Uncomfortable with my political views aired unexpectedly inside his salon, the savvy barber, swinging in his fifties, swung into rapid action by making a flower bloom on my head. A cadre of fierce loyalty, he chose to operate without showing a hostile reaction. His hands got together for an act of mischief, with the party symbol taking shape in the back of my head. His fiendish attempt to groom me as a party worker fetched partial success as he fumbled to get his floral designing right. The final shape he managed to accord was such that it was impossible to identify the flower, with several political outfits with floral symbols competing for political aggrandisement in the local town. The remote resemblance still made me think why I couldn’t gauge what he was up to, why I let this happen after surrendering my head in good faith to him while rambling on the rumble and tumble of politics. In hindsight, I should derive consolation from the fact that the rabid supporter, with scissors in hand, could have shown a much worse violent streak and I was lucky to have escaped unhurt.
Earlier, when I roamed around freely, nobody dared to call me a party worker. But now my teashop friends would be keen to excavate details of my allegiance, which party I swore allegiance to. It was better to let confusion prevail or else I would be stereotyped as a political aspirant though the truth remains that nobody in our family or dynasty has ever contested, leave aside won any election for generations.
During my next hop to the salon, I had queries lined up for the barber, but he was busy with his loyal customers. A few people waiting around stared at my face and head with the designed cut. Finally, when I had the chance to ask the barber why he had experimented with a design on my head, he sounded evasive and denied having any such nasty intention. He defended his innocent act by blaming me for being unsteady and shaky. When I tried to make him recall the details and his intent, he started a sudden conversation with another customer to deflect attention, asking him what to do with his goatee. When I sounded hell-bent on seeking an explanation, he cleared it was not a party symbol he intended. He fished out his camera phone, zoomed in, clicked my head and warned me to stay away from his shop or else he would be compelled to post the picture of my head on social media channels tagging local heavyweight politicians, though that was the last thing on his mind.
Becoming an object of ridicule was unacceptable so I chose to disappear from his shop without further discussion. A fanatic supporter could stir any controversy to gain mileage. It was safer to forget the entire episode as the worst nightmare of my life. I had no intention to air political views with a haircut which announced to all kinds of people a political opinion towards which I was indifferent. My best friend also warned me of the ramifications and urged me to go bald right away, to avoid escalation of political conflict. Perhaps it was genuine advice to save me. The next day, I stepped into a branded unisex salon for a neat, nifty job of turning my head into a cleared space. He quoted a hefty price for tonsuring my head, but it was much less than what I would have to cough up in case I was caught in the political crossfire.
Identity matters are crucial both in terms of flaunting and hiding – depending on which community one belongs to. Since both parties were active in the area, I had the fear of being roughed up by the cadre of either party and asked to clarify which party I belonged to. Since I am apolitical by choice — evident from my reluctance to vote for any political dispensation — the safest option would be to cover my head with a cap or hat to avoid any question about why I went for a bald look or what a tonsured head signified in the heat of elections. There would be discomfiting scenes when the neighbours started throwing the odd question. Maybe someone would find the look quirky enough and post it on a social media platform as a classic case of a fence-sitter or a rank opportunist would give it the final shape after seeing who wins, which flower blooms – the turncoat types waiting to lap up the right opportunity. In my case, the housemaid was the first to notice the change and sympathised: “Your bouncy hair is all gone, a terrible experiment that raises concerns.”
The new avatar was the outcome of my quick visit to the reputed hair stylist who egged me to avail of tattoo and beard trimming services though I was well past my prime to sport any of these. Business targets compelled him to pitch these services to all kinds of customers and persuade them. Despite a handlebar moustache as a fearsome icon, I caved into the suggestion, and he then proceeded to snip it. After doodling a small rosebud on the nape right below the collar, he suggested I should remove dark circles from under my eyes using their special serum. I agreed reluctantly to buy a golden facial grooming session to improve the overall look.
The entire package pinched my pocket, but the makeover did give a facelift to my personality and erased the fears of becoming a victim of a political bash-up. I took a selfie and posted it as a profile photo but the response to my glow was unusually slow and the makeover got fewer likes than earlier for some strange reason. The brazen attempt to look younger and dapper, and being fairly successful at having gained the look, was perhaps the reason that stoked jealousy in my peers. The tattoo of a rosebud was a romantic add-on when I should have ideally gone in for something like a lizard or snake as my venomous tongue unleashing spite was notorious all around. Even a cult icon would have suited my age, but not these teeny-bopper love symbols though these were safer than party symbols.
When the elections were over, none of the floral symbols won, but a newly formed party swept the polls. I was relieved I was rendered safe and went to the barber to see how he sulked now. I was surprised to see he had switched loyalty. The new party colours were spread all over the salon with posters. As I was about to take potshots, the barber did admit belatedly he had intended to draw a party symbol on my head the last time but could not do it perfectly well. His new party had a very simple symbol, and it was easy to draw for any novice. The intended threat was enough to make me beat a hasty retreat as my tonsured head had already raised an abundant harvest of salt and pepper hair within a couple of months.
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
A schoolmate was fond of creating a big impression of being an avid reader. He knew there were benefits of reading that were largely unknown to genuine book lovers. He fell in love with the idea of reading as he wanted someone to fall in love with him because of this good habit he cultivated. On the way to school, whether inside the bus or train, he always sat with a storybook, trying to cast a furtive glance and observe the bevy of girls noticing him engaged in this pedantic pursuit. He had faith that some girls would become curious and smitten very soon.
With the fond hope of a conversation with them someday, he kept doing the same thing. The book covers kept changing. As he became desperate, he picked up a romantic novel to send the signal. When he did not have a storybook, he fished out a textbook. The compulsion to have some reading material in front of his eyes helped raise a façade of erudition. He wanted to be seen as a reader whenever girls were pottering around.
The impact of reading was severe for him. He was classified and identified as a bookworm. The bespectacled first-rank holder in our class never read so much. Much to his disappointment, girls did not take an interest in him or his reading. It was scary for the fun-loving types. The guys who boarded a moving train at the last minute or disembarked from a speeding bus were heroes to them.
Driven by fatigue for the first time, he was ready to flirt with other options. When he realised books were futile in winning fans or praise, he switched his strategy to something that involved more daring. He went and stood near the entrance door. Ignoring the warning sign ‘DO NOT LEAN OUT’ crafted capitals and in red, he put almost half of his body out of the train compartment, suspending his weight with the support of the hand railing above his head, hoping to be noticed by girls for his bravado.
Before he could realise what had happened, he was hit on the head and rushed to the nearest hospital at the next station halt. He underwent multiple stitches and survived a life-threatening experience. When he regained consciousness, no girls were waiting with bouquets and get-well-soon notes outside his cabin. He found just a few of us with fruit baskets. Such a misadventure, though unintended, did not elicit any wave of sympathy, but he ended up being famous as a silly boy who could not keep himself safe.
Some girls enquired how he was after he rejoined, but it was a formal query devoid of affection. The one he had a soft corner for did not seek any update. The poor fellow failed miserably in reading as well as heroism. Now he was always made to sit inside the coach, never allowed to stand near the door. Some of us cracked jokes, but he often lost his temper after this brain injury. We read it as a change of personality traits. He sat with a bandaged head for some days expecting sensitive queries, but he had stopped being an object of curiosity or pity for the entire class.
Inside the school, during the recess hour, he stopped playing indoor games like chess. He changed his strategy by approaching a lady teacher with suggestions for his reading list during lunch break. He went to the library and got some uncommon books issued, expecting that lady teachers would gauge him better, unlike the carefree girls. Inside the classroom, he raised irrelevant questions and drifted our attention to storybooks, making other students grumble as the lessons were incomplete.
When the copies arrived checked, he performed below average. Soon, the new English teacher understood his ulterior motive. He used difficult words to flaunt his vocabulary and to impress the woman English teacher. Most of us did not know the meaning of the words he used. He derived wicked pleasure as we were shown as ignoramous despite scoring better in English. He loved the idea that he was advanced in reading. He firmly believed someone would appreciate him better and attune themselves to his wavelength. Turning bespectacled before eighteen was a plus point for him as he thought readers looked like that. But the truth was that some vitamin deficiency had led to his poor eyesight.
Most of us saw him spending time in the library scanning books. He would ask us the names of the author on his list. He recalled many names and titles unheard of as his memory appeared sharpened after the head injury. Since we failed to answer, he was pleased to find us ignorant. He mentioned some names to enlighten us. Most of us thought he would become a writer one day since he was discussing what we never bothered to know in such depth. Perhaps the system of education was not doing justice to him.
When we reached high school, a creative writing contest was organised in which the toppers took part. He was asked why he had stayed out of it. He was quiet for a while and then replied the teachers who were judging had not written anything in life, so he would not insult himself by writing for them and submitting to them for assessment. We did not know whether it was his arrogance, or his statement had an iota of truth attached to it.
Years later, it was shocking for him to know I was dabbling in writing. He was still trapped in the world of books, as it appeared from the pictures he sent me of the sprawling library at his residence, and his various poses with books. I asked him what he was doing when Google did not list his name in the top five pages. He said he was doing a regular job for a living that gave him ample time and freedom to read and write. He also said he was the president of the local literary club for youth and a part-time social worker. Although he was eager to know what I wrote, he did not ask me anything as he feared being asked what he wrote all these years, I guess. I told him what I read, and he said he had finished reading those authors a long time ago – pretty advanced, as usual.
He mentioned without radiance that he wrote love poems in his mother tongue using a pen name. It must be for the girl he liked – who qualified as a doctor. Maybe, he still went around her old house on his bicycle to feel her presence though she had moved overseas to another country long ago. His unreciprocated love had many shades, and he kept it alive through poetry.
He forwarded me pictures of reading in the garden, terrace, recliner, et al. In this age of emojis, if you are seen reading, you get hundreds of likes. But in those days, you did not get a single like. These likes – for the book or his reading nook – would have made him confident then. The well-crafted image of being a pretentious reader he remains stuck with – despite no rewards. Possibly, these likes warm the cockles of his sad heart.
I realised I owed him a few likes and pressed the love icon for some of his social media posts as an act of repentance. Being a friend, he deserved likes from me. He messaged me saying one like during those school days would have worked. Even though I praised him today, he understood I was faking like many others. True, I was always a miser when it came to showering praise.
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
Reading the nutrition chart on labels of packaged foods becomes the favourite pastime through your bifocals or progressive lens once you turn health-conscious after reaching a certain age. Those carefree days of feasting on anything in any quantity are gone. Anxiety shoots up after you gobble a gulab jamun. The glucometer starts ticking in your mind. You are smitten by guilt even if you are pre-diabetic. One gulab jamun pronounced the culprit for the imaginary spike in the sugar level.
It has become a successful business strategy to combine healthy with unhealthy these days. Restaurants and other eateries sell paneer roll but you know it is fried in oil. Since it has cottage cheese inside, you are told it is a good source of protein for your body to stay healthy. And you end up ordering a double paneer roll, ignoring the fact that oil is not good for the heart. Those big chunks of paneer allure you in the ads – and the visual treat tempts you for gastronomical excesses. Gradually, you convince yourself that cottage cheese is indeed good for the bones, and you need a good quantity of calcium from a vegetarian source to ensure they do not crack up under pressure from detractors. Expectedly, the frequency goes up as the paneer roll becomes your favourite ‘heaathy’ snack.
Having rummaged through articles on good sources of protein, you know the vegetarian diet has glaring deficiencies in this regard. Being a committed vegetarian, you do not try out animal sources. But the fear of protein deficiency haunts you, compelling you to dig up other vegetarian sources. If you need confidence to flex muscles in front of big bullies in your locality, you must have brawny biceps – not radish-shaped arms fit only to lift bathroom buckets. Protein shake becomes your predictable supplementary choice before you hit the gym floor.
Vegetarians often compromise when it comes to health though they hesitate to admit that. I have seen them almost puke at the sight of their vegetable chops being fried alongside fish cutlets in the same oil and pan. Such buddyhood is incompatible, intolerable and revolting for fanatics. But the same vegetarian folks pop cod liver oil capsules for stamina and justify it as a valid medical option to stay healthy. Likewise, animal fat is avoided but Omega-3 capsules are eagerly popped every day after lunch to keep mind and body in sound health.
Even though they know all about walnuts and their Omega content, they call it a hard nut to crack, preferring the cheaper alternative of medical supplements marked with a non-vegetarian symbol. Ask them why they are okay with that, and they are super quick to respond by saying their frail bodies need these. If the word goes around that non-vegetarian food is the ultimate secret behind longevity, will there be a sharp decline in the number of vegetarian folks?
Take the case of those who do not consume eggs, but they love pastries and cakes with eggs even though eggless variants have flooded the bakeries. As the form of egg has changed in the preparation process, they do not feel it is a cardinal sin to try out this option. While there are many who eat vegetarian stuff at home, they are very fond of non-vegetarian stuff outside. Striking the perfect balance between vegetarian and non-vegetarian food keeps them healthy though this truth is rarely spoken in this fashion.
The population of vegetarian people also includes those who have eaten non-vegetarian food before their retirement from carnivore fare. Some give up give up their favourite fish, egg, and meat for spiritual succor. While they need applause for showing the strength to resist, they think they have done the right thing as their organs cannot take in rich food after a certain age. To prevent digestive problems, it is better to have a vegetarian diet. Once again it boils down to convenience. The desire to stay healthy governs this decision – just as they chose to eat non-vegetarian food more for strength rather than taste.
There is perhaps another category of people who have switched from vegetarian fold to non-vegetarian diet in their old age. They say they have been quite cautious and avoided non-vegetarian food during their younger days but in old age they need solid strength that comes from animal sources alone. So, their decision to turn non-vegetarian after reaching sixty is right. Here, too, the desire to live healthy is the prime reason for the switch past their prime.
The other day I was reading the health benefits of chia seeds, flax seeds, watermelon seeds, and fox nuts along with their nutritional value. Items not tried before also become the focus as the age sets in to get familiar with the best sources of staying healthy in mind and body, along with keeping a glowing, radiant skin. The search for super foods continues and the health freak seeks the daily dose of multi-vitamins to remind himself that he will remain healthy because he consumes it regularly now. Even if one consumes the most powerful sources of health, one has one’s own health challenges setting in due to aging. The fascination with reversing age inflates the budget and leads to growing stress instead of delivering effective results despite consumption of healthy items on a regular basis.
Consuming fruits and vegetables is seen as a frail attempt to maintain health, but the tendency to strike out sweet fruits leads to explore other choices that are not well-balanced. A lifetime of rich diet based on vegetables and fruits should deliver the satisfaction of leading a healthy life but the presence of random fast food intake offsets the long-term benefits.
So, it is perhaps, best to keep oneself undefined as a vegetarian or non-vegetarian because the need to stay healthy always decides what you prefer and for how long. In a lifetime there are several stages and there are several stages of being a pure vegetarian, a pure non-vegetarian and a mix of both based on convenience.
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
It is often said that monkeys do not like to see their face in the mirror. They tend to screech with explicit dental intimidation if they happen to find themselves in front of one. Whether it is outright abhorrence for narcissistic indulgences that eggs the simians to adopt such a stance or anything else remains unknown, but my litany of encounters with a few specimens illustrate that exceptions also prevail here as everywhere else.
One sunny afternoon, a monkey sneaked in through the door left open by the domestic help who had stepped out to pick up woollens from the clothesline. Sensing positive vibes in the air, he proceeded into the living room and stood on his hind legs in front of a large full-length mirror, striking a confident, self-assured, and dignified pose to assess the overall look. When I lifted the curtain to have a full view of his antics, it was an invasion on his privacy and the facial expression of self-love melted into cheeky defiance. Before I could guess what would happen next, the monkey bared his clenched yellow teeth and raised a palm and gave a resounding slap that made a perfect landing on my face.
As luck would have it, something more interesting caught his attention. The domestic help had just stepped in to discover my strange predicament. She genuflected at the threshold to pay obeisance to the unwanted guest. With such devotion on display, his mood changed from anger to happiness. While the monkey and my help gazed at each other, I quickly disappeared from the scene to arm myself with a stick for self-defence. When I returned, I found the monkey missing while my help was still lying prostrate. I had to bang the stick on the door to alert her and inform her that the monkey had left. She got up and looked around to check if he had gone out and concluded that the peaceful departure meant good luck for the house.
I said she was lucky he did not trample over her while exiting. I had missed his exit. I did not know whether the monkey swished his tail or made a quiet, unceremonious exit. The life-threatening experience was life changing as well. The domestic help kept on showering praise on the auspicious visit that would change my fortune soon. Perhaps the visit was too short – or it was the lack of gastronomic delight for the guest that deprived me of good luck. I should have served lemonade or cookies at least.
We were destined to meet again. On another afternoon, around the same time, I was caught unawares by the presence of another simian walking gracefully out of the open kitchen with a plastic jar of biscuits clutched firmly in one arm. I had just come out after having a bath when this scene exploded in front of my eyes. Though I was fully dressed to keep my assets safe, I was jolted by this free movement inside the house. What I could figure out without my spectacles was that this simian looked more feminine than the previous trespasser. Perhaps this was the companion, and she knew that this house had easy access and was worth visiting and exploring. While moving out, this one also made no rushed effort, as if familiar with the route. Was her memory sharper than mine? Honestly speaking, I often jumble up between exit and entry doors.
As soon as the monkey went out, some other of her flock descended from the roof and flanked her. She was quite skilled at pulling the lid off just like us. In no time, several hands took turns picking up digestive biscuits. Perhaps this good bonding has kept my clothes safe from any direct attack. Even if they are left out to dry, none of them make any mischief by pulling them off from the clothesline whenever they hop around in the compound in gay abandon. Before I could shout at any family member for this negligence, I was reminded there was no one else at home. I had been careless enough to have kept the door open when the courier arrived an hour ago.
They had been to the living room and the dining space – also to the kitchen. The bedroom and the study escaped their notice till then. I was dusting my books. The door had been left ajar. It was the perfect occasion for another visitor to fall in love with reading. While I was busy shuffling and stacking up on the upper shelves, I turned around to see one monkey sitting in front of the computer, fiddling with the mouse and the wire. I was about to jump off the small ladder to save my gadget when the simian tapped on the woofer, identifying the source of soothing music. I descended quickly to pick up some fluffy cushions from the settee to hurl at his face and started to chase him away by making whoosh-whoosh noises. The monkey felt offended, lost interest in the gadgets and rose suddenly, hitting the keyboard with his behind, toppling it along with the music discs kept at the edge of the table. Once he left without creating a ruckus, I was relieved and hoped such an encounter would not occur again though this household was familiar territory for them. However, if surprises are in store, you cannot avoid them.
On another day, when the puja ceremony for the vehicle was about to begin, a monkey came down from the parapet, picked up a coconut from the tray, and broke it into two right in front of our eyes. While he did the honours, the priest stood shell-shocked to witness the simian intervention that was timely, prompt, voluntary and intelligent to deserve a video reel that would go viral within hours. Wondering if he was trained for such impossible acts, he kept quiet. Sadly, not being prepared for this surprise deprived me of the opportunity to shoot a video. I had to convince him that the monkey chose to do so out of his free will. We must appreciate his decision to help us during the auspicious occasion with active participation, to make ordinary mortals realise that they can also perform feats that humanity world thinks is only the human forte.
They still had the instinct to help though we have forgotten to help fellow humans and other creatures of this planet. It was a timely reminder that we need to wake up and start working towards making this world a better place again. On that sombre note, we concluded the brief ceremony and enriched our minds with a broader outlook. The priest would remember this all his life. As expected, the news of a monkey breaking the coconut bought many people to my gate, who came looking for darshan[1] of the trained resident monkey perched somewhere on the roof or a tree top.
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
Waking up in the ambrosial wee hours of the morning to find my silk scarf dragged to the bathroom door sent shivers down my spine. I suspected the sneaky presence of a stranger in the house, most likely a petty thief who fancied this extravagant piece of clothing around his neck to rev up his vagrant style. Rattled by this intrusion, I turned around, with one eye stationed on the wall. I tried to track shadows lurking behind me to hammer my moderately creative head. Nothing appeared in sight or peripheral vision, so I looked up for open ventilators or any broken windowpane to unravel the mystery of the great escape of an agile thief who decamped with more valuable stuff than what had come to my notice so far.
Picking up the scarf and dumping it in the woven basket, I retraced my steps to enter the bedroom and checked the cash box in the wardrobe. I was about to step in when something scurried very fast along the base of the wall in front of me, squeaking behind the refrigerator in search of a haven, probably feeling scared and jittery of a predatory attack and sending distress signals to its fraternity to stay holed up underground.
The supposed culprit – a squeaking rat – had made a fleeting appearance. I confess I do not possess the olfactory vigour to smell its presence like many others do. But there was no denying the fact that there was a family of rats residing at my address without my knowledge and permission. The tell-tale signs were their droppings splattered on the marble slab in the kitchen and the dining space. One rat would surely not have such a bulky output even if it enjoyed a wholesome feast every night. Besides, dragging my silk scarf was a specimen of well-orchestrated teamwork.
As the storytelling instinct does not let go of an opportunity to find a crack for a new narrative, the presence of a ghost could well be another strong possibility. Possibly the rat was not the culprit but the saviour to chase away the spirit in search of salvation or relief from the wintry chill as it rested on the mango tree in the backyard. Spirits enter and exit through closed doors and windows with ease, so this was another fascinating interpretation that engaged me for a while when I traced no sign of pilferage in my wardrobe.
Since I had witnessed the presence of a shy rat lacking the courage to own up its mischief, I was inclined to go with this credible version. With another rat collaborating to displace my favourite scarf. It was quite a distinct possibility though I was yet to attach a motive to it. Were they just trying to foment trouble in the household? Were they having good fun with my scarf to end their boredom? I had checked the scarf for possible tears but it bore no sign of violence.
I must praise their good behaviour and upbringing. Though they could have wreaked havoc on my belongings lying in the open, they exercised remarkable restraint. Or perhaps, they had damaged things I had not examined yet. Maybe, the cloth bags, the plastic containers on the kitchen shelf, the woollen carpet, or the backside of the leather sofa were what they preferred to bite into. On the upside, there was still no clinching evidence of their destructive avatar in the household. Playing the devil’s advocate, I thought the rats tried to take my scarf to the washroom and plunge it into the water drum to serve me a reminder. Washing it was a pending task for quite some time. The stubborn stains of tomato sauce on the scarf were unlikely to go away if there were any further delays.
Instead of thanking them for the timely assistance, I chose to be thankless, like humans tend to do all the time. I preferred to place a rat trap with irresistible bait: jam cookies for dinner. With those tantalising pieces dangling from the iron hook inside the wooden box, a fool-proof trap was laid, like those gorgeous dresses displayed to entice shoppers into a store. The rat trap was not big enough for the pair to walk into comfortably without jostling for space. However, in the cover of darkness, I was sure at least one would go inside to fetch the gourmet food while the partner waited outside, just as a biker ducks into a takeaway snack counter and his pillion-riding girlfriend guards the bike.
My concern regarding the safety of bestselling books was paramount though I was okay if they chewed the books written by me, to cut their teeth and gain experience of what they were best at. I was impressed with their perfect coordination, fighting like a healthy couple, making a big noise on piffling issues but staying united to stave off external attacks.
Getting the rats out of their hiding place was a problem that plagued me. I hoped the bait would work as a talisman for me. But deep within, I thanked them for doing good work instead of damaging the items. This was a radical change that deserved praise instead of this brazen attempt to evict them. Human beings find innovative ways to eliminate rivals of all species. My eviction drive was a moderate and tolerant act though I had the freedom to snuff out their precious lives with a mild dose of poison sprayed on bread crumbs or try a glue mat that immobilise them once they have stepped on it accidentally and keep screeching for relief till their last breath.
I thought the next morning I would push the wooden box out of the house, lift the cage door and set it free to roam the big, bad world instead of remaining cloistered here. But the rats were intelligent and clever to guess my moves. Staying close to books led to some transfer of knowledge. I saw the trap door still open and the jam cookies lying untouched. It proved to be quite a greed-resistant pair, unlike human beings. Let me not read too much into it. Maybe they were fasting that night, maybe the cookies were placed a bit too far beyond their reach, or maybe, they were having something yummier than what I had served them.
The next day, I placed the same delicacy in a different spot. Closer to the cavity behind the door to shorten its travel distance and switched on a mellow yellow night bulb for ease of movement without stumbling in the dark. It would be quite a romantic setting for the couple to waltz for a while before getting inside the cosy cabin to feast on jam cookies.
I was growing impatient to get them inside the rat trap. By hook or by crook. Surprisingly, this time it worked. Early in the morning, I spotted a long tail swishing. Curious eyes looked at me with horror and betrayal. There was a tacit appeal to reciprocate goodness just as they had been good to my belongings even though they had the power to ruin everything. I dragged the box out of the house, wore the gloves of a gardener, and put on a mask as if I were about to perform a surgical experiment. I pushed the wooden box down the stairs and it was a tumble, a freefall, a deep dive like a car plunging into the deep gorge from a mountain road.
The world of the rat also turned as topsy-turvy as mine. When he finally crashed and landed on the cement floor with a thud, the shocked rat recovered from the initial rude jolt and looked through the grille at the vast blue sky before establishing eye contact with me. I pushed the entrance door open to set him free. He came out quickly and vamoosed, taking a diagonal route to enter a pesky neighbour’s compound. This was my unintended gift to his house but I hoped the rat would make it hell for him, and settle scores on my behalf, for dumping all his dry waste in front of my house to keep his façade look super clean.
I abandoned the gloves after the successful operation and washed my hands with anti-septic liquid before going for a breakfast of oats. A day of peace later, I found disturbing noises again. Deprived of its companion, the surviving partner in the household was making fervent screeching pleas to be reunited. I was afraid she would seek revenge this time so I should get it out at the earliest.
I was mistaken in thinking trapping her would be a challenge. The rat was more than willing to be trapped as it knew this was the vehicle that carried its partner away. Placing a bit of walnut cake slice inside the rat trap allured the survivor though I knew she would have stepped in even without the bait. I found her lying inside listlessly the next morning, without any visible effort to move an inch. She was eager to be ferried out of the house. So, I did what was necessary.
When I finally set her free, she went in the same diagonal direction the earlier one had gone even though I did not provide any clues or hint of direction to proceed. She was rather quick and entered the compound of the same pesky neighbour who would now have two unwanted guests in his elegant villa.
I know they would recollect memories of happy days spent in my humble abode and glorify my benevolence. I set them free, but they were destined to be united again. Even if the neighbour poisons the two after detecting their presence, they would still be happy to die together instead of living sad lives in separation.
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
The Duggals had received their first invitation to attend a grand reception organised to celebrate the divorce of Upasana Malhotra, the only daughter of a reputed steel magnate diversifying into organic agribusiness. Having lived in the same colony before fortune ferried the Malhotras away from the middle-class neighbourhood to a posh locality teeming with industrialists, the Duggals were the only family they shared close ties with decades ago. The same affection remained in place even though their visits happened only on special occasions. So, it was a surprise for the Duggals to be invited again after three years to the same household where they had gone to bless the couple exchanging vows for continuing wedded for life.
More startling was that the girl possessed the courage to throw a lavish party, inviting distinguished guests who came to her wedding party to re-appear, bless and congratulate her again for her decision to leave the Poddar surname attached in haste. After a breezy romantic courtship that blossomed in a top-notch US university campus, the much-talked-about marriage solemnised three summers ago hurtled to a premature end. The Duggals knew it was one of her crazy ideas to celebrate the mutual separation ostentatiously and showcase the event for public consumption, with attendees looking baffled about how they should behave on her D-day (read Divorce Day).
As the Duggals were flabbergasted, they sought the help from Google to find out more about such parties. They could not find ample content to clarify their doubts, so they sought help from their tech-savvy son, Shamsher Duggal, who called up an event manager friend to dig up details about divorce parties. She said there were no separate rules to follow, and it was just held the way marriage parties are held, with much scope to innovate for the couple. The guests were expected to maintain the usual decorum and focus on wine, food and music to celebrate the bright future for the divorcees. Shamsher asked his parents to keep the Charh di Kala[1]approach in mind, to calibrate themselves with the equivalent of joie de vivre: stay indulgent, in high spirits to mint fresh memories of fun and enjoyment.
Mr Duggal kept gazing at the invitation card delivered by courier, running his podgy fingers on the embossed letters. It was fancier than any marriage invitation card. The gold-plated card glittered, perhaps indicating the glittering future after the mutual separation that was to be formalised at an auspicious hour. The names of the couple and their families were mentioned along with the programme schedule, with the Lord’s name emblazoned on it to suggest this separation was being formalised with divine blessings, to thank Him for mercy and saving the couple from a boring life together.
Freedom at midnight is always good as it heralds a new dawn. The midnight timeline for the divorce echoed in a similar strain. The couple would wake to a new life of freedom after their tryst with matrimony. The big idea behind the invitation was to come and bless the separating couple with tons of happiness in their post-divorce lives. The creative note was penned by a professional copywriter who gave it a spin and hyped it to such an extent that it seemed missing this event would be the biggest blunder for couples who had experienced the beautiful side of getting hitched but not the equally, if not more, wonderful side of getting ditched. When Mrs Duggal picked it up to read, those emotional lines struck a chord with her and filled the gaps in their marriage. She looked at divorce through the prism of optimism.
Mr Duggal, yet to recover from the initial shock of being invited to attend the divorce party, found it challenging to customise his expressions to suit the occasion, to look happy like he did when Upasana married this guy three years ago. He remembered sharing with relatives and friends the video clip featuring their energetic Bhangra dance to show how charged they were as a doting, retired couple.
“Do you think we are expected to bless them again? Isn’t it a farce? Grooving and smiling would be tough, isn’t it? Those vivid memories of blessing her would haunt me. What is the need to hold this function? What are they trying to prove? Mocking at the institution of marriage? Don’t you think they are making a grand show of putting up a brave face when misfortune looms large? Check the program list. Leading pop singers from the film world are going to perform live,” Mr Duggal went hammer and tongs.
“They are not going to sing sad songs of separation. Not your favourite dard bhare geet. They wish to celebrate divorce as a happy occasion – the harbinger of good times. A peppy show loaded with dance and masti[2]. Frankly, I am impressed with her plan, no matter what you say. Chalo[3], let’s not waste time. Choose my dress and matching jewellery, so much to do. Stop brooding and decide which suit you want to wear or buy something traditional,” Mrs Duggal showed her positive frame of mind for the special event they were privileged to attend. Finally, she would have something unique to discuss at her kitty party next week.
Mr Duggal was not in high spirits, unlike his wife who got another opportunity to look fabulous and interact with the upwardly mobile guests she had met at Upasana’s theme wedding. When he mentioned the name of the sensational singer, Mrs Duggal slipped into dance mode, visualising it to be awesome.
“Our blessings are mere formality; did not mean much the last time and it is not going to matter this time again,” Mr Duggal tried to get her back on a serious track.
“Oh Sardarji, come on, you know it is all like that. Do not ruin the fun part. They have entertainment. We ate a gourmet dinner last time. Expect the same this time. They are sweetly mocking the institution of marriage so let them do it. Relationships are like that only today. Here, we carry dead relationships on our shoulders and try to revive them instead of ending everything on a bitter-sweet note,” Mrs Duggal offered her worldview without sounding preachy.
“So, you mean our marriage can also go to the rocks one day? Our four decades of marriage can crumble,” Mr Duggal expressed concern, “In case you have such intent, do let me know a year in advance so I can prepare and plan my future, and get check-ups done to avoid cardiac arrest. But if you decide suddenly – just give me a slow disclosure so that the shock does not upset my weak but vital organs,” Mr Duggal pleaded with her in a lighter vein.
“Now stop worrying about your fate and go and ask if Shamsher would join us,” Mrs Duggal tried to reduce his anxiety.
“Has he ever been anywhere with us in the last ten years? No point asking and getting the same standard reply,” Mr Duggal furnished his bland refusal.
“He was not asked to accompany us to Upasana’s wedding. They were friends in childhood. Maybe now you can ask if he…” Mrs Duggal tried to persuade him.
“You remember so much. Anyway, since you insist, I am seeking his presence. Did he complain he was not asked to go last time?” Mr Duggal asked with curiosity.
Mrs Duggal kept mum, waiting for him to understand something without words.
Mr Duggal went and knocked at his son’s frosted glass door and asked if he would like to go.
Instead of refusing, he said he had an important presentation that evening so he would stay home for the project.
“I told your Mummy you are not a party-loving guy, but she insisted I should ask you to join us. When will your mother understand you as I do?”
*
Mr Duggal rummaged the wardrobe looking for a suitable blazer and trailed a volley of queries after informing her that Shamsher was not joining them.
“Do you have any idea how we are going to behave there? I mean do we look sad or happy? I am bad at faking, you know that. Are you going to give them bouquets separately?” Mr Duggal fired a big one.
“Not decided. But yes, better if we give one each separately. You give to Upasana, your missed Bahu[4]. And I will give her divorcee hubby. Don’t think so much. They are happy to heal this way, so why should we grudge? We are invited – go and enjoy. Be practical like them. Just chill,” Mrs Duggal gave sound advice to make him comfortable.
Mr Duggal was not okay with this whole idea. He thought this was intended to make fun of marriage although his wife and son were on the same page in this matter and hailed it as a progressive step.
“I am clear I am not going to bless them again,” Mr Duggal stressed with raised eyebrows, “I know the Malhotras will be upset doing this tamasha[5]but Upasana is forcing them to stage this show.”
“Whoever has planned it, at least some people got work, some organisers, catering guys, bartenders, and DJs. Money is flowing out of the tycoon’s coffers for a divorce party that is just like a farewell party. Touchwood, I am super excited. I am going to wear a silk Sharara[6], and diamond jewellery for the divorce party,” Mrs Duggal revealed her plans.
Shamsher joined their discussion late and cheered for his mother and persuaded her to buy a flashy suit for his father, maybe a tuxedo.
When Mrs Duggal mentioned this divorce party, none of her friends reacted with excitement as they were not invited. It was a matter of privilege for the Duggal family to be invited. Upasana liked Duggal Uncle when her father was not super-rich. As good family friends, Upasana bonded well with Duggal Uncle who gave her strong lessons to be independent and brave like a boy child. This gender parity thing was a gift from Duggal Uncle who wanted her to be free in her choices.
“You are the one who put those modern ideas in her at that young age,” Mrs Duggal accused her husband of being the real culprit.
There was no denying the fact that Mr Duggal never discriminated against based on gender and encouraged girls to follow their dreams. He had encouraged his sister to join the medical profession. Considering Upasana to be just like his own child, he gave her genuine advice as her father was busy expanding his business empire.
*
On the day of reception, the Duggals walked in, decked in their best. Upasana spotted them from a distance and walked down the aisle to receive them and hugged them after touching their feet. She had not forgotten the traditions. Mrs Duggal congratulated her for being bold enough to walk out of a loveless marriage based on presumptions. Citing this as the most probable reason, she went ahead with examples of women from her community separating fast. As they reached the dais where the florally decorated, chairs for the split couple were arranged, her ex-hubby greeted them with folded hands and shook hands with Mr Duggal who almost squeezed it in true Punjabi style, and his smile almost dried up under pressure.
“Nice, you are leaving Upasana, not made for each other type actually,” Mr Duggal said to the former groom, Puneet Poddar while releasing his hand from his firm grip. Mrs Duggal offered him a bouquet of roses and congratulated him on his quick release from the marriage cell with a sardonic smile and an avancular peck on his chubby cheek.
Trying to appreciate her sense of humour, Puneet Poddar reciprocated with a half-hearted smile and claimed it was his idea to throw a party and seconded by Upasana. “The real purpose behind this party is to meet you, guys. All those who attended our marriage got the invite to this party – from both sides. Our families loved this idea and gave the go-ahead to end it on a happy note,” Puneet explained briefly to the Duggals and guided them to settle in the front row seats on the other stage put up for the gala musical night.
Mr Duggal wanted to meet the Malhotras first and asked him, “Where are your parents and in-laws?”
Mrs Duggal went to reserve the best seats for the music show while her husband continued the chat with Puneet Poddar who informed their parents that were together, formalising last-minute plans of setting up a new company abroad.
“Son and daughter are separating but the parents are forging a new bond?” Mr Duggal looked stunned.
“That is the beauty of our separation, Uncle. No bitterness. They remain friends and come closer while we call it over. They clicked as business partners, but we did not as partners. Simple as that.”
“This is something unique, never heard of, dear, business interest supreme,” Mr Duggal admitted, “very practical, beta[7], loving it now.”
“Honestly Uncle, we all are happy, we are beginning new lives,” Puneet Poddar asserted with a dash of confidence.
“Where did Upasana vanish? Let me find her.”
“Must be busy with her girl gang inside,” Puneet said coldly.
Guests started trooping in with gift hampers and the band of musicians arrived on the stage. Mr Duggal looked around and found the best whiskey.
Contrary to Mr Duggal’s expectation of tearjerker numbers, sad songs of the Rafi-Lata-Kishore era being played out in a remix version, or some Ghalib ghazals, the band started jamming on peppy songs of freedom and carefree living and travelling the world. Perhaps that was the brief: celebrate freedom and free living. The dance floor rocked, as couples of all age groups began to waltz. The laser beams flash here and there to create colourful images of a happy crowd enjoying every moment of the party, with dozens of cameras zooming and capturing the party from various angles.
The couple that was breaking up could be spotted together on the stage, flanked by their parents for the last photo-op. The press guys went click, click, click.
Mr Malhotra held the mike and spoke with verve, “We are glad to have you all with us on this happy day, to wish the separating pair the best for their future lives as independent people in their solo journeys.”
He gave it to Puneet to utter a few words, and he trundled out a stirring speech. “It was a wonderful journey of three years, and we realised this is all we had to share. No question of remarrying but remaining focused on living as free souls. Marriage is not fit for our nature and temperament. I am not marriage material. I guess we both have this trait in common. These three years have convinced us. There are many more like us who keep quiet and continue. Not us because we have choices. I was lucky to have Upasana who realised the same, and we gave each other the best gift possible. Freedom. If marriage was wrong, divorce is right.”
Puneet Poddar won a legion of admirers with his speech, and the guests expected Upasana to say a few words to surpass him.
Upasana picked it up from where he left, “Yeah right, marriages don’t have to be dysfunctional and then end in a split. Even apparently peaceful and stable marriages can end without raising a flutter. When beautiful things unfold in our lives, more beautiful than marriage that impedes and dilutes the experience, marriage should give way to that beautiful future we cannot share. Our lives cannot be beautiful together, not as much as our separate lives can be, and we realised it,” Upasana poured forth, “perhaps we come across as selfish, but if the sole focus of marriage is to make two people happy forever, we felt we were not going to make it as a couple. Better to part ways as friends who tried out marriage but thankfully did not suffer in it.”
The thunderous applause for her fiery words paled everything else into insignificance and glorified their divorce.
*
The priest who had come to perform their marriage rituals had come for the divorce. His presence was needed to bless them again for a new phase. His holy presence would be seen as auspicious for their divorce. After blessing them on stage, he came down and went to have his quota of snacks and drinks.
Mr Duggal bumped into him and held his arm, “Arrey[8], Sharma, where are you running and with what?”
There was a glass of drink in his hand, and he claimed it was nothing but a cold drink.
“When did I say you are having anything else?” Mr Duggal quipped.
“Sardarji, the couple took the right decision,” the priest confessed, before taking a sip, “Their stars did not match, but I got paid extra to match everything. There is a defect in the birth chart and a big chance of a fatal accident if they remain married for five years. This is the real reason for the split, I am telling you. But anyway, it is a new experience for me. I am enjoying a divorce party for the first time at fifty-five. I have performed hundreds of marriages, and many couples split up in courts, but nobody tried this. Congratulations to their families, and hope this inspires more couples planning to split, to follow suit.”
Mr Duggal was not the superstitious type, and such disclosures did not cut much ice with him. Polishing off the drink, the priest went to relish paneer butter masala[9]and kulchas[10]while Mrs Duggal remained busy in the chaat[11] stalls and savoured scoops of gelato ice cream.
The parents of the divorcing couple ate together while the pair was busy with their bosom friends. Everybody seemed to enjoy the evening, except for Mr Duggal who felt a tad remorseful as this was not what he was expecting to happen. Since everyone seemed happy, he had no reason to feel sad. Puneet was a nice man and what more do you need than a nice person as a life partner? He could not answer that for himself and realised nobody knew for sure what they wanted in life but knew only what they wanted at a particular stage of life.
The priest disappeared to gorge more kulchas while Mr Duggal set forth to take charge of his wife, who was careless regarding her sugar intake. She seemed to have enjoyed the sweets — all alone. With Mr Duggal reminding her of dietary restrictions, she lost the sense of freedom and almost threatened to leave him, “Stay away, or there will be two divorces today. Let me indulge in what I like.” Mrs Duggal made it resoundingly clear.
Mr Duggal felt scared of divorce at his advanced age and let her have her way. He went to listen to the music band singing some peppy chartbusters from across the world. Soon after, they wanted to leave but the divorcing couple and their parents were nowhere around. They moved out quickly without informing anyone except the priest who trailed behind them to the exit gate. Mr Malhotra was already at the gate when he saw them. He gave a warm hug and apologised for being tied up during the entire evening, “Thanks for coming, yaar[12], our friendship from Model Town days survives despite everything. Upasana was closer to you than me. She still misses Bhabhiji ke Chhole Bhaturey[13].”
On the way home in their hatchback car, Mr Duggal could not convince himself whether this was all real or fake.
“When people appear madly in love after marriage, it is also far from real,” Mrs Duggal hinted how a façade is always in place, “Forget everything, it was a good freak-out session. I enjoyed the music, golgappas[14], chaat and ice cream flavours like mint and paan[15], just wonderful. I remember that. Nothing else. Perhaps divorce is not a bad thing after this. The lesser burden on our courts. You have to admit they set an example. End it without scars and bruises, without social stigma. The same people who attended the marriage were present at their divorce, so hopefully, they will not badmouth them. I won’t be surprised if this catches up fancy and becomes a trend here like in the West,” Mrs Duggal gave her candid views while Mr Duggal focused on driving safely to negotiate the final bend near their house.
“Perhaps you are right,” Mr Duggal agreed as he stopped the car at the entrance. Shamsher came out to open the gate and asked,” So how was your party, guys?”
“Oh, it was lovely, beta. You should have comewith us. I have something for you,” Mrs Duggal gave him the box of laddoos[16]they were gifted before leaving the party ground.
While Mr Duggal parked the car in the garage, Shamsher opened the designer box and saw the printed photo of Upasana, with a thank-you note.
“Like Shaadi ka laddoo[17], this is divorce ka laddoo, taste it, beta,” Mrs Duggal teased her son who was unwilling to marry even though he was close to forty.
When they entered the living room, Shamsher went to the upper floor and stood on the balcony. Mrs Duggal sent his father upstairs to check his emotional state. Mr Duggal came and placed his hand on his son’s shoulder.
“Did you like Upasana?”
Shamsher did not turn around to answer the question. In the meanwhile, Mrs Duggal came upstairs slowly with her arthritic knees, and responded on his behalf, “What will this coward say? He could never say it earlier. Always busy with computers.”
Finding him unusually quiet after this salvo for the first time in years, his parents left him alone to regain emotional composure. However, his silence answered a lot.
“You knew all this?” Mr Duggal asked her after reaching their bedroom.
“Of course, I am his mother. I can sense that. I know his feelings better than you do,” Mrs Duggal shot back with confidence.
“But you never said it to me. Maybe I could take it up with her,” Mr Duggal said.
“But I was not sure if she was also having the same feelings for him,” Mrs Duggal explained to justify her silence.
Shamsher recollected the three years he and Upasana studied in the same school together. Then she left the locality and was admitted to a girl’s convent. Later she left for the US to pursue higher studies where she fell in love with Puneet Poddar who was studying on the same campus. Some mutual friends kept offering updates though he never established contact with her.
Shamsher picked up one laddoo from the box without hesitation and put it in his mouth. The saffron flavour was awesome, cooked in desi ghee[18]. His smile of satisfaction grew wider as he stuffed another laddoo – to celebrate their divorce and gave a hearty laugh to release his residual feelings of childhood love.
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.
Strumming a guitar promises a note of success and a rush of adrenalin. Otherwise, there is no reason for young men with brawny biceps attired in sleeveless vests to sit beside the grilled window with creeping money plants on the balcony to invest their time and energy to impress the girl next door. Instead of handsome returns, the well-orchestrated operation often draws the unwarranted attention of the girl’s bifocal father who sniffs an ulterior motive while speed-reading the nasty headlines of the newspaper in hand and patrolling the antiskid balcony space in visible anxiety to crack a strategy to foil the covert takeover bid before his innocent girl slips for the nerd rock star.
Despite the long-drawn, dedicated mission of playing popular romantic numbers to woo the girl, my dear friend did not have any stroke of luck. But the girl’s father did suffer an unexpected stroke, leading to the untimely demise of the romantic misadventure. Assailed by the remorse of having stressed out the old fogey with his musical renditions and clandestine romantic intentions, he decided to punish himself by hanging the guitar on the wall.
Years later, the girl’s mother visited my friend’s house one evening. That she was up to some mischief became evident when she disclosed to my friend’s bride how he played music for her teenage daughter every morning before she left for school. All hell broke loose when he returned home from the tailoring shop to face an angry spouse who picked up the guitar from the wall as if it were a royal sword and presented it to him with a solemn request to strum it and croon something for her. He tried to duck it by saying he had made a vow, a gentleman’s promise to abstain from playing music again. But she spilt the beans, charging him with how desperately and unsuccessfully he once tried to lure the neighbour’s daughter with his musical foray.
Shocked by this disclosure, he found no escape route from the mess. He had to either recapitulate the long story long forgotten from his point of view or play the instrument and let his wife be instrumental in reviving his defunct musical career. Instead of denying what his wife accused him of doing many moons ago, he added a divine dimension as he decided that musical pursuit could be another way of attaining God. The fact that he chose the wrong instrument for that purpose was not pointed out by his wife. She was eager to see him perform live and exclusively for her – in front of her smouldering kohl-lined eyes dying to blink in symphony with his heartbeat. She sat on the cushioned swing suspended from the balcony ceiling, with her long, lustrous hair thrown open, with a blooming pink rose plucked from the painted pot kept nearby and tucked neatly in her straightened tresses. He dithered and fine-tuned the guitar and then decided to select a few lilting numbers from his vast repertoire to play for her in the incandescent light of the paper lantern bulbs setting the romantic mood for the musical soiree.
The story of this guitar began in Delhi when my friend accompanied me on what is called a business cum pleasure trip. Reaching the capital from Kolkata was a historic visit for my friend who was keen to pose in front of the Red Fort and go on a shopping spree in Connaught Place (CP). While walking on the CP pavement, similar to the Grand Hotel Arcade in design, my friend suddenly entered a music instruments store and quoted an incredible budget for an imported guitar. The bewildered shop owner remained quiet and scanned him for a while before asking him the difference between boiled rice and basmati rice. Taking it as an affront to his dignity and knowledge about the price of musical instruments, he shot back in accented Hindi with a quick reply to salvage his self-respect by claiming that his Ustad had taught many Indian classical legends and he knew several of them personally in Kolkata.
Many other customers inside the store began to label us as pretentious ignoramuses from another planet. The smart-alecky shopkeeper asked us to identify the portraits on the upper portion of the wall right behind his counter. They were the leading lights who patronised his shop to buy instruments and agreed to get clicked with the owners of the music store that had been in existence for more than a century. My friend cast a quick look but failed to recognise any of them. So, the shopkeeper schooled us further by conducting a master class.
We had to either buy the guitar we had asked for or disappear from the store. I took small steps and reached the exit when I heard my friend holler in a stentorian voice: “Pack this guitar for me. Here — take the money.”
The price was well beyond his budget, but he saved our image and came out of the store with the guitar and a cash memo in hand. It was evident from the facial expression he had picked up a costly instrument he was not ready to buy. But the joy of silencing the shopkeeper and mellowing his tenor was a resounding victory, and he claimed he did not argue much regarding music since he respected elders. But an hour later, when he again felt pricked by this expenditure, he exploded in a language devoid of an iota of respect and issued threats of teaching that bald, grinning shopkeeper a proper lesson had this incident occurred in Bengal. The remarkable story of saving dignity became the dominant aspect of purchasing this guitar. I felt he had risen to the occasion though he had to cancel plans for his shopping spree as his money had gone into this guitar.
He sat with the guitar and posed with fake smiles for my camera to capture. He did not appear comfortable holding it in his hands and passed it to me after a while. I found it a huge responsibility and took extra care of the guitar as we were proudly taking home something pricey. It was nothing less than a trophy won in a tough competition.
This imported guitar regaled many local listeners – including my friend’s wife at present. She had no idea that how her husband had acquired the prized beauty, saved our self-respect, and preserved the prestige of our state known for culture and music by shelling out an enormous amount to grab something rare that few people in our country can afford even today. Although his father never cut anything other than a piece of cloth, he had big dreams of cutting a music album someday, of inviting the Delhi-based shopkeeper to his launch event as the chief guest for the ribbon-cutting ceremony. This would prove that those from a non-privileged background also had the right to contribute to the enrichment of music was music to his ears.
After returning home, my friend toyed with the idea of forming a music band, got his ears pierced to wear rings to connect with trendy youth, and offered to engage my services as a lyricist. Within the year, even before I could take a call on this offer, the band he had formed with much fanfare was disbanded due to the sudden exit of the lead vocalist poached by a more resourceful rival music band. He soon realized though he was getting offers to perform in local community functions with a limited budget, it was impossible to sustain this ambitious musical venture. Soon, he joined his father’s tailoring unit and restricted his role as a musician to woo the girl he loved. But some people, like my dear friend, are perhaps naturally attracted to failures and their dreams suffer from a chronic motivational deficiency syndrome that leads them to quit at the earliest pretext.
When his mother pressurised him to settle down as he pushed into his mid-thirties, her history of myocardial infarction made him agree to her proposal. And that is how the lady who was now making him sing live for her breezed into his life. In one of her disclosures after marriage, she revealed to my friend that she had agreed to marry him only because she had seen his photograph where he was strumming a guitar. The direct benefit she expected would be the opportunity to listen to his music after a tiring day in the kitchen. But she hesitated to make it explicit so long as her father-in-law was alive. The arrival of the mother of his lost love simplified the matter for her.
After listening to his live performance for half an hour, she gave her verdict and a standing ovation with thunderous applause. She regretted such a talent could not deliver anything substantial. Even if half of her praise was a pure exaggeration for her doting husband, there were traces of truth in her observation. When she threatened to leave him forever if he did not resume his journey as a guitarist, he agreed to reconsider his earlier decision to give up music for the sake of his lost love. While this was her loving way to resurrect the failed artist and get him back on track, music had the power to make him a divorcee. The prospect of stitching together his life once again looked remote. So, he succumbed to her demands by resuming his practice sessions on the balcony. Unlike the earlier occasion when he sat on the windowsill and performed for the girl outside the house, this musical foray was for the kitchen queen regaling herself with Bollywood numbers and soothing her frayed nerves with the fragrance of tuberoses he brought home for the bedroom vase every evening.
.
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.
I have been one of those unlucky fellows who occupy the dentist’s chair, with mouth wide open for harsh light to illuminate every corner and crevice, waiting for the dentist to tap and spot cavities. My habit of going to bed with a toffee in my mouth almost every night since teenage years was the prime reason behind this early dental crisis, much before wisdom teeth could stage an appearance.
When the first molar turned 70% darker than the chocolate I ate, I rushed to the dentist recommended by my tutor who was happy with his tooth extraction skills. I plonked on his leather seat and mentioned my tutor. He heard it all but continued unaffected, perhaps unable to recall the patient I was referring to. After he examined my troublesome tooth, he gave a smile and wrote a reference note suggesting a senior dentist he considered fit for performing root canal therapy.
Root and canal generated separate images in my mind. I was unable to link how these two came together inside my mouth. Anyway, I paid his consultation fee and walked out to buy the pain killers he had prescribed in case the damaged tooth turned troublesome at night. It was a relief that he did not uproot it but asked me to undergo the treatment to restore the crown once he was convinced looking at my branded watch that I could afford the treatment but could not afford to lose the tooth. When people the world over are losing their crown, I was thrilled to get one for myself. With fond hope, I traced the senior doctor (in pre-GPRS[1] days) who had his chamber located in a somewhat dilapidated house with branches of a banyan tree providing shade to the crumbling façade.
The senior doctor looked younger in age to the bald dentist who suggested his name. He read the prescription and checked the tooth x-ray report. He gave me an appointment and his assistant shared the total cost of the dental surgery, assuring me that the tooth would not give me any trouble for at least fifteen years. I divided the total amount by the number of years and found the annual maintenance cost was economical. I proposed to pay through my credit card to convert it into easy EMIs[2] but his staff declined saying no machine was installed to swipe any card.
I was nervous when I went the second time to undergo what he fondly called operation. I felt the need for a moral booster shot to ease my anxiety. With a small prayer on my chapped lips, I surrendered my mouth to his shining tools. The atmosphere was conducive as I found him jovial this time, chatting animatedly with his two burly assistants who looked like they were bouncers in a night club before applying for apprenticeship under him.
As the process began, I noticed good coordination among them. The first sitting provided an idea of what dental surgeons love to talk about. It was a session where they discussed film releases and star scandals.
One acolyte suggested abandoning this ramshackle unit at the earliest. It was a middle-class locality where people mostly preferred cheaper tooth extractions instead of costly cosmetic dental surgery and restoration options. It was obvious the dentist was interested in minting money, and he identified the areas in the city where such lucrative dentistry could be carried out successfully. Since he was young and ambitious, he had everything right to rake in the moolah.
It was a relief when gave me another date for the second sitting. I went again after a few days and sat through the operation while the trio discussed opening a swanky clinic in a posh area and the property rates in several upscale neighbourhoods. It appeared the dentist paid more attention to their plans and proposals instead of me. But when he said it was all done and fixed, I was surprised with his multi-tasking prowess. He said he was confident this job would keep me pain-free for twenty years.
Precisely twenty years later, I felt I should consult him once. When I went there, I was told the dentist had stopped coming to this place many years ago. So, I went to the dentist who had suggested his name, but he could not provide his current address as he had shifted to another city. My praise for the dentist who gave me a long-lasting crown stoked his jealousy and he said he was well-equipped now to perform critical dental surgeries. After checking my mouth, he did not comment negatively on the restored tooth but offered the breaking news that another tooth in the upper row would soon require surgical intervention. It was like a forecast that an elected government would soon get toppled.
I gave him the go-ahead to do the needful and he started to drill. But I did not feel any sensation. After a while he stopped drilling and asked me if I was feeling any pain. When I said there was no pain at all, he looked carefully and then apologised to me for drilling the wrong tooth. How could this happen? I looked at him carefully for the first time and noticed some defect in his right eye, something like squint. After the metal filling job was performed on the painful tooth, his assistant said the doctor suffered a car accident last year and his vision was affected. Since he had already apologised for the error and assured not much damage had been caused to the good tooth. I did not sue him, but I felt I should consult a dentist with the vision of a pilot for a second opinion.
This new dentist was a marketing genius of another kind. He made me sit with a big, fat album first. I thought it was some good stuff on nature, travel, and leisure. As I flipped through the pages, I found photographs of men and women of all age groups with mouth wide open.
It was an album loaded with photos of happy patients he had treated successfully. There were names, addresses, and contact numbers – these albums were used as testimonials from patients.
I had the freedom to contact any person and seek their feedback. I found a couple of beautiful girls who underwent dental treatment here and noted down their phone numbers. When I dialled those numbers, there was no response.
I was sure he would take my picture and add it to the album. What surprised me further was the fact that he was an inter-city dentist. He sat in his Mumbai clinic twice a week and three days in Kolkata. I told him I am travelling to Mumbai soon and would like him to operate on me there. He gave me the visiting card but looked doubtful when I said I would travel to Mumbai to get myself treated. Picking up one of the tools from the dirty box, I said your Mumbai chamber will have a much cleaner set.
I did not visit his chamber again and prayed to God to save my remaining teeth so that I can chew at least chapattis for the rest of my life without undergoing the harrowing experience of dental trips and flips. The sweet tooth craze still remains child-like although the habit of stuffing a toffee has been replaced by having an ice cream every night – just to test whether any tooth gives a tingling sensation or not.
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.
Petronas Twin Towers in Kuala Lumpur. Courtesy: Creative CommonsThe ‘Twin Towers’ at Nadia. Courtesy: Devraj Singh Kalsi
On Panchami, the Fifth Day of Durga Puja, around noon, I was stopped by a small girl riding a pillion on her father’s motorbike. In a polite but hurried and restless voice, she asked me the way to reach the ‘Twin Towers’. Usually, I am not comfortable while offering directions, and often goof it up by saying left when I mean right. On this occasion, I exercised caution and pondered over the easiest and quickest route before advising her father to enter through the next lane and then turn right to find what was nothing short of a wonderland for the schoolgirl. She smiled and waved for prompt assistance while her father accelerated the two-wheeler. It was apparent they were new to this small town that had suddenly grown big in stature within weeks and emerged as a hotspot because of the replica of the Twin Towers from Malaysia as one of the Puja pandal themes here.
The Puja organisers were surprised as the turnout surpassed their expectations and broke all previous records. Some analysts explained this unprecedented wave was the public response to the pandemic that had kept them indoors for two consecutive years. With people sharing images and reels across social media platforms, the ‘Twin Towers’ went viral, generating a big buzz among pandal hoppers to include it in the must-see list. The sea of humanity in this small town surged from neighbouring towns, far-off districts, and even other states.
The grandeur of tall towers led to a google search for architectural wonders, modern and ancient, from around the world as likely themes for the puja pandals next year. The appeal of tall and towering structures offers a valid reason to see the lavish artificial mounts to be dismantled within a few days of idol immersion. Painstakingly built over the months, the hard work of artisans and craftsmen has paid off rich dividends – without any special efforts by the organisers. The public informed fellow citizens of all faiths, through every possible means of communication, to visit the Twin Towers and make the Puja celebrations complete.
It was much bigger than the crowds milling at any cadre-driven political rally organised in Bengal. Missing this marvel was a loss for devotees and non-believers who thronged the Puja pandals to see art and creativity in full bloom. “Have you seen the Twin Towers?” became the common refrain that gained currency among local people drawn from all sections. Tens of thousands of people stood in queues that moved at a snail’s pace, their floral and musk fragrances overpowering their perspiration. Driven by faith and the desire to see the architectural marvel and the Goddess, the crowds showed patience for hours, braving thunderstorms and intermittent showers without complaints, standing with umbrellas for their turn, without any attempt to jump the fence.
Droves of people – armed with camera-flashing mobile phones – were busy capturing the Twin Towers from various angles, looking for a different click for their feeds, slowing down their pace to capture the images without blurring. The volunteers brandished batons to keep the crowds moving toward the exit gate. The entire process of entering the pandal and exiting was over within two minutes. The wait outside the pandal took a couple of hours at least.
Although I had visited other pandals where the turnout was modest, I intended to see the ‘Twin Towers’ after Dashami, the last day of the festival, after the crowds thinned. I wanted to be bedazzled by the lights, so I did not venture during the daytime. I chose to go during in the late evening for a fully lit-up view of the colossal towers, to stand behind the crowds discussing bus routes and means of transport available at night, apart from momos and biriyani outlets in the vicinity. It was the last day after the week-long festival drew to a close. But the turnout remained steady and suggested it was perhaps the first day, showing once again that aesthetic appeal allures people and creates a hangover that refuses to subside even after the curtains are drawn.
I came out of the premises and checked the random clicks on my phone. I was overwhelmed with the pride of having seen the replica. I had captured the precious moments, posing against the backdrop of the Twin Towers forever.
Whether this Puja inspires people from Bengal to travel to Malaysia to see the towers is pure speculation. But it has made people complacent, and they happily declare they have seen the Malaysia ‘Twin Towers’ in Bengal. Crossing borders, oceans, countries, and continents to select themes, the Pujas in Bengal offer people the vicarious pleasure of seeing the global wonders come alive in the art form.
Durga & her pantheonCrowds inside the Nadia ‘Twin Towers’ Inside the pandal or marquee. Courtesy: Devraj Singh Kalsi
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.
Whenever I wear a new shirt or my favourite one, a bird flying overhead, perhaps jealous of my snazzy outlook, quickly drops something on it. When I notice the mischief, the miscreant disappears. I fret and fume, keep hurling invectives that make other people around me feel mighty impressed with my audacity and marvel at my ability to employ a bilingual vocabulary of expletives in public. Circumstances bring the worst out of the finest human beings. No wonder, I am also establishing the truth of this observation though I do not stake any claim whatsoever to being even remotely close to what is called finest. Victimisation from bird-droppings is an embarrassing experience to undergo for people of all ages, groups and genders across all communities and countries, and we end up airing almost the same line of thought: “Oh Shit!”
The other day I had just put my favourite white T-shirt to dry on the clothesline. Promptly, a sparrow perched on it. I tried to shoo the bird away from the balcony, but my desperate pleas fell on deaf ears. When I finally went to collect it in the afternoon, I noticed a prominent yellow exclamation mark emblazoned near my right shoulder.
Sometimes, I wonder how their surgical strike turns out so precise. Whenever I pass by a tree-lined street or cross the road, the droppings invariably choose me as an unwilling target. Is it a punishment of sorts for me? I do not know what makes the timing so perfect. One step ahead or one step behind, and I am saved. But no, it is always spot on. Nanosecond perfection. Perhaps I am destined to be the beneficiary and get back what I have delivered to others in this life and in previous births.
Apart from clothes, my fluffy grey hair and sometimes my spectacles have been the targets of avian ordure. As soon as I gather what has hit me, I dash off to the nearest tap by the roadside where I clean as much of the stuff as possible. It happens, especially on days when I am on my way to some vital assignment. It makes me a tad superstitious – as if it is an indicator that the denouement of the scheduled program is also going to be like the bird dropping.
Imagine if you are partying with a group of friends, and the guano drops right into your cup of tea! They break into peals of laughter. You look up at the crow or any other culprit bird to identify if it has personal enmity with you and whether this outcome is nothing but plain sweet revenge. Having been through such multiple experiences since my childhood, I have become cautious of anything flying overhead. I did think of wearing a cap, but in summers, it becomes unbearable.
Pigeons, sparrows, and crows are common in my area. I have decided to strike friendship with them so that their manners improve. I make it a point to set aside some rice from my lunch plate. The sparrows come to the windowsill around the same time, hoping for a treat. Their memory and navigation are incredible. They identify the window from where they can see me, and they start making noises to register their arrival. Their incessant chirping sends an alert, and I serve them without delay, or else they might spoil some trousers or shirt left out to dry. This strategy seems to have paid off as I notice an improvement in their disposition. These birds do not sit on my clothes and always prefer to occupy an empty slot.
The cemented floor outside my house looks snow white every morning. It is a collective output of several birds when they fly out of trees at the crack of dawn. It is an indicator about the numbers who take refuge in the tree in my home every night. The regular floor clean-up task offends the domestic help who seeks a raise for this extra chore. If this tree gets cut, they will be rendered homeless or perhaps then make the parapet their temporary abode or choose to fly into a neighbouring tree. On the flip side, I hear their early morning twitter at sunrise and wake up without the need of any artificial alarm clock. These birds gift me the wee hours to write and meditate. I cannot be so ungrateful as to deprive them of their home sweet home within my precincts.
Sometimes their meetings turn chaotic during the evening time, and I wonder why such commotion prevails. What rattles them? But it is tolerable vis-à-vis the din emerging from the neighbour’s villa. The birds go silent suddenly, and there is absolute peace. As my lights remain on till late, their sleep might possibly be disturbed. I hear tender appeals in their soft cries, urging me to switch off the lights. I oblige before my tasks get over.
As a preventive step, I have now started making it a point to stay away from trees. You never know when the birds choose to answer nature’s call. Bird-dropping is a common problem faced by all. It is a random event. Sometimes you are working on a presentation in the garden, and the laptop screen gets smeared. Sometimes the briefcase on your lap gets this smattering while you munch chips. Most of the time, a low-flying cawing bird commits this brazen nuisance and then spreads its wings as if in celebration of a victory and flies overhead in a tilted posture before finally settling on the overhead electric wires.
Sometimes in a crowded place, after a long struggle, you finally find an empty seat but stained with bird droppings. To occupy the seat, you look around for a leaf to wipe it off if it is creamy or hunt for a twig to scratch it off in case it has gone dry. All the shame and hesitation turn secondary because you value the seat more than anything else. It is lucky that you find the seat and bird dropping is no reason to let go of it. Strange are our reactions and behaviour patterns. Sometimes we find it easy to brush aside all the crap, and sometimes we raise a fuss over it.
Perhaps, the birds know how to gain our sympathy. Sparrows and crows come out of their hiding spots after a heavy downpour, vigorously shaking their feathers to get rid of water from their backs. They look so cute, and the colours appear brighter – black looks jet black. Seeing them thus makes me overlook their scatological whims.
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.
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