Mardaani

My sincere apologies to Ms. Mukherjee (Mrs. Chopra?) for using her name to grab eyeballs. It’s all about packaging now. But I first heard this word way back in class VII in a Hindi text book, a prose on a legendary queen. The meaning explained through a variety of questions, reference to context problems and what not by my Hindi teacher. And now looking back, I truly realize what Mardaani is all about. It’s surely not just fighting with arms, or chasing goons, it’s about fighting and living life with an optimistic sense of hope.

I knew of her existence way back in junior school. She taught Hindi, a subject that I dreaded. It was and has remained the Achilles’ heel in my otherwise good academic record in my school days. She actually taught me in seventh grade, but my fear of the subject remained or should I say rather grown over the years. I still remember that horrid morning, when I boarded the school bus and asked casually a fellow class mate the expansion of cubes. It was the dreaded half yearly exams and that day was Mathematics (or so I believed). The friend looked at me as if I had just grown two new horns. Surprise, worry and a slight suppressed giggle.  I had somehow managed to mess up the dates and it was actually the Hindi test. I laugh when I think about it today, but at that moment all I remember is I suddenly felt dizzy and blank. Before I knew it, I was sobbing. The sobs grew to an audible cry when my slight hope that it was she who was wrong and we would have the Mathematics exam collapsed after we reached school.

She Mrs. Rajni Dutta or Ma’am Dutta was she was called spotted me in the corridor. I always knew she was strict, rather I had a pre-conceived notion that all Hindi teachers where just as bad as their chosen discipline of study. Some of my classmates were trying to calm me down while the rest chose to move away and do last minute revisions praying for an easy paper and perhaps thanking that they didn’t have the same fate as mine.  She dispersed the small crowd and took me aside and enquired in the most cheerful voice. I sobbed and told her that my Hindi was weak and I had prepared Math for a Hindi test. I would surely fail.  She simply smiled! How wicked I thought.

Our school is Catholic. I mean it follows basic Christianity. So morning assemblies were a must and if you were caught skipping it under any pretext, you were dealt with utmost severity. It was September, a pleasant fall, and the students moved to the main ground for the assembly. Right after that the students would come back to the classrooms, put their books aside, carry the exam paraphernalia and move to the respective classrooms for the gruelling three hour ordeal. So it was roughly twenty-five to thirty minutes before my impending doom.

She said, “Wait here”. She disappeared somewhere but was back in less than two minutes. She had with her the Hindi textbook and some notes. “Come on, read!” She commanded. I was too dumbstruck to disobey. I don’t really remember the next twenty minutes. All I do is

“Bundeley Harbolon key munh, humney suni kahaani thi,

Khub ladi Mardaani woh to Jhansi Wali rani thi”.

She made me quickly revise the names of authors and poets, some short questions from the text, primarily Jhansi Ki Rani and some more stuff. She asked me, “you are a Bengali, and then you do celebrate Dusherra?” I said yes, Durga Puja, right after these exams. She smiled again. That would take care of the essays.  And then she simply told me a maxim that I use even today. For grammar in Hindi, simply say the sentence to yourself, if it sounds right, it probably is.

The assembly was over, she took me to the ladies room, made me wash my face and said, “Life is an exam Swagata and more often the syllabus is far more unknown. All the best.” With that she was gone and I was there taking a dreaded three hour Hindi exam, literature and grammar. I had paid attention to the pre-exam revisions sessions held in our school and me and her had crammed in those final twenty five minutes.

Try hard as I may, I don’t remember what was in the paper, or what I actually wrote. I do remember getting a 79/100, the highest I ever got in Hindi in my school.  No, she hadn't told me what would be in the exam nor was she too biased while she graded my answer script. She was above all that petty partiality and favouritism. She had simply helped, calmed me down and made me take an exam. I later learnt, in those two minutes she ran up to our head mistress, asked for permission for me to skip assembly. She had based her arguments on my previous reputation and record in school and simply said “I know the girl, she is not lying.”

To my relief I left Hindi a year later when I was given a choice between Hindi and Sanskrit in ninth grade. I chose the latter. But my relationship with her continued, even after school. We became friends. Through those years I learnt that she was a fighter and was constantly giving an exam. She hailed from Lucknow. She had two daughters.   She lost her husband when her younger one was forty five days old. She was a great teacher, a single parent, and breadwinner. She didn't have self pity. She juggled several roles. She always smiled.

I would call her on her birthdays. I had a long chat before I left for abroad. I last spoke to her when I had come home for my first vacation. She sounded cheerful as usual. I grew busy and we kind of lost touch. I saw pictures of her daughter’s wedding on Facebook. Yes, she had raised two lovely girls, was marrying off one of them, she did everything, without a man. She didn’t look like a haggard sorrowful woman. She did her duty with élan and was celebrating like everyone else. She had aged since I last saw her, but her face was now calm, graceful and content.

And two weeks back again on Facebook, I read “RIP Rajni Dutta”. Three simple words posted by some random student and some teachers. It had been somewhat painful. Even if it was, I am sure she would smile at that too. To me she epitomized eternal hope, a spirit to live and fierce determination. If fate wanted her to lose, she gave it her best fight. She was in every sense, Mardaani, a strong woman, a no-nonsense attitude, but with a touch of love, compassion and a rare sensitivity.

“Bundeley Harbolon key munh, humney suni kahaani thi,

Khub ladi Mardaani woh to Jhansi Wali rani thi”.

Good Bye Ma’am. 

Robithakur to the rescue

It has been a while since I wrote. It has also been a while since I sang a Tagore song. It has been a while that I visited home or any other place for that matter. So it has really been sometime since there has been  any change, excitement or a story juicy enough to liven up a dinner party. My friends back in Delhi now call me " a boring grad nerd".

I went back to visit my parents, to drink off the same china I grew up with, to eat carp cooked in tomato and coriander broth caressed with my mother's hand. Too many deaths,  even more weddings and a general sense of erosion of my childhood, my memories and my anchor.

Papa tells me,  that your home now, give everything a second chance,  people here have moved on. To top it all, the very people with whom I spoke Bengali with  or had a discussion about what fish or fuchka to have are either dead or married  to their SO or worse, married to their jobs.

So a week passes by too quickly,  pronaam done, Godivas exchanged for chanachur and son papri and jowan. New sarees packed in, time to get back to this part of the world.

I am now getting my carry on luggage checked by some folks at the Indira Gandhi International Airport.  Surprised that they are  not sleepy at this hour, even more surprised by their supreme efficiency which was previously unheard of.  It seems Sheila Dixit and the Commonwealth games has done Delhi a lot good. The bag goes through the x ray and I am done in a matter of minutes. They stamp the tag on my purse, I dont bother to check if  they do the same for my carry on bag.  About an hour later, the flight is called, I am  about to board an aircraft and sit still for the next 15 hours. I am a little miffed by the many families and kids traveling with us. I hope they don't cry, I badly need to catch up on sleep. I am on  the last boarding  group.  Just about time when I am about to enter through the frosted gates, a  guard stops  me  and informs that  I cannot board the flight as my bag is not stamped. I claim it has been checked. but I am not given an option. Go back, get it  checked and stamped through security or wait for us to take action. I give in let them take charge. I am told to wait, offered water. Five minutes pass, then ten, close to twenty. I am not worried about the flight departing without me, there are three other poor souls in a familiar situation. Nor am I concerned about seating, I have already been unfortunate enough to be allotted a middle seat.    I am worried because there are several families with children traveling who have well exceeded the " two carry on luggage limit". There will not be single overhead bin remaining by the time I board the flight.
Panic strikes as I now foresee myself   carrying this bag on my lap or worse near my feet and will have even little room to stretch  my legs than  what an economy ticket can afford.

A woman in uniform arrives. Crisp khaki saree, the only hint of ornament is a black bindi and a classy Titan watch. She is accompanied by a middle aged man, clearly lower in rank, but greater in gait.  She starts with the Brit gentleman. The poor Englishman's laptop is  pulled out, so are his files,  pens, pictures of his kids and couple of things. he is asked to pack, his bag is stamped, his boarding pass number is noted as this was not the actual airport security at the  gate.

The  duty free shopaholic is next. An expensive camera, some t-shirts, a Toshiba notebook, a couple of duty free  shopping bags, magazines come out. . She empties out the pockets, more personal belongings are rummaged through before he is finally stamped and let off. There are two of us now. A young man, a student maybe and me.

The male officer opens my bag. I will be embarrassed. The last day's soiled clothes  and underclothes are packed in this bag, along with other things. The search party begins. I know my layers.  First up is a hand towel that ma packed. then the books   and then the embarrassing stuff. The man pulls out the towel and is about to remove the books to see what lies beneath. Just then, the lady turns  and catches a glimpse of what is in my bags and shrieks.  "Bangalee??? Apnar baccha ki New York e thake"

I am taken aback, happy, hurt and relieved.  How does she know that I am a Bengali and tell myself to hit the gym as I now  look old enough to have a child who can read.  But her reason of this sudden exclamation is that  she has laid eyes on " Gitobitan" a common book, loved, revered back by Bengalis across the world and I am bringing a copy of it for a dear friend back in Columbus.

"Bah eita bhalo jinish niye jaccho....eita to onnno private press?"

I smile. She signals the man to  stop digging further into my bag,  and I am stamped,  faster  than I hoped and asked  to travel safely, take care of myself and the book. I am relieved to have been let off but even more delighted at the sudden outburst of emotion that a  common language, a common love, a book can evoke.

From a no nonsense high ranked police officer she softens up to a chatty bong who escorts me to the aircraft, without having to pull out embarrassing stuff in front of strangers. This is what I call one of life's alpha moments. Robithakur, you rescue me  yet again!

Adios

Status quo

Its been eight months in Columbus and finally the initial froth has settled. That means the initial euphoria of meeting new people and exchanging warm embraces is now over and people, the very same who smiled and shared details about life now do not go beyond the weather.

But what is nice to know is that its just not me who is feeling spaced out. Way back in middle school I had learnt this poem called Leisure by William Henry Davis. It starts and I quote " what is this life, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare...". The situation of graduate students here describes exactly that. And this is where Facebook plays an important role. Sad but true. We are so lonely as individuals that we put up our daily, no wait, hourly activities on facebook. Letting the world track us. However, through facebook, I have found, that its not just me, but almost many of my friends turned acquaintances have felt the lack of intimacy.

Here are in my opinion, the top five spaced out status messages that I have come across. I do not wish to name the folks, but somewhere I have struck a chord with that emptiness that these folks have felt. Some of my readers will surely recognise these messages :)A friendly warning, its not my intention to hurt you all, in fact, I too am in the same boat....I care, but demands of work stop me from even asking how are you guys.

1. Don't look for your friends when you need them.
2. I think I think a lot.
3. Am I alone?
4. Give me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.
5. The first test of married life : Living with a room mate :P

So there, guys, lets just go beyond the weather, and beyond facebook and ask how we all are doing. Till then, adios, the weather is nice, I shall go out and enjoy it :)

Ekla cholo re

Its snowing in Columbus, its white outside, just like what I had seen all these years in movies, white and pretty like a dream. In fact its better (I am sure opinions would defer after three months of snow :P)!

So I sit here trying to finish my readings for my classes, drinking my Nth cup of coffee and listen to Tagore amongst other things. I think of moments that match to the legend's words (he has a song for every emotion) and the "Jodi tor daak shune keyu na asshe, tobe ekla cholo re" booms out. This is when I am reminded of a tale that very few know, but one of my life's alpha moments!
It was in 2008, on a trip to Berlin with some friends. I do not know how to ride a bicycle (bike for Berliners), and Berlin is full of them. Our hosts had organised a Bike tour, to explore the charming city. So everyone sets off, and since I cant join them, I decide to set off alone. Colleagues ask me if I am okay with it, I lie saying I would be fine, cursing myself deep down of being a suck ass in this field of human endeavour.

Its a bright sunny day with a slight cold breeze. Winter is slowly setting in, but its still comfortable to walk. All I have for the day is a map of the city, the bus and tram and tube (S Bahn) routes. I take a bus with no specific aim in mind, and yes after fifteen stops, I get off. I find myself in a residential area with children playing in a park. The date continues and it doesn't disappoint. The Berlin flea market comes next ( I am still walking aimlessly), followed by a middle school, followed by a residential complex which seems upmarket as there are flashy cars around. I cant follow a thing on whats written along the shops (its all in German), but can some what make out whats being sold. I walk for another hour, I am lost. I have no idea where I am. Am I scared? Far from it, I am liberated.

There are no expectations, no aims, no one to answer to except my own self, just doing something and enjoying it. When was the last time that happened? I cant remember. I was free. We are scared, to walk alone, to seek the path less travelled. But now I cherish that day, in a city where no one knew me, in a country where language was alien, where I was wanderer in every sense. The joy of it, the thrill of it, my craziness of venturing alone into an old abondoned garage before I knew what it was (I am "functionally illeterate" in Bernard Schlink's words), my clumsiness in finding a bus back to the hostel, my efficiency in tracing my way back way before people got alarmed. I perhaps have at the most five pictures of that day (people who know me, will be shocked, I usually take five dozens). But I dont need documentation, the memory shall never fade, the next experience, if ever, will never be the same, even if I do manage to trace back my ways.

For me, it was, it will always be, a walk to remember.

Ab to dawa nahi dua chahiye

I generally read The Times of India and swear by NDTV. I know all CAT aspirants would run for Hindu,, but who cares. So once again, this post is about a byte from last week's TOI.

Their front page ran an article about CM of Delhi, Smt Shila Dixit "praying" that the deadlines for the common wealth games be met.

Seven of the ten projects have been lagging behing schedule. Thousands of crores of rupees have been pumped in and now in Chetan Bhagat style, she wants God to intervene.

I have a lot of respect for Ms Dixit. We have a commmon Alma matar. I admire her zeal and passion for Delhi. But what I fail to understand is her team's lack of foresightedness.

Delhi's face has changed for better over the last decade. CNG, wide roads, fly overs, metro and a swanky new fleet of low floor buses. But ambition can be a virtue and a vice. Simply put, we cant have the common wealth games. The Yamuna is now drain, city has a severe water and power shortage, the BRT went wrong, and there is bit too much of construction activity everywhere.

This goes hand in hand with the increasing babu dome and crime rate in the city. Trees cut for construction add to polution. There is lack of proper infrastructure for the games. Too much in too little time. The logistics are horribly wrong. The last time, Delhi had the Asiad Games was when the polulation was one tenth of what it was today.

So now, when all fails, she wants God to help to save face in front of the international media. My sincere request to madam would be try other means to gain eyeballs. I laud you for your efforts but alas do not bite more than you can chew. You have done a good job, but alas its time to head for the temple now.

School house rock

I just got over with a group meeting here. It was a nice feeling. Its amazing, how we humans learn. A few months back, I was scared to even enter the lab, but times and things change.

I have like five days of vacation now. This time reminds me of my school days. Sorry, for all of you who know me, are probably fed up of hearing about these stories. But schooling in Delhi and growing up was a different expereince all together.

Here are some nuggets of "growing up stories" from the 90s in the capital.

1. Food and refreshments at the interschool meets were more important than the debate or drama competition. Of course, it came second to meeeting cute people of the opposite sex.

2. Birthday parties would have the mandatory "passing the parcel" and musical chair games. Gifts would generally be scrabble, brainvita, geometry boxes and puzzles. With time, scrabbles would be passed on like chinese whispers as you had too many of your own.

3. Somepeople would be really mean to give you study books on your birthday. I was given "Das and Mukherjee, Calculus", I still at times hate the giver.

4. All vacationss would always be followed by exams. You had the unit tests after the summer, half yearlys after Diwali or Dusshera and the horrid pre boards after your christmas break.

5. Evenings would be playing (not tuitions like now) followed by watching "Small Wonder" and "Doogie Howser"

6. This one is exclusive for FAS: Manektala selling oily burgers and hotdogs for ten rupees at the canteen. You would still eat that because your home tiffin wwould be over before the first period ended.

7. Holiday homework would always be bizarre and you would generally finish it in the last night of the vacationss or even better on the morning of the first day of school.

8. Slam books filled every year after exams, where the crushes would change from Mr X to Mr X's best freind.

9. School picnics in middle school would be limited to Lodhi gardens and Childrens' park and Rail museum.

10. Your years in high school would revolve in planning what Sari to be worn on teacher's day and the farewell.

Probashi bengali

Well, once I begin, I cant stop. Blame Grad school ( see post below) to get me addicted to writing again.

It was just three weeks here in Columbus, and I had the opportunity to go to a Durga Puja. When you are miles away from home, ocassions like this help you a lot. So enthusiastically, I tagged along. Sincere thanks to all seniors who oragnised the rides and all.

I decked up and then the series of shocks began for both parties. That is me (now referred as SD), and all the other bengalis, namely people from Calcutta (I am old fashioned, I like Calcutta as compared to Kolkata), from here on referred as CB.

With due respect to all people, CBs dont yet know probashis.
The first thing that a nice warm lady asked me was how could my Bangla diction be so correct.
Other questions through the course of the day and through the course of the next quarter ranged from "You actually eat fish?, Have you heard of Tagore or Ray?, Do you know streets of Kolkata?, Do you the rituals of poojas?" etc etc.

Well, I am flattered and and shocked at the same time. Thank you people for your compliments on my Bangla. But here are some things you should know about Probashi Bengalis. I shall vouch for the Delhi brigade, but also have high hopes from my Mumbai and Bengaluru counterparts.

So lets begin

1. All probashis can speak bangla, probably read and write as well (I am working on the latter). Thier diction is good too.

2. We are equally good at having a debate on "ghotis vs bangal"

3. Our Pujas rock. The dhaak, the bhog, the taal, the arati, the cultural programs, the sindoor khela are all there.

4. Our girls (and boys) can sing Rabindra Sangeet, sometimes better than Kolkata's generation Y, I am up for a dual anytime.

5. We do get some great fish here, and we can cook fish too. All the parts of the fish are eaten, the tail, the head and the bones

6. We too like gossip and adda, over phuchka and rolls which again are available over here.

7. We too live to eat sweets and everything (yes, everything) is available in this part of the country as well

8. We too love cricket and strikes. But sadly , Delhi doesnt have strikes. In Rome, do as the Romans do.

9. Weddings here are indeed a big affair, and the single most important thing in a wedding is the food, which at times is a bigger crowd puller than the bride and the groom.

10. Finally, most of us go to Calcutta atleast once a year, to shop for the best taangail saris, jute bags and meet near and dear ones. So we do know those streets.