Commotion at a Durga Puja!

 

The Durga Puja pandal was quiet in the morning hours, except for the occasional bursts of incantations from the priests, amplified by the mics. Suddenly, there was a commotion. Two street urchins, probably around 7-8 years of age, entered and marched ahead confidently and occupied two empty plastic chairs in the front row. Their tiny skinny bodies black as coal and clad in rags. Somehow, they were in possession of two toy pistols that they were firing continuously. The decent devotees at the adjacent chairs looked askance at them, horrified in some unnamed way. They immediately asked them to silence their pistols, and the kids gestured they wanted food. A senior organizer looked around annoyed, perhaps not finding the volunteers assigned with the duties of crowd control. Even as the firing continued unabated, a seemingly resourceful lady devotee consulted the priests on the altar and eventually managed to collect some particles of food--of sweets and fruits--that she gave away to the urchins. Although not apparently pacified, the kids took those and left the pandal, firing and chatting louder. However, all those in the pandal were back to their undisturbed devotion. 

SBI: Structural Rigidities That Refuse to Leave the System?

The State Bank of India (SBI) has always been an active ingredient in our generational bloodstream—like in that of almost all of India’s state and central government employees and their families who have either salary accounts or pension accounts or deposit accounts or investment accounts or all the beneficiary accounts required by the governments to enjoy the benefits of various schemes. No doubt, the pressure on the bank has always been immense across the nooks and corners of the country, impacting the performances of the various branches. But the bank has been marching well with the digital developments over the years and for many of us the branch visits have been reduced to the minimum. Besides, the SBI’s net-banking site which is indeed a very secure and user-friendly, and the YONO App have done their bits to ease the hassles of the accountholders. However, despite the tremendous advancement of banking a few rickety old rules or diktats that we’d refer to as ‘structural rigidities’ still haunt the system and dilute many users’ otherwise seamless experience. As a loyal accountholder with SBI since the days of my father I’ve had my share of some nasty experiences that I intend to dwell upon here.

Quite a few years back my wife and I had applied for a home loan. Thanks to our branch along with the loan-sanctioning RACPC office of that metro city the process had been very friendly and hurdles-free. The loan being sanctioned the EMIs began to be deducted from my salary/savings account every month. The lady bank executive concerned also took pains to explain to us that the initial EMIs would be much higher and then from a year or so later it’d be reduced and stabilized. Of course, the ‘systemic’ text messages/emails/even phone calls came to every month urging me to pay on time as if the bank were blissfully unaware of the automatic deductions!

One fateful morning, after about three years of paying the EMIs, I found that the deduction for that month didn’t happen. It was perplexing, for there was absolutely no intimation to that effect. Instead of phoning the branch immediately I decided to wait for the bank’s intimations which I was sure would come sooner than later. One text message did come a few days later; but that only managed to worsen my confusion.

The text message stated that about a hundred bucks was pending in my home loan outstanding which needed to be paid immediately, else it was going to adversely affect my credit score. So, I logged in to my net-banking page and tried to transfer the paltry amount to the home loan account. To my horror the payment was not accepted. I tried again and again for days with the same adamant result. I phoned up my branch and after a seeming eternity of endless ringing one employee told me that the branch had no information about that and asked me to contact the RACPC office. I couldn’t do that because I had no telephone number of the concerned officer there. As I was out of town during that period I asked a friend of mine to go there and inquire. The friend obliged me, but said that no officer or clerk there could give him the required update.

So, the text messages kept on coming month after month and I kept on failing to transfer that hundred bucks. I was at my wit’s end. I wondered why the largest bank of India would thus go on crying for that hundred bucks instead of simply deducting it from my linked savings account or allowing me to transfer! Finally, not knowing what was the best course to resort to, I decided to courier a cheque of that fateful hundred bucks addressed to the RACPC to my friend asking him to personally hand over that at the office. He obliged me again, but informed me that the bank clerk refused to accept that cheque too.

Feeling sorry for my predicament which was absolutely for no fault of mine, the friend decided to tap all his sources in the bank and finally, someone asked him to go to a particular officer hidden at a desk somewhere in the labyrinth of the RACPC complex. That officer gave the monumental verdict we waited so desperately for: the said home loan account had stopped functioning because the concerned builder failed to complete the construction for the next phase and therefore the funds to be paid to him had been withheld, and that we needed to close the said account if we thought there was no hope of the housing project progressing further.

I was astounded. Why was this simple information not conveyed to me? Why were my transfers/payments not accepted? Why was that meagre amount not deducted from my linked savings account? And indeed, the supposed non-payment of the ‘EMIs’ (read 100 rupees) over the months did reduce my credit score substantially! The credit score page still reflects those ‘lapses’ to the SBI home loan! It’s another matter that eventually I went to the RACPC office along with my wife and friend and closed the account permanently, and finally, the ‘debt’ of hundred bucks was cleared! It’s also altogether a different matter that we lost our hard-earned money to the builder who had no inclination to compensate! But the questions for SBI remain! If these are not the rickety ancient rules or structural rigidities that refuse to leave the digitalized system alone then what are they?

More recently, I accepted the SBI’s offer of a pre-approved personal loan to tide over a temporary crisis. Everything was done on my net-banking page—the amount, the tenure, the immediate disbursement, the EMIs and the automatic deductions every month. I was really happy with the convenience of the process and tried to forget the previous unsavoury experience! I think I had read all the terms and conditions associated with the loan properly and thus I was sure I couldn’t find the clause that ‘partial pre-payment of the personal loan not allowed’, unlike most private banks.

Therefore, one fateful morning when I found that I had some surplus funds, I decided to pre-pay a substantial part of the total outstanding so that I’d enjoy a reduced burden of repayment for the remaining period. I realized my mistake right after the transaction which was seamlessly accepted, unlike the peculiar previous instance of the hundred bucks refused again and again and again.

Absolutely nothing happened to the EMIs, although the outstanding amount got reduced considerably with the tenure remaining the same! The same amount continued to be deducted from my linked account as before. And as I feared the obvious scenario emerged eventually.

The day came when the EMI amount became bigger than the outstanding amount! Therefore, the monthly deductions stopped! This time the text message said that the remaining amount needed to be paid immediately for which a branch visit was mandatory.

This time I got plain angry! Why force a senior citizen to visit the branch after all the bank’s efforts to minimize it and the sit-at-home comfort offered through their YONO App, and that everything about the said loan account was done online? There was another matter that also contributed to my indignation. A modified fixed deposit account I opened long back got reduced to less than ten thousand and therefore I put my maturity instructions clearly online to close that account; but despite that the branch decided to extend the account for two more years.

My anger made me call up one higher SBI officer I knew for a long time and let him know of the issues. The higher officer must’ve issued some instructions to the branch manager; but instead of helping me out the manager put a freeze on that modified deposit account which made me realize the obvious! So, when I finally had to visit the branch to accomplish the pending hassles I noticed a palpable stiffness in the manager’s attitude while attending to me.

I think a revamp of the SBI’s digital banking system to rid it of the archaic rules would help the accountholders immensely. Thanks to the rigidities I incurred personal losses on at least two counts: first, the erosion in my credit score; and second, the apparent loss in my long good standing with the bank branch which would result obviously in debarring me from the bank’s periodic beneficial offers relevant for me. For absolutely no fault of mine!

With Angst and Anger Toward None!

 

  Isn't our Sun getting increasingly autocratic nowadays? During the hot humid days He disperses all dark-looking clouds that are apparently willing to satiate the scorched souls and the parched lands, and rules supreme! When He's done for the day in our part of Earth only then the clouds are allowed to pour if they so desire! But nope! The clouds seem to whisper "He pissed us off!" and blow away! But of course, they vent their accumulated frustration at the slightest opportunity! Poor us! 

The AI of Old Things!

As the mobile phone chimed, the name that appeared on the screen caused me an instant AI surge--well, I'm using this famously notorious symbol to mean 'Annoying Irritation' here, if I may! I immediately knew what that old fellow was going to ask me, from various such 'appearances' since he retired years back and I retired about two years later than him. But as always, I decided to take the call, for, after all, he'd been a colleague cum batchmate for several decades. So I answered in a familiar tone, "Hullo there?" And I anticipated his very first question, as always.

Hey mate! Where are you now?" His voice was high-pitch and sort of amused.

I thought for a moment as I always did on such occasions and then replied curtly, "in India!"

"Bugger, I know that, but where in India are you at the present moment?"

I informed him even as I anticipated his next question too.

"Not getting tired of paying rent yet, then?"

My AI rose to to level-2 despite my anticipation. Well, why should people like him go on asking that infuriating question? If you don't own a paddy field with two assured harvests a year, you're going to have to buy rice from the market; likewise, if you, for various reasons, fail to own a flat yet you have to go on paying the rent so that you get a roof over your head, and if for more sinister reasons you're forced to be in two places then it normally attracts attention from such nasty old guys like this one on the other end, considering the money factor. But in any case, I think this doesn't give him or the others enough reason to ridicule or even pull me up! Okay, I'm being caught in a twist of destiny making me suffer huge losses, but again it's my life and my money, if any, and I must never be scoffed at. On some previous occasions I did explain this logic to him, but didn't feel like doing it again this time.

"Obviously!" Was my reply.

"Why are your people there in that town now?" He knew it, but asked as he always did.

"I'm readying our own flat!"

His voice started ascending the octaves which I knew were his usual dramatics. "Oh dear, how wonderful! How big is your flat?"

He knew that too.

"Three BHK!"

"Wow! Then invite us there! We'll come to visit your big house!"

"Well, let it be ready at least so that we can move in first!" I said stiffly.

"Who are all there in the neighborhood?" He extended the unnecessary queries further.

"My mother, my sisters and other close ones!"

"Oh so nice! With whom does your mother live?"

"With my brother."

"Oh that means your brother already has his own flat?"

"Yes, obviously!"

"Then why on earth do you have to buy your own flat too?"

That upped me to AI level-3 as I couldn't quite anticipate the question. I growled into my phone slowly taking suppressive care to not make it obvious though.

"What are you talking about? I told you that it is my brother's flat and not mine. And tell me, how do you intend to barge into my flat if I don't have one?"

He changed the track now and at his next question my AI roared to level-4! 

"How many children do you have?"

This time I made no effort to disguise my fury.

"What's wrong with you? After all these years you're asking that again! For the nth time I'm telling you we have no children!"

He was the last person to be interested in even the 'a' of an apology. And he asked, "Oh no! Not a single one?"

I kept mum. For me 'no children' means exactly 'no children'!

"Then why did you go for such a big flat? Whom you'll leave it to?"

My AI shot up uncontrollably to level-5! I grated my teeth, taking care though so as not to hurt my tongue, and hissed out, "We'll become ghosts and live in there and haunt it as long as we can!"

Now he burst out into his shrill-pitch laugh which seemed to me to be genuinely AI generated! 'Ha ha ha!' 'Ha ha ha!' he let it linger on for quite some time,

I know this has always been his time-pass tactic, a pastime many senior citizens are notorious for! Let him indulge in that as long as he's capable of, I thought even as I struggled to rollback my AI to a normal amiable level!

Mitali: The Trauma of Losing a Sibling

Maybe I lied to her when I used to reassure her that she was going to be alright and was going to resume her life in some measure of normalcy in the future years; maybe all my gestures/expressions were false when I used to run my fingers across her forehead or embrace her on occasions when she was able to move around a bit; and maybe all my exhibitions of love care and responsibility were exposed as superficial when I failed to turn up in Delhi where she along with my mother were treated during September-October, 2022 (my mother Urmila Chakravarty was also diagnosed with dental cancer the same month the same year as she was) and when all the members of my parental family and the in-laws converged. Since that fateful day in August, 2022 when she was diagnosed with ovarian cancer to that disastrous day of March 6, 2025—the day my younger blood sister Mitali (Mainu) Chakravarty Sarma (November 2, 1963—March 6, 2025) passed away in the wee hours in a hospital in Guwahati after giving a brave fight for nearly three years against the dreaded disease of cancer that I prefer to call a demon—an eternal curse on humankind that rages on still, with utter disdain to the supposed advancements in medical science and facilities.

Maybe all my reassurances to Mainu and her two bright and caring sons, Sagarneel and Akashneel, about my supposed consultations with various doctors I knew who gave the opinion that Ovarian Cancer was the least-risk cancer unless the disease advanced to stage-3 or 4, were equally superficial and made up.

No, all my allegations against my apparently helpless self are not true. I believed in every word I uttered and in every gesture I made. For I had Hope. Yes, I hoped for the best throughout Mainu’s fight and sufferings. Even when I was shocked beyond words along with all in the family when in just about a month since the first symptoms and the diagnosis her tumour grew incredibly fast almost reaching the stage-3, so that the Delhi doctors who suggested an immediate removal surgery had to resort to sessions of Chemotherapy to shrink it first. My helpless state fumed in anger and frustration over the delay. But I still believed in Hope—she’s going to get well.

And my optimism that could very well have been a cover to hide my tortured self in, seemed to have been rewarded, because after the surgery and the Chemo sessions my open-hearted courageous sibling took the doctors’ permission to go through her elder son Sagarneel’s marriage as she had planned months before her diagnosis, of course, not in the elaborate way she planned previously. My Hope soared as we saw my Braveheart sister going spiritedly through all the chores of preparations organisation and celebrations. It was like any other marriage, in every possible detail. I admired her all the time as we attended the ceremony in Guwahati, although she looked thin and a bit emaciated she never allowed it to affect the celebrations in any way. Daughter-in-law Mayuri entered the family and joined wholeheartedly with the two sons in doing anything possible on earth to help her and save her.

During most of the year 2023 I could stick successfully to my Hope, for Mainu had been more or less normal attending to her duties in the school she founded and other social mixing, helping others and her Chemo sessions continued, every session tiring her and incapacitating her for a few days. In October that year we worked together in organizing the biennial Translation Award function held in memory of our father Author Amulya Kumar Chakravarty. She worked wholeheartedly, not showing any discomfort in the effort.

However, the demon named Cancer had other designs. Early next year, that is 2024, the demonic tumour came back with a vengeance. As her cancer had reached stage-3 the treating doctors indicated a 90% chance of recurrence. With her apparent recovery all in the family hoped that she’d defeat the demon ultimately. Maintaining a brutal frankness and honesty Mainu had always been an active participant in a WhatsApp group that was started for the all the medical updates. In January, 2024 Mainu herself posted on this group about the relapse that left us shattered and depressed. Her post read like this: ‘Medical reports are not very good. The disease has progressed and spread. Will have to change the treatment plan now. Will be in Delhi for a few days to finalize the treatment plan and get a few tests and procedures done. Then will continue in Guwahati.’

Her courage and confidence helped me a great deal to stick to my Hope. Chemo sessions continued and stent surgeries were made now and then to bypass the persisting tumour. To shrink it to a medically manageable size a radiation course was suggested by the Delhi team, to possibly give her relief from pain in the lower abdomen and urinary issues, and Mainu agreed to undergo in a Guwahati hospital. Unfortunately, the radiation course given in August 2024 led to a process of increasing deterioration in her wellbeing with its side-effects taking control of her body and thus effecting the imbalances in her bodily parameters. As her body became very weak further sessions of Chemotherapy were no longer possible. But I didn’t give up Hope in my brave sister.

In January 2025 her younger son Akashneel posted in the group: ‘[1/6, 10:41] Akashneel Peu: Yesterday health deteriorated a little with extreme fatigue, tiredness and loss of appetite. Had to admit her last night at ICU of Health City, Guwahati for proper care. Will be shifting to room today probably depending on availability
[1/6, 11:51] Akashneel Peu: Dr Smita came to visit at ICU. Said there was severe electrolyte imbalance hence the fatigue and tiredness. Said will shift her to cabin when available and recovery will be done in 3-4 days.’

But she never recovered even as I refused to give up Hope. Shortly Mainu developed serious bowl obstructions and when sepsis was suspected she was again taken to Delhi for a major surgery called Ileostomy. Just a few days after the surgery when she was far from fit Mainu insisted on to be taken home, perhaps she knew her time was getting shorter and she wanted to complete many a task that she planned. She was shifted to Guwahati and she was seriously ill now—totally bed-ridden and unable to even sit up on bed. As the greatest hammer blow Akashneel informed me that there were no avenues for further treatment now.

We visited Mainu in her Guwahati home on 17^th February, 2025. She was lying there on her bed—all bones and skin now, her bodyweight had reduced to an extreme low. There were close relatives and in-laws attending to her, apart from a young girl as a paramedical attendant. We sat beside her bed and conversed. Yes, my Braveheart was still spirited and articulate. In fact, throughout the period since 2022 her voice was always strong and resonant every time I phoned her. Maybe this contributed to my optimistic expectations greatly.

My Hope got another lease of life when to a query she replied that she was feeling hungry and was able to take bits of normal food since yesterday. So I sincerely believed in what I said, that if she went on taking normal food for a few days more she could regain some lost weight in which case she could just be physically fit for the pending Chemo sessions. Her two sons nodded in agreement; however, I felt they were far from being convinced. They seemed to know it very well that I didn’t or rather didn’t want to know. Mainu loved her sons and believed in them unconditionally. Often spelling out proudly what they’ve been doing and sacrificing for her sake. No doubt about that. They’ve done everything possible on earth to save her or at least to help relieve her unbearable pain. Sagarneel who had a successful career in the US came back to India to be with her and Akashneel never failed her in being around in times of need while pursuing his intended career in the Indian civil services In fact, he appeared for his first UPSC exam in 2020, just after the catastrophic tragedy of their father Dr. Aswini Kumar Sarma’s sudden demise. And then her mother’s crisis; but strong-willed and hardworking as he is, he never allowed himself to be derailed by emotion, and last year he cracked the UPSC by getting a Group-A allied service with Mainu being the first to announce it in the group. 

On 3^rd March this year I got a message from Akashneel informing me of Mainu’s admission in the emergency ward and then at the ICU, after her haemoglobin and pressure fell to critically low levels. All tests were done the next day and on 5^th March when I called up Sagarneel he informed me that Mainu’s parameters were normal now and at that moment she was being taken for the Pet Scan to know the status of the tumour after which she was to be shifted to the cabin. My dwindling Hope surged up again and I spent the day in relative comfort, retiring to bed somewhat relaxed. And then around 4.30 am Sagarneel told me about the end in a shaken voice, shattering all my hope and mercilessly taking my beloved sibling away.

I realize now that my Hope has never been real, but only a cover to shelter my wounded soul in and trying to manage my sufferings. Even while managing my sufferings by moving on with my normal work, meeting friends, attending ceremonies or having a good dish my wounded soul often pulled me up as if saying ‘how could you do that, brute, while your own sister is suffering so much’. Yes, losing a sibling is one of the most terrible things in life, like losing a husband or wife, a parent or any member of the blood family for that matter. Every family has a powerful bloodline that does connect every member whether they want it or not, it has a history and a bonding running through generations and any death in the line creates a void that remains forever, never allowing any ‘healing’, but only leaves the option of managing the pain. The experience becomes traumatic if the death of a sibling has itself been tragic and untimely, and most importantly if the sibling is younger in age. In our childhood days we knew that our father had a younger brother who died at a very young age and it created a void that never got healed up in spite of the six younger sisters who followed. We the children too grieved for him even without knowing how he looked and missing out a possible paternal uncle for us.  

We are four siblings—myself the eldest, my ex-IPS & writer brother Jyotirmay next, the third being the teacher-social worker-philanthropist Mitali and the youngest is writer-homemaker Gitali Kashyap. We two brothers have now lost a younger sibling, that too in an untimely tragic manner. This is not just pain, this is trauma, and it can only be managed over time. Death of a younger sibling creates a sense of helplessness in the elder siblings as if the latter have failed to protect the younger one. Our mother came every day to Mainu’s house sitting there like in a stupor and lambasting an unjust God for sparing her at 87 and taking her beloved daughter away. (Our mother had too shown tremendous strong willpower and patience by successfully undergoing a 10-hour jaw removal cum reconstruction surgery and the aftermath in Delhi in the period I mentioned earlier; she also had a long radiation course due to which she along with my younger brother could not attend Sagarneel’s wedding. However, the treatment has effectively kept her cancer at bay.) She often reprimanded me for cracking a joke far too easily. I didn’t tell her that every time I looked at the two young sons who were now without a parent I got heart-wrenching pangs and I desperately wanted to somehow prepare them for the aftermath when they’ll be on their own. Instead, I told her that she should now convert all her sorrow for Mainu into pure love and shower that on her grandchildren unsparingly. Gitali managed to keep herself calm with a sad smile now and then, and poured her heart out as a writer in the pages of the souvenir we published in Mainu’s memory.

The profound grief that follows the death of a sibling is universal. We have it everywhere, at home and away, and being a writer myself I’m more prone to find out a few, among many, famous writers-poets who suffered similarly. Legendary poet-lyricist-composer Parvati Prasad lost his elder sister in an untimely manner and shed profuse tears in an immortal song while another legendary writer-poet-composer-playwright Bauli Kavi Kamalananda Bhattacharyya lost his youngest brother in prime to a sudden illness and penned and sang various writings and immortal songs. These songs turn the eyes of even perfect strangers moist even now. The Bronte sisters lost siblings one after the other and created classics like ‘Wuthering Heights’ by Emily Bronte and ‘Jane Eyre’ by Charlotte Bronte. Virginia Woolf who had lost both parents and a sibling brother had manic depressive phases, but still created several famous novels in-between. Franz Kafka and Edgar Allan Poe also had similar traumas and their experiences got reflected amply in their short stories and novels of mystic gloom.

The purpose of citing these examples is to emphasize on ‘managing a trauma’, particularly for people who are not writers or artistes. My eldest maternal uncle died at 48 in a tragic accident, and it created havoc in his siblings—two younger brothers, three elder sisters and two younger sisters—with four of them dying of cardiac-related issues and two others developing cardiac issues. It is more or less known that deaths of siblings do create mental health and myocardial infarction issues through unmanaged trauma. We must be careful—we know it’ll never heal, but we can take necessary steps so that it doesn’t continue to traumatize us.

When I look at the photo of this beautiful couple I cannot help myself but to agree with my mother’s concern for heavenly injustice. Not only her, but also looking at Mainu’s mother-in-law who lost his eldest son in 2020, her first daughter to the pandemic in 2021 and now her daughter-in-law. While all of these young people had years of good service left in them still to go on rendering help and guidance to the people in general. However, this is an issue that will never yield us a solution or some comfort of the mind. We must look at the larger spectrum of human life, and then we’ll see how so many unfortunate people are suffering in all sorts of ways and they cannot even afford to examine if God is just or unjust. This is our world. We must take it as it comes. Acceptance should be the mantra.

One word on the Hindu funeral rituals. With the cremation on the first day the rituals continue for 13 days during which period all kin, relatives, friends and associates visit the bereaved family spending time with them and giving them loads of fruits, milk and other eatables that are allowed. Only after Chautha, the fourth day, the members of the bereaved family can take rotis along with boiled vegetables. No fried items are allowed during the whole period. On the 11^th day the main Shraddha takes place and on the 13^th day members of the bereaved family start taking non-veg (fish) and other normal foods in a community lunch. Lots of people question such elaborate mourning practices. But the rituals have a far more positive side. This is grief sharing and it always helps. In today’s digital world we must always be wary of internet loneliness and social media masking of emotions.

Today, the 6^th of April, marks the first month after the tragic passing away of Mitali. We join Sagarneel, Mayuri and Akashneel along with their kin and friends to offer prayers for the eternal bliss of our Braveheart sister/daughter/mother/daughter-in-law/teacher/compassionate leader Mainu. 

The Elected Protector!

I feel the word 'historic' is somewhat positive, meaning a historic event normally denotes a good thing--a good beginning or a development or an achievement. Therefore, what just happened in the elections in supposedly the most advanced democracy and the most liberated society of the world cannot be described as historic; it could, at best, be the darkest development of modern times replete with ominous future prospects and possibilities. 

An impeached, convicted, arrested, corrupt, foul-mouthed and a perverted racist criminal has been elected with a landslide to the highest post. And they call him the Protector who would soon make the most advanced superpower country of the world great again! It's not that a seemingly deserving woman and her party have been rejected; it's rather wanting the country to be great again by accepting the Protector. 

So then, the Protector is all set to rebuild the country, in active collusion with a handful of unscrupulous squillionaires, billionaires, greedy business tycoons and more of the same ilk. And how would the discerning voters expect them to deliver the goods? Well, by protecting their country from the other infiltrating races of earth;  by protecting their jobs; by making the guns available aplenty so that law can be righteously taken into the right hands; by subjugating the women folks by showing them where they rightfully belong; by helping the super rich to amass more wealth; by making education rightfully retrograde; by reversing the climate change progress as if the Protector himself actually controlled the universe; and perhaps by mobilizing all the righteous leaders of planet earth together in the right way to usher in the right kind of changes so badly needed. Right? 

Check! Check! Breakfast Testing!

It happened twice! In the span of only a week or a mere seven days! If I was bemused in the first instance which was only natural and had the inclination of dismissing it with a grunt, the second instance made me veritably confused! It put me in the ‘search’ mode—the search for possible answers to a query that is as mundane and foolish as it could be! Damn it! I’ve lived my entire life with it: right from the birth time and date; all the time while growing up; all the time while socializing, working or traveling. It’s always been considered an integral part of living—something very important and even sacred. I even discussed the issue with my wife and she opined that it must have had something to do with people’s perceptions while endorsing my lifelong perceptive or otherwise truth of living as well as hers.

So, what the hell does ‘breakfast’ mean? Such a question would make anyone angry and annoyed, obviously. But I still wanted the answers, realizing the conflict raging inside me which was so immensely capable of making me disoriented and lost. I searched up the internet for the meaning or possible applications of the word ‘breakfast’. The explanations confirmed more or less fully my understanding of the word: that it means a morning meal or the first meal of the day; that it means the same if we split up the word into ‘break’ and ‘fast’—‘breaking’ the ‘fast’ meaning normally we retire to bed having our supper and don’t get up in the middle of the night to meddle with the cold sausages in the fridge which means further that while sleeping we rather biologically launch ourselves into a night-long fast that is not eating or drinking anything unless in an emergency and thus get up in the morning to break our fast.

Foodies, dieticians and all of that ilk alike emphasize the importance of this first meal of the day, and how balanced and nutritious it must always be. A few generous souls of the net also explain further that people may take similar foods like that in their breakfast anytime in the afternoon or in the evening too. But they normally call it afternoon or evening snacks and would never call it breakfast. I think nobody would ever say “I have eaten my breakfast in the evening” unless, of course, extraneous circumstances forced him/her to remain empty-stomach throughout the day!

Okay! Perhaps I will have to give another concession or make an exception in a country like India where fasting is very common among the population, due to reasons of religiosity, spirituality, ritualistic customization or simply dieting. Therefore, in cases like these they may be on fast not only during the night-slumber, but also during the whole day, and ideally, they’d break their fast with a sumptuous meal in the evening/night. But even then, they’d not call it breakfast or morning meal; they’d call it the fast-breaking meal. Besides, like breakfast it can’t be the first meal of the day, because most of them continue to drink and take fasting items like fruits, salad and other non-rice and non-roti dishes cooked without oil and masala. I think we don’t need to state that some of the blissfully fasting souls end up eating more during the ‘fasting’ hours. In any case, as the experts confirm, if you take your first meal before sunrise you can call it early breakfast and if you take it after 10-11am you can call it a late breakfast, and that breakfast can never be later than ‘lunch’ under any circumstances.

However, those two instances I aforementioned belied and defied all such explanations, perceptions and convictions.  

In the first incident I received an invitation to an evening local event the schedule of which said ‘breakfast’ at the end of the program. I laughed over it and dearly wanted to say to the organizing secretary ‘I really enjoyed the menu of the breakfast!’ which I didn’t finally say lest it would hurt their feelings whatever those could be.

As I indicated earlier, the second incident was of a more serious nature. A septuagenarian neighbor visited us in that evening, just about five days after the first incident. He was telling us about how satisfying was the felicitation given to him for the release of his first book.

“The program started around 4 o’clock. There were lots of presentations, lectures including mine, musical interludes and prayers for his good health and the wellbeing of the whole neighborhood! It continued till about 6 o’clock. After that there were informal meetups, photo sessions, selfies and all that. Finally, we had our breakfast at 7 and left the venue shortly thereafter. It took us nearly three hours to reach home due to traffic…” he paused as I, confused, interjected.

“So, you stayed there overnight?”

“No, we left the same day as I just told you! We got home after 10 o’clock!”

“But the program was in the afternoon, no?”

“Yes, right!”

I gave it up looking helplessly at my wife. She gave me a reassuring look that seemed to say what she did say later. Perceptions, huh? And then my frantic search began! 

Amusing Superstitions in Watching Cricket!

When we were school students the Television was not there in our regions, and so, nothing about ‘watching’ cricket. Those days we caught up with the radio whenever India were playing, I remember lying awake the whole night till daylight, particularly when the matches were going on in the West Indies; and those were only the five-day Test matches as the shorter formats were also unknown except for our gully or home cricket being always limited-overs encounters. And we were free of any superstitious beliefs because listening didn’t necessarily involve them. It’s only when we started getting blessed with the live telecasts (early eighties in India) and began watching our favorite players in action that such superstitions began to emerge. Perhaps watching it live made the exchange of vibes or thoughts between us and the players possible with what you call the body language behaviors of both sides affecting the prospects, somewhat. And in came the superstitions, beliefs or say superstitious beliefs and biases/prejudices that mostly govern the rabid ‘home-side’ supporters. That day I was watching a Test match between India and England when all the memories regarding those rushed back, after a long time.

The first and foremost belief/superstition/prejudice was: based on circumstantial evidence we were of the firm opinion that when India were batting, the moment we got up from our seat and went out for some time or even went for a leak very much inside home one or two Indian wickets fell invariably—we cursing ourselves for the indiscretion while coming back to watch the horrid results. This ‘belief’ began to act so severely in our minds that we sat stuck to our seats till India finished their innings—in the process holding up biological needs, ignoring mother’s directives and other related issues that never failed to cause a lot of irritation around. However, we were sure that such ‘waves of irritation’, though essentially negative in nature, were not going to impact our batsmen adversely. And exactly the opposite was true, again based on ‘forensic’ evidence, when the opposition was batting—meaning if we sat stuck as in the Indian innings no wicket would ever fall and if we got up for a break one/two wickets fell invariably. So, during those periods we used to move around like free birds!

Although I don’t know much about astrology or astronomy and less about numerology, the numbers began to dominate our beliefs/superstitions/prejudices at a later stage, and unfortunately that streak still continues, at least in my personal case, notwithstanding the momentous fact that by now I am an ‘elderly, wise and experienced’ individual! How do we get the ‘concepts’ about all those special numbers? Well, maybe we’re influenced by some elaboration, talks, discussions or internet ‘insights’ over the years! For example, the number 13 is always beheld as the unluckiest number, even though numerology may say a lot of good things about it.

My ‘forensic’ evidence always shows that whenever an India batsman, particularly in case of the stalwarts like Virat or Rohit (not to speak of the greats of yore), reaches the individual score of 13 he succumbs to that piece of sheer bad luck, most often than not! It applies to the team score too, in fact, all other numbers that I’m going to talk about apply to both individual and team scores and that of the opposition players/teams as well. While I sit on as if thunderstruck when my favorite player fails to evade number 13, I sit up with delirious anticipation when players of the opposition do so! As per my ‘evidence’ the number 63 and 111 are even more dangerous and near-fatal! When a cricketer or his team reaches 63 some great tragedy is about to befall them, its effect being more ominous if he or the team stays on that score for one or two balls more or till the next over. Ditto for the number 111! And when both the episodes of 63 and 111 happen for a team, that team is bound to lose the match, as per my evidence again! And these are applicable for all playing teams.

You’d hardly believe me that once in a holy place I refused to take a very nice double-room offered by a good hotel, because the room bore the 111 number! And I caused undue hardship to my poor wife as she had to trudge along with me in search of a new hotel! But what to do? Maybe I thus prevented some absolutely hazardous bit of misfortune befalling us both if I had okayed the room. I know this much that astrology always suggest measures to get rid of probable misfortune and like the protective spirits/angels who are always with us to safeguard our journey of life as against the evil ones that want to harm us at every possible excuse. Such ‘Good Vs Evil’ battles are being constantly fought over every one of us like a balancing act, including the cricketers that some of them of their teams may be enabled to escape from the numbers as mentioned.

Although I cannot help but being number-conscious I don’t capsize to their hold of my mind, and I always hope for a clean way out. Now, number 4 is considered to be influenced by Rahu, number 7 by Ketu or number 8 is supposed to be governed by Saturn and the summation of numbers that result in these numbers; but they don’t always harm you, they may in fact do tremendous good to you if you happen to be looked upon favorably by the concerned planets. I don’t want to go for more explanations or justification or whatever. The moot point is that these number games or most of the superstitious beliefs we hold as far as cricket is concerned are always amusing and even humorous. Besides, who has the time nowadays to sit glued to TV sets (or even head-phoned mobiles for that matter)! Because you have to work, nah? Our cricketers earn millions of bucks all the time, and this obvious fact makes us lesser mortals work harder, right? So, as I mentioned I was amused that day by those memories. You should be too!

Two Drivers with Nothing in Common!

 

In present times it’s common to find the soothing slogan ‘help is just a call away’ at every step of life while in actuality it could be ‘help is just an eternity away’, particularly for elderly people whose perception of them being burdens on the booming younger community is so very tantalizingly turned into a reality by the latter! Of course, we cannot generalize because there are good souls—younger or older— still available on our tortured earth. Just the other day we encountered two app cab drivers that uphold and differential both the statements made above. 

We had to catch a late-night flight. As usual we, I and my wife, both elderly and I a senior citizen, had to somehow drag and carry our bags and heavy suitcases down the stairs round to the street corner where the cab was supposed to pick us up, because we didn’t want to wait for eternity for ‘help’, and we didn’t mind that at all out of experience! In that laborious process the cab driver called saying he was already on location and insisted that that was the right location despite my pointing out that the location was shown very clearly on the app. The driver’s tone was very casual, indifferent and bereft of human emotions. Anyway, he was at last persuaded to proceed to the location that we reached painstakingly.

 

The cab stopped beside us. The driver sat like a statue in his seat and the only movement he made was to open the boot for us. We really struggled to load the things inside the narrow boot. It was very hard for me as I had to lift the heaviest suitcase with both my hands and then adjust it inside. Well, I assured myself, the driver was just one of the multiplying ‘casual’ community and there was absolutely no point expecting help from him nor finding fault with him. Finally, getting ourselves installed inside he did the favor of driving us toward the destination; however, he did it casually and carelessly too, narrowly averting a bump into a vehicle in front on the way. Ditto was his behavior at the airport. In fact, he wanted to abandon us at the first gate he found even though the right gate was also recorded on the app. After delivering us at the right gate on my insistence he sat on like a statue, apart from opening the boot again. Fearing the driver would run away once I settle the fare then and there, I immediately alighted from the cab and looked for a trolley first. Then, again that laboriously process of unloading the boot and loading the trolley. After we finished doing that, I made the payment. All the time the driver sat in his driving seat.

 

Reaching the destination airport I again booked an app cab and waited in the allotted alley. Sighting the cab at a distance I motioned the driver to come up to the place where we stood which the driver did promptly. And then the driver not only opened the boot but also left his seat to help us load, to our hearts’ content and gratification. All the way he talked in a very friendly and homely way, informing us of the weather in the city and the changes that have been taking place of late. Arriving at our residence the driver again left his seat and helped us unload and carry the luggage up to the steps. He waited till we entered the building, and only then he drove away. I waved him a loving goodbye.

 

It’s indeed a solace that at the time when our Planet Earth seems to racing into the thick of a torrid and very uncertain future the good souls, indeed a raging minority, are still not drying up entirely.

(I was happy to find Blogger is taking the intended photos again when I checked out the last time. Hope it stays that way so that I get encouraged to be more regular with my posts. Nowadays without even photos, the videos are the buzzword, post are going to attract even a stray reader!)

The Modern Tarakasur on the Ola Grounds!

(Although no pun is intended as for the upcoming Durga Puja and the killing of demons or evil forces, we must clarify that this particular demon or raakshas or asura Tarakasur, according to ancient Hindu scriptures, was killed by Kartikeya, the elder son of Goddess Durga as believed, and not by the Goddess herself. The name of the demon is being taken here just for its resemblance to the name of villain of the piece. No malice toward any and all.)

In the City of Joy, Kolkata, enthusiastic people start visiting the Durga Puja pandals (what they call ‘Thakur dekha’) from the very next day of Mahalaya, that is, from the first day of the Devi Paksha—the illuminated phase of the Moon when Goddess Durga descends on earth—as and when the Pujas get inaugurated or opened with the idols installed. They do it because of the wish to visit as many Pujas as possible and to avoid the impossible rush of crowds that start visiting in millions when thousands of Pujas are open across the city, particularly during the actual Puja days. Most people prefer taking the public transport and walk miles for the pleasure as they love doing that enjoying binge eating amid the crowds of devotees or revelers. But some others, perhaps due to increasing age or illness or to make the experience comfortable, hire drivers for their own vehicles or hire cabs for the whole of the day or the whole of the night and have hectic bouts of pandal hopping.

Our protagonists, Pinakpani and Paroma, an elderly couple whose two daughters are married off and the only son is working in a different city, decided to hire an Ola cab for the maximum allowed duration of 10 hours and planned to move out in the early afternoon and enjoy till late night. The cab driver called them half an hour before the booked time and arrived at the right time to pick them up. Pinakpani found the bearded and tall young driver amiable enough and also knowledgeable in regard to the Pujas that are already open for the public and the myriad routes connecting those.

Pinakpani told the driver to go a famous Puja at the farthest northern end of the city so that they could visit all other pandals while coming back. The journey thus was to continue for nearly an hour. After a few minutes calls started coming to the driver’s mobile phone, and slowly and steadily he got visibly upset, raising his voice, but never rejecting the calls. What Pinakpani and Paroma could understand was that he was talking to his elder brother and there were some family issues. Pinakpani got irritated when the driver was plain shouting into his phone, and curtly told him to shut up and concentrate on driving, also pointing out that the police could haul him up anytime. The driver agreed, reluctantly and gloomily though.

The rest of the journey was quiet. They got dropped near the entry gate of the Puja and the cab left, the driver instructing them to call him up ten minutes before they were to be picked up and that he’d tell them where exactly to wait.

Pinakpani and Paroma had the bonus of beholding the famous Puja they never could visit before along with a smaller one in the neighborhood. After taking tea they started walking toward the exit to the main road. Pinakpani called up the driver who asked them to wait for ten minutes at the landmark location he himself spelt out.

And then all hell broke loose. The driver kept on calling, telling them to wait there, and at the next minute asked them to move a little toward the left or the right. After doing all those unsavory exercises and still unable to sight the vehicle the couple began feeling harassed even as the humid cloudy weather increased their discomfort making them sweat profusely.

Nearly an hour elapsed and the traffic congestion plus the deafening noise all around them further heightened their unease.

Now Pinakpani was in a boiling rage, shouting at the incessantly calling driver, throwing him names and liberally using the foulest of abuses. Fearing for his health Paroma took over command and taking his phone started negotiating with errant driver. But to no avail. As Pinakpani walked away to a corner to have some peace of mind Paroma, helpless now, requested the police guard on duty to talk to the driver. The policeman obliged her and after speaking for about three minutes gave her a few instructions. Accordingly, Paroma signaled Pinakpani to accompany her to the designated spot.

In the meantime, Pinakpani was searching for all options for help on the Ola App and finally finding some space to write something about the issue he wrote a few lines requesting them to cancel the trip and punish the villainous driver and sent the message. But no reply came up.

They crossed the traffic junction through an underground subway and moved to the bus stop, on the same side of the road though. They had to move at a snail’s pace along the crowded barricaded pavement as the public buses kept on coming, stopping at the stop ahead and leaving. They were nearing an opening for boarding the buses when they saw the driver hustling up to them from the opposite side. As he began speaking to Pinakpani as if trying to explain how wrong both of them were in not finding the location or him, our fuming protagonist motioned him to stop and not dare touch his arms.

Without a word they moved into the backseat and as the driver quietly got into his driving seat Pinakpani wrote the destination of their home in the app. When there were seven hours still left of their paid rental trip.

Paroma was extremely unhappy when she found out that they were moving back home.

“How can you trust this demon to again drop us at some Puja and vanish for hours? I’m telling you; he’s doing this willfully…he needs to be home immediately to sort out family matters and cannot afford to wait till midnight. So, he’s trying to harass us out of it!” Pinakpani explained to her in a hushed tone.

“Then why are you obliging him? We should make him toil harder for our money!” Paroma argued.

“But again, as I told you, he’ll start doing the same, and maybe we’ll be able to see only one Puja in the rest of the time. So, I want to cut short the trip so that he suffers in terms of reduced payment."

For the rest of the journey, it was all quiet inside the car.

Pinakpani gave him the end OTP as they reached home. And he got another shock of unexpected proportions. The bill is the same as when booked. Not even four hours of the booked trip are spent and yet they’re being charged the full fare for ten hours and hundred kilometers!

“You’re as bad a devil as your goddamn company! No! I’ll not give you a single paisa; sort it out with your company!” Pinakpani roared as he alighted from the car. He checked his mobile and found an email from Ola waiting which promised some action in response to his earlier message. He frantically started writing a reply mail, narrating the injustice: both in terms of a villainous driver and atrocious billing. As he was waiting for a reply from the company the driver, in a surprisingly quiet mood, was standing by the other side of the vehicle and talking over his phone. Finishing the call the driver spoke to Pinakpani, “I’m calling over my brother here. You can talk it out with him.”

That worried Pinakpani: he heard of many stories about physical scuffles between passengers and Ola or Uber drivers some of which really turned ugly. Fearing for their safety he enacted a dramatic act.

He took out the notes from his shirt pocket and literally threw those over the roof of the car to the driver and didn’t wait a second more. He motioned Paroma and started walking toward their home. The driver who got about three hundred bucks more than the fare ran after Paroma, trying to return the change. Pinakpani stopped him delivering his punch line, “Have all of it, you sickening demon! Have a feast! And Maa (Goddess Durga) is sure to punish you, remember that!”

Back home, he found a reply from company telling him that as per rules applicable to Kolkata only there is no refund for rental trips and full amount is charged irrespective of the duration of the trip. He now understood why the driver was so confident! He knew he'd get his money whatever happened! Pinakpani quietly opened the app, logged out and uninstalled it. “Accursed devils! Damn your joyrides for the City of Joy!”

The Refueling Conundrum!

 

I don’t really know why they do it. Perhaps they too adhere to the belief or the superstition that when one prepares too well for something, nothing really happens. The autorickshaw or the cab drivers may thus think that when they fill their tanks or cylinders with fuel first thing in the morning and wait for the customers none would come up or that it would take the best part of the day for the first customer. Therefore, they may accede to a ‘Let’s fill up only after I get a customer’ kind of behavioral psychology. I’ve often been the victim of such driver-psychology exploits in the city of Guwahati—called the gateway of the North East region. Let it be the autorickshaws or even the app cabs, the drivers thereof would invariably move the vehicle into a petrol pump on the way thus severely impinging on my allotted time for the ride and then for the possible meetings or appointments to keep. Annoyance pumped up by inconvenience and anger would always take full possession of my hapless state of being. I thought this psychology was limited to the somewhat lazy and laidback city/region as mentioned; but to my consternation I discovered it spreading to other parts of the country, and more worryingly, even in the most professional city of Mumbai. Mind you, I’m not jumping to conclusions or generalizations. I’m more or less certain because it was not a random incident where the driver could’ve genuinely missed the refueling due to technical issues, it happened twice in two successive days, and in both occasions the drivers did not look apologetic at all as if they were used to that by-now-normalized procedure. And they stuck to that stock answer in an expressionless tone, “The pumps were closed!”

In the first incident in Mumbai the driver of an app cab nearly made us miss an important meeting. The young driver looked okay and he was cruising the car nicely through a fairly dense traffic. But suddenly, midway, drove into a petrol pump on his left and joined a queue of around three-four vehicles. Completely taken by surprise as I never remembered a similar incident in the financial capital, I demanded him why. That stock answer came up promptly and I was agonized to find that he’d joined a queue for CNG filling which I know takes a long time. So I couldn’t help firing him right and left, but the young boy perfectly kept his composure, making me feel silly even in the midst of my great temper. My wife, trying to take control of the situation, prodded him softly as to why he didn’t inform at the time of booking. The boy avoided answering by informing that he’d already got his number and that it would not take much time now. After fifteen minutes that seemed to be the longest of waits in my entire life, I could bear it no longer and got out of the car banging the door shut. Pacing up to the road I started dialing the organizers trying to do some damage control as there were a few other participants in the meeting waiting. They agreed to a 30-minute window, and finally we reached around 35 minutes late, 25 of which was caused by the refueling googly.

In the second incident the very next day we got late at the house of a friend we reunited with after long years. When we finished our three-course supper, it was nearly midnight. The app cab drivers were not responding and the aggregators focused on increasing the fares by the second. Our responsible friend tried a new app on his mobile and finally the car he booked arrived. Again, the driver was a young boy, seemed hardly 20. However, he assured our friend that he’d take absolute care of us and would deposit us home safe and sound. We took off.

The streets were not exactly packed at that late hour, but the boy was driving at a snail’s pace. Unable to hide her curiosity my wife asked him why he was not picking up speed. And then only he dropped the bombshell: he was looking for a CNG filling station as his fuel was dwindling fast! Not only that! The car might run out of fuel anytime now and the responsible boy was very worried that his ‘uncle and aunty’ could get stranded in the middle of the night! This time I took a long sigh and just leaned back on the seat, as if surrendering to fate.

The young driver kept on stopping asking one and all, including the Zomato delivery boys, for the way to the nearest CNG filling pump. They all did indeed give very painstaking directions, but our lean and thin young gentleman couldn’t find any. And he constantly kept up our tension by mentioning that ‘getting stranded’ bit. Finally I intervened telling him to consult people of his ilk, that is to say, other drivers of autorickshaws or cabs or taxis. Luckily, he found an autorickshaw by the side of a road and accosted the driver: requesting him for the way in the most urgent manner possible, of course, by mentioning what fate his dearest ‘uncle and aunty’ could be heading for. I did my best to avoid meeting a supposedly sympathetic stare from the autorickshaw driver; but he gave solid directions to a gas station which was still some way off and nearer to our home. Fortunately, the car engine did not go phut and the eager driver found the pump and could finally satiate the urge of his cylinder, if not his.

We found it perplexing that the boy still did neither brighten up nor increase the speed of his vehicle. Again, my wife asked him why. In reply he asked her a very pertinent question, “Do you know your way to your home?” More in store for us! I thought bitterly. “Of course!” she replied. Then he disclosed that he was an absolute stranger in the area and so was driving slow, and particularly avoiding the flyovers, afraid where they’d eject him out.

For the rest of the journey I took absolute command of directing him: the turns to take and which flyovers to avoid and which ones to take. The young driver indeed delivered his ‘uncle and aunty’ home around 2 in the morning, delayed by at least an hour. I wanted to give some sound pieces of advice. But what the heck! I’d not rather have stock digitalized responses! Instead, I took the pledge of asking the driver if he was going to refuel on the way, every time I’d happen to book a transport in future anywhere and everywhere. However, we do fervently hope the refueling virus do not spread far and wide and someone resourceful check its possible progress. Or it still remains a conundrum!