Smile of the Month - Ghuspetia

Book of the month

Chopped Green Chillies in Vanilla Ice Cream, a novel by Sam Mukherjee
Review by Victor Kalyan Ghoshe
This review was published in the July, 2011 issue of
www.southasianoutlook.com


Chinmoy Bose, a slightly overweight adolescent is uprooted from his beloved humble neighbourhood in Kolkata when his parents land upon an unexpected win at a lottery. Childhood friends are distanced and school ceases to be vernacular. The despondent teenager arrives at the uppity Vanilla Apartments where he meets the best friends of his life and acquires the nickname, Tiger. He savors every single day of his newfound existence with four spirited boys, Kirit, Robin, Signal and Pluto. Vanilla Apartments is a multistoried behemoth of white cement that resembles a massive block of vanilla ice cream. It houses misfits and wannabes and islands and archipelagos. Quidnuncs and vamps complete the equation. Their spicy lives are like chopped green chillies in vanilla ice cream and there is never a dull day in the high-rise. Tigers journey with his friends is full of admiration as well as controversies. He nurtures the dream of going to America one day. Will a surprising betrayal short-circuit his lifes ambition or can he emerge victorious from the set back?


Sam Mukherjee's novel is nothing less than the ever popular Indian snack ‘Kolkata's Jhalmuri'. Truly, this is such an easy read that one can smoothly travel down to the city of Calcutta in the 80s, loiter around and come back to 2011 with lots of delicious fragrances from the past.
The most important offering of the novel is the series of interesting social scenarios portrayed by Mukherjee. Through the lives of Tiger and his friends, Mukherjee picks up and presents insightful snapshots of different classes of society and their interactions. The author’s charming and free flowing language and descriptive style keeps the book continuously colorful, and he manages to paint a beautiful 'Big Picture’ with the help of many small colourful ones between the front and back covers of ‘Chopped Green Chilies in Vanilla Ice-cream.’ In short, a delicious read.

to buy the book Visit:
http://www.coinjoos.com/books/Chopped-Green-Chillies-In-Vanilla-Ice-Cream-by-Sam-Mukherjee-book-8129117916

Victor Kalyan Ghoshe is a young Indian writer.
An international communication adviser by profession and a musician by heart, Victor is an explorer and an award winning Communication designer, whose mission is to rediscover and document the tribal and folk cultures of this world.

'Those Days' - A Memoir By Ms. Namita Makhal

Days were lazy then, Calcutta air was not so ‘laced with carbon monoxide’, roads were much less crowded, summer evening breezes were much cooler and comforting…
and of course - smiles were offered more often even to complete strangers.

Mornings were much fresher then. Trams, Buses, Lorries, Taxis, ‘Tana rickshows’ all could move at ease through the roads, and life was much easier….

One such autumn morning my father took me to Shyambazar – a well-known area in the Northern part of Calcutta. I found myself in front of a huge black gate of one of the oldest girls’ schools of India.

I was 28.
I had just finished my Teacher’s training from Bullygunge Training College and I got a teacher’s job there, in the legendary school built by Sir Alexander Duff in the mid nineteenth century.

At eighty, today I still remember those days of our smooth and easy life.
I still remember innumerable happy & funny events as clear as the latest DTH (Direct to home) technology picture on a mega LCD TV screen.

It is not like getting into a flash back mode and being emotional, but it is like re-living the lost moment and being able to share the ‘peace of mind’ with people who are running to achieve endless lists of things, keeping no time in hand to enjoy them with their close ones.
Globalization has taught us to - always ‘run’ to win and ‘kill’ to live…..
But as a nation, our philosophy has always been – to be calm and not to rush for things….
Destiny shall anyway bring them to you.

60 years back we believed in that philosophy….and the good thing was – we actually enjoyed and cherished every moment of life….be it a happy moment or a sad moment or a funny moment.
As I have just uttered the word funny, the same moment like a momentary vision I could see a glimpse of this orange-ever moment of my life….
‘Orange’ – because that day all our faces became orange in laughter ….(we all were fair of course!).

Let me share that ‘not so funny now’ story with you all…….

We were a group of teachers – some seniors, some juniors….but we were friends.
Some were ‘bordi’s, some were ‘chhoto’s and some were just affectionate nick-names.
We were a family.
The group had many faces…..some serious, some ever-happy, some less & soft spoken, some ever-abusive (Dolly), some jovial, some very funny (Dipti), some lazy and some absentminded. But the Duff school and its 2nd floor hostel indiscriminatingly sheltered all….

Our salaries were peanuts, but the happiness we could buy with that was enormous.
We had ‘Hati Bagan Market, Shyam Bazaar Market, Hog Sahib’s Market (today’s New market) for shopping and we had Cinema halls like Talkie Show House, Mitra, Sree, Darpana, Radha and many more.
On Fridays we would go out – we would eat, shop, watch the latest ‘Uttam-Suchitra’ flick and return to our school hostel very late to face the furious Ms Bose - our head mistress. Every time we had to lie very innovatively to enter the school premises and the next moment to burst into roars of laughter.

‘Pola di’ and ‘Oboladi’ (meaning of ‘Obola’ is – a lady who can’t speak out strongly) were the ‘forgetful-s’ amongst us. Both were very simple women, far away from the day to day materialistic part of life, and they were the ones who used to take us through great laugh-riots pretty often, by their unmindful trivial activities.

It was a November somewhere in the early 60s, weather was beautiful in Calcutta. We all decided to go for a picnic on a Sunday morning. ‘Batanagar’ was not far and the place was beautiful then, with the ever-flowing Ganges and the nice breeze – termed as ‘Ganga’r Hawa’ in Bengali. The place got its name from the famous shoe company ‘Bata’ - as the Bata factory was situated there.

The ‘not so long journey’ was eventless but the moment we arrived at the spot it became all happy, the Ganges, the breeze, the greenery around, beautiful trees, flowers, the soft sun, the balloon-wala….oh yes! There was this balloon seller with a huge collection of colorful gas balloons (filled with Hydrogen gas, the balloon would fly away if you let the string go).
Well! For us, having a gas balloon in hand, in those days was tasting freedom. Life was simple then and happiness was available on the streets and that too without any price tag.

We played with the balloons for some time and then Poladi retired, she went to sit under a tree and we kept playing.

Then suddenly happiness came close in another form – ‘Phuchkas’ !!!
A Phuchka wala came there.
Phuchka was the milestone invention of India in the global snacks scenario – ping pong ball sized, crispy, thin, fried, flour spheres, filled with mashed massala potato, dipped in spicy tamarine water.

In a few seconds, as the small spheres of eternity melted in our mouth, we were in the heavens. For us ‘phuchkas’ left ‘chocolate’ far behind in the race of ‘intoxication from food’.
We don’t know how long we spent in the heavens and then like always we had to return. We returned to the huge banyan tree, we returned to Poladi.
But, when we were at a distance of - say 100 meters from Poladi, Dipti suddenly said, ‘aarre, where are our balloons..?

We all looked at Poladi. She was in her saintly pose….enjoying the beauty of nature, and possibly meditating in her mind. Her right hand was raised up in the air, holding the strings of all our balloons……but..!!!

BUT WHERE ARE OUR BALOONS…!!!

Her hand was only hanging in air clutching to ‘NOTHING’…

'We ran to her, and exclaimed all together….

‘Poladi where are the balloons…?’

She took a couple of moments to figure out, ‘where she was’ and ‘who we were’…..
And then…..

And then came her reply…

‘What !! You trying to make a fool out of me or what….
can’t you see…’

With a sudden movement she tried bringing her right-hand down towards us……

‘They are here right in front of your eyes…..HERE….!!!’

Her clasped, right-hand ‘whooshes’ through thin air …..and it was empty….
- Empty like a leaf-less tree, empty like the bald man’s head - sitting on the river bank, empty like the cloudless sky….

The balloons flew through her grip - which softened sometime during the ‘nature-admiring state of her mind’.

That was the moment. We had to burst into a roar of laughter…..and we did.

Birds flew away from the Banyan tree…the phuchkawala dropped a phuchka from his hand, a boatman dropped his oar…and we all dropped on the ground…

Poladi made our day once again.


Author is a retired teacher
of Duff High School for Girls (Estd-1857),
Kolkata.
She taught in the legendary school
from 1960 to 1996

World of Wonderful Flowers by Juthika Bezboruah

Byomkesh Bakshi Thriller (Part 1) - The Mystry of Natavar Naskar's Murder by Sharadindu Bandyopadhyay

---1---

Byomkesh and I went to Katak* for a government work, but after a couple of days we could make out that this work would take longer time than expected. As the ‘truth’ was hidden much deeper in the piles of reports and files of different government departments. We decided that Byomkesh should stay back there and I should return to Kolkata, because everyone knows that - a middleclass Bengali family would never function well without a male member.
Without Byomkesh, Kolkata was always uninteresting for me and I always felt helpless. It was the beginning of the winters – the length of the days were shorter, but then again it was tough for me to pass time - to pull through a whole day. I would visit the printing press for some time (as we recently invested in this publishing business), supervise work, and shuffle through the new manuscripts. But even after that, there would still be a large part of the day left for me to spend.
One day suddenly, I got a chance to spend some good time.

The house where we were staying, was a three story building where we rented five rooms on the top floor. The first floor was occupied by a group of office goers – who ran their own mess (a contributory food & lodging arrangement). Ground floor had the mess manager’s office, store room, kitchen, dining hall etc., only one room on the ground floor was rented to a gentleman. I knew all these people by their faces but nothing more than that, not even their names.

One evening when I was flipping through a magazine, someone knocked the door. I opened up to find a middle-aged gentle man waiting with a smile on his face. I had seen him on the stairs many times but didn’t know his name. He had recently rented the best corner room on the first floor and he was staying alone. He seemed pretty stylish – nice warm Jwahar coat over silk kurta-pajama, his hair was more of black than grey – quite a smart looking person I must say.
‘Excuse me, my name is Bhupesh Chatterjee, I have recently rented a room on the first floor’. He joined both of his hands to say Namaskar.
‘Namaskar’, I said, ‘of course I have seen you many times! Please come and have a seat’. He entered but didn’t seat,
‘Thanks, I have just come to Kolkata a month back’. I work for an insurance company and keep on travelling very frequently.
I felt a bit uncomfortable, ‘Oh! You work for an insurance company! Sir, Frankly speaking I do not have any insurance policy and do not wish to have one in the near future.'
He laughed out loud and said – ‘Oh! No! I have not come for that. Though I work for an insurance company but I am not an agent. I actually have come……’
_________________________________________________________________
*Katak - a district headquarter in Orissa, India

He paused and then with a little hesitation he uttered – ‘you know, I play bridge! And I am quite a bit addicted to this game of cards. And I couldn’t play since I am here in Kolkata, as I do not know anyone here. After much effort, I could actually found two people who also like playing Bridge; they are the boarders of room # 3 on the first floor. Now everything else is set – except the 4th player. For couple of days we played ‘cut-throat Bridge’ - but as you know - hot water would never give you the taste of tea! Ha ha ! Today I thought – ‘let me ask Ajit Babu if he has any interest in Bridge’.
Actually I used to play bridge a lot, but that was long back and I am no more addicted to cards. But then again I thought bridge would surely be a much better time pass option for me than flipping through magazines all alone throughout the evening, and said, ‘that’s a good idea of course, though it’s been time I played, but that’s okay, I think I will manage!’
Bhupesh Babu got up in haste and said, ‘let’s go then, I have arranged everything in my room, why to waste time!’
I told him to carry on, as I wanted to have my evening tea and then to join them, but he insisted – ‘No no, we will have tea together in my room – please come.’
I couldn’t resist laughing at his child like excitement and could also remember – that even I was such an enthusiast for cards many years back. Then for me a day spent without playing cards was so meaningless.
I got up; called Satyavati and told her that I was going down stairs; and went out with Bhupesh Babu.

The first room on the left of the landing was Bhupesh Babu’s, before entering his room he called out loudly – ‘Ram babu, Banamali Babu please come, I could catch hold of Ajit Babu.’ Two faces popped out of a certain door, and disappeared after uttering – ‘coming!’
Bhupesh Babu entered his room with me and put the light on.

A nice, big enough room for a single occupant. The room had two big windows on the Northern wall, which opened towards the road. A bed on one side and a steel Almirah on the other side. I could see a newly bought stove and arrangements for making tea were kept nicely on the ‘not so high Almirah’. At the centre of the room, there was a three-legged low table with four chairs around it. There was also a dressing table and a sideboard. Every thing in the room was smart looking (a bit European in style) and very neatly placed; which made me appreciate the master’s taste, in my mind.
As I occupied one of the chairs, Bhupesh Babu said – ‘Let me make tea for you, it’ll take just five minutes.’ He ignited the kerosene stove. Ram Babu and Banamali Babu came within a couple of minutes.
Though I was familiar with their faces, Bhuepsh Babu introduced us again, ‘This is Ram Chandra Roy and this is Banamali Chanda - both share the same room as well as the work place….Ha Ha Ha!!! – they work in the same bank !’
When I looked at them and greeted, I discovered that there were many more similarities than the ones Bhupesh Babu had just mentioned. May be I didn’t see them together and that’s why I missed these similarities earlier, that – they both were aged between forty five to fifty, both were quite fat with medium height (must be 5.4” – 5.5”), both had the same facial shape with fat noses, invisible eyebrows, and strong jaw lines. The similarities were so biological; it seemed that they belong to the same family. I was happy with my observation; and in excitement I couldn’t resist commenting –
“Are you guys cousins by any chance?”
Both of them gave me a sudden surprised look; Ram Babu said, ‘Oh No! We are from different casts altogether, I am ‘Vaidya’ and Banamali Babu is ‘Kayastha’.
I was a bit demoralized and wanted to say something to justify my thought – but Bhupesh Babu came to my rescue with a plate of ‘singara’s (a Bengali snack - something like deep fried vegetable momos).

We started with the cards after finishing our tea and I discovered one thing while playing - that I still remember all the tips and tricks of the game. The stake amounts were very low, so low that at the end of the game one would lose or win utmost a couple of coins, but then again this was the only thing which kept the spirit of the game alive.
In the first Rubber Ram Babu became my partner, he lit a long cigar; I and Bhupesh Babu lit our own cigarette brands; Banamali Babu took some massala.
We went on with our game. One rubber would end; we would change our partners and start fresh. All of these people were good with their cards. Everyone sank into the game; no one was talking much, only the cigars and cigarettes went on burning to make the air heavy. Bhupesh Babu got up to open one of the windows and silently came back to his seat.
It was 9 pm when we finally called the day off, the servant came twice in between, to call me for dinner. After the final calculation it was found that I won a couple of coins. As I got up I felt very happy, Bhupesh Babu asked with a smile, ‘what about tomorrow! Will you come?’
‘Oh Sure! I will.’ I replied.

I had to face Satyavati’s scolding for getting late – it’s actually true, during the winters, even 9.15 pm seems very late in Kolkata. But I was too happy to respond to her scolding.
Since that day our evening session became a regular event. We would start around 6 and would play till 9. Over this period of five-six days I gathered some clearer ideas about these three people –Bhupesh Babu was a kind hearted, soft spoken and friendly person who is truly passionate about Bridge. Ram Babu was a serious kind, would not talk much or would not argue if someone made a mistake. Banamali Babu respected Ram Babu a lot, always wanted to be as serious as him and sometimes would even try to imitate him. Both of them talked less, highly enthusiastic about the game of Bridge and both of them had a little 'East Bengali' accent in their dialect.

Six days passed; our evening session was about to turn into a club – and then suddenly this incident changed everything. The only boarder of the ground floor of our building – Natavar Naskar was murdered. None of us knew him, but the ripples created after such accidents touch everyone in and around.
That day, it was around 6.30 and I was late for the card session; I put a warm shawl (a woolen stole) over my kurta in haste and was coming down. As I reached the first floor landing, suddenly I could hear a ‘Bang’; I stopped to figure out what kind of a sound was it, but couldn’t make out - It could be a ‘back-fire’ sound from a motor car; but the sound was very powerful – a ‘back-fire’ sound from the road would not have pulled through. After waiting for another couple of seconds I entered Bhupesh Babu’s room, it was dusk and all lights were switched on in the room. I found Bhupesh Babu standing in front of one of the windows and trying hard to look at something, Ram Babu and Banamali Babu were trying to peep over Bhupesh Babu’s shoulder as they were behind him.
The moment I entered, Bhupesh Babu shouted with excitement – “There, there……running through the lane, could you see? That guy with a brown shawl…!”
I said, ‘what happened? ’Everyone turned back, Bhupesh Babu asked me, ‘Have you heard the sound? I am sure it had come from the back lane, below this window. You know! – The room was a bit suffocating; I was about to open the window and then suddenly this ‘BANG’! I looked through the window at once and saw this man running through the lane.Our house was on the main road and this was a narrow blind lane which was the connector of the main road and the backdoor. Generally servants used this lane.
It suddenly flashed in my mind and I said, ‘the only ground floor room which was rented to someone was just below us. Did the sound come from there?’
Bhupesh babu said, ‘God Knows! A gentleman stays in that room, that much I know, but I don’t even know his name.’
Ram Babu & Banamali Babu looked at each other and then Ram Babu said, ‘The gentle man’s name is Natavar Naskar.’
I said, ‘Let’s go and ask him, if he is there – he must have heard the sound as well and possibly would be able to tell us about the source.’
None of them seemed interested, but I was also adamant, how could I leave the mystery of this big a sound just like that and play Bridge!
‘At least let’s try to go down and enquire about it, it’ll not take more than a minute and then we’ll come back to play,’ I insisted. ‘The sound was surely not any common or normal sound; we surely need to find out – what was it?’

We all walked down, the first thing we noticed on the ground floor was that – the manager’s office and the storeroom was locked. The dining room was opened but apart from some tables and chairs, there was nothing. Natavar Babu’s room was not locked from outside, ‘He must be in his room’ I said and called out loudly ‘Natavar Babu ‘!
No answer! I called once again, this time a little louder, but no reply came from inside. Now I pushed the door a little; it opened partly – it was dark inside and through the partly opened door a very light smell came to our nostrils….
Gun powder!
We looked at each other – then Bhupesh Babu pushed the door, stepped inside the room and put on the light. The first thing we could see in the harsh bright yellow light was Natavar Babu’s body. He was lying on the floor, the chest of his white sweater was colored with blood, and he was surely not alive, as we could see the sheer fear of death on his face.We stood like statues for some time and then Ram Babu cleared his throat; I looked at his face and discovered that he was staring at Natavar Naskar’s body with a very strong disbelief. Suddenly Banamali Babu clasped Ram Babu’s shoulder and uttered, ‘Dada! Natavar Naskar is dead!’ - the way he said it, I truly couldn’t make out whether he was sad or astonished.
‘I am sure he is dead’, Bhupesh Babu said, ’someone shot him with a gun – look over there, on the windowsil. ’The window pane was open and a pistol was lying on the windowsil. Everything was clear – the murderer walked through the lane; reached the window; fired at Natavar Babu and ran away leaving his pistol behind.

This time we heard someone coming – it was the mess manager Shivkali Chakravarty. Shivkali was a very thin and ‘always in haste,’ kind of a person. His eyes were always worried and he had this funny habit of repeating words.

‘What happened? What happened? what are you guys doing here? He went on asking.
‘Have a look’ I said very coldly and gave him way to enter the room. ‘Oh! Oh! Natavar Naskar is dead! Oh, So much of Blood, So much of Blood! How?
’With cold enough expression I pointed my finger towards the window.
‘Oh, Pistol, Pistol! Who had done this? When?
I said - can’t say, ‘who’, but we know ‘when’ was this happened – just five minutes back.
Then I told him the story briefly and after that I suddenly noticed that Shivkali Babu was wearing a brown shawl. My heart skipped a beat. I tried controlling my expression and asked him –‘are you coming from outside? Where have you been?’ he replied, ’yes I went out for some work – but, but what do we do now?’

‘We have to call the police,’ I said.

‘Right, Right!’ said Shivkali Babu, ‘but I don’t have a telephone, Ajit Babu! if you please…’
I told them not to go inside the room and went upstairs to make a call to the police. As I rushed inside our drawing room to pick up the telephone receiver, the mirror suddenly came in the cone of my vision and with all of my astonishment, I noticed something ……the color of my shawl was brown.

To be continued...
In the next issue of megher khata.

Shopnopurer Gaari (Dreamland Express) by Victor Kalyan Ghoshe

Kid-Zone