SOUTH BLOCK: A WAY OF LIFE!
SNIPPETS: The year was 2003, the month May. Sarvajit was posted back to Delhi. Ananya had just left for Princeton when Sarvajit returned to India on a home posting. The poignance of Ananya’s departure was still lingering within us, when the pace and momentum of our splendid Motherland took charge, leaving us spinning like tops, Sarvajit in office, me at the British School New Delhi, my charge comprising Primary, Middle School and Secondary, including exam candidates. Ours was “not to reason why, ours was but to do and die”. Abundantly grateful to the Executive Committee for having subsidised our little girl’s fees, I hit the ground running. Sarvajit lived and ate mostly in office, like all other bureaucrats, while Aparupa, who headed for exams both in academics and flute, (Trinity College), was a source of constant delight. Juggling her ever expanding social life, tennis and other commitments, she was head over heels in love with her school, her only embarrassment being ME! Mother and daughter refrained from acknowledging each other during school hours and that was THAT. Leela, having raised the said daughter was probably pivotal in ensuring discipline and a sustained rhythm in our frenzied pace of life. She managed the home entirely, with grace and dignity but remained firm with regards to Aparupa. The nursery was hers and hers alone, we NEVER interfered and still maintain the same code of conduct! Lest it be misrepresented, let me clarify, penury was the name of the game and I remain indebted to the said school for their faith in me and the opportunity provided. We needed the money, and it finehoned my teaching and learning process exponentially, allowing for foraging strategies to enhance learning for a wide range of abilities amongst students. Amidst the monumental marking, preparing exam candidates, teaching and staff meetings, Aparupa and I had a ‘date’ once a month, the day I got paid. It was consequent upon one such ‘date’, that we decided to visit Sarvajit, before heading home; our ‘date’ splendid with scrumptious food at Narula’s and shopping at Janpath. I recall walking into South Block after a long day at the British School, daughter in tow, the day done for us but not Sarvajit. Our little girl sped ahead while I trudged on with my bag of notebooks, ready for correction. Sympathetic in my solitude, a hanuman leapt off the parapet, clung to my ‘jhola’, embroidered by Dadi, and accompanied me to Sarvajit’s office. It was a long walk with the said gracious hanuman taking a water break while I watched stupefied! Not just opening the faucet, but closing it after use, we walked together, animal and woman, one tall, stately unfearing, the other shrunken, cowering and trembling. The juxtaposition has lived on as part of our anecdotal references since… Rupa Chakravarti
ODE TO STUDENTS
In the course of Sarvajit’s career, many students shared our space periodically. Most of them were Ma’s students, creating a distinct niche for themselves in academia. They came and went like the ebb and flow of water, nourishing us with their diverse perspectives, providing us with the grim realities of the difficult life they had to embrace, but always focusing on the final objective, belonging to the elite world of academics. There were but only 2 students who set the tone for a strife ridden time between the girls and us. The 1st was an young boy, brilliant, an achiever but hounded by the dichotomy of his homosexual proclivities and a deeply Catholic background. His mother, widowed early, had done everything from cleaning subway and promenade till she finally found a stable source of income. She resisted all temptation, avoided every luxury, worked her finger to the bone, to ensure her only son received a decent education. The son did her proud, surviving the public school system, receiving the need based grant to make his entry into a top Ivy League university. His one pain,his sexuality and addressing the same with his diehard Catholic mother. I, in my inimitable stupidity, blithely chanted, ” just get a lovely girl for yourself!” The discourse that ensued between the girls and us, set us free of dogma, opened our eyes to inclusion and certainly enhanced us as human beings. I burn with shame every time I revert to my infamous last words, cited before, but it prompted me to call the young man’s mother. What transpired is confidential but I believe a divine intervention. The second was a student different from all others we had ever known. The said clever girl was not just on a ‘ Roman Holiday ‘ but an European holiday! Our girls, penurious and exhausted from the dubious distinction of being scholarship students, asked us why we couldn’t provide similarly. Thoroughly stumped, Sarvajit, ever the voice of wisdom, said ” Do well enough to do the same on your own. The real pleasure is not in availing but in achieving. One day, like your Mum and I, you will see more than you can envision, and you will know, YOU did it.” Existential queries that burst forth now in blithe retrospect, but then it was not so easy. We caught up with the 1st student on the streets of New York, an established lawyer, his handsome partner, their beautiful little girl and YES, his mother. She held my hand in hers, a warm, firm, stable clasp and said, ” thank you for being with my son. Thank you for the call you made. Thank you for setting me free.” I was reduced to a heaving wreck of muffled sobs, as I whispered, ” you have set me free, your son has set me free, the girls have set me free. Without the children…” For the 2nd student, the life lessons were no less salient. We lost touch after the said holiday, but today as our girls traverse the globe, they unconditionally claim their Dad was right! As a teacher, my teaching and learning practice prompts me yet again to pay obeisance to the students. LISTEN AND YOU WILL LEARN… Rupa Chakravarti
“All things great and small”
PAAN. Sarvajit bought me a paan today. Evoked a bunch of halcyon memories; few, far between but luminous gems in my simple life. I was introduced to paan at Pishimoni ‘s, more significantly by her mother in law. Like all repositories for antiquity, this too was exquisite. Born in Bangladesh, bred in Kolkata and kept iridescent by Ishaq, post lunch the said paan box was opened, along with the myriad boxes within, and the regular ritual of paanshaja, (making) would unfurl before my ever enchanted eyes. The emerald green of the leaf, glistening with droplets, lemon yellow in parts, would be stained with the blood of khoyer, the moonlight of chuna, the rain of mouri, and yes, supari. Cut with geometric precision, I would watch the hard brown betel nut being sliced into pieces thinner than wafers, finer than thread, each a mirror image of the other! And then the expert three way fold, held together by a long stemmed fragrant clove. As I watched the ladies tuck the paan expertly into the corner of their mouth, I would drool with greed, the greed of the unknown. I was never given a paan… Consequently the paan assumed the lure and draw of the clandestine, the ‘forbidden fruit’. Biye baris were the soul recourse and the following competition between us cousins, as to WHO had the reddest mouth. At marriages and other festivities, I always made up for the paan I was deprived of at home… Marriage and covering of the visage before lowering the leaves to glance at the groom’s countenance, for me was a flashback into the have and have nots of the much coveted paan… It was after a recital at Qutb Minar by Abida Parvin, that paan became prominent once again. As was our habit, post show we drove to the Darga to avail of the most transcendental music. It was there that we first saw the world’s no.1 living legend, Shri A. R. Rahman ji, immersed in spirituality, both by soul and through music. We watched from afar, paid our respect silently, and in repose headed for our car. Suddenly Sarvajit was nowhere to be seen. Lost in my own world as I usually am, I had barely begun to panic, when he returned. In one hand he held a garland of jasmine for my hair and in the other, a Benarasi paan, overflowing with gulkand… Today was a day of private celebration, just the 2 of us. Nothing special, but a beauteous paan from my friend of 43 years, wrapped in silver, dipped in coconut, it was more a dessert than a paan! Such is the evolution of all things common and uncommon; they all have a story to tell, like the PAAN of yore and the PAAN today… Sarvajit bought me a paan today… Rupa Chakravarti
SNIPPETS
The year was 2003, the month May, Sarvajit was posted to Delhi. Ananya had just left for Princeton when Sarvajit returned to India on a home posting. The poignance of Ananya’s departure was still lingering within us, when the pace and momentum of our splendid Motherland took charge, leaving us spinning like tops, Sarvajit in office, me at the British School New Delhi, my charge comprising Primary, Middle School and Secondary, including exam candidates. Ours was “not to reason why, ours was but to do and die”. Abundantly grateful to the Executive Committee for having subsidised our little girl’s fees, I hit the ground running. Sarvajit lived, ate and mostly lived in office, like all other bureaucrats, while Aparupa headed for exams both in academics and flute, (Trinity College), was a source of constant delight. Juggling her ever expanding social life, tennis and other commitments, she was head over heels in love with her school, her only embarrassment being ME! Mother and daughter refrained from acknowledging each other during school hours and that was THAT. Leela, having raised the said daughter was probably pivotal in ensuring discipline and a sustained rhythm in our frenzied pace of life. She managed the home entirely, with grace and dignity but remained firm with regards to Aparupa. The nursery was hers and hers alone, we NEVER interfered and still maintain the same code of conduct! Lest it be misrepresented, let me clarify, penury was the name of the game and I remain indebted to the said school for their faith in me and the opportunity provided. We needed the money, and it finehoned my teaching and learning process exponentially, allowing for foraging strategies to enhance learning for a wide range of abilities amongst students. Amidst the monumental marking, preparing exam candidates, teaching and staff meetings, Aparupa and I had a ‘date’ once a month, the day I got paid. It was consequent upon one such ‘date’, that we decided to visit Sarvajit, before heading home; our ‘date’ splendid with scrumptious food at Narula’s and shopping at Janpath. I recall walking into South Block after a long day at the British School, daughter in tow, the day done for us but not Sarvajit. Our little girl sped ahead while I trudged on with my bag of notebooks, ready for correction. Sympathetic in my solitude, a hanuman leapt off the parapet, clung to my ‘jhola’, embroidered by Dadi, and accompanied me to Sarvajit’s office. It was a long walk with the said gracious hanuman taking a water break while I watched stupefied! Not just opening the faucet, but closing it after use, we walked together, animal and woman, one tall, stately unfearing, the other shrunken, cowering and trembling. The juxtaposition has lived on as part of our anecdotal references since…Rupa Chakravarti Photo courtesy Internet
‘THE ROAD NOT TAKEN’
In the wake of the festivities, the past beckons. In the ‘house of commons’, where I grew up, the pathway from the main gate was esconced by the garage and Ma’s garden, laced by tall trees, fertile, fruit laden and fulsome. My parents, middle class and struggling, had many obligations, amongst them, maintaining properties that had run to seed. Dadi, the matriach, insisted on living by the dictum of ‘ The Good Earth’, and maintained that ‘ a man should build a home, plant a tree and have a son’. My parents having failed with the final commandment, tried to do their best by the other 2. Pujo, as was standard practice, was ushered in with Mahalaya, mellow yet strident on the ubiquitous radio, 5 sets of new clothes, purse constraints notwithstanding, ‘bhog’ on the rooftop, overflowing with well wishers. Choi and I had grown accustomed to the trend. The year was 1969, I was 10 years old, when just before the gaeity, a group of monks, treading ‘ the road not taken ‘, had ventured into the metropolis, lost, floundering but unwavering in their faith. The only deterrent was the fact that the leader of the saintly motley, was coughing blood, copiously and needed human intervention. True to form and structure, they asked not, but let their stance be their unspoken words. Without dilemma, deliberation or distancing, the decision was made. Pujo was to be a celebration of healing, refuge and sanctity in our dilapidated home. The said monks, Tibetan, entered our home, sans ceremony and as per their instructions, made the rooftop their sacred abode for the next fortnight. The whether then was kind, merciful and gentle, the sun shedding light and warmth, both comforting and cosy through the noon hours, and fading into crisp, coolness by dawn and dusk. Certain decisions altered the Pujo we knew, no new clothes, no pandal hopping, no cultural events, and ALAS, no bhog on our rooftop! Ma, the eternal visionary, took ‘the road not taken ‘, and on Ashtomi, baked a fine fruit and nut Christmas cake, tied it in a gingham checked duster, and clutching our hands in her firm, reassuring clasp, strode off with us to the nearby park. We sat down on a wooden bench under the foliage of the biggest, dustiest tree, and lulled by the whispers of the omnipresent ‘kaash’, she told us the story of ‘The Littlest Angel’. Both Choi and I had heard it several times before, but NEVER with the sensitive understanding of what it meant to stand apart; the molten gold that lies in being different, but with comprehension, grace, and pride. Dusk was upon us by the time the trio of the preacher and the converted returned to the fold. From a distance, the peeking crescent moon put in relief the silhouettes of the orange clad, shaven headed, cohort of angels, and amidst the ethereal chant of “Om mani padme hum” we trod the path familiar, but knew it was ‘ the road not taken ‘. 2011, and Baba was no more. It was the tail end of the ‘shraadh’, when Choi ran to the gate, welcoming another cohort of angels, chanting the refrain of yore. This time their visit was ordained, planned, decisive. They knew the way as they approached the puja. In unison they chanted their foreign prayer, shook our hands, and as quickly as they had appeared, they were gone in a swirl of orange, saffron, gold, russet, auburn. Another pujo, another Mahalaya, yet why does my home reverberate with the clear chant of a childhood lost? As I bow in obeisance and hear my voice saying” rupang dehi jayang dehi yasho dehi “, my soul soars in an epiphany, a crescendo that says ‘om mani padme hum’. In this glorious synthesis I know, my parents ‘ bequeathed upon me the legacy of nurturing and cherishing, both, the road taken, but more significantly, ” THE ROAD NOT TAKEN “… Rupa Chakravarti
“IN MY FATHER’S HOUSE THERE ARE MANY MANSIONS…”
The famous book on THAKURBARI, comprehensive, superbly researched, structured and collated with substantive evidence, is commendable to say the least. However, as Pishimoni was married into the THAKURBARI and mentioned saliently in the book, repeatedly revealed yet another ANDARMAHAL, that only I was privy to. I realise that, albeit as a senior citizen, I fully comprehended the the meaning of the statement, ‘ in my God’s house there are many mansions ‘! Needless to say the precious nuns had tried, but Pishimoni brought it to fruition. DHUNO. Every dusk came with its own set of rituals; while the patriarch reclined in his 4 poster bed, his day at court done, the phaeton bearer tended to the horses before leaving for the day. It was betwixt this nebulous hour of repose, and quietude, that the most unusual vignette revealed itself before my young and hungry eyes; my goal? The sweetmeats, ‘kadma’ and ‘batasha’,/(concentrated sugar and jaggery delicacies) when the evening prayers were completed. DIFFERENCE. With monotony of habit, the DHUNO was prepared, the ‘narkel cchobra’, ‘korpoor’ and dusty dhuno, /( dry coconut outer layers, camphor and a fragrant dust)/, planted with precision and proportion for the myriad clay holders of the sprawling old residence. Amidst the fragrance of the substances, lit and smoking, 2 things took place with unfailing regularity. 1) Ishaq, the patriarchal Man Friday, bathed and washed, sat upon his ‘jaanamaz’,/(carpet for prayer), a fine silhouette in relief against the setting orb, and drowned himself in prayer and spiritual fervour. 2)Downstairs, Aunty Alice, sitting at her altar, upon completion of the rosary, played the organ and sang; Ave Maria, comes clearly to mind. 3)The ladies upstairs, 4 generations no less, oblivious to the diverse forms of prayer within the same residence, dhuno in one hand and a ‘rudraksh’/(dried seeds procured from a plant), resembling closely the afore mentioned rosary, prayed to their Gods and Goddesses. ‘THE PATH LESS TRAVELLED BY…’ Within me the seeds of pluralism were embedded, long before it became an issue. Too old to change my ways, but too polite to voice an objectionable opinion, I know, am certain and sanguine; Pishimoni had chartered the course, it was upto me to make a choice!!! Today, chancing upon this video clip, I know; internationally, every dance I danced with a dhunuchi, may have been flawed. My pride lies in the fact that with diligence and the immaculate guidance of my family, yet another victory is mine. I pray to the divine, for, within Him I know” in my Father’s house, there are many mansions…”Rupa Chakravarti
“LIVING NEXT DOOR TO ALICE”
Pishimoni was married into the Tagore family, prominently mentioned in ‘ Andarmahal’, all 4 generations. Be forewarned, in the mind of a curious little girl, the grandeur mattered less than the alien. My weekends were frequently spent at Pishimoni’ s house as Dadi would whisk me away most Friday evenings after school, only to return by Sunday dusk. Pishimoni called me Lalmohon, a variant of my pet name, Lali. She doted on me… Dadi, would insist on me finishing my home work the same evening, threatening me that she would tell Ma. Ma was the only voice of reason in my indulged, cherished, nurturing childhood. But for Ma… The home had every vestige of the expected grandeur, the genteel poor remain familiar with. The library, the ‘ awpish ghawr’, ( office), the table tennis table, the teak 4 poster beds, the oval mahogany dining table for 12, the separate kitchens, the ‘koyla ghawr’ ( coal room) and the sacred ‘ thakur ghawr’ ( puja room). A bevy of domestic helpers, but Ishaq shines the brightest, the patriarch’s personal bearer. He called me Lali Baba… However, the little girl in me took all this in her stride, her wonderment lying downstairs with Aunty Alice. Like many others, she had returned from England and made her home brushing shoulders with the Tagores. The connection was dubious and never questioned, but my enchantment is sustained to date. Pishimoni tried her best to restrain me from hobnobbing with Aunty Alice, to her chagrin, to no avail. I doted on Aunty Alice. Her spacious home leapt out of my books, the lace curtains with the velvet swathed pelmets, the traycloth with the handmade lace doilies, the porcelain lamps, the corduroy upholstery, and YES, the piano and the ‘lazy crazy’ mosaic tiles. An artist’s delight, of scrambled coloured chips, predominantly pink, set in relief with flecks of aquamarine, grey and mustard. I would sneak upto her home after dinner, prime time when Pishimoni was engrossed with after dinner responsibilities. Oh the thrill of it all! Dressed in my pajamas, Aunty Alice would receive me with the curlers in her hair, neatly tucked beneath a glossy blue nylon turban. Her dressing gown, a faded russet, her feet always encased in cloth shoes. She would welcome me in and shut the door firmly, clucking unmeant euphemisms about how late it was and how naughty I was being. What followed was a ritual, but never lost its newness or flavour, maintaining magic through the past 6 decades. I would sit me down and gorge my eyes on the feast before me. Everytime, unfailingly it happened, like the eternal dance of the predator and the prey, but never diminishing its charm, not for a second. Aunty Alice would disappear into the recesses of her large home and reappear with the magic wand. I would watch her float down the endless hallway, an apparition, the light glinting on her curlers and the cupcakes in her hands. They were always served in a tray with the intricacies of extraordinary crochet, trimming the creamy damask tray cloth, and the cakes? They were always pink, as pink as the ‘ burhia ka baal’ (candy floss) I ate in Allahabad. Shiny fuschia pink, cracking artistically to reveal the golden, melt in the mouth, buttery cake beneath. Having served me she would sigh and sit down at her piano, her back turned to me. In time her erect posture diminished to a stoop, but the music? It transcended with every private performance! It was there in my infantile idiocy that I plonked ‘ The Devil’s March’ and gloated at the kind, kind praise she bestowed upon me. I would return to my grandiose surroundings, scoffing and spurning the obvious vestiges of heritage, while Pishimoni would smile with poignance and say” tui baddo cchelemanush” /( you are very childish). The next morning while looking down at the ‘ phaeton gari’, ( horse dawn carriage),the patriarch’s conveyance to court and back, chewing on the raw turmeric and jaggery that Dadi insisted on, I would ache to be related to Aunty Alice!!! Much later, after a stupendous recital conducted by Zubin Mehta at La Scala, I had shared the above anecdote, this time with reckoning and discernment. But in my heart of hearts? I wonder, does Lalibaba still live on?… Rupa Chakravarti Photos: Internet