Dad's Diary 12 - Himalayan Caprice

Darjeeling is one of those inscrutably inimitable Himalayan resorts that defies satisfactory description in its totality. Fond memories of these daunting hills of abundant greenery blossom like a hundred-petaled marigold of multi-color hues.

Old bungalows mostly in picturesque remote areas that were built by the colonial British rulers occupy a place of pride in its history. Electricity was not available for these bungalows then, and for many decades later  many such bungalows remained out of bounds for power companies to maintain the old ambiance.

One such bungalow is Lepcha Jagat.  A wooden bungalow with sloping corrugated iron roof right in the midst of a dense forest of oak, rhododendron, pines and other Himalayan flora, and no electricity.

Often obstinate rain accompanied by strong wind collecting sighs, whistles and drum beats from the hill slopes embrace the bungalow, wind swept foliage paste shifting shadows on every conceivable medium. Stand out in the veranda for a couple of minutes; with a cold chill running down the spine you may even regret that once you were chary about believing in the woes of a tap dancing ghost. But this one's not a ghost story.

In 1940s, a senior British official visited the Lepcha Jagat bungalow with his pregnant wife. They could not return home without experiencing a rare Himalayan view that the bungalow was famous for.

pic from - www.jkindiatrip.blogspot.com

On a clear day one could have a bird's eye-view of the then three Himalayan kingdoms of Nepal, Bhutan and Sikkim lying side by side on a huge idyllic expanse with the snow-capped Kanchendzonga, the highest mountain in India, and third highest in the world at 8,586 meters, dwarfing everything else. At night twinkling electricity bulbs in the kingdoms gave the appearance of the sky having come down on them. This was reason enough for the British couple to reserve the bungalow for three days.

It drizzled lightly when they arrived. By night fall fog invaded the bungalow and the surrounding forest, and then soared high and kissed the low hanging black canopy of cloud. One could not distinguish where the fog bank ended and cloud bank began. Hail storm reigned the next day. Open spaces went under a carpet of white stones. The third day was no better.

Tired and disappointed, the visitors decided to give up. The official asked for the voluminous guest book, and recorded his experience. With a heavy heart and a sigh he mentioned, “It's raining even as I am leaving.”

Pic from - http://www.mobwiki.com

The capricious Himalayan weather continued to bless some and curse others. Some bantered that the bungalow actually existed in a cloud castle, and there was nothing but rain - right, left and center. Many doubted whether it was the opposite of the fictional utopia called Shangril-La.

Much water had flown down the river Tista, two decades after India gained independence from the colonial rulers in 1947, a young foreigner went almost mad laughing in one of the worst spells of rain and hailstorm for several days at Lepcha Jagat. On his day of departure, he asked for the guest book. He marked out an earlier page by its number, and wrote, “Father, it's still raining.”   


BY TAPAS MUKHERJEE

YOU ARE PREGNANT

It was one of those days when chores seem a pile of mountains - relentless and unforgiving. Since screaming was not an option either, I headed out to get some cigarettes. Little did I know what that trip had in store for me.

I drove to the store and parked my car on the closest space that was available. Somehow, soon after that, an eerie feeling dawned on me - A feeling of not only being watched but inspected through and through. Needless to say, that this was not doing any good to my already havocked senses. I got out – my furrowed brows met the day and with it a strange man with a set of totally crazed deep eyes.

pic from - callofduty.wikia.com

He looked at me and smiled knowingly. A whiff of filth passed through his parted lips. He had come way too close for a stranger. Alarmed I stepped back and tried to look warningly at him – but my face gave me away – I was petrified. His blood shot eyes pierced my very being. And all he said were three words before he turned around and went away – “You are pregnant”.

His retracing of steps flooded me with a sense of relief that I had never known before. A crazed man, talking gibberish and ruining my already ruined day. I pushed the thought at the back of my head and carried on with trembling legs towards Rite Aid. The urgency of a smoke even more now.

Once inside the store though – I just couldn’t get myself to feed my craving. The words of the man echoed in my ears till my head felt like it was going to explode. I bought a pregnancy test instead.  The 3 minutes in which it would decide my fate is worth the money and the hesitation. A “positive” or a “negative” would mean a subsequent no or yes for the smoke I intended to enjoy.

I used the Rite Aid washroom and then enjoyed my cigarette later. But I can never forget that man. There was way too much conviction in his voice. I cannot help but wonder whether he meant something else or whether the pregnant he meant was metaphorical. Funny how I never saw him after that day and had never seen him earlier in the neighborhood! Funny how everybody else around was sure they had never seen anyone like him before.

That day did something to me. I cannot put my finger on it – but that man was not lying – he was a messenger - only I could not decipher his message. Two days later – I was in the hospital donating blood for a new born who needed red blood cells. The doctor told me that my blood gave her new life.  That man’s face somehow haunted me all day that day….

Dad's Diary 11 - Ghostly accents : )

Darjeeling was built up by the British colonial rulers as a hill station for convalescing army men who could not be sent back home across the oceans. Very British bungalows were constructed in remote and hardly accessible areas to provide the officers peace and quiet.

 

Take for example the hamlet of Lava saying 'Hey' eloquently  to tourists traveling in between Kalimpong and the Dooars. There right in the midst of a sprawling hill expanse is a bungalow where two female ghosts, one Indian and the other British, lamented audibly at night in two different nasal accents.

The village headman had to make an on the spot investigation. He spent an uncomfortable night in the bungalow, and decided to return accompanied by the Indian counterpart of an exorcist. Equipped with a broomstick and a bucket of Mantra-fortified water, the exorcist could reduce the two nasal accents to one; the Indian female ghost apparently accepted the plea to look for new haunting ground under threats of hellish banishment.

Pic from www.ghosttheory.com

Here is what the exorcist had  to report: “The English lady, Jane, says she was killed by her husband so as to marry her sister. All she wants is an apology from the husband-sister duo before she can rest in peace. Both of them had escaped back home to England where they died in a car crash, but she could not locate them anywhere in her part of the world. So she is waiting for them to come to her.”

There was no way to get rid of her, the exorcist added, she hated haunting people but could not help weeping at times and practicing tap dance, which was her passion both in life and beyond. If people felt disturbed, it was their problem. The exorcist refused to exert any more pressure claiming that they had become friends. Even the headman's threat of taking action against the 'female ghost-corrupted exorcist' failed to yield any result.

Some spirited inducements loosened his tongue, and the village headman agreed to finish the tale: The exorcist received urgent telepathic summons one night from his ghost-friend to come right over to the bungalow. The bungalow was unusually calm – no sound of weeping or tap dance. Flickering candle lights and hushed conversations proved that one of the rooms was occupied.

The exorcist silently went up to the upper floor where she was waiting. She was furious. “The Indian bitch you got rid off is a lying bitch too,” she fumed. She was the one who informed her about the London car crash in which the husband-sister duo were supposed to have died. “The scoundrels” were alive, and right here occupying a room in the floor below.

The exorcist knew that a scorned woman was potentially dangerous; a scorned female ghost could be altogether fatal. He agreed to be a co-conspirator to help Jane avenge herself. The exorcist went out of the bungalow to make some preparations.

On his return he explained to the couple that all they needed to do was to say sorry touching the white boulder by the side of the road leading to the top of the hill. Perhaps this would also lessen the burden of guilt they were carrying on their shoulders. Moreover, he could transfer some of his special powers to Jane who would then be equipped to unleash her wrath in the most diabolical manner.

The couple approached the familiar white boulder with much trepidation. They sat on their haunches, bent forward and placed their palms on it. The exorcist who had earlier loosened the boulder now gave it a powerful push. The boulder was followed by two bodies over the precipice down into the deep gorge. That night Jane tap danced for the last time. But the lamentations still continued; this time two nasal tones, one male and one female, both in English accent were often heard.   

BY TAPAS MUKHERJEE

Farewell Future

I am a traveler. The only thing that remains unhinged in my fate is change.  I get new houses full to the brim with hope, dreams, prayers and moments to cherish for life. Pregnant they are with my energy and an illusion of certainty - till a time comes when every last emotion and tear that weaved those dreams is vacuumed out and shipped to a new destination. Every move takes something away from me but future beckons. I came to the USA leaving buckets of tears at home and now it’s time to drain the last morsels of my existence in this land and bid goodbye. My home will be stepped down and stripped to just another empty house. And I will have to engage myself in a futile attempt again to erase my home address, phone number and SSN memorized and carved in my memory.

The more I dwell on these thoughts the more melancholic I feel. So instead - just like I try to cherish the life of a loved one who has left me forever – I will cherish my days here forever. I will cherish the hardships of my first year as a foreigner, the 2^nd year as a struggling writer, the next few years of some great friendships and fulfilled times and a whole lot of Manhattan, the 5^th year of creating life and giving birth to my little angel, the 6^th year of seeing some amazing success in becoming a consultant. These  years are in clear sight now – packed in boxes in just a few hours!

Img from www.edruscha.com

So dear America when I drive away - I will look at you with love. And when I drive past that hospital where my baby was born - I will etch it in my memory. Dunkin Donuts – bid you farewell and hug to the steaming hot cups of coffee that I would crave; Costco – a wholesale priced kiss to you, Shop Rite – I always loved our weekend meetings; Stew Leonard’s – oh Stew Leonard’s – I have no words to express how much I will miss you, Grand Central – there was never a moment I didn’t feel elevated when I treaded your floors. My office – hope to meet you soon again - stay with me please.

Words betray me when I look at the people who enriched my soul here. People I have learnt immense lessons from – whether through good or bad times. People who selflessly only gave and expected nothing in return – I am taking everything with me – returning richer beyond measure now with your memories and thoughts. I will ensure you and I meet again and that you give me a chance to give back. This is hence not the end – it’s not the beginning either – it’s our journey together.

I leave with a heavy heart but I have a sparkle in my eyes; my feet feel loaded but my steps are alight, I look at the road ahead but can’t help looking back. I always wanted to leave – but I leave a part of me with you. Some say America is the future – in that case Farewell Future.

Cogito Ergo Sum

Pic - www.graudinkarlvek.blogspot.com

I play poker, therefore I am. No limit Texas hold’em poker (or simply Hold’em) is widely acknowledged as the Cadillac of card games. Any player worth his salt will warn you that it takes 5 minutes to learn and a lifetime to master. The game has come a long way both in terms of perception and playing strategies making it the only card game with adrenaline power to be televised. Variations of the game were played in gritty saloons in the Wild West and steamboats on the Mississippi where you could get killed over a bad beat. Today it is the mainstays at casinos all over the world and consistently attracts the high rollers and thinking payers that don’t want to play the house. With the advent of the internet, it is played by thousands of people at any given time of the day, making millionaires of some or paupers of others, every second. The World Series of Poker Main event boasts of one of the largest payouts in any sport, $9MM to be exact in 2010. That’s was what Jonathan Duhamel, a 22 year old from Montreal won after he emerged at the top of more than 7300 entrants in the 2010 World Series.  

So what is this game all about? In short it is a game of making the right decision with imperfect information and has little to do with your cards or for that matter Luck. In many ways it is a game that closely resembles something we are all familiar with…. Life. As you go about your life the basic conscious objective is to make decisions in self-interest while being limited by resources. For the uninitiated here’s how the game is played- 2 cards are dealt face down to each player followed by exposing  5 community cards face up that are available to everyone to improve their hands. The objective is to make the best combination of 5 cards from a total of 7 available cards (2 dealt to the player and 5 for the community). The dangerous aspect of the game is the innocuous ‘no limit’ part-this means that there is no upper limit to the amount that one can wager at any point when the hand is being played out. This is the challenge that makes the game alluring and intriguing, for the money that can be won and more importantly, for being able to figure out how to consistently make the right decision without regard to the outcome – win or loss. Confused? If something has a 90% probability of happening then 10% of the time there will be an adverse outcome. That’s called a bad beat not a bad decision.

Pic - www.sodahead.com

In the 1976, David Sklansky,  a mathematician and alum of Wharton, wrote the definitive book on the application of game theory math to the game of poker. The book was by itself is worthy of a PhD. Unfortunately this book’s strengths are its very weaknesses. The math is overwhelming to the casual player making it a dense read. This was followed in 1978 by The Super System written by a then 46 year old professional gambler with no academic training who by then had more than 20 years of playing experience. These 2 books changed the face of poker by putting a structure around decision making thus letting the secret out. Doyle Brunson, the godfather of poker and the author of the Super System, is now 77 years old and still going strong at the poker tables, which says something about this game. But knowing the ingredients to the secret sauce was not enough as the games were still heavily dominated by professionals who knew how to put it all together. And then Moneymaker happened. In 2003 Chris Moneymaker, a then 28 year CPA from Tennessee  won the World Series of Poker beating a field of 800 players  to take home $2.5MM becoming the first amateur to win the Main Event. What was more astonishing at the time was that he did not pay the customary $10,000 entry fee but instead qualified through an online tournament for a few hundred dollars. This was a water shed moment… there was a demonstrable event that the math theory worked. The professional gambler no longer had the exclusive edge on the game. This lead to a snowball effect and within 3 years fields of more than 8000 players were vying for a payout for the #1 position in excess of  $10MM and.  

This is a social game where bluffing and banter are par for the course. Reading your opponent based on their exhibited actions and facial expressions are crucial. I use the same skills I have learnt at the poker table to any negotiations at work. I know not to believe someone making an assurance followed by a gulp and signs of nervousness. No wonder FBI agents have written books on how to read and extract poker tells through interrogation strategies.

For many of us the grind continues. Let me leave you with a bad beat story. Villian 1 is the first person to act and is short stacked. He pushes all-in pre flop (before the community cards are exposed). It is folded around to me in mid position and I look down at AA. I call the all-in for about 30% of my stack. The action fold around to the last to act – Villian 2. He goes all-in over the top now costing me another 25% of my stack. I naturally call. With 2 players all in, the villians reveal their card. Villian 1 holds 66 and Villian 2 holds KK. The 3 rd card is a 6 giving Villain 1 a clear lead with 3 of a kind. Then the 5^th card is a K giving Villian 2 the win. No wonder the outlaw Wild Bill Hickok was killed playing poker.

BY ARIJIT GHOSHAL

Dad's Diary 9 - Hitchhike

Red Road (http://members.virtualtourist.com)

 The Red Road in the heart of Kolkata, India, is one of those thoroughfares that restore some confidence in a home sick visitor from the western hemisphere. The wide six lane two-way road with a respectable divider in the middle affords motorists an opportunity to heave a sigh of relief after negotiating nerve shattering traffic snarls elsewhere in the vicinity.

The dimly lit concrete pavement on one side of the road wears a mesmerizing look in semi darkness after dusk. All kinds objects spring out and jump back with the lights thrown by speeding cars. The other side has a foot walk created by constant trampling of pedestrians.

The concrete pavement is a veritable lovers' lane. Across the road the side walk is a center for mobile facilities like prohibited drugs and damsels of dubious distinction. The car on the foot walk side slowed down ignoring the blaring honking behind him.

The man at the wheels looked intently at the figure picked up by the car headlight. She seemed to be just the type; lips sporting cautious inviting smile, eyes casting furtive glances. But one always had to make sure. There were often traps laid down behind delectable baits; lurking dangers could spring nasty surprises.

He kept the car rolling slowly ready to speed away as he unrolled the window. “You need a lift?” he asked, his eyes quickly scanning the area for any undesirable movement. “Yes, yes,” she said, suddenly anxious to get away from the area. She boarded, and the car picked up speed. “What's your name?” he asked. “Meera,” she said. “I am Bharat,” he added. Meera smiled.

Away from the din and bustle of Kolkata city deep in its northern suburb lived old Nimai in a dilapidated house. With an ailing wife, two daughters of marriageable age, and a teenager son, and with a paltry income, he was having the toughest time of his life.

There was no prospect for his son in that God forsaken village. The elder daughter, Sumitra, was a 'leave vacancy teacher' in a primary school. If any of the permanent teachers remained  absent, she would fill in for the day. His younger daughter, Aparna, undertook private tuitions before and after the college hours to support her educational expenses. The son was still studying in the local school. Any extra expense including buying medicines was a worrying factor.

A letter that his wife, Moyna, received this morning made him irritable. Her childhood friend who was based in London after a fairy tale marriage had arrived in India, and desired to meet them. What seemed to be aeons ago the two kids once hid themselves in the backyard with a blade. They incised their fingers to exchange blood to become blood sisters, and vowed to get their children married to each other. Somehow both believed that one would bear a son, and the other a daughter. The irony in the memory left Moyna rattled for a while. She shook her head to clear it.

The next day her friend, Rekha, arrived without notice. An embrace and pleasantries later the two friends sat down to exchange information. Rekha lost no time to remind her about the blood sisters' vows. Money was no problem, she could stand for the expenses on both the sides.

Nimai was informed and received the news with head bowed in shame and relief. Sumitra was called for. But she refused to marry; somebody had to stand by the family at this dour hour. Nobody gave any importance to Aparna's objections. She would have to remain ready when Rekha's son arrived to look up the bride-to-be that evening.

Hectic preparations for the honored guest was greatly hampered by repeated power cuts. The moon above and oil and gas lamps below made it possible to usher in the young man. Before long he was led into a room where the bride-to-be waited, all decked up.

Image from www.cgtantra.com

He tried to make out the face on which flickering oil lamps were playing havoc. She seemed to be beautiful, more beautiful than her elder sister sitting behind her. Power restored, the room was suddenly flooded by a fluorescent silver, almost startling everyone. Both jerked up their heads to steal a look but his look got locked behind her.

Meera! What was he that day on Red Road? Bharat, he remembered.

“Well?” demanded his mother. “I can't marry this girl,” he almost shouted, “she is too young for me. Could I meet her elder sister, please?”

They met in the backyard under the 'kool' berry tree. “What's your name?” he began; “Sumitra,” she replied, her voice betraying both desperation and defiance. “I am Bikash,” he said, and came down to brass tacks.

“Look at it this way; one day you needed a lift and I offered you one. Today I need a lift, a lift to a life of honor and dignity. If you give me this lift today, there will be no occasion to take or give lifts in future. Will you marry me?”

“Yes, yes,” she said, and grabbed a 'kool' branch to steady her trembling feet. She looked up at Bikash, suddenly afraid that she would wake up, and her dream would turn into a nightmare. She smiled.

Letter to Jessica

Pic from
www.thelistproject.org 

Dear Jessica,

How is Thursday going for you? Mine is beautiful so far, as beautiful as a worthy gift can and should be. Thank you very much for this priceless day. Your gift to me could be just a bunch of letters that you call a "link for Thursday dedication" over at your website, but you have no idea what it comprises for me... Below is just the tip of a very very large iceberg:

1. It means a fluttering heart and moist eyes
2. It means a smile on my Dad's lips and maybe an extra drink in the evening to celebrate
3. It means an entire dinner time conversation in the family
4. It means telepathic hugs and kisses for you each time I remember how I felt the entire day today
5. It means for me Thursday is never going to be the same again
6. It means I have more confidence in myself
7. It means I have your "Thursday Dedication" to show for my credentials as a blogger
8. It means you will be the dominant character in my head for the next few weeks
9. It means a hole in my hubby's pocket - because I am so going to demand a celebration
10. It means my hubby will so not like you for doing this

Thank you so very much dear friend...

Hope to be in touch for the rest of my life.

Sincere Regards
Kriti Mukherjee

Get me that Champagne

I really don't want my blog to become the mouthpiece of my achievement or how cool I am but alas - there is no escaping it. Just when my head had stopped reeling with the celebration of being awarded "versatile blogger" by Sweepy I was told by Pandora Poikilos, author of the book "Excuse me, My Brains have stepped out" and the owner of the website http://peacefrompieces.blogspot.com/ that my Blog was chosen as "Blog of the week" on her website. In fact the news came to me as a comment by Pandora on my post Awarded and Awarding.  I read it about 50 times before it actually sunk in to my thick brain. Duh!!!!


These incidents, however, come with some scary thoughts. I am getting pretty spoiled with the attention. While the kind encouragement by my fellow bloggers and writers make me want to improve and do justice to their acknowledging me - I never want to become one who is offended by criticism. Lets be honest here - criticism is really annoying in a public forum but I want my humility to stay with me forever and take advice, as if it were a magic potion to quickly do better. Complacency can bring real quick downfall - I have had the misfortune to be witness to many such instances. Hence with every compliment I fortify myself for a healthy reprimand or a kind suggestion. Knitted Brows slowly get ironed out in the face of criticism when one looks at it that way.

Image from http://www.clipartof.com

Having said that - let me clarify - I am in seventh heaven now and if anyone wants to take me by my word and actually send me some whip lashing emails - then give me some time to enjoy the bliss and do it in a week or hopefully never. Right now I feel like I am walking the red carpet, like my perfume is making everyone around me dizzy, like the deep neckline of my black gown is the photographers delight, like my perfect underwear is making me super confident. Ahhh Blogosphere - get me that champagne will ya?

Awarded and Awarding

What a beautiful world this is - Blogoshere. I even get awarded in this - unlike in Earth!!! My cyber buddies think I deserve this - unlike in Earth. I am so much more loved - unlike in Earth.

Sweepy Jean - thank you from the bottom of my heart - I have more reason to believe in myself now! Sweepy gave me a Versatile Blogger award which made me a much happier human being and one with a few responsibilities too. Thanks to her you will now have be bored with 7 things about me and then be entertained by some awards bestowed to 7 other beautiful bloggers. So here is what makes me:

1. I am a marketing consultant. The kind who always overshoots her hours and efforts for free - more because it comes naturally to her than because she loves her clients.
2. I am a confused woman - who often wants something only to pout and think over it when I get it.
3. I am in absolute love with animals - of all kinds... But consider myself a hypocrite because I eat them too : (. I am hoping next life I am born a vegetarian so I never have to taste meat again.
4. I want to be famous for being a good person - a paradoxical situation. For mostly it is when one is cut throat, competitive and wise that she/he become rich and famous.
5. I love long interesting conversations and making friends.
6. I am still stuck in many areas of my past and often struggle to let it go - not that the past was bad or cruel - but it was just the past...
7. My family tops my priority list and I consider myself handicapped without them.

And now its time for the awards. Let me start by saying, I have way more than seven blogs that I frequent and love. But I am limited to the number and am restricted by rules by which (I am guessing) I can't award someone who has already been awarded in this category. Fortunately for me though I still have plenty to mention so here goes:

1. A creative mind - by Ishaan Bhattacharya - this because he is the youngest blogger I know and is really good with expressing himself. And oh is he versatile!!!
2. Doodles on the skies above - by Joyee Bhattacharya - another young girl taking on writing with a vengeance and filling her blog up with opinions and stories. She amazes me with he versatility.
3. Debbie - I just love her style and her humor - she is amazing.
4. Roy - His goodness is reflected in the variety of subjects he writes about. The link here is his first chapter to his blog novel.
5. Yoshay - Yoshay just amazes me with her absolutely stunning style and fantastic writing.
6. Sonia - Beautiful subjects fantastically woven in words
7. Charles - The bald one always makes my day with his posts - just love them...

Cannot leave here without mentioning Eva Manya, Chokher Bali, Priyasmita, Sukanya, John Mountain, Alpana Jaiswal, Lavina Melwani, E Nina Rothe, Ardith, Bronzi, Nirupam, Dede and .... - ok ok - I am ending this now. I have to ... Enjoy : )  

Dad's Diary 10 - Irate Flowers

With her sharp features she could look beautiful if she had access to brush and colors. But the vicissitudes of life had taken its toll. Her imploring eyes and embarrassed smile said it all as she proffered a barely three inches long string of jasmine flowers.

“How much?” Swati asked, slightly perplexed as to what to do with it. She anticipated Swati's mental query as she quoted the price rather brusquely, “Ten rupees; keep it on the dash board.” Women in India actually look for jasmine strings of considerable length to wrap around artistically created hair-buns. Swati paid as she boarded the car. She clutched the money in her hand, raised it to her forehead, and said a silent prayer to God obviously invoking the Almighty's blessings for a hassle-free sale of her bunch.

With her apologies for jasmine strings she receded to her vantage point to survey for prospective buyers with practiced eyes. She kept a wary eye at the rubbish dump near a decorated florists' outlet. A nondescript boy under ten was scouting the dump.

Posh Connaught Place in Delhi, India, appears more starry than the sky on a clear night. All the eyesores on the ground remain carpeted under an unceasing twilight, rapiers of rays of light thrusting in and out of pall of darkness with opening and closing of doors and windows; the impact is further enhanced by diffused street lights.

Omkar, Swati's husband, had taken us all to dine in a fashionable eatery in the area. Before leaving I buttonholed the restaurant usher with a flood of questions. He revealed that the ten year old was his mother's partner. He was waiting for the florists' shop to dump its unwanted stuff which he would forage for 'still alive' flowers including salvageable floral parts for his mother to create strings, and eke out a living.

The boy's duty included washing the salvaged flowers with drops of water beseeching 'saans lo, saans lo (breathe, breathe)'. Flowers responded to his nimble touch by remaining alive for a while more to deck up his mother's strings.

A few months earlier Kriti and her husband, Arijit, drove us to Ocean City, USA. During a stopover, Kriti and I noticed a middle-aged woman with disheveled hair walking slowly towards us. “I think she will ask for money,” Kriti surmised/mumbled. The woman headed straight towards us and said something inaudible. She seemed to have seen better days when she had brush and colors; but now stood in sharp contrast to the ambiance of the area.

A few seconds later, “I say I am hungry,” she rasped in the most authoritative tone as if we were responsible for that. Kriti offered her a 5-dollar bill. She took it and walked away without even a 'thank you.' There plainly was an attitudinal problem. She crossed the road to her vantage point, and crossed herself, thanking God.

Behind the wilted jasmine flowers and the irate scorn of a wilted woman, however, there was a lesson to learn. These were the shields to protect themselves against losing their self-respect. They just did not want to be called beggars, and covered their callings with the best of available resources.

On way back from Connaught Place, as this thought struck me, the smell of car interior freshener metamorphosed into jasmine fragrance. I took a deep breath, but felt a throbbing pang; did we cheat them by offering so paltry a charity for so lofty an ideal?       


BY TAPAS MUKHERJEE

RD & MSW Made my day

Sometimes you just wander around in the Blogosphere and meet people that are going to make such a difference in your life. Make you smile on not so good a day. That smile often changes the course of events and sets a tone for the rest of the journey till sunset. Then on there is no looking back. Its a gesture that makes you suddenly feel all important - as if the sun would not rise till you wake up... Roy Durham made my day today and many earlier.... Here is why: Poem for me by Roy : )

A perfect addition to my perfect day. I think I have really achieved something when I can bring out the best in someone. If I have done something in creation - I am fantastic! Here is what I inspired in the awesome artist in Mari - colors in Spring. I know now that I can move things around towards the better - because she has given me the reason to believe. Thank you Mari!

Tons of love and respect to both : )

Colors that I am made of

If colors were people how do you think they would be? I would imagine red to be the most romantic and short tempered all at once - also in many ways like a Cancerian... insecure, fickle, loving and unpredictable... But that's just my imagination. (Remember Big B???) 

Anyway, so the intention of this post is to invite readers to tell me what colors mean to them. I feel a certain way when I wear a certain color. My wardrobe is about 85% black with a minuscule remainder of either shades of gray or blue... The minority ‘brights’ live a life of neglect and an immense sense of inferiority complex. 

Image from http://opera.com

I have often wondered whether that points to some kind of imbalance in me. A quick analysis of  the situation that has led to my partiality towards black reveals the following: Emotionally it makes me feel confident and physically (and this is just me again) I feel sexier, smarter, taller and slimmer.... The last of course is a fact about the color - Black does make one look slimmer ... The rest of the positive vibrations may only be a means of letting myself feel alright to face the world. They may be lies that I tell myself but what comforting lies they are....

The few shades of blue make me feel good too. I feel like the evening dusk has just settled on me, I feel like the twilight, I feel vast and inky - mostly I feel like I am a good person. I can look people in the eye and talk honestly. I also feel very brave and mysterious in ways. 

The only time I can smile at bright colors is when I have my eyes closed in really bright sunlight. Have you ever tried this? I would take the MTA to go to work 5 days a week till last year. While everyone wondered how I could take the ordeal of this commute - I could easily say the commute was the best part of the working day. I met up with my commuter friends (we were quite a bunch), choose the seat that was flooded with the most sunlight and start a game.

Darcy and I would take our shades off turn towards the sun and close our eyes. We would then tell each other what colors we saw... It was hilarious - we never saw the same color but the realization that some of those colors may not even have been discovered yet amazed us. All bright and wondrous... A beautiful world where only colors lived sans human, sans numbers, sans anything else at all. Fed and nurtured by the sun and sun alone. 

White is such a pure color too but to be honest I can never wear white until I am assured that there is no unnecessary stuff in my stomach anymore. That it is as flat as can be and completely devoid of any matter that can cause bloating. I remain confident that I do not have to explain this point any further.

I even identify people with colors – some of my friends are orange, others are pink and still others are a mix of many…. When I do not like a client he immediately becomes a dirty brown for me and when I do like him he is a blue or a white. Gold is the color of distasteful businesspeople while Silver is the color of subtle wisdom.

When I die I would like to be dressed in the colors of the rainbow and laid to rest on a black sheet. I love colors – they have added meaning to my life and I remain assured that they will be there with me even in death…

Dad's Diary 8 - The Vedanta – As I Understand It

Man-robot relationship is virtually a mirror image of Nature-man kinship. A robot is programmed by man to undertake certain specific chores just as a man is equipped with a congenital agenda to undertake certain functions. This agenda, the Karma of the scriptures, makes appropriate adjustment to suit the situations and circumstances at birth, but is infallible.

A man thinks that he thinks. Actually he does not. Thoughts are planted in his mind by Nature with three forces as its instruments known as Sattvas, Rajas, and Tamas, respectively meaning illumination, action and inertia. These three forces (Gunas) are always present in Nature. By an inter-play among themselves, they combine in varying proportions, decisively influencing the man's ego and thereby his thought and action. Man's mind gropes for a line of thought on this or that matter, and grabs the one closest to his attitudinal nature, never really thinking it out for himself.

Swami Vivekananda
 (Picture from
 http://members.fortunecity.com)

Swami Vivekananda who espoused and popularized the Vedanta and Yoga in the USA and Europe in the1890s once put it succinctly when he remarked, “Every thought is extracted out of you.” Sri Aurobindo mentioned (The Synthesis of Yoga), “All conduct and action are part of the movement of a Power, a force infinite and divine in its origin---(leading towards)--- the fulfillment of the divine intention in the world and of the larger universal Self of which each being is a portion – a portion that has come down with it from the Transcendence.”

The mixing of proportions of Gunas is responsible for the result of an action – good, bad or ugly – depending on the preponderance of one or the other Gunas. There is nothing in the world which is not a combination of all three Gunas, their superior or interior manifestation depending on their proportions. The preponderance of any of the sattvic, rajasic, or tamasic Guna will make any work either illumined, or egoistically acted, or afflicted by inertia.

Sri Aurobindo
(Picture from
http://www.searchforlight.org)

We feel responsible for our own thought and action, and we want others to accept the  responsibility for theirs, because of our attaching undue importance to the illusion of our names and forms, triggered by our ego and desire. Remove the names and forms, get rid of ego and desire, what is left? It is variously called the Soul/the Self/ the Spirit. And that makes all of us in this world mates, soul-mates.

There is still a persisting problem. Why am I held accountable for the very thoughts and actions that were imposed on me by a Primal Force which is seemingly beyond my grasp? That is the point that the Vedanta philosophy deals explicitly in its depth and totality. A seeker is required to undertake the most perilous journey ever – search out the Purusha or the Soul in his/her heart through meditation and yoga.

The Vedanta also adds that 'just thought and right action' is possible to perceive and execute once the Soul takes over the administration of the being from a level of higher consciousness. The puny 'egoistic I' gets the beating it deserves and consents to follow the soul in its evolutionary process. After all it's not the evolution of Tapas Mukherjee as a name assigned to the form of a human body, but that of the Soul that embodies it.

Action-less Purusha is the cognitive principle and Prakriti or Nature, revered as the universal Mother Shakti, his dynamic aspect. These two aspects together emerge through evolution as the ultimate One reality, Brahman, the Trinity that is Sachchidananda – the Absolute Knowledge, the Absolute Existence, and the Absolute Bliss. And the seeker realizes the ultimate Vedantic truth – 'He am I.'

BY TAPAS MUKHERJEE

We Have A Story: What If?

We Have A Story: What If?

Dad's Diary 6 - Teachers and Discipline

In my school days in the 1950s parents used to be in close liaison with the teachers to maintain a uniform standard of discipline for the kids. The adage -'Spare the rod and spoil the child'- was sometimes stretched to an unpleasant extent. But Dr. Himadri was an exception.

The doctor's daughter, Lila, returned home one day from the school pathetically crying her heart out. She had been grounded within the confines of the classroom as a punishment. Her hand-writing and neatness had to improve, the teacher had warned, or worse would follow. “Either you write neatly in Class III, or never ever write in your life,” was the urgency.

The doctor took it up with the school authorities, and made unnerving statements on the possible psychological repercussions of such distressing action. This was the first case of hitherto unheard of parental interference in school affairs. It ended in the daughter getting exiled to the last bench permanently. “It is even more fun,” she confided to me, leaving me jealous to the core.

My ardent endeavor to get a passport to the last bench to join Lila bore fruit quicker than expected. I was charged with not only having used a dirty eraser, but also spit to smear the hand-writing book. I also qualified for and suffered from detention in the classroom during play time without, however, consigned to the back bench.

At home I waited till my father appeared settled and relaxed after having come back from work. Then I placed my trump card. I related the whole event with well rehearsed anguish, adding the Dr. Himadri part with as much excitement as I could master. But my tears failed to match my wailing.

He held my hands fondly. “Where did you learn to complain against your teachers at home? Don't ever do that again,” he said in a menacingly quiet tone, crushing all my hopes and expectations.

My next stop was Dr. Himadri himself. He gave me a patient hearing. But that was all. “But my father doesn't want to take it up with the school,” I lobbied. He shrugged off dismissively. My morale was at the lowest ebb when I returned home.

All connections got wired up the next day. Apparently, my father met both the teacher and the doctor during his evening walk that enabled him to tie up all the loose ends of the episode.

A day later the teacher caught me in the school, “How dare you complain against me at home? I am going to make an exemplary case out of you,” she roared. I was made to stand up so that the whole class  could see my dismayed face. “That's nothing,” she roared again, “your father has permitted me to do anything I want to teach you neatness and discipline. All fathers are not the same.” Lila, particularly for whose benefit all this teacher-power was beings exhibited, now sat bolt upright with baleful eyes at the disgraceful comparison of fathers.

At home my father made his point, “I am surprised at your audacity; you had the nerve to complain against me to Dr. Himadri!” Was there an edge in his menacingly quiet voice? By that time I was past caring about my welfare. “Why doesn't anybody care about me?” I asked in amazement.

My father seemed to pause and ponder. “We all care about you. But you must treat elders and teachers respectfully,” he said soothingly, and promised to take me to my first ever cinema – Tarzan – as an incentive to remember the lesson.

The back bench along with its reigning queen, Lila, paled into insignificance as the wilderness of Africa galloped into my mind's firmament. But as I look back on those days, while wishing all children trouble free schooling, I know that I for one would not have made it without the rod.               

 BY TAPAS MUKHERJEE