Nutramul Cross-Country Run

 ‘Mithun you didn’t have your milk’ his mother screaming from the balcony as he scooted out of the house. ‘I hate white milk’ screamed back Mithun ‘I want chocolate’. It was assembly time 9 minutes away from 8:21 AM just when Mithun reaches school. It was time to stand in the line and proceed in single file from 6 C and congregate at the “assembly”. The usual morning ritual where students in white and navy blue start from the various classes and very much in a reluctant ant like way enter the assembly and stand in their positions designated class wise. It was an embarrassing for the guys in front and quite a reason for the guys at the back to be cheaply happy- height order is the rule of the moment. However by the time you are in 6^th standard you are pretty much inured to this nonsense. Typically the assembly begins with the prayer, a solemn silence, pledge with guys going mute when it come to “All Indians are my brothers and sisters …” After that some inane thought for the day repeated twice, news, gathered in a hurry by the designated reader from the morning newspaper typically from the school library to save the hurry at home. Then either Vada, the PT master, would “You bloody Buggers…” opens his vituperative for the morning or some announcement by some descent teacher about some sports/cultural. Then the commander shouts attention to call for the national anthem to be played. Our commander today was the Mithun who had his first opportunity in the secondary section. Quite a big jump considering 6^th to be the lowest rung in the secondary strata of 6^th to 10^th standard. He didn’t lose this opportunity bellowing the shrillest squeal to command the school prayer.

Today Vada was in good mood and he came to the mike smiling infecting the same smile in everybody except Mithun who had to command a contrived serious demeanor. The announcement was again a disappointment some Cross-Country run sponsored by Nutramul which will be 3 kilometers from the campus out gate to the school. Something was wrong today Vada was open to receive questions and that to from the students. The usual rest of the program was duly over and the periods began. Mithun was still in the assembly of the morning. Not going over again and again over his performance as a commander but Vada’s announcement- the Cross-Country run. He was imagining the 92’ Barcelona games with all the Marathon runners running through streets lined with ambulances, volunteers serving waters. “It is Nutramul Cross-Country run, they must be serving Nutramul on the way” wondered Mithun and he was not alone. Vada was feeling very special today as his PT room now had students lined up outside to ask doubts about the run.

‘Thakuma, Ma I am going to participate in the Nutramul Cross-Country run. They are going to serve Nutramul along the way’

Thakuma didn’t understand a word but she was smiling and even encouraging, happy seeing Mithun upto something exciting. His mother on the other hand

‘What Cross-Country? You are going to run three kilometers? Are you MAD?’

‘But they are going to serve Nutramul along the way’

And then the cold war ensued with mother and son holding ground and Thakuma still wearing that wise smile. Ultimately Thakuma reasoned her belligerent daughter in-law. Mithun’s mother was nervous and insecure because of her husband who had gone abroad. The rapprochement was brokered by the guile of Thakuma’s negotiating skills and it was a win-win, well nobody really expressed any material ground to begin with. It was more of a psychological give and take that our elders know so deftly about. The whole evening Mithun went over the whole program of Ambulances on either side of the way with volunteers carrying Nutramul for the runners- those uplifting the value of sporting spirit spreading love, camaraderie and good will with Mithun waving his hands on either side of the roads lined with spectators who are cheering and waving back. Its Olympic spirit all the way faster, higher and stronger. ‘Humko Tan Ki Shakti Do…no wait that is bournvita’, Mithun correcting himself.

Finally the day came, Thakuma, wearing a fresh beautifully angelic white sari and Mithun’s skeptical mother in Garden chiffon with Mithun walking in front as if burdened by his guardians for their slow walking speed. ‘Walk fast; I need to be ahead in the starting line up’. Finally they reach the start with Thakuma and Mithun’s mother backing off into a corner to a vantage point to see Mithun run. ‘Mithun. All the best’. Finally the motherly love got the better of her with Mithun carelessly disregarding it ‘Alright, alright see you at the finish line’ and off he went.

The start was anything Barcelona like, it was pell-mell, helter-skelter and all the slow build up, pacing oneself and sustaining a campaign- nonsensical. The run began and Mithun already huffing, puffing, panting, breaking a sweat with 2.9 KM to go. Every pore of his body screamed. Soon there were many who couldn’t take it and started walking. ‘What nonsense that’s a foul’ wondered Mithun and ‘Where are the ambulances? The volunteers?’ and his heart sank ‘Where is the Nutramul? No Nutramul? No Nutramul’. They were just running through the jungle of the campus. ‘That Bastard Vada must be having a mighty laugh’ grumbled Mithun and all the physical toll couldn’t make him escape the fact- he was duped. With a kilometer gone by he didn’t feel so bad. Finally he caught up with Rajesh, though not in his usual circle of friends but looking at him walk with shoulders all down he was feeling bad for him not that he is in anyway better in being equally duped. Rajesh was ignoring him in the beginning but his effort to move away from Mithun cost him his stamina. He looked at Rajesh and there was for the first time some semblance of maturity. ‘Come on lets run together’ suggested Rajesh and Mithun agreed. By now they had crossed the half way mark and quite surprisingly both Mithun and Rajesh settled into a rhythm. This eased things though they were in no way capable of enjoying running through the forest of the campus.

All notion of time was lost by now and there was heavy feeling that the race might already be over. Nonetheless the duo resolved to finish what they set out to do and they finally were closing on the final kilometer, with the Gajendra circle to go around and entering the back gate to the football ground. Looking at the ground now however, the alliance suffered a blow and both wanted to out do the other but there bodies would have none of it. They had to sustain through the enforced peace. Finally they entered the dusty football field with mud now having a ball over the white canvas shoes. The goal post and either one forgot who came before whom. The prize distribution had already begun.

The duos morally finished. They now zombie to the basketball field where serpentine queues menacingly slithered towards a single counter serving a cup of ‘Hey Rajesh Nutramul Da come’ Mithun suddenly finding a burst of energy from nowhere. ‘No Da I have had enough not interested you go’ and of Mithun went into the shoving and pushing which was by now turning into a riot. Mithun’s mother and Thakuma were totally at loss looking at their precious struggling through the suffocating queue and salvaging a cup of a chocolaty drink. Mithun's new found strength finally secured what he came for, his prize, Nutramul. ‘Ma this is a nonsense drink’ on the first sip, ‘there is no sugar, no milk also’ on the second sip, there were no more sips as he threw the cup just missing one of the seniors. Mithun had enough and the senior instinctively backing out. Mithun had no energy left to cry.

In the comfort of his home with the usual day to begin anew - Mithun’s mother mixing Bournvita in Mithun’s milk, his favorite, Thakuma, arranging his books into the school bag, just so Mithun would be back from his bath, gulp down the milk and chomp down his rotis. It was a busy morning for him to catch his morning assembly to command the prayer.

Thakuma - Grand Mother (Father's side) in Bengali

Ma - Mother

Humko Tan Ki Shakti do- Advertisement Jingle of a popular milk powder brand

Nutramul, Bournvita- Chocalate Milk powder brands

Da- Tamil colloquial word for addressing a male friend

Small Step

Homage to Neil Armstrong who died on 25th August 2012

21 July, 1969, any other day in the life of Pankaj, young man heading back home to catch the 3 PM live transmission on All India Radio. His home was the only one that had a radio those huge vacuum tube ones dotting our distant past. Thankfully he was vacationing in his home town Ranigunj, Bihar away from his college in Burdwan, West Bengal. It was a time of miracle of Man landing on the moon. Something electric was in the air that Pankaj felt, goosebumps. ‘They have a sent a rocket to the  moon and they are preparing to land as we speak’, excited all the more for his interest being Engineering. That however did not stop him from grabbing a glance of the distant moon in the afternoon sunlight lest he could find some presence of the men through the naked eye. This was also a time of stunned disbelief among the lay people flummoxed at the audacity in the Americans to even think of such an endeavor. ‘Kennedy has kept his promise’ was the studied conclusion of all the tea stall discussions among the intelligentsia.

Cycling in full blast Pankaj reached home to the already gathered crowd in his own home. “Why did it take such a long time”, said his brother waiting impatiently guarding the spot for Pankaj to sit, “They are going to talk now”. Immediately everybody so busy in chatter and the din of confusion go silent.

‘..kkhzzzhhh A small step for khhzhzh man. A Giant leap for Mankind.’

‘What did he say?’ went one, ‘He jumped on the moon’ went the second. ‘Jumped!’ went the others in disbelief. Pankaj for one was cut of from the crowd and was tuned in to receive the radio broadcast with his untrammeled hearing. Every static every coherent sound he lapped up something that would etch into his memory in years to come. Slowly the silence starts to get punctuated by the familiar chatter. The atmosphere around him, that of plain disbelief will slowly break out into a celebration- a sign of things coming back to normal. Some enterprising chai wallahs established a tea stall outside Pankaj’s house and the urchins dancing to the tarkash players. Despite the commotion Pankaj was glued to the set as many head for the exit. Then the American host of the bulletin slipped a small tidbit of information

‘If you wish to send your best wishes to the astronauts then you may write to NASA, Johnson Space Center, Houston, Texas 77058…kkkhhhzzhh’ the transmission switches to an Indian bulletin host, enough for Pankaj to register the address in memory, only one by now in front of the radio. He made sure he thought nothing else as he bolts outside the room, to grab the first tidbit of paper and a pencil to scribble the destination. Next thing without a doubt was to write a letter of congratulation to Neil Armstrong, Edwin Aldrin and Michael Collins. He had to write it twice because he didn’t know that international mails were to be sent over air mail rather than in-land letters.

The news spread across the town and Pankaj was both an object of ridicule and a symbol of forward thought. But it didn’t concern him so much. It is mission accomplished.

Today, August 27, 2012 wondering how the demise of his hero came to him 2 days late through the front page of Ananda Bajar Patrika, he got up, got ready and immediately head to his bank, younger son in law his chosen chauffeur. On reaching he head for the lockers leaving the son-in-law in the Bank’s waiting lounge, opens his box with its only treasure, a photograph of his heroes, behind which

‘Dt: 24 January, 1970

Dear Pankaj                                                            

We have received your letter and we are sorry for the delay in reply. It took us a while to leave moon, head back to Earth and settle back to the place we call home. We are indeed privileged to know that there is a well wisher, friend in India who was with us when we set our first step on the moon. Thousands of men and woman of our Apollo program have contributed to this and we hope that we have represented them well. Your letter is a priceless measure of this success because more than setting our foot on moon we would regard reaching out to the whole humanity as the nobler endeavor. We are humbled by the kindness you and many well wishers the world over have shown us and to the members of the Apollo Program.

Thank You

Your Friends

Signed

Neil Armstrong

Buzz Aldrin

Michael Collins’

Tarkash - Indian Drums

Ananda Bajar Patrika - Bengali Newspaper

Cars

It was late night, Stuttgart, and the preparation to wind up Bimal’s stay in Germany. It had been a very fruitful trip, the first for his career. Enduring pan chewing “Scientists” in a government lab has finally come to pass. ‘I am in the same league of S.N.Bose’, wondered Bimal ‘I can now call myself a Scientist’. It all seemed worthwhile now. How he had to take his only son to the hospital with a 104 fever dead in the night with an advance Mathematics exam to clear the next day. How harassed he felt when jealous, lazy lab technicians, his erstwhile colleagues, would not provide him the specimen during his PhD. His wife’s struggle with depression and all the condescension of U.S returned faculties on his stature. ‘I will now be respected’ asserted Bimal.

With things to pack and with diligence everything lined up neatly. Perfume for his wife; make up kits and other accessories, tableware- all part of the list that she had for him. His son had only one request -skating shoes. ‘When and where is he going to skate’ complained Bimal but pick up he did along with the other lot. But Dr. Bimal had something more for his son. Those small pull back and release scaled down versions of popular cars no where to be found in India then. His sons simply loved them a fact not lost on Bimal. Every time they used to frequent Dr. Sen’s home his son would run straight to the stash of cars. The stash belonged to Dr Sen’s two teenaged sons who had lost all interest in those cars collected during his frequent trips abroad. ‘When Bimal’s son saw them for the first time he was simply smitten ‘Baba look these have doors that open and close and also they have small steering wheels’.

Apparently one day in one of the visits the cars were not to be seen anywhere. It was a party. Then plain Mr. Bimal’s son looked all over and even asked Mrs. Sen about the stash. But he was simply brushed aside something that was noticed by Mrs Bimal. The party went about and the kid managed to investigate the cause of disappearance of 5 sports vehicles, 2 trucks and 3 luxury sedans. The items were duly retrieved by our lead investigator from the cache- under the flight of stairs amidst cobweb ridden articles of mystery and presented it to Mrs Sen to the embarrassment of the owner. Had those vehicles been insured the owners would likely be tried in a miniature court of law for fraudulent claim. Mrs Bimal had it enough and quietly took her son, approached Mr. Bimal, took him aside and head for the exit. That was the last of the social visits to Dr Sen’s residence. Aloof though Bimal’s son was Mr. and Mrs. Bimal were hurt and they went over there life, one of the ritual when the hearts were heavy, to make some sense. That was 2 years back and conditions at Dr. Bimal’s household improved considerably. He had enough of air mails once a month through a year and was longing to see his family of a wife and son. ‘How would he be? He must have grown?’ Yes a 9 year old now.

It was early one morning in December during the winter break. Bimal returns to his family and spreading the gifts for them on the bed. Wife elated and son over the moon with the skating shoe. ‘Mithun, I have a surprise for you’, opening a zipper to reveal a garage. ‘Wow Baba, a Lamborghini with doors opening upwards, a Polizei car, BMW, Porche …’ and off he went with those enacting James Bond car chases. That was the implicit thanks a 9 year old gave with Dr and Mrs. Bimal looking at each other smiling, satisfied.

Greater Than Lesser

Subramany dreaded going to school. The anxiety of facing Vivek the bully is not a proposition to begin your day with.

“That North Indian fighter cock”.

But deep in his heart was the day he would dream about licking the fellow.

 “His father must be teaching all the Karate moves” reasoned Bala his comrade in this common personal hatred. The fact that Vivek was the son of an Army man must have been the basis for this belief.

“Mother doesn’t make Oodumbu curry like Mani’s mother” chips in Subramany, Mani born in the family of relatively limited means but was strong and fast attributed by Subramany to the delicacy of monitor lizards.

Bala agrees, “No wonder Vivek doesn’t mess with him”.

This was the usual drift of conversation between Subramany and Bala apparently “Best Friends” of late but Subramany hated Bala’s guts. But who could an 8 year old turn to, who could understand the predicament. It all started when Subramany, perceived to be always sucking up to the Northerners, got licked by Vivek. The humiliation was too much and Subramany got back to the Southern camp after lot of sermons by its leader Nagendra and oath taking of never to share your tamarind, playing in the same team as the Southerners, and not talking Hindi. As it were, "playing" was always allowed with them apparently very sacrosanct among the 8 year olds as nobody could say “I wont play with you”, sacrilege. However the second clause of the oath as per the “South Indian code of conduct of standard 4 C” meant that one must always play in adversarial position with respect to the Northerners.

The last clause “not talk in Hindi” almost killed Subramany. Up until the fated confrontation Suraj, a Northerner, was his best friend. They had a common hero- Amitabh Bachchan, discussing his much flopped movie “Toofan” scene by scene intoxicating their blood vessels with the hero worship, in Hindi. Subramany basking in his freedom smug with pride that he knew Tamil, Telegu, Hindi, English fluently and was beyond the petty small brain political divide along linguistic lines. It all made him so secular he thought until his demeanor exuding confidence ticked Vivek and a challenge along physical lines meant that Subramany’s decent physical prowess was not so decent after all or so he thought as to what others thought about him.

Subramany and Bala decided to take matters into their own hands and joined the gym. Among the portly middle aged and young show offs the two minions got into the act of bulking up a little bit to confront their common adversary better. The gym “instructor” called them “Toi Toi” and “Poi Poi”. This had Bala over the moon of being reckoned among the grown ups to the chagrin of Subramany muttering “That Oldie…” 

The whole drama was enough for Subramany. All that plotting and planning and improbable ambush was depressing him. He found it very difficult to maintain a façade of cordiality with Bala and hold back all the scene discussions with his old chum Suraj.

“I am a fool. This charade has gone long enough. Why the hell do I have to avoid Vivek come what may…” muttered Subramany and just then the bell rang. It’s the dreaded English teacher Marimuthu sir’s period. All the words escape because kids are too bothered to make sure that they do not catch his attention. The lessons are easy enough for Subramany, the smart one, but nobody wants to get to Marimuthu the Psycho’s good or bad book. Somehow the conversation veered on comparisons of one protagonist in some story overcoming some other fellow with strength and therefore had to be “Stronger Than” the one licked.

“Subramany, get up.” Boomed Marimuthu and Subramany’s heart and all the accompanying organs sank.

“You Vivek, get up”

“What the hell!” thought Subramany, “I am getting lynched”

“Two of you come front” commanded the Psycho

With that Subramany went blank he just obeyed the command as an automaton and was instructed to face Vivek whom he almost failed to recognize. What transpired then was that Subramany was to arms wrestle with Vivek and he just went along with the motion. Somewhere there was a familiar boom which said “Start!” and it started. Vivek was all over and Subramany was exceedingly calm and aloof. The whole class joined in a wild chorus unleashing the pent up emotion that went “Subramany! Subramany! Subramany!” shocking Vivek and the Psycho to the corner. Half way through Vivek sensed the horror of what was to come. His biceps, fingers and palms cried and he was huffing and puffing but nothing to shake of Subramany now. What a contrast Subramany's face was just plain poker. Steadily Subramany grounded Vivek’s palm to the bench to the arousal of the whole class of boys to wild revelry and smiles among the girls. Subramany just woke up to the jingoism around and realizing that he just defeated Vivek, his nemesis, what sweetness. “Revathi also smiled” sighed Subramany. The commotion made everybody forget the lurking monster who just then managed to cane charge all the boys to submission leaving Vivek and Subramany in front of the class. Subramany just then managed to look at the face of his adversary for the first time since being called to the front. “Tears! Vivek in Tears!” some body whispered. It was too much for Vivek with his face red and trying in vain to hold back the tears in front of Marimuthu the Psycho.

“From what the two boys have shown you. Subramany is stronger than Vivek and Vivek is weaker than Subramany. Or Subramany is greater than Vivek and Vivek is lesser than Subramany.”

All through Subramany felt bad for Vivek but that didn’t last long. He had a sense of elation that the world is not so bad after all, Vivek had feelings too. He could now renounce his vows of the Southern code and get back to his secular ways and for now he could respect himself and more importantly, just as the lunch bell rang, catch up with Suraj to discuss Amitabh Bachchan’s next dud “Jadugar”.

Oodumbu – Monitor Lizard

Toofan – 1989 film starring Amitabh Bachchan

Jadugar – 1989 film starring Amitabh again

Dhakai

It was morning like any other. Popai had been playing around in his uncles’ clothing store and he was prying open one of the older cabinets stashed away in one of the nooks of the shop looking for a hiding place for his loot of trinkets. In so doing Popai chances upon a beautiful Dhakai silk sari. It had a beautiful off white color and an oddity that it should end up here. Quite naturally Popai picks up the old folded saree and shoots to the house behind to his most beloved, his Grand Mother.

Thakuma, Thakuma look what I have for you?

In the middle of her cooking.

What is it?

Look I have got a saree for you?

She reluctantly turns around with the fish just released into hot oil and little did she expect this deep emotion well up within her looking at her Dhakai so long forgotten.

Oh Popai, where did you find it?

In the shop, I brought it for you?

The Dhakai had been gifted to her by her husband, widower who already had three sons from his earlier marriage. She was 14 then and he was much older probably closing on his 40s. However despite the relentless struggle life was post partition Bengal he still had some sensitivity left in him to express. He had gifted her a beautiful Dhakai muslin quite precious to the means available to him and she blushed. So much so it had her in knot of shame- “What would people say?” Everyday she would look at the sari imagine her self to be in it, touch it and would quickly close the drawer spiriting away the little joy that her young self could manage in this tough household where the pecuniary discipline was ensured by her husbands’ iron grip.

There is little food, no job, insecurity and people still managed to hold on to the pettiness of “culture”, “propriety” of behavior. Thakurda a homoeopathic doctor by profession had to use all his guile to live. Practice suffered as people couldn’t pay and neither would he turn them away. Little favors he would gather here and there were the only currency that would sustain his family of a wife and his five boys, 3 from an earlier marriage and 2 from his then wife. The little intimacies he would share, the little smile with his young wife seem to keep him going and how much he longed to see her in the Dhakai. But on the outside the tough man knew the ins and going ons of his neighborhood and about human nature. Those little intimacies were precious and now on Thakuma’s lap, the Dhakai, had been his only give away of a sensitive man’s heart in the stifling world of poverty, para-porshi their ninda and chorcha.

Thakurda died just about managing to see 3 of the boys manage to cross the threshold to being young men but not yet men and one couldn’t tell whether he had forgotten about the Dhakai. She never did and perhaps the guilt of it, the helplessness of her self and the memory of his love is all that made here life bearable, more than that, surplus strength to manage the household. Years pass the Dhakai remains in the un-open drawer until her third step son asks for some saris to display in his new store with little other means to contribute towards the auspiciousness of his enterprise. She had that one exquisite sari and she gave it away. Years pass sons become fathers and now it is on her lap. All the emotions dug deep within this old body rush out into a silence, perhaps to still hide them away from prying eyes, to a place sacred, personal.

The fish is brought out of the hot oil as usual, just when it should be, and she dims the flame thinking

Perhaps with death I would meet you wearing your Dhakai.

Dhakai – Muslin silk saree from Bangladesh

Thakuma – Grand Mother (Father’s side)

Thakurda – Grand Father (Father’s side)

Para-Porshi – Neighborhood

Ninda – Slander

Chorcha – Discusions (read criticisms)