Mori Road, A Sardar, Amir Khan and Me.

Returning from work, as I entered the colony last night, I noticed a signboard "shooting in progress". Now that was a first, certainly in my colony where I had lived all these years and most certainly at Mori Road!

The whole square was lit up and decked up like some sort of wedding venue. Lights strung down the facade of the building shining brilliantly, the facade had a new coat of paint and in addition to the lights there were lanterns, floral patterns and a small makeshift fountain at the center. The crew with wireless headsets on was moving around busily. Some of them kept ushering onlookers like us back and for a moment I felt like a guest in my own back yard.

Mr. Singh, an old resident and someone who lived on the floor above was standing besides me. I was so intrigued by what was happening, that I did not notice him nudging me till he almost shouted in my ear "I say, do you know that Amir Khan is coming here for the shoot?” If I was intrigued a moment earlier, now I was stunned. The eighty plus year old Mr. Singh was flush with excitement and had a twinkle in his eye that I had not seen in the last forty odd years I had known him. "Amir Khan ? Here, I mean why, and what movie? " I mumbled. "Yes, yes, this is for the Pepsi ad shoot. You see they are shooting a new ad for Diwali and this is the set for that. Our square has never looked so beautiful. Don't you agree. He is going to come in sometime now."

Mr. Singh, actually Kuldeep Uncle, spoke fluent Bengali as he had spent a lot of time in Kolkata. He was a cardiac patient and I often saw him always walking slowly up the stairs. He led a very restrained life, hardly ever coming down from his third floor apartment. More recently he had another cardiac complication that had laid him down, and was advised complete bed rest. And here he was gleaming, waiting to meet Amir Khan. I was happy to see him that way after many years.

“How have you been keeping uncle” I asked. “Am still alive and kicking, what do you think eh?” he said. “Sure, great to see you down here uncle. How long have you been waiting here?” I asked. He had been waiting for 45 minutes now. Kuldeep uncle had seen me grow up. I went to the same school as his sons and with both his sons now in the US, he often invited me to his house for tea, which I never found, time to go. “You should come home one day. You know it is not very far, just upstairs” he said jokingly.

I was not listening again as my focus was on my car where a few people were trying to perch themselves on the boot of my car to get a better view. I protested and made them get down and found Kuldeep uncle chuckling. “Well, that was not amusing I hope uncle” I said a little irritated. “Oh no, I was thinking of an incident, a long time back when one Diwali, someone decided to play a prank and ruined my car. You remember the old black Fiat I had? Someone decided to burst a bomb on the bonnet of my car and the result of that was the whole bonnet went out of shape and the color went from black to white”. And he looked at me intently. “I am still trying to find out who that culprit was. Any ideas?”

Cut and Flashback. 25 years ago. You often do many silly things when you are young and especially in your confused state as an adolescent teenager. It was Diwali and our colony square was lit brilliantly and my gang of friends was bursting crackers. The louder the noise, the greater the thrill. We burst crackers in the open, in a tin can, in the staircase, lit box bombs, the double crackers but something was missing. That kick was not there. I looked at a gleaming black Fiat parked in the parking lot. And when you get a bad idea, there are some guys who just egg you on. I had friends who could simply encourage you to do the impossible. And before we knew it, we placed the box bomb on the bonnet of the car, looked around to see if anyone was looking, I lit it and then we all ran for our life. Seconds later there was the loudest “bang” you could hear that Diwali and I remember hiding for a long time. As I came out, I saw some elders gathered around the car. The bonnet was warped out of shape and the color - yes had gone from completely black to completely white. I did not stand there for long and our gang thought it best to slip away lest anyone would begin to ask.

Later that evening, I met Kuldeep Uncle. He was hovering over his battered car. “Do you know who did this?” he asked. I gulped and then sympathized with him profusely cursing the kind of person who could be capable of such a criminal act.

Fast Forward and we are now standing 25 years later at Amir Khan’s Pepsi shoot. Deja vu. The same type of lights, the Diwali atmosphere, Kuldeep Uncle and me. And Kuldeep Uncle’s question rang in my ears as if he used a megaphone “I am still trying to find who that culprit was. Any ideas?”

Now when you are a middle-aged father of two, I think you develop what is called a conscience or a certain preference for the truth. And sometimes the conscience wins over practical common sense, though you are trying very hard not to let that happen. I hemmed, hawed and then blurted out “Yes”.

“Yes? Did you say yes?” Kuldeep Uncle moved two steps forward. His six feet frame seemed to straighten up and the twinkle in his eye had gone for his eyes narrowed their gaze on me. “Well, I guess I must tell you, if you are looking for the culprit, he is standing right in front of you. It was me.” I said, and I went silent and my gaze fell to the ground.

He surely cannot slap me at this age I thought. I hope this does not affect his cardiac condition further. He may begin shouting any moment now. As a zillion such thoughts I felt a light hand on my shoulder and he said “Young man, what took you so long? I was waiting when you would tell me and I thought you never would.” Words come with great difficulty at such moments. I stammered “You mean, you, you, you actually knew it was me? And since when?” And then it hit me like a ton of bricks. “I knew this all along since the very day you did it. Jaggi uncle saw you folks from his balcony. And don’t stare at me like an owl now. I decided not to tell you or your parents.” he said.

“Why?” I blurted. “Because your parents would have been very hurt, you would have got a hard time at home and your grandfather, who I looked up to would be most disappointed. But more importantly, had I done that, you would grow up hating Kuldeep Uncle, would’nt you? If I had to choose between justice for my damaged bonnet and your well being, you will agree that I chose wisely.”

I did not feel this way for a long time. Hot under the ears, perspiring under the collar and alternating between red and crimson, if I could see my face. “I am sorry. And it took me 25 years to say this. How can I make it up to you Uncle?”

“Ah, now we are doing business. I am not going to let you off so easily young man. If you spoilt one evening, surely I must have the liberty of spoiling one of yours” he said. “Sure, uncle, tell me and I will do anything it takes” I said. “Think it over before saying yes” he smiled, and the twinkle in his eyes were back. I nodded that I was game and he could pronounce the verdict. “Well young man, you have to come and have tea with me one evening and spend time with a boring eighty year old for a couple of hours. And for the time that you are there, you will tell me about yourself for the years gone by. Since the time Binu (his son) left you have never come home.”

“Is that all” I asked. “Now will you do it or no?” he retorted. “Of course uncle. How about tomorrow?” He stepped forward and put his arm around me. “Tomorrow is great. It is Mahalaya and your punishment is that you will be starting this Puja off with this old man. It’s late and I must leave now. It’s been a while since I spent an evening of good adda with someone of my son’s age. See I struck a better deal than getting to see Amir Khan” With that said, he slowly walked away, taking one step at a time, leaning on his walking stick.

It had been a while since I had parked. It was time to head home. “You are late, I saw your car enter a long time ago. Were you standing down all star struck. Well, I hope you met your hero” my wife said. I smiled, and almost instantly said “Yes, I think I just did. I got invited to tea with him tomorrow.” I left her puzzled. “You must be tired. Get some dinner.” she said.

It is Mahalaya today. As the day dawned with the chanting of the Shlokas, I thought of my confession last night and smiled. I can’t wait for the evening to arrive. A tea invite never seemed so endearing. And all the credit for this goes to Amir Khan and his crew.

Mori Road has some amazing folks who live here. And if you have done anything like me in your younger days, take your chances and confess. You may just get invited to tea as well! Trust the festive atmosphere.

Happy Mahalaya folks and Happy Pujas.

An Actor Prepares……

It was busy as usual and it was my weekly visit to the market. I had missed my visit on Sunday and so this weekday evening it was my turn to make sure that there was enough to cook at home.

I was getting to the end of my shopping list. The sun was setting and I prepared to head home. “Missed your Sunday routine eh” a familiar voice called out. I turned around and saw Probalda (Probal Banerjee) another Sunday regular at the market standing behind and grinning.

Probalda lived alone a few blocks down the road. He was advanced in his years and had lost his wife long back. He had no children. He was frail and with age had acquired a slight stoop. His signature was his walking stick, which had a silver handle.

We had got to know each other over the years at Dulal’s Fish market, where almost all Bengalis between Dadar and Mahim meet up to buy fish every morning and I got to know him since the first fish we shared cut in half. Since then I always called him Probalda.

As we headed home I asked, “How are you?” “Getting along young man. Tell me about yourself. ”Difficult question” I said “Nothing much, have not been having a good year so far. But Pujo is around the corner and things should look up. Guess what, I am acting on stage Porbalda, this Pujo.”

Now that lit him up. He stopped and looked at me intently through his thick glasses. “Which play, what role.” I replied “Kabuliwallah and I am playing the little girls father.” “Have you seen Tapan Sinha’s movie and Chabi Biswas in that? What a classic!’

“Yes, I am afraid that our attempt maybe rather amateurish.” I said. Suddenly he fell silent. Lost in thought. Finally after an awkward silence I said. “You seem lost Probalda. What were you thinking?” “Flashback” he grinned. “Have you read Stanislavsky’s An Actor Prepares. The best book on Methodist Acting – which of course I don’t totally agree with.”

“Were you a stage performer too”. I asked. He smiled “I used to work with Bahurupi and then performed for many theatre groups across the country” “You mean Bhaurupi of the Shombhu Mitra fame?” I exclaimed. “Then you must have been a professional Probalda” “Yes, the stage was my source of livelihood” he said. “I was very young, perhaps in my twenties, when the bug caught me and Shombhu Mitra was God.”

We started chatting and Probalda took me through his flashback. He had done Bengali plays and then he also worked with Utpal Dutt’s group where he worked in his productions in Bengali and English and then went onto doing Hindi plays in Delhi, before finally coming to Mumbai since the money happened to be better here and he thought he could make some money with the small screen television serials opening up for stage actors. But of course, not much luck at that.

It was my turn. “What was your favorite play, which character?” He thought for a while. King Lear. King Lear without a doubt. He paused and that intense look was back again. “Difficult to imagine that I could play King Lear eh. Why don’t you come up?” We were at the staircase of his building and we were at a point I could not refuse.

A sparsely furnished drawing room welcomed me and as we settled down, I noticed pictures hung on the walls of Probalda in various attires on stage. And there right in the center was King Lear. “That, is King Lear.” he said “You look fantastic, a king head to toe” I said. He replied “You must feel like a king and not any ordinary king young man. King Lear is a complex person, whose madness is almost pitiable and whose tragedy is rare.”

Then as if on cue, he walked across, grabbed his sliver-capped walking stick, straightened himself, rolled up his moustache, the glasses came off and his eyes expressed anger and sadness at the same time. And he rattled off pure Shakespeare in such style that for a moment you thought that King Lear was standing right there in front of you.

“Let the character invade your consciousness. Once that happens everything from your posture to your gait to your voice will fall in place. Often it was difficult. To become, King Lear after traveling for 10 kms on a hot Kolkata day in traffic. But then as I donned the attire, I used to invoke the character. Ah. What a feeling. The make up, dress, lights, sound and then the applause. And finally, the Curtain Call. You bow; acknowledge the applause and then it is suddenly all over. But, a king for three hours an evening, for many such evenings nonetheless.”

“You must be missing all of this now?” Dumb question I guess. But asked it. He smiled. “Of course, it is difficult. I do get nostalgic often and the characters I have played often seem like real people I knew that do not exist anymore. Not any different from real life eh?”

It was time I headed home and shook his hand. He seemed a little sad “Great adda and thanks. I rarely get to discuss the years gone by. In any case, all the best for your play this Pujo. Just for those moments you have on stage, imagine that is the world and nothing else exists otherwise. No one can take those moments away from you.”

On getting home, my son opened the door. He had a cape around his neck; sunglasses put on and with a plastic sword in hand welcomed me to the world of Batman, where he fought his imaginary adversaries. He was completely serious and really believed that he was Batman.

Batman needed a villain to beat up. It was my cue and time for my entry. And Batman and the villain had a great time for about an hour. Something I had not done in a long time. I secretly thanked Probalda. Our performance for that hour would have even challenged Stanislavsky and his theories.

My wife returned and found the vegetables still lying around. By now my son and I had both capes (towels) round our neck and wearing sunglasses. He with his sword and me with a plastic maze. “What are the two of you doing? And what took you so long? “ I mumbled back “Right now Batman is on my heels and I just spent the evening with King Lear.” She looked at me and finally sighed “Every Mahalaya it gets stranger. I must be careful the next time. Time for dinner now.”

Happy Mahalaya folks. Here is wishing that all of you don’t miss those important cues, make your stage entry, and play your part to the hilt - for those moments that are yours to enjoy. And if you want to meet Probalda let me know. Mori Road might just begin Acting Classes soon.

The Magician at Mori Road

A rag tag hat, black trousers with silver sparkling chains dangling from them, a crumpled white shirt, worn out shoes, a coat that was held together with a couple of patchworks - yet he stood tall in the evening sun looking majestic, calling out to the crowd to gather around for the show. He was beating the drum to draw people's attention to the event.

The road right under my balcony has become a venue for many a street performer over the years and with the asphalt surface giving way to a more modern tiled surface, the “naka” (junction) under my balcony at Mori Road certainly looks like the place to perform. And of course, Mori Road will always have a ready audience for the enterprising entertainer, and that includes me.

The crowds had gathered by now and the show was about to begin. It was dusk and the streetlights were just coming on. I had never seen him before. A first timer, at Mori Road for sure. He was a magician, a juggler, a clown and a stuntman all rolled into one. The show began.

Things came out of his bag, vanished into thin air and then reappeared from the pocket of a bewildered man in the crowd. Colored ribbons flowed out of his magic wand and with the wave of his hand he made money appear and disappear. He put on the "clown" mask and deliberately failed at some of his tricks and put on a tragic expression that almost reminded you of Raj Kapoor's Johny Mera Naam. But people laughed. He juggled three, then four, five and six dinner plates. And they clapped. He ate fire and they gasped. He juggled fire sticks and they looked on in awe. After every performance he tried an even more difficult one.

The sun had set and now it was dark. The show continued under the streetlights. A good crowd had collected and people jostled each other for space to get a glimpse of the proceedings. And then he announced the final act "Ladies and Gentlemen, put your hands together for this little girl, my daughter" and a little girl emerged from the crowd. A girl, of about six or seven. She looked familiar but I could not make out in the dark. "Brothers and Sisters, she is going to walk on this rope, and I will tie this high above the ground, and light a fire below, If she falls she will hurt herself, but she is my daughter, my magic will protect her and not let her fall. Please clap for her." The audience roared back in approval.

The rope was tied between two cross poles and her father helped the girl onto the rope with a balancing pole in her hand. She carefully placed one leg on the rope and then the other and looked straight ahead. No fear or doubt in her eyes and nodded to her father. Her father then lit the ground below with an inflammable substance and the fire raged beneath her. It was quite a sight and it got me really tense. The father started beating the drums as the girl inched forward step by step, balancing with the help of the pole and swinging lightly on the rope. The audience was at a standstill and suddenly it seemed that the whole of Mori Road had frozen. The fire beneath now raged on as the girl reached mid way. The local constable watching held up the traffic to make sure that the girl could complete her act.

And then it happened. Mori Road plunged into darkness. The streetlights went off all of a sudden and there was a slight commotion in the crowd that surged forward and someone hit the cross bar to which the rope was tied shaking the entire structure. The girl was now trying very hard to maintain her balance as the rope swung wildly from side to side. Her father stopped playing the drums and stepped forward fearing she would fall, but the fire would not let him get very close. Someone got water and doused the flames and the girl's father now stood below asking her to let go and come down. But for some reason the girl was still there and trying to keep her balance.

Headlights! The local taxi driver saw what was going on and switched on his headlights as his car was parked well positioned to provide light to the event. People gave way for the light as the taxi moved up closer to the site of the performance. People clapped now as the girl steadied herself. Her father announced, "She does not give up. She will finish the game" and started up the fire again and the local street urchin started beating the drum for the girl. This time the audience cheered on every step of the way till she reached the other end of the rope. A dozen hands reached out to help her down and she was soon perched on the shoulder of a bystander. Her father with his rag tag hat in his hand went around and I saw every hand reaching into their pocket to help fill the hat.

As the curtains came down on this final act, almost magically the lights came back again and more brightly than ever. It was the first day of Navratri and Mori Road was getting ready to celebrate and this time the street lighting was indeed special with rows of brightly colored bulbs lighting up in a rhythmic sequence. The crowd cheered even more with the lights coming on. The father announced the close of the show and signed off saying "God is the greatest Magician” and went across to thank the taxi driver.

Years back, Satyajit Ray in the movie Agantuk had Utpal Dutta explaining the concept of an eclipse to a kid using two coins and described it as God’s greatest magic of making the sun disappear for a few moments. On hearing the Magician’s words echoed what the great director had depicted.

As the taxi driver and the girl’s father sat sipping tea I could not take my eyes off the little girl. I now recognized her. I often see her every morning, bag on her shoulder, walking to school by herself.

The father finished sipping his tea. As father and daughter walked off into the distance, they left behind a street that lit up in all it's glory to celebrate the spirit of the little girl and will now stay that way for the next ten days. I headed back inside smiling and told my wife "I just saw the greatest magic show on earth" "Where and who was performing" she asked. " Well,I think it was God under my window" I said. She glared at me and I defended myself "Just joking dear, but look how someone lit up the streets so brilliantly on the eve of Mahalaya".

Mahalaya is here again and I wish all of you a very Happy Pujo and if you look carefully chances are you will recognize some magic in the things happening around you. You just need to keep your eyes “open”.

And you are most welcome to come over for a cup of chai and adda on my balcony and I assure you that you will see some interesting vignettes of life from there.

The Good Doctor

I often saw him walking every evening with his bag in the hand to his dispensary. He was a large man and with the advancing of years his walk had a slight stoop but he still stood tall amongst most who met him. I called him Uncle having grown up in his presence and him having been responsible for my well being from the time I was born. I had this innate faith in his ability to cure me of any ailment and get me up and running. 

Like me for most people at Mori Road, the doctor’s magic potions were something that you just had blind faith on. For every person who visited his clinic, he would scribble something   that then went to his compounder (medicine man) who prepared the potion. I often tried to peer through the 2X2 viewing pane half bending down to get a sense of how the compounder mixed these magic potions and it was fascinating to see the mixtures getting ground and packed into bottles and the pills used to be wrapped in small newspapers pellets to designate the dosages. Here it did not matter what your age was, or what faith you belonged to, or even what ideological belief you held. The doctor and his magic potions worked across all these barriers.

Last year as the Pujas approached, I felt a little under the weather and decided that I needed to get myself one of those magic shots. The dispensary was crowded but everyone sat patiently for their turn. I entered and Uncle greeted me in his usual boisterous way and said “Back again?” I found a perch and sat down. I looked around and found that nothing had changed in that place over the years, except for the fresh coat of paint. Uncle still sat on his chair and swiveled around talking to people and then disappeared behind the partition from time to time to examine the patients who he thought needed attention. And on coming out he would scribble his magic potion and off it went into the compounder’s cubicle to get made. It was as if time stood still in that place. From the time I could remember, Uncle still looked the same - his large frame, a balding head, a smile that could make a thousand suns seem small and a handshake that you could feel forever if he ever gave you one.

Everyone the good doctor treated left the place with a smile on his face. And he could talk almost every language you could think of. He was also the local advisor to a lot of people and often their friend, philosopher and guide. For us he had treated four generations of Sens - my grandfather, father, me and now my children.  So he was the Uncle to me, that never grew old.

“Come in young man” his voice boomed. I slid in with him behind the partition and as he locked the door behind he said “So what brings you here Bill Gates?” My association with the software world invited this but I enjoyed the banter. “Well, cough. cold and fever. The Pujas are coming and I need to be up and running. So I need some of those magic shots!” 

“Everything is instant quickfix for you guys - like instant coffee, instant noodles and instant success. Well, I guess I will give you one of my shots. Come on, collect them from my compounder.” he said. “Thanks and if you give me the formula for your magic potions, I guess I won’t have to come back again.” I said. He stopped and looked at me intently and then a slight grin broke out on his face “ You want to put me out of business young man?” he said. “Anyway, take the medicines I give and don’t miss a single dosage this time. You should be fine.”

I collected the medicines and made my way back home. My wife asked me about my visit and I let her know that the doctor said I would be fine. I finished dinner and it was time for bed - and yes the medicines. I reached for the medicines - as usual, four newspaper pellets neatly stacked and tied with a thread. I opened the first one. As I unwrapped the paper, much to my surprise I found no tablets or capsules inside. It was blank. There was a small piece of paper and it read “Exercise every day”.  I smiled and opened and the second pellet. Again - nothing inside for the second dosage and another piece of paper read “Eat on time and Do not overeat.” And then the third one read “Get enough sleep.” and the fourth one read “Most Important - Slow down and Enjoy Life.” 

I stared at the four pieces of paper dumbfounded and read them again and again. I knew that the good doctor had a great sense of humor and this was his way to get his message across. For all these years, whenever he met me or my wife, he always wanted me to exercise and get fitter, eat well and have a better lifestyle in general. But to me it was always “doctor talk”. But finally I guess tired of trying to get his message across he probably chose to do this in his own way. 

I put away the four pieces of paper but each of those words were now etched in my mind. As I was leaving for office the next day, I saw him again and he waved to me from the distance and said in his booming voice “Are you taking my medicines? I gave you the secret of my magic potions son!” I waved back and smiled and said “Of course Uncle, I am already feeling better now  and it is Mahalaya today!” “Happy Pujas “ he bellowed and threw a thumbs up sign my way. 

It was Mahalaya again this Sunday and passing by his chamber my hand almost on instinct went up to wave at him. Only that the chamber now has been closed  and the only thing that greets you are the steel shutters. 

As I stood before his chamber thinking about him, it struck me that I had not been to a doctor for the entire year that went by. I remembered his last words on the magic potion “The key ingredient of the secret formula is the last one - Enjoy Life and Slow Down. You mess with this one and the other three also go out of balance.” As those words came back to me I almost felt that the shutters would open and he would be sitting there and bellowing “Happy Pujas.” And if the shutters did open all I wanted to say was “It is Mahalaya today Uncle and your secret really works.” 

But sadly the shutters will never open with him there again. Last winter the doctor decided to leave us and the whole of Mori Road gathered to bid him his final farewell. Mori Road will never be the same again. It will always miss the good doctor but the secret of his magic lives on. Try it - you won’t be disappointed. 

Happy Pujas. 

The Post Office at Mori Road

The post office in my lane still looks the same since the last forty years. For years, I had not visited the post office, though I used to be a frequent visitor once upon a time, when my grand father who was an avid writer of letters used to send me to buy him his supply of stamps, inland letters or post letters written by him every week.

The intensity of this activity used to be particularly high as Pujo (as in Durga Puja – referred to as Pujo by Bengalis) approached every year as he probably wrote to everyone he knew to wish them for Pujo. He also used to eagerly wait for the postman ringing our doorbell every afternoon for the reply to his letters. Over the years the postal department knew our address well enough and I remember those delivering letters to our address, simply on the basis of my grandpa’s name being written on the address line, although the rest of the address was often incomplete or incorrect.

That said, the postmen in the area also knew that Pujo was a big occasion for us Bengalis and always expected some special tips for their service every Pujo. And my grandfather obliged willingly. One of them even knew us personally as he was from West Bengal and was a Bengali. I knew him as Harekeshtoda. From Pujo tidings to my report card, Harekeshtoda delivered the good news and the bad news respectively. In the evenings, after his official duties, Harekeshtoda used to sit outside the post office and help people who could not read and write with their letters as a service and made some more money on the side.

It had been years since I had visited the post office. I think it must be more than twenty years. And I had even stopped noticing it over the years. It almost never existed for me on the street. In the age of email and technology I guess these old institutions fade away. Besides the post office today we have a brand new ATM on Mori Road. Another intervention of technology that we take for granted today.

On this morning, I was making my way to the ATM to replenish my depleted cash position. The ATM was getting its cash changeover done and I had to wait by the post office next door. The post office was dimly lit with two tube lights hanging precariously from the ceiling. The walls had lost their paint and now their plaster over the years and the betel leaf stains were even more visible than ever before splattered generously across the wall. The wooden counter across which the post office personnel sat still had that old world teak wood polish – the only sign of the glory of the olden days. A mesh separated the customer from the attendant as usual and you had to half bend and look at the attendant through the gap to strike up a conversation if you needed to. The post office had a unique old world smell and as I took that in, it was pure nostalgia. I ventured a little inside and saw men in Khaki milling around. As my eyes got adjusted to the darkness around, I heard a voice call out in Bengali “Chinte Parcho?” meaning “Can you recognize me?” I turned around and saw an ageing man, with a white shock of hair, his face creased with the first signs of old age setting in hobbling towards me. It took me a couple of seconds, but I recognized him in an instant “Harekeshtoda! What a surprise. You are still here?”. “Well I guess it will be a couple of years before I kick the bucket, young man, but I can still recognize you. These old eyes are still good” he said, peering through his thick glasses.

‘So, what brings you here? I have never seen you in years at the post office. ” he asked. To my embarrassment I told him that I had come to buy some stationery at the post office. His face lit up instantly and he offered to fetch me my stationery from the clerk across the counter. I bought an inland letter, two post cards and some stamps in a desperate cover up attempt. ‘It still looks the same” I said. “Nothing has changed, Harekeshtoda”. He suddenly looked a little sad, perhaps crestfallen. I think I touched a raw nerve. “You are right, nothing has changed, people have forgotten the art of letter writing, and no one writes letters nowadays. It is all about email. The olden days were different. I used to enjoy delivering letters and writing letters and helping people communicate. I knew instinctively if a letter contained good news or bad news. People used to wait for my ring on the doorbell. I have shared their happiness, tears, anxiety and boredom and knew many of them personally. The world outside has changed, but here it only gets darker every day.”

I tried to cheer him up. “Maybe the good thing that has happened is that your bag has got lighter with your age” I said. He smiled. “I don’t mind the bag as long as I had to deliver to people like your grandfather. They don’t make them like that anymore. I used to especially enjoy the time during the Pujo delivering letters to your house.” Pujo was around the corner and it was the day before Mahalaya. I wished him and his face lit up once again. “I am going home to be with my family. In fact, I am retiring and going back. My son is now grown up and married and has a baby boy. I am looking forward to being with my grandson. Just like your grandfather spent time with you. I am so happy I met you before going. I suppose we were destined to meet” he said.

He handed over the postal stationery to me. I shook his hand warmly and wished him the best and a happy Pujo. “Something for the kids” and he stuffed a fifty rupee note in my hands. I protested but he would not listen. “My turn to give back” he said. He smiled and this time it spread across his wrinkled face and that smile froze in time for me, for a second. I walked back, completely oblivious of the fact that I had to withdraw money from the ATM. I reached home and my wife asked me “What’s this? What have you got? Where is the money?” I fumbled and mumbled and produced a bunch of postal stationery much to her amusement. “I bought some stationery to write some letters. Tomorrow is Mahalaya. And here is fifty bucks to buy sweets for the children” I blurted. “I think you have completely lost it. You really need a break” she said.

The next morning while hearing the Chandi Path (the chant of the goddess Durga on Mahalaya) on tape, I noticed the postal stationery on the table. I reached for my pen and my blackberry beeped. There was email to read. But I am not giving up. I intend to complete that letter. At least it feels like old times again during Pujo.

Wish you all a happy Pujo.

The Lead Dancer

It was immersion day and Lord Ganesha was making his way home. Mori Road was busy again. The drums were beating furiously, and the immersion processions began trickling in from early evening. From the time I was a kid big enough to peer over the balcony, I would stand transfixed and watch every procession and its idol making their way through the street. Nothing much has changed till date much to the amusement of my wife and I still stand transfixed on my balcony watching. Of course I have a companion now – my daughter. As the evening wore on as per tradition the smaller idols gave way to bigger ones and the revelry reached a crescendo. Mori Road was alive again. The street was lined with women, children, the young and the old. And, also a blind man.

He stood quietly by the sidewalk. What made him noticeable was that he carried a lot of garlands in his hands and as each procession made it’s way up the road, he hobbled into the middle of the procession and found his way to the idol and garland it. And he kept at this, walking up at regular intervals and garlanding the idols. At times he even clapped to the beat of the drums and joined the chants of “Ganpati Bappa Morya”. The crowds jostled around him and he got pushed around a bit, but he stood his ground.

“I hope he gets what he wants” I thought to myself. He must have garlanded close to twenty five idols and had one more to go. It was late evening now and I could see a fairly large idol and the procession approaching. The drums and cymbals were beating furiously and the lights of the procession lit up the whole street. A mass of heads and hands bobbing up and down in the air with the beat of the drums slowly made their way to the spot under my balcony. It looked like a grand carnival, with floats, turbaned dancers, firecrackers, and then the grand chariot on which the idol was placed. Truly majestic.

I was engrossed and taking it all in. As I waved to the revelers on the road, I noticed the blind man trying to make his way through this sea of people towards the idol. This was the last garland. He had his red and white stick but it was not of much use. He got pushed and shoved around a bit with all the frenzy. Then he stumbled and fell.

Well in our country it often takes someone to fall to get noticed. Someone from the crowd decided to act and started pushing the crowd away from the man. Eventually the larger crowd realized what had happened and gathered around to help the man to his feet. The drummers and the musicians also paused for the commotion to clear. As the man got to his feet he still held up that garland. People listened to him and helped him towards the chariot. Now the idol was really big and mounted pretty high. This was one idol that would be difficult to garland.

Some people helped him up onto the chariot. The rest of the crowd fell silent. They watched as the organizers tried to explain something to the man, but he seemed determined to garland the Lord. Slowly but surely they hoisted him up high enough to reach the necessary height. The priest in the meantime kept shouting directions to the man to get the alignment right for the garland to fall in place. I thought he would never make it. He was pretty unsteady and it had already been a good five minutes now. Then in one final effort he lunged forward and threw the garland across the last one foot he could not cover. And the crowd roared back and cheered in approval. The garland had found its spot.

The man was lowered carefully into the crowd and the drummers started beating the drums again. He was suddenly the hero and people patted his back and shook his hand. As he prepared to exit, some folks pulled him into the middle and began dancing around him. The rest of the crowd followed. He looked up at the heavens and smiled and then began clapping his hands and dancing with them. Someone took his red and white stick, put the procession flag on it and thrust it into his hands. The procession moved forward and I saw him disappear into the sea of heads and hands, the flag at the end of his stick bobbing up and down in the air. The blind man had joined the party and also become the flag bearer, leading Ganesha back home. I could not help smile and headed back to the dinner table.

I guess I made it back just in the nick of time. My wife had been waiting at the table for a while now and looked at me with amusement “What’s so funny? What’s that grin all about?” she said. I replied almost without thinking “You never know when you get invited to the party and when it is your day to lead the dance” This left her even more bewildered. “I think you are tired dear. Have your dinner and hit the bed. You’ll feel better soon.” I nodded in agreement though I wanted to say “It’s not me dear, it’s Mori Road that is strange.”

The pandal across the road is ready again. It is Mahalaya and it always feels good to know that Pujo is around the corner. I could hear the drums in the distance approaching and as the procession came into view, I could see the flags waving and a sea of hands and heads again bobbing up and down to the beat of the drums. I wondered who was leading this one.

I can’t wait to hear the dhak (traditional drums for Durga Puja in Bengal) on Shasthi (the sixth day of the Puja that marks the beginning of the celebrations in Bengal) now. Happy Pujo. I hope you get to party all through the year and if you get your chance to hold the flag and lead the dance, then grab that opportunity. It is probably your calling.

And if any of you want to know more then just come over for a cup of tea on my balcony overlooking the most interesting street in the city. I can assure you that you will not go back disappointed.

My Regrets, Mr. Lawrence.

A hundred hands and heads bobbing up and down in unison to the beats of the drums, flags waving in the air and interspersed with the bursting of crackers – it was the evening before Mahalaya and the Mother Goddess was coming home under the blazing lights. It was the street urchins in the front, followed by the band, the men folk with bandanas on their head and then the women and children in their best attire. There was the local corporator, the owner of the local grocery store, the hardworking fisher folk, street urchins and the guys who hung out on the street corner doing nothing – all dancing to one single tune.

Mori Road was alive again and there could not have been a better welcome back home after a hard three months on the road across the western world. The idol placed on the mantle and with the midnight hour approaching the street fell silent again. This was the night of Mahalaya and like all Bengalis I adjusted my watch to set the alarm for a 4 AM wake up call to catch the chanting of the Chandi over All India Radio. The chant is the invocation of the Goddess and is quite an experience to just hear though I do not understand all that is said.

4 AM and I am fiddling with the knobs on my radio but cannot tune into the frequency. I try desperately for another half hour but no luck. I felt really sad as I had missed this last year also due to my travels and was keen to catch up this time. I strained to hear any faint note of the chant through all the static coming through but to no avail. I yanked the laptop out and connected to the net but all I got to hear was snippets of the chant from various sites. It was quite a let down. Disheartened I decided to call off my quest and headed back to bed.

However, I lay wide awake and my thoughts traveled westward, replaying all the images of the past three months. The English Bay at Vancouver, the Manhattan Heights, the London Underground - all started to became a blur after a while as I drifted in an out of consciousness. I thought I was dreaming as I heard a familiar tune play itself. It seemed clearly western. As it grew louder I became more conscious of my surroundings and stepped out on my balcony. A lone man from the band was playing the clarionet and the others were sitting around. To my amazement he was playing Beethoven’s ninth symphony – the Ode to Joy and playing it flawlessly. I almost wanted to pinch myself – here was a person from the local marriage band and playing one of the most popular western classics on a Mumbai Street in the middle of the night!

As he played his co--musicians joined him almost in a jamming session. The local street urchin across the road picked up a stick and waved it around as if conducting the orchestra. It was 6 AM and with the waving of his stick and the accompanying music as if on cue the sun rose and dawn broke on the eastern sky. It was Mahalaya.

Days ago while traveling through the London Underground I heard the tabla being played by a local Englishman in need for money. There are places in the underground earmarked for such people. I almost thought this to be magical and told my wife – you never know what you can expect in London. I wished I could wake her up to witness the magic at Mori Road.

While leaving Vancouver, our building manager Lawrence told me “I am sorry that we could not convince you to stay in Vancouver any longer”. While I shook his hand and thanked for all he had done, I wish I could have explained better. My regrets Mr. Lawrence. I wish you were here.