HEX AND THE CITY

From a metropolitan Kolkata to a cosmopolitan Bangalore

I persuade myself to look at the larger picture.

When you see the larger picture, it does look easy- my decision to make an occupational transition from Kolkata to Bangalore. I have almost convinced myself that it is the right decision to make. Infact I have cajoled a part of my heart ( the one that actually keeps track of balance of payments)that on month end when I get the message on my cell phone that my account has been credited by a certain amount – the decision will be vindicated. Yep, I tell myself all this. But deep down I know the truth, leaving Kolkata took away from me something I will never get back – a life.

I arrived at the Bangalore airport on 11^th of June, 5.15 pm to be precise. The weather was cold. It will take a little getting used to. I convinced myself. I called ma and asked her how the weather back in Kolkata was, a not so logical question considering that I was in Kolkata two and a half hours ago.

“It rained a while back,” she replied.

Once I hung up, I grumbled on missing the first monsoon rains. I still remember how every time it would rain in Kolkata for a short time, the roads would be puddled with water. Traffic would be a nightmare. It just wouldn’t move. This would give everyone of those hapless commuters an opportunity to curse the West Bengal government, discuss the upcoming FIFA world cup and how ‘their’ Brazil is better than Argentina. The buses would reach their designation much later than the mandated time. But who remembers all that post a dinner of Biryani, specially ordered from Dada Boudi. Such is the life in Kolkata – simple, merry, unassuming and some would say bereft of ambition.

Bangalore lies at the extreme end of the simplicity spectrum. And expectedly so, being the tech capital India. No one drinks their tea in Bangalore over a discussion on the political turmoil or the railway price hike. Heck we can afford the hike, just get us to the workplace on time. Not that Bangalore needs local trains as much as Kolkata does. Bangalore has understood its significance in the Indian context - a tech capital that offers a chance to those who dream – and dream big. It has given its employees cars, company transport, private autos (that have meters that never run), meru cabs and to the less fortunate – a crumbling bus service too. Mind you traffic in Bangalore is worse than Kolkata and the roads aren’t any better. But Bangaloreans have not only got used to it but have subscribed to means that overcome this handicap. The idea is simple. Time is not money, it actually is more important. So spend the bucks, save the seconds. And that’s how the Bangalore dream works. Some here would argue that even Mumbai does the same. But since I have not been to Mumbai, I would not be able to tell you the difference. 

The two immediate differences between Kolkata and Bangalore ( I still haven’t got used to  calling it Bengaluru) is that after every ten minute stroll, you are likely to come up with at least 3 bars. Bangalore does like its brewery and unabashedly so. Gender differentiation set aside, both sexes line up for a drink or two in the evenings. Yes, Bangalore works hard, but then it likes to party harder – and without the guilt. In Kolkata bars are still a taboo, more so in the out skirts. The lone bar shops you do find are located so inconspicuously, you would have to lock them on your cell phone GPS.  There also prevails a sense of hypocritical guilt among the buyers  (mostly teenagers and men)- the bottles they buy are always wrapped in some newspaper or torn out magazine page.  I wonder what is the point of doing a thing if it has to be done with stealth. But Kolkata does it that way, and I don’t see the trend changing in the near future.

The other difference which immediately catches your eye is the dogs. The dogs in Kolkata are emaciated, skinny and look their part. The Bangalore breed is healthy, furry and boy –o-boy do they bark. You could find the Kolkata dogs hovering around a meat shop for some kind butcher throwing a piece of meat, or some kind girl of Presidency College buying a pack of Parle G for them. It seems no matter what they eat, the genetic composition just would not let them grow healthy.  I wonder what goes into the appetite of these Bangalore breeds. There is this dog that sleeps near my flat and the continuous rattle that he makes is enough to scare underworld dons let alone miniature crooks. The Kolkata dog on the other hand, does not look for such heroics. Its aim at the start of the day is to find a few crumbs to feed and move on, and if the hormones do their job, just screw an occasional female counterpart and raise a family.  When survival is the only option you have, ambition is not a luxury you should harbor.

I guess the Kolkata dog is just a symbol. A symbol of the need to change. Yeah, the famous Kolkata chromosome – it is time to look at your structure and pattern. I don’t know if anyone in Kolkata wants to do it but believe me, if we do start to tread the path of change, the Kolkata dream would be way bigger than any other. Mind you, this is easier said than done. We Bengalis do not embrace change with acceptance. Hell that is the reason the Left actually messed up our state for three decades and we kept voting for them.  I still cannot believe Infosys does not have an office in Kolkata! Perhaps then people would come back. Perhaps the change itself would be our answer to everyone who told us “Bhaloi korcho Kolkata theke beriye, eikhaane aar kichui nei” (You are doing the right thing leaving Kolkata. There is no future here!)

The promise of change notwithstanding, I will be back for sure. To my Kolkata, my land, my family. To the dhaak and the Durga Puja, to open views and bigger hearts. To both TMC and the Left (some would say the B.J.P). To opportunities of growth and a chance to realize the reformed great Kolkata dream.

And that perhaps will be the day we would not need to see the larger picture.

THE TALE OF ERR WIND AND DELLY BELLY

CHAPTER ONE

Once upon a time, in a land far away there was a poultry farm. But before you yawn and move on to the next best thing you have to do, let me assure you – this is no ordinary story.   The poultry farm did not have any name, its fame more a function of its quality of eggs and meat.  The poultry farm was huge, spreading over thousands of acres. So large were its confines, that little hope was left for the unfortunate free range stock that lost its way while returning back to their designated coop.  The head stock keeper of the poultry farm was an old man, Manmohana people called him. Although prior reputation of work behind him, Manmohana seemed to have lost his way while taking care of the poultry over the years. His neglect and despair over the dwindling stocks of the eggs that went to the market from the farm pained all those who wished well for the farm.  Years ago, Manmohana had started out as the book keeper of the farm, keeping into account the finances of the farm. The fellow stock keepers gave him the credit for bringing out the Automatic chicken feeder into the farm for better nutrition of the chickens. This is turn had almost doubled the output of eggs during that year. But with times passing by and no suitable candidates for the post of head stock keeper - the quiet and unassuming Manmohana reluctantly found a change of office. Many say he works with a spell cast on him - powerful position handed to him minus the power. I would not be able to confirm that you see. As times have flown by, my sources in high offices have dwindled. You can blame it on my age or lack of resourcefulness. But I see that I digress once again.
 

No one feels the pain of an inefficient stock keeper as much as Indie, the granny hen of the farm. Now if you would see me, you would think I am old. But a just estimation would put Indie’s age almost at par with me. Yes, I was there when she was born, I remember the year clearly because it was around that time the farm got new fences. It is said that all assumed one big fat chick would come out when the egg crackled. The stock keeper at that time - a plump old man, Lord Mountbuttocks they called him, was a shrewd man they say. Surely he must have fed some mischief to Mama hen. Because when the egg did crack on that August night two small chickens popped their head. They named one Indie and the other Packman. In the years that followed Packman was moved into a smaller farm. They say all is not well in that farm as the stock keeper grows more violent. But this is not their story.

Before continuing with my story, let me tell you the administrative set up of the farm. The head stock keeper is the most powerful man on the farm, directly responsible for Granny Indie. Working under him is a set of Care takers, accountable for taking care of the first generation of Granny. Each of the care takers under them has a sub care taker – to manage the second generation of Granny Indie.  The stock keeper and the care takers are chosen every five years by Granny Indie and the first generation hens. After every five years, men from all across the world came to this farm to woo the chickens to be there care taker – the final decision rests on the chicken.  When a chicken accepts someone as its care taker, she lays for him a golden egg. Yes, people. The golden egg. Many a times I have seen wars being waged for the golden eggs, pecking from hens of the other farms. Recently Packman perilously pecked one of the chickens of Granny Indie, Cashmere, claiming that the golden egg from Cashmere belonged to her farm. The claim of course was rubbished, but relationship with the farm remains strained for now.  Each of the care taker is responsible for the ownership of his/ her golden egg. Even after these years, Indie lays the largest of the golden eggs, they say. Manmohana sits with one of them as I tell you this story.  But as I told earlier, (I fear I am being repetitive). This is not his story.

Indie had seen two generations. Many at the farm call her Granny Indie, probably because now during the evenings she sits on a high hay stack and tells stories to her grand children. Out of the many grand children of Granny Indie, there was a one of particular interest, more so for this story I am telling. Delli belly was no ordinary hen by any stretch of imagination. She was of capital importance to the farm. The quality of eggs hatched by Delli belly was the talk of the farm. And it is rumored that she was Granny Indies favorite. I do not agree to that. Granny liked all her children equally. But then rumors have a way of finding the right ears and then proliferating. A lot of care takers  claim that Bambi, known for its dark brown eggs is more productive and off late the care taker of Delly Belly has been neglecting her duties. Stella Missus, the care taker of Delly Belly denies this of course. But the truth is eggs have been rare and fewer for Delly Belly, her coop not cleaned as regularly, and her nails are long and untrimmed. I have sometimes heard Granny Indie discuss this glumly with Manmohana. But Manmohana denies these claims.
 

It was a very cold winter night. The month of December as I recall. Granny Indie lazily sat on the hay stack observing her children and grandkids. One of the new born, Tell-a-gaana who had just popped out of the incubator mischievously peeped through the feeder door. The care takers sat on their seats engaged in either reading the account books for the month, or some new trimming techniques for more restless roosters. Stella Missus was reluctantly combing the feathers of Delly Belly, after Granny Indie had raised her concerns on Delly Belly’s itching for the last two weeks. It was a night of which nothing much was expected. Well how wrong they were!

They almost missed the feeble knock on the door. But when the banging on the wooden door became persistent, Granny Indie asked one of the care takers to open the door.  Outside, in the chilly night stood an old man. He wore a khaadi hat, and a plain white kurta. Over it a simple grey shawl. He carried a small briefcase with him. As the care taker looked over the old man’s shoulder he saw a motley group people behind him.

“The chief is sleeping,” the care taker said, the snoring of Manmohana being heard even from where he stood.

“It is not Manmohana whom I wish to bother. It is Granny Indie,” the old man remarked. There was a childlike enthusiasm in his voice. His throat ringing with passion as he spoke.

“Granny is taking a nap”, the care taker replied, hoping that it would convince the old man to return.

“We will wait for her then. It is cold outside. Let us come inside.”

The steel in the old man’s voice suggested to the care taker that he was not the one who would relent; hence the care taker opened the door, albeit with reluctance. He made a mental note of rebuking the watchman looking out on the fence for ushering these uninvited set of people.

The old man entered the enclosure along with the people who accompanied him. Among them was a boy with horn rimmed spectacles. He wore a white scarf over his neck, and a dark grey sweater. He too wore a cap similar to the old man. He looked all around with keen intent. He had never seen such a huge farm. He looked around at the large coops and the rooms for the care takers. The large set of cartons with food and wine for the care takers. But all this were of little importance to him. His eyes were fixed on Stella Missus, the only female care taker in the entire farm. She had just finished combing Delly Belly and was now tending to her egg-the golden egg. She held it with care and placed it next to her seat. Two golden eggs  for ten years of service.  She looked at them with a gleam in her eyes.   She slowly sipped the red wine as she sat on her cozy soft seat and stared at the warmth of the golden eggs.

One of the other kids from the crowd nudged the boy with the horn rimmed spectacles. “What are you looking at with such rapt attention Err Wind?”, he asked.

 Err Wind cupped the mouth with his hand and coughed twice. Off late his sinusitis had become worse.

He slowly moved toward the kid who had posed this question and spoke in a hushed voice, taking care that the words did not reach the old man.

“I was wondering what it would be like to sit on that seat and hold the golden egg.” He pointed to Stella Missus as he said the words. Never before had the kid heard Err Wind speaking in that manner.

The people who led the institution of prophecy would tell you –it was this moment that changed the history of the farm forever.