A FAIR DEAL

Phenomenal Woman

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Maya Angelou

COLD DISCOMFORT

A sunny and pleasant Sunday with the minimum rising to 9ºC was what I wanted badly to coax myself to go to office. A Sunday in office after ages, must add here and not to say it was a very depressing thought to begin my lazy, lousy day. So this not-so pleasant experience needed some extra dose of sunshine to make my day a little brighter. What an irony, I am chasing the Sun now which I so conveniently avoid in the summer? Thankfully, the weather department said the minimum today was recorded at 9.4ºC, a notch above normal while the maximum settling at 22.7ºC, which was one degree below normal this time of the year.

Gosh, my heart almost sank yesterday! The temperature had plunged to this season’s lowest of 6.2ºC, with icy winds adding to my woes. Not to say, it reminded me of Shakespeare’s Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind.

“Blow, blow, thou winter wind
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude…”.

More than reminding me of man's ingratitude, this plummeting mercury was just a signal of how harsh the weather can be this season. And I was right. The weatherman has predicted that mercury may drop a bit tomorrow and lot more in the coming days. Wow, could I ask for more to add to my winter blues?

It was no good news, not for me by any means. I can be comfortable in this cold only till it is bearable.

But what makes this season memorable are many sweet-nothings, quite quintessential to the winter in Delhi. In the last 10 years, they have just helped me see through the cold, by adding warmth, colour and beauty in my life, at least in small measures.

In Delhi, I always felt the need to cover myself, bottom’s up! Well, I didn’t mean what most of you are thinking. I meant draping and layering myself, from the bottom, starting with thermals. I can’t afford to carry many layers comfortably on my slender frame unlike my li’l sister, who becomes a little Eskimo, except this is Delhi and no Alaska and she doesn’t live in an igloo. But this must-do is indispensable for survival here so she says and I firmly believe in too; it is good to be safe than sorry, my dear friend.

The Sarojini Nagar, Janpath and the Tibetan monastery, all of which have enough winter stuff (stoles, shawls, mufflers, colourful socks, gloves, jackets, sweaters) on display to make me go bonkers if I ever get to visit these shopping hubs. I go completely crazy! It is just trying to be affordably fashionable, you silly. For someone, who is brand conscious, then a visit to factory outlets at Mahipalpur is a safe bet. Cheap and best deals and that too branded. What more can one want?

Winter is all about food, nothing but food to make this chill a state of bliss. The concept of Sunday brunches seems to be fast catching up in the Capital with the who’s who making a buzz or two at the most happening places. Well, lesser mortals like us don’t get invited to one, but only get a glance of it, thanks to a good P3 coverage of such social dos, the day after. For me, a brunch is best enjoyed with your close few loved ones (family and friends), even if it means having just litti-chokha with ghee, bharta and aachar. And voila, you can easily count this brunch as an afternoon well-spent. Before you realize, it would be time for a cup of steaming masala chai, best served with hot popcorns or bread pakodas with aamla-dhania chutney. Too good to be true any time soon for me; I have to go to office when most of my friends would be busy lazing around. Nevertheless, I have had my share of such lazy afternoons in plenty. Those get-togethers will last me this winter and help me sail through.

A visit to the Mughal Gardens to see the beauty in full bloom is another favourite winter activity which is a must-do for anyone in Delhi. The flowering daisies, marigolds and roses, etc, add a dash of beauty and make you scream and say, life is beautiful and so are these flowers.

I must say that my life-saving devices all these years, of course, have been a pair of room heaters and geyser — to beat the chill and keep my home a little warm. Imagine living without either would have been insanely impossible here; never mind the soaring electricity bill, it’s ok. For those who live abroad, winter chill gets taken care of by the centralized heating system that almost all the places there inevitably have. At home, you are warm, no matter even if it is sub-zero outside and there’s heavy snowfall to make it worse. But in India, it is the good ol’ heater that does the needful.

The peanut-sellers, who are found on every nook and corner of the city, indeed seem to be making hay while the sun is away in winter. They sell nuts and other goodies (tilkuts and gazaks) to munch on while their small mud ovens give the much-needed warmth, even if for some time. The hawkers selling sakarkandi chaat are a big hit with me. The sweet and tangy taste just tickles my tastebuds, the right way. The gazar ka halwa which was once upon a time made only at home, is now easily available at sweet shops. So no more grinding and cooking. Just buying and eating, simple!

How can I forget my innumerable trips to Sultanpur Bird Sanctuary in Haryana, near Gurgaon? This place is a visual treat for those wanting to indulge in some bird watching, quite literally. Nestled around the Sultanpur lake, over hundreds of migratory birds come flocking here, in the cold winter. The small drive through bumpy mud paths flanked by mustard fields is simply awesome. I so love these drives and Sultanpur being a good place to spend a day in the company of nature, with or without someone, is and will always be my all-time favourite weekend getaway in winter.

The plunging temperature throws life out gear. The white blanket of fog that envelope the city reduces visibility to bare minimum. Days are still tolerable, but the white nights are quite miserable; especially you are out on the streets, behind the wheels. You would exult at the streets being empty but the hazard being, how not to lose your way, and if you are stuck in an unknown area, you are at God’s mercy. A dreadful experience, must say. Everything else, except our Delhi Metro, seems to be terribly delayed. The trains, buses, flights, practically everything, including life comes to a grinding halt and there’s little that can be done to beat it.

Though winter is comparatively mild and short here, compared to what my friends abroad are going through, still its effect is widely felt, both among the privileged and underprivileged class. For one, too much is too less, the other less is too much to grin and bear. The best are the bonfires usually lit up on the streets to provide some respite from the cold, mostly to those who can’t afford to enjoy it the other way. My heart goes out to those who end up spending nights after nights on the streets without anything warm to comfort them. It is quite discomforting sight to see people curled and huddled up in torn blankets everywhere in the city. There are over a lakh homeless in the Capital alone, who survive the chill without proper clothing, shelter or food. Wish the weather was a bit kind to them, man has never been.

So, my friends, I am leaving you on this note:

Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! Unto the green holly:
Most friendship if feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then heigh-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.

THE BONG CONNECTION

“Tumi Bangla boojho toh (I hope you understand Bangla)?” He swiftly changed his language, but couldn’t camouflage his intentions. “If you don’t know Bangla, then you must learn it. It is important here. I am an Ahomiya (native of Assam) but still I learnt it on the job and now can speak fluent Bangla.” Paani meh reh kar magar se bair? Acchi baat nahin hai. So it is best to behave like a Roman in Rome. Well, I politely replied in Bangla to dispel his fears, “Sir, Aamar babar baadi Dhanbade. Aami ektu-ektu bolte paadi par aami Bangla bhooji (I come from Dhanbad and can understand Bangla well, but can’t speak fluently).” I don’t know why I brought in geography in language matters. Quite irrelevant though, but having spent good 21 years of my life in a Bengali neighbourhood called for some subtle acknowledgement, isn’t it? When people pretend to be ignorant of Dhanbad’s exact location on India’s map and shamelessly ask me, “Where is Dhanbad?” I identify Dhanbad as a small town of Jharkhand, famous for coal mines, mafia and the only mining school in Asia, Indian School of Mines, and close to Kolkata. Thankfully, all those who board the train from Kolkata spare me the trouble of answering this silly question. Thank God for small mercies.

This dislike for Bongs in genral dates back to my childhood which I spent in the company of Bongs and only Bongs so much and so that my mother still regrets that even then I can’t speak fluent Bangla. How shameful? Anyway, frankly speaking, I was sick of my Bong neighbourhood in Dhanbad, mostly retired oldies, who took immense pride in just gossiping about meyes (girls), obviously not theirs. They would gather at a common place which provided them a good view of all the corners of the housing society, with clockwork precision around 3 pm and disperse by 7. Their news sources — maids, hawkers, shopkeepers, cable guy, electrician, plumber, chowkidaar — you name it and they knew whom to ask what to get the news that they so badly needed to keep their rumour mills running smoothly. Man, their news gathering efforts could put any wire agency to shame. Well-networked and connected, they were a nuisance by all means. The Devil that said, “neighbour’s envy, owner’s pride” was so right. Which girl goes where, comes back when, with whom, and why? Complete biography of the poor girl would be scrutinized and discussed in detail in the evening. No matter how hard you tried to hide, you still couldn’t escape their sharp pair of eyes and ears. These industrious gossipers would battle all odds — power cuts, crying babies at home, tired hubbies, who would look forward to being pampered by their wives after toiling hard in office, and even a scourge of deadly mosquitoes — to do what they enjoyed most, bitch (in polite words, gossip). They would leave only when their gossip session could be safely and satisfactorily concluded for the day, but only to be resumed next day, sharp at 3. Another day, another story. What devotion to their passion? Don’t these Bongs have anything else to do than pondering over the five Ws (who, what, when, why and where) and one H (how), I used to wonder. The truth remained: they were practically jobless throughout the day doing nothing, so they found some bizarre amusement and excitement in gossiping. And it would be mostly khitir-pitir in Bangla so that even if you tried to eavesdrop, you would get to nothing substantial to hear.

I love the way they love their matri-bhasha (mother tongue).No one does it better. If there are two Bengalis in a room, they would inevitably end up speaking in Bangla… and if a third person comes in, he would be coaxed to speak it too. After all majority wins hands down. If there are two Biharis, they would never speak in their mother tongue, not in public at least. It’s so down-market to be heard speaking your language (Bhojpuri, Magahi, Maithli, etc). I guess, it is this love that has made Bangla so popular and sometimes I feel as if the world would soon be a naturalized citizen of Bengal, with Bengali becoming the Lingua Franka, world over.

I can elucidate this further. Journos are mostly Mallus or Bongs because they think they are the best keepers of the English language. Another similarity is their undying love for their respective mother-tongues, Malayalam and Bangla respectively. One can’t make head or tail of Malayalam, but Bangla is still easy to grasp. So if you are surrounded by a majority of Bengalis, you are invariably forced to understand, learn and speak Bangla, sooner or later. It is the thumb rule to survive. So now not just an Ahomiya, the Punjabis, Himachalis, Garhwalis, Rajasthanis, Awadhis, Biharis notwithstanding, all of them peacefully co-exist by making Bangla their language to converse, convey and communicate in this newsroom. Another War of Words over a trivial little issue isn’t what we seek. So let peace prevail. I leave you with a classic example of vernacular literalism, in which the idiomatic expression for covert action, dube dube jol khao, is “sinking sinking, drinking water”.

My wish is like a fish, may your memory is short-lived (so that you forget what you have read here and don't have any hard feelings against me, esp if you are a Bong) and may you learn this trick to stay afloat even while you are sinking, always.

And here’s to the evergreen spirit of Jai Bangla (remember Jai Maharashtra came much later and that too thanks to Balasaheb). I’m sure you will be rolling on the floor, by the time you reach the last alphabet.

A is for Awpheesh (as in Office). This is where the average Kolkakatan goes and spends a day hard at work. And if he works for the 'Vest Bengal Gawrment' he will arrive at 11, wipe his forehead till 12, have a tea break at 12.30, throw around a few files at 1.00, break for lunch at 1.30, smoke the 7th unfiltered cigarette at 2, break for 5th cup of tea at 3, sleep sitting down at 3.30 and go home at 4.00. It's a hard life!

B is for Bhision. For some reason many Bengalis don't have good bhision. In fact in Kolkata most people are wearing spectacles all the time....Bhishon Bhalo and Bibhotso.... Though means opposite ...used for same situations.. .depending on the Beauty of fairer sex...are close ....almost in a tie for second spot.

C is for Chappell. Currently, this is the Bengali word for the Devil, for the worst form of evil. In the night mothers put their kids to sleep saying, 'Na ghumoley ebar Chappell eshey dhorey niye jabe.'

D is for Debashish or any other name starting with Deb. By an ancient law every fourth Bengali Child has to be named Debashish. So you have a Debashish everywhere and trying to get creative they are also called Deb, Debu, Deba with variations like Debopriyo, Deboprotim, Debojyoti, etc. thrown in at times....as creations of God himself!!

E is for Eeesh. This is a very common Bengali exclamation made famous by Aishwarya Rai in the movie Devdas. It is estimated that on an average a Bengali, especially Bengali women, use eeesh 10,089 times every year.. 'Ei Morechhey' is a close second to Eeesh.

F is for Feeesh. These are creatures that swim in rivers and seas and are a favourite food of the Bengalis. Despite the fact that a fish market has such strong smells, with one sniff a Bengali knows if a fish is all right. If not, he will say 'eeesh what feeesh is theesh!'

G is for Good name. Every Bengali boy will have a good name like Debashish or Deboprotim and a pet name like Motka, Bhombol, Thobla, etc. While every Bengali girl will have pet names like Tia, Tuktuki, Mishti, Khuku, et cetera.

H is for Harmonium, Bengali equivalent of a rock guitar. Take four Bengalis and a Harmonium and you have the successors to The Bheatles!

I is for Ileesh. This is a feeesh with 10,987 bones which would kill any ordinary person, but which the Bengalis eat with releeesh!

J is for Jhola. No selfrespecting Bengali is complete without his Jhola. It is a shapeless cloth bag where he keeps all his belongings and he fits an amazing number of things in. Even as you read this there are two million jholas bobbling around Kolkata, and they all look exactly the same! Note that 'Jhol' with mysterious condiments.. . As in Maachher Jhol is a close second. Jhaamela and Jachhetai are distant 3rd and 4th.

K is for Kee Kaando! It used to be the favourite Bengali exclamation till eeesh took over because of Aishwarya Rai.Kee mushkil is a close second.

L is for Lungi, the dress for all occasions. People in Kolkata manage to play football and cricket wearing it not to mention the daily trip in the morning to the local bajaar. Now there is talk of a lungi expedition to Mt. Everest.

M is for Minibaas. These are dangerous half buses whose antics would effortlessly frighten the living daylights out of all James Bond stuntmen as well as Formula 1 race car drivers.

N is for Nangto. This is the Bengali word for Naked. It is the most interesting naked word in any language!

O is for Oil. The Bengalis believe that a touch of mustard oil will cure anything from cold (oil in the nose), to earache (oil in the ear), to cough (oil on the throat) to piles (oil you know where!).

P is for Phootball. This is always a phavourite phassion of the Kolkattan. Every Bengali is born an expert in this game. The two biggest clubs there are MOHUNBAGAN and East Bengal and when they play the city comes to a stop.

Q is for Koshchen (question) as in "Mamatadi koshchens Cheap Ministaar in Writaars Buiding."

R is for Robi Thakur. Many many years ago Rabindranath got the Nobel Prize. This has given the right to all Bengalis no matter where they are to frame their acceptance speeches as if they were directly related to the great poet and walk with their head held high. This also gives Bengalis the birthright to look down at Delhi and Mumbai and of course 'all non-Bengawlees'! Note that 'Rawshogolla' comes a close second!

S is for Shourav. Now that they finally produced a genuine cricketer, that too a captain, Bengalis think that he should be allowed to play until he is 70 years old. Now old is not always gold, dear Bongs.

T is for Trams. Hundred years later there are still trams in Kolkata. Of course if you are in a hurry it's faster to walk....Trams are still existing in Paris too.......you see!

U is for Aambrela.. When a Bengali baby is born he is handed one.

V is for Bhaayolence. Bengalis are the most non-violent violent people around. When an accident happens they will fold up their sleeves, shout and scream and curse and abuse, "Chherey De Bolchhi" but the last time someone actually hit someone was in 1939.

W is for Water. For three months of the year the city is underwater and every year for the last 200 years the authorities are taken by surprise by this!

X is for X’mas. It’s very big in Kolkata, with Park Street fully lit up and all Bengalis agreeing that they must eat cake that day.

Y is for Yesshtaarday. Which is always better than today for a Bengali (see R for Robi Thakur)?. It is also for Jubraj Shingh and Joga.

Z is for Jebra, Joo, and Jipper..

(Laughter means taking a mischievous delight in someone else's uneasiness, but with a good conscience. So I hope you enjoyed this post… it’s all in good humour, trust me).

THE PEN DRIVE

For a journo in the print media, the thrill and chill of being on the news desk of a newspaper is simply unbeatable. The thrill because our world seems to be changing fast and the chill because newspapers need to match this pace with gripping stories, catchy pictures, sharp headlines and, of course, snazzy presentation. The faithful reader needs a good enough reason to pick the newspaper the morning after and gorge on the news to begin his mental marathon for the day. He already had his share of breaking news (courtesy news channels) by the time he hits the sack but he still yearns for that something extra in the morning. The news has to be extraordinary somehow — the language, content, packaging and presentation everything counts.

The other day there was a low-intensity (which was later found to be medium-intensity) blast in Varanasi early in the evening , around 6.30 pm, but by then almost all the stories had been slotted on the pages, pictures had been selected and most of the pages had been designed and completed as well. Well, the story kept growing in intensity and magnitude and couldn't be missed. Every minute there was an update. A blast in the holy city in Uttar Pradesh, Varanasi, during evening aarti just a day after the 18^th anniversary of the Babri demolition, the terror group, IM, claiming responsibility for it, was indeed news worthy. On a day when Neera Yadav and Ashok Chaturvedi were clamouring for space along with WikiLeaks founder Julian Assagne and former telecom minister A. Raja, it was a tough job to do justice to this explosion. The edition was obviously delayed for the stories from the spot came late and then it was difficult to say everything, in a precise and concise manner and without compromising on the deadline. Obviously, the deadline was the first face the wrath. But the icing on the cake came next day when the Editor himself walked and angrily asked, “Who did the blast page?” Well, it wasn’t expected after toiling so hard the night before. The person who did it rose to the occasion and accepted that it was indeed his doing. “It was very well packaged, I must say,” the Editor thundered before grinning his way out. Wow!!! Can you beat this feeling? No, certainly not. No doubt you are a news buff and I sincerely appreciate it, but you get what we serve you on the newsprint. And that is where I somehow justify my decision to be part of a newspaper, in this case a tabloid. It’s an experience which is just inexplicable… a career where I am not by default, but by choice. I am where I am because I wanted to be. So no matter how much I crib and complain, this would always be my beloved, first love and last affair. Being back in the grind after three years feels great and here I must very apologetically bid my stint at a magazine a sweet goodbye, till we meet again.

Can you explain in one word what it is to fix a headline after juggling with all the possible options trying to say it all in a single column, three-deck space only to realize the word used there has already been mentioned in another headline on a different page? It is maddening. Insane. Crazy. Absurd. What a waste, isn’t it? This is unfair but that is how it is. The fight with the designers over kerning and scaling the headline beyond the permissible limit loses its sheen anyway. Another struggle begins… this time with the production guys, who first refuse to accept this change which they erroneously call a mistake, and then after giving an earful over recklessness for having missed this repetition in the first place, they do as directed. They make this much-needed change and we have no choice but be sincerely obliged for their generosity. After all, it saves us from our boss’s ire the next day. If it hadn’t been done, the news editor would be shouted at in the edit meeting. And he seems to believe in Newton’s Third Law more than anybody else. He has to give us our share of scolding, quite generously and mind you, it is quite an unpleasant experience. After all, it is a pleasure to give more than you have actually got. You have to be at the receiving end to believe what I am saying. But God forbid this shouldn’t happen anytime soon.

The Golden Rule here is bouquets are collective, but brickbats are yours and only yours. When it comes to mistakes, what can beat the joy of seeing the page, which you had made the night before after sacrificing your dinner, being callously post-mortemed the next morning and to make it even worse, the agony doesn’t end; it seems to have just begun. The page is ruthlessly marked in red and then hung on the board for everyone to see what you actually did but shouldn’t have, if only you wanted to avoid this embarrassment. Humiliated and hurt over the public display of your ignorance, you take one last look at the page before burying the mistakes with a vow never to repeat them ever, at least not in the coming few days or till you forget this embarrassment, whichever is later. A reader wouldn’t even have noticed it, until and unless it a glaring and daring mistake, but wordsmiths here can almost leave you gasping for breath if they found an article missing or a noticed a misplaced punctuation mark. I hate the auditor who does this job so sincerely, but can’t do much about it. He’s paid to do this — mark our errors which are otherwise easy to be ignored (for the readers), but difficult not to notice (for him). One man’s misery is always other man’s pleasure someone rightly said.

What beats the excitement of being away for a day from this mad-sad newsy environment? Perhaps nothing can, trust me. But such pleasures are counted few. The work in a news desk usually begins late in the evening and goes on late after midnight, which means your family and social lives will go haywire. If you are a late riser, this is a blessing in disguise for you can curl and snore away to glory till late in the morning. But if you have friends outside this fraternity, you are in for some trouble sometimes. It would be like living in the same city but different time zones. Must not forget that a newspaper is printed practically every day of the year and so the work week is generally six days, one earns an off mostly on week days as the married ones or the lucky few here get to enjoy their weekends. I envy the privileged class. I can at the max beg and borrow offs, but not steal. The duty roster says it all. This means no more Pau Hana (pronounced "pow hana", it is a Hawaiian phrase literally meaning "finished work" but generally refers to the practice of leaving work early on Friday to start the weekend) for me.

WE blindly trust the printed word, no matter what we see, hear, we believe what we read. So hail newspapers!!! But imagine if this how it is in a newspaper which comes out once a day, what it would be like in television newsrooms which thrive on bringing news as it breaks. I wish I could feel that pulse… Amen!!!