For 30 years, Mr. Roy had been a professor of mathematics at a university in Kolkata.
At 65, he had grown tired of the fast-paced and boisterous city life. He never married and had no close relatives in the city. Therefore, he never had any attachments to the city.
A few months before his retirement, he had heard of an old British-era bungalow in a village in the district of Bankura.
Mr. Roy visited the location and immediately fell in love with the place. The two-storeyed bungalow stood near the outskirts of the village, very close to the forest. The other houses in the village were a little further away, and it took around 10 minutes to reach the nearest house on foot. A peepul and a banyan tree flanked the back portion of the bungalow, behind which lay a large pond. The forest began from the other end of the pond. Numerous rows of teak, sal, mahua, and arjun trees stood almost shoulder to shoulder, creating a pleasant view for the human eye.
After inspecting the bungalow and speaking with the owner, Mr. Roy finalised the deal and completed the associated formalities promptly. He decided to employ the existing caretaker as his daily help. The caretaker lived just 15 minutes from the bungalow with his family.
Mr. Roy had already sent some of his belongings to the bungalow before his retirement, and on the 15th of April, he moved permanently to this place with the rest of his items. The date was significant – 15th April was the Bengali New Year, or Poila Baisakh. Mr. Roy had specifically chosen the beginning of the new year to start this new phase in his life.
Upon his arrival on the 15th, he found a small crowd in front of his bungalow. Many of the locals had come to welcome him to their village. He invited all of them into the bungalow and spent a considerable amount of time interacting with them. The crowd thinned around noon until only the caretaker was left. His name was Samir, a man in his mid-40s.
“Samir, please give me something to eat. I am famished,” Mr. Roy said, getting ready for his bath.
“Yes, Dada! I will prepare your lunch within half an hour,” Samir replied, heading towards the kitchen.
After a long and refreshing bath, Mr. Roy got dressed and approached his bedroom window to look outside. He found that the banyan and peepul trees were quite close to his window and obstructed most of the view. Some of the branches almost touched the window as if trying to claw their way into the house. He saw a lot of birds on the trees, chirping and hopping from branch to brancch. As he looked down, he suddenly noticed a young boy of around 10. The little boy was sitting on a branch of the banyan tree and munching on an apple.
“Hey! What are you doing there? You’ll get hurt if you fall!” Mr. Roy shouted with a look of apprehension.
The boy looked up and saw Mr. Roy’s worried face. He smiled from ear to ear in response and jumped down from the branch like a trapeze artist.
“Don’t worry, Kaku[1]! I have a habit of climbing this tree,” he said with a mischievous smile and disappeared around the corner.
Hearing Mr. Roy’s shouts, Samir came up from the kitchen, just in time to see the little boy run away.
“That’s my son, Sukumar! He’s a very mischievous boy, Dada[2]! He runs around the village all day after returning from school. He climbs trees like a monkey. This spot is his favourite. He must climb the banyan tree at least once every day,” Samir confessed.
“I see,” replied Mr. Roy. “But don’t you think these trees are a little too close to the window? This is the only room in the house facing the forest, but I can’t see anything because of these two trees. And here I was thinking of sitting in front of this window and enjoying a view of the forest.”
“Yes, Dada! These trees are quite close to the house. You can even consider them to be a part of the house. It’s said that they are more than a hundred years old!” Samir informed Mr. Roy.
“Hmm. I see!” he remarked.
The next morning, Mr. Roy went out to explore the village after breakfast. He returned around noon, huffing and puffing in the summer heat. After his bath, he called Samir to his bedroom.
“Samir, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” he said, his eyes fixed on the trees outside. “You see, I’d been thinking about those trees since yesterday. You must admit that the view of the forest beyond the pond is breathtaking. But those damned trees are in the way! I can’t see anything at all! So, I’ve decided to get rid of them.
“Usually, I’m against the felling of trees, but I must make an exception this time. I talked to a woodcutter in the village bazaar today. He agreed to do the job for me. However, he already had some assignments for the next three days, so he’ll be coming on Sunday.”
Samir stood aghast. He couldn’t believe his ears.
“Dada…you wish to cut down the trees? But they’re a part of this house! They’ve been here long before I came to this house. You can simply cut some of the branches to give you a better view. You don’t need to cut down the entire trees!” he said, visibly emotional.
Mr. Roy stared at Samir for a few seconds before giving his reply.
“I’d thought about pruning the trees as well. But that wouldn’t solve the problem. The branches would grow back over time, and I’d have to continue pruning them every now and then. It’s better to just be done with them entirely. Besides, this village has an abundance of trees all around. It won’t cause anyone harm if I cut just two. No, no. I’ve made up my mind.”
“Okay, Dada… As you wish!” Samir turned away dejectedly.
“Samir,” Mr. Roy called him back, his tone much softer than before.
“I know you love the trees, and your son loves them too. I’ll build him a playground where he can enjoy himself.”
Samir nodded slowly and headed down towards the kitchen.
Mr. Roy felt a pang of guilt in his heart, but his desire to enjoy the view from his bedroom far outweighed his feeling of guilt. As he walked towards the window, he found Sukumar playing among the branches of the trees like the day before.
They’ll feel bad now. But time will heal everything eventually, he thought to himself.
*
Samir was a little late arriving the next day.
“What happened? Is everything all right?” enquired Mr. Roy, a little upset as well as worried.
“Sukumar is not well, Dada. He went swimming in the pond yesterday and caught a terrible cold. He’s had a fever since last night and couldn’t sleep a wink. I was finally able to put him to sleep in the morning. I’m sorry for being late,” Samir explained. His face looked worn out.
“Poor boy! If you need medicines, you can come to me, you know. I’ve been practicing homeopathy for quite some time,” Mr. Roy responded.
Samir nodded his head.
“You can go home early today after preparing dinner,” Mr. Roy added after a little pause. “Your son’s health comes first!”
“Thank you, Dada!” Samir said gratefully.
He took his leave around 5 PM, two hours before his usual time.
Mr. Roy read a book until nine o’clock, had his dinner, and then went to sleep. He kept his bedroom window open for better air circulation. The weather outside was oppressively hot and humid. There was an unnatural stillness in the air, with no hint of a breeze whatsoever.
*
Mr. Roy was woken up by the chirping of the birds outside his window at the crack of dawn. As he gathered his senses and sat up in bed, he received quite a shock – the entire bedroom floor was strewn with dead leaves of peepul and banyan. They had reached as far as the door, which was quite some distance from the open window.
But how’s this possible? There wasn’t the slightest breeze last night! Even if there was a breeze late at night, how have the leaves fallen only on the floor and not on my bed? Mr. Roy thought to himself.
He couldn’t make head or tail of the situation.
The thing that worried him the most was the fact that all the leaves were withered and dead. Not a single fresh leaf was in sight! He collected the leaves and threw them out the window before Samir arrived, not wanting him to know about this incident.
When Samir came to work, he tried to act normally. He learnt that Sukumar was better, but still very weak. His mother was taking care of him that day.
The day passed quite uneventfully. Mr. Roy went out for a stroll through the village and returned before lunch. He took a nap in the afternoon and spent the evening reading. By the time Samir left at eight o’clock, he had finished his dinner and was sitting in front of his bedroom window smoking a cigar. As he gazed outside, the silhouette of the trees was the only thing visible to him.
The night was quite hot, and there was still no sign of a breeze. His mind wandered to the incident of the morning, and he tried in vain to find a logical explanation to satisfy himself. He decided to close the window that night to be on the safe side.
At 10 PM, Mr. Roy locked the window, double-checked it, and went to bed. As he dozed off, he silently hoped everything would be all right the next morning.
*
But alas! He woke up to a similar scene the next morning. Dead leaves were strewn across the floor. That day, he even found some leaves on his bed and his body. He jumped up to the window and found it locked—just as he’d left it the night before. His face turned pale, and he felt a chill run down his spine. As he opened the window, his eyes fell on the two trees staring back at him ominously.
Are the trees sending me a message and warning me against cutting them? But how’s that possible? Am I really supposed to believe that some tree spirits are trying to threaten me? That’s simply absurd!
Mr. Roy tried to strengthen his mind. It was Friday, and the woodcutter would be arriving on Sunday to do his job. He just had to endure two more nights. He decided that he would ask Samir to stay with him for the remaining two nights.
Happy with the resolution, he then proceeded to pick up the leaves and dump them out the window.
When Samir arrived, Mr. Roy learned that his son was much better. Relieved, he asked Samir to stay with him for the next two nights, citing that he wasn’t feeling well and might need assistance at night. Samir agreed and took his leave after lunch to inform his family of his overnight stay.
Mr. Roy took a little nap in the afternoon and read the paper till evening. There was a forecast of a thunderstorm at night—what the locals called Kalbaisakhi, or what is referred to as a Nor’wester.
Samir returned around 6 PM and prepared some tea for both of them. He sat on the floor of his master’s bedroom and sipped tea, chatting with him about various topics.
Mr. Roy felt his confidence returning in the presence of another human being.
After dinner, Samir made his bed on the floor and waited for his master to go to bed. Mr. Roy instructed him to close the window just in case it started raining after they fell asleep. They conversed a little before eventually drifting off.
Mr. Roy’s sleep was disturbed by a series of shrill noises. As he woke up with a start, he found the room engulfed in pitch-black darkness. He heard the rain pattering against the closed window. A storm was brewing outside. The fan had stopped moving.
There was a power cut.
But all this was quite normal. The only abnormal thing in this atmosphere was the continuous chirping of birds outside his window! It felt as if dozens of birds were pressed against the window, chirping incessantly.
Mr. Roy had never had such an experience before. The avian cacophony created a haunting ambience.
“Samir! Samir! Wake up!” he shouted at the top of his voice.
Samir jolted up in his bed.
“Dada? What’s wrong?” he asked, unable to grasp the situation.
“Birds! Why are so many birds chirping outside my window?” Mr. Roy panicked.
Samir rubbed his eyes in confusion. “Birds? Where? I can’t hear anything!” he said after processing everything around him.
“What do you mean you can’t hear anything? There are dozens of birds chirping outside! Have you gone deaf?!” Mr. Roy responded, his voice shaking with fear.
“Dada, are you alright? I can’t hear any birds at all. The only things I hear are the sound of the rain and the whistling of the wind. Maybe you are mistaking the wind for birds,” Samir tried to explain, visibly confused at the delirium of his master.
“Impossible! That’s not the wind! That’s the sound of birds! I can’t stand it anymore!” Mr. Roy desperately put both hands against his ears.
“It’s those damned trees! They won’t leave me alone!” he shouted like a madman.
“Dada! Calm down, I’m here with you. Nothing will happen.” Samir got up from his bed and approached his master.
But by this time, Mr. Roy had fallen silent. He had fainted.
*
When he finally opened his eyes, it was morning.
“Thank God you’re awake! How do you feel now?” enquired Samir with a worried expression.
“What happened? Did I pass out?” Mr. Roy blurted out, still quite confused.
“Yes, Dada! Last night, you were shouting about hearing birds. You passed out shortly after that episode. I was quite worried. I couldn’t go out to fetch anyone in the storm, so I waited till morning. Should I call a doctor?” Samir asked, still quite concerned.
“No, I’m fine. No need to call a doctor. I must’ve been dreaming. Why don’t you make some tea for both of us?” Mr. Roy replied slowly.
As Samir went to the kitchen, he sat up in his bed. Although he had told Samir that he might have been dreaming of the bird sounds, he knew that he had been wide awake. He had definitely heard the chirping of birds.
It must be the trees! What are they trying to tell me? That dozens of birds will be forced to abandon their nests if I cut them down? What should I do then?
He got out of bed and moved towards the window, deep in thought. As he looked outside, he found Sukumar playing near the peepul tree. How happy he looked!
A smile appeared across Mr. Roy’s face as he watched the child enjoying himself.
“Here’s your tea, Dada,” he heard Samir’s voice behind him.
“Samir, your son is here. He’s playing with the trees again,” Mr. Roy said, taking up his cup and sipping the hot tea.
“Yes, Dada. He missed his friends for the last few days. So, he came here early today to catch up.” Samir laughed.
Mr. Roy’s smile broadened.
“Samir, I’ve decided not to cut the trees,” he said after a moment’s silence. “As you said, they are a part of the house. Your son loves them too. Maybe I’ll get used to this view after all!”
Samir stared at his master, overwhelmed with joy.
“That’s great news, Dada! Sukumar will be very happy to hear that!” he said, wiping away a tear from his eye.
“Very well then, go home and get some rest. Come back in the afternoon. I have some reading to do.” Mr. Roy got up and shook Samir’s hand.
“Okay, Dada!” Samir replied, getting ready to go.
As he went out of the main gate, Sukumar ran to greet him.
“What did he say?” the 10-year-old boy asked anxiously.
“He has decided against cutting the trees,” assured Samir.
The boy’s face lit up. He started dancing around in joy.
Samir put his hand inside his pocket and took out an audio cassette player.
“Here, take it.” He handed it over to his son.
“I never thought your cassette recording of chirping birds from the zoo would be of any use. But it was of great service last night. You should’ve seen Mr. Roy’s face when the recording started playing outside the window. It looked like he’d seen a ghost. It was difficult for me to keep a straight face!” Samir broke off into laughter.
Sukumar quickly joined him.
“What about the dead leaves? You should give me some credit for that! That was my idea!” he declared, looking for his father’s approval.
“Of course! That was a fantastic idea,” Samir replied.
“That’s what sowed the seed of doubt in his mind. Little did he know that I’ve always had spare keys to the rooms in the house. With the keys, it was child’s play to get into his room and spread the leaves at night.”
“Yes, we did, son. Although it’s never good to fool another person, we did it for the greater good. Those trees are a part of the history of this village, and I will never let them be harmed!” Samir spoke, his voice quivering with emotion.
Sukumar squeezed his father’s hand tightly.
“I will protect the trees with you, Dad! I promise!” he replied with tears in his eyes.
Sayan Sarkar was born and raised in Kolkata. He is a passionate reader and lifelong learner who spends his leisure time immersed in books and new ideas.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Festivals are affirmations of joy and love that bind humanity with their sense of hope even in a world torn by violence and climate change. As the end of the year approaches, we invite you to savour flavours of festivals past and, a few, yet to come, before the cycle starts again in the new year. The colours of celebrations are vibrant and varied as shades of nature or the skies.
We have new years spread out over the year, starting with January, moving on to the Chinese New Year around February, the Bengali new year in April to festivals of environment, light, darkness as in Wiccan beliefs, Tagore’s birth, more conventional ones like Deepavali, Eid, Durga Puja and Christmas. People celebrate in different ways and for different reasons. What we have also gathered is not only the joie de vivre but also the sadness people feel when celebrations are muted whether due to the pandemic, wars or for social reasons. In some cases, we indulge in excesses with funny results! And there are of course festivals of humanity … as celebrated by the bauls — the singing mendicants of Bengal — who only recognise the religion of love, compassion and kindness.
Ramakanta Rath’sSri Radha celebrating the love of Radha and Krishna have been translated from Odiya by the late poet himself, have been excerpted from his full length translation. Click here to read.
Bijoya Doushumi, a poem on the last day of Durga Puja, by the famous poet, Michael Madhusudan Dutt, has been translated from Bengali by Ratnottama Sengupta. Click here to read.
A Clean Start: Suzanne Kamata tells us how the Japanese usher in a new year. Click here to read.
Shanghai in Jakarta: Eshana Sarah Singh takes us to Chinese New Year celebrations in Djakarta. Click here to read.
Cherry Blossom Forecast: Suzanne Kamata brings the Japanese ritual of cherry blossom viewing to our pages with her camera and words. Clickhere to read.
Pohela Boisakh: A Cultural Fiesta: Sohana Manzoor shares the Bengali New Year celebrations in Bangladesh with interesting history and traditions that mingle beyond the borders. Clickhere to read.
The New Year’s Boon: Devraj Singh gives a glimpse into the projection of a new normal created by God. Click here to read.
A Musical Soiree: Snigdha Agrawal recalls how their family celebrated Tagore’s birth anniversary. Click here to read.
An Alien on the Altar! Snigdha Agrawal writes of how a dog and lizard add zest to Janmashtami (Krishna’s birthday) festivities with a dollop of humour. Click here to read
Memories of Durga Puja : Fakrul Alam recalls the festivities of Durga Puja in Dhaka during his childhood. Click hereto read.
KL Twin Towers near Kolkata?: Devraj Singh Kalsi visits the colours of a marquee hosting the Durga Puja season with its spirit of inclusivity. Click here to read.
Hold the roast turkey please Santa: Celebrating the festive season off-season with Keith Lyons from New Zealand, where summer solstice and Christmas fall around the same time. Click here to read.
My dida, my maternal grandmother, is perpetually dissatisfied. It is better to die young, my mother often says, than to live to ninety and be like her. For as long as I can remember, she has not smiled. Her face has twisted into a permanent grimace at the torments that each passing day on earth brings.
“After a certain age,” she sighs as she sips her morning tea, “living itself becomes a sin.”
When I was younger, these pronouncements would worry me, and I’d consider my mother’s laughter the height of callousness. With time, I’ve changed my tune.
“Have you considered dying?” I ask her conversationally in response. “I can make arrangements.”
She harrumphs at me and tells me that when she does die, I’ll be sorry. I reply that she’ll outlive her daughter, not to mention me. I hear my mother, who has just entered the dining room, mutter that death will be a sweet release.
“What did you say?” Dida demands, cupping an ear in one hand. “I’ve told you not to mumble, Mishti, no one can understand a word you say.”
Mishti vanishes again. Dida, thankfully, has been overcome by a fit of coughing and has already forgotten what we were talking about.
The cough had appeared approximately one week ago, the day after Dida’s ninetieth birthday, and she is sure that is it, her time has come. After tea each morning, she opens the drawer to her bedside table and takes out an aluminium case that houses several dozen strips of medicines. She inspects each one carefully. Then, it is time to call Ujjal.
Ujjal is our neighbour – and a medical doctor besides. Dida likes to catch him before he leaves for the hospital.
“Hello Ujjal?” she bellows into her mobile phone. “No, I feel terrible – this cough will be the end of me. Is it allergic, do you think? Should I take the Levocetirizine and Montelukast combined tablet? No? How about some Paracetamol? No, you’re right, sometimes home remedies are the best, who needs these newfangled medications? You’re right, Ujjal, what a good boy you are. What a blessing it is to have you so close by. If not for you… I have no one, you know. Nobody to take care of me, or care whether I live or die.”
After this conversation, she chews on some dried clove, that tried and tested home remedy, and then takes a nap. Ujjal calls up my mother and pleads with her to hide Dida’s medicine stash – my mother replies wearily that she would if she could.
After her nap, it is time for Dida to call up various relatives and let them know that she is not being taken care of. Their commiserations, stories of their own aches and pains, and reassurances that she if comes to visit, they will keep her in the lap of luxury, has her happily occupied until lunchtime.
“I won’t eat anything,” she announces when she emerges from her room for lunch. “I have no appetite because of this sickness.”
“Ma made goat curry,” I tell her. This is considered. Then – “I suppose I can force myself to have a few bites,” she concedes grudgingly. “Otherwise, I’m just wasting away.”
She eats three helpings with gusto, pausing to point out that the curry could do with a little more salt and two more minutes in the pressure cooker, but is otherwise not too bad. My mother drops a courtesy and is heading back to the kitchen when Dida makes her announcement.
“Mousumi and her husband are coming to visit me this evening,” she says with some satisfaction. “At least my sister’s children love me, even if my own daughter… No, I can’t even say it.”
She remains in good spirits all afternoon, only half-heartedly telling me that I don’t love her. After lunch, she shoos my mother out of the kitchen and does all the dishes. Then, she changes the sheets on her bed. Finally, she changes from her usual nightgown into a white saree with blue border. Now that all the props have been arranged, it is time to set the scene.
Carefully, she arranges herself on the bed and lets out an experimental cough.
“Is there anyone there?” she calls in a weak but carrying voice. “Could someone at least fetch me a glass of water?”
“Coming, Dida,” I call, heading to the kitchen and coming back with a bottle and glass.
She drinks deeply and hands it back to me before another fit of coughing overtakes her.
“I think my temperature is rising,” she says sadly. “This is what will kill me. And no one to switch the fan off, even!”
I turn off the ceiling fan and beat a hasty retreat.
My mother’s cousin Mousumi, or Mou for short, and her husband Somnath ring the doorbell at five p.m. sharp. I let them in and take them to Dida’s room, where the old lady is in bed, as I have left her – but hadn’t I left the lights on? She is silent – she does not move or say a word as we enter the room, and a moment of disquiet steals over me.
At that moment, she tosses her head and moans weakly.
“Oh, Mani!” cries Mou, rushing to her side. “I’m here, Mani. Tell me what I can do for you.”
“Mou, my dear sister’s child,” comes my grandmother’s frail voice in the darkness. “How good of you to come all this way to see your poor old aunt… I fear it may be for the last time.”
She moves to sit up, ignoring her niece’s protests.
“I’ll make you some tea,” she announces in a quavering voice.
“No, no Mani!” Mou says, aghast. “How can you be made to do these things in your condition! Mishti will make you tea, of course. And we’ll have some too, just to keep you company.”
My mother, as always, is amused by the old lady’s antics. As she and I bring in a tea tray loaded with snacks, including fresh samosas from our local sweet shop, we hear Mou earnestly reasoning with Dida.
“You must come stay with us,” Mou Mashi is saying. “We will make sure you’re comfortable – you won’t have to lift a finger.”
“I couldn’t possibly,” replies Dida tremulously. “It would be such an imposition. How could I ask so much of my only niece?”
“No, no, ask anything you want of me! We just moved to a new apartment – it has a brand-new elevator, and a clinic with a doctor available 24/7, and all the comforts you can imagine! And I’ll make all your favourite foods…you look so thin, Mani, it just breaks my heart to look at you.”
“How wonderful that sounds… No one lets me eat anything nice anymore,” Dida says sadly. “It’s all watery dal and plain rice and boiled papayas.”
Mou made appropriately soothing noises.
“I’m here for you, Mani,” she says, holding Dida’s hand. “I’m going to take good care of you.”
The visit is cut short because Mou needs to let her driver off for the night, but she leaves Dida with several more promises of a visit soon-to-be-planned. Before she departs, though, she has some stern words for my mother.
“If you can’t take proper care of a frail old lady,” she fumes. “At least have the decency to put her in a good care home!”
And on that parting note, she and her husband get into their car and drive off.
“Do you think they’ll take Dida away?” I ask my mother after they are out of sight.
“Wouldn’t that be nice,” Ma replies. “The old lady would never agree to leave!”
“What’s that?” calls Dida from her room, with her unerring sixth sense for whenever she is the subject of discussion. Her voice has entirely returned to normal.
“Nothing, Dida,” I tell her, going in to switch on the mosquito repellent and administer her eyedrops. “So, when are you going to stay with Auntie Mou?”
“Uff, now I’ll have to visit her for politeness’ sake,” the old lady says, sounding disgruntled. “Isn’t she so tiring? Turned out just like my sister, she has. Won’t let me lift a finger, indeed! She makes me sound completely helpless!”
And on that note, she bites into her third samosa with gusto.
Priyanjana Pramanik is a doctoral student of geography and writer of fiction and popular science articles, splitting their time between Kolkata, India, and Hobart, Australia, and a parent to seven cats.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Sometimes I think of setting up a small business and nothing attracts me more than becoming a fruit-seller. The foremost reason is the steady supply of fresh fruits for my own consumption every day. When the copywriting gig flops, this is one venture that promises a fruitful outcome to take care of post-retirement needs. Without disclosing my real intention, I chose to grow friendly with a fruit vendor in the local market.
Becoming a regular customer who bought almost every fruit in kilos, I managed to get recognised as one of his top three customers for billings and behaviour. He acknowledged the fact that I never bargained with him so he was generous in giving me more than what he gave to other customers. He cited the unfamiliar names of two other customers and their professions, displaying curiosity about my domicile and my work. I shared my brief details but he was not clear what copywriting and advertising meant. The example he gave of painting the walls and putting up those flex banners from one lamp post to another revealed he was confused. I said he was getting it somewhat right though he still was a bit lost about how I could afford to eat avocados every week just by putting up hoardings. It was useless trying to explain the savings due to non-alcoholic and vegetarian lifestyle were blown up on a fruit-rich diet to avoid consultations with doctors and popping their prescribed pills.
The fruit seller had placed his cart and occupied a large corner space for many years. The wheels of the wooden cart had not moved an inch for years and they went deep into the earth gradually, small creepers entwined the wheels for a rich green, decorative feel. Since it was close to a public urinal, customers would tend to avoid it. He lit rolls of dhoop batti or incense sticks every hour to keep flies and insects away, to spread fragrance, to beat the pervading stench. Contrary to my assessment, his was the busiest fruit stall, with customers emerging from sedans and SUVs to buy fruits, local and exotic, for premium quality, without pinching their noses, without feeling any pocket-pinch. With bricks cemented unevenly on the ground, and a wooden wobbly stool placed on it, he stood tall on this raised platform to keep an eye on customers and picked up blueberries and persimmons from the upper shelves that required a long hand and extra effort. If you quizzed him about the country of origin of any fruit, he was quick to specify the state or the city it was plucked from. He was aware of the care and temperature his fruits needed to grow well since he had a farmer’s background.
I was a relatively new customer and he introduced me to the exotic fruits on display with a different sales pitch. A lady customer had picked up avocados in my presence and, after she left, the fruit-seller said she managed to save her husband’s life. Seeing me curious, he divulged the complete story of how six months of regular consumption of avocado had reversed the heart disease her husband suffered from. He said the angiogram performed after six months showed arterial blockages were gone. Though it was a true story, I could not believe it completely Maybe the condition did not worsen or there was some improvement. Worrying about my own heart health had already stressed me out so I thought avocado was better than coronary bypass. To keep a healthy heart, it was necessary to drink an avocado smoothie or bite into an avocado toast. I reminded him that the pleasure of exaggeration was irresistible to those who tell fanciful stories and also for the consumers. He asked me to verify online videos if I had doubts regarding the leading role of avocados on heart health. He played it safe with fear – just like clever marketeers do when they make actors wear white robes with a stethoscope in hand and then promote a cooking oil brand as healthy for the heart. However, the bottom-line was clear: I could not bypass the avocado if I wanted to avoid bypass surgery.
As a savvy vendor, he showed me how the old gentleman picking up blueberries had saved his nerves. He was a retired professor with jangled nerves and his shaky hands added credibility to the narrative. He fished out the currency notes from his shirt pocket with an unsteady grip. That he was recovering from a mild stroke was another alert for me. Being engaged in creative overthinking required the brain to function optimally – to keep the cognitive abilities away from decline. Predictably, I became a frequent buyer of blueberries as well, exhausting my budget at times. Not that I noticed much improvement in my neurological performance but it was logical to think that the brain must be fed well since it was never introduced to the wondrous benefits of salmon and walnuts.
A young lady came and dug her long, painted nails on the skin of the papaya to check its ripeness while another middle-aged lady walked in and sought to know when the hanging bunch of robust bananas in his stall would ripen. She wanted to know the exact time – in the morning or in the evening tomorrow. He said it would ripen by sunset the next day, without batting an eyelid. What made him so confident was unclear to me but I felt he made a wild guess. He was no astrologer but such silly queries deserved prompt and silly answers. Surely, the lady would not come back to complain in case the fruit did not ripen within the specified time. In case she did so, he could always blame the bad weather for the lapse. When another customer demanded unripe bananas, he showed the same lot and said two days it would take to turn perfect ripe. His flexible truth changed on based in the need of the customer. Another eye-opener of sorts for me!
If a quarrelsome customer came to return a rotten fruit, he took it calmly and gave a fresh one even though he was sure the customer had not purchased it from him in the past seven days. He built a reputation for exchanging damaged fruits and he fed those to stray animals loitering around his cart. This was commendable as it added to his good deeds. Major irritants that tested his patience were queries on size. Customers always held a fruit in hand and asked for either a bigger one or a slightly smaller one but the one they held was not the ideal size for most customers. He was delighted to see me happy with the first watermelon I had picked up from the basket! Many customers, he said, behaved liked this but he had to stay unruffled as these customers were his source of income. Their word of mouth publicity was the most powerful form of advertising for him. Buyers trusted buyers as they were on the same side and the shopkeeper is the one who would always overcharge or sell inferior items. This was the common perception and many sellers followed such tricks and ruined the prospects of the business community. But he was unlike any of those.
One fine morning I was at his fruit stall, and a customer came smoking. He politely asked him to stub it out or finish smoking and then pick up the fruits of his choice. He did not like a smoker blowing out toxic fumes around his incense sticks and polluting the fruits with nicotine smoke. I was amazed he had the courage to say it to a customer and then I found him least affected when the offended customer walked away without buying anything. He did not mind losing such clients. When I argued that he was standing by the roadside and dust was piling up on the fruits, he pointed at the white cloth curtain meant to save his ware heat and dust and showed me the duster he kept handy to clear the dust from settling down on the fruits. Also, he had a sprinkler bottle ready to spray water on the fruits and keep them fresh for longer.
Interacting with him has been an informative exercise as I now know the kind of buyers one has to accost when one starts doing fruit-selling business. If I set it up, I must know how to handle bargaining pitches. I have seen him calculate the total bill and then voluntarily give a discount before the customer demanded it. In most of the cases, they did not argue because he himself chose to lessen the price so that the customer thought he was not being overcharged. That he did the same with me was effective to turn me into his regular client.
Now he calls me up on certain days he gets fresh fruits and offers me the freedom to open the sealed boxes and take the best pieces home, something these online delivery platforms cannot ensure in terms of quality. Surely, it’s a privilege I cannot resist and I do not mind paying him what he seeks for this special, exclusive privilege– be it apples, oranges, grapes or pomegranates or any other seasonal or delicate fruit. He knows my gentle touch on fruits would not cause any damage, rather worked as a blessing. The joy of unboxing the fruit packs in front of the vendor – using his knife – is an immense delight. Along with his compliment that I am a lucky customer who has brought for him more business, more clients, and more prosperity even though I have done nothing to boost his business. His sense of gratitude reflects in his words and reminds me of how much more I need to thank God for the good and all the good people in my life.
Devraj Singh Kalsiworks as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Recently I came to know my past. Not the past of this lifetime but the cumulative past of several lives prior to this birth. I have always been curious to know whether I was a human being earlier or whether I was a bird or an animal.
In case I had been a bird, whether I was something cute like a parrot or a peacock. Or a high-flying eagle or vulture? In case I was an animal, whether I was something domestic like a cat or a dog? Did I bite someone to give him rabies and cause his untimely death? Or was I predatory like the ferocious tiger or crocodile in any one of my previous births?
Although I would have loved to hear I was a donkey, a horse or a deer, in this exact order of preference, the clarity that came my way settled all doubts and confirmed I was a human being in all my previous births — a really old soul that did all sorts of wicked things like abusing power and exploiting people for personal aggrandisement. But God had always been kind to send me back as a human being to atone for my sins, which I never did. This is precisely why I have been rendered a victim to pay for all the misdeeds in this lifetime, with no sympathisers to relieve my emotions. Something like a past life regression therapy session sounds quite an exciting idea but once the dirty secrets are exposed and you get to know the huge backlog of cardinal sins blocking your path to divinity, you come to terms with the bitter truth that you are solely responsible for everything that is not right in your present life and nobody else deserves an iota of blame for the current mess.
I was told I should clear the heavy backlog and aim for salvation. Frankly speaking, I have never ventured beyond the stage of salivation and here I was asked to mend my ways and attain salvation. Why should I do that when I find this world so attractive and the Lord so forgiving that He keeps sending me back in one human form after another? I love returning again and again to this world also known as a playground. Despite my overloaded dustbin of sins, I must be doing something really good and impressive that compels God to give me another chance to stage a comeback. Why don’t these card readers focus on that aspect and stop becoming my misfortune tellers?
I am perfectly fine with my emergence as a villain and there is absolutely nothing that I can do to undo the past. I can make the best possible use of the present and set things right. Before that I must know what exactly I did in my last birth at least. I was told I was a commander of an invading army marching in with the sole intent of pillaging. That’s horrible, to say the least. Did I slaughter people with my sword or put them in a gas chamber? The information I could ferret out was limited. But it was still adequate to suggest I was a conqueror of foreign lands and added one territory after territory. It was shameful indeed. I looked up in the mirror to see if I had any facial resemblance to the notorious invaders from the previous centuries. To be honest, I did look like one, but the fact that he did not enter this part of the world made me feel somewhat relieved.
For some weeks, I grew a beard and the resemblance grew further, making some of my friends cast suspicious looks and draw nasty parallels. How do I reveal to them that even if the name they were guessing is not correct, I was indeed an invader on horseback! In the contemporary democratic setup, this sounds horrific but it was a glorious achievement back in those days. The way the empires were built and expanded and controlled. What was right and justified then seems so inhuman a few centuries later. But the brutality of the past just to gain geographical heft cannot be held right. Surely, in the eyes of God I was a sinner even though I did it for growing an empire. I have been dumped in this part of the world where simple, innocent people were tortured. I have been made to suffer endlessly in silence as an act of retribution. To get a taste what I delivered to others. Fair enough.
For a while I was thrilled to hear that I was an invader, a plunderer, a marauder. Imagine the immense power I wielded then, and make a contrast with this moribund life where I do not enjoy any power at all. More powerless than a clerk or a peon, and always at the mercy of corporate bosses whose permissions and approvals have made my life a living hell.
Now I come across people who show me their power – as much as they can, wherever they can. I get threatened, abused and thrashed by powerful people inside their homes, inside the holy places by powerful committees and organisers. I have to take it all lying down and treat this ill-treatment without retaliation as it would lead to further misconduct and multiply my sins.
I need to forget I deserve any form of respect anywhere because I did not respect people in my previous births. I need to forget I have any power or I can gain any kind of power because I am that old, withered soul that will start misbehaving and misusing power if I sniff it again. I have been destined to stay away from all shades of power and authority – and quite rightly so. I have been condemned to spend the entire life facing its misuse. If I crib or complain that the people are not doing things right, I will lose the battle forever. That’s what I have been told and warned. I have to tolerate everything that comes my way and write off the bad debts of the previous lives. Only then I will manage to come back in human form and enjoy this material world once again. The irresistible greed to be granted another chance to enter this beautiful world seems to prevail over me. I find one lifetime of sacrifices is not quite a heavy price to pay for my past misdemeanours.
As I was still battling with the startling disclosures from the distant, murky past, some prophecies inflicted deeper wounds. I was told I was destined to die at the hands of women, not one but two, one old and one young, both related to the same family. This was also linked to my past life since I had massacred a family and the matriarch of that family was an embittered soul planted in my life by the divine. I was informed she had already entered my life quite effortlessly through an alliance of sorts. Although she is very good at the moment, she will spring a nasty surprise that will devastate me in the coming three years.
The burden of the past was not off my chest and now the astrologer’s prediction has made me nervous. A sure sign of madness if I start seeing my killer in every lady in my life, right from the domestic help to the employer who is also a lady. On my further insistence, two alphabets were revealed. I was asked to be careful about women with names starting with these alphabets: K and V. But there were more than two women with names starting those alphabets. It was all so confusing and devastating.
Hey, wait! Could it also be a woman doctor in the hospital who will packs my departure bags on the operating table? Well, there are thousands of ways of dying a shameful, painful death and I can go on listing hundreds of possible ways and end up damaging my frayed nerves. I should forget it all and prepare myself to meet my end, my nemesis. Just like a woman who brought me into this world, another woman is destined to take me away from this world. No big deal!
Through some dark practices and evil spells, the vengeful lady will take me to the hills and something scary will happen all of a sudden there, resulting in my untimely, unplanned death. It means the lady and her accomplice will play a stellar role, but not a direct role like holding a gun at me or bumping me off near a blind curve or pushing me from a cliff after a selfie shot. Since I played a direct role in the devastation of that family in my last avatar, I should be ready to take the worst direct hit. As per the reported forecast, these women will not turn into cold-blooded killers and they will regret the fatal outcome since they themselves carry no sinister plan of that kind – driven by the singular motive to make me sign some will. The story spirals out of control and takes an unexpected turn. They will be held indirectly responsible for my passing away from this world. As a result, they will not bear a heavy karmic baggage for my death either. Which means God is a clever player who takes no blame and leaves the final judgment on our own deeds and misdeeds.
I am filled with negativity now, and I don’t think I will survive with this last burden. Something will blow up inside my brain so I must stop thinking about the past and the future and simply focus on the present. Isn’t that what great sages and thinkers have been saying all along? But why is it that the past and the future are more attractive than the present? Since I have been assured that I have three more years to perform good deeds, I must concentrate on that. At least a thousand good deeds should save me well in the years ahead – and in the afterlife.
I do not have the complete details of the potential women killers so I should stop worrying and forget their gameplan. Before I could firm up my mind with this template, women relatives proposed the idea of a visit to the hillside. I was shocked my doomsday could be coming earlier than scheduled! Or was it that God is finally trying to be kind and help me know my killers in advance? Those alphabets matched perfectly with the forecast and those two women relatives comprised my inner circle. It was shocking to know these well-behaved, sophisticated ladies would me lead to my death. Should I reveal to them that they will kill me some day? Would they believe me? Were they thinking along those lines? Would they be surprised to know how I read their minds? Or would they call me mad? I chose to rest this issue and scaled down my interactions with them. Perhaps in the coming years I would do something to offend them. These scorned women will gang up and bump me off. Well, by rejecting their proposed trip, I had already vexed them. They could sense I was avoiding them and they wanted to know the reason for my refusal.
One lady treated me like a son and I could not visualise her being the mastermind. One fine day, the lady arrived and suggested she wanted me to write a book on her failed marriage. Maybe, I should duck this proposal by citing my incompetence to write a book. Being aware of my dabbling in creative pursuits, she claimed to be a regular reader of my morose prose. I thought switching to gifting on happy occasions and festivals would foster bonhomie. I had no idea of what would transpire in the coming years that would enrage her so much. Therefore, the best option was to snap ties and remain aloof. The fear of her seeking umbrage made me reconsider this move. I said I write short pieces and I do not have the potential to write a book at the moment. In the years ahead, if I felt confident about the project, then I would like to give it a shot.
I consulted therapy experts to guide me through this crisis but they seemed clueless in this regard. They had no knowledge to help reduce anxiety and stress in a person who is forewarned of his imminent death. All they could suggest was meditation and it meant connecting with the same divine power that had signed my death note. I chose to spend maximum time doing good deeds – feeding birds and animals featured on the top of my list. Creating a buffer stock of good deeds would make me a deserving candidate for royalty in my next birth. But the downside was I would most probably indulge in exploitation of subordinates and assert my power and resourcefulness – repeating the same cycle once again. Hence it was equally risky to be super good.
Hey come on, commit some mild mischief in this lifetime to become ineligible for rebirth as royalty. Being an ordinary human being wandering in anonymity, despite being a habitual, small-scale sinner, is a far better deal than hogging the limelight as a leading monster without a parallel.
Devraj Singh Kalsiworks as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
For the entire month Sandy was upset in her newly set-up office. Swanky, plush glass cabin with mood lighting and a deluxe leather couch to sink in could not prevent the buzz in her head. How to get rid of the creative consultant her husband had hired as a temporary replacement for her creative protégé who went on maternity leave for six months had emerged as her consistent worry.
Despite being the creative controller of S&S, the independent, mid-sized advertising agency positioned to be idea-driven, she could not do much to infuse creativity and rein in the team of acolytes who praised her recycled, AI-inspired work to the skies to keep their jobs safe. With the termite called mediocrity hollowing the agency from inside, client retention emerged as a big challenge. One fine afternoon she was informed by her strategist husband, Snehasish, about the probable loss of key clients and his desperate bid to onboard an overseas major to offset this financial setback.
The scapegoat she found apt for this occasion was none other than Mohit. This was the biggest as well as the brightest idea to hit her after several months of creative drought. With a sudden burst of energy, she lifted herself out of the couch and approached her loyalist manager, Adarsh, waiting for her order. Raising her heels, she looked straight into his sunken brown eyes, and snaked her arms around his neck.
“I want you to do me a small favour, baby,” Sandy poured into his wax-laden ear in her faintly husky voice.
For the man surviving and thriving on her benevolence, saying no was impossible even if his moral compass did not allow. Before she disclosed her plan, Adarsh blinked its confirmed execution.
“By the time I am back from my vacation, do whatever it takes to ensure Mohit is thrown out of my agency.” Sandy ticked him off for the dirty job and landed a dry peck on his beard cheek before stomping out of the agency corridor, rushing down the high-speed elevator, and reaching the parking bay with the remote keys pressed from a distance to unlock her sedan.
Seated behind the steering wheel, she pushed the shades up her forehead and booked herself business class, texted Snehasish about her trip, and rushed home to take a shower and pack her travel bags.
“Bon voyage -” he texted back, regretting he was unlikely to see her off at the airport as he was yet to ink the deal with a beverage client arriving from Dhaka in Kolkata during the weekend.
*
Adarsh was aware of the creative skills Mohit possessed. He had what it takes to be classified as an asset but merit alone does not decide the fate of an employee in any organisation – more so in a flippant, flamboyant profession like advertising and media. Maintaining a low profile, with the hope of getting noticed, was what Mohit believed in, expecting his work to speak volumes. But the unabashed self-promotion by his team mates eclipsed his presence and trivialised his output.
Although Adarsh was much higher up the ladder in terms of designation, the presence of Mohit scared him at times. It was a matter of relief – and perverse delight – for Adarsh to know that Mohit was not in the good books of the agency owner. All he had to do at the earliest was form a core team of account managers and designers and brief them regarding the urgent need to eliminate Mohit.
He cherry-picked Amar and Ragini to lead this mission. Since Ragini had worked closely with Mohit who pricked her ego several times in the past, she was thrilled to be chosen for the special task and recalled the earlier episodes of friction, primarily to justify her moral descent. However, she was slightly disappointed that Sandy Madam did not confide in her despite her frequent visits to her penthouse apartment over the weekends to binge-watch with her and later smoke flavoured hookah in royal style under the star-lit sky before going for a dip in her private pool.
“Trust me, Sir,” Ragini assured Adarsh, picking up her bottle of chilled beer from the table when she noticed the other guys had already polished down their drinks. Quite fond of Ragini, Amar saw this was the perfect opportunity to spend maximum time with her. He seconded her every move and sentence, making it sound like it was a petty gig. Although Ragini did not reciprocate his feelings, she kept their relationship within the realm of friends with benefits, spending time together in pubs and discotheques late at night, when Adarsh returned to his cocoon, to his family fold to play the role of a doting husband. For Amar, keeping the hope of a happy union alive was the ultimate driving force.
“Make sure Mohit faces rejections every day. Get negative feedback from clients for his submissions, set crazy deadlines for him, double his workload, add power-points to his responsibilities, make him redo every piece of crap he writes, and do not hesitate to call him a difficult, outdated person to work with. You have full freedom and my unconditional support but make sure you keep me in the loop,” Adarsh waxed eloquent while tearing the plastic cover of a new pack of imported cigarettes.
He knew Ragini would make it unbearable for Mohit to survive in this toxic environment and he would dash off his resignation within a week. On several occasions in the past, Ragini had rushed to his cabin, spewing venom against Mohit. But he never took any strict action based on her complaints as he was under the false impression that Mohit was the new, emerging favourite poster boy with the agency owners. Sandy’s startling disclosure reversed Adarsh’s inference, making him curious to ferret out what had annoyed her so much in just a month that she wanted him axed in a single deft stroke.
To mount a second line of attack, he briefed Samit, the senior account director, to engage Mohit in client meetings, brainstorming sessions, and critique his past work, to make it seem it was quite frustrating to get approvals for his work. Collective onslaught would demoralise Mohit faster and he would tender his exit note. His past observations encouraged him to believe that Mohit would display immature behaviour under pressure.
“You cannot write proper English, with absolutely no knowledge about the nuances of grammar,” Ragini exploded in the presence of several junior employees one afternoon. Such acerbic comments did not hurt Mohit who gauged that this allied gang of detractors had been activated against him. Being confident of his ideation skills, Mohit had the strength to pulp what others wrote and submitted. He could defend his original work but he thought it was not the wise thing to do at this stage.
Mohit invited Ragini for a serious discussion on the nitty-gritties of grammar usage and explain to her why it was a good and accepted practice to delete articles from headlines. He could share multiple examples of great print ads with missing articles from the headlines. When she found this would embarrass her, she went for a quick huddle in the conference room to discuss deliverables with designers. She emerged when she saw Mohit was nowhere around and rushed straight to Adarsh’s cabin and firmly shut the door behind her, to update and discuss what to do next since their negative approach didn’t seem to work.
Contrary to expectations, Mohit had decided to persist and resist all opposition. With a singular focus, he carried on with his job and took all forms of criticism in his stride, making strong commitments to fix his non-existent flaws at the earliest. That left no room for knee-jerk reaction and it became clear that Mohit was not going to quit even if these guys engaged in verbal spats and fired a fusillade of salvoes.
Lighting up a cigarette flicked from Adarsh’s pack to reduce her stress, Ragini sat on the table and blew out smoke rings, waiting for him to break the silence. Using her other hand, she playfully pulled his handlebar moustache grown as a tribute to a living legend, egging him to crack something new. Unwilling to disclose that he had already deployed another missile called Samit, Adarsh wanted to wait for a couple of days and see how things panned out.
“Mohit is not the kind of guy to swallow insults on a daily basis, I am sure he would go on an unannounced leave and then stringent action against him, just waiting for one day of absence and he is kicked out,” Adarsh revealed, stroking her hair as a sensitive, caring gesture of assurance.
Mohit proved to be a tough nut to crack as the worst humiliations heaped on him went waste. They raised storms that would not capsize his boat. With an accommodative, tolerant mindset, he prepared himself for every challenge. Mohit had realised the band of opponents had teamed up to isolate him in the absence of Sandy Madam. He decided to report this matter to her once she returned from vacation, reposing full faith in her justice system.
*
The news of Mohit’s imminent departure was leaked to the colleagues by none other than Ragini. She could not contain the excitement even though nothing was achieved yet. She went around spreading the false information that her ideas were far better than Mohit’s, and she had to rectify his errors.
“Adarsh Sir is fed up with Mohit and he is looking for a subtle way to dump that jerk,” Ragini told one of her confidantes who happened to like Mohit for his dashing personality.
The rapport between Ragini and Adarsh was an open secret. The way she thrust the birthday cake slice into his mouth just last week was ample visual proof of their flirtatious bond captured on smartphones and shared across profiles.
Mona and Ragini had joined S&S around the same time with the same level of experience. Familiar with her gossip-mongering nature, Mona went and asked Mohit if everything was fine at work. He pretended to be fine but she concluded from his downcast eyes that something wasn’t. After his denial, she could not alert him that his days were numbered in this agency. Nobody here, not even the peon, could survive without the support and approval of Adarsh. What Ragini said regarding Mohit was a forecast – much more accurate and reliable than any weather alert or astrological prediction. The planets could change in Mohit’s favour any time, but the combined brutal attack of Adarsh and Ragini could not prevent his unceremonious exit from S&S.
Almost the entire team was up against Mohit. False allegations were propped up against him – including the grave charge that due to his flawed writing, the agency lost business. No sympathy came his way and Mohit could sense that the campaign to defame him was more successful than any social media campaigns done for the clients.
Strong indicators began to surface. Nobody bothered to greet Mohit inside the office. His presence was overlooked — as if he was an outsider. Nobody asked him to join the group for lunch outside. He was left alone. This intentional boycott began to affect Mohit who felt his presence was not required anymore. Though he had promised to ignore the rival group plotting against him, he was assuaged with the dismissive attitude of his other colleagues who happened to bond well with him earlier. Particularly Vishesh.
Earlier, Adarsh had urged Ragini and Samit to flood him with work, to wear him out. But this approach underwent a complete overhaul: Mohit was made to sit idle for the entire day, with executives approaching other writers, including trainees, to work on the brands he handled earlier. Half of the day he sat gazing out of the window and felt ashamed, and then tried to seek assignments from Ragini. She was blunt in saying it was useless to provide him with briefs when fast turnaround and quick approvals were required.
Mohit was left with no choice but to approach Adarsh for clarity as he knew these scheming tactics wouldnot work without his consent. Guided by instinct, he chose to avoid any escalation in the absence of Sandy Madam. He turned back without knocking on his cabin door. The only helpline to tide over this crisis was to lie low for another week. He made himself comfortable with idleness and focused on watching ads. He was attending office every single day and he was getting paid on time so there was no reason to get rattled. Many people in the office pretended to do a lot of work even though their output was much below par. He saw inferior work getting approved but he kept himself out of it. Unless adverse communication came from the management side, he should enjoy his relaxed stay and keep himself occupied with creative pursuits. He knew everything would get resolved once Sandy Madam came back.
One fine day, the inevitable happened. Mohit was asked by Adarsh to visit his chamber for a quick chat. He entered the room and kept standing. Adarsh put his legs on the teakwood table and began in a mellowed voice, with eyes cast on his tablet screen: “As you can see, there is not much work. Half the day you solve crossword and watch ads. The business scenario is bleak. Two of the clients you handled are leaving us after five years and it is tough for all. I am sorry but the bitter truth has to be told. This is your last month. Snehasish will give you a call shortly and explain it better. The severance package and all that stuff.”
Mohit emerged with a forlorn expression, walking like a ghost without any spirit to live. All his suppressions proved useless. His creative work had gone waste, unrecognised and belittled. More shocking for him was the fact that the top management brass was also skewed in favour of his dismissal. All this while he was thinking it was a gang in the office helmed by Adarsh. When Snehasish called up in the evening, he minced no words and coldly conveyed that his services were no longer required and he would get paid for another month without doing any work. He was assured that the entire process would be smooth, no hiccups, no hurdles.
Reporting for work to get paid and not doing any work was unethical. Mohit thought he should forget the salary bait and quit right away to show he did not care two hoots. That would be a heroic, dignified exit in front of all employees. But then, the domestic realities broke his resolve. He thought how he would disclose the sudden job loss news to his wife. So, he went to Adarsh and requested him to be considerate.
“My spouse is undergoing treatment and if I sit at home now… At least for two months, let me continue. Once she recovers, I will stop coming here. I can show you her medical reports. I can’t take any risk with her health. I am not lying, Sir.”
This was the first request ever made by Mohit to any company honcho – the only favour he sought. He was shown no leniency and advised to get in touch with Snehasish for a reconsideration.
Mohit felt Adarsh must have disbelieved his story and called it a fake narrative to hang on for some more time on sympathetic grounds. When he gave a buzz after office hours, it was dropped. A clear indication he would not get any extension. When the truth he spoke was brushed aside, he saw no point in coming to the office where he had worked for almost a year. He was still not ready to believe that Snehasish was involved in this conspiracy. When did this drastic change happen? What led to this change of heart? He could go on thinking and thinking without finding any answers.
*
That Snehasish was the mastermind that planned his termination was difficult to accept. How could he alone be the architect of his fall from grace? Sandy Madam also came under his scanner even though throughout his working phase there was not a single moment of distrust or dislike between the two. Sandy Madam was sensitive to his needs so Mohit removed all doubts for the time being. She would either go against her husband and reinstate Mohit or she would toe his line like a devoted partner. That was the sole reason why he did not burn bridges yet, with the hope of reconciliation flickering somewhere despite near-unanimity inside the office regarding his expulsion.
Mohit was immersed in worries about how his wife would react to his job loss. He was left with no option but to tell her the truth if she did not guess it on her own. Finding her husband at home during the week days had already raised her suspicions and he could not keep lying. Working from a remote location was no longer an available excuse after the pandemic ended. With divine strength, she remained calm and held his hand in support, assuring him of good times coming their way soon. Tears welled up in his eyes in gratitude to God who had already simplified his tough task by blessing her with maturity.
When Snehasish called him up again, he was specific and abrasive: “Mohit, no point begging for an extension. Don’t crib. Your wife is ill but we are not here to finance her medical bills. We don’t run a bleeding business or conduct any charity. As you know, we lost two accounts you handled and there is no way we can continue this contract.”
Mohit could not believe this was the same employer he knew a year earlier. He had been soft-spoken and polite and now he had shown the colours of a chameleon. He understood he was held responsible for the loss of business. But surprisingly, he did not find any faults with those who mishandled these accounts and the designers who played the fool by offering them the same templates.
When it was a matter of saving himself, Mohit had to speak the truth. Even if that failed to bring any positive outcome, he would at least have the satisfaction of releasing it all.
“Sir, you cannot fully blame me for the business loss. There were other reasons. Account guys took them for granted.”
This made Snehasish furious.
“You are making these wild allegations to save yourself. Why were you silent earlier? Grow up, man. I will still write a recommendation letter for you — good luck finding another employer.”
He did not wait for a formal closure and disconnected without waiting for Mohit’s reaction.
Those who wrote pedestrian stuff were retained was a reality yet to sink in. Mohit realised it was futile to wait for Sandy’s return from London. He had no hope she would go against the majoritarian view and reverse what her husband had decided. After all, Mohit was not worth defending and making a ruckus about within the family. But he did message Sandy Madam about his lay-off. It was seen after two days and she chose not to respond, making him suspect she was an accomplice who knew what was about to unfold.
The way the chain of events had unfolded seemed to hold many more secrets. He was not informed by Adarsh or Snehasish that a new big client was roped in. Why would they share this good news and strengthen his case regarding retention? In fact, he got to know about this from a trade magazine that listed the account movement.
Even though he was given a month’s timeframe, Mohit found it humiliating to continue in that role. Since their guns and knives were already out, there was no point in facing his colleagues who would make fun and keep him idle for the day. When he found he had been evicted from all client groups by Adarsh, he saw it was meaningless to go to office unless he intended to carry a gun and blow up their brains. A pool of blood inside the office, with multiple casualties. Ragini’s blood-soaked tank top, with Adarsh’s lifeless ring-studded hand resting on her bust formed a gory image in his fecund mind. Had he not been married with domestic responsibilities he would have hit the headlines as a cold-blooded killer who massacred almost the entire team in a manic state.
Despite losing his only source of income, with ailing wife at home, no life support around, he could not think of suicide as a solution. The fear of failure in this act and the love for his soulmate made him abandon extreme negativity. Being punished despite doing good work was not easy to digest. The ways of the world were not going to change for Mohit. Expecting kindness from selfish people was his mistake. He would soon be forgotten and replaced within a week, and to sacrifice your precious life for such thankless people would be an act of foolishness.
*
It came as a bolt from the blue when Mona met him outside the office over a cup of coffee at a nearby café. The information she provided was an eye-opener of sorts. Stirring brown sugar in her cup of cappuccino, Mona chose to cross-check certain details before she shared some vital information.
“Did you know you were hired for a temporary period, Mohit?”
“No. Not at all. There was nothing temporary mentioned in the letter.”
“You were a replacement for Jyoti who is joining back next month. She was on maternity leave actually.”
“Who told you this?” Mohit asked, his coffee turning cold.
“It is a known fact. Everybody is excited about her comeback. Sandy and Jyoti are great pals.”
“Could you share more details,” Mohit requested her.
“I don’t know much but it is Jai-Veeru[1] type of bonding. Sandy will shut down her agency if Jyoti decides to leave. I mean, you can guess their mutual fondness. I don’t need to specify more…”
“You are suggesting my time was limited here – but Sandy never disclosed that.”
“Come on, nobody joins for six months. Initially, you are supposed to be here for six months but your quality performance made it tough to get rid of you. You survived more.”
“I never got to smell that,” Mohit mourned the delay, “just the client loss story is offered to me…”
“Client loss does not bother Sandy at least. And don’t think Jyoti is back because she is a powerhouse of talent. Believe me, she is a mediocre writer,” Mona explained, and started sharing her own plans of leaving the agency because of Adarsh who had nothing to do with principles.
“He calls me up on holidays at odd hours and chats endlessly. My family does not like that. He thinks every female employee in advertising smokes and drinks and loves to sit on his lap. I have always maintained a safe distance, unlike Ragini. That’s why she grew so fast while I am stuck without a promotion for two years.”
“Precisely for this reason I think advertising is not moral. But I also feel creative people are supposed to be good human beings. My exposure has convinced me I am wrong. Creative people can be mean and awful just like in any other profession,” Mohit shared his generic assessment about the profession he had now decided to quit forever.
Slightly taken aback to hear that Mohit had decided to switch his career at this advanced stage, Mona felt she was also a contributor to his setback. Experiences of this kind are change makers, but she believed Mohit would continue to keep his relationship with words alive irrespective of what he pursued in life.
“On a lighter note, your unceremonious exit was an ideal occasion to cut the blueberry cheese cake,” Mona disclosed how the agency guys celebrated his departure and showed the photos on her mobile. “Though it was not announced like that, that was the main intent. Ragini and Adarsh danced together and Amar sat in a corner and guzzled beer. And yes, Sandy loved their pics and commented she missed the party.”
“She is returning soon?” Mohit asked for an update.
“Yeah, next Monday she joins office,” Mona informed him, “Do you want to meet her and discuss?”
“Oh, it was all premeditated and planned,” Mohit connected the dots though there were many loose ends he could not put together yet. “Perhaps Ragini could throw light on this matter. Being an insider and confidante. She is your friend, isn’t it?”
“Do you really think so? Don’t be naïve. Adarsh will strangle her. But I have a hunch she is a mere pawn being used by Adarsh. The remote control is elsewhere. Do stay in touch and if I get to know anything big, I will give you a buzz. Pray your wife has a speedy recovery,” Mona concluded the chat and rose up to leave before the grey skies opened up.
To pore over the past and sulk was not a healthy indulgence but for Mohit this was a critical phase of life and such betrayals made him think the world is there to make things worse for him. His personal problems weighed him down. He hated to use the name of the last agency in his resume. He found it was better to call himself unemployed than to mention the name of his last employer. Besides, he was sure Adarsh or Sandy would not have nice things to say.
Mona had specified the reason for his exit was Jyoti. While it was a convincing ground, there was something more than that, something that remained buried within. Adarsh and Mohit had the same queries. But the chances of Adarsh excavating the real truth were higher because he was close to Sandy.
*
When Sandy returned after a grand holiday, she found the entire office decked with marigold flowers to welcome her back. Adarsh had beautified her private cabin with her favourite upholstery and silk curtains. After spending a few minutes with the entire team, she asked Ragini to meet her in the cabin. She walked behind Sandy and followed her footsteps.
Dropping her vanity bag and silk stole on the sofa, Sandy asked her, “So how does it feel to be working without Mohit around? He insulted you a lot.”
Sandy collapsed on the sofa and pulled Ragini to sit beside her.
“It is nice and relaxing, honestly, Ma’am,” Ragini glowed with joy.
“I have some good news for you. Get ready to helm the new account we have won. You have bigger responsibilities and a fat package with perks,” Sandy rewarded her for being a loyalist.
Adarsh joined the two and Ragini got up to leave. Sandy did not stop her, but promised a cool, heady celebration at her apartment soon. She mentioned to Adarsh that Ragini was promoted. Adarsh congratulated her, holding her hand and squeezing it hard, and then opened the door for her like a perfect gentleman. Ragini turned around and asked, “Ma’am, can I make this news public? I mean to my colleagues.”
“Of course, sweetheart, Adarsh will shoot an email by the end of the day,” Sandy assured her and she gently closed the door. They could hear the celebratory outburst outside, with Ragini making the grand announcement and getting a huge round of applause.
“Have we done the right thing from the agency perspective?” Adarsh asked Sandy, sitting beside her, without specifying the context.
“You mean his exit?” Sandy asked though she understood he was referring to that.
“Jyoti is joining soon and that is good for you. But there is a hell lot of pending work and we need sharp writers.”
“Hire one. Released a job ad,” Sandy said casually, “You will get hundreds of applicants and we do not pay very bad either.”
“If it was affordable, why did we need to do this exit drama and now go through the same recruitment process? I mean, you knew very well Mohit was a good writer.”
“Is it that you are not convinced with my reason. You suspect the truth is something else?”
“Yes, I am sure the truth is completely different.”
“Okay, then hear me out. I have not suffered so much like I did in the past one year. Snehasish hired him but I was never comfortable. His presence made me feel low. I sank into depression. This guy getting paid here out of my pocket proves to be a better writer. The hospital client rejects mine and okays his headlines. I handled this client for three years. But now it is such a smooth process between the two of them. What message does it give to my team here? There is a better writer in this office than Sandy. I can’t take it lying down. I want my team to be less qualified than me so I can control and manipulate with ease. Those who know more, they can go elsewhere. If he is so talented, let him go to any MNC agency – what is he doing here? Look, I don’t nurture creative talent here. I set him free. Prove your worth and get the dream job,” Sandy burst forth with all the filth of jealousy.
“I sensed something of this kind, Sandy. I can feel your anger simmering within, with a smiling face covering your real self for so long. This couldn’t go on. And yes, I was going through Mohit’s previous portfolio and he is damn creative. Strong ideator!”
“Since when did we aspire to become a creative boutique agency. We are into billings, right?” Sandy brought him back on track.
“And one more thing, that fellow is a writer who pens stories. I have not written a single book and he flaunts a literary background, which was not my forte. Else, I would have chucked him out on day one. Ragini forwarded the links to his published works. I don’t want novelists here. I asked Snehasish to find a way to eject him when Jyoti decided to rejoin. I was jolted last month when he said he was assisting a big shot in the scripting of a Bollywood film. His presence pricked my self-worth. As the creative boss here, I cannot tolerate a more talented person. Simple as that. Sometimes he behaved like a literary rockstar and sometimes like an auteur. He forgot he was a copy guy first. Other fancy titles are dreams, advertising is the reality.”
“He was pleading his wife was ill and asked to be allowed for two months. This was his last request.”
“Why are you spoiling my good mood, buddy. Give me a can of beer, please,” Sandy demanded with a vexed look and raised her feet on the sofa without removing her stilettoes.
Adarsh rushed out and fetched two chilled cans from his mini fridge.
As she cooled down with the first sip, she said, “Pay him compensation for two months instead of one. Does that lessen your guilt? Where the hell is Snehasish, not yet back from Kolkata?”
“He said the deal is done but he stayed behind for a recce in Eastern India as we wish to set up a new branch there.”
“Big news for me! I think he will do a fab job and then return to give me a lovely surprise. I called him before boarding the flight and he said he was stuck,” Sandy said while taking off her baseball cap, and urging him to be left alone for a while.
Adarsh returned to his cabin and released the funds and mailed Mohit about the severance details. He wished him good luck and also put it on record, “You are a damn good writer. And Sandy cannot write like you. Cheers.”
When Mohit read this mail, he could not understand why Adarsh had a change of opinion but he felt he was also an employee worried about his job. He forgave Adarsh in an instant and realised the politics of compulsion.
*
To kickstart her literary career, Sandy self-published a poetry collection and hired a PR team. She asked her staff to praise her work, to help her become a literary heavyweight. But soon she ran out of luck – when her office was flooded with anonymous letters containing the same message: Sandy cannot write.
The letters addressed to Sandy were brought to the conference table by Ragini who opened these to read fan praise. She was shocked to get Sandy cannot write printed messages in these letters. Unfortunately, Sandy accessed these letters and felt hurt as the pile-up became heavier with each passing day. So deeply affected by the content, Sandy realised she was not an artist. The communication was like a divine confirmation. She began to hallucinate and read the same message everywhere: Sandy cannot write. She took an overdose of sleeping pills to calm her agitated mind. Sometimes she picked up the marker pen and wrote the same message herself on the mirror and began to laugh loudly. The hard outer shell was broken by a single line and her sensitive inner self was revealed to all her employees. She could not take rejection in her stride – the first big quality of pursuing any art form.
Snehasish returned to find Sandy in this pitiable condition. As a precautionary step, he kept her confined to the apartment, with Ragini allowed to visit her sometimes as a caregiver. Sandy did not handle any accounts now. S&S premises was sold and the agency decided to move to a new, quieter address in the hope of receiving no such letters.
One day, Mona called up Mohit and asked him to meet her at the same café in the evening. When they met at the scheduled hour, Mona told him of Sandy’s deteriorating mental health, referring to it as a karmic blow. She mentioned letters carrying Sandy cannot write messages bombarded their office and now they had relocated. He sympathised with her but he was not sure whether he should reveal the name of the prime suspect. Only he knew who was hammering Sandy through those letters.
“I know you guys suspect I am behind this foul play. That is why you came here to find out. Trust me, I am not involved. I have far better things to do than stalk an old lady. Though I think I know who is doing this to Sandy, I do not know why he is up to it. Certainly not for me. The rest is for Snehasish to dig up if he cares for his ailing wife.”
Mohit stood up and prepared to leave the spot. He fished out the termination email print-out from his pocket, asking her to keep the proof and forward it to Snehasish in case it carried any worth. The striking similarity between the letters and the last sentence of the email left Mona in a state of shock. Was Adarsh the real culprit? Or Mohit hiding his revenge story with this unputdownable evidence?
.
[1] Jai-Veeru, 2009 Bollywood film about two friends
Devraj Singh Kalsiworks as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Belated realisation that it played a key, though passive, role in the demolition of homes owned by minority communities generated a sense of remorse. So much so that it has now chosen to demolish what was an item of proud display inside its own home. Whether this fall-out is entirely an act of atonement or just a far-sighted move to avoid tons of rubble of its own reputation built over the years is a matter of speculation at this point. So long as the earth-moving juggernaut refuses to explain whether it has also embarked on a search for the meaning of life, quite like Lorenzo[1], the façade of credibility will continue to be bull-dozed by carping critics and authors.
The three alphabets of its brand name, sounding strikingly similar to ABC, facilitate quick, easy recall of its association with acts of destruction deemed legal though held morally incorrect and interpretative[2]. With images of the demolition drives flashing across various media channels, one name that stands readable is that of the behemoth monster employed and operated to execute controversial missions. While there are domestic brands for everything, this foreign giant emerges as the clear favourite in the construction business. Delivering targets with agility and precision is what has portrayed the entity in bad light. The crushing potential has built the negative brand image that cannot be demolished now. Usually, brands are switched when they do not meet the needs, but in this case, its preferred status due to super performance has wrecked its brand image. Ironical, isn’t it?
The intellectual voices remain shrill, signing letters to lampoon the role of the company in destroying homes and building literary careers. These contradictions cannot go together is the common refrain. Is there any sane voice to enlighten writers that the company does not sponsor the destruction of homes and it cannot insert any clause before product sale to prohibit its use in the razing of homes with it? Surely, they know a manufacturer has no control over how its product will be used or misused. On this count, the corporate shenanigan cannot be held responsible.
Literature gives space to all – including criminals and gangsters – to tell stories and many such memoirs gain legitimacy as works of art later. Misled folks, misfits, and all sorts of misleading characters enjoy the freedom to enter the world of books in some form or the other. If an underworld don decides to set up a chain of brick-and-mortar bookstores and launch a publishing house, the reaction of published authors is a predictable boycott. The literary world that boasts of freedom of speech for all is much likely to shrink and apply the moral compass to ensure its ouster even if the intent of the new entrant is reformist. The world of writing should be, ideally speaking, like a place of worship where the identity of a visitor or his background does not matter when he bows before the Lord.
When a large group of authors come together to use the collective power of the pen to dismantle the role of an award sponsor and question its right to distribute such awards, there is not much the corporate player can do to remain engaged in it. The prize tried to promote writers and writing, not just English but other regional languages, and the hefty prize money enabled many winners to earn a decent income from the job of writing. Now the critical authors seem to rejoice that their objections have been powerful enough to make the company do a rethink or at least for the time being stay out of the awards game. One hopes the protesting writers also launch a similar drive against respected awards that have ignoble connections — many of which they have also competed for or served as a jury member.
The winners and shortlisted authors of this prize will have nice memories of its brief existence, and they will credit it for bringing regional writers to global limelight. There is another side of this story that requires focus. With Indian regional writers also winning the much bigger and more prestigious International Booker prize (two winners in five years), the unique distinction for bringing regional literature to the global platform gets shared unequally between the two prizes. It cannot champion itself as the sole promoter of Indian languages and literature anymore. That the apparently defunct prize was the first one to give a major boost to Indian regional literature is its solid, solitary achievement that should not be brushed aside on account of the recent episodes of misuse of its quality products.
Whether the discontinuation is permanent or temporary will be clear within a year – in case the company makes a formal announcement regarding its fate. Till then, speculation gathers froth that the award will have a new avatar and broaden its range and reach to align with the expansive mindset of the flagship corporate brand. As a British major, it is already a force to reckon with in developing countries and it would probably not like to disassociate itself from the world of literature forever. But in case it has already decided to give the prize a silent burial, the voices of dissent will also go down the same path. With some more awards calling it the end of their journey, there is a lot of suspense in the story that will unfold over a period of time.
Many governments the world over have committed atrocities but they continue to be associated with prestigious awards. The sheen of respectability for decades seems to carry global acceptance. For new entrants in literature or cinema, a litmus test is always involved. When there is so much flak to face, to pass the test of time, to prove purity in earnings and non-involvement in fraudulent activities, one thing emerges quite clearly: the new awards cannot beat the veteran ones even if they are tainted.
In such a murky, unequal scenario, isn’t it better to demolish all awards? Awards were set up to recognise talent, to make the tough journey easy with encouragement and monetary compensation. But awards have failed in their objective and turned creative people into chronic fame-seekers. Once it goes out of the system forever, writers will realise they have to write well to be read more. If they do not earn handsome royalty, they will have to pursue some other jobs for a living. This hard truth should be crystal clear. There’s no ray of hope that a big award will come their way to take care of their pension needs.
Writing is addictive because those who want to write will write irrespective of whether there is money or agony. Many classics that are read today have never won any award – because there were no awards to contest and win. Many great authors have produced masterpieces but they never had trophies to display as a mantlepiece. A return to such a perfect world will demolish the false gods of literary stardom.
.
[1]Lorenzo Searches for the Meaning ofLife by Upamanyu Chatterjee was given the JCB award in 2024. Funded by a construction company, (Joseph Cyril Bamford from UK), the award was started in 2018 and closed down in 2025.
Devraj Singh Kalsiworks as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Beauty Boarding at DhakaIndian Coffee House at Kolkata Literary hubs or clubs? From Public Domain
We Bengalis think that no one can match us for our addas[1]. If you were growing up in Dhaka in the 1950s or the 1960s and happened to be literary in your inclinations, chances are you would end up on some evenings in Old Dhaka’s hotel-cum-restaurant Beauty Boarding. You would do so not mainly for the good food sold there at modest prices, but chiefly because you intended to see and hear poet Shahid Quadri regaling everyone in a table that probably included budding poets such as Shamsur Rahman and Syed Shamsul Huq, a promising film maker like Abdul Jabbar Khan, or a gifted painter like Debdas Chakraborty.
Over seemingly endless cups of tea, Quadri and his fellow poets and artists and friends and many other enchanted hangers-on would be entertaining each other late into the evening. Everyone present would in all probability say to each other or to others later: “Was there anywhere any adda as good as the one that took place in Beauty Boarding that evening?”
And, of course, Bengalis of Kolkata will claim that there was never ever any place for chatting and no addas held anywhere that have been able to match the ones at the city’s College Street Coffee House. Who hasn’t heard the song by Manna Dey[2] that has immortalised the conversation and the characters there—poets, journalists, actors, artists—all engaged in intellectual chitchat over nonstop cups of coffee? And though the song laments the passing away of a generation, one can find Kolkata’s Coffee House, like Dhaka’s Beauty Boarding, still very busy and very full of addas even now. But surely among the most famous addas of all times were the ones that took place in 18th century London’s “The Club,” aka “Literary Club”. This was the archetypal club for flowing conversation conducted over good food, great coffee, and suitably stimulating drinks (this last bit is conjectural!). Without a doubt, it is the most famous British literary club in history, and here outstanding intellectuals would engage in always entertaining and often scintillating conversation.
Just consider the luminaries in attendance at the Club on a typical London evening. At the centre of the conversation would be the physically huge figure of Dr Johnson—he of the towering intellect, he who was also known as “Dictionary Johnson” for his incredible feat of penning the first substantial dictionary of the English language almost single-handedly. Listening to him would be his devoted biographer, James Boswell; the greatest painter of the period and the founder of the Club, Sir Joshua Reynolds; Burke, the brilliant orator, passionate parliamentarian and indefatigable critic of the East India Company; Oliver Goldsmith, the renowned author and playwright, and Dr Christopher Nugent, the successful physician. As they conversed, sparks surely must have flown all around the table and Boswell must have been taking notes all the time of the pearl s dropping from Dr Johnson’s lips!
It was Reynolds who had proposed the toast associated with the Club— “Esto perpetua,” Latin for “Let it be perpetual.” Club membership was restricted—at first there were nine members, but soon some more were inducted. They included cultural luminaries such as the greatest actor of the time, David Garrick; the great parliamentarian and minister of the British Government for a while, Charles James Fox; the luminous economist Adam Smith and arguably one of the greatest of British historians, Edward Gibbon. According to the author and member of the Club, Bishop Thomas Percy, as far as Johnson was concerned, the thing that all members were to keep in mind was that the Club “was intended” to “consist of such men, as that if only two of them chanced to meet, they should be able to entertain each other without wanting the addition of more Company to pass the evening agreeably”. Or, to use the word coined by the great Dr Johnson himself, Club members had to be “clubbable!”
As one can imagine, with such amazing minds and larger than life characters, the reputation of the Club spread far and wide—in London and beyond. For sure, there were other clubs in swelling and increasingly prosperous London (as is the case with Dhaka now!), and Johnson himself was associated with quite a few of them, but who could compete with the members of The Club?
Initially, Tuesday was set aside as the meeting day, then Friday; eventually other days were considered good for clubbing as well. According to one member, the writer and lawyer John Hawkins, The Literary Club soon proved to be “the great delight of Johnson’s life, a centre of conversation and mental intercourse.” As the century progressed and more and more, people vied with each other to become a member of The Club, strict rules were initiated to keep up its reputation.
Eventually, elections and “blackballing” were procedures chosen to control the number of members as well as to ensure that only “quality” people became members. Hawkins, unfortunately, was deemed to be “unclubbable” by Johnson himself and therefore was soon expelled from the Club! But Club members could be of varying political beliefs—Burke, for example, was passionate about the rights of the American colonists but Johnson critical of them. Burning political issues such as the right of the American colonists came up for discussion and debate but tempers were kept under control and wit-combats proved to be the rule and not scuffles. On most days, conversation flowed freely.
On April 3, 1778, Boswell records in his biography of Johnson, for example, “The conversation began with sculpture” and then “the subject is dropped for emigration; it then moved on to “population increase” and “density”; next to parliamentary oratory, then to philology; afterwards to travelling abroad and thence to “human nature generally”!
Johnson died in 1784, and The Club eventually disappeared from recorded history, but it had survived long enough to become a model of clubs where great minds could come together for a convivial atmosphere, free and witty exchange of ideas, and company worth seeking every evening. It became the inspiration of many such institutions all over the world. Dhaka Club, thus, can claim that any recorder of its primordial history would find The Club as one of its ancestors. For sure, for our club members, or literary minded people wanting to elevate their addas a lot, the London Club can be a source of inspiration and the conduct of its members well worth emulating during addas for fantastic clubbing!
The Literary Club met on Friday evenings until midnight in London. The club gatherings with all the luminaries spanned a period of 20 years. From Public Domain
[1] Could be a tête-à-tête or just a chat with multiple people.
[2] Manna Dey (1919-2013) sang about adda in the legendary Coffee House of Calcutta.
(First published on August 20, 2018 in Daily Star, Bangladesh)
The doctor is shocked to hear my advice when he prescribes pills and capsules. Accustomed to customisation offers almost everywhere, I am quick to spell out my preference: syrup. As expected, he casts a befuddled look, and takes a while to cool down by closing his eyes, to distract his agitated mind. Here’s a fussy patient sitting right in front of the trained physician, showing the gall to be choosy during a bout of illness, directing the medical practitioner to write what he loves to drink to get cured. Had he not been a member of this noble profession and contractually bound to be courteous, his anger would have compelled him to throw the patient out of his chamber along with his fees.
My fascination for syrups dates back to childhood days. Dr Nandy, a gentle paediatrician, kept the tender organs of a developing kid safe from the side-effects of pellet-size capsules. Whenever my mother took me to him for liver concerns, poor appetite issues, gastric problems or cough and cold complications, he always gave syrups the first chance to cure me. Most of the time, these seemed to suit me well. So much so that I loved to memorise the names and recall them with ease in front of the doctor during the next visit, hoping he would add one of these in the fresh prescription he wrote for me.
Whenever I find these bottles lined up on the shelves inside medical stores even today, I am thrilled beyond measure to discover that these, much like classics, have survived the test of time, despite the arrival of newer brands. My instant query relates to how well these age-old brands are doing in the competitive market, and the chemist does not disappoint by saying most of these record higher sales vis-à-vis several new and heavily promoted brands.
The fear of vitamin deficiency haunts me and this explains my inclination to pop supplements from time to time, with fortnightly breaks thrown in between. Since many of these are sold over the counter, without a valid prescription, I feel it safe to down them without medical recommendations. The first one is the Vitamin B complex syrup that I am fond of – the sweet taste makes me feel tempted to slurp a spoonful twice a day, sticking to the standard dosage limit printed on the label.
Cough syrups are addictive for some who consume these throughout the year. The sleep-inducing impact slows them down and they tend to relax, not knowing a thing about the harmful effect on their vital organs. As the chemist in the neighbourhood informs me that I should avoid these though the taste is good even if it’s sugar free. I am left with no option but to cough and prove that I need it genuinely and desperately. He offers herbal brands instead, which are costlier but supposedly healthier and safer when consumed in moderation, proving himself to be a true devotee of the bearded yoga instructor who has stretched all possible limits to ramp up the profitability of his medical business empire.
The pineapple or mixed fruit flavour of the enzyme-boosting appetiser syrup features on top of my list in every season. The pure delight of enjoying the yummy flavour is further enhanced as it makes me crave for more. Instead of two chhole bhatura, I can gobble up four and still find space to add a sweet dish like kheer[1]. When it comes to developing more appetite for a heavy lunch punctuated with burps, trust the syrup to work wonders. In case there is a persistent feeling of heaviness, this is the right time to consume a teaspoonful of antacid syrup to neutralise digestive threats forming alliances inside me. These have retained their charm over the years and I prefer to have a dedicated cabinet for these, just like those who flaunt a wine cabinet to mirror their class.
My last visit to a very senior doctor to find relief from stress and anxiety did not produce results of my choice as he ruled out the possibility of syrups being effective in my case. He wrote down the name of a sleep-inducing drug to relax my jangled nerves. I discontinued the dose after having a few pills that produced some side effects I was not ready to face. I switched to bananas for higher magnesium and preferred darker chocolates to boost up feel-good hormones to battle rejections with a smiling visage.
Being a vegetarian, my mother was deprived of Omega 3 as chia seeds were not a household name yet. She kept having capsules that were specified to be non-vegetarian. Despite knowing the truth, she made no distinction between vegetarian and non-vegetarian stuff when it came to life-saving medicines. When I approached the doctor to know if a syrup for Omega 3 enrichment existed, he suggested a new syrup. I started enjoying the awesome taste as it is cheaper and affordable than walnuts and seeds. To keep nerves strong in a precarious profession like advertising is a priority and the consumption of a syrup for better nerve function is justified. What goes on inside the brain and the damage caused due to creative exhaustion is something undetected until the symptoms of shaky hands begin to disturb. One never knows when one reaches the excess level using supplements to stay healthy.
When the snack break phase started, I switched to protein shakes and protein bars to imitate body builders and gym goers. Always being deficient in terms of protein, I found this to be a good source to regain muscles, to punch mobsters and gangsters with my powerful fist. From a practical angle, this would mean I was strong enough to lift shopping bags and gaze at my brawny biceps without feeling ashamed that they lacked firmness. Guzzling syrupy, sugary protein and energy boosting drinks might not be the healthiest way to stay fit, but it is certainly one of the most effective ways for protein-keen people to build strength and stamina without burning a hole in the pocket. With discount offers raining across online platforms at odd hours, I am always on the lookout for the steal deal to pick up protein-rich drinks. My calf muscles need to remain strong enough to enable my long, winding walks to connect with nature and ideate, to climb three floors without feeling breathless and worn-out.
Whenever I am travelling within the country, I prefer to carry my syrup bottles as I am not sure of getting the same brands elsewhere. I do not forget to consume these during breakfast, post lunch and after dinner. Many doctors I met in my circle have found it funny that I was so obsessed with syrups.
After I discovered from articles that many creative people, not just writers, were fond of syrups and they were legends, my confidence has grown manifold. Even if I cannot compare my output with their body of work, what enters my body does some good work indeed.
The other day, my chemist made an attempt to break my bonding with syrups and suggested that I should consult good doctors for pills because syrups are not right for my age. I did not understand what made him suggest this, but I felt he realised I was old enough to fatten his medical income. These syrups were nominally priced and of no use for his profitability. To sound less hurtful, I said I would add an iron supplement next month but it was a lollipop he was not interested in. Even if he stopped giving discounts on syrups, I was okay with that.
I produced prescriptions which were old, and he refused to sell on the basis of these. I confessed the doctors who wrote these prescriptions were no longer alive. I had to produce a new prescription and so I was forced to approach a young doctor who sat in his shop. I told the doctor I have no health reason to consult him for but I want his permission to keep drinking these syrups. He refused to write down the names but when I came out with a forlorn look and paid the fees, the chemist gave me a hamper of syrups again! Was he trying to make an extra buck forcing me to consult with the doctor on his premises?
Devraj Singh Kalsiworks as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.
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A review of Anuradha Kumar’s Wanderers, Adventurers, Missionaries: Early Americans in India (Speaking Tiger Books) and an interview with the author
Migrants and wanderers — what could be the differences between them? Perhaps, we can try to comprehend the nuances. Seemingly, wanderers flit from place to place — sometimes, assimilating bits of each of these cultures into their blood — often returning to their own point of origin. Migrants move countries and set up home in the country they opt to call home as did the family the famous Indian actor, Tom Alter (1950-2017).
Anuradha Kumar’s Wanderers, Adventurers, Missionaries: Early Americans in India captures the lives and adventures of thirty such individuals or families — including the Alter family — that opted to explore the country from which the author herself wandered into Singapore and US. Born in India, Kumar now lives in New Jersey and writes. Awarded twice by the Commonwealth Foundation for her writing, she has eight novels to her credit. Why would she do a whole range of essays on wanderers and migrants from US to India? Is this book her attempt to build bridges between diverse cultures and seemingly diverse histories?
As Kumar contends in her succinct introduction, America and India in the 1700s were similar adventures for colonisers. In the Empire Podcast, William Dalrymple and Anita Anand do point out that the British East India company was impacted in the stance it had to colonisers in the Sub-continent after their experience of the American Revolution. And America and India were both British colonies. They also were favourites of colonisers from other European cultures. Just as India was the melting pot of diverse communities from many parts of the world — even mentioned by Marco Polo (1254-1324) in The Kingdom of India — America in the post-Christopher Columbus era (1451-1546) provided a similar experience for those who looked for a future different from what they had inherited. The first one Kumar listed is Nathaniel Higginson (1652-1708), a second-generation migrant from United Kingdom, who wandered in around the same time as British administrator Job Charnock (1630-1693) who dreamt Calcutta after landing near Sutanuti[1].
Kumar has bunched a number of biographies together in each chapter, highlighting the commonality of dates and ventures. The earliest ones, including Higginson, fall under ‘Fortune Seekers From New England’. The most interesting of these is Fedrick Tudor (1783-1864), the ice trader. Kumar writes: “In Calcutta, Dwarkanath Tagore, merchant and patron of the arts (Rabindranath Tagore’s grandfather), expressed an interest to involve himself in ice shipping, but Tudor’s monopoly stayed for some decades more. Tagore was part of the committee in Calcutta along with Kurbulai Mohammad, scion of a well-established landed family in Bengal, to regulate ice supply.”
Also associated with the Tagore family, was later immigrant Gertrude Emerson Sen (1890-1982, married to Boshi Sen). She tells us, “Tagore wrote Foreword to Gertrude Emerson’s Voiceless India, set in a remote Indian village and published in 1930. Nobel Laureate Rabindranath Tagore called Emerson’s efforts, ‘authentic’.” She has moved on to quote Tagore: “The author did not choose the comfortable method of picking up information from behind lavish bureaucratic hospitality, under a revolving electric fan, and in an atmosphere of ready-made social opinions…She boldly took in on herself unaided to enter a region of our life, all but unexplored by Western tourists, which had one great advantage, in spite of its difficulties, that it offered no other path to the writer, but that of sharing the life of the people.’” Kumar writes of an Afro-American scholar, called Merze Tate who came about 1950-51 and was also fascinated by Santiniketan as were some others.
Another name that stuck out was Sam Higginbottom, who she described as “the Farmer Missionary” for he was exactly that and started an agricultural university in Allahabad. Around the same time as Tagore started Sriniketan (1922), Higginbottom was working on agricultural reforms in a different part of India. In fact, Uma Dasgupta mentions in A History of Sriniketan: Rabindranath Tagore’s Pioneering work in Rural Reconstruction that Lord Elimhurst, who helped set up the project, informed Tagore that “another Englishman” was doing work along similar lines. Though as Kumar has pointed out, Higginbottom was a British immigrant to US — an early American — and returned to Florida in 1944.
There is always the grey area where it’s difficult to tie down immigrants or wanderers to geographies. One such interesting case Kumar dwells on would be that of Nilla Cram Cook, who embraced Hinduism, becoming in-the process, ‘Nilla Nagini Devi’, as soon as she reached Kashmir with her young son, Sirius. She shuttled between Greece, America and India and embraced the arts, lived in Gandhi’s Wardha ashram and corresponding with him, went on protests and lived like a local. Her life mapped in India almost a hundred years ago, reads like that of a free spirit. At a point she was deported living in an abject state and without slippers. Kumar tells us: “Her work according to Sandra Mackey combined ‘remarkable cross-cultural experimentation’ and ‘dazzling entrepreneurship.’”
The author has written of artists, writers, salesmen, traders (there’s a founder/buyer of Tiffany’s), actors, Theosophists, linguists fascinated with Sanskrit, cyclists — one loved the Grand Trunk Road, yet another couple hated it — even a photographer and an indentured Afro-American labourer. Some are missionaries. Under ‘The Medical Missionaries: The Women’s Condition’, she has written of the founders of Vellore Hospital and the first Asian hospital for women and children. Some of them lived through the Revolt of 1857; some through India’s Independence Movement and with varied responses to the historical events they met with.
Kumar has dedicated the book to, “…all the wanderers in my family who left in search of new homes and forgot to write their stories…” Is this an attempt to record the lives of people as yet unrecorded or less recorded? For missing from her essays are famous names like Louis Fischer, Webb Miller — who were better known journalists associated with Gandhi and spent time with him. But there are names like Satyanand Stokes and Earl and Achsah Brewster, who also met Gandhi. Let’s ask the author to tell us more about her book.
Anuradha Kumar
What made you think of doing this book? How much time did you devote to it?
These initially began as essays for Scroll; short pieces about 1500-1600 words long. And the beginnings were very organic. I wrote about Edwin Lord Weeks sometime in 2015. But the later pieces, most of them, were part of a series.
I guess I am intrigued by people who cross borders, make new lives for themselves in different lands, and my editors—at Scroll and Speaking Tiger Books—were really very encouraging.
After I’d finished a series of pieces on early South Asians in America, I wanted to look at those who had made the journey in reverse, i.e., early Americans in India, and so the series came about, formally, from December 2021 onward. I began with Thomas Stevens, the adventuring cyclist and moved onto Gertrude Emerson Sen, and then the others. So, for about two years I read and looked up accounts, old newspapers, writings, everything I possibly could; I guess that must mean a considerable amount of research work. Which is always the best thing about a project like this, if I might put it that way.
What kind of research work? Did you read all the books these wanderers had written?
Yes, in effect I did. The books are really old, by which I mean, for example, Bartolomew Burges’ account of his travels in ‘Indostan’ written in the 1780s have been digitized and relatively easy to access. I found several books on Internet Archive, or via the interlibrary loan system that connects libraries in the US (public and university). I looked up old newspapers, old magazine articles – loc.gov, archive.org, newspapers.com, newspaperarchive.com, hathitrust.org and various other sites that preserve such old writings.
You do have a fiction on Mark Twain in India. But in this book, you do not have very well-known names like that of Twain. Why?
Not Twain, but I guess some of the others were well-known, many in their own lifetime. Satyanand Stokes’ name is an easily recognisable still especially in India, and equally familiar is Ida Scudder of the Vellore Medical College, and maybe a few others like Gertrude Sen, and Clara Swain too. I made a deliberate choice of selecting those who had spent a reasonable amount of time in India, at least a year (as in the case of Francis Marion Crawford, the writer, or a few months like the actor, Daniel Bandmann), and not those who were just visiting like Mark Twain or passing through. This made the whole endeavour very interesting. When one has spent some years in a foreign land, like our early Americans in India, one arguably comes to have a different, totally unique perspective. These early Americans who stayed on for a bit were more ‘accommodating’ and more perceptive about a few things, rather than supercilious and cursory.
And it helped that they left behind some written record. John Parker Boyd, the soldier who served the Nizam as well as Holkar in Indore in the early 1800s, left behind a couple of letters of complaint (when he didn’t get his promised reward from the East India Company) and even this sufficed to try and build a complete life.
How do these people thematically link up with each other? Do their lives run into each other at any point?
Yes, I placed them in categories thanks to an invaluable suggestion by Dr Ramachandra Guha, the historian. I’d emailed him and this advice helped give some shape to the book, else there would have been just chapters following each other. And their lives did overlap; several of them, especially from the 1860s onward, did work in the same field, though apart from the medical missionaries, I don’t think they ever met each other – distances were far harder to traverse then, I guess.
What is the purpose of your book? Would it have been a response to some book or event?
I was, and am, interested in people who leave the comforts of home to seek a new life elsewhere, even if only for some years. Travelling, some decades ago, was fraught with risk and uncertainty. I admire all those who did it, whether it was for the love of adventure, or a sense of mission. I wanted to get into their shoes and see how they felt and saw the world then.
Is this because you are a migrant yourself? How do you explain the dedication in your book?
I thought of my father, and his cousins, all of whom grew up in what was once undivided Bengal. Then it became East Pakistan one day and then Bangladesh. Suddenly, borders became lines they could never cross, and they found new borders everywhere, new divisions, and new homes to settle down in. They were forced to learn anew, to always look ahead, and understand the world differently.
When I read these accounts by early travellers, I sort of understood the sense of dislocation, desperation, and sheer determination my father, his cousins felt; maybe all those who leave their homes behind, unsure and uncertain, feel the same way.
You have done a number of non-fiction for children. And also, historical fiction as Aditi Kay. This is a non-fiction for adults or all age groups? Do you feel there is a difference between writing for kids and adults?
I’d think this is a book for someone who has a sense of history, of historical movements, and change, and time periods. A reader with this understanding will, I hope, appreciate this book.
About the latter half of your question, yes of course there is a difference. But a good reader enters the world the writer is creating, freely and fearlessly, and I am not sure if age decides that.
You have written both fiction and non-fiction. Which genre is more to your taste? Elaborate.
I love anything to do with history. Anything that involves research, digging into things, finding out about lives unfairly and unnecessarily forgotten. The past still speaks to us in many ways, and I like finding out these lost voices.
What is your next project? Do you have an upcoming book? Do give us a bit of a brief curtain raiser.
The second in the Maya Barton-Henry Baker series. In this one, Maya has more of a lead role than Henry. It’s set in Bombay in the winter of 1897, and the plague is making things scary and dangerous. In this time bicycles begin mysteriously vanishing… and this is only half the mystery!