Blurry 3D Glasses and Imposed Vegetarianism : The Bitter Reality of Inox

download

Suddenly I’m feeling very suffocating. The floor under my foot is still covered with soft padding. The cushion under my ass is comforting enough. The projector is running. The silver-screen in front of me has shifted to a story-teller mode. And suddenly a deep sense of bitterness is swallowing my psyche. Yes I’m feeling cheated, or should I say I’m feeling robbed in a cine-plex. I think it’s the right time when all of us should start being vocal about some aspects of INOX, the leading multiplex chain, that controls and some how regulates the movie viewing experience of Kolkata.

Last week I went to Inox (South City) to watch the movie Ant Man. The movie started and I wore my 3D glasses. All of a sudden I was hit by a blurry vision. The plastic lenses of the glass were dirty and full of scratches. I tried to clean it with a piece of cotton cloth. Partly the vision restored. Similar experience recurred today when I went to watch Minions. This too being a 3D movie, the 3D glass scratches came as an inevitable package. On both these occasions I payed 200+ buck to the multiplex owner for a good viewing experience. What I experienced is some blur. I intended to complain the Inox authorities regarding this matter. But later opted to go public with it, because I think a single complaint is not enough to fight against such a big multiplex giant. What we need now is a collective effort. The amount of money Inox earns every single day is sufficient enough to replace the 3D glasses at a regular interval. At least they can change them on a monthly basis. Charging an exorbitantly high amount to movie goers and serving them a blurry 3D experience on a regular basis should stop at some point of time.

Secondly, the Inox authorities sort of defy the Bengali taste buds and force us to have vegetarian foods once we get inside the cinema halls. They even don’t allow any outside food in the complex. This is an outright blatant intrusion into our human rights. A movie goer might love to watch his favourite movie while munching a chicken sandwich. If their policy denies serving non-vegetarian foods, then they should allow us to carry outside foods. If Inox cannot cater the taste buds of the movie goers, then they shouldn’t hold the right to regulate the foods we carry in our bags. Non-vegetarian food, at any point of time is a healthier prerequisite than a cigarette shop and a smoking zone.

So, to sum up, from now onwards, whenever we go to an Inox theatre to watch a 3D movie, we should take some time to check the 3D glasses when we receive it, and demand a pair of clear 3D glasses if the ones we are provided with is faulty. Do take some time to provide our written feedbacks to the Inox authorities, so that they feel ashamed and are forced to provide us a good consumer experience. Remember they are charging us a hell lot of money for that viewing experience. Secondly stop purchasing the costly vegetarian Inox foods. Convey the demand of non-vegetarian foods in a Inox theatre in the social media, and make the demand viral. Post your demands on the Inox page today.

From heritage to supermarket: the story of Raghurajpur


april_14_006

“Have you ever been cheated?” And a sad smile flashed across the face of the 52 years old painter. “Yes”- was a brief reply, after a hesitant pause. And then Mr. Pradip Kumar Mahapatra (name changed) narrated the story, which ashamed me for obvious reasons.

I was on a short 3-day trip to Raghurajpur with a plan to explore the lives and works of the painters and artisans through the lens, but ended up conversing with some of them for hours. During this unplanned conversation certain stories and experiences started surfacing. One such is deeply related to the Durga Pujas, the most vibrant festival of West Bengal, the state from where I belong.

The Durga Pujas are becoming more and more extravagant every year. ‘Theme Pujas’ or Concept based decorations of the pandals is the order of the day. The organizers practically leave no stone unturned to hunt for a new concept or art form to adorn their pandals. Many corporate houses and some government organizations, for proficiency in concept and decorations, every year offer multiple handsome awards. To every Kolkatan like me, the puja days are coloured with various spectacular art and crafts work, made by artisans from various corners of India. Replicas of various temples and monuments across the nation and world are recreated with utmost care and sincerity. These wonders are only meant to enchant people during the five days of the puja. It takes months of hard labour and resources to realize these dreams. The constructions are only meant to stay for these five days.  They perish or are sold away to smaller Kali puja organizers from the periphery and districts for the next big festival. During the 2005 Durga puja Pradip was employed along with a group of artisans for decorating a pandal in Behala. One Mr. Swapan contacted them. He gave them the basic plans of a pandal, resources, and a sum of ₹ 2000. They were taken to a temporary workshop in Bhubaneshwar, where they completed the work of paintings and decorations, which were shipped to Kolkata and assembled there in the pandal. They were committed ₹ 10000 each for the work. But once finished, Mr. Swapan vanished in thin air, and never returned to Raghurajpur. People enjoyed an exquisite Durga puja in some Behala club pandal with exquisite pattachitra and coconut decorations, while Pradip and his fellow artisans’ innocence and dedication were cheated in an ugly manner.

Pradip bears the torch of an art form that dates back to 5 BC. He is a resident of Raghurajpur, the first village in Odissa, to get the ‘Heritage’ status from INTACH in 2000. The village is the home to 122 families of artisans; most of them inherited the skill from their families, through parampara as they say it. The village is the home of the painters who paints the temple and chariot of Lord Jagannatha for centuries. But the story of the whole village getting dedicated to the art form dates back to 1930, when Guru Jagannatha Mahapatra(1919-1958) opened a Gurukul in the village. Odissa government later set up the Bhubaneswar Hasta Shilpa Kendra, where Guru Ram Chandra Maharana was appointed as the teacher for training the ambitious artisans with proper aesthetic and technological know-hows.

In the past there was actually a proper Gurukula system prevalent in Raghurajpur, where the children used to stay in the house of the Gurus for years and learn the art. Presently this system doesn’t seem that much feasible, so the children stay in the house of the Gurus from 10am to 4pm. They do their academics side by side. When they reach their adolescence, the ones who want to lead their careers as painters go to Bhubaneswar, get the training from Bhubaneswar Hasta Shilpa Kendra, fine tune their skills under professional guidance and join the family tradition.

Raghurajpur is a small village in the southern bank of river Bhargavi. Being only 14 km away from Puri, the village gaining steady popularity in the tourism map of Puri tourists. Parallel increase in tourists and trained craftsmen is presently creating ripples in the stagnant waters of Raghurajpur. A class of ‘art-manufacturers’ has cropped up in the village that is actually drawing tourists away from the proper village of Raghurajpur.

Chandanpur bazar is the location on Puri-Bhubaneswar highway (NH 203) from where you need to take a right turn and travel 1.5 km to reach Raghurajpur. But midway between the stretch, at a point few shops have cropped up for selling artwork. Unfortunately, most of the auto-rickshaw and cab drivers tend to stop there and declare, “We have reached Raghurajpur.” Unless and until a tourist knows the proper location of the village, they are actually made to convince this fact. Serious money is playing tricks and these shops and drivers are making good business every year.

I have asked a single question to most of the painters of Raghurajpur- “why don’t you put a signature on your art-work?” Most avoided the question. Only two of them gave distinct answers. The answers bore the keys to the Pandora’s box. The box is already open now.

Maguni Mahapatra, a renowned artisan with unparalleled skill said, “my work is my signature.” Really he has his own style, which in spite of bearing its root in the heritage art form of the village, yet stands out from the crowd. Yes, he is right in his own way. There are a few classic painters in Raghurajpur, who has their signature styles and who can boast the words “my work is my signature.” But for the rest, one finds a repetition of composition, symbol, motifs, and presentation. The clue to this is hidden in the answer of Guru Shridhar Maharana, the most acclaimed painter of the village. He achieved international exposure, fame, and recognition for his works. A bit angrily he said- “Raghurajpur is no longer a heritage village… it’s a supermarket.”

The new generation artisans are actually working in groups. Drawing the sketch, filling the colours, painting the ornaments… each is done by a separate person. Even they are taking resort to photocopy machine. So instead of creating a unique piece of art, bulk production is the order of the day. This is having definite effect on the quality of art that is being produced. So, in every house you will see an array of artwork, which resembles the same you have seen in the previous house. This industrialization of fine art is taking effective financial toll on the artists who has stuck to the classic style. Gradually this is forcing them to shift from traditional natural colours to acrylic colours and from conventional pattas (dried palm leaf painting surface) to canvas. The costs are coming doapril_14_019wn, so is the durability of the work.

More and more paintings are coming out of the shelves of Raghurajpur from the bulk producers. More and more papier-mâché, coconut paintings, tussar paintings, rock carvings, wooden artworks are being produced from the heritage art village. Orders are coming from New Delhi, Bengaluru, and Chennai even from Kerala. The century old art form is spreading her wings and aiming a flight across the village-state-country boundaries. Guru Shridhar Maharana is in Germany on a project. Maguni Maharana is passing his baton to Narayan, Prakash and Aukkhoy, his three sons. They are doing wonderful jobs now. Though Prakash is in search of a career in the city- a job that will pay him a handsome amount. He is ready to shift even to Kolkata. Few eminent artisans of higher castes are expressing jealous grudge against lower caste artisans for getting a chance to learn the skill and join the business. Few aging artists have developed cataract and visual problems and need immediate medical attention.

The village Goddess Bhuasuni is keeping a close eye on the fast changing scenario. Even Her temple is getting a revamp. Cars are coming off and on carrying foreign and Indian tourists. Though the village artists’ co-operative remains closed based on internal problems.

Next time when you visit Puri, manage one day out of your busy tour schedule and visit Raghurajpur. Move through the village. Indulge in the exquisite artwork done by them, even on the walls of their residential houses. Visit their homes. Stay in tourist cottage for one night if possible. If you are lucky enough to visit the place during the Vijaya Dashami or the Spring Festival (4th and 5th February every year), you will be lucky to see Gutipoa- the traditional dance form of the village, which late gave birth to the Odissi dance form. Visit the dilapidated house of Guru Kelucharan Mahapatra and be flabbergasted on how such a heritage landmark can be washed away in the course of time.

Visit the village of Pradip Kumar Mahapatra, who in spite of getting cheated by a Durga puja committee, refuses to disclose his own name. Who still doesn’t want a punishment for the wrong doers. Who still trusts his colours, paintbrush, palette, and skills and looks up to Lord Jagannatha through sincere prayers and thanks Him for blessing them with food, home, and peace of mind.

april_14_023

NOKIA IS THE NAME OF A RIVER | CHAPTER 1 : Francisco Tárrega and the story of a ringtone

IMG_0251francisco_tarrega_001

As a child he was naughty. As a child, he loved to listen to his father playing his guitar. He imitated him, whenever he was away. The father was one hell of a genius. Guitar was his passion and he played flamenco and several other music styles in his guitar.

One day the child ran away from his nanny and fell into an irrigation channel and injured his eyes. The time was middle of nineteenth century. His father feared that the son might loose vision for life. So he shifted from Villarreal, Spain to Castellon de la Plana with an intention to teach him music.

The father assumed that even as a blind he would be able to earn as a musician. Eugeni Ruiz and Manuel Gonzalez, two of his early music teachers were blind. The child blossomed in time to become one of the greatest Spanish musicians.

Francisco Tárrega is the name of a Spanish composer and classical guitarist. No, the name doesn’t ‘ring’ a bell to your mind. Grandé Valse is one of his well-known compositions in classical guitar created in 1902. No, you haven’t heard it either. In 1994 a popular Finnish cell phone company actually used a part of the composition as the default ring-tone of their brand for the first time in a cell phone released on that year. Ooh! You now seem to have a spark in your mind. Yes friend, the cell phone is Nokia 2110, and we are actually talking about the famous Nokia ringtone that is ringing successfully from hand to hand, from heart to heart for the last two decades. The Nokia ringtone is actually celebrating 20 years.

In this fast evolving world of technology twenty years of existence is definitely some event. The ringtone is living somewhere in your memory-alleys. You wont find a single soul living in proximity of civilisation but doesn’t make an instant connection to it. The tone was involved in many ups and downs of global cellular phone history. Few such events relate to our own nation.

In 31st July 1995 the then CM of West Bengal, a hard-core communist revolutionised Indian Telecommunication system by making the country’s first mobile call to the Union Communication Minister Sukh Ram. Basu made the first ever mobile call from a Nokia handset on a network provided by Nokia, the MobileNet. MobileNet no longer runs the great Indian cellular rat race. But it was Nokia who created the spark that in course of time ignited a billion expressions and speech from the Kashmir to Kanyakumari.

In course of time, Nokia created the ringtone “Saare jahan se acchha”, the first ringtone ever made on an Indian melody. The ringtone was introduced in a Nokia 5110 handset on 1998.

The Nokia 1100 was released on 2003. This is a landmark device in the history of mobile telephony. Nokia branded this device as “made for India.” The device sported a specially designed dust-proof front face and keyboard. Its sides were non-slip for humid weathers.(Nokia shares some interesting figures with this handset. Nokia sold 250 millions of 1100, making it the highest ever sold mobile handset of the world. Nokia’s one-billionth phone sold was also a 1100, sold in Nigeria in 2005.)

They were the people who actually managed to feel the pulse of India. They knocked every door, reached every kitchen, felt every emotion, crossed every barrier and mingled across the multiple layers of socio-cultural diversities, that is India with a simple but phenomenal piece of music, the Nokia ringtone.

Standing in 2014 with a Lumia 1020 in my hand with active 3G network to access the internet, it feels strange to believe that it all started from a device with 2.5 hours of talk time, a single radio band, 125-entry phone book, and a four-line monochrome LCD. The ringtone defined the brand for a generation and is just recognisable at every corner on the planet. Francisco Tárrega lives along as my phone starts ringing again!

Few weeks backs Microsoft Devices expressed its intention to drop the brand Nokia from the name of the Lumia range of phones. Lumia 930, thus becomes the last device to dawn the epic brand name on its cover. Thus ends the story of a legend. I don’t know for sure. whether Microsoft Devices will retain the signature ‘Nokia Tune’ in the ringtone list of devices to come. So, if you have a Nokia 2110 in your old boxes or drawers, don’t think twice to buy the Nokia Lumia 930. Thus you will be pocketing the journey of a legend from the very first to the very last of its appearance.

Youtube link of Grandé Valse by Francisco Tárrega:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3huwi5gxixE

and I’m living the dreams

IMG_6749It felt like ‘touch’. It felt like ‘warmth’. It felt so real. I was stroking my father’s head. My fingers running through his hairs. He is not with us since 16th March this year. But ever since he left, he has been a regular in my dreams. They said that dreams come in greyscale. Much like those old black and white movies, with enough dark vignetting and enough dirty scratches. But mine emerge in colours with proper resolutions and clarity. But sadly I’m the only one speaking there, and he is a visitor from eternal silence. Mute as ever he will be.

How to document dreams? How to recall moments lost in transition between consciousness and subconsciousness? In dreams, we pass through terrains of reality and aspirations. The environment breeds inevitable familiarity to our senses. The house I know. The furnitures he used. All reappear like a present-continuous-projection. Only the reality gets tilted in favour of aspirations or defeats. How much I wished to show him the interior decoration of a particular room. Now I find him lying on a bed in that very room and smiling at me.

He is not the disease-torn debilitated person any more. In my dreams, he is healthy, as I dreamt him to be. The mind is a pied-piper from oblivion. He plays the inevitable tune of memories drenched in desires and fears. Now I’m in my middle ages. I live the life of a physician. But pre-higher-secondary examination fears haunt me in my dreams. I often discover myself getting utterly disturbed with the incomplete Bangla, Physics and Organic Chemistry syllabi. Yes, these three subjects still haunt me, but in reality the subject which should have been the cause of nightmare was mathematics. The pied-piper has his own way of playing his flute.

I forgot to lock the Physics door. We forget to lock doors habitually. In the deepest corners of our selfhood we have an attachment to ours fears, frustrations and failures. We always intend to visit those wrong turns and right them up. I always wished to start with a new mathematics and physics teacher in class XI. I ended up studying with three different not-so-good guys in each of these subjects in the first six months of the curriculum and lost directions completely. I always wanted to skip that rum-drenched-evening at the ‘Kwality”. How much I wished that I ignored that phone-call from an unknown number in that crucial cross-road of my career. We leave those doors open and people and incidents continually fiddle with them in our dreams.

The door to the room of my father’s world is also open. I live in that room. We communicate, disagree, debate, have tea, listen to Kabir Suman, watch Feluda movies. We were never been so cosily close before.

I wished him to see the newly decorated ground-floor room in our home. I wanted him to taste Malibu coconut rum. I wished to make a trip to Andaman and Nicobar islands with him. But keeping all my expectations and dreams aside he chose to leave. He opted for the dream-venture-safari instead.

My father had a stroke the day before my marriage. On the day before the mishap, he was in the healthiest state ever in the last three months. He walked a lot. Visited the roof. Watered his favourite plants. Ordered us to rearrange the plants. In the very next morning, we found him unconscious in his bed.

Weeks back I discovered him having some snacks with me over coffee. I felt that we just walked out of a movie theatre after watching a show. We actually never had a similar episode in the near past. Next I found him walking with me along the A. J. C. Bose Road, searching for a good restaurant to have lunch. No good food-hubs were open. He was walking properly and quickly with me. It was so unlike his slow, staggering Parkinsonian gait. An eerie thought chased me in my dreams – “he is walking properly today, so tomorrow he will be having the stroke”. As is the nature of all dreams, the dream ended at an unexpected point. We were standing between the two lanes, below the A. J. C. Bose road flyover, near the Exide-crossing. Vehicles zooming on both sides of us. Father was asking me to take him home. I was searching for a restaurant. And a thought of an impending stroke haunting me, that was inevitable in the coming morning.

Dreams Destiny and Empty Spaces

The two Facebook pages are still drawing my attention. They give a feel that nothing has happened actually and Sojan and Sumona are pretty alive. The virtual entity seems to be more acceptable than the real. At this point certain questions start haunting me regarding the biological death of a person and modalities of termination of electronic life.

One a rainy Delhi evening, with the company of silence and raindrops, after lighting a Navy Cut just outside the cigarette shop of 82 years old Ramji Show at Patel Chest, Sojan James finally decided not to exist. The kebabs he had were good that night (but not like the mutton burra kebabs of Karim’s, which were his favourite), the biryani was average, but they had great fun in the hostel’s Iftar party. He took many photographs of the gala dinner. He was awake till 3am that night, uploading them on Facebook. Though he was idle to tag any of his friends in them. He had some jasmine tea, listened to Ahir Bhairav from youtube, even shared the video on Facebook at around 4am. He skipped sleep, went to university, interacted with students, discussed with his phd guide about post-doc opportunities  in Heidelberg. He intended to see sunset that afternoon from the hostel’s roof, but was trapped in the law faculty canteen checking the presentation of a junior student in the laptop. He returned to his room that evening. He was recovered by police the next afternoon hanging from the ceiling. Sojan James ceased to exist.

Much similar is the story of Sumona from Jadavpur. A vibrant girl in her twenties, studying masters in English, avidly in dance, theatre and performing arts, had a hobby of posting funny photographs on Facebook clicked  with her smartphone. She was addicted to marijuana and just completed designing the poster of a dance-drama. Sumona landed up in a heresy after succumbing to a three days fight with dengue in a small nursing home. 

Suddenly in a span of one month, Facebook is flooding with grief stricken updates from friends, close acquaintances, old photographs, memory snippets, mobile videos and condolences regarding two vibrant youths.

The two Facebook pages are still drawing my attention. They give a feel that nothing has happened actually and Sojan and Sumona are pretty alive. The virtual entity seems to be more acceptable than the real. At this point certain questions start haunting me regarding the biological death of a person and modalities of termination of electronic life. For the sake of this essay we use the term ‘e-existence’ for electronic life.

How far the e-existence of a person is spread in the present day life is a vital question. It actually starts with the password of ones laptop and smartphone and extend unto the double layered security of ones banking website. Leave aside the social networking sites and shopping sites. I personally use three email-ids, participate in six social networking sites, buy products from twelve shopping portals, has six debit and credit cards and operate four password protected devices. So my death might leave my family members to face as many as thirty five to forty password and verification code riddles. If unsolved, the banking part though could be taken care of, but the e-existence will continue to baffle my associates with a blank vision and thousands of liking, disliking, debates and memories that I have created over last eight to nine years of my biological existence. This sudden void of living hood is a distraction for some, disturbance for others and epitome of loneliness for a few.

If the profile-owner allowed wall-posts by strangers, then the profile might turn into a rendezvous destination. Two strangers someday might decide to meet on the wall of Sojan or Sumona and exchange words or feelings. Hatred debate or love might blossom. The profile may turn into a sharing site of pornographic contents by virtual users. A form of guardian less anarchy might actually ruin the e-existence of the deceased as the password remains lost in oblivion.

Ritam in Kolkata in his late twenties, fell in love with Moira of US during his onsite placement in Lisbon. Moira was in her late forties. Love bloomed. Moira visited India later and extensively travelled to Delhi, Agra, Jaipur and Goa. She was suddenly diagnosed with hepatocellular carcinoma and died within a span of five months. She gave her password to Ritam before her death. Three years have passed. Ritam every now and then takes out time to share some beautiful inspiring posts on behalf of Moira. He regularly changes the cover photos and profile pictures. The e-existence outlives the biological existence for Moira.

Some of us will stand as loners after death. Birthday updates will generate in friends’ profile. Notifications will pile. The e-existence will continually make faces to the biological death. What if with time a lonely introvert shy university student gets converted into a popular rendezvous point for strangers. The e-existence might get converted into an e-cafeteria. May be thus life will surpass death and voids will be filled. Still a Sojan or a Sumona will stare from the profile-picture and enjoy the voices of e-visitors.

Orkut is sinking right now. Within months all memories we shared in there will be lost. Orkut Buyukkokten presently has a Facebook account. Like us, he is also sharing his existence in Facebook. What if one day this world-wide extended e-meeting point hits a business low and faces a shutdown? Will that mark and existential death sentence for many biologically alive individuals? It will definitely terminate thousands of biologically dead e-existences. Where will our digital footprints go? How to tackle e-death? How to live e-afterlife? When to pull the plug for Moira’s e-existence? What if Ritam passes away one day?

I met Herbart Sarkar yesterday in the Armherst Street. He expressed concern about all the above stories and queries to me. He was visibly disturbed about these after-death riddles. He emptied his heart and speedily lost in a by lane muttering-“cat, bat, water, dog, fish.. cat, bat, water, dog, fish.. cat, bat, water, dog, fish..”

LITTI, GREEN CHILLIES AND STORIES UNDER THE BANYAN TREE

IMG_0150.JPG
Bhuvan was carefully preparing the plate for me. He selected two littis from the tava. They were adequately baked and not too much burnt to cause a bitter taste in the mouth. He carefully broke them into pieces. Smokes puffed out of the hot littis as he did that. He definitely is feeling the bad heat on his fingertips as he manoeuvred them. He scooped up some mashed potatoes. They were properly mixed with mustard oil, green Chilli and onions. Next he placed half of a quarter of onion on the plate and added two specially fried green chilli on it and topped everything with three teaspoonful of olive chutney. He handed over the plate to me. Hold your saliva, while I discuss the story of the ingredients on my plate while munching on them.

Litti is a popular street food and owes its origin in Bihar. It is a sattu based bread like preparation and comes in two avatars- baked and fried. The fried one is actually a Bengal variant and is projected to cater the Bengali taste buds which refuses to accept anything from Momo to Rabindrasangeet unless they are properly oiled. The baked one on the other hand is the more authentic version of the delicacy.

Bhuvan sits below a banyan tree with all his ingredients of serving sattu in various forms. The popular one being the salt & sourly sherbet with tangy taste of jaljira masala along with onion and green chilli. Some foodies also prefer the sattu dough. The dough is prepared by the same ingredients only the jaljira powder gets replaced with mango pickle.

Littis is the other popular variant. The dough for litti is made with atta (wheat flour). The inner content of litti is prepared separately by mixing sattu with onion, green chilli and several fried spices. The dough is converted into small balls. A dent is made in the centre of each ball and the sattu preparation is loaded in the core. The balls are closed and then converted into small chapatis, each one not more than 2 to 2 ½ inches in diameter. The whole thing is made with bare hands and the whole preparation is allowed to bake in a coal oven on a netted tava. Bhuvan turns the littis upside down every now and then so that they get evenly baked and no surface is charred. The hot littis are served in a manner I mentioned earlier.

I myself have been a customer of Bhuvan since early 2011. SeverL events in the national arena occurred during these years which often found reflection on our litti plates and among conversation of the litti eaters. The associations mostly constituted workers of various levels from three nearby hospitals, Nepal embassy, a police training school, two banks and workers of few nearby multi-storyed residencies. The chief mover of the discussions is a priest who stays below that tree and whose clientele constitutes all the shop-owners on and around Ekbalpore.

Over this period of four years this sattu-circle was emphatic on two incidents. First, long back on 2011 when Dhoni led India to the world-cup victory and secondly when a NaMo wave swept across the nation to register the greatest Indian electoral victory of all times. There were smaller storms in sattu glasses on global topics like earthquakes and Thailand chicks and local issues like IPL and collapse of Sahara empire. Several freaking news fly only in these circles. One such bulletin informed that Nelson Mandela visited India only to meet Lalu Prasd Yadav, but somehow Lalu couldn’t provide an appointment to him. The real story behind shutdown of the Hindustan Motors was also being discussed few months back. The people there know how Samsung officials bribed the Nokians to abstain from using Android thus leading to the epic collapse of the Finnish giant and how Mukesh Ambani purchased all onions of India to create the great onion price hike in 2013.

This onion price hike actually found a bitter reflection on our litti plates. Our onions were being replaced by radish by Bhuvan. Initially one small piece of onion and two to three pieces of radish were provided. But soon three to four pieces of radish started landing and the onions actually vanished. Bhuvan with his typical accented Hindi started painting the demonic face of Mukesh Ambani to us with eVery serving.

Times pass. So does stories. Onions gradually cooled down. But they refused to return to their previous price brackets. Onions returned, but the quarter pieces got halved. Topics of discussion changed below the banyan tree. But the price of a plate of litti still remained ₹ 10, as it was three years back.

But in course of time potatoes started becoming hot. We were expecting recent expressions of the same on our litti plates. This just happened today and the mashed potato serving on our plates reduced from 2 ½ scoops to 1 ½ scoops. I asked Bhuvan for one scoop more and he replied with his signature smile, “what to do sir, they are rising the prices again, but you are old customer…” – and another ½ scoop of mashed potato landed on my plate. I started nibbling the food and a wait for another discussion to commence started in my mind. The old dynasty is down. There’s a new king in Delhi. May be it’s time for new villains to surface. The chutney is good today though, and the price is still ₹ 10.

চুপমহলের কথাগুলি

1

মোড়ক খোলে কমলা-সাদা শহর
পায়ের তলায় মুখ লুকোনো ছায়া
বারো তলায় রোদের দখল জবর
চিলেকোঠায় অগোছালো মায়া

পুরনো টেপ, ক্যাসেটএ মুখ ভার
কে একটা লোক গিটার চেপে কাঁদে
“কখনো মেঘ ঘুঙুর”-এ সংসার
থমকে থাকে তোমার আমার ছাদে

বিস্মরণের নিয়ম থাকে নাকি?
থাকে শুধুই সুরগুলি নির্বাক
ক্যাসেট বোঝাই অভিমানের গান
পাশ ফিরে শোয় একাকী বৈশাখ

the little red bus : Redd

Redd 1

redd1 copy

Redd arrived to me on my 31st Birthday. I was just loitering in front of the hospital, when a friend of mine arrived with a smile and some gifts. Redd was among them. A strong feeling of embarking on a journey with Redd struck me. And well…we start our trip. Join us for more fun.

Redd 2

IMG_9336 copy

It was a cloudy day. It was drizzling every now and then. I decided to settle with a cup of hot espresso, while Redd decided to take a ride around the city painted on my coffee mug.

Redd 3

IMG_9339 copy

The road begins…where the race ends.

Redd 4

DSC_9273 copy copy

Redd visits music…his soul mate for a long drive.

Redd 5

IMG_9631 copy

Redd crosses the shallow river.

PICTURES OF WALLS

From my early childhood, they fascinated me …writings… slogans… paintings… graffiti… misprint… .directions… directives… dilemmas… desolations…. pride… vengeance… love…. hate… poetry… scientific views… astrological fakes… beauty…. and its battered self… people embossed them on the walls. Sometimes as vibrant posters, sometimes as hoardings, people spoke… people screamed. People whispered on lamp posts… on handbills… pamphlets. I heard them expressing business ideas on boats… I have seen them in the Railway stations… I found the Government trying to bridge the barriers of language… I found India trying to comprehend India. The different layers of our country all mingling together across the language-wallets-attires-expressions and stretching out their hands in search of another. A nation reaching out for its soul… and no wonder touching it. “I heard ten thousand whispering and nobody listening”. So tried to write the book of nonsense rhymes with my lens. You should SEE what I SEA.

SAAS BAHU SAREES
SAAS BAHU SAREES
This Photograph is taken in Varanasi. A city famous for the Hindu pilgrimage…and also famous for its special Vanarasi Sarees.
The City is traversed by the pan Insdian tourists round the year. A major bulk from the Hindi belt. The never ending complicated prime ti,e soap operas are daily rituals for the ladies in these regions. A shopkeeper tries to boost his saree sales by riding on the wave of such a serial name.
Business tactics….

 

ONE FOR THE CHILDREN
A graffiti on the Varanasi Ghats.
TURN TO THE TEMPLE
An alley leading to a Shiva temple.
THE GRAFFITI GIRL
A Graffiti on a wall, on the bank of Varanasi.
WHAT'S ON YOUR MIND
A wall of Varanasi, the city by the sacred Ganga, the destination where the world mingles with India. A wall full of advertisement over there
TIN MILE HAAT
A solitary station of West Bengal on a winter morning. The Lingua Franca here being Bengali, the Indian Railway signboard flashing Bengali,English and Hindi. The station stands alone in the fog…nobody got down…nobody boarded even.