tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-56715368058766635402024-02-03T04:59:41.378+05:30Past ContinuousThe blog that memories built...Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.comBlogger116125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5671536805876663540.post-67736667854759718312012-04-25T17:36:00.000+05:302012-04-25T17:36:23.323+05:30AUTOGRAPH, PLEASE!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Have you ever given an autograph?</span></b><br />
<br />
I have. Three days a week, for nearly two years.<br />
<br />
Who's that lunatic, obsessed fan...are you thinking?<br />
<br />
<b><span style="color: red;">Please do not go by my current state of middle-aged aunty-hood. </span><span style="color: #38761d;">At that time, I was a svelte seventeen.</span></b><br />
<br />
I was a boarder at Lady Brabourne College Hostel in Calcutta, and <b><span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;">I used to autograph an egg </span></b>with an indelible ball-point pen three days a week (give or take a day here and there).<br />
<br />
Was I a mad, narcissistic egg-head?<br />
<br />
Not really.<br />
<br />
<b><span style="color: #6aa84f;">It was a nutritional survival strategy, actually.</span></b><br />
<br />
The food at the hostel was, to put it mildly, meagre.<br />
<br />
I still remember the first dinner we had at the hostel. Dressed up ridiculously with hair in five pigtails and face painted half-man-half-woman, bowing each time we saw a senior boarder (ragging was a rite of passage then, not a criminal offence), we shuffled awkwardly to our table - some excited, many homesick, all nervous. Only to be met with dubious, watery <i>khichdi </i>(rice-lentil gruel), equally dodgy tomato chutney and a shriveled piece of fried fish that the tiniest kitten would gulp down in one bite. Sitting down to this sorry repast, <b><span style="color: #b45f06; font-size: large;">our hearts pined for home.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #b45f06; font-size: large;"><br /></span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #b45f06; font-size: large;">Actually, for home-cooked food.</span></b><br />
<br />
No wonder we were all so thin during those days. (Now, how I pine for that long-forgotten slim frame)<br />
<br />
So, to supplement the slim (and slimming) diet, we had to adopt other strategies.<br />
<br />
The signed egg being one of them.<br />
<br />
The hostel kitchens boiled copious quantities of water during the day - for tea, for hot water baths, for...now-don't-make-me-think-of-weird-things. And if we gave them raw eggs, they would return the eggs to us after boiling.<br />
<br />
Pretty straightforward, don't you think.<br />
<br />
Not so.<br />
<br />
<b><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: large;">Eggs have an irritating tendency of coming in different sizes. </span></b>(Not shapes. I remember reading an Agatha Christie where the cubist-perfectionist Hercule Poirot wishes that eggs were perfectly symmetrical cubes).<br />
<br />
So, to be sure of <b><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;">WYGIWYG</span></b> (What You Give Is What You Get), we signed on the eggs. In indelible blue ball-point pen ink. And also made smiley faces, flowers, hearts, stars and whatnot.<br />
<br />
<b><span style="color: #990000; font-size: large;">Like fame, these autographs were short-lived. </span></b><br />
<br />
They disappeared when we cracked the (boiled) eggs and ate them.<br />
<br />
And, sadly, my chances of giving autographs have also disappeared.<br />
<br />
Of course, discounting chequebooks, exam papers and the thousands of forms we fill up to survive.<br />
<br />
<b><span style="color: #45818e; font-size: large;">WHERE DID YOU SIGN YOUR FIRST AUTOGRAPH?</span></b><br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5671536805876663540.post-65256298198025643012011-12-19T17:16:00.001+05:302011-12-19T17:18:24.804+05:30JOYRIDE ON A TRAIN?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Today, I have to travel daily in local trains to reach my workplace. Trains hold no thrills for me, only the dreary utility of getting from home to work in the shortest possible time.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Years ago, it was different. Trains were an occasional thrill, not an everyday chore. Trains were meant to take us to Calcutta for a picnic, or to exotic locations like the zoo/museum/New Market/<a href="http://www.pcsorcarjr.com/">P.C. Sorcar's</a> magic shows, or, sometimes, to homes of interesting and far-away relations for some family occasion. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Train rides came on Sundays or holidays. Train rides meant getting up earlier than usual and putting on our smartest clothes. Train rides would mean looking with pleasure at the old red-brick colonial-era <b><a href="http://www.blogger.com/en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Barrackpore_rail_station.jpg">Barrackpore railway station</a></b>, and listening with joy to the cacophonous birdcalls of all the thousands of pigeons that roosted under the high asbestos roofs of the paltforms. Train rides meant holding Baba or Ma's hand tightly and waiting breathlessly for the Barrackpore local train to pull in.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And then the rush to get seats. Usually, Baba would be able to bag window seats. Otherwise, Bhai and I would take turns in standing at the window (we were still too short for people to grumble about us blocking the breeze at the window.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Looking at the gradually crowding train compartment, I would check out the other travellers, and look yearningly at Ma everytime a vendor selling foodstuff would board the train. The most yearning silent pleas would be for sour amlaki, sweet Mysore Pak and salt-encrusted guavas.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Looking out of the windiw, we would see the stations flashing past, each with its own stereotyped image in our minds. </div>
<div>
<b>Titagarh</b> was the unruly station crowded with immigrants from Bihar and Uttar Pradesh.</div>
<div>
<b>Khardah</b> was somehow idyllic and village-like, perhaps because of the name ('khar' means hay in Bengali).</div>
<div>
<b>Sodepur and Agarpara</b> were interchangeable middle-class Bengali small-towns in my mind, unaspirational and uninspiring.</div>
<div>
<b>Belgharia</b> was too crowded, too uncosmopiltan, too<span style="color: red;"> RED</span>.</div>
<div>
<b>Dumdum </b>was where I would begin to get really excited, because we were now, OFFICIALLY in Calcutta, and also because of the exotic promise of the AIRPORT.</div>
<div>
<b>Ulta Danga</b> was just an impatient comma before we landed at</div>
<div>
<b>SEALDAH.</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The country bumpkin had arrived at the big city, and would be all wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the sights and sounds of Kolkata. But that's another story.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">WHAT DID TRAIN RIDES MEAN TO YOU AS A CHILD?</span></b></div>
</div>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5671536805876663540.post-79757320116717823052011-11-24T17:53:00.003+05:302011-11-24T18:34:26.065+05:30BROTHERS DEARWhile most Indian communities celebrate Rakshabandhan, Bengalis usually prefer to celebrate the brother-sister bond on Bhai-Phonta, which comes a day or two after Diwali.<div><br /></div><div>There are certain disadvantages. Rakhis for Rakshabandan can be couriered, and there are even virtual Rakhis that can be e-mailed. But Bhai-Phonta is when the sister has to touch her brother's forehead to apply tika three times, and it cannot be done long-distance. </div><div><br /></div><div>With brothers and cousins staying in different cities and countries now, the bhai-phonta is a more a memory than an occasion for many of us. This year, I did manage to have one at my Ma's home, where some of my cousin brothers were present. But not my Bhai (brother).</div><div><br /></div><div>When we were young, Bhai-Phonta was a much-anticipated event, full of promise of exciting gifts and being the centre of attention.</div><div><br /></div><div>Mornings would begin very early, to try and catch the <b>shishir</b> (autumn dew) that had fallen on the grass overnight. We would usually leave out thin squares of muslin cloth on the grass the night before, and would collect these before sunrise and wring them out to fill up a small brass bowl with dew. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then we would be made to rub the sandalwood stick over stone to get <b>chandan</b> (sandalwood paste). And then put it in another brass bowl. After that we would make <b>kajal</b>, by rubbbing ghee (butter) on a leaf and blackening it over a '<i>pradiper shikha</i>' (flame). We would also take <b>dhaan</b> (unhusked rice grains) and <b>dubbo</b> (trident-shaped grass stalks). </div><div><br /></div><div>Arranged on a thali (platter), it all looked so good and festive. Proud of our handiwork, we would dress up in gaudy finery (from our recently-received Durga Pujo stock of new clothes). Ma and the aunts would be in charge of the food arrangements - which would be quite formidable but the end results would be totally mouth-watering and worth-the-wait.</div><div><br /></div><div>Bhai (my brother) was the youngest of the cousins, he would be at home. But the other cousins would arrive, along with uncles (my mother's and my barama's brothers) and granduncles (my grandmother's brothers). Throughout the day, the house would be a-bustle with guests, and full of laughter and happy talk, and the smell of luchi-mangsho (puris and mutton-curry) would linger in the air along with the incense-stick fragrances.</div><div><br /></div><div>The brother would sit, self-important and cross-legged, on the ason (carpet) laid on the floor. The sister would put dip her finger into the dew-then-sandalwood-then-kajal and each time she would put a mark on the brother's forehead, muttering rapidly the prayer which roughly translated into a wish for a long, long life for her dear brother. The elder sibling would then take the rice-and-grass and bless the younger one who would touch the other's feet. </div><div><br /></div><div>And then came the nicest part. The brother, especially if he was employed, would put his hand in his pocket, take out his wallet and ruefully shell out some money as a gift to his sister. Of course, many sisters, like my mother would received elaborate gifts of crockery. Grandmother would usually receive saris from her brothers. Grown-up sisters would give gifts to their brothers as well, a shirt-piece, a watch...</div><div><br /></div><div>But for us kids, it would be cash. And we would count out blessings, and our stash, at the end of the day, happy with love and flush with cash. Who said Money can't buy you Love???</div><div><br /></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >HOW DID YOU MANAGE TO GET YOUR BROTHER/SISTER TO GIFT YOU SOME CASH?</span></b></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5671536805876663540.post-59866058877662487772011-10-20T17:22:00.004+05:302011-10-20T18:07:02.417+05:30SHAKES-POWER<span class="Apple-style-span">Pardon the cheesy title.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">I was watching <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/36_Chowringhee_Lane">36 Chowringhee Lane</a> the other day. It's a movie anybody who is old, or is growing old, or is refusing to grow old, should watch. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">But this is not about the movie. Its about <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare">Shakespeare.</a> That's because, the central character, when she is at her loneliest, most betrayed, most hurt moment, quotes from King Lear. Understandable, she is a Shakepeare teacher after all.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Shakespeare has a way of getting in your veins, in your arteries, and then flowing over to your heart. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">This post is not about Shakespeare either. That will take many, many books to write. And I am not erudite enough.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">It is about Anjana Miss, in Class X, who taught us <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Julius_Caesar_(play)">Julius Caesar. </a>And who taught me not to fear Shakespeare. Who told me to grab the verbs to make sense of the blank-verse sentences. Who taught me the power of Antony's oratory and Brutus's honour.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">It is about Kajaldi, at <a href="http://www.presidencyadmission.net/">Presidency College</a>, who taught us <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Twelfth_Night">Twelfth Night</a>. And who taught me about the rainbow-witted comic genius and the pathos-lined romance of Shakespeare.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">It is about Sukantada, at <a href="http://www.jadavpur.edu/">Jadavpur University</a>, who taught us <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/King_Lear">King Lear</a>. And who taught me about the poetry of pride and fidelity, and the tragedy of delusion and dementia.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">King Lear was the Shakespeare play that made me spontaneously cry when I read it.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Thank you.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">I will quote those lines from King Lear, which are spoken by the old and lonely Jennifer Kapoor to a stray dog, as they walk on a desolate Christmas evening:</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><a name="5.3.9">"No, no, no, no! Come, let's away to prison:</a><br /><a name="5.3.10">We two alone will sing like birds i' the cage:</a><br /><a name="5.3.11">When thou dost ask me blessing, I'll kneel down,</a><br /><a name="5.3.12">And ask of thee forgiveness: so we'll live,</a><br /><a name="5.3.13">And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh</a><br /><a name="5.3.14">At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues</a><br /><a name="5.3.15">Talk of court news; and we'll talk with them too,</a><br /><a name="5.3.16">Who loses and who wins; ..."</a></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><a name="5.3.16"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></a></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><a name="5.3.16"><span class="Apple-style-span">It is a failed father's, a defeated king's, a mad monarch's, an old man's delusion. </span></a></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><a name="5.3.16"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></a></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">But then, when we strip ourselves of our foolish possessions and comforting relations, aren't we all this lonely and wailing:</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>"<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><a name="5.3.361">And my poor fool is hang'd! No, no, no life!</a></span></b></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><a name="5.3.362">Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life,</a><br /><a name="5.3.363">And thou no breath at all? Thou'lt come no more,</a><br /><a name="5.3.364">Never, never, never, never, never!"</a></b></span></span><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>WHAT'S YOUR FAVOURITE PLAY, SHAKESPEARE OR OTHERWISE?<br /></b><div><br /></div></div>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5671536805876663540.post-35718766360822243862011-09-30T16:25:00.002+05:302011-09-30T16:40:20.548+05:30STARRY-EYED DREAMSWhen I was a young girl, I had a lot of dreams. Big ones, little ones, recurring ones, once-in-a-while ones. Dreams of all sorts, shapes, and sizes. <div><br /></div><div>One constant was that I would NOT, NOT, NOT, stay in Barrackpore all my life. I mean, I felt that while Barrackpore would be absolutely lovely to COME BACK TO, with its meandering Ganges river, and its crumbling colonial buildings, and its duck-ponds, and green shades, and the familiar comforts of home...I DREAMT OF LIVING ELSEWHERE.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>THAT ELSEWHERE WOULD BE UNFIXED, VAGUE, CHANGING WITH WHATEVER BOOK I WOULD BE READING AT THE MOMENT.</b></div><div><br /></div><div>It could be Kolkata...which in my childhood dreams had a buzz and bustle that was was belied in reality.</div><div><br /></div><div>It could be Delhi or Mumbai ... cities that mattered, that were important in the media, that attracted dwellers from all over the country.</div><div><br /></div><div>It could be London or New York or Los Angelos...places glamourised in the fiction I devoured vicariously.</div><div><br /></div><div>It could be anywhere but the still centre that was Barrackpore.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>WHEN YOU WERE YOUNG, WHERE DID YOU THINK OF LIVING WHEN YOU GREW UP</b>.</div>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5671536805876663540.post-76455530491510234912011-08-18T18:14:00.002+05:302011-08-18T18:30:51.243+05:30COMFORT BOOKSThere are some books that read better when re-visited. Like old wine, like good friends, like really close family, they get better with time.<div>
<br /></div><div>Every time you decide to re-read them, you feel a thrill of familiar anticipation...like the tingle I felt every summer vacation when I would board the train or bus to go my cousin's home in Calcutta. I knew what joys and excitements lay ahead, but the familiarity did not diminish the excitement or the joyousness.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>And when you open the first few pages, there is no uncertain negotiation of the opening chapters, no awkward introduction of new characters and settings, no stressful grappling-to-know details. It's all blissfully familiar and comforting. Even if you have forgotten a few names and more-than-a-few events, the rediscovery is a relaxing journey along a familiar, comforting route.</div><div>
<br /></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >NOT THE ROLLERCOASTER EXCITEMENT AND THRILL OF DISCOVERY OF A NEW BOOK. SOMETIMES THE SOUL YEARNS FOR THE GENTLE, AMBLING, START-FROM-ANYWHERE-AND-QUIT-AT-ANY-POINT REDISCOVERY OF AN OLD FAVOURITE BOOK.</span></b></div><div>
<br /></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >BOOKS THAT DON'T KEEP YOU AWAKE THROUGH NIGHTS, BUT LULL YOU TO SLUMBER IN STEAD.</span></b></div><div>
<br /></div><div>I have a pretty long list of old, faithful, familiar books that have comforted me through thick and thin. And top of the heap is <b>AGATHA CHRISTIE</b>, of the cosy murder-mystery fame/infamy. And then, there are chic-lit stalwarts like <b>SOPHIE KINSELLA</b> and <b>MARIAN KEYES</b>.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>But if you say BOOKS, then it will have to be <b><span class="Apple-style-span" >BRIDGET JONES' DIARY</span></b>.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Closely followed by <b><span class="Apple-style-span" >ALICE IN WONDERLAND.</span></b></div><div>
<br /></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >WHAT IS YOUR COMFORT BOOK?</span></b></div>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5671536805876663540.post-71780970497654681702011-06-23T18:20:00.002+05:302011-06-23T18:48:33.947+05:30THE FIRST SHIFTThe first time I shifted house was a time I cannot even remember. I was all of one-and-a-half. My father had been posted in Santaldih, where he was working as an Electrical Engineer with the West Bengal State Electricity Board. So, after the mandatory hospital-stay and the two-month recuperating period at her mother's house, my Maa turned up with me in tow at my father's single-storey government bungalow in Santaldih.<div><br /></div><div>There I stayed for around eighteen months, growing up in sunshine and running around in mica-encrusted fields that glittered in the dark. Our front garden had flower beds and the back garden had vegetable patches where Maa tended over seasonal delicacies. I have an old black-and-white photo of me wearing a smock and oiled, neatly combed hair, squinting at the sun and smiling, dragging my tricycle on the cobbled path leading to the main door. </div><div><br /></div><div>Apparently, or so my Maa says, I was a very stubborn child who would scream and shout if she took me to any other bungalow, although all the bungalows looked the same, even before I was a year old. My ever-patient Maa interpreted this abominable ill temper as excessive attachment to my Santaldih home.</div><div><br /></div><div>Santaldih was a peaceful outpost, with not much available in terms of shops or markets. Maa and Baba had to go to Jharia in Bihar by train/jeep to buy essential domestic supplies like milk powder and even sweet limes (the juice of which is regarded as good for young children), and this was a day long affair that recurred every fort-night.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have no personal memories of Santaldih at all, only a store-house of tales told by Maa and Baba that I have, in turn, handed down to my daughters and spouse. And a few sepia photographs that evoke more with their borders than they do with their contents.</div><div><br /></div><div>We did re-visit Santaldih once again when I was a young girl of about nine or ten. But, much to my mother's disappointment, I could not recognise our old bungalow, or any other thing. I only remember the strange scattered glitter of mica in the dark, as it is ingrained in and spread over the rocks and stones of Santaldih.</div><div><br /></div><div>At the ripe age of one-and-a-half, I shifted en family to Barrackpore. As expected, I shouted the house down on arrival, clinging to my Maa and screaming to get back to my home in Santaldih. It was a temporary outburst, and I soon settled down for the next fifteen years, moving out only when I was sixteen to stay in Lady Brabourne College Hostel during my Higher Secondary years.</div><div><br /></div><div>WHEN WAS THE FIRST TIME YOU SHIFTED RESIDENCE?</div>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5671536805876663540.post-48428465489660824522011-04-14T16:53:00.002+05:302011-04-14T17:22:24.077+05:30A BAG FULL OF MEMORIESAs a young girl, rummaging through my <b><i>Dida's</i></b> (maternal grandmother) <b><i>almari </i></b>(cupboard) on a summer noon, I came across <b><span class="Apple-style-span" >a stiff, boxy, bronze-coloured 'ladies' bag' with a short shoulder-strap, the kind carried by yesteryear heroines</span></b> like Nanda and Asha Parekh, swinging it along with their hair and hips when the handsome hero serenaded them.<div><br /></div><div>I was completely unable to visualize my rotund and grey-haired Dida looking even remotely like those buxom heroines. Why is it always so difficult for children to imagine old people to have ever been young? Now, at my age, it is so much easier!</div><div><br /></div><div>Much later, I saw some faded sepia photographs of my <b><i>Dida </i></b>in fancy winged glasses and back-combed bun of hair, wearing a nice sari and posing beside my dashing <b><i>Dadu</i></b> (in a formal suit and tie) before some party. It was only then that I was able to connect that bag with my <b><i>Dida</i></b>, who otherwise had always seemed to be a cloth <b><i>batua</i></b> (hand-made bag) kind of a person.</div><div><br /></div><div>To my great delight, the twist-to-open knob of the bag twisted open to reveal, apart from some old coins, a fancy hair pin (<i><span class="Apple-style-span" >the kind you plunge into a really big bun or a really evil villain's heart</span></i>) and a defunct gold-plated watch (<i><span class="Apple-style-span" >Swiss made, with real gold</span></i>) with a tiny rectangular dial and, sadly, one hand only.</div><div><br /></div><div>The watch and the pin became useful accessories in all kinds of role-play, including espionage dramas. </div><div><br /></div><div>And that bag became my faithful companion in countless hours of playing teacher-teacher, being boxy enough to hold all my old notebooks and ink-less pens, and also sturdy enough to last through the temper tantrums of a very ill-mannered teacher prone to throwing down her bag at the slightest provocation of her imaginary students.</div><div><br /></div><div>It might have been a big comedown from the ball room to the class room, but the bag adjusted with the grace of a true lady.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >WHAT WAS THE BAG YOU COVETED AS A CHILD?</span></b></div>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5671536805876663540.post-566808037222489942011-03-08T10:56:00.002+05:302011-03-08T11:06:50.030+05:30BIRTHDAYS, BIRTHDAYS...When I was 8, I celebrated my birthday by going to school in a red-checked tunic and top stitched by my mother, carrying a bag of toffees for my classmates. Flushed and excited, I was even more thrilled to be allowed to wear the sleeveless tunic without the top later on in the evening. What mother thought would be a concession to the hot evening, was a step towards the joys of adulthood for me.<div><br /></div><div>When I was 18, I celebrated my birthday rather sombrely. My father had died just over a month ago, my twelve-standard exams were looming within weeks. It was a time of change and expectation, of determination to prove myself and a great big lump of sadness that Baba would never again see my birthdays.</div><div><br /></div><div>When I was 28, I celebrated my birthday with a lot of trepidation. I was pregnant with my first daughter, the delivery was due in May, and I realised that the next birthdays would never be the same again after the life-changing event of motherhood. There was a a kind of desperate gaiety, a clinging to the joys of the carefree pre-motherhood-dom.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now that I have just celebrated my 38th birthday, I really feel thankful that I am so so busy. And that all I have lost over the last one year was a few kilos of weight. And what I have gained is a new confidence, a lot of work, and a lot of good friends. God keep me busy, happy - and slim - down the next few decades!</div>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5671536805876663540.post-5912376635355874712011-01-13T14:38:00.004+05:302011-01-13T14:54:13.554+05:30WINTER WISHLISTFresh juicy oranges bursting in the mouth and dribbling down<div>The aroma of <i>nalen gur</i> through the swirls of mist at dawn </div><div>The sweet heat of the sun warming our backs at noon</div><div>Shelling peas and popping them on lazy afternoons</div><div>Dark gooey mysterious plum cakes at and after Christmas</div><div><b>Nahoums'</b> crunchy walnut brownies stashed away in tiffin dabbas</div><div>Picnics with badminton racquets and tape-recorders and friends</div><div>Fortnight long winter vacations that never seemed to end</div><div>Discovering new books at the Kolkata Book Fair</div><div>Eating dust and buying books was a day-long affair</div><div>Surviving thorns to pick <i>kul</i> that tasted more sour, less sweet</div><div>Winter was a warm cuddle with plenty of good things to eat!</div><div><br /></div><div><b>DO ADD YOUR WINTER WISH TO THIS LIST.</b></div>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5671536805876663540.post-80846653763971585842010-12-14T15:53:00.003+05:302010-12-14T16:55:40.807+05:30IF WINTER COMES, CAN LEP BE FAR BEHIND?Global Warming has perhaps affected us in strange ways. <div><br /></div><div>One of them being the disappearance of the "<i>lep</i>" from Bengali lives and households.</div><div><br /></div><div>The "<i>lep</i>" is a warm blanket made of thin red cotton (called ''<i>shalu</i>") with cotton stuffing inside. Which makes it the softest, cuddliest, cosy-est, snuggliest coverlet possible.</div><div><br /></div><div>The North Indians had their '<i>kambals</i>' (woollen blankets). Scratchy and dark, they were too heavy and too warm for Kolkata winters.</div><div><br /></div><div>The Marwaris had their '<i>rajais</i>' (soft cotton blankets with silk coverings). Light and pretty, they lacked the weighty gravitas of the <i>lep</i>.</div><div><br /></div><div>The fashionable had their colourful pastel duvets. The <i>lep</i> was a red Plain Jane in comparison.</div><div><br /></div><div>For us in winter, the <i>lep</i> was just right.</div><div><br /></div><div>Every December, after <i>Kalipujo</i>, the <i>leps</i> would be dragged out from trunks and under beds (where they sometimes did double-duty as soft mattresses) and would be solemnly aired and sunned before they were deemed fit to be used.</div><div><br /></div><div>And when they had absorbed all the warmth and affection of the bright winter sun, the <i>leps</i> would be folded and put at the foot of the bed and declared ready for use.</div><div><br /></div><div>We had three leps. One small baby<i> lep</i>, which I outgrew pretty fast and handed-me-down to <i>Bhai</i> (my brother), who also outgrew it pretty fast. One ordinary single <i>lep</i> (fit for a single-size bed), which was rather worn out with faded red on both sides. My <i>Maa</i>, being a really good housewife, had stitched a white cotton cover for it to hide its shabbiness. </div><div><br /></div><div>And one really B-I-G double lep with a coldish, slippery, gold-brown printed satin cover on one side and a warm red cotton cover on the other. Just the right kind of <i>lep</i> for some honeymoon fun (<i>which is presumably why my parents had under it, although such matters were strictly taboo and never-ever discussed</i>). Just the kind of <i>lep</i> that invited you to dive right in, right after dinner and the customary before-bed bathroom visit. This bathroom visit left our feet really cold and cuddling up inside the<i> lep</i> (alone) was the right remedy for cold feet. And little cold persons like us, with only our nose-tips and head-tops showing.</div><div><br /></div><div>The best thing about <i>leps </i>was, that once you got in, you never, never, never wanted to come out from that warm cocoon.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >WHAT DID YOU SNUGGLE INTO ON COLD NIGHTS AS A CHILD?</span></b></div><div><br /></div>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5671536805876663540.post-51971970459460494222010-11-25T15:43:00.002+05:302010-11-25T16:20:00.455+05:30IN PRAISE OF THE 'SARBHAJA'<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Sarbhaja</b></span></i><b> is my favourite sweet.</b> If only because it is too sinfully calorific to be good for my - or anybody's - health.<div><br /></div><div>'<b><i>Sar</i></b>' means '<i>malai</i>' or 'the creamy part that congeals and floats on top of boiled milk as it cools'.</div><div><br /></div><div>'<b><i>Bhaja</i></b>' or 'fry' refers to the process of making the sweet. Which is quite elaborate, actually. <i><span class="Apple-style-span" >(Almost like a piling up of health horrors)</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div>Lovingly skim the '<i>sar</i>' off the boiled and cooled milk. Add layer upon layer of '<i>sar</i>'.<i><span class="Apple-style-span" > (Can you feel the inches bulging on your tummy?)</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div>Deep-fry the whole thing in rich '<i>ghee</i>'.<i><span class="Apple-style-span" > (Shudder!!! Murder in the larder!)</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div>Put it in sugar syrup and soak, soak, soak. <i><span class="Apple-style-span" >(Calorie crime dripping with blood-sugar)</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div>Bite into one of these caramel-coloured, usually-square-shaped, texturised/burnt/milky sweets, let the syrup ooze out, and swoon. <i><span class="Apple-style-span" >(And then die of cholesterol/diabetes/obesity)</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div>This year on our annual Diwali Holiday to Kolkata, the spouse and I discovered a shop near Dhakuria Station that sells the best <i>Sarbhajas </i>ever. Instead of the usual squares, their <i>sarbhajas</i> were like long rectangular ribbons folded over a big, oozy blob of '<i>khoa</i>', which is 'sweetened, condensed, dried milk'. <i><span class="Apple-style-span" >(Words fail to describe the magnitude of this most heinous horror)</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div>This year, after three years of resisting the temptations of the <i><b>Sarbhaja</b></i>, I finally succumbed to its charm, and shamelessly gorged on a <b><i>Sarbhaja</i></b> a day, for four consecutive days. <i><span class="Apple-style-span" >(How could you, you diet-deserter, you calorie-criminal, you health-hijacker?)</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div>This happened just a week back. So, why am I writing about the <b><i>Sarbhaja</i></b> in <b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">PAST CONTINUOUS?</span></b></div><div><br /></div><div>Because the <i><b>Sarbhaja</b></i> with its carefree piling of calories, its insouciant sweetness and its uninhibited invitation to indulgence, is a delight from my past. A past when I could co-habit with the <b><i>Sarbhaja</i></b> without any excess baggage around my waist.</div><div><br /></div><div>Not like the present with the <i><b>'Sarbhajas</b></i><b>-on-the-sly' </b>and the undigested, lingering guilt (and unshed, persistent calories).</div><div><br /></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">IS THERE ANY SWEET <i>(APART FROM ICE CREAM)</i> WHICH TAKES YOU BACK TO THE PAST?</span></b></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5671536805876663540.post-77401130909457967322010-10-15T16:19:00.003+05:302010-10-15T17:09:08.072+05:30SHORT AND SWEETThe other day, travelling via Chembur, I saw an <b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Amul ice-cream parlour</span></b> and could not resist going in and trying out their orangey <b><span class="Apple-style-span" >SANTRA MANTRA</span></b> and <b><span class="Apple-style-span" >LITCHI</span></b> flavours. Just for the sake of nostalgia, you see, because I'm trying to stay off icecreams. TRYING...<div><br /></div><div>Now, there are so many competitors for my ice-cream affections - so many flavours, so many colours, so many calories. I especially love <b>Natural's Kaju Kismis</b>, the <b>Yogurt Wildberry gelatto</b>, and <b>Honey Nut Crunch by Baskins Robbins</b>. </div><div><br /></div><div>Just writing about it makes my mouth water. But...with a High Blood Sugar scare and the temptation to lose weight, there are so many restrictions.</div><div><br /></div><div>When we were young, neither there were so many flavours nor so many restrictions. So we pigged out on vanilla, butterscotch, and chocolate (<i>Bhai's fave, not mine</i>) and that hybrid mish-mash, <b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">TWO-IN-ONE</span></b>. I always, but always, finished off the <b><span class="Apple-style-span" >too-sweet, fake-pink, supposedly-strawberry goop</span></b> first before starting on the white vanilla portion.</div><div><br /></div><div>And now, there are so many flavours, but I've fallen out-of-favour with the God of Icecreams. My cheat treat is the <b><span class="Apple-style-span" >bittersweet fat-free jaundice-yellow Limoncello ICE gelatto</span></b>. No substitute for creamy, sinful, luscious ice-CREAMS. </div><div><br /></div><div><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" >Sometimes, sadly, the past is not continuous.</span></i></b></div><div><br /></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">WHAT WAS YOUR FAVOURITE FLAVOUR OF ICE-CREAM WHEN YOU WERE A CHILD?</span></b></div>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5671536805876663540.post-13329124535832239102010-09-09T16:20:00.004+05:302010-09-09T16:48:28.827+05:30SOUNDS OF HARMONY<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1f77KgN5NTXGaucR1YtwCVzhyphenhyphenogp0olPkJ7Ud0HExljYZ8HdKLmFq3AWuVWcAOYJl-Jxtw9lyA5SH5cHPyS3Vo2C0yQ9zuwNASZM2YBEX6vvtmcu5EFerp-z1Id2L4dh0N-TOi2xuCSrn/s1600/download"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 127px; height: 94px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1f77KgN5NTXGaucR1YtwCVzhyphenhyphenogp0olPkJ7Ud0HExljYZ8HdKLmFq3AWuVWcAOYJl-Jxtw9lyA5SH5cHPyS3Vo2C0yQ9zuwNASZM2YBEX6vvtmcu5EFerp-z1Id2L4dh0N-TOi2xuCSrn/s320/download" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514865624755100754" /></a><br />A very familiar sound of my childhood, especially in the evenings, when we would all return home after a few hours of brisk and boisterous play, was the equally brisk and boisterous sound of young voices confidently, if rather unmelodiously, belting out <b><i>Rabindrasangeet</i></b>, all the while briskly and boisterously fanning the bellows of their harmonium.<div><br /></div><div>The rather whining and petulant bellowing sound of the harmonium was considered an essential support to train fresh young voices when they learnt their musical basics (Sa-re-ga-ma) and the harmonium would also be an inevitable accompaniment when the singer, having mastered the scales, graduated to <b><i>Rabindrasangeet</i></b>... the highest-possible pinnacle of melody (according to all Bengalis).</div><div><br /></div><div>We had a heirloom harmonium, an ebony rectangular contraption that belonged to my <b><i>Barama</i></b> (aunt). After her exertions, the harmonium had been vigorously flapped by both my cousins (<b><i>Didia </i></b>and <b><i>Didibhai</i></b>). Both of them sang rather well, and the harmonium was happy in their hands.</div><div><br /></div><div>Unfortunately, I was/am a very pathetic singer, and I can well-imagine the venerable harmonium being absolutely horrified when I would bawl out "<b><i>Aakash-bhara shurjo tara</i></b>" (A sky ful of stars and suns - one of the first - and few - Rabindrasangeet I was forced to learn), all the while torturing the harmonium (and the ears of <b><i>Kanudi </i></b>- my suffering singing-teacher).</div><div><br /></div><div>It was a rather painful phase of my growing up, but I (and the harmonium) was forced to undergo the tuneless indignity because of the misguided notion that <b>all good and cultured Bengali girls must learn at least a dozen <i>Rabindrasangeet </i>if they wanted to impress prospective in-laws and marry a rich and handsome husband.</b></div><div><br /></div><div>Fortunately however, better sense prevailed. And both the harmonium and I were spared further torture when, after a bout of chicken-pox, nobody suggested I resume my interrupted music classes. I sighed with relief and returned to my books and my badminton. And the grand and indignant harmonium returned to its heavy wooden box and rested for a few years till my Didia took it away, and put it to better and more melodious use.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">WHAT MUSICAL INSTRUMENT DID YOU PLAY / WERE FORCED TO PLAY WHILE GROWING UP?</span></b></div><div><br /></div>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5671536805876663540.post-53062754765616111102010-08-20T15:21:00.003+05:302010-08-20T15:43:11.226+05:30IN THE WINK OF AN EYEI was eleven years old, and studying in Class VI, when I took a <b>daring decision</b>.<div><br /></div><div>I decided that it was time I grew from a girl to a woman, with all the accompanying wiles and guiles that went with womanhood. And one of the indispensable weapons in a woman's formidable armoury, was her undisputed skill in attracting men with the mesmeric power of her eyes.</div><div><br /></div><div>To cut a long story short, <b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I decided to pick up the art of winking</span></b>.</div><div><br /></div><div>Because to wink successfully, delicately, without scrunching up your eyes, or squeezing your eyelids tortuously, or hamming up the whole thing like a lascivious Johnny Walker (the comedian, not the whiskey), seemed to my 11-year-old mind the <b>epitome of the <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC0000;">femme fatale.</span></i></span></b></div><div><br /></div><div>But the mirror was not enough, I needed a guinea pig to practise upon.</div><div><br /></div><div>Being essentially timid by nature, I chose a safe venue. The top deck of the red double-decker bus - L20 - that took us from safe, suburban Barrackpore to big-city Calcutta and all its dangerous fascinations. A window-seat gave me a good view of the people down below.</div><div><br /></div><div>I chose a safe victim. I decided to bestow my virgin wink at any old man who would look up at my window, but would not be strong enough or fast enough to follow it up with any other action. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, in one of the innumerable bus-stops on the way to Esplanade, I winked at a doddery old man who was gazing bemusedly up at the bus. Most probably he had cataract, or short-sight, but I fondly imagined him to be gazing straight at me when I WINKED - not a sly, barely-there wink, <b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">BUT A BOLD, LASTING-FOR-QUITE-SOME-TIME, EYE-PROPERLY-SHUT, MAKE-NO-MISTAKE-ABOUT-IT WINK</span></b>.</div><div><br /></div><div>The poor man hardly noticed a thing.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now that was a <b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#993399;">wink gone with the wind.</span></span></b></div><div><br /></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">TELL ME, WHEN DID YOU FIRST WINK A WINSOME WINK?</span></b></div><div><br /></div>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5671536805876663540.post-87017373534486976172010-07-15T14:32:00.005+05:302010-07-15T15:17:44.879+05:30SUMMER OF '86<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="data:image/jpg;base64,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"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 112px; height: 94px;" src="data:image/jpg;base64,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" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />So, the World Cup is finally over! The stylish Spaniards won deservedly over the obdurate Oranje team, and we got our share of thrills, spills and ills.<div><br /></div><div>But being a true-blue-and-yellow fan of Samba soccer, my personal passions ended when Brazil lost in the quarterfinals. Never mind the fact that they were hardly playing the beautiful game, being a total and staunch Brazil fanatic, I just wanted them to win. And I love Dunga! He (and Romario, and Bebeto, and Roberto Carlos and Cafu and of course, Taffarel the goalie, and the rest of the 1994 team) gave me one of my best and most stomach-clenching, nail-chewing sporting memory, when Brazil lifted the coveted cup after a penalty shoot-out win over Italy.</div><div><br /></div><div>My tryst with Brazil and football started in 1986. It was a long summer, and vacation-time, and my brother and I were staying at my Pishir Bari (aunt's house) in Kolkata. Pishimoshai (my aunt's husband) took us all along to the electronics shop to buy a new colour TV in honour of the World Cup.</div><div><br /></div><div>And so I met the Brazilian team in all its blue and gold glory on the EC TV screen, playing the French Les Blues, who had the curly-haired Platinni. But it was the Brazilians who mesmerized my young teenage mind. With their sinuous moves and fluent passing and masterful dribbling Brazil easily scored a goal in my heart. I had never seen this kind of scintillating football before, so full of motion and flow and art and grace and joy. Pele was a hoary name in black-and-white record books whose wizardry I saw and learnt of later. The 1986 Brazil boys made me fall in love with their brand of football flair and made me a convert forever!</div><div><br /></div><div>Never mind the fact that their defence and goalkeeping was so atrocious as to be non-existent. Never mind the sad, sad fact that the dashing Zico and the sagacious Socrates both missed penalties. Never mind the fact that Brazil lost, again in the quarterfinals. Never mind the fact that 1986 was the year of Maradona, his magic, miracles and mischievous Hand of God.</div><div><br /></div><div>For me, my heart began to beat and will always beat for Brazil. </div>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5671536805876663540.post-65123390624177834522010-06-03T17:29:00.004+05:302010-06-03T17:58:16.169+05:30OVERHYPED UNDERARMS<strong><span style="color:#ff6600;">Blame this on the sun! </span></strong><br /><br />But switch on the T.V and you'll find a long long line of <strong>ads for deos</strong>. All of which will have in-your-face, cringe-inducing shots of pretty/hunky movie<strong> stars flashing their underams</strong> as they spray on the deodorant that'll apparently keep them smelling of roses 24 x 7.<br /><br />There's the dishy <strong>John Abraham</strong> and his Garnier. There's the svelte <strong>Asin</strong> and the effervescent <strong>Genelia</strong>. And...you get the point?<br /><br />I guess raising you arms above your head and flashing your underarms with abandonment is perfectly acceptable nowadays. I'm sure to be labelled old-fashioned if I crib too much about this.<br /><br />But <strong>I grew up in a time when underarms were called <span style="font-size:130%;">armpits</span></strong>. Not without reason. They were meant to be hidden, like all pits. Or at least lowered. Of course we saw lots of men and women wearing sleeveless clothing, including almost all of my family members. But that did not mean they jumped about raising their arms all the time.<br /><br />In fact, when my brother started going to school, he was so enamoured of his Kindergarten teacher, Miss Joshi, who always wore dainty sleeveless blouses (with saris, that is), that he cried and cried and finally persuaded my Maa to switch over to sleeveless blouses, just like "Aunty Joshi". And my Maa was converted for life.<br /><br />So you see, I'm not ethically anti-underarms. In fact, I wear a fair amount of sleeveless stuff myself - although my fat upper-arms demoralise my endeavours quite often.<br /><br />My objection is aesthtic. Male or female, sweaty or fragrant, toned or not, polished or not (<em><span style="font-size:85%;">beauty parlours often have a service called UNDERARM POLISHING that I'm rather curious about</span></em>), depilated or not, I still believe <strong><span style="font-size:130%;">underarms are best lowered if they are uncovered</span></strong>.<br /><br />Of course, if they are covered, you can merrily go about raising them and doing your own thing - like shouting slogans and picketing. I'm a Bengali from the land of the Red Comrades and the Red-faced-because-she's-mostly-shouting Mamata Banerjee, so I've met millions of raised and angry and protesting underarms. But they are covered.<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">WHAT DO YOU THINK? </span></strong>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5671536805876663540.post-41934171830314823042010-05-13T13:31:00.002+05:302010-05-13T14:28:46.190+05:30MY FIRST JEANSWhen we were kids, <strong>jeans were not the ubiquitous youth-gear</strong> they are now. The only jeans brand that I can recall was <span style="color:#000099;"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">AVIS</span></strong> </span>(<em>a spin-off from LEVI'S???),</em> which sold out of a glass-fronted shop in the centre of <strong><span style="font-size:130%;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Kolkata's</span> iconic New Market</span></strong>. On the rare <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">occasions </span> that we stepped into the hallowed portals of New Market, I would gaze awestruck at the Avis Shop-window, so engrossed that I would nearly bump into the old canon that stood in the middle of the market courtyard. My cousin brother, <strong><em>Dadabhai</em></strong>, then studying to become an engineer at Jadavpur University, <strong><span style="color:#3333ff;">had a couple of pairs of stylishly faded indigo Avis-es</span></strong>. But he was a rare creature, orbiting our ordinary existence from his distant hostel life; so jeans were also something like Halley's comet, rarely seen, but never worn.<br /><br /><strong>My first jeans was a hand-me-down from my cousin <em>Tinnididi</em></strong> (<em>who thankfully grew at a faster pace than me for all of twelve years, so I got lots of coveted second-handstuff. Unfortunately, she resolutely stopped growing after twelve, and my chief source of clothes ended there and then</em>.).<strong> <span style="color:#330099;">It was indigo at its indigo-est,</span> <span style="color:#993300;">with brown cord piping around the pockets</span></strong>. My legs being considerably longer than <strong><em>Tinnididi's</em></strong>, it was never really a comfortable fit, but I mulishly insisted on getting as much mileage out of it as I could, although I could barely sit down in it.<br /><br /><strong>My<span style="color:#3333ff;"> first very-own, true-blue, first hand pair of jeans</span> was gifted to me when I was twelve or so, by another cousin, <em><span style="font-size:130%;">Didia</span></em></strong> (<em>who was my fashion inspiration for a long long time</em>). It was a 'foreign' jeans - <strong><em>Didia</em></strong> stayed abroad with her husband and returned home once a year laden with goodies for all of us - so <strong>its NRI-status upped its fashion-quotient considerably.</strong><br /><br />It was <strong>hideously stone-washed</strong> in the fashion of the day, and <strong>horribly baggy</strong>, also in the fashion of the day.But baggy had its advantages - I could sit/lie/run/stretch in it comfortably. However, it was <strong>too precious for me to treat it like a second skin</strong>. I <strong>wore it only on special occasions</strong> - like on visits to cosmopolitan Calcutta and to birthday parties and suchlike. T-shirts were not good enough for my only pair of jeans. I <strong>wore it with pintuck tops and lace-embellished shirts</strong>. I even remember <strong>wearing it to my <em>Mama's</em> wedding</strong> (<em>mother's brother</em>), with a<strong><span style="color:#666666;"> shot-grey full-sleeved pearl-embellished favourite top.</span></strong><br /><br />I might have looked like an awkward fashion disaster, but I sure felt awesome in my jeans.<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">WHAT WAS YOUR FIRST PAIR OF JEANS LIKE?</span></strong>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5671536805876663540.post-56138416021377717052010-04-29T15:33:00.003+05:302010-04-29T16:15:40.517+05:30WHEN SUN WAS FUN......and we are young. Not afraid of sweat. Not bothered about tanning and wrinkles. Not aware of UVA and UVB and UVC and UVD (just kidding).<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#ff6600;">When we were young, the sun meant...</span></strong><br /><br />...squinting our eyes up at the blue-gold dazzle of the sky to test who could look at the sun without squinting.<br /><br />...frolicking about the house and garden wearing only a thin white '<strong><em>penny</em></strong>' or '<em><strong>tepjama'</strong></em> (<em>a white cotton camisole with - inevitably - birds and flowers shadow-embroidered around the hemline and torso</em>).<br /><br />...trying to catch and intensify the sun-rays through <strong><em>Baba</em></strong>'s magnifying glass and make a piece of paper catch fire (<em>just as the Enid Blyton kids seemed to do so easily do when they were lost in islands or mountains or valleys</em>).<br /><br />...watching impatiently as <em><strong>Ma</strong></em> and <strong><em>Barama</em></strong> (aunt) made circles of boiled and spice-added <em><strong>sabudana</strong></em>-dough (tapoica) on a large piece of cloth (<em>usually an old saree</em>) and put it out in the sun to dry. These would become <em><strong>Sabudana Papads</strong></em> in a few days, and we would crunch-munch them down after they were crisply fried in a <strong><em>kadai</em></strong> (wok) full of oil.<br /><br />...endless rounds of splashing around and swimming about in our neighbour's pond, all in the name of 'cooling off'.<br /><br />...waiting for <strong><em>Dida </em></strong>(grandmother) to doze off in the afternoon so that we could go up on the <strong><em>chhaad</em></strong> (roof-terrace) and steal our fill of mango, lemon and tamarind pickles left out to mature in the sunlight. <span style="font-size:85%;">The trick was to remove the thin white cloth covering the <strong><em>boyam</em></strong> (china jar), take out the pickles, eat, wash your hands and then to put back the cloth. If you tied the cloth back before washing your hands, it would leave tell-tale oil stains on the cloth.</span> We even found out how to remove the oil-residue from our palms. Although there was no soap on the roof-terrace, we dug out soil from the flower pots and rubbed them all over our palms. That got rid of the oil pretty effectively.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#ff6600;">Yes, sun was fun, once upon a time.</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#ff6600;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">WHAT DID YOU DO, OUT IN THE SUN?</span></strong>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5671536805876663540.post-10477468837623168822010-04-12T17:31:00.003+05:302010-04-12T18:10:22.025+05:30FREEZING MEMORIES<span style="color:#cc0000;"><strong>With summer on at full blast, memories naturally seem to turn towards cooler things.</strong></span><br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000099;">Like refrigerators</span></strong>. Now we have monstrous 300/400/God-only-knows-how-many-hundred litre refrigerators, but when we were young, we had <strong><span style="color:#3333ff;">a small 100 litre single-door 'fridge'</span></strong> which sufficed for all the needs of our family of six (<em>plus my uncle's family of five - as they did not have any fridge of their own, they would often put their leftovers in 'our' fridge - a matter that sometimes led to frissions of domestic tension over S-P-A-C-E</em>).<br /><br />But for us, <strong>that small fridge was an Alibaba's cave of goodies which we were strictly prohibited to touch</strong> without permission. From the outside, it was like any other white (<em>fridges</em> <em>in the 1970s seemed to come in only one colour</em>) <strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Allwyn </span></strong>(<em>where is that company now???)</em> fridge, rather yellowed with age and use, rather rusty at the edges.<br /><br />But once the doors swung open and the chilly foggy blast hit our faces like a blizzard, we could see a lot of goodies that made our mouths water. [<em>The leftover rice or<strong> dal</strong> or curry never interested us. Neither did the <strong>dekchi</strong> (</em>pan<em>) of milk</em>.]<br /><br />We lusted after the slab of <strong>Amul</strong> <strong>butter </strong><em>(100 gms, if you please, not the large 500 gms that I buy for the family nowadays</em>). Red sugar-syrup-dipped <strong>cherries</strong> and crinkly <em><strong>kismis</strong> (raisins) </em>reserved for cake-baking days. Slabs of <strong><em>aamsatto</em></strong> (sweetened mango preserves) for making chutneys. A screw-topped bottle of <strong>Kissan Mixed Fruit Jam</strong>, which went on bread-slices every day for our school-tiffin-boxes. Ripe <strong>mangoes</strong> lending their gorgeous smell to the cloistered cold air, red <strong>watermelons</strong> with a chunk scooped out and sugar put in. <strong>Bottles of Rasna </strong>(<em>an orange drink</em>) severely rationed to greet guests. Sometimes, exotic stuff like<strong> caramel puddings or sponge cake-mixes</strong> that <strong><em>Maa </em></strong>and <strong><em>Didia </em></strong>would painstakingly cook from recipes in <strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Chic</span></strong> (<em>a women's magazine that tried to make us more Anglified and, presumably, 'chic'</em>).<br /><br />And, when we opened the small door of the deep-freezer and poked about the powdery ice and boxes full of slices of raw fish, we would be sure to find trays of<strong> home-made (<em>Maa</em>-made) ice-cream</strong>. Milky and mango-flavoured with real, squeezy mangoes for <strong><em>Bhai</em></strong> (brother). Full of peanut-crunch and thickened milk for me. <strong><em>Maa </em></strong>often had to serve us ice-cream slabs that had clear (<em>and deep</em>) finger-poking marks on them.<br /><br />Going by the sheer amount of food that it could hold, <strong><span style="font-size:130%;">that fridge was a magic box!</span></strong><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">WHAT GOODIES DID YOUR CHILDHOOD FRIDGE/LARDER HOLD?</span></strong>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5671536805876663540.post-53923828414987358772010-03-22T13:12:00.003+05:302010-03-22T13:57:48.110+05:30MALE VANITYI am working on some communication for a <strong><span style="color:#cc6600;">fairness cream for men</span></strong>. And the research team has just unpacked a huge carton full of various cosmetic products solely dedicated to men's skinare.<strong> Face-washes, scrubs, anti-tanning lotions, post-sun-exposure gels, face-packs</strong> and, of course, fairness creams, all dedicated to the male peacocks of the species. A fascinating and bewildering plethora of pseudo-scientific-sounding stuff!<br /><br />Back in the old days, I remember that my <strong><em>Baba</em></strong> (father) and <strong><em>Jethun</em></strong> (uncle) used to feel that <strong>a shave by the <em>naapit</em> (barber) when he came to out house every Sunday </strong>was the very epitome of luxury. And when he used to wipe their faces with water in which a piece of <strong><em>fatkiri </em></strong>(alum) had been soaked (<em>for its antiseptic/astringent qualities</em>), my Father's generation used to regard that as <em><strong><span style="color:#cc0000;">'intensive, personalised skincare for men</span></strong></em>'. Quite the equivalent to a male-facial at a spa, probably.<br /><br />And then when my<strong><em> Dadabhai</em></strong> (cousin brother) and <strong><em>Mama</em></strong> (mother's brother, who's younger by a decade) grew up, got jobs and got married, the <strong>ultimate in male luxury was to splash/spray on some aftershave</strong> after their daily bout with the razor. And the in-vogue stuff was<strong><span style="font-size:130%;"> <span style="color:#990000;"><a href="http://www.oldspice.com/">OLD SPICE</a></span></span></strong>, with its distinctive red or white bottle and its special woody smell. For my teenage romantic dreams, <strong>the knight on a white charger always had to smell of Old Spice.</strong> And he would usually come, not riding an antiquated horse, but riding the waves on a surfboard like the rough-n-tough guy in the Old Spice TV-commercial that tugged at our hearts and hormones for years!<br /><br />And then came <strong>Old Spice Fresh Lime</strong>, and <strong>Old Spice Musk</strong>. Things began to get complicated. And then arrived <strong>Brut </strong>and <strong>Denim</strong> and <strong>Aramis</strong> and a whole lot of other names. And a whole lot of other stuff to put on male faces. And goop for hair. And manicures and pedicures.<strong> A whole deluge of products and services and websites and salons and even magazines <span style="color:#006600;"><span style="font-size:130%;">dedicated</span> </span>to promoting and maintaining male vanity.</strong> The metrosexual man is sure spoilt for choice.<br /><br />Maybe men got clear skin. But they lost clear-mindedness. And got completely <strong>mind-boggled</strong>. <strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#993399;"><span style="font-size:180%;">Cosmetic-confusion</span>,</span></strong> which was <strong>once the prerogative of women</strong> bombarded by over-information about beauty products, became the man's lot also. That's what gender-equality is all about, right?<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">SO, WHAT BEAUTY PRODUCT DO YOU/THE MAN IN YOUR HOUSE USE/USES?</span></strong>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5671536805876663540.post-60908915273198118152010-03-04T16:42:00.004+05:302010-03-04T18:20:27.777+05:30TEDDY BEAR TEDDY BEAR, OFF TO SCHOOL<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1ZPwiEje0YLWMwu3trlL8Kekd5lolu_MGYNO-BdlpgYbAgnN2_04G6EsCmjVf12TLkmJUDENasPJ5CHsLO-YcWbzlddFVYiamp2paP1KZb8YrNKJChEXPwvco2lyfgeoXh_MgT7tGzlLm/s1600-h/rick.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444760078403784370" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 137px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 92px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1ZPwiEje0YLWMwu3trlL8Kekd5lolu_MGYNO-BdlpgYbAgnN2_04G6EsCmjVf12TLkmJUDENasPJ5CHsLO-YcWbzlddFVYiamp2paP1KZb8YrNKJChEXPwvco2lyfgeoXh_MgT7tGzlLm/s200/rick.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>My two <strong>teddy-bear-cubs</strong> (my daughters) <strong>go to school in a big <span style="color:#ffcc33;">yellow school-bus</span></strong>. In fact, when the younger one went to play-school, which was just around the corner, she refused to accept that it was a <strong>PROPER SCHOOL</strong>. Because there was no sunny yellow school bus full of bright, chattering children to take her there. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Neither had we. <strong>We went to school in a rickety cycle-rickshaw</strong>. Our school-special rickshaw was <strong>value-added with a narrow wooden bench</strong> tied carefully to the back of the driver's seat. This way, it could carry many more children than it would have done unadorned! The rickshaw can carry two people in relative - if rather bumpy - comfort. With the added bench, <strong>it was made to carry 7-8 children.</strong> I've tried to re-create the engineering in my mind, but the mind <strong>BOGGLES</strong> (<em><span style="font-size:85%;">I'm currently immersed in the world of Jeeves, so I just had to put in that word</span></em>) at the effort.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Our rickshaw-driver an affable gent called, for some unfathomable reason, <strong><em>Jamaibabu</em></strong> (son-in-law). Every morning, at around eight, the punctual Jamaibabu would come ponk-ponking the rickshaw horn at our gate. Rushing out, my brother and I would hop on to the coir-cushioned back-rest-ed seats. As our house was the first place Jamaibabu halted at, it was rather easy for us to get the best seats, which we ruthlessly refused to move away from, even if the others requested.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong><em>Jamaibabu</em></strong> pulled the rickshaw - with the familiar <em><strong>kaanch-konch</strong></em> sound of the three wheels turning - along the winding lanes, halting at other houses and picking up...<strong>Dipto</strong> and <strong>Rumni</strong> from their mansion with the flower-fragrant garden, <strong>Bapi</strong> from the dilapidated rented house, another very formal-looking child (<em>whom we called</em> <strong>Mr Gon</strong><em>, because he carried a tin suitcase with MR. S. GON printed on it; he was always late as his mother pleaded and pestered him to finish his glass of milk</em>), and <strong>my cousin J</strong> and <strong>her brother</strong>. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>The seats filled up fast and we sat face-to-face, three in the original rickshaw seat and five clinging like limpets to the narrow wooden bench. Knees knocked together and bags knocked over others' as <strong><em>Jamaibabu</em></strong> hit the pedal hard (<em>we always blamed the tardy Mr Gon and his hapless mother for this</em>). Fights sometimes erupted, but even without arguing, our decibel level was pretty high. The genial <strong><em>Jamaibabu</em></strong> would sometimes turn his head to admonish us, making the rickshaw wobble scarily. The <strong><em>kaanch-konch</em></strong> of the wheels increased as the rickshaw bumped and bounced its way to <strong>Modern School</strong> like an overloaded ark full of chattering, chirpy children. Although <strong><em>Jamaibabu</em></strong> had probably never heard of time-management, we were almost never late. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>And in the afternoon, the rickshaw would return, bursting at the seams with rather exhausted but still noisy children. Bagging seats was a free-for-all, and getting a good seat (<em>which somehow was more important on the return journey, maybe our tender bottoms were sore after all that sitting around</em>) meant making a dash from the school-gate to the waiting rickshaw. As <strong><em>Jamaibabu</em></strong> shooed us on and hustle-pedalled his way home, the discomfort became negligible in the delight of chatter-boxing!</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">HOW DID YOU GO TO SCHOOL?</span></strong></div><br /><div></div>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5671536805876663540.post-75020923726451927592010-02-15T14:09:00.004+05:302011-12-19T17:21:16.303+05:30TRAIN TO THE HEARTLAND<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<strong>Staying in Barrackpore and having lots of relations in Calcutta</strong> meant that <strong><span style="color: #cc0000;">short train journeys</span></strong> (<em>about an hour and a half</em>) were a regular part of our holidays. Trains meant a mix of excitement and apprehension, clutching tightly to Baba's hands on the crowded platform, the pleasure of standing in front of the window with the wind whipping my hair into my eyes, seeing the fields and houses tush by, getting warned every now and then not to put our hands out of the window, buying candies or fruits from the hawkers on the trains. And getting the yellowish cardboard ticket as a keepsake after the journey.<br />
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But my <strong><span style="font-size: 130%;">first really l-o-o-o-n-g overnight journey on <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Inidan_Railways">Indian Railways</a></span></strong><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Inidan_Railways"> </a>was when I was seven years old, and we (<em><strong>Maa, Bhai</strong></em> <em>and I - <strong>Baba</strong> had to go to 'office'</em>) accompanied my <strong><em>Dadu </em></strong>(<em>mother's father</em>) to Bhopal to visit my <em><strong>Mashi</strong></em> (<em>mother's sister</em>). <strong><span style="color: #006600;">Bhopal is 1356 kilometers away from Kolkata </span></strong>and we went the distance in an ordinary (<em>not air-conditioned</em>) second-class compartment, in the summer vacation when the temperature outside was often more than 40 degree celsius, in a <strong><span style="color: black;">train that had a coal-engine</span></strong> (<em>which multiplied the heat-factor considerably</em>) and which took two nights (<em>if I remember correctly</em>) to reach <strong>Itarsi</strong> (<em>the station where we alighted, 77 kilometers away from Bhopal city</em>). But being children, being middle-class, and being part of the frugal-seventies-generation, we never felt the heat or the discomfort. We didn't know any better. <strong>Maybe that is a good thing</strong>.<br />
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<em><strong>Dadu</strong></em> was a meticulous planner, and <em><strong>Maa</strong></em> was his able ally. So we got up on the train accompanied by, among other things, one <em><strong>kunjo</strong></em> of water (<em>earthenware pot</em>) in a wooden stand (<em>to get deliciously cool water - beats refrigerated water any day</em>), unlimited home-made cakes (<em>to last the entire journey and beyond</em>), limited <strong><em>luchi-mangsho</em></strong> (<em>unleavened bread and mutton-curry, for the first night's supper, in such enormous quantities that it could feed an entire coupe of people</em>), and <strong>one bedding-roll</strong>.<br />
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<strong><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 130%;">Why bedding-roll?</span></strong> At night, <strong><em>Dadu</em> slept on the lower berth</strong>, taking an air-pillow and a two bed-sheets (<em>one to lie upon, one to cover up</em>), <strong><em>Maa </em></strong>and <strong><em>Bhai </em></strong>(<em>then a three-year old enfant docile</em>) <strong>slept similarly on the middle berth</strong>, and <strong><span style="color: #cc0000;">I was put <span style="font-size: 130%;">inside</span> the bedding roll</span></strong> with a pillow under my head and the straps tied over my body and bundled up onto the top berth. Despite being <strong>strait-jacketed to sleep</strong>, I loved the novelty of my high vantage point and spent a large part of the daytime sitting up on the top berth, reaching up to touch the ceiling every now and then.<br />
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Only the <strong>lure of the window got me down</strong>. Travelling through the vastness of India, with its changing terrains, soils, vegetation, cultivated and barren fields, villages, crowds and miles upon miles of empty spaces was an eye-opener. <strong><span style="color: #990000;">Except when the coal-engine belched extra-vigorously and the sooty smoke wafted into our eyes</span></strong>.<br />
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Faces black with soot, tummies full of a constant supply of food, mind replete with a multi-sensory experience of a lifetime, we got down at Itarsi station past midnight, the darkness adding to the mystery of the new place. <strong><em>Maasi</em></strong> (aunt) was waiting for us, and we travelled through the dark and long 77 kilometers to Bhopal clip-clopping in a <strong><em>tonga</em></strong> (<em>horse-drawn carriage</em>). <strong><span style="color: #666666;">But that's another journey, and another story</span></strong>.<br />
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<strong><span style="font-size: 130%;">DO SHARE YOUR TRAIN OF MEMORIES WITH US.</span></strong></div>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5671536805876663540.post-7018217686780247382010-01-14T11:30:00.004+05:302010-01-15T12:09:36.493+05:30GO FLY A KITEThis is not my memory actually, because <strong><span style="color:#cc0000;">I can't fly kites at all</span></strong>. Even though I have gamely tried to, on several occasions, kites simply refuse to obey my cajolings to string them along, and they stubbornly nosedive to the ground with a thud.<br /><br />It's about my <strong><em>Baba</em></strong> (father). He was a <strong>kite-enthusiast</strong>, having grown-up in the unimpeded spaces of his village <strong><em>Balubhara</em></strong> ('Sand-full') in innocent pre-partition Bangladesh, where the green of the open fields met the blue of the wide sky without too much of human interference in-between.<br /><br /><br />So, when he came over to <strong>Barrackpore</strong> in India, he carried in his heart that <strong>love for wide emptinesses</strong> that kite-flying symbolises and that <strong>expertise with strings and winds</strong> that kite-flying demands.<br /><br /><br />Yesterday was <strong><em>Makar-Sankranti</em></strong>, and the sky above Mumbai's million <strong><em>chawls</em></strong> (shanties) were potholed with quarelling and soaring kites. But in Bengal, kite-flying is a ritual associated with autumn and September's <strong><em>Vishwakarma Puja</em></strong>. So, around that time, <strong><em>Baba</em></strong> would eagerly go to the market and bring along a number of cheap and colourful thin paper kites. They had interesting names like <strong><em>petkatti</em></strong> (stomach-cut, which meant a half-and-half design in two colours). We (<strong><em>Bhai</em></strong> and I) would tag along, like two-tails twirling behind the kite.<br /><br /><br />Baba would tie the unravelled spool of <strong>un-treated, toothless string</strong> all around two <strong><em>supuri</em></strong> (betelnut) trees in our garden. Then he would make an edgy, dangerous <strong><em><span style="font-size:130%;">manja</span></em></strong> (paste) which included powdered glass and apply this to the thread to give it the desired bite.<br /><br />Because kite-flying on <strong><em>Vishwakarma puja</em></strong> was not just about feeling the wind in your upturned face and the pull of the string in your hands. It is a <strong><span style="color:#cc0000;">cut-throat competition where warring kites cross glass-sharp strings and the sharpest string wins</span></strong>. As the winning kite soars higher in ebullient victory, the defeated kite falls ignominously to earth. All the watchers of this sky-cast reality show cry '<strong><em><span style="font-size:130%;">Bhokkata</span></em></strong>' (It's cut) and rush out to catch the fallen kite as a prize, often climbing trees and bulidings when the kite gets stuck in branches or rooftop-antennas.<br /><br />We would accompany <strong><em>Baba </em></strong>to our <strong><em>chhad </em></strong>(rooftop), or to the higher roof of our neighbour's house, along with a cheering group of friends. <strong><em>Baba,</em></strong> egged on by our admiring gang, would ask one of us to hold the<br />kite a little distance away and throw it up into the air (a job we would perform with wide-eyed reverence), while he expertly pulled the strings in the<strong><em> latai</em></strong> (string-holder). As <strong><em>Baba</em></strong> and the wind teamed up to raise the kite higher and higher, we would crane our necks to watch, squinting in the sunlight. At a sufficiently safe height, he would hand over the <strong><em>latai</em></strong> to us to hold. It was absolutely thrilling to feel the kite pulling away at the string as if it had a fierce life of its own, <strong><span style="color:#3366ff;">unchallenged master of the blue</span></strong>.<br /><br />But when another kite came into our line of vision, we would hurriedly hand over the charge to <strong><em>Baba</em></strong> and go back to our cheer-leading roles.And the big fight for the sky would begin.<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">DO SHARE YOUR KITE-FLYING MEMORIES WITH US.</span></strong>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5671536805876663540.post-4817981227129214002009-12-31T12:29:00.003+05:302009-12-31T12:56:12.391+05:30USHERING IN THE NEW YEARWhen we were young, <strong>New Years</strong> were not <strong>ushered in</strong> with booze and babes, but in a more <strong>holistic, whole-family-glued-to-TVset</strong> kind of way. It really was a ushering <strong><span style="font-size:130%;">IN</span></strong>, because we received<br /><ul><li>capsules of <strong><span style="font-size:180%;">IN</span>formation</strong> in Prannoy Roy's <strong>in</strong>telligently-edited and <strong>in</strong>terestingly-compered year-end <strong>in</strong>ternational and national news round-up: <strong>THE WORLD THIS YEAR.</strong> The highlight was a hilarious goof-up section of the high and the mighty.</li><li>a seemingly endless programme of completely <strong><span style="font-size:180%;">IN</span>ane entertainment</strong> put together on <strong>DD 1</strong> (<em>shabbier version</em>) and <strong>DD Metro</strong> (<em>flashier version</em>). A parade of minor non-stars in spangly dresses and loud voices, a completely-unfunny-comedian-compere who could not make anybody laugh at that late yawning-hour. </li></ul><p>We <strong><span style="font-size:130%;">IN</span>evitably dozed off</strong> in front of the blaring TV set, only to have our <strong><span style="font-size:130%;">IN</span>terest revived</strong> at <strong><span style="font-size:180%;">23:59:59 Hrs </span></strong>when there were really big bangs from the TV set. Rubbing our bleary eyes, we goofily grinned at each other as crackers burst and smoke billowed on the screen (<em>and off it, too, somewhere far away from our timid small-town neighbourhood)</em> and everybody singing off-key at the top of their voices...</p><p> </p><p><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">...<span style="color:#ff0000;">H</span><span style="color:#33cc00;">A</span><span style="color:#33ccff;">P</span><span style="color:#ffcc00;">P</span><span style="color:#ff99ff;">Y </span><span style="color:#cc0000;">N</span><span style="color:#009900;">E</span><span style="color:#6666cc;">W</span> <span style="color:#cc9933;">Y</span><span style="color:#993399;">E</span><span style="color:#993300;">A</span><span style="color:#000099;">R</span>!</span></strong></p>Sucharita Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07802171314546508539noreply@blogger.com8