brooding over chai

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

  2004 I came home from work to find my parents waiting for me. They had just returned from Assam, having met my prospective parents-in-law. They bore a solemn expression and instructed me to sit down for an early dinner. 'Cos they had some important news to share. 'Do you remember our ancestral place in Dumka, Jharkhand?' Baba posed a question. I nodded. How can I ever forget! 'That's how the place is where your in-laws live.' Ma took over. 'Dark and damp. Tiny yellow lights in every house. Houses with a sloping roof. After dark, everything goes silent except for the crickets and the frogs. There are frequent power cuts draining the inverter. After a while it's completely dark except for the dim lights emitted by the hurricane. People wake up with the sun and call it a night early.' 'Is it a proper town, Ma?' 'Not really. It's what we say Mofosshol in Bangla. Somewhere between a village and a town. The suburbs.'

We were out for our routine walk with our hyper, fifteen-month-old furry girl. Usually, the entire family steps out post-dinner and it's almost like a night-time ritual. This time, the father and the daughter stayed back while mommy and son stepped out. This is the time when we talk...when we share...when we speak anything that comes to our mind. Our path crossed with a resident of our society whose daughter and mine were at one point in time, good friends. Parental interference nipped the bond. The woman did not see me and headed towards her block. I heaved a sigh of relief. At that moment, my twelve-year-old turned towards me and asked me a question. 'Did you notice or are you in denial?' 'What denial?' 'That woman is clearly avoiding you.' 'No. You are wrong.' I explained. 'She was busy getting of the car and she did not look around.' The boy raised his hands up and said. 'Believe whatever suits you. I thought I should explain it to yo

 Let me tell you a story, my dear!' 'Oh no. Not again, Ma!' 'But why?' 'They are totally unrelatable.' 'What?!' 'Yes! A father chops off the head of his son out of anger. Replaces it with that of an elephant. An elephant is killed. Or there is a God who has five heads. Or a Goddess who steps on her husband sticks out her tongue and is called Kali. A Goddess who strings the heads of all the monsters she has killed and then wears it as a garland! Please Ma. That's tough to believe. So much violence and gore.' I keep quiet for a moment. 'There are some more stories. Like Beauty and the Beast and...' The children cut me short. 'Oh yes. Rapunzel lets down her hair for the prince to climb up. Cinderella is treated Iike a maid. A prince kisses the sleeping princess and wakes her up.' The kids roll their eyes. 'We don't need bedtime stories, mum.' I am hurt. Deeply hurt! Here, I am, having wrapped

This kerosene stove is an antique piece. Made of brass, if polished well, it gives a shine that can put gold to shame. But then, I am not the kind who loves flashy stuff. So I won't polish it. Ma brought it down from the attic and shared her memories with me. But my mind was elsewhere. It was on it's own trip. It took me back to the year 1948. A little boy, hair neatly oiled and parted, dressed in a modest half-shirt and a half pant is following his grandmother. The woman is unnaturally tall for her gender. Blessed with a dusky complexion, she has an imposing presence. No one dares to question her or ask her a question, twice. The woman holds a big potli in her hand and with the other she leads her four-year-old grandson. They walk through the dark bylanes of Bardhaman. There were no streetlights then. A harricane was all you had to show the path. Radharani did not need a harricane. Her sharp eyes and her instinct was enough to guide her through the dark. They reached a spot b

 It was three in the morning when the phone rang. It read Thammi – her paternal grandmother. Thammi at this hour! She panicked. Was she sick? Clicking on the green key, she heard a faint hello.  ‘Thammi…?'  'Riti...!'  ' Are you okay? Why are you up so late?'  'First, tell me why YOU are up?’ 'Oh Thammi, I have the assignment to submit tomorrow.' 'How long will it take? You need to sleep, child. You also have to report to work tomorrow.'  'I know. I am almost done. Just a few more slides.' 'Then I shouldn’t keep you away.'  ‘No, No Thammi. I have been working since afternoon. My mind is a haze now. Can you hold on? Let me grab a cup of coffee.’ ‘Go get it, my child! And listen. Only half a cup. Else, it will rob you of your sleep.’ Riti rushed off to get herself a cup of coffee. Five minutes later, she pulled out a chair, rested her legs on the table, and held the mug in one another and the phone in the other.   

  “Isn’t it enough that we are all looking after her? We are doing all her chores. Can you imagine that the men of the household are doing her seva? She is blessed to have us, Didi.” Almost a week….and Sushanto Da hadn’t delivered water jars. Nor was he answering the phone. Scrolling down the contact list, I found another number of his and promptly placed a call. After a few rings, a voice answered. “Sushanto Da?” “My father is not at home.” The call gets disconnected. An hour later Sushanto Da calls back. He speaks in hushed tones. “Can’t hear you, Dada. Can you be louder?” “Didi, I can’t deliver water. You see Corona has entered my home.” “Who has it?” He refuses to tell me. After much pestering, he confides. “My wife. She has it.” “Did all of you test?” “Yes, we did. Everyone else is negative.” “How is she doing?” “Not good.  She is having fits. Her jaw gets locked. And she starts shaking badly. I have to put a spoon between her teeth.  And… and…she is having difficulty