Every Story has a Moral

Last evening I was chatting with someone in Toronto, who I've been following on Instagram for a while. It was the first time we had connected directly other than commenting on each others posts and keeping it mostly impersonal. 

Chatting with her brought back some interesting memories of the many times that I've visited Toronto, sometimes as a tourist and most other times as a consultant for work. One of those personal memories is what I'm going to share in todays post. 

Growing up in Calcutta, my dad had a fairly close friend who I always found to be intimidating. He had this booming voice, an aristocratic air and for some reason always seemed like he was inebriated. Later I found out that he had a serious alcohol problem. 

My parents and I had been living in Chicago for a few years when my sister came to visit and we decided to spend a few days in Niagara Falls and places around there. My dad had got to know that a brother of this friend I spoke about earlier, had moved to Toronto, so he called the gentleman with the intention of meeting for a meal or something. 

Now this friends brother was several years younger and I vaguely remembered him and his wife from parties that our parents would drag us to. Parties where there was a considerable amount of liquor flowing and not someplace people take their kids to, but it was a whole different time. All the kids were bustled into one room and we had to pretend to get along with each other. 

So basically my memory of this uncle and his wife were hazy at best. Except that they seemed very posh.

When my dad called and informed this gentleman about our trip, he (I thought) was unexpectedly excited and insisted that we stay with them for a couple of days at least. And since we were in no great rush to head back and he sounded so nice on the phone, my dad took him up on the offer.

My sister and I weren't exactly thrilled with the developments, since we expected them to be snobbish. But like good Indian (grownup) kids we went along with the plan.

After spending a couple of nights in Niagara Falls and doing everything that Asian tourists are supposed to do, we headed to Toronto City.

The best thing for me about staying with these friends of the family was that they lived in the heart of the city and not some boring suburb. In the city one can just walk to places, there are people around you, restaurants that aren't chains to eat at and generally a much more fun time. Although they lived in a little two-bedroom apartment, we as Indians are used to cramming ourselves into smaller spaces, sleeping on mattresses laid out on the floor and being in line to use the bathroom. Maybe not so much anymore but a lot of great memories have been created in these small spaces. Even when I lived in a one-bedroom, one bath apartment in Manhattan, there was a night when I had 10 guests staying over. Thankfully just for that one laughter-filled night!

Back in Toronto, the 'uncle' was now a limo driver and the 'aunt' worked at a Greek bakery. The same people that lived in a large home with adequate help were now 'the help'. The change in lifestyle had also changed their demeanour considerably. They were such warm and wonderful hosts and we were having such a great time together, that we ended up spending an extra night with them. I remember one time when we packed ourselves into the limo and drove out for a picnic. Picnics were a big thing when I was growing up and this certainly felt nostalgic of our time in Calcutta. Except that the picnic basket had all Greek treats but nobody was complaining!

It's funny (not the haha kind of funny) how our circumstances, our environment and our affluence or lack of, has an effect on our behaviour. They probably were always really nice people and it was my vision of them that was distorted. Or they had to put up this front of being a part of the upper echelon of society. Or they were actually the way they were and their lives getting upturned made them who they had become. It's something I'll never know for sure. 

I'm guessing that my dad and the uncle stayed in touch for a while but we never met again. Sometimes a short connection and leaving on a happy note is all that's needed for a lifetime of good memories. 

Is this piece just another snippet of my life or does the story come with a moral? To me there is more than one moral, which I don't need to get into. Each of you is clever enough to figure these out for yourselves. I would however, love to hear from you in the comments section as to what you got out of it. Don't be shy to share. 

A Little Bit of Childhood

I wrote this piece almost 6 years ago but for some reason never posted it. Cleaned it up and sharing it today with a lump in my throat.

I could have gone back to bed but I was certain that sleep would not come. Besides it wasn’t important. Sitting on the couch in the living room, being one with my thoughts was what I wanted at this time. I looked at my wallet on the table, carelessly strewn across from my laptop, the credit card used to reserve the flight to Patna still outside. A little piece of plastic with so much power. 

It was early, by several hours. The only time I could remember waking up before sunrise was to catch either a flight or a train. This time however, I wasn’t the one that was traveling. A father had passed away and a son was getting ready to board a flight to light his funeral pyre. 

Memories are such a magical way of reliving the past. We were getting a new driver for a second car that my father was buying. This one too, just like the previous, an Ambassador. He was a young man with a slight frame, sitting behind that enormous wheel, easily maneuvering the monstrosity of a car through crowded Calcutta streets. 

I remember his signature handlebar mustache covering most of his gaunt face. Looking at him, all one saw were the flamboyant whiskers above his lips and his smiling, twinkling eyes. And now that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen eyes that twinkled as much as his did. He used to call me maalik loosely translated to ‘boss’ even though I was just a young boy. I never thought anything of it back then and I guess he did it was because I was the only male among us five siblings. I shamelessly called him by his first name without a tag of bhaiya for  ‘older brother’ or ji to show respect. 

He used to live in a little room that was below our apartment, most of the time by himself. His mornings consisted of exercising, washing the car and getting ready to take my dad to his factory at 7 am. Sometimes I would watch him doing what-seemed-like an endless number of push ups. Even though he had a slight frame, he was an incredibly strong man. My best friend and I would sit on his shoulders and he would take us for a walk. I feel horribly guilty about it now. Looking at him one could never imagine that he could be as strong as he was. You may find hard to believe what I’m about to write - if I hadn’t actually been there to see it for myself, I would laugh it off as myth. 

There was a rock that used to sit in Tilak (his name) ji’s room about the size of two bricks joined together. My closest friend at the time and I would try our hardest to move that rock from it’s spot using every bit of strength we had, with absolutely no luck. But then we were just a couple of kids and this wasn’t just any ordinary rock - it was much talked about and people would come from across the city to try and lift it, including some weight lifters. Nobody however, could get it to even budge the slightest bit. Each time the person would give up, Tilak, in his 5’3” lean frame would walk across to it, bend down and with one powerful grunt, lift it from the ground and slowly bring it up as far as his arms could go. His son, Rajesh, who now works for me, tells me that when his dad was moving back to the village, he carried that rock from the taxi to the train all by himself because no porter could handle it. I now believe that all this strength came from his mind, which was way stronger than his body. 

When, a few years ago, my mother was confined to her bed and he came to visit her, the mustache was primarily grey but the twinkle and the smile were just the same. Every morning he would wake up early, shower, shave, get into his perfectly starched kurta and dhoti and spend time with my mother, doing everything he could to make her more comfortable. We always glorify the dead but everything I say about this man is completely true. He was the nicest, gentlest, most sensitive person I have ever come across. His heart was filled with love for everyone but when it came to my mother, he literally worshipped the ground she walked on. 

That was the last time I saw Tilak ji. In retrospect, I wish I had spent more time with him - people like him are rare and just being in his presence would have been so much more enriching than my corporate career. We go through lives with such warped priorities and by the time we realize what’s really important, the opportunities in most cases, are long gone. 

I had a slight smile on my face, even though tears were streaming down my eyes. It was no small thing growing up, being blessed with the presence of such a human being. And as I sat on my living room couch, my mind taking me to places that I hadn’t been to in a long time, I realized that today an important bit of my childhood had left me. Had left me craving for more. 

It's a Minuscule World

A few years ago I went to Hong Kong to spend a couple of months with my cousin who was struggling with cancer at the time. While she is sadly no longer with us, she was an exceptional host and always enjoyed having people over. Which was a really good thing since food would be a diversion from her disease and the two of us would spend a lot of time discussing menus. Meals at her home were always elaborate with multiple appetizers, a large main course and at least a couple of desserts. Dessert was a weakness for both of us and was what we ended up spending the most time over. We’d google recipes so there would be the excitement of creating something new, shop for ingredients and do a taste test before the actual meal. 

My brother-in-law would often invite colleagues who were visiting from other countries, over for lunch. Which of course, was also a production! It was on one of those days that 5 of us were at the dining table making conversation over indulgent Punjabi food. The gentleman, an Indian living in Houston, sitting next to me was, I figured about my age, very tall and sharply dressed. Over the course of the meal it was discovered that both of us grew up in Calcutta. And that’s when we began interrogating each other.

“Which school did you study in?” he asked.

“Don Bosco,” I replied.

“Me too! Which batch?”

The batch was mentioned and he happened to be in the same one. This was becoming more and more interesting, although there were 4 sections in every class/grade and about 45 boys in each of them. Obviously it was impossible to know everyone.

Until we found out that we were in the same section.

“What’s your last name?” we both asked almost in unison.

At that point we realized that while we were never close, we of course knew each other. He was the tall, lanky, quiet guy who usually sat in the last row. Our transportation after school, before I was old enough to use public buses, would often be late and we’d be shooting hoops at the basketball court or playing marbles when the court wasn’t available!!

For the longest time, this became a story to tell. It just seemed like the biggest coincidence that a classmate in Calcutta (we were together until the 10th grade) happened to be sitting next to me, having lunch at my cousins home in Hong Kong. 

Until last month, when the world became even smaller.

I was staying at the Taj in Kumarakom for a couple of days with family that was visiting from the US. On our second day we came across another Indian family visiting from Atlanta, consisting of a lady, her two young boys and her parents that had just checked in. They looked like a friendly lot and we stopped to say hello to them. The next morning at breakfast our tables happened to be at close quarters and I overheard them speaking in Bengali. Which of course immediately got my attention!

Turning towards the mother, who was sitting closest to me, I asked her if they were Bengali. Which, in retrospect was a stupid question. Why would they be speaking in Bengali if they weren’t? However, it was a conversation starter and she nodded yes.

“How about you?”, she asked.

“I grew up in Calcutta,” I replied. “But am not a Bengali”

I could see that I had her attention now.

“Oh really?”, she responded. “Where in Calcutta?”

I said that I was from New Alipore.

“So was I!”, she exclaimed. “Which block were you in?”

I was in O Block.

“I was too!”, she said. “Number 617”

617? 617 was where I lived. It was just a 3 storey building with one apartment on each floor, so I obviously knew everyone. How could this be?

“Are you Ratan?” she asked.

I replied that I was, still a little puzzled about not making a connection.

“I’m Jayshree, the landlord’s daughter!”

In my defense, I was just a child when Jayshree got married and moved out of the building and thus have no memory of her. The rest of our landlord’s family, I am of course intimately familiar with. However, the fact that we grew up in the same address and were sitting right next to each other in a town that neither one of us lives in, seemed a little more than just a coincidence. 

In a country with over a billion people what are the chances of running into someone you were so closely associated with at some point in your lives? Very high apparently! So many people, such a small world. 

Where the Heart Was

I wrote this piece recently for a Writers group that I belong to. After some debate with myself, decided to share it with my world.

When I was just a little boy my parents moved into the apartment where I went on to spend seventeen years of my growing up life. With four older sisters, one of who got married when I was five, we were previously crammed into a modest two bedroom place of which I remember very little. My biggest memory of the older flat is running into our household help who was carrying a pot of hot water and having it spilled on me one morning. Something I would much rather forget.

The new apartment was large with four bedrooms, three baths, three balconies, a formal dining room and even a room for storing ’stuff’. The entire place had Italian tiles laid out on the floor which made it always look shiny and new. The bathrooms had granite walls and one of them was large enough to be a bedroom. Each time we had a new visitor, my dad would give them a tour of the 2400 square foot rental, with probably the same kind of pride as the owner.

It was always a very busy household with a revolving door of relatives who would come to stay for a while, whether it was for business or pleasure. Additionally there were friends of my sisters and mine that would drop by to hang out. I don’t think it was because of the apartment size - it was more because my mother was much more welcoming than the other mothers. The refrigerator was always packed with jugs full of summery drinks, refreshing lemonade, mango milk shake, bael sharbat etc., and varieties of sweets to satisfy a family of sugar lovers. A supply of snacks would keep coming from the kitchen, whenever there were people over, which was pretty much most of the time. A busy household it was for sure.

More than a hundred people were invited to my 10th birthday, which was celebrated right in that apartment. I had recently turned the corner from a long and serious illness and my parents were in the mood to party. The place was completely packed with people, an enormous cake had been ordered from my favorite bakery, Flury’s, and my bedspread was completely covered with presents. The excitement of opening those wrapped gifts, most of which were books, was the part I recollect most vividly. I also remember one of my uncles asking if it was my birthday or my wedding that was being celebrated!

In all the years that we lived there, my family saw both good times and rough times. Many years of affluence were followed by some years of struggle. We went from owning two cars, two drivers to using public transportation. Household help became minimal, the sister just older than me began working and I was tutoring school children while in college. I remember the stress that my parents were going through but I don’t remember us being unhappy. While eating at restaurants came to a stop, there was always food at the table. Looking back, I think it taught me many lessons that helped me get through life as a stronger person.

Over the course of my existence I’ve lived in eight different ‘homes’ but it’s the one I grew up in, the one in New Alipore, Calcutta, that must have made the biggest impact on me. I say ‘must have’ because that is the only place I dream about on a regular basis. Not the apartments I rented in Chicago, the house I owned in Naperville, Illinois, the pre-war apartment I loved in New York City or the penthouse that I’ve now rented out in Bangalore. It’s not as if I miss the place or even think about it, but more often than not, its the set for my dream theater.

Four years ago I went back to 617 ‘O’ Block, which is now occupied by a childhood friend and his family. The entire time that I was there I felt a strong sense of discomfort. I haven’t figured out if it was due to my friend intruding into my memories or if I still felt a sense of ownership for a space that was no longer mine. When they moved into the flat, they inherited a trunk with some possessions from our lives. Crazy about rock music from a very early age, there was a stack of LP records that I was so happy to see but had no clue what I could do with them. The biggest treasure in that trunk however, was a graduation photo of my mother, which I was sure had been lost.

Last year I passed by the building again but didn’t stop. The exteriors looked like they had been recently painted. I asked the taxi driver to slow down a little as I kept looking back until it was no longer in my line of vision. No there was no feeling of melancholy, no moistening of the eyes and no lump in the throat. That apartment was no longer home but it’s memories would be mine forever.

Someone I met recently asked where home was for me.

I thought about it for a second and replied, “it’s wherever I am at the moment”.

The Naked Truth

I used to attend morning classes at St. Xaviers College in Calcutta (the city was called Calcutta and not Kolkata when I graduated, so for the purposes of this piece, that’s the name I’m going to stick with). Classes would begin at an unearthly 6 am and not being a morning person, I rarely made it to the first class. Or the second. And mostly not even to the third. Which meant that I usually got there at break time, which was at 8 am, when my friends and I would play football/soccer with a rubber ball in the basketball court. As weird as it may sound, it was more fun than I could possibly describe. 

We’d have an exam every Friday at 6 am, which made it the most dreaded day of the week. It was an unwritten code for the non-slackers to wake up the slackers. I was one of the slackers so I would not only be woken up by a friend, Tony, who lived in the neighborhood, but would also get picked up from my home and driven to college on his motorcycle. Similarly other friends would be responsible for the slackers in their locality. One of the worst was this guy, who I’m going to call Anil. 

Regardless of the day of the week, the time that college would begin (or end), Anil would follow his own private schedule. He was like a guest at St. Xaviers - the day’s he would show up, people would stop and point at him, professors would have a hard time recognizing him and it was as if the football games had a celebrity player. 

Friday’s as you are now aware, were a whole different ball game - missing exams could get one into serious trouble. Fortunately for Anil, he had friends who loved him and would stop by his home, get him out of bed and drag him to college. It was a weekly routine and the others (who would all be packed into one car) would have to wake up early enough to plan for this diversion.

So it was one of those exam Friday’s and the group was at Anil’s place, trying to get him to wake up. He was being overly stubborn and it was getting close to 6 am. By the time they were able to get him out of bed, it was already too late to brush, change clothes etc. One of the guys had proactively squished toothpaste onto his toothbrush, another had picked a bottle of water (so he could brush on the way) and a third had his text book (so he could hurriedly read up on his way to the exam). 

A couple of hours later, the worst time of the week was over and everyone had gathered together on Short Street, which was on the other side of the college’s main entrance. There was a little shop that sold tea, samosas, biscuits, which would be breakfast for all the hungry boys. There was loud chatter in the group about the exam, making plans for the rest of the day and the upcoming weekend. It was a small street with barely any traffic so basically the students were occupying all of it. In the distance we could see one of our friends walking towards us. Anil, who as I had mentioned, hadn’t had time to change his clothes in the morning, was wearing a short kurta that came up to his hips and drawstring pajamas. He had his text book in one hand and a clay pot with tea in the other. 

The friend, who was known for being a prankster, walked directly over to Anil, bent a little and pulled on his drawstrings. All of a sudden, there he was in the middle of the street, his pajamas having collapsed towards his feet, both his hands occupied and in the air, his shirt too short and no underwear! It was as if time had stood still and every eye was on Anil’s naked butt or crotch. 

Of course nothing ever fazed Anil. There was no sense of panic or embarrassment. Instead he calmly handed over his tea to one of the guys, another got his text book, as he bent over and picked up his pajamas. 

If I close my eyes, I can still hear the laughter that followed for a very, very long time. 

Memories of Another Rain

Staring at the rain falling in a consistent pattern, I was glad to be indoors. Not being one of those people who love to get wet, I find being outside in the rain quite annoying. Which isn’t to say that I haven’t had more than my share of getting soaked. Whether it was Calcutta or New York, I’ve been caught unawares in a downpour innumerable times, seeking shelter for a while and then finally giving up and walking to my destination, feet wet through my canvas shoes or sandals, my wavy hair turning flat and my glasses wishing they had tiny wiper blades.

I do like the part where I come across other walkers in a similar situation, exchanging a knowing smile which says ‘I guess we may as well enjoy it’. A momentary connection with a stranger that will be forgotten in a flash.

I love the rain so much when I’m simply a spectator, protected by a roof over my head. Looking at people running for shelter or picking up pace under their umbrellas. The folks on motorcycles and bikes coming to a sudden stop for cover. We’ve seen so much rain but it’s always miracle-like for me - the Heaven’s turning on their sprinklers, making the dry moister, the air cleaner and the green greener. Washing the dust off, it feels like laundry day. 

A short while ago I was watching two little girls who got off their school bus. It was drizzling but they refused to get under their mothers waiting umbrellas. Kept running around, giggling, completely deaf to their mom’s screaming at them. I was sitting by the window, not being able to contain my own laughter and wished later that I had taken a picture.   

A favorite childhood memory is associated with rain. Growing up, we knew everyone in our neighbourhood. Not just the people living on our street, but the one past the main road, the parallel streets as well as the perpendicular ones. 

I was probably all of 1o years old. It was another one of those Calcutta rainy, monsoon days when you feel like you’ll never see the sun again. Stores were shut and the streets were empty. The rain had been falling incessantly for the past few days and life had pretty much come to a standstill. People were starting to get stir-crazy when someone must have had the brilliant idea of having a very wet picnic. My older sisters and I were standing on our balcony, probably bored out of our minds as we had even lost power, when we saw a group of people coming towards us. It was mostly their friends and a few of mine. They were going around the neighborhood, having everyone come out of their homes and enjoy the rain. 

There must have been at least fifty ‘kids’ and the group kept getting larger as the word spread. We went to the local park which was full of puddles and played there for hours. I distinctly remember the laughter, the unending laughter. The peals of laughter each time the drizzle would turn into a heavy downpour. The constant smiles and giggles as we’d splash water on each other, knowing that we couldn’t possibly get any more wet. The jumping in the puddles, every single one of us soaked to the skin, our mother’s probably worrying about us getting sick and knowing that they could do absolutely nothing about it. 

There was no food but it was definitely a picnic. I don’t know if I can transport you there with my descriptions, but as I write this I can’t stop smiling. These memories were of a much simpler time. When it was people and not possessions that made us happy. When laughter came without a price. And when the monsoons were also a time to have a picnic.

The Memory Bank

It was about 2:30 in the afternoon when I started making my way to the New Alipore branch of the State Bank of India. Even though it was cloudy and I was afraid that I might get caught in the rain during my 20-minute walk, I nevertheless decided to take a chance. I was on my way to make a deposit for my dad at the afternoon branch of the bank and in spite of so many years having gone by, I still remember the day as if it was yesterday.

New Alipore is one of the nicest residential neighborhoods of Calcutta and I was lucky to have grown up there. On two ends of it were two bridges, one was the Kaat pul translated from Bengali to ‘wooden bridge’ that was basically a short cut for the walking population to go towards Tollygunj. The other end had the more majestic Majerhat Bridge , bustling with traffic connecting New Alipore to the centre of the city.

Although the kaat pul was replaced with a safer concrete bridge while I was still very young, the name stayed.

To get from one end of New Alipore to the other, it was at least a 30-minute walk if you were a brisk-walker, which I have always been. The portion from where I lived to the bank, which was right by the big bridge, was a very pleasant walk on well-maintained tree-lined streets with broad sidewalks. On the way were a few ‘general’ stores which generally sold most things you would need on a day-to-day basis, my favorite Chinese restaurant called Kowloon, a Yoga school and some fast-food places that served a smattering of American and Indian fare.

Considering that I had left at 2:30, I expected to be at the bank by 2:50. Figured it would take me about five minutes to make the deposit and I would be home by 3:15. This is a little game I've always played. Timed my activities and tried to be on the dot!

It wasn't very busy at the bank. There were a couple of people ahead of me in line and the five minutes I had estimated for being there, would in all probability be just right. I handed over the cash to the teller and waited for him to finish counting it and hand me back my receipt. As he reached out to give it to me, I heard gunshots and saw four men in masks entering the bank, holding guns commanding everyone to stay where they were. A few moments later one of them, a tall, well built guy came over, shoved me aside and barked at the teller to hand over all the cash. One of his accomplice’s was at the next window. Another robber was going around making people stand against the wall with their hands up in the air while the fourth was in the Manager’s office holding a gun to his head, obviously asking for the keys to the vault. I also noticed an unmasked puny man with them, walking with the manager moments later towards the vault.

I remember being completely calm through the entire incident, very sure that they wouldn’t harm me or anyone else. Unless of course we tried to be heroes and as I looked around, I didn’t see anyone that fit the part. I also remember being terribly excited that I was witnessing a bank robbery and was almost licking my chops about the fact that I had such a great story to tell. And nobody I knew could possibly top this one!

Probably all of three or four minutes would have passed when we heard police sirens. A few seconds later, we saw the four masked men, running out of the bank with their bags. I wondered where the little guy was and found out later that the manager, a true hero, had managed to lock him in the vault. The other four had escaped and suddenly the bank was full of cops.

The rest of the story isn’t very interesting. Everyone that had witnessed the incident had to stay back and was questioned. The entire process took several hours. This was before the age of cell phones and for some reason we weren’t allowed to use the phones at the bank to make any calls. I knew that my folks would be worrying but there was nothing I could do. The grapevine in the neighborhood was very strong and before long my mother heard about the robbery. She in turn immediately called my dad at work, who rushed home. Soon neighbors and relatives heard that I, the only son of my parents, the apple of their eye, who had me after giving birth to four girls, was in the bank when it was robbed. Was I hurt? Was I safe? Was I alive? Some close friends and relatives came over to provide my parents with moral support. My dad and uncle stationed themselves as close to the bank as they were allowed to.

Finally at about 7:30 pm, we were allowed to leave. I came out and saw my dad standing by the car, the obvious relief on his face as he spotted me walking towards him. I was welcomed at home by my mother who was in tears and hoards of other people who were acting as if I had come out of some near-death experience. I seriously couldn’t understand what the fuss was all about. Those few bank robbery minutes were some of the most exciting minutes of my life. I couldn’t believe my luck when I was witnessing the incident.

I may have been an extra, a nobody in the crowd scene but for me it was the role of a lifetime!