Sports - where memories are created

SPORTS - the arena that turns mortals into immortals or drags them down to the abyss of public ridicule.

SPORTS - the birthplace of unforgettable moments that stay with you throughout your life.

I am sure that each and every one of you has your collection of 2 or 3 moments from different sporting events that just refuse to turn old no matter how many times you rewind them in your mind’s video-recorder. It is a part of growing up I guess!
I have a chosen few, too. . . .

All of them are from football world cups. More specifically, all of them are from documentary movies made on the football world cups. . . .

The most cherished one is from the official 1998 FIFA football world cup movie. All of those official movies, starting right from the 1950 or 1954 world cup, were shown in ESPN and Star Sports during the build up to the 2006 football world cup.

This was from the 2nd round knock-out match between Italy and Chile, and it involved Roberto Baggio - the most expensive player in world football at one time. Baggio was the blue-eyed boy of the Italian football squad during the previous world cup in 1994. He was their main striker, play-maker, star attraction. But in the final match against Brazil he made the biggest mistake of his life. He shot the ball over the crossbar of the goalpost during the tiebreaker – a miss that immediately handed Brazil the world cup. And turned Baggio into the biggest villain in Italy.

Now, four years later, Baggio was nearing the end of his international career. This was his last world cup, and in it he was playing the role of a once-great-but-now-in-the-sidelines hero-turned-villain-turned-nobody. This time, Italy was no longer being supported by his shoulders. Alessandro Del Piero was the new ‘Baggio’.

Baggio was playing as a striker in that match against Chile. At one time, as he attempted to pass the ball inside the Chilean penalty-box, it struck the hand of a Chilean player. He appealed for penalty at once, and got it. Now I’ll narrate the scenes as shown in that documentary. . . .

Baggio immediately bends down, hands on his knees, as if for support. He stays that way for some time, as one or two Italian players run to him and say something. Then he stands up, takes the ball, and proceeds towards the area from where the shot is to be taken. Four years after that fateful afternoon in Pasadena, USA, Roberto Baggio is again going to take a penalty kick for Italy.

As he places the ball on the ground and steps back, images from the build up to that infamous shot start flashing in the screen. We see a Chilean player shouting vehemently in the left ear of Baggio, as he is about to start his run. Images start to flash again. But his face is like stone, not a single muscle showing any movement. He runs, takes the shot with his right foot, sees what happens and calmly runs away. The next shot shows the Chilean goalkeeper getting up from the ground, looking dejected. Meanwhile, Italian players run to Baggio, congratulating him. In one last shot, we finally see him from the front as a teammate runs up and embraces him. Even now, Baggio stays eerily calm, his face displaying the least amount of emotion possible. But you can feel it is there this time – like an underwater volcano, ready to burst to the surface at any time. I would not have been surprised one bit, if at that moment Baggio had broken down in tears on the ground. But helped by some Herculean will power, he didn’t - and that suppressed emotional torment is what has gotten stuck to my mind. Later Baggio said that he finally got rid of the ghost of ’94 in that one penalty kick. That beautiful video (augmented by a superb background score) is there at YouTube – go find it out and have a look!

Italy won that match and curiously, my next memorable moment involves Robert Baggio during the tiebreaker between France and Italy in the quarter-final match. The first shot was to be taken by Baggio. Again he coolly took the ball, placed it on the ground, stepped back, waited for the referee’s whistle, then ran up, took the shot and scored. But right after that, as he was running away, Baggio placed his right index finger on his lips and gestured as if to tell someone to shut up. Actually the crowd behind that particular goalpost was mostly made up of French supporters - and they had been constantly booing Baggio during his penalty kick. But he silenced them in one shot and then took time to explicitly make the point! However, Italy lost the tiebreak, and the Italian player who missed the last shot had a name that also ended in ‘Bazzio’, though not as spelled as ‘Baggio’. . . .

My last two memorable sports moments come from the next official FIFA football world cup movie in 2002. They took place during the first round group match between defending champion France and Denmark. The French team was in deep trouble by then – securing only one point from their first two group matches. They needed to beat Denmark at least 2-0 in that last group game, to have a chance of advancing to the next round. But unlike the previous two matches, this time they had their talisman with them – Zinedine Yazid Zidane, though he was carrying an injured left leg and had bandages over his left thigh. Just four years ago he had single-handedly demolished the formidable Brazilian side in the final match and handed France the world cup. Handling Denmark should have been a walk in the park compared to that!

The whole of France was counting on Zidane to pull their side through to the second round. It is in this context – ideally suited for a hero, more so for the two-time FIFA world player of the year – that I remember those two incidences. The first was when a high long ball was played to Zidane as he was running inside the Danish penalty box. He received it right enough with his right foot, but then lost balance as his injured left leg couldn’t handle the speed of his run and gave way. Zidane tumbled onto the ground, rolling as he hit it and came to a stop lying with his face buried in the grass. As he took a deep breath and looked up lying down, the camera showed in a close-up shot the sweat running down his contorted face betraying the pain and frustration. France was probably 1-0 behind by that time.

The second scene was more poignant, although strangely I couldn’t locate it in the official film any more when I searched today at YouTube. I’m sure about having seen it, perhaps not in the official film version but in some other documentary that used the same footage. It showed Zidane from behind as he took a shot from distance at the Danish goalpost. He hit the ball with his good right leg, but in the ensuing motion lost his balance again and started to fall. As the ball climbed higher, curled leftwards and began descending towards the upper left corner of the crossbar, Zidane was still falling in the foreground. Finally as he hit the ground, the ball went past the post, missing it by inches. Zidane’s fall was complete, and that of France as well because instead of winning the game 2-0, they lost it by the same margin. The injured star failed to rise to the occasion, with that collapse onto the ground symbolizing his country’s exit at the very first round of the tournament. France managed just one point and not a single goal. It was and still is the worst performance by a defending champion team in a world cup. . . .

So while in one case Baggio went through agony for four years and finally redeemed himself in the best possible way one could have planned, Zidane went from being the guiding force of a world champion team to being reduced to a fallen hero returning home after a disastrous performance by his side. And you know what – the first shot in the tiebreaker on behalf of the French team in that 1998 quarter-final against Italy was taken by Zizou, after Baggio, and successfully. One can only wonder if the two players had spoken to each other after the match, and what, if anything, Baggio said to Zidane. . . .

A Ride worth Two Rupees

. . . . I couldn’t help but say what I was feeling: “You know, this is the first time since I left school that I’m buying one of these things!” But he didn’t pay any attention to my heartfelt confession, or at least didn’t show any sign even if he did.

Oh well, it didn’t matter much. I was in seventh heaven already, and there was nothing anybody could do to ruin it.

Can you ever imagine the power a two rupee coin possesses?! As I held that plastic wrap in one hand and gave the coin in exchange, I knew I had just jumped on a ride to the past: to those golden days of my school life. . . .

As he took the coin from my hand in the most carefree attitude and put it calmly in his pocket, I turned my whole attention back to the plastic wrap and how to deal with it. I mean, after six-seven years of absence the sudden appearance of a once familiar face can often put someone in a fix as to what to do next.

The first thing I remembered was that back in those days we would often ask the vendor to cut open the plastic for us. But there were always some “what’s-the-point-in-waiting” type of guys in our midst, who would immediately tear the plastic apart using their teeth and get to the brightly coloured thing kept inside within seconds. Meanwhile we would impatiently wait for the vendor as he looked around for his blade, and keep one jealous eye on that boy who was already beginning to forget the hot sun above his head. . . .

. . . . Well this time it was my turn to give a damn about asking the vendor, so I quickly chewed off the top of the plastic wrap. There, inside, dressed in a perfectly Fruity-type orange colour, waited my gift worth two rupees. I gently put the Mango-flavoured pepsi icicle in my mouth, and it was. . . .

. . . . It was like going back to those late, hot summer afternoons in front of the school. The school bus was taking longer than usual to show up, and the sun was in no mood to be considerate. But even the thermonuclear fusion reactions powering the entire solar system were no match for a white, square, one foot by one foot by one foot box made of thermocol. What lay inside was way more powerful than what the big, bad sun could ever hope of becoming in such a summer afternoon at Kolkata. We called those bright red, orange, green icy things ‘pepsi’. I guess all the kids of our age called them that. Don’t ask me why! It’s one of the biggest mysteries from my childhood days. Maybe one reason was that back then we were still not age wise, fashion sense wise, stylistically evolved enough to just pop open a bottle of real Pepsi whenever we wished and take funky sips from it like Ranbir Kapoor does now-a-days, or Sharukh Khan did during those days! Those six inches long, coloured sticks of flavoured ice were the easiest, cheapest and tastiest way to show off our macho image! So they just had to be ‘pepsi’, you know (I don’t know what was wrong with ‘cocacola’). . . .

. . . . Well, come to think of it, I hadn’t tasted too many of these Fruity-orange coloured types while in school. The most abundant ones then, at least among the white, square boxes that came to our rescue every summer in front of our school, was a more Orange-orange coloured type. And it tasted like orange I think!

But the boy with the white box in front of Muhammad Ali Park this afternoon had just given me a Mango-flavoured one! Yaba-daba-doo and etc.! Some of the plastic was still stuck in my tongue. I carefully tongue-kicked them away and finally took a long sip out of my pepsi. Wow, man! I can’t tell you how sweet it felt! Let’s do it again, and again, and. . . .

. . . . And disappointment. It seemed I had forgotten one important lesson about ‘plasticated pepsi’! See, it’s basically a stick of ice made from water mixed with some coloured, flavouring syrup. Now they use more of plain water than the syrup in the mixture, for economical reasons. So if you suck on the stick too forcefully too early, all the syrup just travels down your throat in one go, leaving you with a more-or-less tasteless stick of ice! And this time, I hadn’t even gone through one inch of it before I was looking back at a Mango-turned-bamboo coloured piece of ice. Ironically, not all the syrup had made it inside my mouth. Some were clinging like nail polish to my toenails, others had befriended my jeans. And a majority had coloured my palm, like they put turmeric paste on a bride before she takes a bath on the day of the marriage!

Damn it, and to hell with it! This is my first pepsicle in seven years, so “saat khoon maaf”! I was going to enjoy this in any way I could. Fortunately, I detected some syrup hanging onto the bottom of the icicle. Yaba-daba and so on! I continued walking towards the MG Road Crossing, mystifying the passing-by people about the meaning of a bespectacled bearded man, with a school-bag in the back, and a stick of bamboo-coloured ice in his hand. Ha-ha, those idiots! What do they know about a two rupee ride back to childhood?

As I sat down on a cement slab in front of the Fire Station just before the Crossing to finish my pepsicle, and put my bottom on fire on the literally ‘hot’ seat under the afternoon sun, a group of school-girls passed me by. I felt somewhat silly, with the plastic wrap sticking from my mouth. I obviously hadn’t intended to rediscover the lost child in me, you know. I had simply obeyed what my heart had ordered: to rediscover a long-forgotten joy. But I didn’t want be embarrassed about it. . . .

. . . . I gulped down the last drops of syrup that had made that plastic wrap their home since only that morning, I hoped! It was time to take an auto from in front of the MG Road Metro station and head home. As I crossed MG Road and hurried up towards the auto stands, I couldn’t help smiling. The men and women sitting in the taxis and buses might have noticed that and wondered what was so funny with the world! I wish I could have asked them: what do you know about a two rupee ride back to childhood?

From university to home

We are both looking at each other across the corridor, keenly. One difference is that he is smiling, but I’m not.

Well, to be absolutely honest, there are two other big differences. Number one is that he is a Nobel Laureate, and guess what am I! Number two is that he is dead, and I’m sort of alive. . . So you want to know his name? He’s Richard Feynman - Nobel Prize winner in Physics in 1965.

The picture is quite big, probably three feet by two. It’s the last one in the corridor. But for me, it’s the most interesting of them all. . .

I think it’s due to the smile and that razor-sharp yet mischievous gaze, plus the way he’s resting his chin on the three fingers of his left hand. It’s like the man is seeing right through you! And any moment he’ll give you a wink and laugh aloud saying, “Aha! Caught you red-handed my friend!”

Anyway, he’s keeping me good company as I wait for the pressure of the autoclave to come down, so that Arunda can open it and give me my conical flask containing 50 ml of YPD agar. Right now he’s sitting to my left on the top of this bench, rubbing two rectangular wood pieces together, probably in the hope of re-discovering the original method by which human beings acquired the ability to light a fire! Jokes apart, I think he’s also trying out ways to let these idle minutes pass by without giving them much thought.

But I kind of like it sitting with my back to the wall on this bench. The end of the corridor at the Biochemistry Department is calm and quiet at the moment, half-an hour past nine in the night. Arunda and I are not talking. We’re just sitting and waiting, and I’m looking at Mr. Feynman while he’s playing with his wooden fire-starting equipment. At times it feels nice just to sit silently with someone you know at your side, and do nothing but pass the time. . .

Shounakda-s wife, whose name I don’t know, is coming this way. As she is about to enter AKDG-s lab, Azharda and Siddharthada comes out. Both of them almost go past her, then suddenly turn around and congratulate her for something. In reply she asks them to come inside the lab and have some sweets. Azharda insists that all the sweets are gone, but she won’t let them go. So in the end they follow her inside the lab and the door closes.

The pressure reading has not come down much in the last five minutes, just like the five minutes before that. But somehow it doesn’t bother me. . .

Azharda and Siddharthada come out again. They talk to each other as Azharda kneels down to tie his shoelaces. This is the guy who single-handedly cooked more than eighty luchis for breakfast in the jungles of Orissa four days ago. Right now he’s bent down in front me adjusting his snickers. Nine hours ago I was strolling on the banks of Hooghly with Saurav, Bikram and Sayan at the Strand in Chandan Nagore. And now I’m killing time to get a small 100 ml conical flask in my hands at the sixth floor of Ballygunge Science College. Life is stranger than fiction. . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . Damn it man! In & Out is closed! Now where will I get a packet of biscuits at Ballygunge Phari at twent past ten pm?! Hey, hold on a minute, can it be. . . yes! Rajeshda is stiil there at his phuchka stall! Brilliant! It looks like he’s getting ready to leave. But I know he’ll not say ‘No’ to me even at this hour. . .

. . . For the past ten minutes I’ve been hiding from Arunavoda, Arindamda and Sudiptoda standing on the other side of Phari. Fortunately they didn’t notice me at Rajeshda’s, gorging on twenty-five rupees worth of phuchka, when I was supposed to have left the lab fifteen minutes ago and caught a bus home! Come on now, its past ten-thirty – haven’t those guys chatted enough in the lab for the past ten or so hours? Why don’t they just hop onto a bus, or auto, or taxi, or something and let me be in peace?! Don’t their legs hurt standing for so long after such a long day? Mine do! Well, I don’t mind much. But you know people – they see you somewhere and start asking what you were up to, as if it was the most important thing in the world for them to know, when in reality they don’t give a shit! Why can’t I stand at a bus-stop wherever I want to, whenever I want to, for whatever time I want to – without being afraid of being asked questions?

Mother had called. Now she knows she’ll have to wait for another 40 minutes at the dinner table or so before her genius son returns home after a remarkable day’s work in the lab, inventing newer and smarter ways of doing who-the-hell-knows-what! She must be so proudly tired and hungry after working in the office the entire day. . .
So then, let’s allow her some loneliness for some more time. I will do only as I wish. Since I can’t find any buses to Phoolbagan, I will catch that two-forty to Sealdah, get down at Sealdah station flyover, go to Kalpataru, have a big bhar of Lassi, then take an auto going to Beleghata Building More, get off at Alochhaya cinema hall, and walk for ten minutes before I reach home. Lucky Ali, Strings and 30 Seconds To Mars will be there with me as I walk down the empty street. Unfortunately the in-built memory card of my phone doesn’t have space for more than three mp3 songs! And out of a fanatic determination not to waste my parents’ money, I didn’t spend three hundred and twenty-five rupees only to buy a 2 GB memory card either. Therefore I end up listening to the same three songs over and over again and then I change them after a week. But it’s better than listening to all the bakwas blabbering in FM channels, in return for barely four or five good songs in an hour. . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . Thundering typhoons! Kalpataru was closed! I did see the shop-owner talking to his neighbourhood shop-owner who was still open, but I controlled the urge to take the big dustbin in front of his shop, all full of broken bhars, and break them some more by emptying it on his head! While I was passing through the crowded station on my to the auto-stand, I walked past a homeless man sitting with his rags and clothes on the road. He was sitting exactly like Feynman – chin on the palm of his left hand like Sukanto and the hint of a smile on his face. Although he was not looking at me – in fact he was not looking at anyone or anything in this mortal world at all! I don’t think he could have cared a tiniest bit about what was going on around him. But that smile. . . ah, yes – I doubt whether even Ratan Tata, or Amir Khan, or Sachin Tendulkar can be seen smiling like that too often. . . it was the smile of a man truly at peace with himself and everyone else. Getting to taste lassi or getting to taste the bitterness in your mouth after not getting to taste lassi is all the same to him. . .

. . . Eleven-ten and I’m at Alochhaya cinema hall. The road stretches out in front. . . somewhere in the end I’ll have to take a right turn, walk next to a park, go through the park, and on the other side my mother will be waiting for me in a first-floor sitting room of a two-storied house. As I start walking, I watch my shadow in the pavement walking side-by-side. I ask myself – who do you think you are? A cool guy, because you keep others waiting for you by returning late every night?! A hero, because you can have phuchka at Ballygunge Phari at ten-thirty pm?! Well, all of it is simply a load of crap. So please don’t go home, stand in front of the mirror and ask, “mirror, mirror on the wall/tell me who is the most ‘different’ of them all”! But what one can easily do is enjoy just being himself or herself, and enjoy the little weird things that we do from time to time that define who we are. So enjoy this ten minute walk tonight, not because it proves anything to anyone, but because it means you tried to be as you like to be. . .

. . . And 30 Seconds To Mars bursts to life inside my earphones: “We were the kings and queens of promise/we were the victims of ourselves”. . . and I can see all those cyclists from the music video with my eyes closed – cycling down the empty streets of the big city together, with a sort of dream-like gaze, pushing the peddles with determination, going faster, going stronger, going further. . .

O Tuni-r Maa!

The story of Shortbread, Macroon & Hazelnut

. . . . Then Bikramjit suggested: Why don’t you guys check out ‘Pure Indulgence’?

No, this is not my classmate that I’m talking about. This Bikram is Tuhin’s room-mate at the house where he stays as a paying guest.

It was the sunny afternoon of 25^th December. But inside Tuhin’s room it was dark enough for the tube lights to be switched on. Tuhin, Shayan, Anupam and I were gathered around the bed listening to Bikram’s idea. Actually I had read somewhere that during Christmas, some ladies over at Bow Barracks sell home-made cakes that are quite delicious. When I revealed my wish, Tuhin replied that may be Bikram had an even better idea. . . .

. . . . Once he had attended a party where the hosts had arranged for some mouth-watering chocolate treats, which they had bought from some lady who used to make them at her home. May be she wouldn’t mind selling a few pieces to us too. Well, when the source of information was so authentic, this matter definitely required some first-hand investigation!

. . . . After coming out of Flurys that evening, Tuhin suddenly remembered our plan and called up Bikramjit. As he repeated a phone number from Bikram, I typed it in my mobile. Then I called the number. The lady on the other end was probably non-Bengali, with a good control of her English and perhaps nearing her forties. She said the chocolates are not sold over at the counter; they have to be ordered from beforehand. But we could come and check out the different types of cakes, and buy some if we wanted to. However, we had to reach her house within 6.30 pm, because after that customers are not allowed to come and see the goodies for themselves before ordering. Then they can place their orders over phone and pick it up later, even late into the night.

Anyway, it was only about 5.30 in the clock. Since we were at Park Street and her home was near Elgin Road, the Metro would have easily taken us there in no time at all. So it was finalised – mission ‘Pure Indulgence’ was officially flagged off.

When we reached near Forum I called our mystery lady again. She said to continue towards Sharat Bose Road, cross it and resume following the road until we came to a shop called ‘Clothes Rack’. Then she would give us further directions.

We did so. We followed Rowland Road to reach ‘Clothes Rack’. The neighbourhood was posh, with a strong air of Bhawaniporian elitism. Big residential buildings were on both sides, with high security walls overgrowing with bougainvillea vines and costly cars. Tuhin, Bodhisattwa and me could sense the adventure, and loved it!

Following the last set of directions, we took a left from in front of ‘Clothes Rack’ and started down a dark lane. Bodhi took out his wallet and tried to see in the dim light whether the Rs.100/- note that he hoped he was carrying was really there or not! Somehow, with this feeling of people with money living all around this neighbourhood, I began to wonder whether Rs.100/- would be enough for our purpose this evening. . . .

. . . . Where the lane ended, an iron gate stood opened. The nameplate declared ‘Nopany’ in gold-plated letters. Beyond it a big house was visible, quite still and silent. It certainly seemed far off from a place where people came to buy cakes and chocolates. So we asked the old security guard at the gate whether somewhere in here they sell cakes, half-expecting him to stare at us and then burst out laughing!

But instead he asked us to come with him. In front of the house there was a green lawn, with a badminton court recently made in it. The court lights were on, a sign that a match was about to begin. A gentleman and a lady were there, with a child with them and probably one or two servants. The security guard called out to the lady and said we were here. She acknowledged.

My eyes became rasogollas! This is the person who was giving me directions over the phone? She was wearing three-quarter jeans, with snickers without socks. And she was nowhere near her forties. Things just took a turn for an intriguing mystery story. . . .

. . . . She welcomed us. Then she spoke with the gentleman and said to us: This is my husband. He will take you upstairs. Please follow him. I will join you in a couple of minutes.

So we did. The house was probably four storied, and it surrounded the lawn from two sides. There were three or four cars parked inside. Bodhi pointed out that one was a Mercedes. Nice, we thought!

The gentleman took us up on an elevator to the second floor. There he led us to a balcony. The ceiling was surely one and a half times as high as in modern homes. Two ceiling fans were hanging from long poles, like the ones that you saw inside the Parliament. We sat in three cane chairs around a marble-top round table. As we did, I looked at the room behind us. My jaw fell open. It was like a set from a movie depicting a zamindar bari. We looked at each other and grinned! This was going to be one Christmas evening like none before. . . .

The gentleman took the little girl, who had jogged up faster by the stairs than apparently her father could by the elevator, and went to a side-room. The lady of the house had arrived by this time. From close, she looked even less like the head of a confectionery manufacturer! She spoke fluent English and she spoke with honesty and frankness. Instead of our initial plans of coming here, looking at cakes displayed in some glass showcase, picking a few, paying for them, taking the packet and leaving, we sat comfortably in cane chairs in a second floor balcony of an old and lovely house, overlooking a badminton court where a match began after a while. And we listened to the story of this lady, and ‘Pure Indulgence’. . . .

Mridulika Nopany came to this house ten or eleven years ago, when she got married at the young age of twenty-one. Her husband was something of a maverick. He had been in the Commerce stream till the 10^th standard in school; switched over to Science for his 11^th and 12^th classes; studied English at St. Xavier’s College for his B.A. degree because he loved the language; then he flew off to the USA to study textile management at Cornell University. When I asked Mrs. Nopany what he would jump over to in the future, she smiled and assured us that he was settled now.

Anyway, in the beginning Mrs. Nopany had this big house, lots of time, a rich inheritance, but nothing to do! She got fed up and frustrated. So she made up her mind to do something worthwhile. She took up classes and learned not only making cakes and chocolates, but also glass painting and some other stuff (one was probably stitching).

‘Pure Indulgence’ took off four years ago. Now her sister and she jointly run it. They have their own bakery, where they make on average five thousand items per day! But the funny thing is the absence of publicity. You won’t get their products in any confectionery shop. You won’t see their advertisement in any newspaper or bill-board. If you want to have them, you must come to this house and buy it. Mrs. Nopany went as far as to state that she is actively against any sort of advertising. Her logic is that if people see an ad in a roadside hoarding, they might come just to check the place out, not necessarily out of a direct interest to buy anything. However, without advertising, people come here like the way we did – by hearing about it from a friend or a friend of a friend who has actually tasted the products and liked it. That way, the customers are much more genuine with regards to their intentions. Well I can’t speak for everyone else but at least I haven’t ever heard of a food business, that too run by a Marwari family, which operates solely based on word-of-mouth publicity. She has plans to ultimately open a coffee shop, which would also serve you good food at affordable prices. She told us with a smile: I get sick of the filthy rich customers thronging the filthy expensive restaurants!

To be fare to the other side of the coin, when I first saw the cakes I was disappointed. The brownies are two inch by two inch square, about half-an-inch thick and cost an average of Rs.45/- per piece. We had pastries at Rs. 55/- a piece at Flurys, which were double the size. But Mrs. Nopany was very sporting. When we told her that this was a unique experience for all three of us and wanted to share it through our blog with our friends, she commented: First eat them and see!

I have. Tuhin and me both bought two Shortbread Chocolate brownies and two Macroon Shells (cup cake) at Rs.210/-, while Bodhi took home two Hazelnut brownies at Rs.100/-. The cup cake was okay, better than your average Monginis or Kathleen variety; but the Shortbread was excellent! With about eighty different items – covering brownies, tarts, cup cakes, cakes, cookies and chocolates – I guess there are bound to be many more excellent treats hiding in the bakery shelves.

We stayed for about an hour. It didn’t feel like time spent on buying foodstuffs, but rather taking a guided tour riding on the pots and pans through a kitchen built by hard work and dedication. When we had first told her about our desire to write about our experience in our blog, Mrs. Nopany said that she would have to ask her husband. But she warned us: Don’t be disheartened though. His first reaction is always a “no”. He says that is the mark of an organised and careful mind.

On our way out, we stopped by the badminton court where Mr. Nopany was busy playing with three of his friends. Mrs. Nopany told him about our idea, and he said: Well, if it is their personal blog and their personal opinion, then it’s fine. Mrs. Nopany turned to us with big eyes and said: Hmmm, now this was a first for me!

We wished them “Merry Christmas” and started walking towards the main road. I was thinking: here in this eighty-year old house (Bodhi had almost got it when he placed it at around the ’40-s; then Mrs. Nopany spoiled his excitement) lives a Marwari family with perhaps dozens of other Marwari families living in such grand, old houses around this locality. But I’m sure none of them will be like the Nopany’s. So where is the difference? One obvious answer was education. And with it were mixed the aspiration to make good use of the opportunities that only some of us are gifted with. As Mrs. Nopany told us some minutes ago: To be only rich is not enough. I did not want to sit on it idly just twiddling my legs! It is a bold statement coming from a member of a community that is not generally known for abandoning the well-trodden path followed by the rest, in search of a more meaningful one. . . .

. . . . I guess this city has many more wonderful secrets to share, if you’re willing to look hard enough!

The Story of the Grey Bear with a Blue Nose

The oldest, smallest house you can imagine was about to be knocked down.

All the things that once made the house nice and cosy had been thrown outside and piled up in the front garden, from the soft springy bed the owners slept in, to the old wooden floorboards they used to walk on...

... and even, surely by some mistake... a little brown teddy bear. He was trapped amongst all the other unwanted things, and couldn't move.

Then, one day a very, very cold day, something fell from the sky... a little snowflake. It landed on the teddy bear's little nose and was then followed by many more.

He began to get cold, very cold indeed. More and more snow fell, heavier and heavier.

The little bear was now so cold that his nose started turning blue... so cold that his brown fur started turning grey.

He was cold, unloved and all alone in the world, and felt very, very sad.

Winter finally passed and the weather got warmer, and, one beautiful spring day, a little girl was playing near the old house, when she spotted the grey bear in the pile of unwanted things.

He was like no other bear she had ever seen, and she pulled him out from where he was trapped.

She dusted him down and lifted him high in the sky to look at him.

“A grey teddy bear… with a blue nose?” She thought. “How strange!”

The teddy bear wanted to cry. He thought she didn’t like him and would throw him back with the other unwanted things.

“But he’s lovely!” she continued and she fell completely in love with him..

She ran home as fast as her little legs would carry her to see if her Grandma could patch him up, as a lot of his stuffing had fallen out, and he was very much in need of repair.

She looked on as her Grandma replaced his stuffing and patched up his holes.

His stitches had started showing where the fur had worn away, but the little girl thought he looked perfect..

It was all cosy and warm in the little girl's house and the bear now felt cosy and warm in his heart. However, his nose was still blue and his fur was still grey, and they would never return to brown. He was unique amongst teddy bears.

The little girl gave him a great big hug. She loved him more than anything else in the world… her little, grey, blue-nosed tatty teddy.

Amar Kaalboisakhibela

As the Airport-Jadavpur mini turned its nose away from Moulali, and right towards Convent Road, I adjusted the volume on my earphone and settled down for the second half of my bus-ride back to home. Usually after leaving Ananda Palit Road, the journey becomes a bit easier with less traffic signals, less traffic jams and increased reading on the speedometer dial.
But tonight was really boring. I was already late. I was supposed to reach home by 7 o'clock but now it seemed that wasn't going to happen before 7.50. The traffic jams from Ballygunge Phari to Park Circus had really pissed me off (may be they were like this every weekday around 7.00/7.30 pm; it's just that I usually return home not before 9). The inside of the bus was crowded with tired people with grim faces that could depress you enough to consider jumping out the window. Really, I mean sometimes the people around you inside buses all seem to be contemplating suicide - and the mood can be very infectious. But I guess with the hot and humid weather outside, I should have empathized with them.
Then suddenly, it happened! A fresh cool breeze wafted in through the windows and woke me up from my slumber. "What's this?" I thought, as I fumbled to put my specs back on which I had taken off to give my eyes some rest. I looked left and right. No, no, I wasn't imagining things - there it was, again, that chilly wind. . . .And wow, guess what, now I was beginning to sense that peculiar earthy smell that always signals "Aha! The rains are here!"
But my fellow passengers were still busy looking pathetically moronic! What are they, stupid?! Can't they smell that "soda maatir gandho", when the cold waters from the clouds hit the dry, parched earth after a deep-frying summer? I guess not. Because the lady and the gentleman sitting in the next seat to my left were also peering outside for a clue. Just then the bus swerved right and came up onto the over-bridge above the rail tracks coming from (or going to?) Sealdah. Blasts after blasts of dusty, earthy and cold air blew in from our left and right. Finally, was this it? Were we going to have a Kaalboisakhi after waiting for so long?
As we were entering Palmerbazar I caught my first glimpse, not of rain, but of a wet road at a distance to my left. Damn! Now we are in business! Then the first droplets of water hit the windowpanes, shone bright yellow in the sodium vapour lamps from the street, and a light drizzle greeted us. Well it was all wonderful. . . .but "dil hai ki maanta nahi"! How about more, a little bit more. . . .no, on second thought, a lot more?
Shit man! What was wrong with this traffic signal? In front the storm was picking up pace on the open Beleghata Main Road; my head was being Clubbed To Death (soundtrack from The Matrix - its got an hypnotic rhythm); it was looking like I wouldn't make it home before eight; and all this mini could do was to stand in line before a tortoise-paced red light with a bunch of sweaty, smelly (including me), lifeless men and women. Aarghhhhhh. . . .
. . . .ghhroovroooom. . . . the bus came to life! The signal has turned green. Come on man, step on the accelerator! Yes, finally we're on the main road, taking the Nor'wester head on. Ahh, the first drops of rain flying in the wind to come and touch my face, hands. . . . "where's the party tonight?'' - right here, inside Jadavpur-Airport mini. Hey, wait, what are those idiots doing!!! Oh, no, they're going to close the windows. . . . ha-ha, that's right, I bet those bolts are more than a match for your bicep-tricepless hands! Come on, Mr. Window, show them who is the real "palwan" here. . . . shit, shit, the bolts are moving! Khriiishht! Hmmm, well I think that has stopped the rains from coming in - so no more of these sinful acts, right? F***, they are going for all of them!!! No, no, please, isn't there at least one person in those seats on my right who can understand my pain and sorrow? Hey you, yes you, the JU guy - face buried in that electrical or electronics engineering book or whatever with those cryptic diagrams, speakers buried in both ears blurting out who-cares-what-song - do yourself a favor, look up and look outside! Wah, all you could see looking up was that the water was ruining your Rs.200/- worth of a colourless, flavourness book, huh? Yeah. So please, go ahead, and close the window.
I think you get the picture that I was getting sort of desperate. Come on now - with Khalbali stirring up your neurotransmitters, the co-passengers driving up your rage, the traffic jam pinning down your hopes and the wind and rain pumping up your adrenaline - how could you not be? So as the bus limped up&over&down Beleghata Khalpol, I chalked out an escape route. All my roads lead into the rain, and there I must go.
It wasn't an absolutely illogical proposition. By then I realized the traffic condition was really hellish tonight. If I took the road left from Alochaaya cinema hall straight towards Phoolbagan Kalimandir and walked fast enough, I could reach home in the same amount of time it would take sitting like a jackass inside this prison-like bus, with all its inmates. Yes, there was a time when shouting "here comes the rain" beside of my ear would shoot up my body temperature to 101-102 degrees - but that was in the distant past. And after gulping down a litre or two of the magical waters offered by the sea at Puri and coming back unscathed, what could this sweet, old rainwater possibly do?
Thus, I kept one eye on the sizes of the raindrops outside and one eye on my possible routes of action. No, no, the drops are too big and heavy. . . . umm, well they are small now but if I get down here I'll have to walk way too long. . . . can I listen to Dhan Te Nan as I make my way through the storm, you know, to spice it up a bit more. . . . no, not a good idea, specially after my antics at Puri with my previous mobile. So better switch it off and keep it inside the bag, and also wrap up my copies and documents in a plastic sheet, just in case. I'll sing my own Dhan Te Nan in the rain. . . .
So as Alochaaya approached, I was done with the packing. The man sitting to my left probably guessed that I was getting off when he saw me put my mobile inside my bag. I didn't tell him that my home was still about a kilometer away. May be that could have squeezed out some expression from his face. . . .
"Alochaaya", the conductor was shouting! "Shit, do I really have get off so fast?" "Wait, think about it". . . . you have an Annyaprashon ceremony to attend to just after getting back home, think about the fish fry, the polao, the chicken curry - and what about your new phone, what if the bag and plastic sheets can't keep the rains out - and don't you know what will all the people do when they see you walking in the street in this storm - they'll think you've lost your mind and laugh at you. . . . "so, what do you say?" "Hmmm, may be you're right and YOU CAN GO TO HELL!"
The bus came to a halt at the crossing, again the scene of a traffic jam. "Excuse me", "coming through". . . ."wow! The rain is coming down thick and fast! Umm, ok, guess I'll just have to walk a bit faster than I thought. No problemo." Here I go then. . . .
. . . . and the next ten minutes were magic.