Other Names #12: Kaamkar Das

The rain pelted incessantly for six years and five months and twenty-two days over the city of Someplace. There were periods of drizzle when people stepped out but soon, they began to realise that the respite was only a forecast for more rain. At first life came to a standstill and then boredom set in. People stopped going out altogether so establishments had no reason to stay open. The public gardens were flooded and turned into veritable marshlands with crocodiles and snakes which put an end to walking. A thick layer of moss covered the asphalt under the waterlogged streets that made cars and motorbikes skid off their paths and often into death. People received their weekly supplies of grains from a government helicopter that came twice a week to drop sealed packets onto the terraces. Time stretched into infinite seconds over Someplace and its people came to be characterised by their glassy eyes, wet yellowish skin and a perennial dry crust around their mouths.

Kaamkar Das was one of those who worked hardest not to be conquered by the idleness that swept through Someplace like a plague. In order not to become bored, he dedicated himself to the task of repairing the many things that needed fixing in the house. He adjusted hinges, oiled locks, and reattached doorjambs. Every morning, he walked around with a toolkit of all his supplies – inspecting every latch, lock and nail and he was never disappointed for the ravages of the rain were never-ending and it created a vicious cycle of decay and restoration to Kaamkar’s delight. The air was so damp that fish could have come in through the door and swum out the windows, floating through the wet atmosphere in the rooms. Kaamkar routinely heated half a kilo of coal till the air was warm and crisp enough to prevent the build-up of mold. It was necessary to dig canals to get the water out of the house and rid it of the frogs and snails so that they could dry the floors and walk in shoes once more.

Occupied by the many minute details that called for his attention, Kaamkar Das did not realise that he was getting old beyond his years until one afternoon he found himself contemplating about the state of his personal affairs without regret. Before the rains, Kaamkar Das had been consumed by the idea of marriage. But the rain had spared him from the emergencies of passion and had filled him with a lack of appetite. He amused himself thinking about the things that he could have done in other times but largely the daydreams left him unmoved. Nothing fulfilled Kaamkar as much as the useful business that the pliers and screwdrivers had awakened in him. It might be said that the deluge brought him the opportunity to explore and reflect on work that he deeply enjoyed and true to the saying – he never worked a day in his life during those six years, five months and twenty-two days – he merely amused himself in a rather productive way.

Kaamkar settled into his life with renewed purpose and soon the people of Someplace came to regard his house as the town’s driest, the stateliest, and the homeliest of homes one could have under the circumstances. He earned accolades from the municipality and public officials made a habit of dropping by to discuss his newest home improvements. Kaamkar Das lived his most rewarding years as the rest of the people of Someplace languished under the constant desolation of the deluge. Secretly, he feared the end, the day the sun would come out and set Someplace back in order without his helping hands. It would be the end of his usefulness and once again idleness would set in.

Other Names #14: Girija

Girija was a woman. It was a condition she suffered from birth. The ailment limited her to talk a certain way, dress a specific way and behave in a manner that did not draw negative attention to herself. The slightest aberrations tended to anger or at least annoy people with inevitable ease. It was especially tough for Girija because she did not see herself as a woman much. The condition for her was purely physical. It did not dominate her thoughts or passions every waking minute. If she had to put a gender to her inner world – she would’ve said that she felt like a mixture of all kinds of people and sexes we don’t even know about and she liked it that way. Eventually she came to the conclusion that it was more than the condition of being a woman that plagued her – she was also a feminist which came with a daunting side-effect in her twenties of self-awareness. It made her head pound and her stomach churn at harmless words like ‘pretty’ and ‘feisty’. But Girija rarely discussed the t

Windows between waves

Back in 2009, during my last year in college, my friends and I used to take a three-hour train ride to Gokarna over weekends. It was a small seaboard town with a penchant for attracting people who listened to Bob Marley and chain-smoked cheap cigarettes. But what I remember most distinctive of Gokarna was the sea. It was a beautiful sunny morning like any other and we had all woken up late. After a heavy breakfast of Nutella pancakes all of us headed out to the sea. It was calm and we all wore our sun shades into the waters, lying supine on our backs and floating with the sun in our eyes. Unlike other days, we had given up on playing pranks – no one went underwater to imitate a sea creature tickling a feet or neck, there were no sudden shrieks of friends splashing the salty sea water into each other’s eyes and mouth – we were pinpricks in the vast ocean drifting further and further away from the shore, blissfully unaware of how close to danger we lurked. At first, we thought we were be

Other Names #15: Balwan

Settling into a chair for coffee with his friend, Balwan felt his heart race and tension creep into the tops of his shoulder, pulling the nerves at the base of his neck into tight knots. Anger vibrated in his solar plexus. But he was not upset. His friend sitting across from him was. Balwan soaked up other people’s moods like a sponge. If you’ve met Balwan, chances are you’ve already made him cry. He often described himself as someone with an exposed nerve, fine-tuned to every little flutter in his environment like an emotional weather vane. Sometimes these moods were pleasant but even those moved him to such overwhelming awe that he was often reduced to tears. A glimpse of a bird’s nest or a half-furled leaf filled Balwan with inarticulate joy. An unexpected compliment could send his mood soaring and fill him with unbridled enthusiasm. Balwan noticed details that most people missed – a heightened sense of smell and touch and sight. It was like he felt the world around him with fifty

Other Names #13: Keimoni

In the train, Keimoni preferred to read a book to a newspaper, and not only because the size was practical. The paper didn’t hold her attention enough, and above all, it didn’t take her out of the present. The ride every day to work let her do the amount of reading she liked to take in at one time. She liked to read at home, at night, but other things. Keimoni read several books at once, each with a time and place, taking her out of the place and time in which she lived. She disappeared into books like someone running into the forest, emerging from the other side, always a bit changed from the experience of crossing over. These vanishing acts were a staple for all periods of waiting. In trains, busses, cabs, restaurants, park benches, offices. It did not matter if she was sloshed between sweaty arms of strangers in the train whose faces were less than two inches from hers. It did not matter if the light was too low or the seat already taken or if a hundred infants were screaming at t

My love-hate relationship with Calcutta

You might have already figured this out from my last name, that I’m a Bengali. While I no longer live in Calcutta (yes, I come from a time when it still used to be Calcutta or Cal, not Kolkata), I can’t seem to stay away from it either. It has a strange inexplicable way of pulling me back.

Rude Awakening Series: You might find it offensive. But so is the world around us.

It has been one year and nine months since my last entry. A lot has happened since. The dude who used to say “You’re fired” on reality television is now the very real President of United States of A, Delhi beat Beijing to become the most polluted city in the world by a chest-thumping margin, the planet regardless of our skeptical opinions has continued to become warmer - putting the birds and bees out of business. On the other hand, some things haven’t changed. North Korea is still batshit ballistic, China ghost towns are at best dead, Japan is LOCO but still zen, fortunes (as usual) have waxed and waned to the changing tides of tax reforms, share prices and demonetisation. If there is a hidden lesson over the months that I have learnt, it is this - nothing changes or gets better in this world unless we act (as opposed to react) upon it. And it is with this foolhardy notion that I once again set about to write; to abuse, to anger, with a direct intent to offend the blogosphere.

Project Other Names #7: Dr. Prarthamesh Potty

Professor Potty scratched these words on the blackboard, punching the period at the end for dramatic effect. He turned to face his class of forty. Forty miserable, clueless schmucks, most of whom didn’t know the difference between a period and an ellipsis. And yet they thought a minor in Creative Writing would be a piece of cake. An easy grade to brighten up their mark sheet. He had overheard on his way to class, some of the students casually joke, “Next class…” proceeding to clutch their tummy and ejecting a fart-like sound from their mouth. The joke lacked half-a-decent punchline but regardless, the junior year would pick it up from their seniors, giving new life to a lame old gag. Professor Potty did not have a sense of humour. At least, none when it came to his name. You would think after years of being tormented by friends, foes, colleagues, relatives, lovers and eventually his own children as well, the professor would at least pretend to smile and take the power out of the old

Three salad dressings with a side of honesty

Salads. The healthy-and-mighty of all meals. The snooty accompaniment to a glass of rosé. The veritable rainbow on your plate. In Fran Lebowitz’s words, a salad is not a meal – it is a style. Well, as long as ‘style’ includes a fair amount of mud under one’s fingernails – I couldn’t agree more with Fran. Sure, it’s fashionable to eat a salad – but there’s a certain panache to going down on all fours in wet mud, rummaging through fresh lettuce pods every morning and wondering what you’re going to dress them in. While it’s far from the fashion statement that salad has come to symbolise, growing your own food definitely is a style of its own. There are many categories of salad snobs – the ingredient minimalist, the chop-it-right evangelists and the brigade of dressing-goes-first, but the only consensus between the salad factions is that you don’t actually need packaged dressing. A homemade vinaigrette made from basic ingredients lives just as happily on your refrigerator door, not to ment

I must not look

Kasar Devi, near Almora I must not look at the mountains, the white snow-clad Himalayas perched atop the clouds. I must not look at the rolling Sivaliks at my feet or the endless layer behind layer of misty mountains blurring into the sky. I must not look at the stars or think about the solar system – of giant suns spanned by countless light years, all that light turned to a speck of sparkle in the sky. I must not look at a tree for longer than a minute, so my eyes won't trace patterns in the leaves. I must never look at the time for then it passes either too slow or too fast but never as I please. I must not do all those things so I can get some work done.

Other Names #8 and #9: Sahil and Mira

It had been three years since Sahil had last seen Mira. A lot had changed (physically) for Sahil in that time. His jaw had hardened to an angular shape, he had lost that baby beard that everyone made fun of and the unruly curls had been tamed to a neat close crop. He had returned to civilisation - unrecognisable beyond repair, as his friends often remarked. So, it came as a surprise when Sahil found himself looking at Mira, untouched by the passage of time. She still had the look of an alert school girl. Head held high, a neat round chin, wide thin-lipped mouth, snub nose, bright eyes and a forehead that was often flushed with effort or appreciation. She was finishing her thesis in Sanskrit from Xavier’s when they were together. Sahil always marvelled at how much the professors delighted in her – as though they were grateful for anybody who still took up ancient languages, especially for someone so gifted – but they were always worried as well. The problem Mira used to say, was becau

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