Welcome home

I stand outside my home. Well, we never owned it. It is just a railway quarter. But till this day, whenever I think of home, this is what comes to my mind. I grew up here. I know it’s every nook, every corner. It is hard to believe I left it thirty years back when I left this quaint little town in Bihar to move to Delhi. Someone else lives here now. Someone who has been allotted the quarter. They must be the second or third occupants after we left. 

Should I knock? Or should I? What if the people inside think of me as a thug, an imposter, or mad. No, it’s not such a good idea. I retract and leave.

I walk the roads I used to as a kid, with parents, with friends. I go to the temple I used to go often as a kid. It all feels so yesterday, stuck in time. I also see the old priest sitting in one corner. Very old and frail now. Not able to perform the pujas. His son is performing the temple duties. We chat a little. They remember me and ask about my whereabouts. We talk about old acquaintances and old days. After offering my prayers, I leave.

I go to the market. It has really grown. More shops have come up. I can also see some old shops. The sweet shop. The barber shop I used to go is still there. The tailer who used to stich my and my father’s clothes is still there. I introduce myself and he remembers. We get chatting. He orders tea from nearby. His laugh is still boisterous. He is genuinely happy to see me. He also chides me for not getting married, as if he is some relative of mine.

Later, in my hotel room, lying on my back, I again go back to my quarter. I should have knocked. I must go there again. If they let me in, I will be able to see it again, otherwise I will come back. I keep thinking about it and go to sleep.

Next morning, after a quick breakfast, I go there again. The road is lined with bambox, or Shimul trees, on one side, and same looking row houses on the other. The red Shimul flowers are scattered around.

I knock and imagine my past opening the door. A cute little girl opens it instead. She looks like an angel.

“Who is it, beta”, a female voice calls out after her. Her mother. Is that Vinnie? Yes, I can never forget her.

“Vinnie!!! You… What… how…”, I stutter, completely at a loss for words.

Vinnie was in my class. I was in love with her ever since I remember. She made my heart flutter. The sight of her made cool breeze blow and melodious music play. Just the thought of her was enough to cheer me up. I never expressed my feelings to her, but I think she always knew. I was heartbroken when she left the town after class 10^th. She doesn’t look much different from her blue skirt, white shirt days.

I came looking for a house that has always been home to me and meet Vinnie. Is it serendipity? Some hidden message from God? I am dumbfounded,

She is equally surprised. “Lokesh? What a surprise. Come.”

“Well, this is the house I grew up in. I can’t believe that you live here.  I think about it all the time. I wanted to see it one more time. Never imagined I would see you again, after so many years. Since when are you living here.”

Ah! That feeling of being back home washes over me. I look around. Though the walls and floors and the ceiling look the same, it is different. Very different to what we had. It is done up neatly. As if all dressed up to welcome an old friend. I go to the courtyard uninvited, making Vinnie a little uncomfortable. The guava tree is no more there, but the place looks the same. I look around. I am back in the 80s.

“Come, let’s sit. I will make us some tea.” She goes to the kitchen. Little Payal sits with me. She is full of questions. When did I live here? Who all were there with me?

Vinnie joins me with the tea. “So your husband is in the railways?”, I ask.

“He used to be. Now I am in the railways. He is no more. They gave me a job on compensatory ground”, She says with a tinge of sadness.

“Oh! So sorry”, I really felt for her.

“I was transferred here and got this quarter. I quite like it here. Where do you live now?“

“Mostly in the past”, I ruminate. Sorry, I am in Delhi. Alone and lonely. I always think of this town.”

Payal who is listening to our conversation, says, “So, why don’t you come back. You can live with us. This is your house too.”

I and Vinnie look at each other awkwardly. I ruffle her hair, “She is so innocent.”

“She is never like this with people. Don’t know what has gotten over her”, says Vinnie, pulling Payal to her lap.

“A child’s intuition” I think. “Payal beta, I have a job in Delhi. I have to go back.”

Payal, not giving up, says, “You can work here. Like mumma.”

“Hmmm”. I pat her cheeks.

I and Vinnie talk about our school days, our classmates, her life in Banaras, after class 10^th. After Payal slipped off to play with her toys, she readily tells me about her marriage, Payal’s birth and her husband’s accident. Her eyes well up while doing so, but she quickly gathers herself. I also tell her about my boring life.

I am so engrossed in our conversation; I forget I am in the house that never left me. I get up and go around. The big kitchen where I used to sit and eat sometimes, my mother serving me hot rotis. I look out of the windows as I used to do as a kid, hoping to see my friends outside. If they were, I used to immediately run out.

Vinnie is amused to see my attachment to the house; her house now. She asks me to have dinner with her, which I gladly accept. Payal has gone off to sleep. We talk a lot over dinner. The conversation is easy, like old friends catching up. I am distracted by her looks and she catches it, blushing. She looks regal in her light yellow churidaar.

I visit her everyday for the next 4 days. Payal has really taken to me. She doesn’t let me go until she is asleep and can’t hold me back anymore. Vinnie is happy and amused to see us like this. Sometimes she seems a little lost, perhaps a little introspective behind her smile.

“I wish life could always be like this…”, she says once. Then immediately looking at Payal, she adds, “…for her.”

“It can be”, I say, and she looks at me searchingly. “Only if you are willing.”

“I am, but how?”, she says looking into my eyes.

I go close to her and hold her hands. “You could get a transfer and join me in the city. Or I find something to do here, which I would really love, but looks unpractical. We will have to see, and plan.”

When it’s time to leave, everyone is sad. Vinnie and Payal come to see me off at the station where my favourite people have bid goodbyes to me many times in the past. This time I am not sure if I am leaving behind my past again, or is it my future. Time will tell.

The train whistles.

“I will call you”, I assure her. She shakes her head and smiles. A sad smile.

The train starts moving. We wave at each other till we can.

It is one of the longest journeys I have taken out of that town. My mind is overactive with plans and dreams. I have to make this happen as quickly as possible. It is amazing how the place I grew up in, which has given me my life, my best friends and lifelong memories is about to give me more. A life filled with love, family and laughter. Things I seem to have lost.

I take out my mobile phone and dial Vinnie.

The mask

The green room is full of chaos. A bed sheet hanging in one corner acts like a curtain that divides it into two - a dressing room for female actors and a makeup room. Male actors change into their costumes in the open. Rajiv Goswami who is playing an important part in the play is also the makeup man. He is powdering Madhuri’s face and neck with a puff. Her already fair face is shining.

“Wow, looks like today this humble powder will shine like a star”, flirts Rajiv.

Madhuri slaps his thigh, “Come on Rajiv, don’t fool around. Make it quick. I need to revise my lines one last time.”

Supriya comes from the bathroom. She has just washed her face for the second time. It’s hot today.  The big old ceiling fan moves fairly speedily, but that’s not enough. Two table fans have been put to assist it. One is focused on Rajiv and Madhuri, and the other is moving left and right like someone watching a game of tennis.

Supriya picks up her costume, a simple cotton sari, moves behind the bed sheet and announces, “I am going to change. No one should come this side.”

She plays a poor peasant woman unlike Madhuri who is playing the landlord’s beautiful wife.

As she drapes a tattered sari around her, she thinks about Madhuri. “She has a plum role today and she will look beautiful.”

But that doesn’t perturb Supriya. She has ample scope to perform. She has overshadowed Madhuri with her acting in the past too, in plays they have acted together.

Shiva is mouthing his dialogues loudly. That is his regimen before any play he is a part of. Sanjeev who is quietly revising his lines in a corner looks tense. He often gets nightmares before a play that he has forgotten his lines on stage and the audience is heckling him.

He requests Shiva, “Shiva please, slowly. Otherwise I will end up saying your lines instead of mine.”

Rajiv leans closer to Madhuri’s face and paints her lips. She pouts a little. She feels a little awkward doing so, but Rajiv is focused on his work. He is a real artist. An all-rounder. He also makes publicity posters for the plays of their club ‘The Mask’.  It’s a very close knit group. Most of the members have been to each other’s homes. They share deep familiarity and easy camaraderie among themselves.

The only person Rajiv doesn’t like in the club is Shiva. He is considered as the assistant director of their drama club. He does think that Shiva is a talented actor, but he is no director. And with Ranjan Uncle, who is the driving force behind the plays they stage, even he can be a better assistant director. Shiva can be insensitive when he is engrossed. Other members have felt hurt by the way he chides them on their acting. He would surely be more sensitive than him in handling others. But Ranjan Uncle is fond of Shiva, and that is his pain point. Why him?

Ranjan Uncle has been single all his life. He is married to theatre, art, culture, music, cinema, and so on. He likes to read, think, reflect and write plays. He always needed a lot of time for his passions. That’s why he hated it when he joined the Indian Railways in Calcutta. The travel to office and back consumed all his time and didn’t leave him any mental space to dive into his passions. He always missed his childhood home in the outskirts of Durgapur. So, when there was an opportunity to go to an unknown little town in Bihar, he jumped at it. Friends tried to dissuade him from doing so. They warned him that it would be backward and monotonous, with no appreciation for any art. At least in Calcutta he enjoyed watching cinema and plays. But he had made up his mind. He often felt miserable in the city. He felt lonely in a crowd, sad amid laughter and lost while going back to his hostel room. He had to get away.

Samastipur turned out to be a quaint little town. He took an instant liking to the place. It had big railway colonies with people from different parts of India. He made many good friends. He was allotted a big quarter, which became a regular hangout for them. It had a big veranda with a guava tree and a lemon tree. It had enough space around it for gardening. Such space would have been a luxury in Calcutta. It had fresh air, fresh vegetables, fresh milk and everything fresh. It felt like a fresh new beginning.

There was a team that used to take part in Railways’ inter division drama competitions. The members were all from local railway offices. Ranjan Uncle slowly took charge of it and started winning those competitions. He also formed the drama club ‘The Mask’ consisting his friends from the railways. The Mask started taking part in drama competitions and festivals across India. Guwahati, Calcutta, Delhi, Pune… He would scout the families of his friends for casting and select youngster for different parts in the play. He would mentor them and turn them into seasoned actors. They surprised everybody with their finesse and quality of productions. He became famous in local offices. He used to translate plays from Bengali to Hindi, write his own plays and turn stories into short plays. He earned respect for his talent. People greeted him and chatted with him when he walked to his office or the market. They were very polite and courteous.

Ranjan Uncle liked Shiva’s enthusiasm. They always discussed their next project, considered new stories, new plays and new techniques. He would always watch plays when he visited big cities and discuss them passionately with him later. He is always after him to start something new. The fact that Shiva is also single is another thing that’s common between them.

Like every time, Ranjan Uncle is busy in the wings, overlooking everything, instructing people. Today, is a very important day for him. He has worked very hard for this play. It’s his magnum opus. He has his audio player with all the background music arranged in sequence with the flow of the script. Andy is ready with a huge switchboard that controls all the different lighting on the stage: spotlights, dim lights, flickering light, etc. The switches are numbered and they are matched to the various scenes on a piece of paper. He simply has to press the numbers with the scenes mentioned there.

Ranjan Uncle’s nephew Vikas who’s always with him, observing things, goes to the stage and peeps out from a hole in the curtain. The auditorium is full. People are chatting, laughing and waiting for the play to start. Everyone at the club lovingly calls him junior director. He is a quiet and inquisitive boy. Ranjan Uncle always shares his thoughts and plays with him. He mostly incorporates his inputs in his plays. Though everyone has been encouraging him to act, Vikas is too shy for it. From the hole in the curtain, he can also see Dadi Maa. She is Vivek uncle’s mother.

Vivek uncle is Ranjan uncle’s close friend. Though he is not too interested, Ranjan uncle has made him act a few times. And he has always been a flamboyant actor. He has often walked away with the scene.
Vikas remembers an incident with Vivek uncle and his mother ‘Dadi Maa’ that makes him smile.

Dadi Maa had come to watch a play for the first time. She was seated in the front rows. Vivek uncle was playing a critical part in the crime drama. In the course of the story his character was murdered and his body hidden in a cupboard. In one scene, when the cupboard is opened, he had to fall flat on his face like a corpse. He had practiced falling straight on a soft mattress. So, when he fell that day, it seemed eerily real. Dadi ma let out a loud cry and started howling. The play came to a standstill for some time. It’s only when people explained that it was just great acting that she calmed down and the play resumed.  

The siren goes off for the third time and the auditorium goes dark. The hum of the audience dies as the curtain opens. After a brief prologue narrated by Ranjan Uncle, the play begins. Characters come and go off the stage, playing their parts.

In the wings, there is always a prompter to help the actors say their lines without missing anything. Rajiv has finished his part. He has done rather well. He is watching the climax with Shiva at the centre of it. As he is free, Ranjan Uncle asks him to take over from the tired prompter. Shiva often forgets his lines and a good prompter is critical to make the climax flawless. Rajiv is reluctant, but he can’t say no to Ranjan Uncle. He takes the written script and continues prompting. But his mind is not on it. It starts planning something exciting.
“Is this my big chance to burst the Shiva bubble?”, he thinks. “Yes it is. Now”

Suddenly, as the climax reaches an interesting phase, he falls flat on the floor. Shiva notices him falling down and freezes. He forgets his dialogue. He tries to improvise with his own lines. It doesn’t look too natural. The stress shows.

Ranjan Uncle is aghast. Two boys run to Rajiv for help. Someone else is rushed to quickly grab the script and start prompting. He looks for it all over. But the damage has been done. Shiva is blabbering. Audience can feel that something wrong is going on.

Anyway, the climax, ordeal for Ranjan Uncle, comes to an end. Overall, the audience is impressed by the show. They have loved Rajiv’s part immensely.

Ranjan Uncle immediately goes to check on Rajiv, “What happened? Are you alright?”
Rajiv’s soul freezes when he sees Ranjan Uncle’s disappointed face. He is overtaken by a deep sense of guilt and regret.
“I am OK. Don’t know what happened there”, he says.  
Ranjan Uncle is really concerned, “See a doctor.”  
“Hmm…”
Suddenly it strikes him - Rajiv is avoiding his eyes. But he has already spotted the guilt in his eyes. Ranjan Uncle realises what just happened during the climax. Rajiv also knows that Ranjan Uncle knows.

Despite everything, as he walks away, Ranjan Uncle smiles. “I always believed in his acting prowess. Today was his best yet.”

This event was 20 years ago. Rajiv has not been able to see him in the eyes since then.

 

Sadness

Life is dwindling in front of my eyes. With every news of elderly people, who were close to my father, breathing their last, I am also dying bit by bit. They had kept parts of my father alive in their memories -the shared parts. But slowly the entire generation is being wiped out. I don’t seem to be able to hold on to anything that keeps me afloat, helps me fight the sinking feeling.  Death, the ultimate reality, is more real than ever before. Life seems to be more futile than ever before. What am I doing in this big bad city, when I should be spending time with people close to me, who matter the world to me, and who are in the evenings of their lives.

An afterthought. A party.

I often wonder, what if I had preserved all the food I have eaten in my life, still delightfully fresh and ready to serve. It would be a riot of tastes and flavours. I would have enough to throw a big dinner party for lots and lots of people. The grand spread, a highly appreciated buffet would get the compliments for the variety it would lay out: North Indian, Bengali, South Indian, Chinese, continental, et al. The desserts section, I droolingly admit, would be dominated by Bengali milk sweets. But the magic of rosogollas, ladykinis, cream chops, malai chops,  sondesh, some of them jol bhora, some kacha, would sure send you in a stupor. The beverages section would leave a lot to be desired, especially the alcoholic kind, but a continuous flow of lemon juice would more than make up. It would also act as a cool digestive to the mega spread one would indulge in. What would your party be like? 

Wimbledon 2014

A see-saw battle between great champions. A contest of nerves where Federer seemed to wrest the momentum. He frustrated Djokovic with his deep angles. But how could he have won? His opponent had a certain Boris Becker in the players' box; a man who captured my teenaged imagination with his boom boom serves and flying dives; the very reason I started taking interest in tennis. Federer couldn't rob me and my idol of a bit of a déjà vu, could he? But hats off to the Swiss master. Even Boris would have sighed in relief in the end. Djocovic aptly summed it all up, saying, 'Thank you for letting me win.'

School Friends

School friends will always be school friends. Any reunion will transpose you to those days, wiping away the years or decades that have passed since. Nothing changes. The status quo remains. The personal equations never change. The fondness, the favourites, the grudges, the competition, the rivalry remain. Never mind the greying hair, deepening wrinkles, growing belly. The heartbreak, the success, the failure of those years resurface in the heart.  The jokes are revisited. The incidents are recalled and subjected to yet another round of laughter. We remain the same boys and girls that we were. Nothing changes. But we like to return to all those feelings and emotions, again and again. Because that is the only one way to return to childhood. Well almost. 

Rules at the cost of sensitivity

Today my daughter left her English Workbook at home and went to school. There was some activity planned for the day which required the book. So, I immediately rushed to give it to her, not worrying about my office timing. Office timings are just rules; my sense of discretion said this was more important. I didn’t want her to feel left out of the activity; more so because she is very scared of teachers and is a conscious child. Something I have discussed with her last class teacher and supervisor regularly.  Anyways, at the gate the guard seemed to be empathetic and told me to leave the book at the reception; the receptionist would get it sent across. I reached the reception and told her so. She flatly said it was not possible, as it was against the rules. I told her about the activity, but she was unmoved. She also said that guards cannot really say what to do. Sad. I have seen people in similar capacity, who are the interfaces between an organization and people to be more thoughtful and accommodating, in spite of the rules. Anyways, since such thoughtlessness is usual in our capital, I asked her if I could meet the supervisor. She refused. She asked me to meet an admin guy. He also refused, citing 5000 students and how the huge number stopped him be more empathetic, as if all of them leave their stuff every day. Anyways, I also shed my politeness and argued, to finally get them to flout a strict code of conduct and get the book sent across. It is such incidents that make me regret my sensitivity. There were many problems; academic and otherwise in my daughter’s last class 1. I have regularly found mistakes in her notebook. I never pointed them out, opting to bear a weak foundation; fearing any grudge against her. Her confidence and chirpiness which she demonstrated in nursery classes is lost.

Why can’t we reach out to be extra sensitive; extra thoughtful; extra kind? Does it take so much of an effort? It really reminds me of the same school of the same group in Mumbai, where my daughter started her schooling. The teachers felt so much kinder. They smiled at us guardians and felt more polite. They went out of their way to help me get my daughter transferred to Delhi, calling me and helping out when they really didn’t need to after I had left that city. I wish I could go back to that city and my daughter to that school.