Think you decide your day? Ask Didi or all those who may not be named

 

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ying on the Fowler bed, I now have all the time in the world to reflect on life. For instance, yesterday felt like the day before, and the day before was like the previous day. It’s as if all the days are just repetitions of their previous ones. Don’t snigger. I know I am not saying anything new. If I were it would not have read so true. Neither would you have been tempted to snigger.

But just think about it. The earliest day of my life that I can remember was different from the current one. Of course, it was. I was a kid then, and now I’m a senior citizen and a parent to an adult person. But then, it was the same as it is now. I wake up in the morning, eat, bathe, go to school, then college, university, and eventually to the office. And now, I’m in the Fowler bed. The differences aren’t marked by actual differences; they’re marked by the almighty or whoever decided that tomorrow I would be older than today, and then the others who said after so many days from my birth, I should be at a place like school, college, and so on.

Pau Arenós, a Spanish journalist, wrote in his book “Las Pequeñas Alegrías” (the little joys) that he used to get pulled up by his mother for always living in the future! He writes, “No sé vivir el momento presente, sino el siguiente.” Roughly translated, it means, “I don’t know how to live in the present moment, as I live in the next (future).” Of course, it’s not a literal translation, but that’s what it means.

We all know it, don’t we? I didn’t need to quote him to prove that we think alike! But I did so because Anirban (Chattopadhyay) da gave it to me for reading while he came to visit.

Now that all the references are in place and the authenticity of the content has been verified, let me say what I set out to. As I was saying, the only thing that could truly mark a difference would be non-compliance! For example, if you drop out of a set course, like not going to college.

If you are looking for its veracity check out Trump’s way of doing stuff. I mean everything was cool. The economy was coming round and all of a sudden this man takes a contrarian turn, decides to raise tariff to bring the US boys home! That changed the day for all of us. May be differently to different person. But you see we didn’t have a hand in changing our daily experience. He did it for us! If it were not for him we would still be quite foggy about say what was different this day in January in such and such year.

Or, take for example, losing of jobs of thousands of teachers in one stroke! We didn’t do it. Yet our days, if they are different, have been so because someone else decided to screw our lives!

Therein lies the point. You see, you don’t change your day. You go to sleep, you wake up, you eat and go to the loo, you earn, you lose your job … hold on a second! No you don’t lose a job, they take it away from you thereby breaking the monotony of your life.

Are you foxed by reading it? Don’t. I wouldn’t have known this if on the 20th of February someone else decided to rule that I should fall and break my back! If it’s yet a haze ask the Didi or the Dada, he would explain everything to you. But don’t ever try to break the monotony yourself for yourself. It doesn’t work. Life has a different understanding of “different”.  Barriers look small but they decide whether you will cross it.

Slipping, Falling, and Finding Love in the Pain

 

As I slipped, I knew exactly what lay ahead for the next three months. But what I didn’t anticipate were the endless questions coming at me from all directions. Honestly, if I had known I was going to slip, I wouldn’t have been foolish enough not to prevent it! But would anyone listen?

— How did you fall? 

— I slipped on a wet staircase. (As you can see, I was trying to keep the questions to a minimum and allow myself more time to enjoy my pain.) 

— No! We mean, are you sure you slipped and didn’t fall because you blacked out? 

— (Damn! You’re wasting my time, guys.) I am absolutely certain this wasn’t caused by a blackout. I wasn’t drunk either. Now, please do something because I know I have a case of broken vertebrae—not just one, but multiple. 

— How do you know that? — (I was about to cry out in frustration.) Because this is the third time! And I know how it feels much better than you do! 

— How many stairs? 

— It didn’t give me time to count! Next time, I’ll try to fall in slow motion so I can get you an exact number!

As I lay in the emergency room, telling myself that this too would pass, the pain refused to let me forget.

For those uninitiated, I recently slipped on a rain-soaked staircase and fractured four vertebrae. It’s a record—apparently, breaking vertebrae more than once is a rarity. I’m writing this blog post because, despite my friends and family claiming my accident should be newsworthy, not a single news channel covered my story. Yet they show a cat getting run over as breaking news! Blame my luck.

I hadn’t actually planned to write about this. I had a different topic in mind. But life rarely follows our plans—just like my unexpected fall.

But, boy oh boy! Did I enjoy the attention? Maybe it’s age that makes you more aware of things beyond yourself. Like love.

Love is a strange thing. It’s felt the most when you’re confined or unwell. It works both ways—when you see someone you love in pain, your heart aches, and you instinctively reach out, wanting to share their suffering. And for the one lying helpless in bed, a simple touch becomes a renewal of life, a reassurance of existence. Love is a connection that, at times, mimics an umbilical cord. It transcends everything—it’s maternal, romantic, and the deepest bond we experience. And it is entirely gender-neutral. Love is the most precious gift we are blessed with.

That was a serious paragraph. But how true it is. Lying in the emergency room, all I longed for was a caring, loving touch. Isn’t it strange how your body’s very cells transmit your emotions? Even in the hands of professional caregivers, I could sense the empathy in some of them. It was a wonderful feeling—to be cared for, even in the absence of familiar, loving touches.

But when I first sat down to write, I had a completely different story in mind. Perhaps I wanted to talk about my interaction with DALL·E and how it reacted before generating the image you now see as the cover. But then, should I? I hear DALL·E is omnipresent on the internet. And who knows? Maybe it wouldn’t take kindly to my criticism and retaliate—just like the hospital stretcher-puller who was annoyed because he had a couple of dead bodies to transport after me. He didn’t care how he handled me. No, he didn’t have the touch of death. But he certainly lacked the touch of care!

The Changing Face of the Kolkata Book Fair: Nostalgia, Commerce, and the Lost Space for Ideas

 

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oes this happen only to me, or do others feel the same way? Standing in a rare quiet corner at the Kolkata International Book Fair, I found myself wondering—what if I hadn’t come? Has this visit become a ritual dictated by nostalgia rather than a true love for books? Has this annual journey turned into a pilgrimage, more out of habit than passion?

I still remember my first book fair. I was in school then, and back in those days, the fair was held at the Maidan. That vast, green expanse—often called the lungs of the city—would momentarily surrender itself to all kinds of artistic and intellectual pursuits beyond the commercial world. One such space was Mukto Mela.

If I remember correctly, Mukto Mela took place in the Maidan, opposite the Tata Centre. It was a vibrant space where one could witness Shakti Chattopadhyay, already a cult poet by the late sixties, composing poetry on the spot. Prakash Karmakar would be absorbed in his easel, while others engaged in singing, reciting, or dancing. Around this time, Sandipan Chattopadhyay introduced his Mini Books—each a mini volume dedicated to a writer or poet. Still in school, we would eagerly await each new edition. Even after half a century, I vividly recall the one featuring Shakti Chattopadhyay’s poems with illustrations by Prakash Karmakar. Soumitra Chattopadhyay could often be seen puffing on a cigarette, laughing at a joke—probably one cracked by Sunil Gangopadhyay.

The Book Fair itself was commercial but in a different way. Among the sprawling stalls of established publishers drawing large crowds, there was Boi Bazar, where one could find secondhand and slightly damaged books at massive discounts. That was our hunting ground. I still remember the thrill of discovering a 19th-century edition of Diwan-i-Makhfi—a collection of poetry by Zeb-un-Nissa, the celebrated poet-daughter of Aurangzeb. She spent most of her life imprisoned and died around 1702. The very fact that a 16-year-old could find and feel excited about a book like Zeb-un-Nissa in the fair speaks volumes about the kind of intellectual space it once was.

Why was I thinking about all this? The human mind is strange—it keeps making connections, even when you don’t intend to. The spot where I stood was on the outer ring of the fair. Just across the road was a barricaded area, strictly off-limits—no one was allowed to sit there and draw, sing, or recite. Some protested, but the authorities justified it by saying that the fair was for the buying and selling of books, nothing more.

A group of media students approached me for an interview. When I mentioned that I had been attending the fair since its inception, they were amazed. They asked me how book fairs of the past compared to those of today. I shared my thoughts but I failed to see any spark of excitement—or even regret—in their eyes.

It is unsettling to think that people are not reading as much anymore. But then I grew up in a para in North Kolkata where our home was the only one with books beyond the Panjika. Yet it was the period when excitement over books still ruled. Some claim that more books are now sold in Tier-2 cities than in Kolkata. Maybe. What is reassuring is that people are still reading. But the problem lies elsewhere. Those in the business of selling books seem to be suffocating the very space that nurtures the ideas behind them. Have we, as a society, developed an aversion to intellectual exchange? Is this fear of free thought stifling the emergence of new-age Shakti Chattopadhyays?

Or have we simply become worshippers of mediocrity? And don’t think twice about choking the space for creative thinking?

P.S. The books in the pix are a fraction of what I bought. They are just to illustrate.

Reconnecting with self: reading Harry Hobbs and Other Forgotten Lives

 

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oes a city appear the same no matter where you view it from? Does it remain unchanged for someone born and raised within its borders? Or does it whisper the same stories to everyone? The answer to all these is likely a resounding "no."

I wasn’t born in Kolkata, but I grew up there. My memories are deeply tied to Baranagar in the 1960s — a place where the city ended, and a different world began. The boundary was Kashinath Dutta Road. On its southern side lay the "urban," and on our northern side, the "mofussil" began. Their taps gushed water; we drew ours from wells. There, visiting a neighbor required permission; here, it was as fluid as crossing a doorway. Perhaps these are mere impressions of a child, but impressions are as real as reality when it comes to memory. As I said, a city doesn’t speak in the same voice to everyone or remain the same across time.

I vividly recall wandering through the winding lanes that led to the Ganga. Those streets felt like passages through history. The Dutch Kuthi — a house that boldly announced its colonial lineage — stood as a silent witness to our daily adventures. The adjacent Kuthi Ghat hummed with life as boats carrying "khod" (straw) and earthenware rings for well-fortification anchored there. We, as children, would steal small bundles of straw to make "neda" for dole (Holi). The burnt ash from the neda had a special role in the colorful mischief of dole. Adults watched with indulgent smiles, and even the police, stationed at the old colonial-style thana overlooking the ghat, watched us with amused detachment. They must have done the same as children. Today, however, such antics would probably invite POCSO charges, a stark reminder of how much the world has changed.

Do children still do this today? Probably not. And honestly, we never asked about the origins of the Dutch Kuthi. It was just there — a part of us, but not of us. I have no idea if the building still stands. If it does, I doubt it speaks the same language it did to us. It can't. The boats are gone, the thana has moved, and the culture that enveloped it all has become a memory. As Ramakrishna, who once walked these very streets and enjoyed telebhaja from the same shop like us, has now been placed within the glass case of history.

Devasis Chattopadhyay's Harry Hobbs of Kolkata and Other Forgotten Lives stirred all these thoughts in me. Reading about the ship Tuscany bringing ice from America to Kolkata in the 19th century — and the flurry of excitement it caused among the sahibs — strangely reminded me of those stolen straw bundles and neda fires. The parallels between the colonial era and my own childhood experiences weren’t logical, but they were deeply felt.

To claim that we can relate to the world of 18th- and 19th-century Bengal as if it were our own would be a stretch. But reading about Shakespeare’s kin residing in Kolkata — and learning about their relationships, exploits, and legacy — evokes a certain intimacy with that world. Facts on their own remain cold and distant, but Chattopadhyay imbues them with warmth and life, creating an emotional bridge to a time long past.

And that, to me, is the book’s greatest triumph. It connects me to my city. It reminds me of a social media post I read recently. A visitor from Delhi remarked, "I have fallen in love with Kolkata. Unlike my city, Delhi, which I love, that asks me what I can give to it, Kolkata merely gives unasked." The observation felt profound. But is Kolkata one city? No. Each of its streets carries its own identity, its own micro-culture. There is a broad cultural tapestry that defines Kolkata as a whole, but its streets and neighborhoods tell distinctly personal stories.

Take the babus of Kolkata. While their families lived in the main city, their revelries took them to the North. Imagine Michael Madhusudan Dutta, that celebrated poet, singing Dave Carson’s Bengali Babu at home. For context, Dave Carson was a popular comic figure, preserved in books most of us haven’t read but brought vividly to life by Chattopadhyay. Without Chattopadhyay’s storytelling, Carson’s spoofs of the Bengali babus might have been little more than a historical footnote. But by linking it to Madhusudan Dutta and how he loved to sing Bengali Babu´ Chattopadhyay breathes life into a cultural relic, making it feel as tangible as the Dutch Kuthi did to me as a child.

And this is where Chattopadhyay's magic lies. After reading Harry Hobbs of Kolkata and Other Forgotten Lives, you will no longer walk past old buildings the same way. They will speak to you. Their silence will crack. Just as the Dutch Kuthi once whispered secrets to a child in the sixties, so too will the forgotten lives in Chattopadhyay's book whisper to you.

Kudos, Mr. Chattopadhyay, for reminding us that no two people experience a city in the same way, and no two eras view its streets with the same eyes. You’ve made us hear voices long buried, and perhaps, if we listen closely, they will still have something to say.

Published by Paper Missile: An imprint of Niyogi Books

A Bong will always be a Bong

 

I have known Rajib and of him ever since he started his professional life as a journalist and then of him when he decided to say adieu to his profession as a scribe and instead preferred to sit opposite the table as a senior communication professional.

So I thought. Then came covid and another hue from his plume was revealed! And Mi Dios mío! How! This lad whom I knew as a wordsmith in reality turned out to be a skilled connector of dots as well! His preferred alphabet was not the one that divines words but strokes that create images. Images of everyday life. The ones that define us and we think so little of them. In his sketches, they come alive and remind us how precious they are.

Let us take a step back to the covid and quarantine days. It was a global lockdown. The whole world looked so bleak. Death was apparently the only news that merited a place in the headlines and news blogs were actually the recounters of the spread of covid. During that time many decided to share their passions with their friends and talents were discovered. And Rajiv was no exception. Suddenly, his LinkedIn posts mutated into sketches depicting his reflections on those bleak everyday life yet managed to extract a smile. And his sagacious corporate utterances took a back seat. Now, he has taken another step forward with his newly revealed skill set.

No. He is no Mario Miranda. At least not yet. But his book Bangaliyana skillfully marries his sketches with deft stitching of words to present us with an oeuvre of his emotions about being a Bengali yet not being one. Because he missed a few important stuff as he was a prabashi (expat Bengali)! In fact, the whole story in his book is founded upon those missed steps and his wonderment about them.

This book is straight out of his heart. So truly that my wife, brought up in Delhi, grabbed the book as Amazon delivered it and read through it in one sitting! I could see her smiling as she raced through the book. It wasn’t difficult for her to relate to those frustrations about saying something that was a statement and finding the cousins laughing. The realization that her pronunciations marked her out as a prabashi still haunts her despite having spent 37 years with a pure Bengali in khaas Kolkata! And Rajib endorses her angst.

This book is not just a prabashi talking to another prabashi. This book will also resonate with a pure-bred bong as it did with me. It keeps reminding you that a tiger never changes its stripes. Or, better still, a bong will always be bong – macher jhol bhaat or no maacher jhol bhaat! Point to note, the spelling of his name gives him away as a prabashi. He spells his name as Rajiv and not Rajib as a Kolkata-bred Bong like me might. 

A disclaimer. He was the one I asked to conceptualise and execute the logo of Content Crankers and he, as expected, hit the nail on its head. There was no space for disagreement.

Meaning of Empathy?

I was in a profession that made a regular lifestyle a challenge. Dinner by ten was considered irregular and bed before 2 am was an absurdity. Post sixty that lifestyle is now extracting its price. So I am now a regular visitor to physicians dissecting my past life and wishing more patients like me. 

As they say, que sera sera, or, as you sow you reap, but then those OPDs (Outpatient departments) also provide valuable life lessons.

Now let us assume that you are a nobody and you are ill. And you have been told that Dr X is the best. He does OPD at the hospital in your neighbourhood. So you don’t go to the hospital for treatment as such, but you go to the hospital to get treated by Dr. X.

Well. Now comes the part we all dread. Of being treated like dirt. The receptionist doesn’t care to look at your face even:

— Name?

— Doc?

— Why?

— 1500 rupees.

— Go and sit at the doc’s OPD reception

The damn hospital is big and you don’t know where Dr X sits. You try to ask that and face a royal snub. The guy standing next to you in the queue looks at you as if you have committed a crime! In a sense you have. You have stolen a few impatient seconds from his time.

But you are past sixty now. Whatever you were in your past life, with your chair gone there has been a big dent in your confidence level. And you cannot bear down on the receptionist enough to elicit the answer.

So you turn around and try to find someone who could guide you to the destination. You probably find a kind sweeper or someone ‘lowly’ enough to understand the ‘nobody’s’ (i.e. your) predicament and get guided to that specific waiting area which also has a receptionist.

You are a respecter of process. You are ready to wait your turn in the queue but you have not been told your serial number. So you approach the receptionist and she tells you curtly

— You will know when your turn comes

She goes back to whatever she was doing. By the time you find a seat in the waiting room your confidence is completely shattered. The PA system comes to life. A name is called and you find the guy who was behind you walking proudly in. Yes as he passed you by you must have felt his snigger at the lowly other patients! 

So you gather enough courage and walk up to the receptionist to point that out and she replies with disgust

— I told you you would know when your turn comes!

At that point perhaps a big gun in the hospital admin recognises you, comes over and shakes your hand. You are saved.  You are back to being that man who matters!  And the same receptionist who was scowling at you minutes back is now repulsively obsequious. 

The patient who was ahead of you in the queue and is clearly frail and needs to be attended to immediately stays behind!

He doesn't write because he cannot

Getting reminded of my inability to write is not a pleasant feeling. Especially when I have spent all of my professional life as a journalist!

If I am seeing a smirk and a desperation to hide the derision I wouldn’t blame you. Or if it’s a pity I wouldn’t fight that either. Because one cannot hide from the truth forever. So the earlier the better.

Earlier! Yes, I know. It makes me dumb. Anyone who takes four decades of one’s adult life to realise that one has been deluding oneself and steadfastly ignoring the reality has to be conceited beyond doubt.

I buy books throughout the year. Not that I read all of them. But like many others, I like to live surrounded by books — dust, and my wife’s disapproval notwithstanding. And I also buy books written by my friends.

For example, this year at the Kolkata International Book Fair, the first book that I picked up was the book on Dipankar Dasguta’s book on food. For want of a better description I am leaving it at that. I will definitely write about his book in this space some other day.

I have known Dipankar for decades. He started his professional life as a journalist with Bartaman. And then he moved on to the United States Information Service. Younger to me by a couple of years he has retired. Together with his wife he roams the districts of West Bengal and shares his experience of tasting food on Facebook. Incidentally, his wife, Krishna Sarbari, has also written a book and yes, I have bought her book as well.

And there are others. And many young publishers are bringing out commendable titles being written by them. So there was this young publisher I was chatting with. Stupid me in the flow of conversations had to say, “Bengalis hardly write about their professional experience!” He instantly latched onto this and turned it around against me. “Who is saying? You are said to be the first in Bengali media to build a bureau specialising in business. Yet, you haven’t written anything about it!”

And all of a sudden the reality dawned. I didn’t write because, perhaps, I couldn’t write. Dipankar wrote because he can! Simple. He didn’t buy it. But it is what it is.