Santanu Chatterjee

Santanu Chatterjee, 22 November 1943 - 9 January 2012, Executive Director, CESC Ltd, Working President of the Global Alumni Association of Bengal Engineering and Science University, Shibpur, blah, blah, blah.... was quite a well-known figure in Calcutta. He touched the lives of many people, a lot of persons in the city can lay claim to have interacted with him in his professional capacity, whether with the Loss Control Cell of CESC or as working at its various facilities, including law.

But that is not the man I came here to talk about. That is not the man I remember. The man I remember is lolling on the beach at Digha, smiling at the stars at Murari Pukur, laughing, joking and talking to us for as long as I remember. Santanu Chatterjee was a colleague of my father’s. A colleague who became a friend not only of my father’s but of the whole family so that the lines blurred and he became part of our family. He never tired of telling us stories as we were growing up, always finding time to talk to us even when there was a ‘boroder party’ at our place and the rest of the house just expected us to stay out of sight! Accompanied by his wife, Amita, a dignified, accomplished lady, Shantanu kaka was part of growing up, a part of our lives.

He is the man who took me to see the fountain of lights in the Maidan even before it was open to the public, the one who laughed with us and never tired of berating us with stories of my father, of Court, the legal intricacies of the Electricity Act and some of the top-notch lawyers all over the country. Now when I say it, it seems dull and boring but he had a way of holding your attention when he told you a story, so you never tired of it, even if you had heard it before. He came into our lives and stayed. He stood by us though my father’s illness and stayed with us even when he was gone. He never pacified us with false hopes but he was just there and that was enough. I remember kaka as the man who went with us when nervously I went to officially meet my would–be in-laws, effortlessly slipping into my father’s shoes. The man I remember is the one I ran to late one night asking him to be my father and ‘give away’ the bride at the time of my marriage. He is the one who often invited us, shared time and space with us, ever smiling, ever helpful, eternally kind. He is the man who developed my interest in serious war films, his stories of the Desert Fox and General Patton were more interesting than the movies themselves. His interests ran everywhere, his anecdotes held me enthralled. He is probably one of the few people I know who did not judge me and always treated me, not as an errant child, but with respect, as an equal. Though I was never worthy of being his equal.

Yes, unfortunately, over the years I had been seeing less and less of him. Though we spoke very occasionally on the phone and promised to catch up sometime soon, time passed, lives carried on and we did not get around to that “hoi hoi”. Life has a way of doing that: spins you in its web and by the time it spits you out, you find you are older and often, have not been there for the things that were important. The last time I met him, about three months ago, I had gone to invite them for my book launch. He was happy I had written a book and promised to read it. I am sure he did too, only I blame myself for not having found the time to call and ask him about it. That day, he seemed lonely for company, he asked us to stay a while longer. But we had other obligations, I excused myself, saying, even believing, I would be back another time....not knowing that time was the only thing he did not have.

Santanu Kaka suffered a massive cerebral stroke on Friday, 6th January. The main artery went and burst in his brain and the CT scan the next day showed extensive internal bleeding. The doctors all opined that surgery was out of the question and if he lived he would be in a comatose and/or vegetative state. They refused to say anything for certain before 72 hours were up. But kaka did not give them a chance. He passed away just around his allotted 72 hours, he would never have wanted to live the kind of life the doctors had said he would. It was so against his spirit, against all he was and stood for. I heard about his stroke and went to the nursing home only to hear them say he was no more. I stood by his bedside and almost told him how sorry I was that I had not been by his side, but something made me stop. For in my mind I could hear the laughter of two friends who are together once again; two friends who would never want me to back down or surrender to fear.

So, peace, Kaka, wherever you are. Rest in peace.

Enigmatic 2011

So. Another year is over. 2011 has stretched and twisted its tentacles in our faces and passed us by. And it is time for me, once again, to recapitulate the year that is gone. So sit back, gentle reader, I shall try not to bore you for too long.
One thing that has struck me about 2011 is that it has had more than its fair share of misery and deaths. Everywhere, people we know or know of, have passed away, leaving our lives just that much emptier. Far too many visits have been made to the crematoriums and funerals; the year has been pockmarked with them. And yet, life too has triumphed, joys have walked hand in hand with sorrow, and the children’s laughter has found it’s way into my darkest dreams…..
The year, if you really think about it, passed by in a flash: a flash flood of work and routine that increasingly seems to become overbearing at times. In it all was the usual medley of Isha and Amisha’s studies, their exams, their class work, their projects and all the assorted paraphernalia of two unruly tween girls! I laughed, cried and as usual muddled my way through the trials of parenthood: screaming my head off one instant and teasing them through another. Yes, the girls’ year passed in a cacophony of noise and colours: Isha has made it to the school choir and she wears her badge with pride. Amisha is engrossed in her craft and even I have to admire her very creative creations from time to time! The rest of my children are thriving and well, my nephew left for Canada to study, leaving more space for us in the car when we go out on our mad excursions but he is missed.

And there is always space in our lives for him. My nieces are well and my youngest nephew who turns all of two this month charms everyone with his smile and baby talk.
One of our holidays took us all the way to Kashmir, which was, truly, paradise on earth. This was my first visit and the raw beauty of the place swept me away. I found myself confiding in my husband that this was one place I could actually live in. And that is a feeling that I rarely, very rarely, have for places I visit. We also had two amazing trips to Bandhavgarh-Panchmarhi-Jabalpur and to Guwahati-Kaziranga. The jungles left me wanting more of that birdsong, the stillness, the monkey chatter, the solitude of the setting sun…. but it also made me realise I have become that much older, the dust made me breathless, the cold entered my body and chilled my bones!
And although I never mention politics or world events at these annual diaries, this year I shall make an exception. For the year also saw the deaths of quite a few well-known personalities, Jagjit Singh, Bhupen Hazarika, M.F.Hussain, Pt Bhimsen Joshi, Steve Jobs, Amy Winehouse, Liz Taylor, Shammi Kapoor and Dev Anand, to name a few. No I did not know any of them personally although I had on occasion listened to Jagjit Singh live on stage, but somewhere in my mind forms a picture. It figures all these personalities, jamming and dancing together and having a hell of a party where-ever they are, forever reminding us that life’s too short for hang-ups, life’s too short for grudges.
And of course in India, when you say 2011, you cannot but mention Anna Hazare. The self proclaimed leader of the people who seems to have captivated the hearts and minds of a million Indians the world over. Initially I too listened. For who does not want to eliminate all forms of corruption from our lives, who wants scandals and scams? We are just peace loving individuals and want peace. But then I turned away. I too want a corruption free nation but I am not willing to sacrifice my freedom and democracy for it. I do not agree with Anna’s means, his autocratic diktats and his attempts to hold the country to ransom. On many social networks many of you have asked why I dislike him. I shudder to think that the common man supports him! It will indeed be a sad day for our nation the day Anna Hazare (or someone like him) leads us.
And I cannot help mention the AMRI tragedy, at a hospital right up our street, one that I have visited on multiple occasions, one where Amitesh has stayed twice. Somehow it was too close to home. All that day I remained glued to the news in shock and horror and the next day, for the first time that I can remember, the newspapers made me cry.

Amid all that, Amitesh has become exceptionally busy, I see him less and less as his work hours have increased thanks to his appointment as a government lawyer. Ah yes, I forgot, we have thrown off the yoke of Communism, that too was in 2011! (Though, frankly, if you ask me, the more things change, the more they remain the same……don’t tell hubby I said that!) .
On a personal front, 2011 saw my first book being published, yes, I hope there will be more! It was a moment of joy and pride, especially at the book reading in October. I sat there and gave a silent thanks to all of you out there who believe in me, all you who read through my ranting from time to time and most of all to my dad, who, I still believe, watches over me! And I have been busy too. Not just professional work but also other filial and maternal responsibilities, in fact it got so bad at times that I wished I could just leave it all and run away where the jack hammering of duties and responsibilities could not follow me! (And who knows, maybe someday I will get rid of this Maya lady and just dive into the depths of indifference! Hah.)
Anyway, so while I have been living my sterile life in my sterile tower and being content in my discontent, the world carries on, presumably exactly as it should.
That’s one thing the year has taught me: we are all individually too insignificant to matter. And yet together we make the larger picture. So lets broaden our horizons, stay alive, stay interested and may the new year that stretches languidly in front of us hold joys that we never thought possible. Let’s reach out, share, give. Not of money or wealth but of ourselves.
And yes, in the words of Martin Luther King, Jr., “in the End, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.”
Quietly.

This business of death.

“..That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
Oh, keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men,
Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again!” T.S.Eliot. (The Wasteland)

Lets talk about death. And fear. And why we do not talk about these things. Although they walk hand in hand with us every day and smile back at us each time we look into the mirror. Chilling, isn’t it? The eyes that smile into your eyes also holds the cold glance of death, the haughty tilt of your head also hides a dying bent frame. For what else is death, where else is it, except with us, rising awake even as we sleep? Waiting, forever waiting, in the wings.
And it is not just our own deaths I’m talking of here. Death has an uncanny way of sneaking up on you and snaking into your routine, when you least expect it to. Relatives, friends, relatives of relatives of friends of friends, the list is endless and the duties manifold. Possibly not every one takes the business of dying with some quantum of seriousness, however, speaking for myself, possibly I was among the few who grew up learning to attend to the dead. Oh yes, the dead have to be attended to: the preparation for that final ride to the crematorium or the burial ground is a fussy matter indeed!
When we were young, my father never shielded me from death. Other relatives would look at him aghast: “too young”, and “but, she is a girl”, but my father was unperturbed by the flack he got, preferring instead to let me see things for myself, as they were. Sometimes, in my silence, I wonder, did he then maybe somehow suspect that he might not be around as I grew older or was he only ensuring I stayed strong when it was my turn to prepare him as he left on his final journey? Whatever, it does not matter. Thing is, somehow we grew up taking death as a cranky relative, not one that you particularly like or invite to tea, but one who does turn up uninvited at your doorstep now and then. For while death and misery lived nearby somewhere, so did life and love and laughter. We had no time to stop and think and worry about relatives we did not like when friends such as these surrounded us!

Which brings me to fear.

“And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.”
T.S. Eliot.
One of the most enduring images of my father is of him striding in a dark room, torch in hand, striking the beam to the darkest corners, yes, even under the bed daring us to find a tiger! I was scared. We had returned from a cousin’s place where every step of the way we had been assured that if we were naughty there was a ‘joojoo’ waiting to grab us or a tiger lurking behind the curtains. Yes we had been assured that these creatures lay in wait for us even in the safety of our own homes. When I returned home to announce this newfound discovery, I'm afraid I didn't quite expect the effect I received. For one thing, my father was hopping mad! “Nonsense,” he declared and as he dragged us from one dark room to another to prove us wrong! He was adamant, “and don't let anyone tell you otherwise, he said.
I learnt the lesson that night.
We were never taught to fear creatures that existed only in story books or our imaginations, we were not taught to fear the unknown. We were taught to fear more tangible things, like the disapproval of a parent. Or the result of not trying.
And so whenever any maid or relative has tried to frighten any of my children, no matter how innocuously it may be, I have protested. But nothing frightens like fright. So when they were small, late in the night sometimes I was quietly asked questions. l realize now that all they wanted was the assurance that these creatures, these ghosts and their ilk did not exist. No, I was not as dramatic as my father but one day when my elder daughter, who at age 6 used to be very clingy shyly confessed that she was afraid that I would die, I realized things were maybe going too far. Gentle prodding revealed that someone had actually told her that I was ailing and would die. Now THAT is wholly unfair, for who does not fear the death or the loss of a loved one? And how mean and heartless would you have be to say something as traumatic as that to a child? And it took me a good year or two to convince her otherwise: gentle explaining and love were the only tools I had for the purpose.
No, I never let unknown fears unnerve me, Baba never taught us to shy away or back out. I have no sympathy when someone exclaims she is afraid of flying or of the dark or of sleeping alone at night. But that does not mean that I do not know fear, I've tasted it's metallic tang often enough, I’ve walked in it’s shadow, I’ve come out of it alive and stronger. Yet, despite all my bravado I too fear loss and death. Not my own, but that of people I love and care for. Isn’t that the most common fear going around?
I too wake up sometimes near morning, heart thumping, face wet from tears of a nightmare I dare not remember and lie awake waiting for dawn. I too am afraid. But real bravery, as they say is not the absence of fear, it’s carrying on despite it. And that’s what I try to teach my children, that’s all I really think they need to learn in life. Once you learn to face your fears and meet them head on, life takes care of the rest.
No matter what.

A hairy story

There IS one place on earth where I feel humbled, humiliated and inferior. My usual self-confidence goes for a toss and I feel not a day older than an errant five year old. It’s the local beauty saloon. From the minute I enter, I look around me nervously. An immaculately groomed lady smiles and asks if I have an appointment. Obviously I don’t. She asks me what I would like done and I state my required objective. She sighs. It’s a very sad sigh, if sighs can be made to sound sadder than they are supposed to be. She comes out from behind her desk and smiles. “Your hair is too dry and there are split ends.. yes,yes, for you a shampoo and a hair spa would be good, pamper yourself and then we can give you a trim.” “Bu…but I shampooed in the morning, I stammer,” “Yes, yes,” she waves an immaculately manicured finger at me, “but see how your hair looks dry and lack luster, your shampoo must not be suiting your hair ….and, she looks at my hands in horror, “your nails!” she picks up my stubbly digits and disapprovingly looks at my toes which I am trying to hide under the top of the sandals. “A manicure. And a pedicure too. Don’t worry, they’ll do it all,” she peers into my face, “and are those blackheads? We have this amazing facial to remove blackheads and tans and it’ll leave your face fresh and glowing with health. Shall I schedule one of those too?”
“No, no,” I finally find my voice, “I have to go, only a trim.”
“Come on,” she puts her arm around me and draws me aside, ‘you are so busy, I know you don’t have time, but one needs pampering. Give me an hour, everything will be done.”
I look at my watch, “okay an hour.” After all, who does not want to look nice? I am whisked away upstairs. Within moments a lady is dipping my hands in soapy water and my cracked heels have been dipped in another vibrating bowl of luke warm water. I decide to settle down and enjoy it.
Only the guy at my feet has determined otherwise, after viciously scrubbing my feet he takes to scraping it, yes, SCRAPING it with a knife blade. Oh horrors, it tickles and I have to squeeze my eyes shut and use all of my will power to stop myself from squirming. The ladies (there are two, I’m in a rush, you see!) in the meantime are pulling at my fingers and have contorted them to impossible shapes, soapy water trickles around and basically I feel cloistered. Is this pampering I wonder, is this what Cleopatra felt like, when she had her milk bath? Then just when I feel like I’m getting used to all this snip, moisturize, knead business, it stops. Just like that. The bright faced attendant shoves peculiar nail paint in my face and looks most disappointed when I want a transparent colorless lacquer. She does not know that no matter what, it will not last me even one round of dish washing!
I do not bother to explain, I am busy looking at my watch and having kittens. In the meantime the phone has vibrated silently against my thigh a half dozen times and you cannot explain to an irate husband that you could not take the call because your hands were dipped in soapy suds!! I insist I have no time for a haircut, not any more, and run before I am sold yet another salon treatment which costs the earth and promises to make my hair sleek and shiny and straight. The receptionist looks disappointed as I make my clever escape after tipping the ladies and having paid through my nose for a manicure and pedicure I did not need! Back in the car, I settle into the driver’s seat, turn on the AC, chip a nail trying to pay the parking attendant without ruining the fresh nail paint and realize I still have not done what I came here to do in the first place: have a haircut!

Unclaimed corpses.

Ela clutched Alia in her arms and jumped.
The cold water almost made her forget that she was here to drown her cancer-ridden body along with that of her spastic four-year-old.
She almost forgot to hold on to Alia as the water filled her lungs and every instinct screamed survival. Almost. But she did not fail.


This is an attempt to meet a challenge: write a story in not more than 55 words, they said!!!!!!

Write a short story in exactly 55 words, no more, no less. Title not included. Tag #55word. Plz RT.

An irreverent look at: Children's Day.

Children's day never meant much to me. In school it was just another day for yet another boring trip to the planetarium, where we promptly took off our shoes, put our feet on the reclining chairs and went to sleep! Speaking strictly for myself, Chacha Nehru, with all due respect, failed to inspire me or make me feel loved. Moreover children's day was bang in the middle of our final exams, so it was just a day of respite, that "no exam tomorrow" kind of glee that only a school kid will understand!
Today's children, are, obviously, much better informed. The entertainment organised too is more refined. My daughters have a mini fete to attend in school, for which, much to my dismay, they have taken almost a year's worth of pocket money to school!
Then of course, they know all about Jawaharlal Nehru, warts, rose and all. They saw it all (yes, you guessed it!) on the net! They did not glean the information from grainy black and white images on TV or from an encyclopedia which had an overload of information and no pictures ( yup, we had one of those at home!) And whenever I asked my grandfather (he was a treasure house of information!) about Nehru, he'd lauch into a long winded story about the Indian National Congress and his (Nehru, not my grandfather) fascination with Edwina Mountbatten, I would hear all about his education in England, the fact that he was the first Prime Minister of independent India and how he hung on to Kashmir at the cost of peace and hated Jinnah and was also responsible for the partition and the pains it wrought etc etc etc. As a foot note my grandfather would add, it was his birthday on 14 November and yes, he loved children, or so they say! Hence, Children's day!!!!! Lah di dah. (BTW, after so many years, today I suddenly remember my grandfather with a lot of affection and nostalgia, it was, incidentally, his birthday, yesterday!)
Of course in school we were taught to respect and admire the gentleman (Nehru, not my grandfather!) but those are two things that, I have discovered, cannot be taught. They have to be earned. And in my humble opinion, the guy may have loved kids and had a vision and all that and he WAS the first PM of independent India, but that's it.
What they could not teach me to do is to be fascinated by his achievements, and if you ask me, save for that oft repeated midnight speech, I really do not know all that much about the man. But, yes, I have read a few books that do chronicle Nehru's fascination for Lady Mountbatten and yes, Kashmir was certainly an issue with him and history does show him to have his scheming moments but all that is so passe. So ordinary. So expected. All famous people are like that, no?
Yes, my husband would shudder if he reads this, he's very big on historical personas and the Nehru family in particular and he has been brought up to be appropriately respectful, and yes I am an ill informed nit if that's all I know of Nehru and his ilk, but lets just say I feel that rather than know about the man, its more important to instil the necessary values in our future generations. So today I sat and thought about all the difference I make to the children around me and I think I've done a pretty good job at teaching children the values of life. Why, they get those lessons from me each day, they have learned all they need to become responsible citizens of the world, only by listening to all I have to say. To wit:

TO APPRECIATE A JOB WELL DONE-"If you're going to kill each other do it outside-I just finished cleaning."

RELIGION-"You better pray that will come out of the carpet."


TIME TRAVEL-"If you don't straighten up, I'm going to kick you into the middle of next week."


LOGIC-"Because I said so, that's why."

FORESIGHT-"Make sure you wear clean underwear, in case you're in an accident."

IRONY-"Keep laughing and I'll *give* you something to cry about."

OSMOSIS-"Shut your mouth and eat your supper."

CONTORTIONISM-"Will you look at the dirt on the back on your neck!"

STAMINA-"You'll sit there till all that spinach is finished."

WEATHER-"It looks as if a tornado swept through your room."

HYPOCRISY-"If I've told you once I've told you a million times-Don't Exaggerate!!!"

BEHAVIOUR MODIFICATION-"Stop acting like a nincompoop."

THE POWER OF CHOICE: "Do you want a tight slap or the peas?"

OBEDIENCE: "I did not ask you to like it, I asked you to eat it!"

RESPECT: "I am big, you are small, I can beat you up!"

THE CYCLE OF LIFE: "what comes out, goes back in. You puke and I'll feed it to you, you every last spoonful!"

ENVY-"There are millions of less fortunate children in this world who don't have wonderful parents like you do."

Can you think of any more? I am sure all us moms have a few, do share. Some of the above have been gleaned from the net, some are, I believe, my very own. I realised universally all moms use them. The idea too was inspired from http://www.boardofwisdom.com/default.asp?topic=1005&listname=Parenthood, I shall add as I remember more! Or maybe I'll just ask the kids!!!!