My 4 PM Friends

“It’s about sex, love, relationships, careers, a time in your life when everything’s possible. And it’s about friendship because when you’re single and in the city, your friends are your family.” —The original treatment used by Crane, Kauffman and Bright to pitch the series (FRIENDS) to NBC.

When I was growing up, I read somewhere that if you have a few 4 am friends, you can feel proud that you have a gifted life. I always knew I had such friends. People I could call up if necessary at 4 in the morning, but luckily I never needed to. It’s not that I have had a charmed life. It’s just that I don’t let anything except a good book to keep me awake till that late. So if I am not troubled, I did not need to call people up.

Also calling up someone at 4 am doesn’t take much, does it? Yeah, the spouse might act like an ogre, especially so if it’s a friend from the opposite sex, but otherwise what does it take to wake up once in a blue moon?

On Thursday however I found out that the real test was at a completely different time of the day. Imagine a bad day at office. Your closest pal in office is out somewhere. And you don’t know what to do. You think about your friends. All of them are in their offices, fighting it out as bad as you are. Who can you call up at that moment and disturb?

It’s not 4 am anymore. You have got friends, if you have 4 pm friends. And I am just lucky.

Btw, I hate to do this but let me tell you one liners about three movies. It’s a disease. I have nothing to say about them really

Wake Up Sid – Yeah Yeah nice movie. But nothing absolutely brilliant. Watch DCH or The Graduate if you want to.

What’s your Rashee? – If only there were 6 sun signs instead of 12, this would have been fantastic. Bad ending but the first half is really decent

Inglorious Bastards – Tarantino re writes history and gloriously kills the movie. Read a book called “The Eagle has Landed” to know what I mean. But otherwise brilliantly done. The most beautiful scene is what I call “the death in a red” scene. Comes close to my favourite scene of all times, the leaves in American Pie.

Amago Dash

In a certain dialect, the title of this post means “My Country”. The scars of Partition that the Valleys of Indus and Ganges bear will never diminish since her sons will never be sure what “My country” means. But then, that’s the brilliance of it all. Even as the border remains tense, the people at the sides of it know that once they were the same nation.

I have always wanted to visit Bangladesh. This Business Trip was not exactly what I had in mind though. But then something is better than nothing. And of course being the “True Blue Ghoti” that I am, I needed to see the “other side”

What struck me as soon as I walked out of the airport in Dhaka was the greenery all around. Apart from the fact that it is a much greener city than most I have visited, Dhaka was no different from any other city. Same traffic snarls, same status of roads, same crowded streets and same heart warming welcome.

Only one evening was free before two packed days full of business meets with the country teams and the business directors would start in full swing. And the nomad in me decided to make the most of it.

The first stop was Dhaka University. Quite a few of my ancestors have taught there and I have heard about the glory days. The campus is beautiful and I hoped peaceful. But that was just an illusion. The university campus, much like JNU and CU was the starting point of many political flare ups. The campus and the city bore the symbols of who won the last general elections.

Going ahead a couple of more kilometers was the famed Dhakeswari temple. Ever since I have known people directly affected by the partition, I have heard elders say how they would love to go back just once to Dhakeswari Temple for some unfulfilled promise they made to the deity.

And on the way back I stopped over at the mausoleum of Nazrul, the rebel poet of Bengal. My early years have been spent in reciting his poetry much to the chagrin of my Tagore Loving parents. (The grief was that their first-born and apple of their eyes was reciting Sukanta and now the black sheep too chose Nazrul.)

Being the shameless marketer that I have become I asked to be shown around the busy markets and business districts and that’s how I landed in Gulshan. Being near the hotel I was staying in, I found it convenient to walk around the market. And while it was refreshing to see the signboards in Bengali, I thanked my lucky stars that the pulse of the market was no different from that of the sub continent. I knew knowing Bangladesh would not be that difficult. And it proved not to be.

The famed “Bangal cuisine”, the envy of all us “Ghotis” had to be given a miss though. Everything was a working lunch and dinner. But even then, I was bowled over by the hospitality of the team there. And thanks to them, I was able to orchestrate a full blown Bengali sentimental sequence with mom and grand mom.

Me: “Ma I have got you a dhakai jamdani and a Nakshi Kantha Stich”

Ma: “hrrmph. You are not staying back in Calcutta” (Please note, this was not a rhetorical question, neither an angry one. The hrrmph was something that only moms can give)

Me: “Na ma. By the way, is didima (grand ma) there? She gave me the idea.”

Didima: (without any query about my well-being) “So you got the sarees? Good boy. So as soon as you find a girl for yourself, you can give her those.”

Me:”What!!! Give ma the phone”

Ma: “hrrrmph”

Me: Speechless

Me: (Next call to Baba). “These contriving women of my family!!! Those things cost me a bomb and they want me to gift them to a hypothetical entity whose existence and future occurrence is seriously under question.”

Baba: “Heh Heh.”

Something troubled me though. I had always thought, given that the country had gained its independence foremost to safeguard its language and its people, I would see a lot more love and affection for the language. But the signage in the shops disappointed me. Bangla as a language was losing out on both sides.

Maybe I am wrong and I do hope I am.

A Whiff of Pain

It hit me when I was standing on my terrace tonight. The faint smell of the flowers rushed past me. Calcutta was heaving a sigh of relief. The Pujo festivities were finally over. The taxi was waiting downstairs to take me away to Mumbai. And I could sense the accusation in that smell. This was the time of the year when the tree in front of my house blossomed every year. I had seen it grow up. In one of their many and highly unsuccessful tree planting ceremonies, the Municipal corporation had lined our road with trees. All had died within a month but my granddad raised this tree just like his own son. Sometimes I felt he loved this one more than the other trees in our small excuse of a garden.

The smell brought back memories and it was difficult to tear myself away from them. And it asked me questions. For which I had no answer, as usual.

I looked around in the faint glow of the sole light on our terrace. Everything around seemed different. The old houses with their old faces were gone or on the verge of extinction. Views on either side were slowly getting blocked by grotesque apartments so very reminiscent of Gurgaon and Mumbai.

The smell was of my childhood. Of old promises and dreams. Surprisingly all those dreams had Calcutta as an important part of it. Dreams of taking someone important to my Para Pujo’s Anjali, the classic North Calcuttan Belongingness Ritual, dreams of coming back home from work and calling up my best friend to rub in a pinch of salt when East Bengal lost the Calcutta Derby, dreams that a school going kid dreamt in his adolescent years.

The smell grew stronger and pain seared through the heart. And I do not want to publish all that I had written, sensed or photographed during the Pujos. For they are happy memories of a Non Resident Calcuttan who came back after 9 years to a city he thought he owned, not because he was the richest guy around but he loved the city and he knew the city loved him back. And clichéd as it may sound, there’s seldom anything that can make you feel richer than love.

He went to places where he was forbidden to go when he was a school going kid. He finally dined with the live music playing at Trincas, danced at the immersion of the idol in busy Calcutta streets that had the traffic to a standstill and went to Maddox square with his friends, 4 years too late perhaps, but he did it.

And yet, I was a tourist, nothing more. The roots were still strong but every visit struck at them mercilessly. I blend ceaselessly into every city I live in, with the people there and yet retain what friends call my “inherent bongness”

Only when I come back I realize the charade that I live. My connection with latest Bengali Literature has virtually stopped in the last one year, the music today sounds strange, ethically I no longer have a say on the politics of the state.

The question kept nagging - Where did I belong?

Megh, Aakash, Brishti

Megh waited by the sea. She had finally been able to get through to Aakash. Otherwise, he was always sounding busy and preoccupied in his work. She remembered the last few times she had called. He had lost the usual charm in his voice. He was no longer the attentive friend that she once had. He was never rude, never out of place and yet she knew he was becoming distant.

Finally, today he gave in. He sounded busy as usual, but she was relentless. At last, he agreed to meet her. Their conversations were bland and uninteresting these days. She remembered the days when she spoke for hours and he listened, always understanding, always at her side. These days their conversations were at best “dangling conversations”.

They walked together by the sea comfortable in each other’s company but then the spirit within Megh began to feel suffocated. She knew the feeling. After they had parted ways, she had begun to realize the power Aakash always exerted on her. He came in only to devour the very independence that Megh desired. He wanted to be a part of every bit of her life. He wanted everything or nothing but Megh had grown up from her dreamy teenager days. Today, she valued her independence more than anything else. Aakash never seemed to realize it.

When he cared, he seemed paternal. When he scolded, he seemed patronizing. When he was silent, she knew he was scanning her very existence for that tiny speck of sorrow that she might have hidden from him. If he could, he would closet her up so that nothing in this world could ever harm her. He cared for her in a silent but ferocious way that always seemed too much for the free spirit Megh had become. And sometimes it was scary, like losing one’s own identity in the love of someone else.

They were silently sipping on their coffee. And suddenly they remembered how as kids the open terraces were their haunts for the mid afternoon escapades. They walked up again the same old stairs and looked up.

What went on in their minds, perhaps even they did not really comprehend.

Megh was furious with herself the next day. Why did she have to ask Aakash to come back? She knew that it was her fault and only she was to blame. Slowly Megh started building the walls around her again, walls that she had so deliberately built and broken down. The phone kept on ringing. Aakash was calling.

Aakash smiled. Megh was again not answering his calls. He seemed to understand what was going on in Megh’s mind. He just hoped Megh would get over it. He knew they had drifted apart and yet they were connected. She would miss him, he would miss her and yet sparks flew when they met.

The very confident Aakash lost his logic when he was with Megh. She was the only person in the world who could make him forget all else and come running to her. Aakash knew, the problem started there. A call from Megh meant Aakash would run like a free wind and in his momentum would sweep Megh off her feet, in a manner she once loved but now resisted.

Brishti smiled to herself. Bith Aakash and Megh had called her up. She never understood what the two wanted from each other. Perhaps even they didn’t know.

Aakash and Megh - when they meet it often results in tears. And in those tears, a new story is formed

(Started during the incessant weekend rains which hinders cycling but enables writing. And I thought what best to write about if not the hide and seek of the rain clouds on the vast sky. Then it got lost somewhere and suddenly it rained again)

The Greatest Sci-Fi Ever

I have sworn by Asimov for a long time now. I believed him to be the greatest of them all and Nightfall as the greatest Sci-Fi story ever told. But District 9 changed all that. For the first time a Sci-Fi movie was less about aliens and more about humanity and not the Good Humanity that E.T. championed but humanity in all its petty and mean plots.

It is a story about the common man. But it does not tell you that the common man becomes a hero and a saviour for the human race. Instead, it tells you how a common man performs extraordinary tasks for one glimmer of hope. We do not want to be heroes. We want to live and go back to whatever we have been doing.

District 9 is a movie about Space Aliens, Awesome Guns, big blasts and yet it is a sensitive story about one man. It is a story about the establishment against us. It is a story about underground economy and yet it is a story about hope in the time of adversities. It is a story about honour and courage as well as a story about decadency of a race when faced with adversity.

Watch District 9. You will question your glorified right over the term humanity and maybe on your own existence.

The First Pick Up Line Ever

CAS had swaggered into his room after the usual early dinner one night in 185 SK. Being strategically located it was the best place to sit for a while before you could rush off to your room to study. 185 SK was a great place. Time stood still there. In fact, Time there had gone back to Middle Earth. The inhabitant was learning to speak Elven. Anyway, this was the time when CAS and the man in question used to chat till suddenly C would give a jerk and run off to study. S would go to call up someone in Bhopal and A would look here and there and then go and plan out his next two hours of study which would be regularly interrupted by swarms of hungry hostelites.

During one such discussion, the topic veered towards women. The species were abundant in the land they lived in and as enigmatic as ever. S was the most experienced of them all. After all, he was the one who was calling Bhopal. A stayed away from Women. They were supposed to know Black Magic and no good boy would ever fall for it. C on the other hand was already going around with a subset of the women Species called Seniors. They called him cute, pulled his cheeks, took him out to dinner and of course to the back stage. Now now, come on. Taking someone back stage is not as bad as you might be thinking. It was pretty common there – in the land around 185 SK.

Anyway, as I was saying, C and the man from 185 SK had an altercation over pick up lines. This was a new concept to all of them. This was supposed to be a potent weapon against the other species. And then had begun the hunt for the first pick up line. It was beset with difficulties. It had to be original. It had to be smart. It had to have the ability to filter out certain sub species.

And then exactly 8 years later…

Our man in question was looking lovingly at the second love of his life. What he saw brought tears of joy to his eyes. The Papri Chaat looked heavenly. And then he remembered Shimla Mirch, then he remembered Gulabji, then he remember 185 SK, then CAS and finally the challenge which he had forgotten all about.

This is called mind mapping in the industry he is in and he never quite figured out how it worked. Anyway, buoyed by the tasty Papri chaat he thought and then it struck him. The first pick up line ever.

And he was thrilled. It met all the criteria. It was original and smart and snobbish.

“So, now I know the cause of Global Warming.”

It took 8 years to find the first pick up line ever. I guess it will take him 8 more to use it.

Till then, he would enjoy the Papri chaat.

Satan, The Son of God and The Son of Man

When I look back, I often find that two distinct theological ideologies shaped my childhood beliefs. While liberal Bengali Hinduism encouraged me to seek for truth both inside and outside, the strict catholic missionary education made me read up The Bible in as much detail as a school going kid could. I went deeper and very early in my life I realized going deeper into anything could just leave you more confused but at the same time, it is intoxicating.

Mythologies followed next. Greek, Norse, African, the entire list. Patterns began emerging. I continued reading. The Mother Goddess and her oblivion through male dominion were clear and simple to follow like all great cons by men. Folk Tales followed. And somewhere when I just started getting into Folk Music I decided to put an abrupt end to it all.

Somehow, the concept of God always intrigued me. That had resulted in an academic paper letting go of other important matters. That is another story. The point is that spirituality has always been an important part of The Search.

A insisted a few nights back that we should have our own Ganpati in our house. Given that our sinful lives take a great toll on our mental peace, it seemed like an extremely awesome idea. But as we started preparing, I began to realize how far away the kid from Calcutta had come away from anything remotely Godly. In fact, post the nights outside Temple Lawns in the Rajasthan Village, the connection has just become weaker.

It was a difficult transition. The childhood memories of performing a Puja at home were hazy. None of us knew exactly what was to be done. We just knew we wanted to do it. It was like a calling. It always is.

Then Swati saved the day for us. An amazing woman, she deserves a separate post on her own. She invited us over to our house, helped us with our preparations, scolded us when we were slacking away and stopped the entire thing from becoming a good intentioned farce,

On Friday night, I returned to a dark home. The lights were out. Only a small lamp was lit in front of the idol and the surroundings seemed ethereal. And I sat and thought. About Good and Evil and God and Satan.

Suddenly it struck me; in Hindu Philosophy, the concept of Evil is extremely strange. While the religions arising out of the Middle East believe in the Opposite of Good being present in the universe as much as Good itself, The Indus religions believe in One Supreme Good and various manifestations of evil. Both have hell. Yet while Satan or Iblish rules Hell in one, A God is the Gatekeeper of another.

The forgotten ancients also grappled with this confusion. Was Loki Satan? Or Hades the Greek Yama?

I looked at myself. Sometimes being evil is just about stopping to be good for most parts of your life. When I was a kid, I thought ourselves to be images of God, the supreme being or whoever that dude up there is. The scriptures agreed – Tat Tvam Asi

The lights came on and the trance was broken.

Saturday was Visarjan. Standing chest deep in the dirty waters of Juhu with the idol on my head I felt a part of the Visarjan Microcosm, vibrant, euphoric and full of life. People around me were ecstatic. They led hard lives and yet for this one moment they were moving their bodies to an eclectic mixture of Bollywood music, Bhajans, political propaganda and drums.

Just then it dawned on me. We are sons of Man, unable to stick to the extremes of righteousness and that made us so unlike our Creator.

And while their children frolicked in the carcinogenic wastes and Swine Flu Scares, She and He had a hearty laugh upstairs.

(This post was originally 3 pages long. Had to cut it short)