Musings at Mori Road

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Master Moshai

It was that time of the year yet again. It was the evening before Mahalaya. I had to run a few household chores and ran down to Chandu’s store to get my supplies for the next day. Chandu was busy and this time of the evening was his peak hour. I waited for my turn and was growing impatient by each passing minute when I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Master Moshai. Through the years I had lost touch with him and hardly ever met him. I first met him when I was in eight grade and my parents thought it prudent to have me under his tutelage given, he had a great reputation as a teacher. I was marched off, somewhat against my own wishes to join his tutorial. The final approval came after an hour-long interview that my grandfather had with him to satisfy himself of his credentials. My grandfather christened him Master Moshai and I grew up knowing him as that. Otherwise, Mori Road knew him by a different name. “How are you?” he asked in his booming voice. He still stood to his full hei

The Behalawallah

If you sat idling on my balcony in the late afternoon or early evening, chances are you would be treated to some soulful music. From my growing up years, I have seen him ambling along playing his “Behala” and the tunes he played had become a part of me over the years. I have enjoyed many sunsets listening to his renditions. He would often stop and play to people who showed him some interest in the hope he would sell one of his instruments. The instrument he played was a small Voilin like thing, with a two strings and a strange bow that was somewhat bent. My mother called him the Behalawallah and I grew up knowing him as such. He had noticed that I was an avid listener perched on my balcony and often waved to me. A couple of times when we crossed paths, he even suggested that I buy one of his instruments but I had politely refused. Though the urge to hold one of them in my hand always remained. As the years rolled by and as life got busy, I stopped noticing him. Or perhaps he had go

Tambi

Mori Road has now it’s own food court and much to my disappointment the food court is right under my balcony window. It is an assortment of unauthorized food stalls and is not international in it’s spread but you could certainly claim national coverage. Right from the breakfast hour the stalls start serving till well after sunset. Idlis, Dosas, Pav Bhaji, Puri Bhaji and even to my surprise sweets from Bengal are sold. As a result, a motley crowd of people assemble under my balcony every day especially during the eating hours. These are folks who are office goers, taxi drivers, students at the nearby school, folks from my colony and even the local policemen on the beat. Lately the food stalls had arranged for basic seating amenities. I certainly did not welcome the intrusion under my balcony. It was a perch I often enjoyed sitting in solitude, just watching life amble by. Now it had become so busy. Added to that the local counselor had set up a huge lamppost with five halogen lights t

The Parking Spot

I returned from office. These days it had become a struggle to park the car due to some civil construction in our colony. I somehow squeezed into a spot yet again and as I manoeuvred myself out of my car, I could not but help feel a sense of irritation yet again. There was an old Fiat parked next to mine, full of dust. It had not moved from it’s spot for as long as I could remember. “Wonder what it is with Prabirda?” I thought to myself. “Why does he not use his car anymore?” Prabirda (Prabir Uncle) was a friend of my father. He was by no means a Bengali, but my father called him Prabirda and he did not protest. I also referred to him as Prabirda but addressed him as “Uncle”. They had a group that played bridge together and Prabirda often partnered with my father. For a very long time, every weekend, it was like religion for them to gather together and play all of Saturday or Sunday afternoon. Often, when the event was held at our place, I was allowed to sit in a