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?