AUTOGRAPH, PLEASE!

Have you ever given an autograph?

I have. Three days a week, for nearly two years.

Who's that lunatic, obsessed fan...are you thinking?

Please do not go by my current state of middle-aged aunty-hood. At that time, I was a svelte seventeen.

I was a boarder at Lady Brabourne College Hostel in Calcutta, and I used to autograph an egg with an indelible ball-point pen three days a week (give or take a day here and there).

Was I a mad, narcissistic egg-head?

Not really.

It was a nutritional survival strategy, actually.

The food at the hostel was, to put it mildly, meagre.

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 khichdi (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, our hearts pined for home.


Actually, for home-cooked food.

No wonder we were all so thin during those days. (Now, how I pine for that long-forgotten slim frame)

So, to supplement the slim (and slimming) diet, we had to adopt other strategies.

The signed egg being one of them.

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.

Pretty straightforward, don't you think.

Not so.

Eggs have an irritating tendency of coming in different sizes. (Not shapes. I remember reading an Agatha Christie where the cubist-perfectionist Hercule Poirot wishes that eggs were perfectly symmetrical cubes).

So, to be sure of WYGIWYG (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.

Like fame, these autographs were short-lived. 

They disappeared when we cracked the (boiled) eggs and ate them.

And, sadly, my chances of giving autographs have also disappeared.

Of course, discounting chequebooks, exam papers and the thousands of forms we fill up to survive.

WHERE DID YOU SIGN YOUR FIRST AUTOGRAPH?

JOYRIDE ON A TRAIN?

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.

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/P.C. Sorcar's magic shows, or, sometimes, to homes of interesting and far-away relations for some family occasion. 

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 Barrackpore railway station, 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.

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.

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.

Looking out of the windiw, we would see the stations flashing past, each with its own stereotyped image in our minds. 

Titagarh was the unruly station crowded with immigrants from Bihar and Uttar Pradesh.

Khardah was somehow idyllic and village-like, perhaps because of the name ('khar' means hay in Bengali).

Sodepur and Agarpara were interchangeable middle-class Bengali small-towns in my mind, unaspirational and uninspiring.

Belgharia was too crowded, too uncosmopiltan, too RED.

Dumdum 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.

Ulta Danga was just an impatient comma before we landed at

SEALDAH.

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.

WHAT DID TRAIN RIDES MEAN TO YOU AS A CHILD?

BROTHERS DEAR

While 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.

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.

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).

When we were young, Bhai-Phonta was a much-anticipated event, full of promise of exciting gifts and being the centre of attention.

Mornings would begin very early, to try and catch the shishir (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.

Then we would be made to rub the sandalwood stick over stone to get chandan (sandalwood paste). And then put it in another brass bowl. After that we would make kajal, by rubbbing ghee (butter) on a leaf and blackening it over a 'pradiper shikha' (flame). We would also take dhaan (unhusked rice grains) and dubbo (trident-shaped grass stalks).

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.

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.

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.

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...

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???

HOW DID YOU MANAGE TO GET YOUR BROTHER/SISTER TO GIFT YOU SOME CASH?

SHAKES-POWER

Pardon the cheesy title.

I was watching 36 Chowringhee Lane the other day. It's a movie anybody who is old, or is growing old, or is refusing to grow old, should watch.

But this is not about the movie. Its about Shakespeare. 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.

Shakespeare has a way of getting in your veins, in your arteries, and then flowing over to your heart.

This post is not about Shakespeare either. That will take many, many books to write. And I am not erudite enough.

It is about Anjana Miss, in Class X, who taught us Julius Caesar. 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.

It is about Kajaldi, at Presidency College, who taught us Twelfth Night. And who taught me about the rainbow-witted comic genius and the pathos-lined romance of Shakespeare.

It is about Sukantada, at Jadavpur University, who taught us King Lear. And who taught me about the poetry of pride and fidelity, and the tragedy of delusion and dementia.

King Lear was the Shakespeare play that made me spontaneously cry when I read it.

Thank you.

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:

"No, no, no, no! Come, let's away to prison:
We two alone will sing like birds i' the cage:
When thou dost ask me blessing, I'll kneel down,
And ask of thee forgiveness: so we'll live,
And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh
At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues
Talk of court news; and we'll talk with them too,
Who loses and who wins; ..."

It is a failed father's, a defeated king's, a mad monarch's, an old man's delusion.

But then, when we strip ourselves of our foolish possessions and comforting relations, aren't we all this lonely and wailing:

"And my poor fool is hang'd! No, no, no life!

Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life,
And thou no breath at all? Thou'lt come no more,
Never, never, never, never, never!"

WHAT'S YOUR FAVOURITE PLAY, SHAKESPEARE OR OTHERWISE?

STARRY-EYED DREAMS

When 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.

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.

THAT ELSEWHERE WOULD BE UNFIXED, VAGUE, CHANGING WITH WHATEVER BOOK I WOULD BE READING AT THE MOMENT.

It could be Kolkata...which in my childhood dreams had a buzz and bustle that was was belied in reality.

It could be Delhi or Mumbai ... cities that mattered, that were important in the media, that attracted dwellers from all over the country.

It could be London or New York or Los Angelos...places glamourised in the fiction I devoured vicariously.

It could be anywhere but the still centre that was Barrackpore.

WHEN YOU WERE YOUNG, WHERE DID YOU THINK OF LIVING WHEN YOU GREW UP.

COMFORT BOOKS

There are some books that read better when re-visited. Like old wine, like good friends, like really close family, they get better with time.

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.

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.

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.

BOOKS THAT DON'T KEEP YOU AWAKE THROUGH NIGHTS, BUT LULL YOU TO SLUMBER IN STEAD.

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 AGATHA CHRISTIE, of the cosy murder-mystery fame/infamy. And then, there are chic-lit stalwarts like SOPHIE KINSELLA and MARIAN KEYES.

But if you say BOOKS, then it will have to be BRIDGET JONES' DIARY.

Closely followed by ALICE IN WONDERLAND.

WHAT IS YOUR COMFORT BOOK?

THE FIRST SHIFT

The 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

WHEN WAS THE FIRST TIME YOU SHIFTED RESIDENCE?

A BAG FULL OF MEMORIES

As a young girl, rummaging through my Dida's (maternal grandmother) almari (cupboard) on a summer noon, I came across a stiff, boxy, bronze-coloured 'ladies' bag' with a short shoulder-strap, the kind carried by yesteryear heroines like Nanda and Asha Parekh, swinging it along with their hair and hips when the handsome hero serenaded them.

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!

Much later, I saw some faded sepia photographs of my Dida in fancy winged glasses and back-combed bun of hair, wearing a nice sari and posing beside my dashing Dadu (in a formal suit and tie) before some party. It was only then that I was able to connect that bag with my Dida, who otherwise had always seemed to be a cloth batua (hand-made bag) kind of a person.

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 (the kind you plunge into a really big bun or a really evil villain's heart) and a defunct gold-plated watch (Swiss made, with real gold) with a tiny rectangular dial and, sadly, one hand only.

The watch and the pin became useful accessories in all kinds of role-play, including espionage dramas.

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.

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.

WHAT WAS THE BAG YOU COVETED AS A CHILD?

BIRTHDAYS, 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.

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.

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.

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!

WINTER WISHLIST

Fresh juicy oranges bursting in the mouth and dribbling down

The aroma of nalen gur through the swirls of mist at dawn

The sweet heat of the sun warming our backs at noon

Shelling peas and popping them on lazy afternoons

Dark gooey mysterious plum cakes at and after Christmas

Nahoums' crunchy walnut brownies stashed away in tiffin dabbas

Picnics with badminton racquets and tape-recorders and friends

Fortnight long winter vacations that never seemed to end

Discovering new books at the Kolkata Book Fair

Eating dust and buying books was a day-long affair

Surviving thorns to pick kul that tasted more sour, less sweet

Winter was a warm cuddle with plenty of good things to eat!

DO ADD YOUR WINTER WISH TO THIS LIST.

IF WINTER COMES, CAN LEP BE FAR BEHIND?

Global Warming has perhaps affected us in strange ways.

One of them being the disappearance of the "lep" from Bengali lives and households.

The "lep" is a warm blanket made of thin red cotton (called ''shalu") with cotton stuffing inside. Which makes it the softest, cuddliest, cosy-est, snuggliest coverlet possible.

The North Indians had their 'kambals' (woollen blankets). Scratchy and dark, they were too heavy and too warm for Kolkata winters.

The Marwaris had their 'rajais' (soft cotton blankets with silk coverings). Light and pretty, they lacked the weighty gravitas of the lep.

The fashionable had their colourful pastel duvets. The lep was a red Plain Jane in comparison.

For us in winter, the lep was just right.

Every December, after Kalipujo, the leps 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.

And when they had absorbed all the warmth and affection of the bright winter sun, the leps would be folded and put at the foot of the bed and declared ready for use.

We had three leps. One small baby lep, which I outgrew pretty fast and handed-me-down to Bhai (my brother), who also outgrew it pretty fast. One ordinary single lep (fit for a single-size bed), which was rather worn out with faded red on both sides. My Maa, being a really good housewife, had stitched a white cotton cover for it to hide its shabbiness.

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 lep for some honeymoon fun (which is presumably why my parents had under it, although such matters were strictly taboo and never-ever discussed). Just the kind of lep 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 lep (alone) was the right remedy for cold feet. And little cold persons like us, with only our nose-tips and head-tops showing.

The best thing about leps was, that once you got in, you never, never, never wanted to come out from that warm cocoon.

WHAT DID YOU SNUGGLE INTO ON COLD NIGHTS AS A CHILD?

IN PRAISE OF THE 'SARBHAJA'

Sarbhaja is my favourite sweet. If only because it is too sinfully calorific to be good for my - or anybody's - health.

'Sar' means 'malai' or 'the creamy part that congeals and floats on top of boiled milk as it cools'.

'Bhaja' or 'fry' refers to the process of making the sweet. Which is quite elaborate, actually. (Almost like a piling up of health horrors)

Lovingly skim the 'sar' off the boiled and cooled milk. Add layer upon layer of 'sar'. (Can you feel the inches bulging on your tummy?)

Deep-fry the whole thing in rich 'ghee'. (Shudder!!! Murder in the larder!)

Put it in sugar syrup and soak, soak, soak. (Calorie crime dripping with blood-sugar)

Bite into one of these caramel-coloured, usually-square-shaped, texturised/burnt/milky sweets, let the syrup ooze out, and swoon. (And then die of cholesterol/diabetes/obesity)

This year on our annual Diwali Holiday to Kolkata, the spouse and I discovered a shop near Dhakuria Station that sells the best Sarbhajas ever. Instead of the usual squares, their sarbhajas were like long rectangular ribbons folded over a big, oozy blob of 'khoa', which is 'sweetened, condensed, dried milk'. (Words fail to describe the magnitude of this most heinous horror)

This year, after three years of resisting the temptations of the Sarbhaja, I finally succumbed to its charm, and shamelessly gorged on a Sarbhaja a day, for four consecutive days. (How could you, you diet-deserter, you calorie-criminal, you health-hijacker?)

This happened just a week back. So, why am I writing about the Sarbhaja in PAST CONTINUOUS?

Because the Sarbhaja 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 Sarbhaja without any excess baggage around my waist.

Not like the present with the 'Sarbhajas-on-the-sly' and the undigested, lingering guilt (and unshed, persistent calories).

IS THERE ANY SWEET (APART FROM ICE CREAM) WHICH TAKES YOU BACK TO THE PAST?

SHORT AND SWEET

The other day, travelling via Chembur, I saw an Amul ice-cream parlour and could not resist going in and trying out their orangey SANTRA MANTRA and LITCHI flavours. Just for the sake of nostalgia, you see, because I'm trying to stay off icecreams. TRYING...

Now, there are so many competitors for my ice-cream affections - so many flavours, so many colours, so many calories. I especially love Natural's Kaju Kismis, the Yogurt Wildberry gelatto, and Honey Nut Crunch by Baskins Robbins.

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.

When we were young, neither there were so many flavours nor so many restrictions. So we pigged out on vanilla, butterscotch, and chocolate (Bhai's fave, not mine) and that hybrid mish-mash, TWO-IN-ONE. I always, but always, finished off the too-sweet, fake-pink, supposedly-strawberry goop first before starting on the white vanilla portion.

And now, there are so many flavours, but I've fallen out-of-favour with the God of Icecreams. My cheat treat is the bittersweet fat-free jaundice-yellow Limoncello ICE gelatto. No substitute for creamy, sinful, luscious ice-CREAMS.

Sometimes, sadly, the past is not continuous.

WHAT WAS YOUR FAVOURITE FLAVOUR OF ICE-CREAM WHEN YOU WERE A CHILD?

SOUNDS OF HARMONY

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 Rabindrasangeet, all the while briskly and boisterously fanning the bellows of their harmonium.

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 Rabindrasangeet... the highest-possible pinnacle of melody (according to all Bengalis).

We had a heirloom harmonium, an ebony rectangular contraption that belonged to my Barama (aunt). After her exertions, the harmonium had been vigorously flapped by both my cousins (Didia and Didibhai). Both of them sang rather well, and the harmonium was happy in their hands.

Unfortunately, I was/am a very pathetic singer, and I can well-imagine the venerable harmonium being absolutely horrified when I would bawl out "Aakash-bhara shurjo tara" (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 Kanudi - my suffering singing-teacher).

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 all good and cultured Bengali girls must learn at least a dozen Rabindrasangeet if they wanted to impress prospective in-laws and marry a rich and handsome husband.

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.

WHAT MUSICAL INSTRUMENT DID YOU PLAY / WERE FORCED TO PLAY WHILE GROWING UP?

IN THE WINK OF AN EYE

I was eleven years old, and studying in Class VI, when I took a daring decision.

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.

To cut a long story short, I decided to pick up the art of winking.

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 epitome of the femme fatale.

But the mirror was not enough, I needed a guinea pig to practise upon.

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.

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.

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, BUT A BOLD, LASTING-FOR-QUITE-SOME-TIME, EYE-PROPERLY-SHUT, MAKE-NO-MISTAKE-ABOUT-IT WINK.

The poor man hardly noticed a thing.

Now that was a wink gone with the wind.

TELL ME, WHEN DID YOU FIRST WINK A WINSOME WINK?

SUMMER OF '86

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

For me, my heart began to beat and will always beat for Brazil.

OVERHYPED UNDERARMS

Blame this on the sun!

But switch on the T.V and you'll find a long long line of ads for deos. All of which will have in-your-face, cringe-inducing shots of pretty/hunky movie stars flashing their underams as they spray on the deodorant that'll apparently keep them smelling of roses 24 x 7.

There's the dishy John Abraham and his Garnier. There's the svelte Asin and the effervescent Genelia. And...you get the point?

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.

But I grew up in a time when underarms were called armpits. 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.

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.

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.

My objection is aesthtic. Male or female, sweaty or fragrant, toned or not, polished or not (beauty parlours often have a service called UNDERARM POLISHING that I'm rather curious about), depilated or not, I still believe underarms are best lowered if they are uncovered.

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.

WHAT DO YOU THINK?

MY FIRST JEANS

When we were kids, jeans were not the ubiquitous youth-gear they are now. The only jeans brand that I can recall was AVIS (a spin-off from LEVI'S???), which sold out of a glass-fronted shop in the centre of Kolkata's iconic New Market. On the rare occasions 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, Dadabhai, then studying to become an engineer at Jadavpur University, had a couple of pairs of stylishly faded indigo Avis-es. 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.

My first jeans was a hand-me-down from my cousin Tinnididi (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.). It was indigo at its indigo-est, with brown cord piping around the pockets. My legs being considerably longer than Tinnididi's, 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.

My first very-own, true-blue, first hand pair of jeans was gifted to me when I was twelve or so, by another cousin, Didia (who was my fashion inspiration for a long long time). It was a 'foreign' jeans - Didia stayed abroad with her husband and returned home once a year laden with goodies for all of us - so its NRI-status upped its fashion-quotient considerably.

It was hideously stone-washed in the fashion of the day, and horribly baggy, also in the fashion of the day.But baggy had its advantages - I could sit/lie/run/stretch in it comfortably. However, it was too precious for me to treat it like a second skin. I wore it only on special occasions - 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 wore it with pintuck tops and lace-embellished shirts. I even remember wearing it to my Mama's wedding (mother's brother), with a shot-grey full-sleeved pearl-embellished favourite top.

I might have looked like an awkward fashion disaster, but I sure felt awesome in my jeans.

WHAT WAS YOUR FIRST PAIR OF JEANS LIKE?

WHEN 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).

When we were young, the sun meant...

...squinting our eyes up at the blue-gold dazzle of the sky to test who could look at the sun without squinting.

...frolicking about the house and garden wearing only a thin white 'penny' or 'tepjama' (a white cotton camisole with - inevitably - birds and flowers shadow-embroidered around the hemline and torso).

...trying to catch and intensify the sun-rays through Baba's magnifying glass and make a piece of paper catch fire (just as the Enid Blyton kids seemed to do so easily do when they were lost in islands or mountains or valleys).

...watching impatiently as Ma and Barama (aunt) made circles of boiled and spice-added sabudana-dough (tapoica) on a large piece of cloth (usually an old saree) and put it out in the sun to dry. These would become Sabudana Papads in a few days, and we would crunch-munch them down after they were crisply fried in a kadai (wok) full of oil.

...endless rounds of splashing around and swimming about in our neighbour's pond, all in the name of 'cooling off'.

...waiting for Dida (grandmother) to doze off in the afternoon so that we could go up on the chhaad (roof-terrace) and steal our fill of mango, lemon and tamarind pickles left out to mature in the sunlight. The trick was to remove the thin white cloth covering the boyam (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. 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.

Yes, sun was fun, once upon a time.

WHAT DID YOU DO, OUT IN THE SUN?

FREEZING MEMORIES

With summer on at full blast, memories naturally seem to turn towards cooler things.

Like refrigerators. Now we have monstrous 300/400/God-only-knows-how-many-hundred litre refrigerators, but when we were young, we had a small 100 litre single-door 'fridge' which sufficed for all the needs of our family of six (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).

But for us, that small fridge was an Alibaba's cave of goodies which we were strictly prohibited to touch without permission. From the outside, it was like any other white (fridges in the 1970s seemed to come in only one colour) Allwyn (where is that company now???) fridge, rather yellowed with age and use, rather rusty at the edges.

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. [The leftover rice or dal or curry never interested us. Neither did the dekchi (pan) of milk.]

We lusted after the slab of Amul butter (100 gms, if you please, not the large 500 gms that I buy for the family nowadays). Red sugar-syrup-dipped cherries and crinkly kismis (raisins) reserved for cake-baking days. Slabs of aamsatto (sweetened mango preserves) for making chutneys. A screw-topped bottle of Kissan Mixed Fruit Jam, which went on bread-slices every day for our school-tiffin-boxes. Ripe mangoes lending their gorgeous smell to the cloistered cold air, red watermelons with a chunk scooped out and sugar put in. Bottles of Rasna (an orange drink) severely rationed to greet guests. Sometimes, exotic stuff like caramel puddings or sponge cake-mixes that Maa and Didia would painstakingly cook from recipes in Chic (a women's magazine that tried to make us more Anglified and, presumably, 'chic').

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 home-made (Maa-made) ice-cream. Milky and mango-flavoured with real, squeezy mangoes for Bhai (brother). Full of peanut-crunch and thickened milk for me. Maa often had to serve us ice-cream slabs that had clear (and deep) finger-poking marks on them.

Going by the sheer amount of food that it could hold, that fridge was a magic box!

WHAT GOODIES DID YOUR CHILDHOOD FRIDGE/LARDER HOLD?