Dilli Door Hain

The view from the balcony adjoining my room

Grandparents, my brother Aritro, and our cousin Sinjini



My parents on July 19, 2006

Love Letter

Dear Ma
I very rarely, if ever, talk about you on my blog. In spite of the fact that you are the most important person in my life. Is it because we are not a demonstrative family as such? We don’t tell each other how much the other one means to us--it’s just one of the many things that Dasguptas and most other Bengalis don’t do--we don’t demonstrate our love, instead we intellectualize it. I wish we were more Punjabi-ized in this aspect. You know, be more pappiyan-jhappiyan kinds. Spontaneous kissers, big huggers. Today I am going to try being that with you. Because I want to, because I miss you so much every day, and because for the first time in our joint lives together, no matter how hard I try, I will not be able to make it in time for your birthday.

My earliest clear memory of you is the day you were trying to teach me “he” and “she”. I was about four years old I think, and neither “he” nor “she” were appealing to me. I was familiar with “he-she” in Bangla, where of course it stands for something entirely different, and I was adamant about not embracing these unfamiliar Anglo terms. You persisted, you slogged, you tired yourself out, and finally, after hours I was enlightened.

My next clear memory is of the morning we were leaving Calcutta for good. At that time we didn’t know that it was going to be for good. It was just something we were doing because Baba had got a new job in Delhi. I must have been barely five years old then, and I remember you woke me up with tears in your eyes. You must have hated the shift that time, right? Leaving behind friends, family, home, your city...all for an unknown, unfamiliar life. At a time when there was no Internet, no inexpensive STD calls, no google-talk (our present lifeline). But see how good Delhi’s been to us? We have progressed, we have grown, we have had an enriched life. And most importantly, Delhi’s where Riju joined us. The only non-Calcutta born member of our family.

Our first months in Delhi were interesting. Especially your afternoon story-telling/story-reading sessions. They made books and words come alive. So much so that now they are indispensable. I enjoy being with them, I love living off them, I cannot imagine a life without them. And all because of the first grain you sowed.

Do you remember my entrance test at Tagore International School? Where on being asked to write the letters of the alphabet, I wrote everything from A to Q, and then forgot everything that came after? In my defense, I told you, “But Q is so strange!” Later I overheard your conversation with Baba. “How will this girl ever learn English? She can’t even remember all the letters after Q! Says Q is strange! English is the language of communication. What will we do?”
Thankfully, Baba wasn’t worried at all, and can I now safely assume that I have made mincemeat of your fears?

So many memories, so many rituals:
Returning from school/college/university/office, and then seeking you out before doing anything else in order to tell you everything, well, nearly everything that I did that day...conversations, compliments, criticisms. You know every friendship, every betrayal, every scar and every bit of glory. As also nearly every sin, every crime, every passion. You know about every man I have ever dated, and you have shaken your head and disapproved of each one of them. Because so far no one’s been the bhalo Bangali chhele...the sort you want for me: responsible, kind, calm, someone who will keep the wildness, the impatience, and the madness in check, someone who will keep me tethered yet let me fly. Someone like you.

Sitting so many miles away from you, I miss our conversations the most. They were the funnest ever, weren’t they? The one over morning tea while Baba went about yoga and the news, and Riju slept peacefully dreaming about yet another Manchester United glory. And then the one in the evening, when I came back from office. We stood in my balcony and watched the skyscrapers in the distance, while we poured our hearts out. I miss your kind of food, I miss the sound of your voice and laughter, and the touch of your fingers while they untangled my dense, usually unmanageable hair. I hate it that I can no longer walk into the kitchen and see you cook, while I hover around, waiting to taste, to check, “whether you have made it right or have messed it up”. I can no longer walk into your room, and curl up next to you, and then snatch from your hands whatever you are reading to either read it myself or to force you to talk to me. I miss sitting with you and watching inane shows on TV, the dumber the better being our thumb rule, while we debated over who will win the next year’s Miss India/Miss Universe contest--you or me. I miss pulling Riju’s leg, either by myself or by ganging up with Baba while you rushed to defend your “baby” who was always more than capable of taking care of himself.

I am reminded of yet another incident. The one just a few days before I started school in Delhi. We were going somewhere, the three of us, Riju still two years away. We were in a DTC bus, you and I were sitting while Baba was standing and holding on to the rod. You said to me. “You are in class 1 now. It’s a new life. It’s going to be exciting. Make sure you’re always careful, especially in the bus. Remember to take your seat, hold on to the bar. Be careful of your surroundings. All the time, always. Oh my baby! How will you travel so far every day?”

The distance between home and St. Anthony’s, Hauz Khas, was all of 7 kms, and you were worried. Twenty-two years later you still worry. Of course, the immense geographical distance adds fuel to the fire. From that sweltering, hot day in April, to this cold, wintry day in November, I have come a long way haven’t I? And every time I recount yet another adventure to you, your reaction is the same. “You took another risk, didn’t you? Why do you have to be this crazy all the time? Ektu shanto ho, eto tara kisher? Aaste aaste shob hobe, shob korbi.” Your words actually sound like music to my ears, even when you are yelling, because they tell me that I am on the right track. That I could go that extra step, take that extra bit of risk, because you made it possible. You created me that way, you gave me that confidence, you made me believe something you say to both Riju and me all the time: “If you have the intelligence and the interest, everything is possible.” Yes Ma, I agree. Which is why I spent the greater part of this Monday roaming around yet another new city. Walking, getting lost, taking directions from strangers and maps, discovering new people, sights, tastes and smells...completely on my own. And enjoying every bit of the adventure.

So, Happy Birthday Ma. Hope November 17 brings with it lots of joy and sunshine. Have a great day and a wonderful year. And yes, I will be home soon. I promise.
Love
T

The Passion of Aritro

Long post this time...to honor Deepak and Subhadip’s demand that I write something about my brother Aritro and his favorite English football club Manchester United. I thought why not ask him to do it. Initially I had told him to make it under 500 but then knowing his love for the game, I let him write as much as he wanted to. It’s become a huge post, I even started editing it. But when I began reading it, I realized that there is so much passion in every sentence that it would be almost a sin to run my editor’s eye through it. And passions should be encouraged...a life without a passion or two is rather meaningless after all.

So here is my mad brother with his madness for Manchester United. May you, my dear reader, live after this post.

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I cannot exactly pinpoint a date when this love story began. It was a day during the summer vacations of 1998 when I accompanied my mother to Calcutta (the British name still persisted I think) to attend a wedding of a distant relative. I was in fact, attending cricket coaching at the academy run by the former international player Vijay Mehra. However, the camp was skipped and Calcutta beckoned us, with its great Victorian buildings, mishti (I have a perennial sweet tooth) and maachh (fish).

It was the year of the quadrennial Football World Cup. France 98 was a relatively small affair back in Delhi. But in Calcutta, people went gaga over the Cup although at times their support for Brazil annoyed me. As if no one else existed! I learnt the rules of the game over countless food sessions. It was as if Bengal finally made an impact in the mind of this DBCB — Delhi-Born-Confused-Bangali.

I returned to Delhi and started playing and watching football, and became a fan of Manchester United. Possibly, my feelings were not generated on a purely footballing basis. I had heard of the club even earlier and it was much easier to pronounce British names as compared to German, Italian or Latin American.

My first year as a ManU fan that is 1998-99 turned out to be and still remains ManU’s greatest year in history. One particular night during the European Cup “we” were trailing 1-0 to Italy’s Juventus. But Ryan Giggs equalized and the sort of joy that erupted in me made me realize for the first time how much the Red Devils mean to me. It is a kind of love which cannot be explained to people not watching the sport. There have been numerous occasions when I have felt like a loner because of this. When we surrendered the League in 2001-02 there was no one to share my sorrow, nor any one to share the immense pleasure on occasions like our 6-1 win over Arsenal in the spring of 2001. In those days David Beckham was a genius and so was Ryan Giggs. Roy Keane didn’t have the technique but more than made up for it with his battling skills perfectly showcased on that great night in Turin, the return leg of the 1-1 draw at home.

Manchester United was formed in 1878 by a group of Roman Catholics in Manchester. Initially known as Newton Heath, ManU’s beginnings were not particularly auspicious, and in fact, we nearly died out as a club during the inter war years. However, post Second World War marks the start of the great United era with the appointment of Matthew Busby as ManU’s manager. He got the best talent from around the British Isles with Lancashire in particular. A great team was formed including Roger Byrne, Duncan Edwards, Eddie Coleman, Harry Gregg, Denis Viollett, Liam Whelan and others. The group was collectively known as the Busby Babes, a term coined by a journalist named Tom Jackson. The team romped to league titles and under Busby’s inspiration United became the first British club to defy the Football Association and enter the European Cup. Little did Busby know that his ambition would lead to literally the downfall of the team. On 6th February the team was on its way back to Manchester from a game in Belgrade. The plane had taken off after refueling at Munich. Because of a technical problem minutes after take-off the plane jerked in mid air and collapsed on the ground below. Twenty two died including 8 players. Two more would never play again because of the injuries sustained. The Busby Babes side died young, and was preserved for ever young. Matt Busby struggled for life and for many months could not bring himself to terms with this tragedy. There was this lingering feeling in him of guilt as he somehow blamed himself for the tragedy. The work of rebuilding passed onto his assistant Jimmy Murphy.

A few years later a boy by the name of George Best was discovered on the streets of Belfast. Denis Law, ‘The Son of a Fisherman from Aberdeen’ was ‘purchased’ and another Mancunian, Nobby Stiles would be central to the great Renaissance as we emerged to be the pride of Europe. We finally proclaimed the European Cup in 1968. A tragedy had made us the most loved club in the British Isles and now it was success which finally consumed the fans.

The following two decades were a period of immense frustration as with Busby’s retirement, bosses came and went. Success eluded us as bitter north-west rivals Liverpool emulated and bettered our success. And then came Alex Ferguson, the next Knight of Old Trafford. He grew in the ship building area around Glasgow and shared much in common with Busby’s working class upbringing. Ferguson had achieved a lot already in the Scottish League with Aberdeen challenging successfully the Old Firm of Glasgow. But United were in such a mess that it took him 7 years till 1992-93 to win the League again after a gap of 26 years. Once that was achieved he went ahead to win the League 7 more times and also the FA Cup 5 times. The greatest glory came on 26th May 1999 as we claimed the European Cup for the second time. Whilst Busby was famous for his Babes, Fergie is known by his Fledglings comprising Beckham, Giggs, Scholes, Butt and the Neville brothers. Roy Keane had been his captain after Bryan Robson had left but most fell that the mercurial Frenchman Eric Cantona was the best. Now the future of the club seems to be on Wayne Rooney’s shoulders as Ruud van Nistelrooy is probably going to be the next in line to be ruthlessly kicked out by the Gaffer.

There are remarkable stories about football which make it the ‘Beautiful Game’. African nations reeling under burdens of debt have been united to support their national teams briefly forgetting the tribal differences. Poverty stricken children find hope for a better life across Africa and Latin America through the game, at a scale on which politicians have never been able to do. The French team which won the World Cup in 1998 had players from different races and how ironic it is that France’s most loved sportsman ever is a Muslim, Zinedine Zidane, the son of Algerian immigrants. There are occasions of footballers defying an oppressive government through the game. Like the Ukrainian team F.C.Start which beat the Luftwaffe XI team in Kiev during the Second World War or Mohun Bagan which beat the East Yorkshire Regiment in 1911.

As much as it can unite, football can spark off violence to an unprecedented scale. Anglican Protestants and Roman Catholics constantly abuse when Rangers and Celtic meet in Glasgow. The Catalans, the Basques and the Galicians all stand tall against Franco 30 years after his death when teams from those regions meet Real Madrid. Some say that the civil war in Yugoslavia was propelled by a game between the Croat team Dinamo Zagreb and the Serb team Red Star Belgrade.

The game may be great but as should be taken up with a sense of caution. In a way it is good that India does not support the game so much. Racial differences are so numerous in our country that such violent games can spark off regional sentiments to the effect of violence.

This was my story of football. These days I don’t play the game much, so it’s become one more literate journey for me. Sometimes I feel saddened by the lack of respect sports is given in mainstream literature. Reading about football cannot be an “intellectual” journey, that’s something reserved for the readers of Dickens, Dan Brown or Vikram Seth! Some say football is only good when you are playing the game I say ‘**** ***’. Twenty two players play but it is watched by 30-40—70-100-200,000 people on the ground and millions more at bars and homes.

Enjoy the World Cup!

-- Aritro Dasgupta

The Jalebi Lover's Story

My football-crazy demented brother’s charming friend, Komal, nudged me this morning and reminded me that it’s been awhile since I’ve updated my blog. Suitably nudged, here I am, this is me, there is nowhere else on earth I would rather be...you get the drift, right? Komal asked me to write about my days in Stephen’s, but I will leave that for a later day...too many memories to be packed into one post. So a different one today, but one that I was thinking of writing last Sunday in fact, while having lunch with my family...one of the rare occasions when all of us are at home at the same time and are eating together.

My father, or Baba as my brother and I call him, is a very disciplined man...be it about his life, its myriad dimensions, his hobbies, his website, his daily yoga, the number of calls to be made to his daughter in a day (three in all...will I ever find a more devoted man?), the kind of books, movies, music to enjoy and remember...everything. The only exception to the rule? His love for jalebis. They could be piping hot or blandly cold, from the fanciest store or from the shadiest cart, as long as they are jalebis they can and should be revered.

One of Baba’s most endearing habits can be seen at the dining table. The scene is always somewhat like this. Baba sits at the head of the table, flanking him on either side are Ma and I, and beside me my brother. The process of helping ourselves to the food is quite democratic. Either Ma ladles it out or we help ourselves. And when we need second helpings it’s again the same democratic process indeed. But there is an exception to this rule as well. At the time of the second helping, if Ma is not seated with us — maybe she has gone to answer a phone call or is adding a last minute garnish — and my brother or I happen to ask Baba whether we should put some for him, his answer invariably is, “No”. Always, and without fail. Never ever will he say, “Yes”, unless and until the questioner is my mother. Either she will ask him or will directly put food on his plate, and rarely if ever will he protest. She is the only person whose question or insistence can make all the difference between whether my father just eats or eats well.

So to all those of us, who have either found that person whose one sentence alone can make all the difference between contentment and sheer bliss, or are still in search, may the journey be rewarding even if it is as circuitous as a jalebi.

When Love and Hate Collide

Ok...a spur-of-the-moment entry. And it's going to be mushy and utterly sentimental, and I am not sure why I am writing this in the first place.

What is it about younger brothers that makes them so adorable? My brother, who is incidentally eight years younger than me, has just dropped into my office. He had gone to BCL for the day, ostensibly to study, in reality probably to check out every Manchester United related information available this side of the English Channel. He looks tired, although I fed him a good lunch. He looks cranky, just the way I do after a long day at work. So far so good, we are behaving like self-respecting Dasgupta siblings.

And as I am looking at him, I want to tell him that much as I want to kill him nearly everyday of my life because, he has either made fun of a certain CD of mine or has forgotten to run an errand or because his chalta-hai attitude towards most things in life are nauseatingly annoying, I also want to tell him that I love him to death. For a million reasons. But particularly for always being the first one to listen to a certain kind of my grievances, for instinctively knowing how I would react to every situation, for looking across a crowded room to catch my eye and letting me know that we are thinking the same thing about a relative or neighbour, for being a far better human being than I can ever be, for not having an iota of envy or dishonesty in him, for being my punching bag, for sharing his enormous collection of non-veg jokes with me, and for teaching me that gratitude is probably the most essential of all human virtues. And most importantly for our Sunday ritual. For all this and more, Riju...I will always keep you.

P.S. I will probably delete this post tomorrow...because the moment we step out of the office today, we will argue, and he will annoy me in the process and I will tell him, "Please go and throw yourself in front of a moving vehicle". And the argument shall continue...