help regarding fixing the network connectivity at my apartment. I needed it as one of our students, who was doing PhD there, gave his old laptop for my use during my stay.  Dave was quick to respond to my request and arranged a network port for me within an hour.  It was his nature. For any such matter where he was involved, his readiness to address them was astounding.  A month later when he made the network wireless, we faced a few teething problems for getting the connectivity. But he constantly supervised and monitored till its successful installation. However, in first two months, our interaction was brief and brisk, maintaining a healthy landlord-tenant relationship, until in one late September afternoon he caught hold of me and suggested whether I would be interested to go to the LA Coliseum for watching a football match.

“On coming Saturday USC will play with Stanford! The result is predictable! USC is ahead of them by sixty points. It should be a cakewalk for them. Anyway, it’s a fun to watch football in the stadium. Let’s go. It would be my treat”, he winked at me with a mischievous smile, a very typical of his outward expressions. I had no real reason to decline it. Other than writing computer programs and papers on my work, I had no serious engagement.

My knowledge in the American football was no better than my ignorance in subjects like Mongolian dance and music. However, a few weeks ago, I was fortunate to meet Prof. Adleman (RSA cryptography famed Turing awardee) over a lunch and he asked me, “Do you know why USC is famous?”  I guessed, “It must be for you and some of your colleagues of your stature.” He laughed. “It’s USC’s football team. They are very good and ranked at the top. If you do not know anything about American football and USC stars, your mission would remain incomplete.” I had the idea of American football as a game similar to Rugby, played with power and violent physical contacts. Prof. Adleman informed me, “On the contrary, it is a game of great strategy, planning and team-work. It is said, most of the moves are created off the field. It’s like a game of chess between two coaches."  After hearing from him, I was interested to know about it. USC had a large football practice field. On my way from the University to my apartment, I used to walk by the side of its fences. Every afternoon practice sessions were held in the presence of a number of followers. There were also regular performances from cheer leaders. Live videos were used to be recorded from towering camera stands. However, almost all the activities were hidden by an enclosure, and in the gates prohibitory notices for entry of non-members were hung. So on my way, I used to hear cheers, sounds of music and bands and used to have quick glimpses of players through the narrow opening of the gate. But I had no idea what was going on inside. Dave’s proposal rekindled my interest in watching the game in its entirety.

As it was a Saturday, I had no work at the University. So I rested and waited impatiently for the time to go for the match. I was expecting Dave’s knock at my door at any time and was ready by myself for leaving the moment he wanted to.  He did call me after a while. But he told me, “We will start after half an hour. I am taking my motorcycle. There will be a lot of problems in parking a car. Have a comforter and jacket around you. It may be chilly.”

 I asked, “Hasn’t the match started?”

 “Oh! Of course! Are you not watching? It is in channel four.”

 I was surprised, “Are we not going to the field?”

“Sure! But it’s boring to see the full game. It’s only the last two quarters, when you have all the excitement. We will move then.”

It was after all Dave’s call for the entertainment.  So, I had no other option than to keep waiting for it. I tried to concentrate on the telecast of the game, but could not get much headway of it. Then I started surfing channels, and was following the progress of the game in between.

Finally Dave appeared before my door, “Yes Sir! We are ready to go!”  He brought his motorcycle. It was a Harley-Davidson. He warned me, “Hold me tight! I drive very fast.” He did indeed. As it roared down the streets with hundred plus km per hour, my thin hairline was getting swashed by the whizzing air and my heart was pumping at the same acceleration. Within a few minutes we reached the stadium, which was not very far from the University. The coliseum was the home ground of USC.  It was a gigantic oval-shaped stadium, enclosed by high walls and equipped with a number of entry/exit gates. Two Olympics were held there. One was in 1932 during the time of great depression and the other in 1984, in the heightened cold war period. I was standing in front of its main entrance.  A large cauldron was fitted above it. It must be the one, where Olympic flames were lit. There were passages through railings of iron rods in front of the gate, which were guarded by ticket checkers blocking the entry of unwanted intruders.  A few such unfortunate football fans were standing in front of them. They were trying to read the score on a giant screen, which was placed across the field on top of a gallery and was partially visible through the opening of the gate.  At times one would hear the burst of excitement from the whistling and roaring crowd inside. At those times, those unfortunates would run near the gate and try to peep through the front opening. They were also making attempts to entice the gate-keepers for leaking the inside happenings. One of them also came with a radio and others around him were following the game intensely. I was waiting for Dave, who went for parking his motorbike. I was enjoying the excitement of the atmosphere. The glimpse of the wavy colors of the gallery was inviting me for a grand spectacle.

 Dave came back after a while. It was difficult for him to get a place for his bike. As we were ready to enter, I asked him for the tickets. Then there came the most shocking announcement from him.

“I’ve never been to this stadium with a ticket,” he declared and assured me, “We will sneak through the gate”.

 I was stunned and confused on my role in this candid act of immorality. I had to confide to him, “I never did that in my life”.

Dave remained unperturbed.  “It’s easy. I will teach you. After the break of this quarter a few spectators would come out. We would make an easy entry then, as if you are returning back to the gallery after a drink. The gate keepers won’t check you. But you need a bit of acting. It may be even possible now. Who knows? Let’s try.”

So another exciting game started. Dave made a few advances here and there, but could not succeed in making any opening of guarded fences. I was behind him, but trying to keep a distance, so that my complicity in this affair looked blurred.  Dave noticed it. So he came to me and whispered, “Why are you lagging behind? Just be after me. As soon as I pass through, you need to throw yourself.”  The pleasing afternoon turned sore to me. I was bearing all the discomfort of following him. We walked across the high wall of the stadium from east to west. At every gate, Dave stopped a while, bent forward, and drew attention of suspicious gatekeepers.  A bit of frustration covered his face. He said to me in a low voice, “It’s strange that no one is coming out. The game must have become very exciting. But don’t worry. At the break after the third quarter, you would find a lot of people returning back. We would surely make it by then.”  Neither I was very keen on that prospect. So I tried to console him, “How does it matter? Even if we do not make it, we can at least enjoy the charged atmosphere around and listen to the commentary.”

He fired up, “Never. I have not failed in any of my attempts so far. We will surely make it. Let’s wait for the recess. In the mean time, let us rest a while. I am feeling tired after walking so much. I am getting old, Sir.”

We sat on a concrete slab, a little away from the main entrance.  There were two impressive black bronze sculptures of nude and headless male and female athletes. To turn away his attention from his present obsession, I asked him, “When these statues were built? Was it during 1932 Olympics or in 1984?”  

“1984. In 1932, America was not so uncivilized. I know you Hindus are very conservative and you follow your culture. But we had no history, no heritage; nothing to preserve. A lost soul!”   

 I told him, “But, you are carrying the great heritage from Europe, from ancient Greece and Rome.”

Dave lost his temper, “Those were the rotten eggs! From them western civilization got all the poison.”

I was taken aback by such a strong conviction, and did not know how to respond. So I changed the topic. “What was your subject in the school?”

“Business administration.  Then I lost interest in my studies, and went for a world tour.  I toured different countries. Though I was never been to India, I traveled Afghanistan, Pakistan, North Africa; hot spots of Islamic civilization. Now I am studying religion.”

 “Which religion?”

“All types! Islam, Buddhism, Judaism,  Hinduism, what not?.”  I was not sure whether his reference to my religion was to impress me or not. Dave continued, “I studied Islam very well and respect that religion. I go to Mosque every Friday to attend their prayers. I came with a strong liking of this religion, when I spent my days in Afghanistan for about six months.”

 “When did you go there?”

“In the late seventies. Iran was ruled by Shah that time.”

“Then it must be before 1979,”  I tried to recollect history from my memory of news headlines in my school days. 

“May be,” Dave did not contradict.

“What were you doing there?” I wanted to keep the discussion alive.

“I smuggled.” he said distinctly.

“What?” I stumbled and thought he was joking.

But he was serious and cool. He clarified, “I was smuggling hashish and opium.  But it was for six months only,” and continued further, “Then I came back here and started real estate business.  That time this area was ruled by criminals and thugs. There was no law. All poor people, Black or Hispanic, lived here. So I could make property in throw away prices. Just think! All the road side houses in your block I bought with a few thousand dollars then. Later I sold them with millions. It’s a huge profit.” Dave gave a half smile and paused for a moment.  He continued, “Even I had no money in the beginning. I acted like an agent between the tenants and landlords. Slowly, I could make property with my earnings.  I also started building new houses. Many of the houses in your locality were built and sold by me. Even now I have three such complexes. The one you are living was built with my own design. I used the same space for building three apartments instead of two. So almost for the same investment, I could earn 2100 dollars per month, instead of 1400. A very good thinking! Isn’t it?” He continued without waiting for my approval, “Of course, the authorities here were after me! They were showing rules here and there and asked my tenants not to pay.  But, I had not trouble in getting rents.  Why should it be? My tenants are happy for paying less rent than the market price and I am also happy to maximize my return. It’s a give and take situation. So who cares? I could convince before a bench of nine juries that I did not do anything wrong.” Dave drew a deep breath of satisfaction.

Then he looked at me intently and asked, “Do you know my dream?”

“Tell me,” I showed interest.

“I dream of building a great hotel. In the complex you are living now, I will demolish everything and build it there. I need ten million dollars. I have a few and make the rest by selling my property. I will name the hotel as ‘World Peace Hotel’, where people of all races, black and white, of all religion, Christians, Jews, Muslims, Hindus, would live together. You are also invited.” Dave was quite excited to tell about his project. Then he asked me again, “Do you think a Jew and a Moslem can live together?”

“Why not?” I responded.

 He shook his head with disapproval, “Not at all Sir!  The Moslem won’t. Islam is the most conservative religion. They cannot tolerate any other faith. They consider people of other religion are ‘Kefirs’. I spent my time in Afghanistan. I went also to Pakistan. I read Quran and am quite well versed with Islam. If you want to see the face of conservative Islam, go to Pakistan. It is much liberal in Saudi. But see how Pakistan is suffering from the Islamic jingoism. Poor Musharraf! He came to power riding on it. Now look at him. Unable to tame the pony! After the destruction of World Trade Center, I accompanied CIA to Pakistan, and then to Afghanistan. There we had a talk with the top leaders of Talibans. I was the only person there, who understood the demands of Osama. After my return, I also apprised Bush of Osama’s views. But he did not pay heed to me. He started this bloody war and bombed that country. Talibans never wanted the war. When I was in Afghanistan in my early days, Afghan people were very much receptive and warm-hearted. They were not at all like Pakistanis. But Russia destroyed the fabric of their society. There was no Taliban in my time.”

“But, Talibans are also Afghan,” I interrupted.

 “Certainly!  If you are not an Afghan, you cannot become a Taliban. Afghans chose them because they brought discipline in their chaos. But they would not have lasted long. The Afghan society did not like them. They would have definitely rejected them. But, in the mean time, bombing started. Osama, himself, was not in favor of war.”

“Tell me about his demands,” I wanted to know.

“He wanted everyone to follow Islam in an Islamic country. Islamic society should maintain its own character without any influence from the West.  There should be only Shariat law for every Moslem. Of course, there are various interpretations of Shariat laws. Poorer the countries, more conservative are those laws.”

“But in every form of Shariat, there are considerable differences in the rights of Men and Women,” I observed.

“That is there in every religion. Only in West, you will find this disease exists in the name of Women’s lib. If you want discipline without freedom, it becomes dictatorship. But, if freedom is without discipline, it’s a chaos. The West is suffering from this disease.”

Suddenly Dave noticed that a few spectators were coming out from the gates. He jumped immediately and dragged my hand, “Let’s go! It’s a break now. We have a good chance of sneaking in.”  Though I had no intention of making any haste in his proposed adventure, I had to join him with my timid steps. Once again, we carried on a repeat exercise for trying to push ourselves across the fence. Unfortunately, that day the guards were very much alert. They might have been extra cautious on the movement of two of us. Dave also realized that it was not wise to make any attempt further. He came to the main gate and tried to read the scoreboard. He became excited as he found USC was winning by 20-14.

“That is why so many people are still there in the stadium? Let’s watch the game in a TV.”

His words brought me an instant relief. I never heard anything sweeter than this in my life. We went to a near by building and entered into a big hall. At its different corners, televisions were fitted, and fans and supporters were glued to those sets. There was also a restaurant. We watched the game with a bottle of beer. Dave was explaining the moves and cheering the advances of his team. However, Stanford proved to be a tough opponent. It was not Dave’s day at all. Proving all the prediction wrong Stanford won the game with a score line of 21-20. He was vividly upset. He told me, “It’s bad for our economy.”

 I was surprised. “Why should it be?”

He explained, “People come to USC for football only. Now USC is loosing. So there would be less number of students coming to this University. This means less demand of housing.”

But soon he regained his cheerful mood and commented with optimism, “Still a number of games is left. Let’s see how it goes.” Then he suggested, “Let’s go to the field now. There will not be any problem of entry.”

So finally we made it. There were still a large number of spectators sitting in the galleries. They were greeting their football heroes.  In the middle of the field, the policemen made barricades. In one side the supporters and players of Stanford University were celebrating their victory. Their cheer leaders were dancing with the music of a band. We walked through the field and went to the other side. In that side, the cheer leaders of USC were showing their performance with dance, music and gymnastics. The crowd around them were applauding and encouraging them. The show went on and on. Towering floodlights covered the spectators and performers with bright golden hue all around. By looking at this crowd, who would think, that their home team had just lost the game so narrowly? They knew how to enjoy a match even after a loss. After all, this is what a sport is. It is for celebration. It is for enjoyment.

14/9/11

In a foreign land

My father was boiling with excitement. As our vehicle was approaching Vinodpur, a small town and a marketplace, he was fumbling with his past memories.  “This must be my school!”, he exclaimed pointing to a structure at the turn of the road, but soon got disappointed when he got the disapproval from Partha, the young engineer, who was accompanying us in the last leg of our tour in this foreign land.

 I came here with the invitation of Motttalib-da (Prof. M. A. Mottalib) to deliver a few lectures on video streaming and medical informatics. Mottalib-da is the Head of the Department of Computer Science and Information Technology, in the Islamic University of Technology, Dhaka. He did his PhD in nineties from the department, where I am attached presently.  In his research scholar days, his working desk was beside mine. During that time, I was working in a project as a research staff. With such a nice and simple person, my friendship grew naturally and years after when we met, he invited me to visit his place. I was also looking for an opportunity for visiting my ancestral place with my parents. Finally, we could manage to arrange everything required for the travel, including new passports stamped with VISA for my parents and came to Bangladesh. My father spent his childhood in a village of this land, till he was a boy of twelve years old. My mother left this country, when she was just five and has very little memory of her place of birth.

Mottalib-da took every care of making our visit as comfortable as possible.  He and his family were gracious hosts at their residence in Dhaka.  Initially I was hesitant to accept his warm invitation to his house, for bothering his family all on a sudden with my aged parents. But it was difficult to say ‘no’ to this emotional person, who fought the liberation war in his early youth.  Within a day, my parents became almost a member there. Mottalib-da’s mother-in-law was originally from Burdwan district and his wife, Daisy’s ancestral place was in the district of Hooghly.  My parents were having nice time by sharing memories of their past.  Mottalib-da has a gifted kid, Neel, who spends most of his time with computers and mathematical puzzles.  He also started talking to my mother through his mom and dad after a day or two. Mottalib-da took us to some major attractions in the city including the memorial site of martyrs of 21^st February. It was a pilgrimage for all of us. It coincided with the Memorial Day and we witnessed how thousands of people, young and old, paid homage to their heroes with flowers and celebration.  In these days it is rare to observe such an emotional attachment of a multitude to a secular cause.  

From Dhaka, we came to Khulna on a night train and stayed in the guest house of Khulna University of Engineering and Technology (KUET).  In Khulna, we made a brief visit to my mother’s ancestral place called Senhati, a prosperous and educated village at that time. However, we had the misfortune of not being able to identify the places of memories of my mother. Although presently she carries a very little of it, she was looking for a temple, a tank, her school and a garden, where she played. Only thing she could find a school named the same, she knew from her mother. But, she could not locate any other place with its reference.  Finally, we were led by locals to a place, very near to her description, having a temple and a large pond. There was also an empty land guarded by fences, made of bamboo sticks and thorny bushes.  Assuming the place as the one, my mother bowed and touched the soil.  She also collected a few samples for carrying back home. However, she became doubtful immediately after her return from the village and by then was more or less convinced that we had failed to get to the place.  As such, she prefers to remain silent among strangers, but in this morning, she was more reclusive and rarely responding to my father’s exclamations! Most likely her doubts were still haunting her and made her sombre.

From Khulna, we arrived at Magura this morning and after taking a rest of about an hour and a half, we were on our way to the village, where my forefathers lived. For our trips to this part of the country, Mottalib-da made all the arrangement of our accommodation and transportation. He also gave the charge to his trusted lieutenant Shahidur, a gentle and pious man, to accompany us throughout this journey.  Though present day winters are not as refreshing as they were used to be in the past, this morning while travelling through the smooth metal road and crossing bridges over narrow water channels, we had a pleasant freshness and sweet smell in the air.  This part of Bangaldesh seems to be very fertile and well cultivated. Even at this time, all the fields by both sides of the road were green with variety of crops and vegetables.  In the greenery, at places there were random stretches of white and yellow flowers of coriander and mustard plants.  Almost parallel to the road a river was accompanying us from a distance. It had a moderate flow and on its both sides greyish-white banks were gradually blended with shaded greens.  My father whispered, “This must be Nabaganga, where the ‘Doa’ meets.”  The word ‘Doa’ is probably derived from more commonly used Bengali term  ‘Daha’ or ‘a water body’.  However, in his village the Doa was like a small river with rushing waters in the rainy season. Large boats carrying crops and goods were used to ply through it. In rainy season, all the village boys would come to their school by a boat across Doa and that was one reason why they used to start their schooling at relatively higher ages.  In those days,  a boy should have known swimming and boating before joining a school. Probably, girls of his village had no opportunity of going to a school. Whenever my father starts talking about his village, he always fondly mentions about two things. One is the ‘Doa’. The other one is a grand baniyan tree. It is a tree which welcomes every visitor of the village at its entry.  Under the baniyan tree, the villagers used to organize Kali Puja, Kirtans (devotional songs) and fairs in every year.  Before coming here, my father contacted his old acquaintances who have still connections with their roots. From them, he knew that the banyan tree still exists. He was impatiently waiting for his reunion with this tree, his childhood’s world of dream and fantasy.

As a few houses and shops started appearing, it made my father alert and apprehensive on the task of rediscovering his past. He was getting more and more excited and could not resist himself in making guesses of some of the places, he knew before. “This is the school”, Partha said to my father. The vehicle slowed down a bit. Father got overwhelmed, “It has changed so much! It has become so big!”  Partha also studied in the same  school of my father and later graduated from Bangladesh Uinversity of Engineering and Technology (BUET), Dhaka. He is young and handsome. His family has business in this place. In particular, his grand father was known for hunting for a long time in this region. Presently, Partha is  working as an Engineer in the irrigation department. Mottalib-da’s friend’s friend (such a wonderful friendly world!) requested him to accompany us.  He knows one of my father’s  village relations,  Santu Mukherjee, whom we never met before.  Santu uncle (as I called him through our relation) has a medicine shop in Vinodpur and is quite well off. He also teaches science in a local Madrasa and as I understand, he runs a dispensary in his shop prescribing medicine to patients. His father was a doctor and was a guardian in the village. My father refers him with reverence as ‘Doctor Uncle’. When all our family members left after partition, grand father was still determined to stay here. He and my father, merely a boy, were struggling in those days. My grandfather was very sick at that time. He had asthma and also he was coughing blood, for which no villager was willing to make a visit to him. When situation became unbearable, the twelve year old boy wrote a letter to his elder brother, who was working in Krishnanagar,  asking him to come and to take them with him. He also requested his doctor uncle for persuading his father to leave.  So the doctor uncle came and advised my grand father, “Katta (Sir)! There is no point staying back here. How would you manage this boy alone? Go and join the rest of your family.”  My grand father asked, “Will you leave?” “Certainly!” was the response from the doctor. So my grandfather left with my father in one fine morning. Father still remembered his last journey from his home.  It was also a day of a winter. His uncle, who was working in the police force in West Bengal, came to take them. They took a steamer and at Chuadanga they boarded a train. Grandfather could not recover from the shock and pain of leaving his home. He lived for another two years after coming to India. Father’s doctor uncle stayed back, though he had the intention of leaving as well.  He was persuaded by the local populace.  He lived a full life, though he had to endure the torture of Razakars during the liberation war of Bangladesh.

Vinodpur is a thriving market place.  Quite a good number of shops ranging from clothes to electronic goods are doing their business.  In the centre of this market, there is a bifurcated junction where a relatively narrow road meets the main road.  This is the road which leads to the village. Santu uncle’s medicine shop is at that junction. However, he was not in his shop at that time. So we went to his house, which was also very near to the place by the side of the same narrow road.  But he was also not home. We met her young daughter and told her that we would be visiting him while returning from the village. So we moved on and my father was becoming more and more radiant as he was approaching to his destination. By the side of the road, there was a narrow water stream (Khal in Bengali). This was the remnant of the Doa, as explained by my father to me. Through this channel, they used to come to their school by a boat. The boat was kept roped at the junction near the road. When the school was over, again they took their return journey by the same boat. In rainy season, there was no other option of communication from their village to this place. However, now there is a motorable road till the end of the village and it made our journey less adventurous but comfortable.

Our vehicle stopped at a notable spot, where the banyan tree maintained its sombre presence with its shades and overwhelming canopy, spreaded not only over the road, but also over a portion of a ground, which appeared to be a place for village fair and meeting.  Close to the tree, there is a Madrasa, the one where Santu uncle is a teacher. We were greeted by a person, of the same age of my father. He welcomed father and said, “You must be Dulo! Can’t you recognize me?” Father was at a fix and the tall senior person introduced himself, “I am Asit. We were in the same class.” Father greeted him. He knew his elder brother Asim Mukherjee, who lives in Kolkata and made all the arrangement of our reception at this village. However, father expressed his doubt whether two of them really went to the school together.  Asit uncle (as I would call him subsequently) smiled and said, “I am the only connection between you and the past in this village.”

Finally the penultimate moment arrived. We got down from the vehicle, as the road leading to the doorstep of my ancestral place was not wide enough to drive. We were received by a group from the village. All were younger to my father. Even some of them were in their twenties. They were second and third generations of his known village relations. Asit uncle introduced them to us and led us to the neighbourhood of our old home. One by one he was showing pieces of fenced land and was attributing them to families, whom my father knew. All the time father was looking at him with disbelief. “Were they so close? Were those lands so small?” At every instance, he expressed his hesitation in accepting those facts. Finally, when he was shown the land of his old house, he shouted in utter disappointment, “How could it be? Such a small place! Where are those huts? There should be at least three remaining. Where is that big tamarind tree?” Asit uncle said,   “ Dulo! Do you think they would exist?”  Father told, “Where are children  of Majid-da?” Majid uncle had studied with my uncle  (my father’s elder brother) and was his friend. When all the family members of our ancestral home were settled in India, Majid uncle wrote to my uncle for his permission of using the property.  He died a few years ago. Now his descendants are living there. A man of around fifty years old came forward. He was accompanied by a few kids and also a woman. He looked little alert. The land now belonged to him. He was Majid uncle’s son and it was vivid from his expression that he was not at all comfortable with our presence, considering us claimant of our past rights. Father assured him saying that he just came for visiting his ancestral place and wanted to take a piece of earth from this land. He also handed over a packet of sweets to the present owner, who was hugely relieved with his gesture.  

According to father, they had four mud houses, with frames of Shal wood and slanted roofs made of tins.  One of them was quite big and spacious. When most of the family members left after partition, the rooms were lying vacant. My grandfather stayed back with his mother (my great-grand mother), the youngest son (my father) and the youngest daughter (my aunty).  So a decision was taken to sell the big house to meet the expenditure of building a new one in Krishnanagar, where my uncle was working.  Initially none was coming forward to buy the house. Finally, one of grandfather’s friends, Sadu Mian, agreed to help and bought it with Rs. 632/=, as my father still has the memory of overhearing the negotiated amount from an adjacent room.  On the day of dismantling, grandfather left for Krishnanagar with the money. He wanted to escape from the torment of observing the destruction of a thing, he had cared so much. But the day turned out to be more dramatic. Around 30 men from surrounding places, with sticks and ballams  (sharp-nails) came to oppose the dismantling.  Three of the residents, young and old inside a chamber, were trembling with the fear of the impending attack. Sadu Mian also came prepared. He had a few musclemen in his contingent and himself, was equipped with a gun. He gave a cry of a dacoit and shouted, “Shono Mian-ra (Listen Folks)! Did Thakurs (father’s family as addressed by him) take any loan from you while building the house? If so, come forward, I will repay. Otherwise, disperse right now. My gun would chop your head, if you do any mischief.”  Against this stern warning, the crowd left without much discussion. After coming here father expected to see some of the remaining structures still being used. However, there stood a different hut, also made of mud and bamboo sticks. While collecting a piece of earth from the place, where his house was supposed to be standing, father could not control himself. His eyes got moist and voices became choked. A soft gurgling of sob was mixed with his request to my mother for holding his hand.  Everyone present there, were moved, but none could speak. In that momentary silence, father recovered quickly and wanted to leave the place immediately. 

Asit uncle took us to the place from where they used to board a boat for going to school. It was supposed be a ghat (a special platform for bathing and washing in ponds and rivers) of the Doa. However, what was remaining there was a small pond. It was difficult to imagine it as anything closer to a water channel. Naturally, father could not believe and was hoping that somebody would acknowledge the error of judgment. But, all were unanimous in defending the uncle. So father shook his head and commented, “How did such a living flow of water get dried up? People used to carry their goods by boats through this Doa. Even the boats were used to ply through cultivated land, which remained under deep water in the rainy season.  In those lands, different varieties of paddy plants were used to grow. They would have long stems and kept their flowery seeds just above the water level. When a boat went on top of them, they would simply make a bow for their passage.  During bhashan (immersion of idols on the last day of Durga Puja) two boats were used to carry the idol in between and in the middle of the river they would separate themselves out to drop the idol in water. At that time,  Gandha kaka (uncle) used to sing a song in Bhatiali tune, which would make every eyes moist!”

Father carried on his stories of the past.  There was a bit of gatherings around him, all absorbed listening to his words. Then each of them wanted to take him to their houses and introduce him to their families We visited different houses in the village and were introduced to members of present generation.  The mood was of a happy reunion among the friends and relatives.  Father could identify some of the structures of old days and was narrating some of the incidents and practices of those days, which he could remember.  Finally we went to Asit uncle’s house. Some of his brothers and nephews also live in the same compound. They still have considerable farming and landed property with fruit orchards and ponds. There we met the oldest person of this village, an aunt of my father, who must be above nineties by now. It was not clear, whether she could recognize my father.  Father told me, “In this complex there was a two-storied building where all the women of the village spent a few nights together during the days of communal clashes fearing an attack.”  Asit uncle acknowledged the fact, but informed that the building got burnt and a new house was made in its place.  On the 14^th August, 1947, like every year in his village a boating competition (baich race as known locally) was being held in Doa. The atmosphere was tense on the eve of the declaration of partition. Grandfather was collecting regular updates from all corners and in particular from the gatherings watching the race. By noon, the rumour was strong enough to ring the cautionary bell in every house of the village. The news came that people from the other side of the Doa would attack the villagers at night. So, all the young women and children of the village were advised to take shelter in a well protected building. The youths of the village were also prepared with their house-hold weapons such as sticks, knifes, rods, etc. There were a few licensed guns in some houses. Besides, they filled  pitchkaris (water guns used by kids in the festival of holi) with chilli powders and acids for using them as weapons in their needs.  My father did not move though. He stayed with his father and grand mother in the house. Other members did take shelter in the two-storied building. It continued for three more nights. Then a few senior persons from the other side of the Doa came to the village. They advised, “How long will you live like this? You have to leave this place. We will not be able to give any protection. For the time being nothing will happen. But you must cross the border.”  So migration started. Asit uncle said, “It happened so that on a single day   twenty three families left this place.” Father and grandfather were the last two persons of our family who came to India in the beginning of 1949.

On our return we stopped by the banyan tree, as father wanted to spend some more time there. He took us near the tree and was delighted to find an empty pocket on its trunk, a distinctive mark he could remember from his past. Beneath the tree, still there were a few fragments of earthen pots, relics of pujas  held previously. However, we found the place dirty, uncared for a long time and spotted with scraps and wastes here and there.  My father was keenly observing different corners of the tree and making his own survey of the place. My mother was a bit tired and resting in the car herself.  Partha, Shahidur and myself, were having a leisurely walk in the field, a few meters away from the road and the tree.  The afternoon sun, behind us, was reflecting on the leaves of the banyan tree and increased the darkness reigned under its canopy. It was the last afternoon of our trip. Next morning we would be going back home, which would take around one hour to cross the border by road and another four hours to reach home. It was time to leave. We had a few more engagements on our way back to the guest house, where we made our arrangements of night halt. I was looking for my father.  He was standing facing us in front of the tree enjoying his reunion with the roots of his childhood in this foreign land.  He was smiling.

31/08/2011