Tag: Statesman

Categories
Stories

The Tender Butcher

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

The butcher had written many poems without any dream of compiling those for a book. His shop assistant, a college-student, did a part-time job to fund his education. Being a reluctant bachelor, the butcher nurtured his romantic side through poetry and managed to convey a fairly youthful visage of his personality rarely found in men following his métier. 

Mohsin independently handled the job of dealing with pesky customers haggling over price and quantity without displeasing them while Yunus sat in a corner, propped against a cushion, lost in the universe of verses, oblivious of what transpired around him unless he was called out to tender the change to any customer. Whether Yunus managed to create something valuable when Mohsin did the chopping and grinding mincemeat hovered in the realm of doubt. His trance-like state seemed to suggest he was engrossed in a creative exercise that ordinary mortals would never associate with a meat-seller.

“Sahib, your poems stab the heart. Honestly saying so – what will I get by flattering you…” Mohsin repeated this sentence like mantra at least twice every day. Though Yunus did not accept it with a smile, Mohsin knew his quick rise as an employee was on account of the litany of praises sung in favour of the blossoming poet well past his prime. With years of experience and loyalty piling up in favour of Mohsin, he was given further responsibilities to shoulder. Managing cash and transactions empowered him and delivered greater freedom to Yunus to pursue his art with singular focus and minimum distractions.

Whenever Yunus was mired in doubt regarding the finesse of what he had written, he sought feedback from Mohsin. Before he could complete the couplet, Mohsin broke into applause that made Yunus suspect a ring of fake appreciation.

“Deewar ki kya haisiyat, dooriyaan toh pehle se thi [1],” Yunus began with promise.

As the din of wah-wah[2]rent the air, Yunus looked disgruntled with the premature reaction of Mohsin, and repeated his two cents on suitable behaviour of admirers, “A sincere listener should have the patience to hear the whole thing first.”

Being an educated youth, Mohsin qualified as the ideal audience who measured the impact of words flowing from Yunus’s pen. It was tested on young listeners to find emotional connection. Unfortunately, the growing disenchantment with Mohsin disheartened Yunus who sometimes felt he was not getting what he was expecting from Mohsin even though he had been generous to give him more than what he deserved. On the other hand, Mohsin hesitated to be candid and did not speak his mind as he was scared of earning his boss’s displeasure. This part-time job was crucial for his education and he had do idea whether he would be kept employed if he did not eulogise the poetic renditions of his employer.  

Sensing a losing battle, Mohsin pumped up his self-confidence with a meaty response, “You felt offended for no reason, Sahib. I wanted you to have full faith in your words. Too much modesty is never good for talent,” Mohsin rallied forth as a rabid admirer who stuck to his assertion that he never doled out fake acclaim.

Mohsin sounded firm and decisive. Yunus specified non-existence of spite in what he explained. As a conciliatory move to validate the observations made by Mohsin, Yunus said wholeheartedly, without rising from his seat, “Okay then, let us hold a small gathering at my residence – where I read out some recent works. You can bring in some of your friends to comment on my work.”

Mohsin accepted the invitation with an enthusiastic, ingratiating smile, confident that his friends would happily tag along for an evening of poetic ambrosia.

Leading a group of friends with literary taste, Mohsin arrived before time to make the necessary arrangements. When Yunus opened the hall door, he was delighted to see a beautiful college girl in the group. Perhaps they were expecting a younger poet without the protruding belly and shades of pepper in the beard. Yunus ordered Mohsin to arrange snacks and serve drinks to the guests. Mohsin rose from his seat and tapped the shoulder of the girl next to him, without hesitation, asking her to assist him in the kitchen chore. 

Despite knowing that his friends already knew what he did, Yunus explained he was a butcher by profession and dabbled in poetry for solace.  Arriving with a tray full of munchies, Mohsin did the rest of the introduction in front of Yunus, raising a thundering applause from his friends who valued the existence of contrast in his personality. 

The befitting introductions were soon over. Yunus also praised Mohsin in front of his friends. Then he took a seat on the diwan covered with a satin sheet and began to select verses from his diary. Mohsin urged him to recite love-related couplets on separation and heartbreak. Just once Yunus had briefly disclosed how he lost his beloved partner to another man who showed promise of a better future than what a butcher could provide. The positive outcome of this setback was that he did not turn into an alcoholic but channelised his frustrations into poetic outbursts.

After listening to some of his couplets, the young group celebrated in collective euphoria, as if they had discovered a remarkable poet in the most unlikely place. When a friend of Mohsin egged him to quit the profession and embrace poetry full-time, Mohsin shot back in defence of Yunus: “A job is a job after all. Nothing is less dignified. He is not a terrorist killing innocent people in the name of faith. I also work in the same place, and I am your friend. How does it matter or change our relationship?”  

“What you are saying is true, but don’t you think if he has to read out in a mushaira or a large, diverse gathering of poets from all over India, he will find it difficult to explain he is a butcher? No introduction would ensure better reception of his work as the snob poets, who associate creativity as the preserve of the privileged few, would baulk at such a background,” his friend added, looking straight into the eyes of Yunus who mustered the courage to ask for her name.

“You are Madam…,” Yunus managed these words hoping quick completion of the sentence from her.

“Ji[3], Saira, final year literature student.”

Choosing to defend Saira, Yunus confronted Mohsin, “I think Saira ji is right. She has a valid point regard the background factor. I have been through this experience for years and I fully agree with her. I should avoid any introduction that shocks them.”

Mohsin had silenced most of his friends before the humble submission of Yunus came forth. The brief exchange enabled emotional investment in Saira and Yunus. When he resumed his recitation, his eyes focused on Saira with whom he had established some familiarity. Holding forth like a seasoned poet who had been through many renditions, Yunus read out his works on love and angst, on conflict and subtle violence in relationships.

When Mohsin disclosed that Yunus would like to bring out a collection of poems some day, though he had never expressed the desire in all these years, he was generalising the trend and did not expect Saira would be the first to react. Her response surpassed what others in the group came up with later. This put pressure on Yunus who felt he had to get the stuff published by leading publishers or face ridicule for grand declarations that never saw the light of the day. A believer that art should spread its own fragrance was now exploring ways to push his art through, to reach out to audiences. This made him somewhat uncomfortable with himself – a self-loving poet craving for recognition. 

Mohsin was entrusted the job of sifting the best poems and he outsourced the task to Saira who had a very good ear.  When Yunus handed over the diaries to Mohsin, he expected Saira to come forward and receive it as a custodian of his creative wealth.  

Saira suggested the name of some leading publications. Before Yunus could frame a reply, Mohsin said, “Yunus bhai[4] is ready to invest in getting his poems published. These have potential and must reach out to young readers. What do you say, Saira?”

Saira looked blank for a while and then gathered herself to utter a few words of encouragement. “Yes, it should not be allowed to rot because of the lack of publishers who are money driven these days.”

“Once he reaches out with his work globally – nowadays it is easy to be heard, seen and read via digital platform. We can make an online push on various platforms and see him through,” Mohsin chipped in with his strategy.

“You are suggesting pay and publish. I would never do that,” Yunus said firmly in front of the group. 

Friends disappeared after hearing the stern refusal. Mohsin and Saira were disappointed that he would not cave in with ease. A good amount of persuasion would do the trick. After a month of peace, Yunus delivered a surprise by agreeing to the proposal and asked Mohsin to rope in Saira to manage his launch.

Mohsin quickly agreed to whatever Yunus had said – before he underwent another change of heart that would disappoint. There was a growing circle of young, local admirers who heard from Mohsin that Yunus was an entertaining poet. 

Mohsin got back with another offer. Saira knew a publisher who launched talented poets and did everything for them, for a nominal fee of one lakh rupees. Saira would work in tandem with the team to ensure a successful break for Yunus. Without asking for details, Yunus agreed to shell out the full amount within a week. He asked Mohsin to withdraw cash from his account and pay the publisher and get the book released before his next birthday.

“Actually, Saira’s friend’s father runs the printing press, and I would personally request for an upfront discount,” Mohsin proposed.

The mere mention of Saira gave Yunus assurance that he was in safe hands. 

“Make sure everything happens on time, without delays,” Yunus stressed, resisting the urge to suggest him to take Saira’s help in the execution of the project.

For a quirky launch, the approved idea was to launch it in the meat shop as it would gather attention and stir curiosity. Meat and books – unusual companions though they have a lot to do with flesh.

Some 20-odd people turned up for the launch, mostly Mohsin’s friends. The space could accommodate around fifty people like any small bookshop. The smell of meat was hanging in the air even though rose perfume spray was used a lot. The gritty reality of the setting was something they could not let go of.

The poet was dressed in traditional casuals. Mohsin updated him that one hundred copies had been ordered online, and some free copies were also given to friends to write positive reviews. The entire print run of 500 copies would get sold out within a month was what Saira’s friend had promised.

Yunus was hoping the launch would be covered by leading newspapers, but he was not aware he was expected to pay for that as well. On the dais to launch the book were Saira and Yunus. The poet held a small portion of the book with his chubby fingertips while Saira clutched the rest of it firmly.

Mohsin clicked pictures of the poet alone, and left Saira, looking gorgeous in sequined turquoise, out of the frame except the solo snap. In that, she had uncovered the wrapped book and showed it to the cheering crowd that included some old friends of Yunus, who were expecting nice announcements to follow, some declaration that the two would marry. It was disappointing when nothing of that sort happened on stage, and they had to leave with a packet of sweets for the launch along with a complimentary copy of the book. 

Yunus displayed some copies of his poetry book inside his meat shop, on a tall, wooden rack that was visible to meat buyers. Within a month of answering queries regarding the book, Mohsin stopped reporting for work. For some days, Yunus waited for him to come back. But when he did not turn up or receive his phone calls, he suspected something fishy.

Now Yunus had to serve customers, pack meat and do everything that Mohsin used to do. Poetry took a backseat as the whole day he was busy with this job. He understood how valuable the guy was to him after he left. Late one evening, a message popped in from Mohsin, saying he was quitting the job on health grounds, and he should look for a replacement. It was a confirmation that he was never going to turn up. 

Yunus messaged him with the promise of a salary hike, but the bait did not work. He hoped to get a chance to allure him with some perks. Since poor health was not a convincing reason to leave the job, Yunus thought he had secured better opportunities. But this abrupt end to their five-year relationship was not the proper way to wrap it up. He did deserve some better explanation of this sudden disappearance – given the fact that he had been quite good to Mohsin all these years, treating him like a brother instead of an employee.

Hoping he would build a loyal base of readers, Yunus distributed the copies he had in stock, absolutely free, to those who showed interest in reading his work or those who bought a kilo of mutton. His strategy did not achieve the goal as nobody came back to give reviews. Some of them stopped patronising his meat shop altogether.

Yunus pondered why he lost loyal meat buyers when he tried to convert them into lovers of poetry. Perhaps they felt guilty that the state of art had been reduced to such a pitiable state or they felt bad that a poet of his worth had to sell meat to survive. He had inflated the hope that his tender poetry would win praise like his tender meat. The only good outcome was that the stock of books came to an end.

The departure of Mohsin intrigued him at times. He wondered what had happened was beyond the realm of his imagination. It was perhaps the handiwork of Saira or maybe Mohsin sensed his growing attraction for Saira had to be curtailed as he could soon try to get closer to her. Negative thoughts exploded within, and he wished to unravel the truth although there was no way for him to trace the fellow or seek answers from his band of friends.

Six months passed. One or two customers who had stopped coming now reappeared with praise for his work, urging him to read more classics and write more about society and relationships. He received their feedback with humility and disclosed his career as a poet was short-lived as the book did not get traction or positive response from critics. The middle-aged gentleman was direct in advice and urged him to write about the plight of Muslims. Yunus kept quiet as he was not a radical fellow. Fearing misinterpretation of his silence, he answered in a roundabout way without mentioning the names of the countries, “We are better off as a community here. I thank my forefathers for not going there.” 

The customer was persistent. “Many did not go because they didn’t want to, but many were not allowed in there as they could not feed them all. Also, there was no meaning in creating a poor homeland.”

This was a critical observation. Yunus preferred to conclude the conversation without a rejoinder. The meat was packed and handed over. While making the payment, he repeated the advice of writing politically charged poems, to awaken the masses. The incendiary content could foment trouble between the communities. He was cautious of his words inflaming passions on either side. As a sensitive poet who operated in the orbit of love and heartbreak, this dangerous territory could prove counter productive.

A few weeks later, when a mob lynching episode was reported in the media, he felt like pouring forth his emotional turmoil on humanitarian grounds. He imagined he was a potential candidate to be delivered similar treatment by fanatics. Out of sensitivity for the lynched person, he wrote a few lines but did not muster the strength to put it out in the public domain. The growing trend of persecution made him an advocate of peace on both sides.

Yunus felt charged by the power of his own voice and somehow managed to overpower the urge he felt to vent it out and reach out to the masses. He was drawn to the idea of making a transition to the political fray through poetry of rebellion, making it a point to give an outlet to his hurt sentiments.

The desire to showcase his new poems to Mohsin and Saira bothered him. He imagined they would summarily disapprove of the switch from romance to politics. The mass media overdid it so there were not going to be takers for his poetic take. Mohsin was not there to speak his mind and his absence meant a deep personal loss. Unable to recover from it, Yunus was ready to mount a full-fledged attack through his feisty, no-holds barred pen.

His tendency to be sensitive was challenged as he suffered twin blows. Even though Saira had not been a part of his life, he felt her absence deeply, no less than how much he missed Mohsin. The bitterness within was in some way inextricably linked to their cold disposition. When the sight of bloodshed fails to rouse people, poetry cannot be expected to perform miracles. Youth have a deep, intense connection with romance in literature. As they keep falling in love, they need new voices and expressions to relate to and communicate their feelings instead of recycling the treasures of the past with waning impact.  

One afternoon, Yunus received an invitation to attend a mushaira in front of a strong crowd of five thousand people. The nominal fee of Rs 1000 did not matter as he had spent many times more in the past without any gains. The temptation of a sizeable crowd was high, and it was a formal invite. The names of the organisers were listed but he did not know any of them personally, so he believed it was the result of his hard work put into his previous collection that had finally got noticed and he was being given the chance to read in front of a large gathering based on his literary worth alone.

Yunus loved this idea more than anything else and he started rehearsing for it. He bought a microphone to practice in front of it – to hold it and know how much distance was ideal so he wouldn’t fumble during the reading session. He got a Sherwani[5] with special zari[6] stitched from the tailor for the event as he wanted to flaunt a royal look where nobody would identify him as a butcher. He did riyaaz[7] to make sure he did not forget the lines and shortlisted some of his best works. From love to separation to intimacy to politics to culture, the potpourri was nothing less than a heady cocktail.

On the day of performance, Yunus reached the stage and was surprised to find Mohsin and Saira seated in the front row. As he established eye contact with Saira first, he smiled, but she looked the other way, leaning heavily on Mohsin’s shoulder. As he read out a new one on betrayal, Mohsin was the first to clap and soon there was a climax of resounding claps, including Saira putting her hennaed hands together to applaud Yunus the poet. 

For a while Yunus was lost in the maze of questions related to their disappearance but he composed himself thinking this was the best opportunity to perform well before the large crowd who could breathe life into his lifeless career that was close to the last stage. Having been a failed lover all his life, he resorted to his pet theme with the fond hope of impressing the crowd. Despite the mehndi in his hair and beard, he managed to set young hearts ablaze with his bass voice and choice of words.

As the cheering rose and reached a crescendo, Yunus was encouraged to recite his political poems. After fifteen minutes of holding the audience spellbound, there was a sudden outbreak of violence inside the hall, with a stampede-like situation developing fast. People of another community had barged in with lathis to stop the mushaira that was streamed live on social media channels.

Mohsin rushed to the stage to save Yunus from the angry crowd. The mixing of unruly elements to create mischief had vitiated the atmosphere. Yunus embraced Mohsin and had a volley of questions that Mohsin promised to answer later after managing a safe exit from the troubled spot. Saira also escorted him out from the backstage, through the VIP exit gate and made Yunus sit in their tinted car. 

“Why did you read out political poems here? It earned you the wrath of the other community. Yunus, you have gambled everything for fifteen minutes of fame. See how thirsty they are to butcher you now. The mob, I mean. Your session has gone viral, and they are baying for your blood. Lakhs have already seen it and it has fomented trouble for the administration. Why do poets need to be politically vocal? Stay restricted to the tender subjects,” Mohsin went hammer and tongs like never before. 

“Why should I be afraid of the mob? I am a poet applauded by listeners here. Invited to read out,” Yunus justified his right to express his political views with full freedom.

You mean thousands of admirers? Let me correct you – thousands of enemies you have created. And yes, let me clear your confusion. Saira insisted we should invite you through a friend. Her father organised the mushaira this time after returning from abroad. Anyway, we are dropping you by car to the railway station and from there you board a train. We are not responsible for your safety during the journey and thereafter,” Mohsin said with final authority.   

“Why are you doing so much for me? Let me die here – throw me in front of the crowds baying for my blood. Let them butcher me, lynch me right here.”

“You helped me when I was in need. When I was courting Saira and waiting for her yes to my offer of a relationship. Then she agreed and we got married. She belongs to a rich family and wanted me to look after her family business. So I had to leave your job. There is nothing bad in progress and selfishness. But Saira did not want you to know this –she felt you were beginning to have a soft corner for her, and this news would break your heart.”

“Lucky fellow indeed – succeeded in love in the first attempt and made it big, unlike me who always failed in love,” Yunus sulked in the back seat of the car while the couple in the front glanced at his expression in the mirror.  

“You have spoken a lot, just tell me one more thing. Why did you want me to be a poet? I was happy as a butcher, writing for myself, why you wanted to bring my works to the world? Did you really think my voice matters?” Yunus asked without much hope of a satisfactory reply in the presence of Saira. 

Before he could say a word, Saira answered on his behalf in a firm voice. “NO – let me break this illusion. What you write is entertainment and not poetry in the league of great poets. You do not have anything immortal to offer. But it is a good hobby for a person who does a ruthless, brutal job, to nurture the sensitive side. That is why I liked your efforts and praised it. That’s it. For the youth, anything with a touch of romance sparks interest. The same applies to poetry.”

It was heartbreaking for Yunus to hear these words from a lady who had launched his only book, the lady he liked to treat as his muse. The clapping audience, he was told, had been tutored to do so, since most of them were employees of the company owned by Saira’s family.

At the railway station they looked around to see whether there was any person following them. Yunus was safe from the irate mob. He boarded the train to his hometown and was seen off by the couple from the over bridge. Yunus waved through the window as the train inched out of the platform, but they had already left. He felt he was leading a meaningless life, and he should cut it short by jumping off the moving train.  

When he reached his destination early morning, he took an auto-rickshaw to his meat shop. He was greeted by the sight of ruin. There was no tender meat shop as everything was gutted. The house behind his shop was also torched. It was punishment meted out for being a political poet who needed to be silenced in this fashion.

An old neighbour walked up to him, to console him and rested his frail hand on the shoulder. He played on his smartphone the poetry Yunus had read out yesterday and waited for its completion before praising him: “You said it very well, Yunus. Speaking the truth makes one pay a heavy price. May Allah grant you the strength to rebuild your life.”

Yunus controlled his tears and moved inside the shop where half-burnt pages of his poems lay scattered on the dismantled Yunus Meat Shop signboard. Observing all this wreckage worsened his grief as he could not avoid thinking of Mohsin and Saira and their savage words. How they had teamed up and flourished while he touched the lowest ebb, chasing a dream that was a mirage for a man of modest talent. His copious tears were apparently flowing to regret the loss of property, but nobody here would ever know the other big loss he had suffered that left him heartbroken.  

                                           

[1] What can walls do, the distances were there earlier itself

[2] Praise

[3] A respectful way of addressing an elder

[4] Brother, a friendly address

[5] Long coat

[6] Gold or silver lace

[7] Practice

.

Devraj Singh Kalsi works 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

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Musings of a Copywriter

The Amateur Professional 

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

I am never too confident about those who label themselves ace professionals. Such grandiose claims, often based on degrees or years of experience, deliver substandard outcomes. A professional photographer near my residence ranks high in the list of pseudo-professionals I have known all these years. As the sole proprietor of SN Studio1, his roster of clients comprises the dead, the alive and the half-dead types like me. He offers a long list of services – as evident from the signage emblazoned with his debonair picture for better brand recall.   

The dead queued for the last click are, perhaps, the coolest customers for him, offering the rare luxury of stillness he seeks from those he photographs. Only the dead can satisfy his need for immobility and dollops of patience. The restlessness of those alive and kicking and seeking to expedite the clicking process annoys him. He often behaves like an artist, as if he is engaged in creating a classic portrait instead of taking a photograph, and the conspiratorial world is just not ready to allow his artistic blooms to create many splendored exhibits. Several customers decline the inventive touch he wants to add, admonishing him for being too tardy to freeze the fleeting moment.

His focus is pretty sharp on capturing the nostrils stuffed with cotton balls from a fresh angle, adding to the frame a member of the family touching the feet. No one notices or appreciates the special touch to bring the picture to life. Urged by those carrying the bier to make haste, he hurriedly clicks. The bier bearers set out for their last journey with the dead before the weather gods turn hostile, leaving our photographer friend with instructions to take only the good prints even though he spends the entire roll to immortalise the departed soul. It is reaffirmed beyond a strain of doubt that he shares an amazing chemistry with the dead. It is true the dead emerge the easiest to click, and he is at his best in the presence of the dead. Although the dead cannot get up to thank him for a great job, their survivors often do so by placing further orders for portraits.

He always clicks close-up pictures of the face and those weeping inconsolably and embracing the corpse while including strong, irreverent relatives wearing bright shades on sad occasions to suggest their undying spirit to live. Clicking their sons and daughters reflecting grief is what to him is a prize-winning candid shot that unfortunately escapes attention and admiration. He includes one such picture in his portfolio to remind himself of his professional acumen that remains untapped.   

Some people who started patronising him for passport-size photographs – much before the digital era arrived – often fail to obey his instructions. The make-up he applies makes them look strange. The talcum powder on his dressing unit is of the popular Dreamflower brand, and the brushes and puffs bring him closer to a moody make-up stylist. Under the harsh lights of the camera, beads of sweat appear on the forehead as the inexorable wait makes even the most saintly folks restless. By the time he takes a snap after tilting the head or lifting the chin for the perfect pose, I feel sapped. Like a film photographer with characteristic disdain, he makes bombastic pronouncements but falls short of meeting the expectation pitched high. Most of the passport-size pictures were meant for the dossiers such as identity card, library card, passport, or any other form-filling exercise where affixing a passport-size photo was mandatory.

Many of those who got clicked for matrimonial purposes remained unmarried for a long time. The reason behind the lacklustre response is understood quite late – more than a year. He frames what he considers to be beautiful shots and showcases them on the display board behind his counter. Applying for jobs with such pictures creates a bad impression on recruiters. Once upon a time, getting a chance to be auditioned for a TV serial excited me. I asked him to prepare two classy pictures to be sent for the competition. He made me wear goggles and then applied gel to my hair. I thought it was an audition for a hero’s role but my look impressed the selectors to shortlist me for a villain’s role. When he asked me whether I was chosen for the role a month later, I had nothing much to say. Before I could frame a reply, he sounded confident that the pictures were fabulous for the role of an anti-hero. I said I did not accept the role offered as the terms and conditions were exploitative. I said I was ready to wait for the right opportunity, for a bigger gig though it was not convincing enough as a newcomer is normally desperate to grab whatever comes his way.

I said I would be getting my portfolio made by a leading photographer. But I knew within myself, I would never again venture along this path. Some weeks later, I went to his studio and noticed my pictures pinned on the board. Sensing that I was about to object to this public display, he pacified me by saying some girls took an interest and sought my contact details. Hoping that this news would create a flurry of excitement in my heart, he offered to arrange a meeting with them at the studio. Smelling something fishy, I chose not to show any interest and stayed out of the trap. His offer of help to get me hitched was ditched and he was perhaps pricked beyond imagination that his selfless moves were scuttled in this dry, thankless manner.  

During those days he was scouting for a chance to film a Punjabi wedding for his portfolio. I did what he was expecting from me. I invited him to photograph my wedding. He was roped in with a clear clause mentioning that his photography during the Ladies Sangeet and the Mehndi ceremonies would decide whether he would qualify to cover the marriage and reception. During the Ladies Sangeet function, I sneaked in along with him. He was busy enjoying the performance so much that he forgot to click for half-an-hour. He got poor, dark, hazy, long shots, without any close-ups as he did not have the temerity to go nearer and click. He stayed away from the inner circle for fear of being snubbed. When asked why he did so, he explained timidly that the opportunity to create memories took centre stage and his mind was busy soaking in the gyrations forever. It seemed to be more of his desire to be present during an ostentatious Punjabi wedding for his entertainment than anything else.

The resultant effect was I declared that I would never patronise him for any occasion or event. As his client list thinned with the digital wave setting in, he did try to stage a comeback in a new avatar, by converting the studio into a photographer’s institute where he conducted highly affordable short-term courses and taught amateurs all about professional photography in various categories.

Devraj Singh Kalsi works 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

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

  1. Make-believe name ↩︎
Categories
Musings of a Copywriter

The Lost Garden 

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

Courtesy: Creative Commons

A balcony teeming with plants showcases the best efforts put in by flat owners to keep alive their connection with nature. Unlike those living in sprawling houses with plenty of open space to make a garden, flat residents have to live with a space crunch that makes them think of buying space-saving furniture all the time. It does not really matter whether the densely potted varieties in the balcony supply oxygen for an hour or not. The plants merely convey that the inmates carry a genuine love for nature, but the constraints of space in the cities prevent them from creating a full-fledged garden.

The other vital truth is that the miniature garden helps them assuage the guilt of causing environmental damage before the World Environment Day posters deliver ‘Save the Planet’ message every year. The air conditioner jutting out of the window next to the balcony garden proves they are equally culpable for impacting the planet’s health. But every inch of the balcony dotted with plants is the best frame that provides the opportunity to post candid pictures on social media and gather hundreds of likes for having green fingers despite the CFC generated by most air conditioners.  

In my ancestral home, I used to observe my father turn the soil every morning. As he worked with his garden tools, I took an interest in his hobby, thinking I would inherit his passion for the same. He created small beds, raised mounds of soil around tender plants to offer better support and strength, and watered them with a sprinkler with patience, making sure they were not too wet.

With the onset of winter, the saplings would be ready to deliver iridescent blooms and surprise us with their vibrant beauty. Pansies, dahlias, zinnias, carnations, roses, and petunias were some of the awesome floral feasts that occupied much of our garden beds though there were many others that were less popular and with scientific names that have elude my meory. As the first buds appeared, my parents would admire the lush garden and ask me to sit in front of those budding flowers with well-combed hair to strike a pose while my father clicked a series of random photographs.  

While I never found ample time to take up gardening, I made it a habit to water the plants in the evenings on alternate days after my tutorials. Slaking the thirst of others – whether humans, animals, birds or plants, gives the same kind of satisfaction. I was careful not to keep them thirsty for long and maintained a strict timeline for that – otherwise I would feel guilty and sleepless at night. If I would be absent for a few days, I would assign the duty to some other person. Along with plants, I was learning to be sensitive to others needs.

The blooming flowers generated the desire to possess beauty. I was told I should not pluck them but learn to admire them. It was another key lesson – to indulge in the appreciation of beauty instead of being ruthless about possessing the beautiful. Any piece of beauty, in any form, gets the same treatment. Admire instead of turning desperate to possess it or call it your own. Such treasure-worthy lessons last a lifetime. It is true nature teaches a lot many things to lead a good life. A garden full of colours of all varieties looked rich and tempting. My mother never plucked any of the flowers, never put them in a vase in the living room to make a statement. Such restraint amazed me. 

I was encouraged to plant some on my own – before the advent of the floral season. My initial reluctance petered out when I read many celebrities were pursuing it. The ones I planted were lucky if they survived. I felt sad and low when they did not survive. But when some of them bloomed well, negativity perished.

The first bloom made me glad and confident, encouraging me to look forward to planting more varieties the next year. The ones that perished were soon forgotten and my focus shifted to the survivors, wondering whether they found it easy to grow in their beds or if there was something I could have done better to ease their growth in the lush garden. 

My parents gave a nod of approval and okayed my efforts. It was deemed a good exercise to raise a garden, add manure or spray something and water them all.

After my father’s death, my mother brought saplings from the nearby nursery, expecting me to do what my father did. She would sit near the verandah and oversee the entire process. Her supervision continued and she derived satisfaction that she had managed to raise a child who was growing close to nature with each passing year. She was always the first person to spot the buds and had the habit of predicting the colours of the flowers before they bloomed. She conducted a tour of the garden every morning and would foretell which one would turn out to be yellow, red, or white. Most of the time, her guesses were right. It appeared I was under an expert. When the flowers bloomed, she would say such impeccable beauty is for the soul, as it makes you happy deep within.  

Blooming is so relevant a need for every creative person: to bloom with ideas that are fresh, appealing to the senses and fragrant. Tucking a flower in the vase in front of the writing desk is a serious effort to bring in visual freshness, and to feel positive. With creepers growing around, you feel the spread of ideas surround you, trying to reach higher and higher just like you keep trying to elevate your thoughts and consciousness. Even if the apartment does not offer a grand view of thirty feet-high Ashoka trees lined up outside my window, the mind’s eye still retains and cherishes its beauty while trying to find inspiration from the balcony garden, a poor substitute for the grandeur of the landed garden.

While living in an apartment does not offer a natural view, the truth is I am still writing and have yet to break up with nature. Whether memory continues to feed the imagination or the fear of writing without nature’s support leads to a premature loss of an intimate connection with nature will pan out in the coming years. Sometimes the loss agonises so much that one feels like writing tragedies especially if it is the death of loved ones. It remains to be seen what the permanent loss of a vast garden from my life brings forth. 

.

Devraj Singh Kalsi works 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

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Musings of a Copywriter

Trees from My Childhood

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

Litchi Tree
Mango tree
Courtesy: Creative Commons

Returning from school, dumping my school bag on the sofa, and rushing out to climb the litchi tree in the garden without changing out of my school uniform, was an everyday affair during the summer. The scenes flash in a carousel of slides before my eyes whenever I purchase a bunch of litchis from local fruit vendors. I cannot resist regaling them with lively tales of my adventures and expeditions during those fruit-bearing seasons that remain refreshing and fresh even after decades. 

While holding and admiring the colour and texture of litchis, I am prone to draw comparisons, celebrating the genetic superiority of the litchi tree from my past. Succulent nostalgia is inevitable as the litchis in my patch were rich in pulp, bereft of white worms creeping out during the peel-off process. 

Paying for the leaves and the litchis makes me lose my cool. The fruit vendors contend they do not sell litchis without leaves as their profit margin goes south. The delicate fruit has a low shelf life, which makes it worse for them. Keeping quiet, I pull off one litchi from the dangling bunch and peel it off in a single roll to show my expertise.  

I remember the long bamboo stick I used to twist the neck of a thick bunch to pull it in my direction, and the litchis fell on the white plastic sheet spread wide on the ground. I collected them all in a plastic tumbler and took them inside, inviting my parents to join me in the litchi feast. We sat on the red cemented floor and started peeling in silence. Although I never counted how many kilos I consumed, I am sure I gobbled up almost half the quantity within an hour. My parents never stopped me from having as much as I liked. Litchi was the first fruit that established my true love for fruits. I boasted in front of friends regarding my litchi consumption capacity. Some of them believed it, and some said it was untrue. Those who came over were surprised I was enjoying the bounty while they could only imagine such a royal privilege. 

People slot litchi based on region. For me, the litchi of my ancestral house in Bengal was the best variant though I never tried to find its origin or roots so long as it stood there. All that mattered was the bountiful harvest every year, and we distributed it in the neighbourhood. The leaves often crossed borders, and the branches spread out in several directions. The neighbours were kind enough to tolerate the intrusion and the extra chore of cleaning the fallen leaves as they loved getting bagfuls of litchis from us every season. They never complained, and we never objected if they plucked litchis from the branches spread out in their area across the boundary wall. The fruit cemented friendly ties as visitors and guests were gifted baskets full of litchis. We never sold the litchi fruit but distributed it as tokens of friendship. 

Making sacrifices for education is quite common. In my case, the litchi tree made the ultimate sacrifice. Axed to construct a study room for me. Today, when I have to buy litchis, I feel the curse of the litchi tree has befallen me. A study room built on the grave of a litchi tree is how it plays out in my mind. The episode haunts me. The insensitive axe that killed it now frightens me like the rising prices of the litchi fruit, reminding me of the best things I enjoyed for free. 

Another tree that played a stellar role in my early years was the mango tree planted on the day I was born. My father was in the process of planting the sapling when the news of my arrival reached him. It was nurtured well, like me, as if we were twins. He ensured the tree grew up well in the environment and the roots went deep, just as he wanted the cultural roots and the roots of decent upbringing to grow deeper in me. 

While mine was a doubtful case, the tree seemed happy in its place and grew up strong and tall very fast. During my childhood years, I sat beneath the cool shade and enjoyed the breeze. It started bearing fruit early, and my parents praised its qualities more than mine. Before the fruit-bearing season, I drew water from the hand pump and watered it. But I was told I should water it throughout the year. A good deed should not be limited to a selfish motive. To enjoy good fruit, I must nurture it around the year. Yes, the lesson was profound. The mango tree enabled me to catch it early in life. Whatever you do, work to achieve the goal with consistent efforts. 

The pressure to be result-driven was on me. It also generated a streak of jealousy. I did want to taste the home-grown mangoes and preferred the ones from the bazaar. When asked why I avoided the mango tree, I could not explain anything. But I began to accept its fruit with expressions that still did not indicate full approval. My critical views on the taste factor were forthcoming now and then. The mango tree perhaps heard the complaints and decided to improve its quality. With each passing year, the output became richer and tastier. I had nothing to complain about but render compliments. Soon bitterness made exit and I started plucking mangoes, storing them in boxes covered with hay to ensure quick ripening. 

The process of sharing it with neighbours gathered speed, just like in the case of the litchi tree. People began to compliment the taste. It was a matter of pride for my father who planted it. When asked, he did not specify the low-profile name of the variant. It was not the usual type available in the market like Himsagar or Langda, but it came with a rich taste and juicy pulp from some deeper pockets of a remote northern India town. 

While my grades left the scope for complaints and improvement in Science and Maths, the mango tree was the clear winner. I promised to beat the mango tree in performance without knowing the area of competition. Repeated failures came my way. I was disillusioned. But one truth stood out. My love of fruits was strong, and the mango tree drew me closer to nature.  

I started spending more time sitting and wondering about its journey into the future. The mango tree gave me the fruit I enjoyed aside from being the architect of my creative world. It gave me the idea of seed and its importance in writing. The seed of imagination grew. I began to learn valuable lessons outside the classroom. I began to search for the seed, to nurture it and develop it into a proper shape. My love for my writing got its first seed from the mango tree. I wrote my maiden short piece, a creative essay fashioned along those lines. I was inspired to add pulp and flesh out the idea well. The skin of the city as a character portrayed. Besides, adding a layer was also borrowed from the mango tree. The fruit imparted pleasure to the taste buds. I wanted to create something to deliver immense joy to those reading my creations and renditions.   

The mango tree and I found some common ground to compete. We were creating something beautiful for the taste buds and hoping consumers would relish the product — both the fruit of imagination and the mango fruit. Doing well in their ways. My writings drew praise from teachers and friends. The circle began to widen. I hoped my writing would become tasty like the mango relished by so many people worldwide.

While it was ambitious to find a large following of readers, I had found a purpose and direction to follow. I wanted my words to taste good as the mangoes in my garden. While the mango tree found early success, it has been a long, lonely struggle to find acceptance for my words – with natural sweetness added to the creative output. The lesson from the mango tree is to be rich like its fruit and have the same qualities in the writing output. Hopefully, one day my words will come closer to the sweet, rich, juicy taste of the mangoes that grew in my backyard.  

Devraj Singh Kalsi works 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

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Musings of a Copywriter

Camel Ride in Chandigarh

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

Camel in Chandigarh. Courtesy: Creative Commons

Many of us derive a high after a bout of successful bargaining without realising that the moment of euphoric win soon peters out, only to be replaced by an embarrassing defeat as we get snubbed without a dash of realisation that the same old game checkmates us at some point.  

Years ago, a bosom friend of mine found Rs 30 to be a whopping fee for a camel ride in Chandigarh. He did not add up the extra cost of transporting the animal from Rajasthan and denied the owner the legitimacy to charge at will, arguing that the owner would also be selling camel milk to recover its maintenance cost from Punjabis who would relish the refreshing change from the usual buffalo milk, without calculating the quantity of milk a single camel would deliver every day. He did not admit that the opportunity to experience what he would only get to ride in Rajasthan was made available in the local zone and, for that, he should be thankful to the entrepreneurial owner who preferred to bring a novelty item instead of a typical pony from the nearby hill state of Himachal Pradesh.

All he did was sit with the obedient camel tied to a pole, waiting for customers to approach him for a single round of a circular ride of the cemented garden track. My friend looked horrified when he had to shell out the fee before riding the camel, much like a pre-paid cab ride. As was his wont, he bargained hard and brought it down to Rs 20 before mounting the camel that observed the entire exchange in the sitting position, masticating something like chewing gum as the owner did and winking at him. After my friend had made himself comfortable, the owner whispered something, and the camel stood up without a fuss. My bosom friend looked confident and showed me a thumbs-up sign as if he was inside a fighter jet, ready to take the first solo flight. 

That the owner was up to some mischief became evident as the pick-up speed looked unusual. He pulled the strings and made the camel run faster along with him so that he could save some time to recover the loss in the ride fare. My friend’s growing discomfort was visible as the camel galloped faster than a horse. He closed his eyes and clutched whatever appeared in sight to prevent a fall. He was no trained horse rider either, and I ran behind the camel carrying my dear friend, like a morning jogger offering moral support, to grab him if toppled, requesting the owner to slow down and stop before something tragic happened. But he did not stop before the round was complete. 

When the camel reached a standstill position, the owner was breathless, and the animal waited for further instructions. My friend had started hurling slang words again to order the camel to sit down and enable him to dismount. Finally, after a while, the owner signalled in his preferred language set, and the obedient camel went down on his legs. My rattled friend came down with a hand on his back, almost ready to pounce on the camel owner for endangering his life, threatening him to report the matter and seek cancellation of his licence to operate the camel with tingling bells around the neck in the beautiful city of Chandigarh. I told him it was the direct fall-out of the bargaining process he did to invite this trouble. The camel owner asked him to disappear when another person approached him for a ride and paid the total amount. He went around the park in a slow, languid manner. This pleasant sight further angered my friend. He agreed that the owner took nasty revenge in this manner and threatened to get the camel seized by using his contacts. He tried mobilising the small crowd against him, called him a rough driver who would have been lynched, beaten up black and blue. But nothing happened as the people looked mighty impressed with the novelty and instead blamed him for bargaining with a poor man to be as offensive as cheating and exploitation. 

He narrated those terrifying minutes in greater detail as he felt it was a close shave with death. He saw the gates of heaven open up for him as he closed his eyes to envision a Saviour. The chances of a heart attack were the highest during this brief phase. What he expected to be a leisurely ride had turned out to be nightmarish, and he blamed me for not lending him vocal support. He had conveniently brushed aside the bargaining gaffe and concentrated on the life-threatening outcome. He asked the camel owner to pay for an ointment to heal his painful back, but he took small steps and slipped out to serve another customer who was ready to mount despite the dire warnings of my argumentative friend in accented Hindi. 

As it is clear, my bosom friend was taken for a bumpy ride no less thrilling than a giant wheel ride as he drove a hard bargain. The camel owner also applied his tricks to outsmart him, proving again that the best bargaining deal often invites trouble for the one who hails himself as the big winner but ultimately ends up as a big loser. 

.

Devraj Singh Kalsi works 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

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Categories
Musings of a Copywriter

Back to the Past

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

Courtesy: Creative Commons

It was a stage of life when we were friends without knowing the meaning of friendship. Just like that. As we grew up and grasped what friendship meant, we lost the capacity to nurture unconditional friendship. Although we rarely admit our incompetence to strike genuine bonds, we always make tall claims of being real friends for life. Utter one word that pricks a friend’s ego, and you are thrown out of the chat room with collective opposition to make you a pariah forever. It is the equivalent of being punished by the schoolteacher who made you stand outside the classroom for disturbing the entire class.

Attending a grand gala reunion organised by school friends offers an opportunity to revive and relive childhood memories — although the attendees are more engrossed in observing your receding hairline or the protruding belly. Your grey hair reassures those with jet-black hair and gives the scope to suggest effective herbal therapy. Your glowing skin stirs jealousy, and curious friends, eager to dig up the secret of your taut skin, surround you. Tell them you apply nothing to nourish it, and they conclude you are simply masking the truth.

If you have been stylish during childhood but now prefer simple clothes, get ready to be accosted by a friend who flaunts branded apparel and tries to draw your attention to his fancy imported jacket by raising its hood again and again.

Life is strange, and meeting childhood friends makes you realise this bitter truth. Those who were the most dignified and sober types have turned out to be drunkards. Those who never used a cuss word now hurl abuses as an energy booster. Those who wore tidy shoes have turned out to be careless about polish. Those who were always late have now become punctual in life. Those with a strict routine for everything have no routine to follow. Those who never laughed or cracked a joke in school have become humorists. Those who were toppers have become showstoppers of a different kind. Those fond of reading books now dread owning a bookshelf. The compulsive liars have become worshippers of truth. Those friends who never said prayers have now become staunch devotees. Life has its unpredictable ways of shaping people and their destinies.

In a reunion, you meet old buddies and see how they have changed, grown, or decayed in the intervening decades. Although I do not attend these reunions, it fascinates me to wonder how they get the wavelength right to connect. Dance, swing, or hop to revive bonhomie? Do they stand in a queue and pass through the school corridors? Do they enter the classroom and sit on the last bench? Do they fiddle with the chalk and duster to sign their flamboyant designations and titles? Do they revisit the loo where they discovered their youth? Do they stand or jostle near the tap to drink water and then splash it on friends for aqua fun? Do they huff and puff and yet run and climb the guava tree or dangle from its lowest branch in a brave and desperate show of fitness and agility that they have lost? Do they shake an arthritic leg with a fake smile? Do they try to appear healthy and hide their blood sugar levels by gorging on sweets? Do they sprinkle table salt on chops and cutlets to show hypertension has left them untouched? Well, it is a heroic attempt to present the best side with a smiling visage.

Such impulses get the better of you in your middle age when you realise the risk of dying of a sudden heart attack looms large. Before you depart, you wish to meet these childhood buddies and relive the lost innocence. You are back to your primary school — as those were the days you lived without stress and shared without ulterior motives. Life was good, but then you wanted a life of your choice — to carve a niche, rise, and race ahead. The world beckons you then, and now your town of birth makes you feel this had been heaven on earth. Yet, it was the place you were eager to leave to explore the world. Now you have done everything, so you want to return to where it all started. Just another wish like the one that made you navigate the world for golden opportunities.

Now you want to sit under a shady tree and philosophise whether you have lived a good life. Deep inside, you realise it has been a mixed bag, and the cycle is almost complete. You want to slow down and enjoy what you lost or left behind in childhood in a somewhat apologetic way, and you want the company of friends who share a similar worldview now. The future holds no promise of anything worthwhile. But there is a lot in the haystack of the past to cherish and relish. Remember the jam and jelly and butter toast in the tiffin you shared. Perhaps the joys of a simple life pull the heartstrings, and those childhood friends allow you to be yourself and help you recognise the person were and have left behind to a long forgotten past.

Devraj Singh Kalsi works 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. 

Categories
Review

The Shaping of Modern Calcutta through Lottery Sales

Book Review by Somdatta Mandal

Title: The Shaping of Modern Calcutta: The Lottery Committee Years, 1817 – 1830

Author: Ranabir Ray Chaudhury

Publisher: Niyogi Books

If you ask any layman about the city of Calcutta (now rechristened as Kolkata) you will get three major pieces of information — namely, it was founded by Job Charnock in 1690; it was the seat of East India Company and capital of British India till 1911; and that it was divided roughly into two sections — the white English town at the centre and towards the south and the native town in the north. Beyond that, very few people have the idea of how the city developed spatially and how several major arterial roads, tanks and squares were built systematically during the beginning of the nineteenth century and this is where The Shaping of Modern Calcutta: The Lottery Committee Years, 1817 – 1830 by Ranabir Ray Chaudhury gives us plenty of information about the gradual development of Calcutta. This was undertaken by raising money through sale of lottery tickets and implemented by the creation of a Lottery Committee which functioned specifically for thirteen years from October 1817 to 1830.

Under the system then prevalent, the surplus lottery funds remained with the Bank of Bengal which would continue to be involved in the sale of tickets and the payment of prizes but would have nothing to do with other payments. The three senior members of the committee were John Eliot, Charles Trower and Henry Wood who had already looked after the construction of the square and tank at Baparitala (Wellington Square) and the new road being built from Dharamtala Road to Bowbazar. Later officials like Henry Shakespear and Barwell, G. Gordon and A. Colvin were inducted, and featuring in various sub-committees, they were also deeply engaged in the city’s development work.  

In 1830, for all practical purposes, the functions of the committee relating to the improvement of the city ceased effectively. Though the beneficial impact of the committee’s work affected everyone, native and European alike, and there was nothing remotely furtive about it, yet the Directors of the East India Company in London were not happy with what was happening in distant Calcutta on the city-development front, choosing to view the evolving picture in a different light. Keeping in mind the virtues of economy in expenditure, the Company wrote to its Government of Bengal that whenever there was any activity relating to general and public utility, some part of the charges ought to be borne by the inhabitants. Further, the Lottery Committee was handling large sums of money and perhaps there was the Company’s deep-seated skepticism about the sensibility of such expenditure in general and a tendency to conclude that the money was not being spent efficiently. The work done by the committee was phenomenal because the projects conceived and implemented by it still cast a long shadow on life in modern Calcutta. 

It becomes very clear that the city of Calcutta gained immensely from the development work carried out by the Lottery Committee since October 1817. The Strand Road had spruced up the eastern bank of the River Hooghly beyond recognition; the western side of Tank Square (today’s BBD Bagh) down to the Maidan till the West Bengal Legislative Assembly, had been given its modern shape with its grid of streets; pucka drains had been built and upgraded all over the city; the major north-south arterial road extending from Park Street in the south to Shyambazar in the north with four squares along it had been constructed; Free School Street had been made; the entire area south of Park Street up to Circular Road had been transformed into ‘virgin’ land ready to be settled in by the genteel (for the most part, sahib) population of Calcutta; and the modernisation of the Garden Reach area, reaching up to Khidirpur in the north, had been begun.

Among other things, the Lottery Committee built the major arterial roads in the northern and central parts of the city, which in time determined the layout of the contiguous residential areas. Dalhousie Square and the entire ground between Park Street and Circular Road were developed by the committee. Previously, a large part of the ground south of Park Street was low-lying and marshy, generating pestilence all around. Bustee clusters were located here probably because of the availability of Gangajal from Tolly’s Nullah (the Adi Ganga) through the existing network of drains, the river being some way off to the west.

The story of the making of Strand Road is narrated in detail, as with increasing economic activity and population pressure, it would provide the inhabitants with easier access to the river, both for recreation and commerce. The Lottery Committee was also responsible for putting up the first brick-and-mortar decorative balustrade which still adorns the Chowringhee area and Red Road. Thus, in its 13 years of effective functioning (till 1830), the committee had been successful in providing the critical push necessary to transform Calcutta from the topographical shape it had inherited since the years immediately following the landing of Job Charnock at Sutanati in August 1690 into one which, in a manner of speaking, would make the city ready to be launched into the 20th century and beyond.

The interest in reading the book persists throughout because apart from the maps, figures, numbers, statistics, and other logistic details, we get a lot of information of the different hindrances the Lottery Committee faced while implementing their projects. Human nature has not really changed much and so we read about people at that time who flouted the rules to line their own pockets and for whom profiteering was the norm.

The basic premise here is that human nature being what it is, there are some aspects of life and behaviour which are universal in their reach, both temporally and spatially. Another very interesting area of study is how the officials encountered the problem of encroachment, the process of land acquisition and the demand for compensation by native plot holders. The committee was aware of matters affecting the native sentiment and there are instances of how they altered the alignment of a major road to suit the convenience of the natives. Even then in some instances tiffs and legal hassles with local residents in North Calcutta were also recorded. Apart from private property rights, religious considerations too played an important role in the decision-making process of the committee.


Before concluding it is worthwhile mentioning a few lines about the author of this volume. During his quarter-century with The Statesman in Calcutta (1970-94), principally as a leader writer, Ranabir Ray Choudhury became interested in the past of a great city which the East India Company had selected as the nerve centre for its operations in the Indian subcontinent and further to the east, extending to Singapore and beyond. In time, this growing interest led to three compilations – Glimpses of Old Calcutta 1835-1850 (1978), Calcutta a Hundred Years Ago 1880-1890 (1987), and Early Calcutta Advertisements 1875-1925 (1992). He next wrote The Lord Sahib’s House, Sites of Power: Government Houses of Calcutta 1690-1911 (2010). A City in the Making, Aspects of Calcutta’s Early Growth (2016).

This volume under review is his sixth book and thematically is a sequel to the last one. That work ended with the formation of the Lottery Committee in 1817: this book takes up the story from there. From a connoisseur of the city, we get details of its development to a point that a lot of unknown facts are provided to the reader which the author garnered from documents and archival material available at the West Bengal State Archives.

Though he is not a historian, trained or otherwise, the author mentions in the ‘Introduction’ how he faced the constant struggle to avoid getting enmeshed in detail and to refocus attention on the broad current of policy and the effects of its implementation. Attention to the specific problems faced in the day-to-day execution of projects also does help to throw light on the precise nature of hurdles encountered at the grassroots level. The book is therefore highly recommended for scholars of history, architecture, town planning and every layman reader who is interested in Kolkata – a city which has been defined in multifarious ways as a city of joy, a city of palaces, a dead city, and so on.

.

Somdatta Mandal, an academic, critic and translator, is a former Professor of English at Visva-Bharati, Santiniketan, India.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Categories
Musings of a Copywriter

A Bone in My Platter

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

The customer polished off the chicken biriyani – leaving behind no trace of a single grain of polished saffron rice on the ceramic plate with golden borders. The solitary bone relaxed in spacious palatial comfort but soon became the bone of contention. He complained to the manager about the poor taste while making the payment. 

The young waiter, a lad of eighteen, standing nearby, heard everything. He went and took the bone from the plate and lobbed it at the shining bald pate of the customer while he was walking out with a toothpick clamped between his fingers. It hit him right in the middle. He quickly turned back to see what missile was that. He found close to his feet the same chicken bone he had left behind in the ceramic plate. He picked it up, took a studied look, and sprinted to the counter to lodge another complaint with the manager, alleging he was hit on the head by some crazy staff with the chicken bone, hoping for prompt, punitive action.  

Like a forensic expert, the manager took time to identify the piece of evidence, perhaps wondering whether the clever customer had brought it in his bag to levy a false charge and create a scene. There were endless possibilities, and the manager was in no mood to hastily accept the charge without cross-examining the customer.  

Sensing that the manager was employing delaying tactics to let the culprit chicken out, he rushed to grab the collar of the prime suspect and sought a confession under coercion. Accusing the young waiter of insulting and assaulting him, he dragged him to the manager’s cabin, threatening to get him arrested for causing physical harm intentionally with a lethal weapon that could crack his skull or lead to severe brain injury. He threatened to shut down the operations unless the manager tendered an apology.  

The manager explained the waiter had no such sinister intent as he was trying to throw the remnants out of the open window for stray dogs. Somehow it turned out to be an odd in-swinger, moving inside in the wrong direction and landing accidentally on his head. The customer remained defiant and unwilling to buy this defence. Finally, the young waiter had to mumble an apology before serving other customers, placing clean dishes, and pouring water into glasses. The angry customer flagged an alert regarding the violent streak observed in the waiter — but he sported a fixed and deceptive smile to ward off such grave charges.    

The customer staged a demonstration in front of the manager’s fancy table, thumping it with his fist and refusing to accept the diluted version: unintentional mistake. Finally, the manager stood in front with folded hands and begged forgiveness to wrap up this matter before it snowballed further. The aggrieved customer was adamant and sought a complete refund, or else he would report it to the local politician. To stave off further aggravation, the manager refunded the entire amount paid for the chicken biriyani plate but cursed him in his mind with digestive issues like unstoppable bowel movements at night.   

When the pacified customer finally vamoosed from the eating joint, the manager summoned the waiter to explain his behaviour. He told the bald customer gave incorrect feedback as there was nothing wrong with the food. Because the customer lied about quality, he got miffed. He confessed he was surprised he was so good at hitting the target. He had hoped it would land in some other direction or edge past his ear like a bullet. 

Many customers relished stale food and paid generous compliments on the rich taste. Whenever the chicken was served fresh, customers had complaints regarding the fare. Sometimes it was not spicy enough, or the taste lacked something they could not express in words but feel on the tongue. Such vague feedback was responded with an ersatz smile and an earnest promise to serve better fare next time. Most negative comments poured in when the bill value crossed the expected mark. There were several examples of customers who ate more than they could pay. They came to the manager and quietly promised to clear the deficit balance the next day. But they did not turn up for several months, hoping the manager would forget the matter. Dealing with such clients was always a challenge.  

There was a demand for cabins with curtains from couples, married or otherwise. The waiters exercised their discretion to overcharge for privacy. The manager was helpless in getting it vacated because the food was served late — and they ate very slowly. Even after an hour, the couple would not finish a fish cutlet while others sitting in the open zone gorged on a full plate of chicken and Badshahi Mughlai. The romantic busybodies tipped the waiter and ordered a bottle of cold drink when pressurised to vacate the cabin. Some new customers came and stood shamelessly in front of these cabins. The curtains — flying high in the breeze generated by the ceiling fan — revealed what the couples were up to. They had to quickly get up and clear the table without bothering to empty the cold drink bottle or finish the cutlet on the plate. Eating was an excuse for love birds as their hunger was not food-related.

Managing the restaurant included managing the kitchen as well. There was a tendency to poach the cook with extra salary and perks by rival restaurant owners. It was a big headache – unethical poaching like horse trading in politics. On many occasions, the chefs used to run away and join a rival restaurant without informing just after the day of salary credit. As a result, the slot fell vacant, leading to the cancellation of several specialty dishes till a new chef was hired. Customers returned disappointed, but dishing out excuses did not work, resulting in a steady decline in customer loyalty.  

When the new chef came on board, his quality was not always up to the mark. There was a litany of complaints from customers who missed the earlier fare. There was nothing to be done except serving a formal assurance of improving the quality as soon as possible.  

The overhead costs of operating a restaurant were high. The profitability dipped. The tipping point reached when the reputation hit the nadir. Customers did not get the menu of their choice. They had to wait before being served. A couple of years of running and ruining a family restaurant made me realise I had no potential to become a manager and manage a business well. I pulled down the shutters of the family-owned restaurant and presided over the end of its glorious run after two decades. The flop outing did not fill me with the passionate drive to prove detractors wrong – like being the author of an unsuccessful book has egged me to bake another one.  

Devraj Singh Kalsi works 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. 

Categories
Musings of a Copywriter

Life without a pet

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

Pet owners consider themselves blessed and share enriching stories. It sounds like the credit goes to the pet for awakening the fine human that had been dormant, in hiding, till the advent of the creature. Those who live without a pet are not supposed to be caring. To be recognised as sensitive, they should be seen petting a dog or a cat, making a pout, or blowing kisses for a feline or a canine. Even if they are highly insensitive towards fellow human beings, the presence of a pet in life helps build the image of being gentle and compassionate. A boss returns home after sacking a dozen employees and cuddles his pet Labrador – to assure himself that he still retains the softer side.

Many pet owners feel offended if their pet is called a dog. They want pets to be accorded respect. It appears it has become a mission in life to ensure respect for pets. Most of the dogs have fancy foreign names difficult to pronounce. I have not managed to be as generous as the householder who yells at the domestic help, and his pet amplifies his scolding with a high-pitched bark.

Pet owners spend liberally on their upkeep. The pet is served branded food purchased from a supermarket for balanced nutrition. The allocated budget for the pet is much higher than the monthly spending on the domestic help who gets non-branded food to eat.

Frankly speaking, I have never been fond of pets. Preparing chicken or mutton is ruled out in my vegetarian household. It would be an additional responsibility to take the pet out for a fleshy treat during the weekends. And if the pet turned vegetarian because of lack of choice, it would grow weak and lose the aggressive approach while fobbing off salespersons, beggars, and monkeys.

A dog would never feel inclined to bark inside my house as it would be listening to meditative music all the time. Since I prefer spiritual shows on television, the dog would also develop spiritual leanings to prepare for a better next life. The lack of wholesome entertainment in the house would make the pet feel bored, forcing the poor fellow to hang around the entrance gate to seek friendship with stray dogs roaming on the street.

The pet would also be upset if I did not take it out for a leisurely stroll in the park, to ogle at beauties and seek their caresses with a cute wink. I cannot indulge in such flirtatious acts and get away with it without getting lynched in the era of instant justice. The freedom the pet enjoys with girls and women is what I envy the most. Holding a leash and keeping pace with the agile dog would be another cardio exercise for me. It would be plain silly to be its guardian and silently suffer while the pet relished the attention of lissome women around and left me with the job of collecting all those flying kisses on its behalf.

Pets are supposed to protect householders from burglars. When it comes to performing after dark, many pets fail to live up to the expectations. A neighbour’s burly dog fell asleep after consuming drugged cookies offered by burglars who decamped with cash and ornaments. Dozing off on a critical night when burglars break in and barking at the moon the whole night for almost the entire year is simply a case of dismal performance that calls for dismissal.

I have no idea how to keep dogs happy and satisfied. Cuddling them, pampering them, or chatting with them to vent frustration is not my cup of tea. I count myself as incompetent to understand the feelings of others. For such a person, understanding the psychology of dogs is tougher than clearing a competitive test. Any pet of any lineage would like to get rid of me within a few months of living together. It is downright selfish to torture the poor soul only to improve my sensitivity quotient.

I have never believed in competition, but the presence of a pet would make me reverse that. The dog trainer would like the pet to participate in various games and tournaments, to win medals and trophies, to outsmart the owner who managed to win nothing big in his career.

A pet in my bed is something I dread. I do not want that casual pawing, no scratches on the back to make the partner think there is another woman in my life. It depends on the temperament and mood of the pet, whether I am spared or mauled. Serious damage followed by an apology from the pet would be useless. Hence, all that is precious should be held away from the reach of the dog. If the pet suffers any accidental injury at home, animal welfare associations are likely to pounce on me. I need to safeguard my interest as the pet would play the victim card. The best way out is to keep it out of my life.

I am accused of showing my wicked side instead of the sensitive side to animals when I chase away stray dogs and cats instead of indulging them with leftovers. Once encouraged, they become regular visitors and it is transactional. I give something and they follow me in the hope of further benevolence. When I do not feed them anything, they are least bothered to visit me or find out how I am doing.

Nowadays, stray dogs bark at me in the lane before looking away morosely. Recently, a dog tried to grab my fleshy leg for a quick bite but I managed to escape unhurt. After this episode, they look miffed as I chase them away with a stick. They climb the boundary wall to protest and bark, drawing the attention of other human beings in the neighbourhood. But the stray brethren of the locality know I am a peace-loving person who loves to co-exist. They have every right to live and enjoy life just like me. I am in full support of saving them from high decibels and firecrackers. I want a dignified life for them with no ill-treatment at all. So they should appreciate my sentiments and reciprocate by staying out of my way instead of bumping into me. I have no intent to derive pleasure or happiness from any animal source whatsoever.

I am not comfortable with the idea of a dog sitting next to me or on my lap while I am eating food or reading. I do not want the pet to scratch my CD collection if lunch gets late or tear my manuscript pages for brunch. Many writers and poets get stirred when a cat or a dog sits in front of them on the window-sill, busy with a pack of biscuits or a bowl of milk. I am not one of those creative types and the emotional enrichment theory is not applicable in my case. I avoid trips to the doctor for myself and I am not keen to visit the vet with the pet for vaccination schedules from time to time.

I do not want to drive the car with a dog in the backseat. I do not want the people travelling in an e-rickshaw or public bus to feel inferior when the dog peeps out of the car window. The person feels this dog has a better fortune and prays for such a privileged life. I would save that space and drop some passengers to their destinations in the car.

There are deaths in the families all the time and grief management is a big issue. The death of a pet in the family adds to this burden as the pet owner has to cope with another tragedy. I wish to avoid such negative setbacks and block the avoidable sources of grief.

A friend once told me I would have been a better writer if I had been a pet lover. I agreed with that because most good writers are pet lovers. If this piece fails to grab your attention, consider it the outcome of not living with a pet.

.

Devraj Singh Kalsi works 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. 

Categories
Musings of a Copywriter

When I almost became a Professor

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

Courtesy: Creative Commons

It is scary to witness a cabal of professors locked up in the staff room by agitating students who want to harass, heckle, punish, manhandle, slap their chubby cheeks, dislodge the spectacles, and look menacingly and maniacally powerful jabbing a middle finger. Holed up in a stuffy room under a slowly whirring ceiling fan, professors keep praying for the quick intervention of the Vice-Chancellor and his meek acceptance of the charter of demands so that the irate students release them from captivity.

Getting roughed up by students with a political agenda or by those with personal grudges is a nightmarish experience for any professor. But it is a professional hazard that most professors are now aware of and prepared to face during their teaching days. Such bitter experiences are included in the annual package. As a precautionary move, they empty their bladders every two hours because ‘being gheraoed’ includes not getting permission from students to answer nature’s call. They keep instant energy drink tetra packs in their bags for emergency use in case of dehydration and some toffees in the handbags in case of sugar level dip. You never know when students decide to strike!      

Though we never had the opportunity to hold our professors hostage during our university days, there were reports of similar incidents happening elsewhere. Imagine the plight of professors who were castigated for no fault of theirs. The impact of such scenes was long-lasting on me. I realised this when I began to explore the option of becoming a professor. The fear of getting slapped and caught in crossfire made me rethink the pursuit of academics as a career after completing my journalism course – the horror of being dragged through the corridors, down the stairs, and punched by promising students.

My record was clean: did not rough up any academician in my life so the question of Karma catching up with me was not applicable. But if you are destined to get abused by students, it will happen even if you choose not to become an educator. During an early phase of my career, I did mentor some students to improve their language and test my communication skills. The horrendous experience made me realise teaching is indeed a dangerous territory. Some strong abusive words were hurled at me like crude bombs and it included vile threats of a bloody encounter in the local area. With guns and other weapons being so easily available in the market just like toys, it is better to take such threats seriously. My hyper-imaginative mind began to visualise getting lynched by vandals brandishing sticks and knives. I avoided venturing out after dark for almost a year.  

It would have been so shameful to return to the classroom and address the same crowd of students that dispatched the poor academician (me) to the hospital. While it is true that the entire student community was involved in the fracas, some nastier ones would vitiate the atmosphere. Earlier, films depicted how professors were ill-treated. But the real world surpasses the fictional world. The mauled professors are rushed to the hospital and their families are busy praying for their speedy recovery.

When most of the students began to prepare for eligibility tests to qualify as lecturers, I sensed I had no proper knowledge in any subject. It was important to have a proper grounding or specialisation in a particular subject before teaching that subject. My knowledge always seemed insufficient to teach a classroom. It was also like a case of stage fright, facing a crowd of students who could raise a question, compelling me to consult the book for an answer. Imagining myself in such a predicament made me feel jittery. I could not convince myself to face the crowd with my half-baked knowledge though many others were confident of doing the same with a poorer knowledge base.

All they wanted was a safe job, with zero passion for the subject and they went ahead to build a career in academics. Most of them did not have a scholarly mindset but they were hard-working to scale up and make the cut because it was a question of qualifying in an entrance test and they had to scrape through.    

The scope of remaining in the company of young babes and the possibility of appealing to them would be a bonus reward. After seeing films based on students falling in love with professors, it was going to be good. Imagine a besotted girl madly in love with the professor coming up with gifts, just to have a chat. If she happened to be beautiful, then males would be stabbed with jealousy. The tendency to imagine extremes egged me to think of attacks with weapons inside the campus. With newspaper headlines screaming the next morning: professor stabbed, jealous student lover accused. 

This rise to fame was notorious so I dropped the idea of becoming a professor with the motive of falling in love with a girl student. Possibly, the madly-in-love girl slapped charges or went to town pressing me-too charges against me. A risky proposition was cancelled but it was tough to resist this because the perks of being a professor include falling in love with a student. On the downside, I imagined an obsessed student jumping off the parapet unable to bear rejection in love. All sorts of possibilities and fatal outcomes of being a professor came to the forefront, a whirlpool that dissolved everything related to academics.   

Another incentive to explore this career was the prospect of holidays that would give them the freedom to write and find readers in the classroom. With a secured job and limited working hours, there was ample time to read and write and find publishers who went ahead because professors command a big circle of student readers who buy the books driven by the fear of scoring poor marks. Imagine a professor asking a student whether he has read his new novel, and he promises to read it as soon as possible. This makes it easier to sell more books even if there is a conflict of interest. Besides, other professors and writers also write kind stuff in their reviews – in the fond hope of a similarly favourable review when they publish their titles.   

Unfortunately, the desire to become a professor waned as creative work in the field of advertising became more exciting. When the pressure of corporate writing left me with less time to write for myself, then I realised I should have become a professor to get a whale of a time to write instead of working under the pressure of deadlines. Now well past the age of being a professor even in an unapproved college, it is better not to think of it.

The joy of being a writer who has not pursued a full-time job is boundless. The madness of writing under stress and anxiety creates better writing and this would not be possible when you wrote in a calm state of mind. This is one merit of not becoming a professor – of writing with a free mind, without the burden of erudition that damages the free, natural flow.

Whenever a professor reads or comments on a piece of mine, I become a devoted student ready to be mentored because writing without a literature background makes you susceptible to frequent attacks so it is better to surrender and admit your ignorance in front of literature professors who will grab the chance to correct you or bombard you with heavy literary quotes. Instead of becoming a silly fool with limited knowledge and nodding yes-yes after every sentence, it is better to stake no claims of scholarship and call it a hobby, to dabble in writing without knowing what writing is all about. The forever-learner tag is easier to wear when you remain a student for life.  

                                                           

.

Devraj Singh Kalsi works 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.