brooding over chai

 Meet Bapi! The one-man show. He repairs pressure cookers, mixers, services gas ovens and can even open locks. He is quite well-known in my area. For picking any kind of lock. And for the obscene rates, he charges. Question him and pat comes his reply, "I do house visits. I am doing my work in front of you. All transparent work. I am always available for you. Shouldn't you pay me a premium?" And that is enough to keep our mouths shut. Bapi was not born poor. Rather he was one of those unfortunate ones who was born rich but lost everything to a tragedy. His father had huge plots of cultivated land and a bookstore on College Street, the traditional educational hub in Kolkata. The bookstore was their main source of earnings. He was a well-read man who spent time with his books. All was well, till the riots struck the nation. His father went missing in the chaos. They tried their best to locate him. But ended up clueless. Young Bapi, all of eleven years, gave up the search

Walking through the lanes of the Chinese township in Tangra, we came across a rectangular space, guarded with grill. Avijit Da informed us that this space comes alive every morning at an unearthly hour. For it is the headquarters of the only Chinese newspaper that is still in circulation amongst the community.  The enclosure that houses the Chinese Daily Yes! As the Chinese population grew in India, they set up institutions to cater to their needs. One such area was the requirement of a Daily that would spread the news amongst them, help them bond and keep the community intact. The only Chinese newspaper of India was published from China Town. It was handwritten and then printed. Named as the Overseas Chinese Commerce of India, the circulation of the paper has dropped today. The younger generation has no interest in reading it. Neither do they know Mandarin. The newspaper is trying its best to keep itself alive by earning revenue from advertisements announcing marriages and other soc

A view of Tangra Whenever we have decided to organize a reunion, a birthday bash or an anniversary dinner, ‘Tangra Cholo’, (let’s go to Tangra) has been the unanimous decision.  Tangra, a locality in Kolkata is synonymous with the Chinese community. Murky and shady in the morning, it comes alive after dark. Neon lights glitter everywhere. Bright glow signs announce the name of the restaurants. Cheap alcohol and a different kind of Chinese dishes – that is how we know Tangra.  While Mainland China and the premium Chinese fare in Park Street were unaffordable to many, Tangra welcomes all and sundry. Loud, boisterous crowd. Raucous laughter greeted makes sure that we feel at home in Beijing or Big Boss.    The symbolic red My opinion changed during a walk through Tangra one morning. There is something more than cheap alcohol and a differently styled Chinese. Behind every dilapidated house, lies a story. The brightly painted red gates are just a facade for there is history that is waitin

Every time we travel by car, I desperately look for a toilet. While the men unzip and empty their bladder anywhere, I have to suppress the constant pressure on my bladder. After a while, I cry out to stop the car. The hunt then begins. If it is a locality, I go around requesting permission from the residents to use their toilets. If it is a desolate stretch, we start hunting for a tree, a huge boulder, or the remnants of a wall – anything that would shield my bottom from prying eyes. It is at such moments that I feel we can never be equal. The men can do ‘it’ anywhere. But we cannot! June 2021 One afternoon, a sudden abdominal pain left me gasping for breath. None of the painkillers worked. A series of diagnostic tests followed. The doctor informs me. ‘Madam, your body needs adequate water. Do you know the benefits of…?’ By then I had turned my mind off the ‘discourse’ and was concentrating on the painting behind him. I suddenly heard the husband say ‘Doctor, she does not drink water a

Our society doesn’t treat their daughters the way they treat the Goddess. They will throw themselves at the feet of the Goddess but they will cry their voice hoarse if a daughter is born. Alas, this year Baba was not there to lift her up on his shoulders and show her the Goddess. The year had been cruel. Baba, who worked in the city, never came back home one day. The landlord refused to listen to her pleas to threw her out. The Dhaak* sounded again. She saw women carrying thaalis bearing food for the Goddess. One by one the offerings were lined up in front of the idol. It was time for ‘Bhog Nivedan’. A long, rectangular piece of cloth was held in front of the deity blocking everyone’s view.  People turned their face away as it was forbidden to look at the Goddess while she accepted the Bhog. After a while, the Dhaak, Shonkho and the Kanshor sounded announcing the end of the ritual. The priest invited everyone to come to the Mandap and accept Bhog. “Who is that urchin? Darwaan, Darwaan?

 It was Janmashtami. I was preparing the bhog for our little Lord when my little one decided to stand and observe. After a while, she exclaimed. 'What are you doing Ma? You are tasting the food. And you should be fasting.' It was time to turn off the gas and give her some lessons. 'Gopal, the Lord is baby nono, right? He is the little baby of our family.' The daughter nodded her head in agreement. 'You and dadabhai (brother) are also my babies.' She nodded her little head once again. 'Everyday when I cook for you, I check the salt, sugar and the taste. So that you like and enjoy it. Right?' 'Yes ma.' Came her reply. 'So. I do..' 'You do the same.' She interrupted me. 'You taste the food to see everything is right and baby nono loves his food.' Right right. This time I had to agree with her. 'I am sure baby nonk will love the food, Ma.' She assures me. 'And now about fasting. Have I ever told you to fast during