RETIRED HURT

Year 2032

Arry : Should I make you one?

Me: Of course!

Arry : 60? or Patiala?

Me: hahaha...no no, 60 is good enough!

Arry: Why? How old are you?

Me: 69, almost touching 70

Arry: Then let me make a peg for you which is 69 ml, almost touching 70 ml

Arry burst into a laughter himself after cracking this joke. This though was a characteristic feature of him, of bursting out into a laughter himself after cracking a joke. More often than not, his laughing would make people realize that there was a joke involved. But he couldn’t care less, he has always been like this, brimming with confidence, always. When I first met him, we were in our teens, I noticed him because of his eyes. My god, his eyes. They would shine, declaring almost about his sharpness and his caliber. And he really rose in his career. What a sparkling career he’s had! At his peak, I think he was one of the best copywriters in the city, if not in the country. He was really revered and respected in the Ad world for his spark, and his consistency. I guess even now, you go to Ad agencies, and just say Arindam Bose, they will know whom you’re talking about. Fantastic man! I’ve been a proud friend for a long time.

I retired 9 years back, as a branch manager of the Punjab National Bank. My wife passed away when I was 53. I served in the same bank for 35 years, everyday was the same. I had no surprises in my life. In fact, I don’t like surprises at all now, neither bad ones, nor good ones. I love routine. It makes me comfortable. I have avoided anxiety successfully for years. But of course, my wife’s demise did turn my world upside down. It took me around a year and a half after that to reach a new routine. Not having a person suddenly you’ve loved for so long and stayed with, is not just depressing, but also a huge jerk in your habitual life style. No matter however much I missed her, I had to eventually come to terms with her loss, and with my staying alone. My son and daughter in law who were in India then, moved to Malaysia 3 years after Smriti’s death. Arry has been a great support for me since then. I have jokingly referred to him as my second wife many a times, but in a lot of ways, he has indeed taken care of me. He has been an integral part of my new routine. We have met at least twice or thrice a week, every week, since I retired. He retired too 6 years back, which tells me he would be around 66 now. I have never asked him how old is he, unlike him!

Arry: Cheers! To two single men, with a single malt in their hands...

And he burst out laughing again. It wasn’t that funny I felt, only a very silly wordplay, but he enjoyed it as soon as it came out of his mouth.

Me: Have you ever regretted not marrying?

Arry: Who? Me? No, but I’ve felt the need for a companion sometimes, in any form though...but dogs scare the shit out of me, or else I would have kept one.

Me: And cats?

Arry: No no, I cannot have a pet with the same diet plan as mine

This time I burst out laughing. I thought this was really funny. Same diet plan for Arry and the cat, means fish...its hilarious, isn’t it? He joined me in the laugh. Two men in their late 60’s laughed loudly at this.

Arry: Should I order any starters?

Me: Fish tikka, I feel like having that.

Arry: Cool....

He picked his mobile phone and placed an order. He lit a cigarette, I lit mine.

Arry: Your wife used to make terrific fish chops

Me: Yeah, she was a good cook

Arry: She was outstanding, you were really lucky! You had a beautiful wife.

Me: Yes, these are the years when I feel I could have really enjoyed being with her..I have so much time now post retirement.

Arry: You always had the time man, you used to come back home by 6 in the evening

Me: Yes but I had pressures, my son was studying then, he was applying for scholarships abroad, I had loans to take care of...

Arry: Of course, in that way you are a free man now..

Me: Pass me the ash-tray

Arry: there’s one right behind you...no, not there, look on the table...and give me your glass, let me pour another 69 ml for you...

I was feeling uneasy suddenly. The anxiety I have avoided most of my life, was creeping in. I could sense unrest inside me. Something Arry said did not sound right. For most of my life, and my friendship with him, I have ignored his smart remarks, but it was bothering me today.

Arry: (handing me the glass) Hmmm...

But I stayed largely quite the entire evening. Only speaking when absolutely necessary. Arry, even though he might have noticed, did not enquire me about my sudden change of mood. He could not have guessed though, for we were listening to Abida Parveen’s youtube recordings later that evening, and listening quietly was the most apt thing to do anyway. Amusingly enough, that evening while we were listening Abida, one of her famous ghazals began with the line “Kahoon dost se dost ki baat kya kya ....”

We drank till 11 in the night, had dinner, and then I decided to finally leave for my place. When I got up from my mat, where I sat the entire evening almost without moving an inch, I stumbled immediately and had to take support of an arm of the sofa set next to me.

Arry: You want to stay over tonight?

Me: Nonnnoo, I’ll catchun auto frfrom downsaiyyus

Arry: I’m sure you’ll catch an auto from downstairs, but I’m not sure whether the auto guy will understand where you want to go... hahahahah

Me: Whyyy?

Arry: You’re slurring

Me: Really?

Arry: Big time

When I reached his door I turned back to wave a bye to him.

Arry: Bye, go carefully, call me once you reach!

Me: Yes...Arry?

Arry: Yes?

Me: Do you think I’m a failure?

Arry: Are you mad...go home safely, we’ll talk later

I waved back at him again and left for my home.

Year 2016

We, at the bank, hadn’t been home for days. The sudden announcement of banning of certain currency notes from that midnight, led to chaos. People were lining up in hundreds outside their respective banks since early morning, even before the banks opened. We had no breathing time to have our meals on time, and were working over time for a week now.

I had lost my wife a month back, so my going back wasn’t imperative. In fact, I was feeling better these few days not going back home. The empty house at the end of the day felt eerie! It was difficult for me to believe that Smriti wasn’t in the kitchen doing dishes or reading a magazine in our bedroom, or watching a British sitcom on her laptop! I had difficulty sleeping at night, looking at the empty part of the double bed, which was once occupied by a 5 feet 4 inches long, stoutly built housewife. Smriti, in English means memory.

Arry called me one day and asked about the situation at the bank. He was struggling to get hold of new currency notes from the long queues outside the ATMs. Also, he needed to exchange his old currency notes. He was lucky, in those times I think to have a friend in a bank. I assured him he will have no trouble and arranged newly released two thousand rupee notes and sent one of my junior colleagues to his place, carrying a bag with a few bundles of the new currency notes. As a senior bank official, I had certain liberties and since Arry had a privilege account with us for years, it was easier to help him. The same colleague I sent the bag with, would bring back old currency notes from Arry’s place. Arry hence, didn’t need to really step out to look for cash, when the whole country was quite literally standing in a queue.

I was overworked, yes! I was angry at the government’s unplanned decision, yes! I was frustrated with people misbehaving in the bank, yes! I was upset with the system, when a person or two collapsed standing in the queue for hours outside our branch, yes! But I felt important! Very rarely have I felt that.

I imagined how Smriti would have reacted to demonetization. How she would have dealt with her husband not coming for days to home. Although, she wouldn’t have faced an issue with the cash, since I was making sure I have enough. But she would have been bothered anyway, thinking about ordinary people, the middle class and the poor. She also would have been against what I did for Arry. She was principally against such favors. I could never keep up to her principals. I have adjusted to circumstances. As I said, I liked to be comfortable. And for that, one has to pay a price.

Year 1993

I had been to Mohammed Ali road before, but it felt nothing like this then. Sayeed and his family were moving out from their ancestral house there, so I thought of visiting them in their present residence one last time. They would shift to Mahim in a few days, and it would be a lot closer to my place, but their ancestral house at Mohammed Ali road had an old world charm to it. I have been there twice the previous year on the two major Eid days. Sayeed was 29, exactly my age then. He worked as a graphics artist in the advertising agency in which Arry worked a year back. He was basically Arry’s ex-colleague, but me and Sayeed shared a great bond too over the past couple of years. Needless to mention the grand feasts I have enjoyed at his place during Eid, he and his family had my heart.

I sat in the huge drawing hall silently for a while, after which Sayeed came back with a cup of tea. His mother asked him to take biscuits as well, so he went back to the kitchen and got them. We both sat quietly for a good fifteen minutes, sipping our hot tea. Once I finished my tea, he asked me to follow him. He took me across the kitchen and a small corridor to another large hall. This was more of a dining space I suppose. That walk, which took us half a minute, was the strangest feeling. I knew what he was going to show me. I had dreaded this moment, all morning when I was coming in my cab, right up-till just now, when I was having my tea.

Sayeed showed me the window, where the accident had occurred. His mother, wept silently, standing behind at the entrance door of that room, looking at us. Sayeed lost his 21 year old younger brother, Qasim, during the Bombay riots. Qasim was only peeping out of that window, when a bullet not meant for him, ricocheted from a wall outside and hit his head. The family had decided to move out of that wretched place ever since. Qasim was the youngest of her three sons. Saqib, was the eldest. I could not even make an effort to console his mother. There was an invisible wall between us. Sayeed though behaved in a very composed manner, but I could not even imagine what losing a young boy accidentally like that did to them.

Year 2032

Arry: You didn’t message me that night? Did you reach fine?

Me: Oh yes, sorry, I entered my place and just crashed on my bed!

Arry: Hahaha, that’s ok...but we are living some life isn’t it, like bachelors in our 20’s.

Me: Yes we are, but we have slogged our asses off our entire life for this! You have earned a fortune, I have a humble pension too to take care of my shenanigans...

Arry: Just the pension? You had fixed deposits also no?

Me: Of course, fixed deposits and mutual funds and what not...

Arry: Systematic shit man...you guys at the bank are the most sorted, all the possible schemes and benefits...

Me: Why? Didn’t you benefit from me being in a bank?

Arry: Of course...

Me: Remember the cash I kept sending you after demonetization? And the old currency you kept exchanging without coming to the bank?

Arry: How can I forget? That chap you used to send home, he would always be so tensed!

Me: Yeah he must have been tensed, what I did for you was illegal, if he was caught, he could have been arrested!

Arry: Really? Even you could not have saved him?

Me: I wouldn’t have if he got caught, or else I would’ve been arrested!

Arry burst out into a laughter. We were on our third peg by then. It was around this time Arry would usually open his laptop and play some music, whatever we felt we were in a mood for that day. It could be anything from Ghazals to Jazz, but usually nothing casual.

Arry: By the way, I have news. Give me your glass, let me pour another one..

Me: What?

Arry: The West Bengal state government is awarding me next month, “Pride Of Bengal”

Me: Really?

My disbelief was not really disbelief. It was a sudden envious expression, which manifested itself into disbelief, since I had to behave surprised and happy. The contours of my face did not change much, yet I put up a smile for that brief moment. He made it sound so casual while pouring my next drink as if he was being elected as the chairman of his building. May be that made me envious. Because I was obviously very proud too, I always have been.

Arry: Yeah, really!

Me: Fantastic...I need a party other than this, this is our usual stuff, I want it in a 5 star!

Arry: Ok, if you insist, but trust me they will serve you the same single malt which we are having here, but here you can listen to Begum Akhtar when you want, and switch it off and turn to Kumar Gandharva in a second! In a 5 star, you would only get to mildly hear Bollywood songs on a Piano.

Me: Yes that’s true, partying at home is much more convenient, that I agree.

Arry: Should I make a large? You were slurring last time?

Me: Make a Patiala, I want to fucking slur tonight...I’m drinking with the “Pride of Bengal”, it’s not a joke!

Arry: Haha, you are already high mate. What is the mood today?

Me: I feel like dancing on Elvis

Arry: Haha, we’ll get there in some time, let me play something you may not have heard earlier

Me: What?

Arry: Salaamat-Nazaakat

Me: What’s that?

Arry: They were brothers, Salaamat Ali and Nazaakat Ali, from Pakistan. I assure you have not heard anything like this before. Nobody has! Umm....lets see, there was this one recording in Sindhi Bhairavi, it is just out of this world!

Me: For a tasteful person like you it would mean something, for me all the Raagas are the same.

Arry: I disagree, every Raaga would evoke something else inside you, you may not be able to pin point and decipher, but it happens sub-consciously!

Me: May be...I guess you are right

Arry was right. I hadn’t heard anything like that before. What the two gentlemen did with their voices was unimaginable. It was a shame I didn’t know about them earlier. I was discovering something like this at the twilight of my life. What a shame! There was so much to know still.

Arry: Bondhu, kemon laagchhe? (bengali for how are you finding it my friend?)

Me: Ghema (Bengali for fantastic)

He had taught me some Bengali phrases which he used to miss hearing from his friends in Kolkata. I would more often than not successfully place them in my replies, also pronouncing them well. Arry used to love it. I saw him listening to the rendition with his eyes closed.

Arry: Listening to all these people from Pakistan, I regret not being a Muslim sometimes!

Me: Do you remember Sayeed?

Arry opened his eyes and looked at me, still primarily listening to the rendition.

Arry: Our friend from Lintas right? You remembered him suddenly because I said Muslim?

Me: Yeah, did you keep in touch with him?

Arry: No, I think once I left Lintas, I hardly spoke to him. Why?

Me: He lost his younger brother in the riots. I had gone to his place. They were devastated.

Arry: You never mentioned it then?

Me: We were not in touch then Arry, you left Lintas and went underground almost.

Arry: Oh Yes, I remember, I was unhappy with what I was doing and how things were shaping up for me...so I had stopped all communication with my friends and went into a shell. But I honestly wasn’t aware of this thing with Sayeed, it’s really sad. But I’m happy that at least you were there for him.

Me: I have always been there Arry...

Arry: What are you trying to say?

That just came out of my mouth. It was a spontaneous revert back. But I was not sure how to follow it up. It’s one of those decisions one has to make within a conversation, to not make it awkward or rude. How long should I be intimidated by this man, who’s my friend after all? I decided to not stop myself that day, I felt at that moment that this was necessary! But I lowered my pitch one note.

Me: I’m trying to say that you don’t care after a point! You have been too engulfed with your life.

Arry: I’ve chosen to be engulfed in my life, but don’t assume I don’t care!

Me: What is the first thing you asked me when you called me after my wife’s death?

Arry: I can’t recollect, you tell me!

Me: You didn’t speak about her!

Arry: Of course I did, I asked you how were you doing after the personal tragedy...

Me: May be, but it was insignificant, the way you did! You were more bothered about exchanging your old currency notes due to demonetization.

There was a strange silence in the room. Salaamat-Nazaakat’s rendition continued though in the background, but the silence was louder. I could have avoided this conversation, like I had for so many years. But I wanted to be outside my comfort zone this time, for once at least! Arry has been a friend and all that is fine, but I have had intrinsic problems with his convenience. I may not be the “Pride of Bengal”, but I’m a more consistent friend, husband, son, whatever, a more consistent human being. Not erratic, not moody, not available only when I want to be.

That conversation did not affect our friendship. It was not meant to. Arry though did behave a little subdued for the next couple of times, but he came back to his normal self soon after. I didn’t make him feel awkward either. He wasn’t a criminal. He was an important person.

So was I.

The Composition

On a certain friday was our Annual Day at the school last year. I had been allotted a slot for 20 minutes to present an orchestral performance by the students of the school, trained by me. I’ve been doing this slot for the last two years, so I was not really very apprehensive this time, as compared to my first year. If I was to believe the Principal of the school, in his words, my slot was a breath of fresh air in an otherwise routine annual day celebration. So with all my modesty, I must admit I was quite confident. And it was honestly up to my students, I am always backstage. So once I was done making the composition, I really did not have a lot to perform, apart from guiding my students to play the composition in the way it is made.

Kashif, a prodigious talent, from the 8^th standard was my ace of spades. He was learning Sarangi from the tender age of 6, and already by now, he was well accustomed with most of the Raagas and the improvisations they lead to. His guru, his father himself, Ustaad Shareef Khan, is a descendant of the rich heritage of Sarangi players of the Sabri’s from the Maihar Gharaana. The first time I heard him last year when he played a dhun in Bhairavi, I was extremely moved. It is difficult, to say the least, to find such a young boy play a composition in a Raaga, understanding the Raaga’s personality. More often than not, even the very good musicians at this age would play a composition exactly the way it has been taught. Kashif was not one of those. He had an intuitive understanding of the mood, and hence he would play a note with his own understanding and maturity, prolonging or twisting the note just enough to evoke catharsis. I really believe, he is a prodigy. I do not use the word too often, but he is one.

As the corporates say, a smart boss would always use his brightest employee in a way that magnifies the boss’s reputation. I did the same with Kashif this year. Integral portions of my composition would be played by him, also because the composition was set in Maand. I believe Maand sounds best with earthy instruments, specifically on something like a Sarangi, giving it the adequate flavor of Rajasthani folk. Chhote ustaad, as I would call Kashif fondly sometimes, played my composition with utmost ease. I must mention that he had also added a few phrases which he thought would go well with the piece, and they were indeed beautiful! The rest in the orchestral group were all catching up with him, always. They had crossed the stage of being envious of him. They were now in awe of him, realising he is a talent. This is a hard stage to reach, even for Kashif. I remember I wasn’t even close to being someone anybody would be envious of. I could see the unease Kashif had dealing with this stardom. He is a teenager after all. He couldn’t fathom how to take complements, or answer quintessential questions related to any composition. He is a fine musician, but people forget he is still a kid. His concept is intuitive. He is still figuring it out in his head. But I must also add, he is not pompous, yet. He is not overconfident, yet. He is not a star in his head. Yet.

He had asked me if he could miss the rehearsal on thursday, a day before our annual day performance. Although I wasn’t too pleased with the request, I could not refuse him. I was certain he would play the way I expect him to on the day of the performance, even if he misses our final rehearsal. I was actually uncertain about others who were playing with him, because they were merely memorising the composition, unlike Kashif, who always, even on stage, would let the composition breathe on its own. So during the final rehersal on thursday, I sang out aloud the portions Kashif would play, for everyone to “memorise” one final time where they need to stop and begin again. On the day of our performance, we all reported at school 2 hours prior to our slot. There was a short sound check shortly after which the guests were allowed to come in. The football field was full of chairs covered in a white cloth, the ones you would see in a North Indian wedding in Delhi. These were perhaps from a wedding last night, for many of them had stains of gravy dropped on them while hogging the age old stale recipes, the likes of paneer makhani and dal mutter, or is it paneer mutter and dal makhani, whatever, I couldn’t care less. It all smells the same. I am also more certain since it was winters, and all Annual days and weddings are scheduled in winters in Delhi.

Kashif did not show up for the soundcheck. He was infact missing almost till five minutes before we were about to get on stage. I had lost my temper by now. I was shouting randomly on students who I thought could get in touch with him and find out his whereabouts. I did not have the balls to tell our Principal to postpone our slot a little, he seemed extremely busy attending to his chief guests. I had to find a way to execute our performance without Kashif, in case against all hope, he doesn’t turn up. But he did turn up, almost in the nick of time. I did not have the time to even inquire him about his disciplinary lapse. As soon as he came, we almost immediately had to rush to the stage and set up the instruments. I was helping in placing the microphones in front of the significant players. Kashif needed an independent microphone. When I reached him, I saw him sitting with a harmonium he had borrowed from another student.

“Where’s your Sarangi?” I asked. He kept looking at me, his eyes brimming with tears. I had to place more microphones quickly so I moved ahead. Kashif played the harmonium almost with the same ease. He played his improvisations too, but something was missing. May be at his age and calibre, even some of his improvisations are rehearsed. I do not know how to put it, but it did not sound organic. For someone like me who knows him so well as a musician, it was apparent he was struggling to be at his best. Something was bothering him. Well, and if you ask me about the orchestral performance, it did not sound the way it did till the second last rehearsal. Taking nothing away from harmonium the instrument, it could not add the flavour a Sarangi would have. There was a huge cheer nonetheless, after the performance got over. Apart from me and my orchestral group, no one realised what the piece would have been if Kashif had carried his Sarangi.

“Where is your Sarangi?” I asked him again once we went to the music room after our performance to keep all the instruments.

“My father did not allow me to bring it” he replied with a broken voice, trembling with fear and embarassment.

“Why?” I asked

“He did not want me to play today with the school orchestra” Kashif said.

“Why? All of a sudden?” I enquired.

Kashif stayed silent for a while, which completely flew the lid off my temper I was trying to control for so long.

“You think this is a joke? Why did he not want you to play today after so many months of rehearsals?” I shouted at him.

“He did not like your composition” he replied so softly that it was almost inaudible.

“What?”

“He did not like your composition” he repeated, this time I heard it clearly.

“When did he hear it?” I asked.

“He wanted to listen to it, so he asked me to play it yesterday at home. He said this is not Maand.”

Kashif replied, now without trembling .

“What is it then, if this is not Maand?” I asked as if a child has ridiculed my musical knowledge after years of training and practice.

“I don’t know sir. He said it is a bad composition, and I do not want you to play something like this in front of people.”

It took me a while to assimilate and absorb what Kashif had said. I wasn’t expecting anything like this as the reason of his almost missing the performance. I gathered myself again to ask him “How did you come then at the last minute?”

“I ran out of the house without telling him. I did not want to spoil your orchestra at the last minute because of me.” replied a mature 14 year old boy in a fix between his father-guru and his school music teacher. He continued after a brief pause, “I will not play any more for the school functions from now, my father does not want it. Sorry sir.”

There was silence in the room for a few minutes once Kashif said this. He kept looking at me, expecting something from my side, either a disapproval or an angry comeback, anything. I had a lot to say but it was not meant for him may be. So I had to chose whatever I wanted to say very carefully. I was aware he is a child and is powerless in front of his father’s wishes.

“Kashif you are doing what your father has asked you to, and so you are helpless. But will you remember one thing forever if I tell you now?”

“Yes sir”

“Never do this with your son or daughter when you become a father. Let them perform at functions you think are unimportant or not worth it. The recognition amidst their peers is important for their development. And for all you know, it may not be worthless for them after all.”

Kashif touched my feet and left the room in tears.

He kept representing the school at inter school competitions, and then eventually at state level competitions. He won a lot of them. But he refused to play for the school functions despite immense coaxing from the Principal himself. I met Kashif’s father once at the parking lot when he had come to drop Kashif to school one day. He greeted me with folded hands and said “Kashif speaks very highly of you.” I smiled and told him his son is a very bright talent and it is a pleasure to have him in the school. I felt nervous in front of him. I was intimidated by him to be precise.

He awkwardly then mentioned the annual day incident, “I believe Kashif has told you what I thought about the composition. I hope you didn’t mind.”

I had done my research on the composition I had made by now, after discovering it is not set in Maand. I said, “Yes Kashif told me, but don’t worry, I didn’t mind. He was confused with what all I had said about the composition when I was teaching them. He is a child, so he only remembered the Maand bit. I had made the entire composition in Khamaj, with shades of Maand in it.”

He replied “Oh, no wonder! I kept thinking how come a music teacher in school made such a mistake. I’m really sorry.”

I had just managed to redeem myself.

TO EACH HIS OWN

November, 2008
I knew it would get ugly today. But I had no control over the choice of conversation. This was inevitable. It was one of those Sundays - the once in a month Sunday, when my father is not keen on reading his newspapers. He woke up at eight in the morning as usual, and then spent his time reading the newspapers casually with a couple of rounds of tea till I woke up. I usually wake up anywhere from ten to eleven in the morning, depending upon the length of the film I saw online the night before. My tea which was served hot to me, was left untouched for about an hour. I had almost forgotten that I had to sip it in between dialogues.
As soon as I sat on the sofa with my tea, my father who was reading the newspaper saw me settle down with the corner of his eyes, and then turned to me and said, “How long will you carry on like this?”
“As long as I don’t figure it out” I said. I already knew what he was hinting at, there was no need to ask.  I had graduated 4 months back with a Bachelor of Science, general degree, and had been home since then. I was extremely unhappy with my choice of subject for my graduation, hence I was quite certain I wasn’t going to continue with the same stream. But I really found it hard to put my finger on anything else.

July, 1994
We had been sleeping all day to be prepared for the night. As a 7-year old boy, it was hard to stay awake at night, but thanks to the summer vacations, my parents were at-least not stressed about my going to school the day after. So permission was easy. Also because it was the World cup Final!
I wasn’t regular at following the championship throughout, but I was updated with stats and information regarding what’s what and who’s who about the major teams by my elder brother. Ironically enough, he was taking his cricket coaching classes in the day. He was equally passionate about football in the night, at-least during the World cup. But I later realized it is very Indian, to practically seek a sport which is so coveted in the country, but to cerebrally be fascinated by the most popular sport in the World, but not here.
Brazil was facing Italy in the finals, and as a seven year old boy, I knew quite a lot about both the teams. I was also very good with names. I knew the names of the players like I knew the names of my classmates. I knew Roberto Baggio is Italy’s superstar, and the danger man too, if one is supporting Brazil. Romario on the other hand, was Brazil’s trump card, and was in exquisite form throughout the tournament. But during the match, I spotted another player, who took my breath away. Bebeto, was a revelation, at-least to me. I’m sure South America was aware about him, but at the World stage to emerge like this was quite something. His goal, and then his celebration, swaying with his shirt, is unforgettable. At that age, when I honestly wasn’t sexually aware, I think I had a man-crush on him.
The next few days went in convincing my father that I want to play and learn football, or learn and play football. Whatever! It took him around two weeks to buy me studs and a ball, and a Bebeto jersey from Palika Bazaar. I wanted to be a footballer. I wanted to score a goal and celebrate like him, with the world at my feet. I wanted to be Bebeto.


July, 2000
The queue for the booking counter was long. My brother though, was always a patient boy, and took the onus of standing in it. Amitabh Bachhan’s son Abhishek Bachhan’s launch was the talk of the town, and my mother and I were extremely excited to see him in a film made by the same man who had made “Border”. My father would largely opt out of mainstream commercial films, so my mother and her two sons decided to go on their own for this film we had been looking forward to, called “Refugee”.
As much as I try and remember the film now, I hardly have a few scenes in my memory, but what stood out were the songs. I went crazy listening to them every day after I bought the audio cassette. And it was not just because of the melody, but also because of the playback voice behind almost all of them. Sonu Nigam had sung them like it was honey mixed in milk. He had sung popular songs earlier too, but with “Refugee” I really took notice of his prowess. His voice quality seemed unparalleled, his expression exemplary and perhaps the adequate amount of technical ability. He had age on his side too, with all the contemporaries either not so good, or older at-least by a decade.
Sonu Nigam became one of my idols. He made me want to sing. I felt I would only be happy and content if my voice sounds like him. I spent a lot of time in my room, locked from inside, appearing to be studying, but in reality practicing Sonu Nigam songs. It took a couple of months for me to realize that I had to get trained. I wasn’t sounding anything like him. I asked my mother if I could learn singing from someone. My parents seemed reasonably happy with this wish of mine, also considering there was no immediate expenditure to it. The guru they chose was someone who stayed in our colony, and had no great expectations regarding the fee. But while I was learning Hindustani classical music from him, my interest was in something entirely different. I wanted to sound like Sonu Nigam.

November, 2008
On listening to “As long as I don’t figure it out”, my father pounced back at me.
“You do not have your entire life to figure out what you want to do. You are 21. You think I can afford to keep you at home like this without any future? Is this a joke?”
 I replied, “What do you want me to do then? Should I leave the house?”
My mother interrupted, “What nonsense are you both blabbering?”
“This isn’t nonsense at all. I have been forced to talk like this after so many months. I see no drive in him about anything. He has stuck to nothing in his life. Once he wanted to be a footballer, then he forgot about it in months as soon as the cricket season was on. Then he wanted to become a singer. He thought he would sit at home and become Sonu Nigam without continuing to learn and without practicing. Is this a joke?”, my father shouted.
I had to get back with a reply. Plain arrogance. I had no defense, but I could not accept defeat just because he had facts. I shouted back “Every kid and teenager has idols whom he wants to follow, that doesn’t mean I will become like them!”
“Exactly!” exclaimed my father. I was amazed, how did he agree to me all of a sudden. But then he continued, “Now that you have realized this, you must know what you will become. You have been given everything you have asked for, now what we are asking for is a very standard thing in every household. You have to do something with your career, do anything, but just stick to it and complete it. We don’t expect great things from you anymore.” He left after finishing his line.
He had broken me to pieces. There is nothing more painful than your own family not expecting anything from you.

Present Day
It is nine in the morning here. We are almost eleven hours behind Indian standard time here in Texas. But it is around 8-8:30 pm in India right now. This is the time we usually chose to Skype call my parents. My wife Nitya and I, leave for our respective offices around 9:30am, so this is the time we get at the breakfast table. I met Nitya during my MBA years in Hyderabad. My parents had loved her the moment they first met her. My father had always believed that South Indians are much more cultured and well read. My mother too, had immediately felt that Nitya is a simple girl, strongly rooted and without tantrums. This she told me later, but I had seen the approval in their eyes.
“Are you guys ready for office?” my mom asked as soon as the Skype call was connected.
“Yes yes, we are having breakfast, we will leave in half an hour” replied Nitya
My mom came up with another question immediately “How long are you going to go to work? Isn’t this your 4th month?”
“Yes it is, I will probably be home from next month.” Nitya answered.
“Be careful beta, is your mother going to Texas any time soon?” mom asked another question instantly.
“Yes, she is planning within a month. How are you and uncle?” Nitya smartly slipped in a question with her answer this time.
“We are absolutely fine.” My dad answered, standing behind at the door, smoking his cigarette. He continued “How is your job going?”
Nitya shifted the laptop a little towards me once she realized the question was directed at me. “It is alright... Nothing great.” I replied.
“Is that bothering you?” my father asked.
“Not really. I mean I was always told I was not meant for great things. So it is ok.” Nitya immediately looked at me after I said this. She understood my reference. I had obviously told her about the incident. But she realized my comment was uncalled for.
My dad slowly left the room, telling my mother to continue chatting till he comes back. My mother spoke for a little while more, mainly with Nitya. But post that, the entire day, I have been analyzing why I said that. I have done well for myself and I’m happily settled with a wife in United States. There was no reason for that sudden flip of temper. I’m not exactly very keen on apologizing too. But I know it was a mean thing to say, to your father. I mean I’m going to be a father in a few months. I have already started feeling the warmth and kindness you have for your child. And my parents feel the same way about me, I’m sure about that. It is just may be a mere choice of words sometimes that makes something extremely acidic. I had enough intelligence when I was growing up to understand that my father did not think of me very highly. But to put it in as many words one day, of not expecting anything great from me, was shattering. I’ve slept with those words for months. I also realized that may be he said it out of anger, and obviously not wishing any mediocrity for me. But in hindsight how do I even completely blame him? I have hardly been persistent with anything till my college years. That’s a major chunk of youth just wasted. Though after I went to Hyderabad for my MBA, I worked hard on myself. It is just that some people work on themselves a lot earlier. So yes, I wasn’t a genius. I wasn’t an extraordinary child. And I too now say things out of pure anger sometimes, as acidic as they might sound. I don’t think I’m frustrated. I’m just angry. Of-course at myself more than anything else.
But I guess this is what I’ve become. This is the man I’ve become. Not Bebeto, not Sonu Nigam. But someone a lot like my father, I guess.

"Bombay Dy(e)ing"

'Baba? why are you cleaning your camera lens?' i asked my father, who after 9 months of staying at home and being jobless, took out his camera that morning. He was the salaried still photographer for Bombay Dyeing, which was shut for the last 9 months due to a strike by the mill workers, led by Mr Datta Samant. In these 9 months, we had witnessed the increasing diameter of the hole in our savings. To begin with, even his regular salary was far from enough to make us a privileged family. But in these months of his unemployment, we were now bordering poor, the monthly budget was now next to nothing. Next to our colony, there would be these beggar children who would stand in a que during late afternoon every day, and some rich businessmen would come in their big cars, and give turn by turn each kid 1 piece of bun maska. My father came out to pick his towel one afternoon from the small veranda every chawl flat had, and saw me standing in that que alongside beggar children. He could have jumped from the veranda to catch hold of me but thank god that he was aging. He still ran, like a wounded tiger, and picked me up from my unwashed shirt's collar and aerially dragged me home. What happened after that is a common story with most children in our country.

'I have to go to work, to click pictures today, so i need to clean the lens, it has caught fungus due to no use' replied my father. I was elated, i ran to the kitchen, hugged my mother, telling her that 'baba will get money today'! She nodded, her response was undoubtedly cold, but i could imagine why. After months of no income, one day's working wage would hardly bring us out of the gutter of debt. My father left for work and we stayed home waiting for him till he came back. Usually he would come back in a few hours, since he would take pictures of an event or a minister's visit to the mills, and then his job would be done for the day. But that day we kept waiting till late evening, now my mother was getting impatient too, someone whose patience in these months was comparable to Sunil Gavaskar's against the mighty West Indian fast bowlers. My mother, now that i look back, was silent throughout this financial lull, absorbing every jolt a no income family gets. If she would have lost it, or mismanaged in the no budget times, i don't think my father would have picked up the camera ever again. But its unfair to just judge a homemaker by only her resilience, control and balance. It would be criminal to say that she had no dreams. But that's how it is, in our country, women need to stand by their husbands, in their good and bad times, live their husbands' dreams, feed them with tasty food when they come back home from work, make love to them in the night and give them pleasure.

It was 9:45 in the night when my dad appeared at our main door, which was kept open. He had red eyes. He must have cried for a long time. He had consumed alcohol too. That added to the redness of his eyes. This was not the first time he had come back home sloshed, but it certainly was the first time he looked so upset after his drinks. He sat on the floor with his head resting on the wall, and stayed like that for almost an hour. I kept looking at him and then I eventually fell asleep on my mother's lap.

The strike continued for a total of 2 years, during which all the mill workers were jobless. My father though would go to work almost once every 2-3 days. My mother told me much later, in my college years, that we were lucky because her husband was a still photographer. Everytime a mill worker committed suicide during the strike times, my father was asked to take the body's picture, after which the case was lodged. He would earn wages out of taking pictures of the suicide victims, most of them his friends, for the next year or so.

A Brother's Letter

Dada,

Forgive me for being extremely nostalgic, do you remember the Barasaat days? When you were giving your boards or something and i started playing cricket with your group in the ground below? I just remembered this one evening out of a sudden today. 
That evening i was playing with Yogesh & others and you were sitting in the balcony. Its funny how i exclaim them as Yogesh and others! Anyway, i was in the side bowling first. I got to bowl a couple of overs, only because i was your younger brother. These guys were absolutely smitten by your left arm 'god knows what' bowling, and never had a clue whether it would swing or it would spin once the ball came out of your thin left arm and stick like fingers. I, on the contrary, as you know had a very conventional right arm bowling talent, without much guile and variation, but would bowl wicket to wicket and had a good yorker. Hence, in a match within friends in a colony park, i was an useful bowler, but never the talisman you were. The two overs i bowled that day, i don't remember much, but what happened after we started to bat is what i remember clearly.

We were chasing a huge total since Yogesh had made the ball vanish quite a few times with his monstrous hits while we bowled to him. In our side too, we had these lanky boys who could hit long sixes, almost as if they were playing golf, but this evening it almost seemed as if the match was fixed. None of the hitters from our side could put bat to ball, instead, the wickets were far more consistent in connecting with the ball that evening.The ball got lost when i finally got to bat and hit the ball in the bushes. No one could find it since it was almost dark, the ball's light green outer cover had already gotten peeled and only the dark grey colored rubber had survived, thanks to Yogesh's ruthless hammering earlier in the evening and the numerous times the ball got wet due to falling in the drain next to the park. It hence became almost impossible to spot the dark grey ball in the bushes in paucity of light.

I came back & you asked me in the balcony- "They didn't allow you to bat, right? "
I replied- " No, they did, but the ball got lost.."

I did not feel like answering or explaining anymore. I felt more enraged with your question, since it was true. I was asked to bat only at the end after everyone else was dismissed, and if i had been given a chance to bat a little earlier, i would have batted longer, if not won it for my team.

I still remember the way you looked at me after asking me. I know that look, of pity, concern, love, and genuine sadness for your brother's insignificance to our playing group. And i know it wasn't only because i was your younger brother, it was also because you knew i was better than a lot of players in the ground, and that i deserved an equal chance. I know it was also because of the way you looked at the game, the way a civil engineer looks at a flyover, because you believed a good player should get a fair opportunity, and it was intolerable to you if it didn't happen.

After almost 15 years today i write about this to you, to thank you for that question. A question which gave me respect, an identity, atleast in your eyes. Sometimes, that's all it needs...

From your ignorant younger brother,
Love

Death of a thought!

“Your dad is no more with us!”

The voice, or rather the person from the other side of the telephonic conversation broke down. I kept the receiver down, not managing to put it at its correct place. I lied down on the single mattress, not thinking of the bed bugs this time, and faced the ceiling with my eyes wide open. The visual slowly became hazy, as water from my tear glands made their place just in front of my eye balls! As I shut my eyes slowly, the tears fell on the pillow via my earlobes due to gravitational force, rather than a more cinematic rolling down the cheeks! I rose after a few minutes, deciding to leave for my home town and being present for the cremation!

My father was a man of arrogance! Throughout my childhood and teens, my mother was the person I felt being with. Dad was always someone I loved to avoid! I always felt and believed that he was too harsh on me, being his kid. Only after my teens, did I start finding a person beneath his layer of rudeness and arrogance, who was genuine and soft! This was the time when I got through the Govt. Art college in Kolkata and shifted base to Kolkata, whereas my parents continued staying in Vardhaman!

I was 15 when in school once I had scored poorly in Sanskrit. Sanskrit was the only subject my mother taught me, everything else was from my father. Hence somehow scoring less in Sanskrit seemed none of my father's business. He remained extremely calm and composed, but there was the other parent. For a change, my mother found all the rudeness, after years of marriage with a rude man! She shouted at me and hit my head with her knuckles. I was too old to cry, instead I revolted, and insisted that it wasn't my fault. After some time, she gave up on me, and came to the living room, where my father was reading a newspaper so relaxed as if nothing had happened. She came to him and complained, “our son has become impossibly stubborn, its difficult to tell him anything!” I remained at the door of my bedroom, watching and listening to this. My father replied to her in the most nonchalant way possible, “let him remain stubborn, it will help him if he uses it in the right things...”.

I used it. In the right things. I became an artist and a creative designer in an ad agency, earning much more than my academically brilliant brother, who went on to become an architect. I needed to be stubborn to reach here. My father's stubbornness didn't pay him. He couldn't be stubborn when he needed to be the most. And he knew it more than anyone else. He possibly didn't even know that I overheard him that day from the bedroom, that how he unknowingly said something that remained with me all these years and helped me achieve what I wanted.

In the living room, lay my father's body, wrapped in a cold white cloth. His abdominal part had expanded and become bigger. It was strange to see him lying like that, not reacting to so many people around. He was not fond of public gatherings, avoided crowded trains and buses in his mid life before owning a car. Both his sons worked in different cities, so it was quite natural that they would take time to reach here. I had reached earlier than my elder brother. Once my brother arrived, and after he touched dad's white and stiff feet, people started hurrying the proceedings. I was asked to pick my father from his legs, along with my brother. My two other cousins picked him up from the shoulders. The wooden ply seemed unusually heavy for a single man's weight. The position of dad's left leg was next to my right shoulder, and vice versa for my brother. It was a difficult walk till we put him in a car. I decided to stay at home with my mother, who also chose not to go to the cremation ground.

A speeding ambulance killed my father. He was on his way back from office, unusually on a scooter that day, leaving behind his car for servicing. The ambulance with a patient inside it, needed to reach the hospital as quickly as possible. In order to do that, it landed up on the wrong side of the road, honking and moving at a good speed. My father, with his glasses and in his not so attentive age, must have missed the sight or sound of it. He crashed head on to the ambulance, a vehicle that is supposed to save lives! I'm not sure about the patient inside the ambulance, but my father was declared spot dead. He couldn't remain stubborn enough to live a little longer, to reach a hospital, to get treated.

The Or-Jismic Experience!

Interviewer- Hello everyone! Tonight we talk face to face with the most coveted female breather..oops..female actor right now in Jollywood ! We welcome none other than the gorgeous Cloudy Diyo-ni?

Cloudy- Hi (breathes heavily)

Interviewer- Cloudy, is there really a question mark after your surname, diyo-ni? ?

Cloudy- Yes (breathes heavily)

Interviewer- Are you a Sindhi?

Cloudy- Sorry, i don't know Hindi! (breathes heavily)

Interviewer- ahem..(clears throat)..are you asthmatic ?

Cloudy- No (breathes heavily)

Interviewer- Fine, so tell me something about your next project, what is it called?

Cloudy- the Orjism (breathes heavily)

Interviewer- And who is directing it?

Cloudy- Brohit Doori (breathes heavily)

Interviewer- How do you see yourself becoming the bust...i mean the best actress ?

Cloudy- Very (sl)eazily!! (breathes heavily)

Interviewer- Wow, you are not just confident but you are quite modest too. So are you learning hindi to make yours... i mean to make it big?

Cloudy- Haan (breathes heavily)

Interviewer- Can the audience know if you are mating....i mean dating someone?

Cloudy- (breathes even more heavily) I....I....I....(breathing heavily)
(Jumps on the Interviewer as the cameras stop rolling while they make out rolling on the floor!)