Delhites are aggressive. There may be many reasons for that. But not going into any explanation it would suffice to say their aggression finds expression in speech and action. Some go for coarse expletives while others use their muscles feely.
Resorting to obscenities is not the sign of sophistication. Behaviour of the educated and well mannered are marked by composure and controlled speech even in a state of annoyance. Having said that it is also necessary to ventilate anger or frustration when boiling over for one’s own health and emotional safety.
Like the “punching bag” room in the office I suggest a “hissing out” room as well in the safe territory of our residences where we can employ appropriate means of venting our wrath all by ourselves.
It will, I guess, act as an ameliorative without getting into any unpleasant situation. When you have that exact spluttering feeling as though mustard seeds have been put in hot oil for tempering you can just go into that room quietly close the door grit your teeth, hiss it out, use slang, shout and scream in extreme cases and even raise your fists at invisible irritants and after the rage show is over come out with a dignified gait as cool as cucumber.
Incidentally, in ancient times there used to be a kop bhavan or the Anger Palace where the queen would take refuge to make a point home to the king.
Foot Note : Holi is a very important Hindu festival celebrated in the month of Spring. It is colourful, joyous and brings people together. This year it was celebrated on the 4th of March. It’s a two day festival beginning with Holika Dahan, a bonfire symbolizing the destruction of evil, followed by a day of playing with colours, sharing sweets, and strengthening community and family bonds.
The picture is of Holika Dahan celebrated in our Block.
AI generated image of playing with colours on Holi.
Mewar is in southeastern Rajasthan in India, renowned for its Rajputana history marked by indomitable spirit and valour. The kings of Mewar were known as Maharanas. The Mewar kingdom encompassed cities like Udaipur and Chittorgarh.
Image from Pinterest : Maharana Pratap , the ruler of Mewar from 1540 to 1597
Yesterday having not much to do I watched a limited episodes series on Hoichoi which is a streaming platform for Bengali series and movies.
Aadalat O Ekti Meye (The Court And A Girl) is the story of an ambitious girl who is raped by one of her bosses in an office party. Her drink being spiked she is in a dazed state and cannot exactly remember the face of the rapist. However, she has her doubts pinned on the one who is openly flirtatious and in the habit of making very obvious passes at her.
In spite of the non-cooperation of the police, she decides to go to Court taking help of her senior in school (Public Prosecutor) who is also the wife of the boss she is comfortable with.
The storyline is very predictable and it is easy to guess who the actual culprit is. However, the series underlines certain trends in today’s society which require weighing without being judgmental.
First and foremost, if the atmosphere in the workplace is not conducive to a woman’s dignity should a presumably well qualified female professional continue tolerating questionable behaviour of her superiors? Is perpetuating a comfort zone more important than personal dignity?
Should an ambitious and aggressive go-getter, given to dressing up in Western wears and social drinking be stereotyped as ‘available’?
Rape, in contemporary social set up, is considered more a power play than a sexual vendetta. Does violation of a woman, unpopular with her colleagues, peers and subordinates, for zero tolerance for mistakes , domineering nature and in the habit of making personal attacks, which again tantamount to abuse of position and power that comes with it, seem justified and comes as some sort of poetic justice ?
Should a woman’s flexi schedule (working extended hours in office as per demands of the job) resulting in coming home late be construed as deliberately inviting trouble for herself and family ?
In one scene the victim tells her father it’s now common and understandable for jobbers to unwind in pubs to de-stress after a day’s nerve racking tensions and pressures of work. The father asks then when do they think? Are today’s over achievers in the rat race of cutthroat competition intentionally relinquishing the space and time for self-introspection and taking to easy escapes?
The placement of characters in the series is too convenient easing the direction of the narrative. The social victimization of a rape victim which has been very explicitly shown in the Pakistani Serial Case No. 9, revolving around similar premise, is missing in this series. Does that mean our society is so liberal that it readily accepts a rape victim in the mainstream without being unequivocally critical?
The role of police is sketchy and does not capture their hand-in-glove connivance with the vested interests in such cases. But a female SI out of the way takes kindly to the victim handing over undocumented evidence which surprisingly remains undestroyed. Should it be taken as a ray of hope in a society where a woman is considered the greatest threat to another woman?
Accused is another movie streaming on Netflix where a gay female surgeon of repute falls prey to a conspiracy wherein she is projected as a repeated sex offender abusing her position and power to sexually harass her juniors.
It will be wrong to say a woman in a position of power is not conscious of her status. It will also be too generic a statement to make that all women achievers are power abusers. However, apparently it’s the latest trend to show that even powerful, reputed and overachieving women can also fall prey to honey traps or brutally violated because their lifestyle and work culture permit so.
Is it again an attempt to build up an alternate narrative that :
Even a socially and professionally secured woman is still “weak” enough to be violable?
Even education and financial independence are not adequate “armour” for a woman to hold her head high and be safe in society ?
That the lakshmanrekha (boundary) around a woman is anyway porous in whichever circumstances she is ?
That female empowerment in every possible sense of the term is more a myth than a socio-cultural reality ?
Public speaking is an art. Being a very shy and tongue tied child I was never good at it. Elocution, debate, group discussion, recitation were part of the school curriculum that I dreaded. Extempore speech – out of the question.
But give me a role in a play I was a pro. I was the star of the House (No.5). If the school took part in a drama competition I was sure to be there in the main role. I guess being an introvert fitting into fictional characters was easy for me. Soon my studies suffered and just a fortnight before the 10th class Board examination, I realised I was the most ill prepared examinee. It was my elder sister who finally coached me and I passed with flying colours for which she takes the credit even now.
Coming back to my awkwardness in facing the public. As a child I had to rehearse many times what I had to say if my mother sent me to the local shop to purchase daily necessities. It had serious consequences in my professional life as well. I hated interviews. Before a presentation I had to literally grill myself on the subject (even though I had adequate domain knowledge) in a self-rehearsal mode. Often I would go blank mid speech. Social appearances where I had to talk in front of strangers were a nightmare.
Strangely, I don’t have issues in one-on-one interaction where I easily take on the role of the speaker. (And if it’s on my favourite topics I shoot off like a rattle gun). Stranger still was my ability to emote and deliver dialogues in front of live audience when it came to a stage performance. But that’s it – there the bucket stopped. Though classically trained if anybody asked me to sing I’d forget all the songs I knew by heart.
Given my limited abilities, I still take pride in my histrionics. However, in every play that I performed I was always given the role of the male lead. Yeah, you heard me right. Ours was an all girls’ school and I was always the king, the prince, the Sravan Kumar, the obedient son of the blind sage but never the queen, the princess or the heroine. One of the juniors in school had nicknamed me Raja Didi. My teachers told me I had a ‘regal bearing’ and that I was their ‘favourite hero’ which kind of mollified me. But not being able to enact a coy Shakuntala or a petite princess will always remain the biggest tragedy of my life.
Now at the fag end of my journey I think I’d do good on the director’s chair casting others in the roles they suit best – almost like moving the pawns in a game of chess – tutoring their minds and emotions so that they are able to execute my vision of a narrative impeccably.
In our society one who doesn’t know how to speak in English is not considered educated enough. I feel it’s our colonial legacy that makes us feel superior if we can “walk English…talk English.”
Though we are taught the language, from the play school level onwards, it will be wrong to say we don’t make mistakes. But I wouldn’t like to hold a person in contempt if he or she is not good or fluent at it. Most of the time, we think in our mother tongue or the language we are most comfortable with, and translate those words and expressions in English while conversing. That is why our (Indian) English may sound different from British or American English.
For that matter, every country has its own brand of English which shows the outreach of the language and how it has flourished having intermingled with other languages all over the globe.
To be very honest, we, in cosmopolitan cities have a khichdi (pish pash) vocab which is a mixture of Hindi, English and the respective vernacular. I really hold a person in awe if he or she is able to speak in a singular, “unadulterated” language , be it Hindi, English or any one of the twenty two languages officially recognised in the country. At times we are at a loss to find the exact meaning of a word without relying on English.
Sadly, I have also seen a senior colleague in the office holding a subordinate in disdain because he was not so conversant in English though he had undisputed expertise in his subject.
Considered trendy I also see the youngsters speaking in highly anglicised accent with swag throwing in a few fashionable words here and there.
Jeering a person who is weak in English is very common in our society. It may be done in good or bad humour. Once one of my bosses, who belonged to the Hindi belt, dictated a note haltingly and later apologetically explained that it was because his English was dim. I remember once we had a good laugh when a trainee said her husband thought she was a very good cooker.
It’s very common to see a Bengali stuttering in English if enraged. In our Kolkata office the telephone operator stopped a colleague rushing out of the office, saying she had an urgent call on hold for him. After attending the call he thanked her saying,”Good that you caught me. I was just going to go out of the window.” It would suffice to say our office was on the third floor of a gothic building in the centre of a busy commercial complex.
Having said that, I check and recheck my posts for grammatical errors, wrong expressions and inappropriate words before uploading yet often reading later still find many.
She walked past the stone building – old and dark. The deserted streets draped in a shroud of white. The street lamp at the corner threw more shadow than light. The grumpy, overcast sky looked on gloomily.
Almost a Holmes-ian setting, she thought…Her footprints etching reminders on the carpet of snow methodically, rhythmically.
She was a stranger in this part…a lone visitor…an explorer. But in this envelope of mystic quietude she felt like an intruder.
She followed every bend, spiral and winding of the street till it surprisingly curved into a deep, dark pine forest. A sturdy wooden foot bridge giving shape to a connecting pathway over a bottomless gorge that separated the ‘dead’ town from the verdant groves. Strangely there was no sign of winter here.
She crossed the bridge and entered the intimacy of the tall trees that almost lost themselves somewhere up into nothingness. There was something magnetic about the leafy mesh. It pulled her in.
The pines stood erect with fingers on their lips. There was no sound of birds or insects. No roar or growl of ferocious animals. No whisper of wind. No softness of footfalls. No hardness of heavy treads. No movement. At all. As though all sounds, words and emotions laid here suppressed… stifled…surrendered…In this envelope of intricately knitted verbose silence she again felt like a gatecrasher. A narrow, untrodden, almost hidden path let her in.
Bye and bye she came to the river – motionless…it’s water still…almost thickened by the opaque shades of the tightly hugging clusters of branches covered with sleeves of richly embroidered velvet green threads. She peered in and at once jerked back.
Who did she see in the water? Was there someone else there inside? A mess of colourless tangled hair encircled a pale, drawn face with flattened forehead, sunken cheeks, unbecoming nose, expressionless eyes and straight, shapeless lips.
Then she remembered. The forest was rumoured to be magical….mystical. The old hooded lady with a stoop leaning precariously on a crooked staff had told her at the inn. The forest had power… unimaginable…untapped… unencrypted power. A wicked grin playing on her thin lips.
It saw…observed…scanned…absorbed…and then reflected back what it had gleaned. The river in the bosom of the forest was its mirror. And the forest saw her as uninviting… unattractive…ugly.
She stood there breathless trying to get control of herself. Her legs shook. Her heart had sunk in the pit of her stomach. She wanted a breath of fresh air. Here in this enmeshed canopy of twining leaves and branches the sun could never peep in. She wanted to see the sky. Clear light to think straight.
She had an overbearing urge to rush back to the inn. To her room. And see what the dressing table mirror showed – who she was….how she was.
Though she blindly groped her way back with flailing arms and staggering steps something inside her knew that nothing would be the same again…her life would not be the same again…she herself would not be the same again…
***
Walking past that grim facade once again she felt as though the crooked building stared at her with x-ray eyes.
The street lamp in the corner blinked twice with a crackle before giving way to a flicker of light which did no better in the condensed darkness of a moonless night.
As she was about to pass by, the door of the building opened, as though with a sudden gust of wind and a pencilled streak of bleak light rolled out and fell on the icy street.
She had no mood to look inside but stopped short as the cackles of a high pitched, mirthless laughter emanated from the doorway and a large looming shadow writhed over the threshold and spread itself on the outer wall of the monolith like a gigantic silhouette.
She knew that laughter swirling in air. She knew that shadow carved on the wall … a hump back dramatically hunched over an asymmetrical staff …
She ran. But the cacophonic laughter chased her with a starling speed. She put her hands over her ears to muffle the insane noise. Yet she knew it would overpower her…her body…her mind…her soul…her senses…and all her perceived reality….
After the crippling cold of January, the month of February has been kind – ushering in the queen of seasons – Spring. The mild weather, the balmy breeze and the greenery around have had an invigorating impact on body and mind. The changing seasons call for gratitude.
I have had two outings this month – each a test of my resilience, self reliance and ability. Whether I can withstand the exhaustion. Whether I can manoeuvre well. Whether the outside food is suitable for me. Every time all the check boxes may not have got ticked. I have needed a lot of rest after each venture. But there has been incremental improvement on each account for which again I am grateful.
My walking speed has increased considerably. I am still not able to climb up high steps without support but now I can go to the park by myself. Though I get a little flustered in moving traffic or crossing busy roads. I have consciously started avoiding crowded places. My next target is the Metro – whether I can commute on my own comfortably.
On the food front, I am doing fine with home (and self) cooked meals. I had gradually veered towards three meals a day which resulted in weight gain. Now I have come back to five to eight small meals a day and there is a reduction in weight. However, my stomach is reacting more to certain preparations. I am being cautious for a while.
I have visited the hospital once and some of the revelations have been eye opening but more on that later. My moderate exercises are continuing. And yes, I have started on building my core but with care.
As regards reading, I am half way through Ashwin Sanghi’s Ayodhya Alliance – taking it slow without any pressure of deadline, revisited Christie’s Murder On The Orient Express – this time an audio adaptation. Luckily I was able to get Criminals Of Kathmandu on Kindle – an English translation of Satyajit Ray’s Jawto Kando Kathmandute. Though I have just watched a web series based on the book, it was a queer fetish to check the authenticity that made me re-read the English translation.
I am still following a handful of Pakistani serials. Having reduced screen time I could not watch more except Neeraj Pandey’s Taskaree and Gunjit Chopra’s Kohraa 2 having already written about these serials. Oh! But I have also gone back to watching a few hilarious Bangla Natok (Bengali drama) straight from Bangladesh. Will keep you all posted about them.
This month I have to catch up on a few Hoichoi Series , one or two on Netflix and Klikk. Did I tell you I follow a vlog regularly on You Tube – Probaashey Ghorkonna – the day to day life of a Bengali family in California!! Someday I must write about it.
And yes, I am being very regular on WP – reading and writing – a joyful interactive exercise.
My sister has been craving Luchi (Puffs made out of refined wheat floor) and Kosha Mangsho (Mutton Bhoona). She said her soul would wander restlessly if she died before having it.
After this historic statement we had to make haste to fulfill her heart’s desire. So last Friday we travelled from one end of the city to another to have authentic Bengali cuisine for lunch at the premium restaurant, Oh! Calcutta.
Pre-lunch we both got our hair cut not because we were having a day out but because it was over due and the outfit happened to be on the way.
As we entered the restaurant, a ‘fish-y’ smell , so typical of a Bengali kitchen pervaded our nostrils. The restaurant has shifted from Gurugram to Delhi. The seating space appeared to be bigger in comparison with the earlier place.
The restaurant usually takes time to serve. But as our stomachs were touching our spines we ordered mocktails to subdue the hunger pangs and cool our spirits. I ordered Gandhoraj Sharbot , B-I-L took a cucumber juice with cumin seeds and sister a Lichi Gondhoraj mocktail. I don’t remember the exact names though.
Gondhoraj is a variety of lemon grown in West Bengal. Less juicy, it is preferred for its fragrance. As we are small eaters we did not opt for any starters and straightaway ordered the main course.
Apart from Luchi and Kosha Mangsho , we chose Illish Machher (de-boned) Paturi and Mochaar Ghonto (Banana Flower Curry) with Tandoori Roti and Gobindobhog Rice. Illish Maachh or Hilsa fish is a delicacy and Paturi is one of the ways it is cooked. The fish is wrapped in banana leaf and steamed with mustard sauce. Gobindobhog is a variety of rice grown in Bengal popular for its soft grain and aroma.
Since Hilsa has very fine bones it takes a lot of time to eat. Hence, our choice of a boneless dish. Banana flower is not available down our side and entails a tedious process of preparation. We deliberately chose those dishes which we salivate over but usually do not make at home, mainly, because of non-availability and lengthy cooking process.
All the dishes were balanced in spices. The oil content was low. The flavours were not overwhelming. However, the Hilsa fish was a little mild and less tangy in taste. B-I-L said he missed the way my mother used to make it. My favourite was the Mochaar Ghonto. Just delicious with the subtle flavour of Bengali garam masala and garnished with grated coconut. We ended up having Nolen Gurer Icecream fordessert which was just awesome!! Nolen Gur is a jaggery made out of date juice. It is only available during the winter months in West Bengal.
As usual I forgot to click before eating. More so because the lighting inside was quite dim. I am not sure whether that adds to the experience of fine lunching.
Coming back home we had to stop by at our favourite Bengali sweet shop – New Annapurna at Yusuf Sarai Market – to buy sandesh and rassagollahs prepared with Nolen Gur. Additionally, we also bought shingara or samosas and another sweetmeat called Labongolotika. Bengalis have a fetish for ornamental names that can be a subject for another post.
All in all we had a lovely family time. I’ll keep you all posted on our next hogging trip as it happens.
Till then…
Traa..Laaa…Laa
Footnote:
Speciality Restaurants Limited was started in 1992 by Anjan Chatterjee. The Company’s first restaurant called “Only Fish” was started in 1992 in Mumbai followed by “Oh! Calcutta” and “Mainland China” (both in Mumbai) in 1994.
Presently it owns multiple chains of fine and casual dining restaurants in India, Bangladesh and Tanzania and is an example of Bengali entrepreneurship.
Human beings thrive on relationships. Yet when money comes into the picture the strongest of bonds rupture.
Families are seen entering into disharmonious squabbles over pecuniary matters. One of the reasons for the disintegration of erstwhile joint families was the disparity of income of members. Those who earned well decided to break away.
The sati pratha or the wife being burnt alive on the husband’s pyre was a devious social custom to eliminate one more claimant to the ancestral inheritance.
The dowry given to girls (primarily gold and jewellery) at the time of marriage was meant for their financial security or fall back in times of calamity. It gradually degenerated into a compulsion to provide monetary and material benefits as per demands of the groom and his family. Instances of bride burning are results of non compliance to these onerous demands.
During an arranged marriage, it is seen that the earnings of the groom is more than that of the bride as the disparity in income is often a cause of marital rift. A girl choosing not to part with her income after marriage also has serious repercussions disrupting conjugal harmony.
One of my female colleagues who, in spite of earning a handsome salary, survived the month on a fixed sum as pocket money. The decision of how her salary was to be expended or invested, rested with the husband – a source of continuous bickering in the family.
One of my junior colleagues was a victim of an abusive relationship for years. She was the sole bread earner of her family. Her boyfriend, despite earning well and being aware of her circumstances, wanted total control on her money. Ultimately his greed fractured the relationship forever.
The first taste that my tongue needs early in the morning is that of chai or cha, as we call it. It’s an elixir – the bridge between the dreamy and awakened self. Without those few sips I cannot function. The golden liquid seeps through and spreads warmth to every cell of my body rejuvenating and making me operable.
I like my chai with milk and sweetener (plant based). Boiled but not too much. Over-boiled tea is not only very strong but its taste borders on the bitter and coarse. Many like their tea with a dash of ginger or cinnamon or cardamom. But tea has a flavour of its own. Adding any other condiment hides its natural fragrance. But at times, I do add a sprig of lemon grass or basil to it.
Inhaling the aroma of a steaming cup gives the senses a tingling wake up call – the day has begun! I like to have my morning chai in silence. That is my peace time – no noise, no hurry and scurry, no activity – just an introspective, meditative stance – me and my chai.
There was a time when I was addicted to this beverage. After the morning cup I needed another as soon as I reached the office. Then in the middle of work to take a break. One break multiplied into several. A time came when I realised excess of anything is bad – even chai. But how to get over it?
It’s easy to get into a habit but not that easy to get out of it. One day I called the pantry boy and told him not to serve me tea even if I asked for it. There were times when I would pick up the intercom, order a cup but it would not be forthcoming. Those obedient boys took better care of me than I could.
When I was posted in Kolkata, staying with my paternal aunt and uncle, I got into the habit of drinking premium Darjeeling tea. My uncle purchased the brand from a particular (well known) shop. Tea making was a ritual with my aunt. The water had to be boiled to a certain degree. Then the measured spoons of tea leaves would be steeped in hot water in a big pot. This would be followed by my aunt sitting at the dining table and humming for a while till the brew was perfect. She would then pour it in cups and serve. She had a wide selection of cups and saucers for tea at different hours of the day and for different guests. Needless to say, the more important ones got bigger cups!! 😂😂
My brother-in-law is again a tea addict and loves to buy various brands online as well as from different stores of different places. If he finds a fresh variety in some place he is visiting he is sure to buy a sample for tasting. He also takes pride in being the tea maker of the family and gets offended if anyone refuses to share a cup with him. Well! In our household it’s not a cup but a tumbler (read big mug) in which chai is served.
Since repeated drinking of boiled tea is unhealthy a way out was found wherein the high consumption could be retained without causing harm to the gut. Thus, green tea got introduced in the household. A new taste all together. Experiments were made with jasmine, chamomile and other fragrances.
My paternal uncle (father’s younger brother who was also my guardian upon my father’s untimely death) loved to have lemon tea. My colleagues, posted in the eastern part of the country, talked a lot about laal cha (red tea) which is caffein rich Assam tea without milk brewed with spices to a reddish brown tinge. There is another variety of tea without milk known as liquor tea – a lighter brew with a golden hue. In the western part of the country (especially, Mumbai) cutting chai is very popular which is a glass of boiled tea with milk, sugar and spices cut or divided in two halves – a quick energy booster – available from street vendors.
My Punjabi friends are all for masalachai. Once, many many years back I had visited a family from South who had offered us big mugs of tea with spices. The unexpected, overpowering taste of the brew had generated in me a forever dislike for spiced tea.
I guess it is during the COVID phase that Kehwa (kehwah – originally from Jammu and Kashmir) drinking became the rage, at least in our office. In every part of our country the taste of chai and chai or tea making is different.
Chai is not just a beverage it’s a ceremony…a ritual…a devotion…an enjoyment of another level. At times I sip it with soft music and often I play this song to myself…
