“Break the pattern. Teach your son he is a human being first” – Saheli Mitra

Posted: January 13, 2023 in Art, Indian Women, Inspiring stories, Men, parenting, Women
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Apart from the fact that Saheli Mitra is a journalist, writer, entrepreneur, nature lover and a beautiful soul, what I have always liked about her is that she is someone with a mind of her own. She is someone, who doesn’t think twice before challenging social perceptions and norms.

Over the years I have keenly followed Saheli’s writings in newspapers, websites and social media and I have always appreciated her for her in-your-face, bold views and an intrinsic urge to spearhead social change. So when Saheli floated the idea of a book like Mater it came as no surprise to me because this is something that only she can think of.

As Mater, published by Virasat Publications, heads for its grand launch on Sunday, January 15, 2023 at ICCR, I decided to ask Saheli a few questions around the book and she answers me in her inimitable style.

Why did you decide to bring out a book like Mater?

I was toying with the idea for long, since days when I would be often called on the podium at various events to talk on women empowerment. I somewhere felt the general rhetoric about Beti Bachao concept going round in India is somewhere robbing the sons off their rightful place too.

Also I felt if we cannot educate our sons and by education I mean proper upbringing by their mothers, then no daughter, woman, wife, mother can be saved. Women empowerment cannot be forced through, it has to be felt, respected equally by the men as well. It cannot aim at creating a divide between man and woman where a man will even feel frightened to touch a woman affectionately, in the fear that she might complain or raise a hue and cry.

Similarly a man should have enough respect since childhood and learn that both man and woman ultimately are human beings. There is absolutely no divide between them other than their sexuality.

Any particular reason for making the book in a letter format?

We have forgotten how to write letters; be it love letters, or any other. In this tech age we convey our emotions just through emails, WA chats and virtual connect. Hence letters are very important to me. I still love writing a letter or receiving a card. Letters are tools to connect.

A letter written by a mother can even be read years later by the son when the mother is no more. That’s the power a hand-written letter has. Hence I thought of bringing out this letter anthology.

A letter written by a mother can even be read years later by the son when the mother is no more. That’s the power a hand-written letter has.

– Saheli Mitra
The cover of Mater has been designed by Rhiti Chatterjee Bose and the book is conceived and edited by Saheli Mitra

What made you choose these writers to be a part of this anthology?

I floated the idea of this anthology first on my social media handles, as the founder and content head of my Content & Creative company Tales Talks & Walks (TTW). Many responded. Many, who I didn’t know personally, and I also sent the anthology idea to those who I know as well.

We got many letters, but we chose a few, maintaining the variety of letters and not making them similar. For example there is a mother who is fighting Cancer, one who writes to her adopted son, one who writes to her dear son who is no more, one who writes to Godsons and so on.

You end your preface by saying: Let our sons break the shackles of that patriarchy and not just daughters. Please elaborate.

I have already said why I chose sons. To elaborate I would like to take names of men like Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar, Raja Rammohan Roy and many many more who broke those shackles centuries back for the women to survive better. If these men were not there, who would have saved the women of India from Sati, child marriage and so on? Women did not save women, men did. Hence I thought of celebrating men and teaching sons how to be such compassionate, caring, loving souls; a teaching that only a mother can impart.

Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar, Raja Rammohan Roy and many many more broke those shackles centuries back for the women to survive better. If these men were not there, who would have saved the women of India from Sati, child marriage and so on?

Do you think these letters will make a difference in the discourse around patriarchy in India?

We have already sold 100 books in the first one week, even before the launch. I am sure and confident such out-of-the-box ideas can create wonders in their own ways rather than socialites discussing women empowerment from jazzy podiums. And as we all know, words will always survive, even years later, so these letters written from the heart by various mothers will definitely create an impact.

Do you feel modern women are successful in bringing up gender sensitive boys/men?

Not really. Rather I believe women across ages and generations and centuries have raised many of their sons much better than the confused modern woman can. Else stalwarts of yesteryears would not have been born.

In your opinion, what steps can a mother take to ensure her child is strong, sensitive and respectful to the opposite gender?

Breaking the pattern. Teaching a son, he is a human being first and not a ‘son.’

Sometimes working women are turning out to be supermoms while juggling home, work and homework. Do you feel this might lead to unrealistic expectations on the part of a boy who is brought up by a supermom?

Absolutely. Not just the son, the whole family takes advantage of that ‘super woman’ tag. I believe, as I myself had a 21-year full-time journalist job and now a 24-hour daily job of an entrepreneur, running a company like TTW, that a working woman should never be burdened with any expectation. We never burden a father with such expectations, then why a mother?

How did artist Rhiti Chatterjee Bose get involved with this book?

I have admired Rhiti’s work for a long time. Also I wanted a woman to do the cover design. Despite knowing many well-known artistes of Kolkata, I thought of approaching her for the cover and she instantly agreed, sending one of the best paintings possible. I was so so touched.

Do you plan to bring out any other anthology in future?

Everything happens to me suddenly. Nothing is planned. My life is an example of that. If I ever feel the tug to do something, I just do it. Frankly I have no idea, or no commercial purpose to bring out anthologies by taking payment, fees etc. As you know we did not take anything for this book. And thanks to the wonderful Virasat Publications who did the book on a traditional publishing format, quite rare these days. Partha da, Amit Shankar and Rituparna of Virasat are doing a great job in this direction.

What’s Bhai-Bon Phonta?

Posted: October 29, 2022 in Uncategorized
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Anshuman giving Bon Phonta to elder sister Enakshi.

Among all the photos of Bhai Phonta that were on FB, these photos caught my attention. Nayana Hajra, my college mate had captioned her photos Bhai-Bon Phonta. A small change, a simple change in the concept, but it could make a big difference.

Bhai Phonta is a predominantly Hindu ritual where the sister prays for a brother’s long life. With time it has become a day when the sisters give a grand feast for the brothers and they give them gifts, it’s a day of showering love and sharing bonhomie. It’s a beautiful ritual.

Nayana, who is the proud mother of two lovely children, daughter Enakshi (Tiya) who is in Class X and son Anshuman (Dabloo), who is in Class IV, decided to tweak the ritual a bit and make it relevant for both her children. So in her house there is Bhai-Bon Phonta, brother-sister give each other phonta.

As I got talking to Nayana she told me, “I don’t know when I started this but as far I remember it’s always been like this in my house. It was always on my mind that why sisters don’t have their share of rituals or primarily the attention. Why not equal love like equal rights?”

I don’t know when I started this but as far I remember it’s always been like this in my house. It was always on my mind that why sisters don’t have their share of rituals or primarily the attention. Why not equal love like equal rights?”

– Nayana Hajra

Nayana just went ahead and changed the line to: Didir kapale dilam phonta, Jom duare porlo kata, Jom deye Jamunake Phonta, Ami diyi amar Didike Phonta

It is said change begins at home. You create the world you want your children to grow up in, first at home then outside it.

Wonderful thought Nayana! Kudos!

Enakshi giving Bhai Phonta to her brother Anshuman.

For Nayana Hajra (right), Bhai-Bon Phonta is a ritual that preaches equality in love.

10 Reasons Why Ruskin Bond Is A Star

Posted: May 19, 2022 in Art, Children, Environment, Inspiring stories, Short Story
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Ruskin Bond. (Photo: From DNA)

I must admit I entered the world of Ruskin Bond rather late. I was well into my 30s when I first picked up a book by him and it was The Blue Umbrella. Since then I have gifted this book to at least a dozen people. After my first introduction to his writing I have devoured Bond’s works but there is no harm in admitting that only a few days back I finally got around to reading Bond’s debut novel The Room on the Roof.

The novel was written when he was 17 and was finally published when he was 21, because it took him that long to find a publisher. The semi-autobiographical novel is refreshingly simple, there are times you feel that it comes from the pen of a young man but the maturity with which he handles the storyline tells you that this young man was heading for big things right then.

Since his debut, Bond has written innumerable novels, ghost stories, short stories and children’s books and as he turns 88 today, on May 19, 2022, the best thing is he is still writing with gusto.

Here are 10 reasons why Ruskin Bond is one of the most read and loved authors of our times.

  1. His writing is simple but the moment you start reading you are sucked into the story and there is no escape till you read the last line.
  2. Bond writes about nature. He describes trees, takes you to the hills, takes you on a walk down winding roads, through quaint towns, through flower beds and water tanks, in a way that no programme on Discovery can do.
  3. What he writes comes directly from his heart and pierces yours as you move from one page to another, basking in a warm feeling.
  4. His keen observation of the people of the hills and the innocence and beauty of a child’s heart comes out again and again in his writing. My favourite character is Binya in The Blue Umbrella.
  5. Bond is living every author’s dream. He writes full-time and lives near nature in a simple house named Ivy Cottage in Landour, Mussoorie.   
  6. It’s not uncommon to spot fans standing next to the lamp post opposite his house just to catch a glimpse of him. Some even turn up unannounced to see their favourite author. Very few authors in India have this kind of popularity.
  7. Ruskin Bond is a delight at Lit fests and events. His star pull is such that people in the age range of 9-90 turn up to hear their favourite author speak or take his autograph. He continues to fascinate readers across generations.  
  8. Although he still answers a landline at home, he is a regular on Insta, has 129k followers and keeps them engaged in his inimitable style.
  9. He’s had a flourishing writing career for 67 years and is still going strong. (Whew!)
  10. His consistency is something that makes him who he is. He used the lockdowns to pen 10000 words.

And no he didn’t let the squirrels or the parrots, visiting his window, meddle with his concentration. He fed his furry friend nuts and went back to writing.  

Bond is living every author’s dream. He writes full-time and lives near nature in a simple house named Ivy Cottage in Landour, Mussoorie.

At 70 She Started Her Recipe Channel And Changed The Way We Look At Cooking

Posted: December 30, 2020 in Uncategorized
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  • Saswati Mukherjee with a dish she has prepared for her channel

On the last day of this difficult year I wanted to focus on a positive story. Saswati Mukherjee is an inspiration. Not only because at 70 she started her YouTube channel Ruchi Bodol where she shares her recipes, but she is a lady who could rise like the Phoenix and turn her grief into a creative endeavour.

Families who have lost a loved one to cancer will know how hard it is to see someone suffering from so much pain. Saswati Mukherjee went through all the travails of caring for a cancer patient. But when she lost her husband to cancer she didn’t allow grief to take over her life and wallow in self-pity.

Instead she started learning a new medium, taking videos of her recipes and launched her YouTube Channel. Her channel has been a source of new ideas to many people couped up at home in the pandemic this year.

It gives me great happiness to share Saswati Mukherjee’s interview on my blog and end this year on a positive note. Her words are so inspiring, her journey so wonderful.  

  • Tell us a bit about yourself.

Born in a conservative Hooghly family, I somehow grew up to be the rebel among six siblings. I had what they call an untamed soul — I climbed trees, ran track and dared boys to beat me in swimming. As a teen, I wanted to be a gymnast and began taking lessons behind my mother’s back. All was well till I broke my nose during a particularly difficult vault and my mother came to know. Oh, furious she was! As my sporty dream took a tumble, I steered all my energy into studying to become a teacher. Then, love happened. I married the most amazing man there was. And although I finished my BEd in Calcutta and received job offers, I decided to raise a family with this man instead of pursuing a career. At 70 today, I look back in joy and pride; no regrets at all.

  • How did cooking become your passion?

To be honest, cooking was never really a passion. In fact, when at 22 I tied the knot with my childhood sweetheart, I didn’t know how to make dim bhaja (that is what my husband liked to call an omelette).

But, I decided to learn the ropes after an attempt at bhindi paratha (a recipe he borrowed from a Gujarati family during a work trip to Ahmedabad) which turned into a slimy kitchen disaster.

– Saswati Mukherjee

An  aunt who was an excellent cook took me under her wing and I have never had to look back since.

  • Did the pandemic prompt you to start your YouTube channel on cooking?

No, a personal tragedy did. I lost my soulmate to cancer earlier this year and was on the verge of depression when our daughter came up with the idea. She suggested I rustle up recipes that her father made or loved, but for viewers on YouTube. Given the number of winters I have seen, I am understandably not tech-savvy and was reluctant at first. She convinced me that she would take care of filming/editing. While I miss my husband every waking minute, I must admit cooking for our channel #RuchiBodol is the best therapy I could ask for. It helps me connect with him at a whole new level.

  • How do you experiment with your recipes?

Besides our shared love for sports (both of us ran track), my husband and I were travel enthusiasts. Exploring new places almost always meant trying out local food.

On our trips across India, Asia, Europe and Latin America, we not just savoured local delicacies, but brought home recipes of sauces and table condiments, which I currently mix ‘n’ match to make fusion food. My daughter too comes up with ideas to keep me going.

  • Saswati Mukherjee with her late husband Gopal Chandra Mukherjee in Rome (2009)
  • What makes you the happiest when you are shooting for your channel?

The thought that he’s smiling at me from the happy isles. He loved my style of cooking and would have been thrilled to see me pursue it for an audience.

– Saswati Mukherjee
  • At your age not many people can start something new like this…how hard or how easy has it been for you?

It has been anything but easy. Not just because of age, but for what we’ve been through and are still going through. My husband survived a brain stem stroke in 2013 and I was his primary caregiver until he was detected with squamous cell carcinoma in November 2019. Lost him this January. Can anything be harder than losing your partner of nearly 50 years? But, I must admit that my family — my doting son-in-law in particular — has been my rock.

  • Would you say that you have turned the difficult times in your favour?

I would, wouldn’t you? We, as a family, have found the best possible way to cope with a tragedy. My personal irreparable loss dwarfs the pandemic for me.

  • Your recipes are very experimental and international, has your cooking always been like this?

Like I mentioned before, my recipes are rooted in our travels. Hence, the international flavour. The main objective is to prepare something offbeat and delicious — just the way my husband liked it.

  • What is the greatest satisfaction of having your own recipe channel?

My daughter says every new subscriber, every thumbs up, every comment brings a smile on my face. She is not wrong. Being acknowledged for these recipes, which for me are trips down the memory lane, does bring a sense of accomplishment. And, I can feel him putting his hands together for me.

  • Do you have any favourite YouTubers you look up to?

Well, I have always loved watching cooking shows on television. Nowadays, I follow the likes of Gordon Ramsay, Rachael Ray, Sanjeev Kapoor, Varun Inamdar and Ranveer Brar on YouTube.

  • You are an inspiration for the next generation. What is your message to them?

Dale Carnegie, whom my husband often quoted, once wrote “the most important things in the world have been accomplished by people who have kept on trying when there seemed to be no hope at all”. If I can be a YouTuber in my seventies, nothing should stop GeNext from following their dreams. Remember, you are always stronger than you think. 

If you liked this beautiful interview from an inspiring lady go ahead and subscribe to her channel Ruchi Bodol. It’s a great way to start the year, isn’t it?

“My teacher demanded tea and toast at midnight”

Posted: September 5, 2020 in Teacher, WPrightnow
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Tea and butter toast. Pix: From the Internet

It was 10pm. We had finished dinner, but we were expecting a visitor. My parents had stopped watching the news and my late brother was pacing up and down the sitting room. I was with my books at the dining table pretending to concentrate. I should have known this would happen. My table tennis buddies at the swimming club, who had recommended his name had also warned me about this, his late night appearances and his generally wayward sense of timing.

“But he is a brilliant teacher. He will make you love math. But it could also happen that he would disappear for days and then reappear suddenly, that too at midnight,” they had said.

“At midnight!” I had gulped.

I was lucky though. Since I was a girl, he had chosen a more ‘respectable’ 10pm.

So here I was waiting for my teacher Prodosh Sen, whom I called Gobuda, who was a career medical representative, part-time math tutor and passionate swimming director at Indian Life Saving Society, better known as Anderson Club, which I frequented.

He finally rang the bell at almost 10.30pm. I could see the throbbing vein on my father’s stiffened temples and that unsure look on my mom’s face about the choice of a tutor.

“Can I have some tea and toast with butter and sugar on it?” he asked while taking off his shoes.

Instantly the tense atmosphere in my home dissipated. He had asked for his evening staple. As if that convinced us it was only 7 pm.

My mother headed to the kitchen, father to the bedroom and brother to his room. Gobuda joined me at the dining table.

The class went on till midnight. When he got up to leave, my brother escorted him downstairs to open the lock of the collapsible gate.

He came up the stairs laughing.

“Gobuda started walking down the road shadow practising badminton. And the dogs followed him barking,” he said.

But there was no surprise there. Walking that 2km stretch in the dark of the night, working on his badminton moves was life to my tutor. He was usually walking back from a night show of a Hindi movie, if not from a student’s home or from a friend’s place after late-night adda.

My first day with my tutor

On the first day he came to teach me, I was already solving my Class X test papers. So I wanted him to solve five sums that weren’t coming easily to me.

Gobuda went from one sum to another, downed cups of tea, scratched out numbers on the blank sheet, mumbled a lot and then a solid one hour later he told me the sums weren’t coming easily to him either.

I could have been aghast at the shortcoming of the highly-recommended, star tutor. Or I could have quickly jumped to the conclusion that my own math standards were already so exalted that a seasoned tutor was struggling. But I just smiled.

He pushed back his disheveled hair and threw up his arms in a gesture of surrender.

“I couldn’t do a single sum, so you decide if you want to employ me,” was his candid confession.

“You are just nervous,” I said instead.

He looked at me sheepishly. I was 15 he was 33. The student-teacher tables had turned.

“Come back tomorrow. If you still can’t do the sums. We will see,” I said smugly.

That was exactly 30 years back. But that was probably the best decision I had taken in my life.

teachers day post

Photo by Thought Catalog on Pexels.com

The unconventional teaching style

Gobuda’s teaching style was as unconventional as his maverick lifestyle. If he got engrossed in math, he could sit there for four hours at a stretch, with his feet pulled up on the chair, not thinking once if the time devoted was proportionate to his pay.

He flashed a winning smile every time he solved a math problem or my mother got him tea and butter-toast with sugar liberally sprinkled on it.

I got 88 in my math paper in my Class X board exams. If the 100 per cent scoring young brigade is already laughing, then let me tell you, 30 years back that was really high marks. And to someone like me who had not scored beyond 50 all her life, it was really a big deal made possible by Gobuda’s passion for math and his capability to make me love it too.

But my association with my eccentric teacher did not end there. In plus 2 he taught me Economics. I did well in that too.

When I took up Sociology in graduation, I would make him sit and tell him what I had learned just to get an idea if I had prepared well. The same system continued in my masters. He never agreed to take a pay to listen to my passionate talk on Michel Foucault and Erving Goffman, but as long there was tea and toast he was all concentration.

Influence of teachers in our life

There’s no denying the fact that Gobuda was one of a kind, but in this article I want to focus on the influence of teachers on our life and how long-lasting that influence could be.

At South Point School, where I studied – which incidentally was the school where Nobel laureate Abhijit Banerjee also went – teachers were held in the highest esteem. They could slap, shout, rebuke, love, teach with passion, solve your personal problems, lend an ear to a complaining parent- they were like multi-tasking juggernauts who only had the welfare of the students in mind (without a question.)

And like Gobuda, they had their eccentricities as well. In fact, these eccentricities of some of our teachers became like legends that were handed down from generation to generation as classroom gossip.

But despite all eccentricity and oddity, their passion for teaching or their allegiance to their students was never in doubt.

We grew up respecting and loving our teachers with all our hearts and in all the years we went to school, not for once did it cross our mind that it was with our parents’ money that paid their salaries, an attitude that is pervasive among students in many elite schools today.

Our parents also never disregarded what the teachers said. They treated a guardian call with as much seriousness as we treated it with fear.

Read: Jashodhara Hanafi, the teacher who taught us love

Teachers in the online world

This Teacher’s Day is different from all the previous ones solely because teaching has shifted from the classroom to the virtual realm the world over.

As people struggle with the fear of a pandemic, job loss, forced lockdowns and suffer from mental health disorders, teachers are busy planning lessons, creating PPTs to make classes interesting and not for a moment do they forget to bring their appreciation and humour to their virtual class.

Some insensitive people have charged at them with the brickbats too, but unfazed by criticism they continue to do what they do best – teach.

Read: Short Story: A Teacher’s Lockdown Lessons

They have emerged as the superheroes of the new world. Happy Teacher’s Day to them.

 

PS: Gobuda still gives tuitions and his fan following comprises students who are settled the world over now. 

teachers day

Gobuda with one of his little fans Barbie (Pix from Facebook)

Short Story: A Shield For The Security Guard

Posted: May 18, 2020 in Inspiring stories, Men, Short Story, WPrightnow
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Photo taken from the Internet. Source

Biman saw a big plastic packet sitting on the Security Guard’s table adjacent to the gate of the building. It looked like a few boxes of cakes. He could see the name of the bakery written on top of the packet. Not the usual ones that Swiggy brings into the building. This one must have come directly from the bakery in their van, thought Biman. He had been away from the gate on a washroom break.

Since no deliveries were allowed to go beyond the gate, things were left at the guard’s table usually, from where the residents picked it up. Not always though…

Many had become so lazy since lockdown happened two months back that they refused to walk those ten steps to the gate to pick up their stuff. They would inevitably make a call to the security guards and ask them to drop it off at their flats.

The company that Biman worked for, which had a contract with the building that he was guarding now, had strictly ordered them not to run errands unless it was emergency medicines for aging residents. So, when the calls came to deliver the pizzas, the biryani, the groceries left by Amazon, the fish left by the fish seller, to the respective apartments, Biman had to say a firm “no”. Then they would request, command and threaten him over the phone.

All for what, so that they didn’t have to step out of their front doors, thought a hassled Biman.

“They are shamelessly heckling the guards to make their easy life even easier. The morons never think I am doing my job and nothing else,” an irate Biman lamented.

Yes, the guards had a few jobs less now, of opening the gates when the cars came in, of jotting down the registration numbers of the Ubers, of getting the guests to sign the register, or keeping an eye on the maids.

But he had ensured that none of those para guys could walk in and ask for money from the residents as they had been doing in other buildings. And when some people came at night saying that they were from the Municipality checking every apartment to make sure no one had fever, Biman had repeatedly asked for their ID that they failed to show. He kept the gates firmly locked.

He had ensured every single person who walked inside the gates used the hand sanitiser, he had made sure the lift surfaces, the stair banisters were cleaned twice a day. He had taken on the mantle of the caretaker, who used to come in the local train. Biman switched on the pump on time, made the gardener cut the wild shrubs, maintained the lift, saw to it that waste was cleared from every home properly by the sweeper.

Despite that it was one undelivered pizza that became the bone of contention. The building president told him that he could have just delivered the box to the lady since she was single and old. Biman had retorted that her young niece had been living with her since lockdown, a fact the president didn’t seem to know.

The old lady had complained about Biman to the building committee. She had told them that she found him ogling at the women and watching porn on his mobile while on duty. The president assured him he didn’t believe her.

“I know you are a good guy. But it’s not in my hands. We might have to let your company know…”

“And then…?” Biman asked, the anger building up in his throat.

“We will see.” He said. His face gleaming with the power he felt on another person’s life decisions.

Biman’s cheeks were burning up. Now would he have to deal with a lifetime of shame for one woman’s laziness?

He thought of his everyday fight with his wife. She worried that he interacted with so many strangers and went back home to sleep with his 3-year-old daughter.

“Can’t you do something else?”

“What else?”  Biman would scream. “People don’t have jobs now. You should be thankful I am still drawing a salary.”

Biman sat at the guard’s chair, crestfallen.

*

“No one took that packet yet?” asked Monohar, Biman’s colleague.

Biman looked at the packet disdainfully.

“You should see them when the bakery van comes these days. They come down in hordes as if cakes are what they are living for. No social distancing, no masks, their tongues touching the ground in gluttony,” chuckled Manohar.

Piya was walking down the driveway towards the guards table. Biman looked away.

“God knows what this young woman thinks about me. A pervert or a good man?”

“Biman da, Monohar da, ei packet ta tomader (this packet is for you),” she said.

“What’s there?” asked Manohar eagerly.

“Some cakes and chicken patties for you,” said Piya.

Biman remained expressionless. Manohar had already opened a box. A grin lit up his face.

“Biman da tumi toh jhor tuleccho (you have raised a storm),” said Piya.

Biman looked at her stunned. She already knew about his shame.

“My mom said that all the women in this apartment have stood up for you in the WhatsApp group saying you are a gem of a person. All allegations against you are false,” smiled Piya.

“Nao ebare cake khao tomra (now you guys have some cake). Ma has ordered this for you.”

Biman looked down, at his own gleaming shoes. He couldn’t let Piya see his tears.

– By Amrita Mukherjee

Read More Short Stories On Lockdown

Short Story: The Maid’s Home

Short Story: A Teacher’s Lockdown Lessons

Short Story: Feluda And The Covid 19 Death Case

Short Story: In Love With Social Distancing

Short Story: Washing the milk

Short Story: A Teacher’s Lockdown Lessons

Posted: May 14, 2020 in Short Story, Teacher, WPrightnow
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Picture from the Internet

I am used to the morning rush. Everyone is, when they have kids going to school and a job to keep. But I find something unsettling about this rush hour now. I am up as usual at 5 am preparing breakfast, finishing the day’s cooking and cleaning up the kitchen before I rush…yes, rush nowhere.

The kids head from the bathroom to the bedroom; I walk from the kitchen to the sitting-room couch and my husband stays put where he is, at the dining table. We have only two laptops at home and we are those middle-class parents who want to give their children the best. My husband and I juggle our jobs on the tab and the smart phone, depending on necessity.

Today there was another necessity, one that was making me edgy. Singing has never been my forte.

I could see from the corner of my eye that bewildered look on my husband’s face. He has never heard me singing, and I had forgotten to warn him that I would be making an exception today.

Seeing his expression I felt laughter threatening to wreck me from within, but I kept singing keeping myself stoic.

It’s Rabindranath Tagore’s birthday today. If schools had been open, functions would have been held; we would have decked up with flowers in our hair and helped the children dress up for the stage.

My voice lacked rhythm, but still I sang with passion as if to hold on to that last bit of my root, my reality that has suddenly become boxed into the gadget that I was holding in my hand.

The mobile has become like my extended body part. It’s constantly pinging with messages and there are at least 10 WhatsApp groups, some of which have students, guardians and teachers in them. There have been a couple of mornings when I switched on the data and no messages came. I was pretty sure that very day I would be asked to put in my papers; I would be told of my inability to cope.

Or maybe they wanted to do to me what they had done to my colleague. Snatched away her classes because she had supposedly been fumbling and asked to log into classes held by younger, tech-savvy teachers and learn from them.

I instantly messaged a colleague.

“Did you get any messages?”

“None today. Very strange,” came her reply.

My stomach had already started tumbling like the insides of a washing machine. It halted.

There isn’t a moment in the day when I am gadget free. When online classes end, the training starts; how to talk, how to make PPTs, how to make online lesson plans, how to deal with the chats and emojis the kids throw up (the kisses and skulls being the favourite and the poop and the bikini occasional aberrations) and then there’s the psychologist as well telling us teachers how to stay calm. I look at the last one as the most important lesson of the day, because I do end up screaming hysterically for my husband or my elder son’s help if I am unable to make those PPTs or unmute the Zoom mic. Power Point was Hebrew to me till lockdown happened. Actually so many things are, still.

For starters I am competitive, but I really have not grasped what’s there to be competitive about PPTs. The slides are worked on, embellished and submitted with an attitude that these works of art will land us a space in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. Then there are the relentless comparisons, praises and criticism. Sometimes I feel like laughing but then I have to put in my best. I can’t let my position as one of the best teachers slip. I have worked hard for it for so long. I can’t let a virus kill it.

Photo by Julia M Cameron on Pexels.com

In my 20 years of teaching experience the thought had never occurred to me that I would start teaching a new batch of students never seeing them in person for once, but I would know how their bedroom looks, I would marvel at the colour of their walls or make a mental note of the chic dressing table design to be passed on to my carpenter, some day.

Neither did I have a clue that one day I will have to see some of my students’ fathers without a shirt.

Some of the fathers have developed the habit of hovering around the kids in their boxers showing off their rotund paunches in their shirtless avatars. The first time this happened, I can’t even begin to tell you how shocking it was. I complained. My colleagues complained. The management sent out mails that guardians should not be around kids. It stopped for some time. Then someone would suddenly appear in the frame by “mistake” and move away only after ensuring that you are unnerved enough by their uncouthness. Within weeks we learned to mask the unease and carry on as if nothing had happened. There is too much on our plate anyway, a half-naked guardian couldn’t possibly merit our precious time.

And then there are the moms. You would know they are sitting next to the ward listening in intently. Your instincts just tell you they are there, helicoptering. Isn’t this like a dream-come-true for an obsessive mom, the ability to sit next to her child as they take the class? In my online classes I have faced more questions than I have answered in my entire career, needless to say, all prompted by the invisible helicopters.

I have always prided myself to be teaching in one of the elite institutions of Kolkata that comes with the best facilities and best marks. But now I often wish I worked in a lesser-known school that has not been able to put their online act together because they lack the infrastructure, finances or even the will to do so and wish to wait it out till schools re-open.

People talk about spotting rainbows in the sky, click photos of the cottony clouds bathed in the hues of a pink sunset, see the flowers bloom and marvel at the appearance of new species of birds on the window panes, but I have failed to notice any of that. I only know the day has glided into the evening when the fights over the laptops start. My 14-year-old son needs to get the worksheets done, my 10-year-old daughter has to send back her homework and prepare for her impending online exams and I need to make the PPTs, send back the reports of my online classes and sit in at the zoom meetings.

We argue over who gets priority on the laptop like we are fighting for a piece of bread in a concentration camp. But they always win, inevitably.

“You anyway have to help me with my homework, ma,” my daughter says.

Life has done a volte face for her too. I soften instantly thinking who is finding it harder, she or me? The bored, sleepy, yawning faces of my students flash through my mind.

So I am up till late in the night finishing my work when the house has been silenced by slumber. My day never ends. The morning rush goes with me to bed.

*

I had finished my classes yesterday when suddenly my daughter came rushing to me.

“Ma in my Bengali class they are asking for opposites. I don’t know these, please help.”

Without even thinking for a second I jotted down the opposites for my daughter so that she could answer in “class”.

I then realised what I did. I just prompted my daughter in her class. Like the helicopter moms.

– Amrita Mukherjee

 

 

 

 

 

Short Story: Feluda And The Covid 19 Death Case

Posted: May 2, 2020 in Short Story, survival, WPrightnow
Tags: , , ,
12

This illustration is taken from Saikat Sarkar’s page

“For the last couple of days I have been noticing you are reading books on World War I. Why is that?” Lalmohan babu asked Feluda.

He was sprawled on the settee in Feluda’s drawing room, his head resting on the cushion placed on one hand-rest and his feet up on the other. Two days prior to the lockdown, Lalmohan babu’s manservant had left for his village and that’s when Feluda had insisted that his friend shift to his home at Rajani Sen Road, at Ballygunge.

“At this age you don’t have to fend for yourself all alone. If you are staying with us, I will feel more assured,” Feluda had said, flashing his rare smile.

What was meant to be a lockdown of 15 days had extended to 40 days now and Lalmohan babu, as always, marveled at Feluda’s prudence.

“I am not exactly reading about the World War I, I am rather reading about the Spanish Flu pandemic that took over the world when the war ended in 1918. Then also schools, religious institutions and business centres were closed, people were asked to wear masks, stay at home and practice social distancing,” said Feluda.

He did not look up from his book.

“Ki bolcchen moshai, taai naki? (What are you saying? Really?)”

Lalmohan babu had sat up, alert.

Researchers are now trying to use the lessons learnt during the Spanish Flu to contain this coronavirus pandemic. At that time 500 million people were infected and almost 50 million died, but there was no chance of developing medicines or vaccines then. So, before you start hyperventilating and coming up with Doomsday predictions, let me say it’s not that bad a situation now.”

Feluda’s face was still expressionless, but he looked at his friend fleetingly with reassuring eyes.

“You have your online Literary Meet in half an hour. Have you prepared?” asked Topshe as he entered the room after finishing his online classes.

Lalmohan babu looked perplexed. He kept looking at the Kindle tab he was holding in his hand, his expression a trifle dejected.

“My books are on this machine and now literary meets are online. I can’t cope with this Tapesh.”

Topshe worried that Lalmohan babu would start crying. He hadn’t been in the best mental state in the last few days.

“I will help you out. Let’s create a structure of what you will talk about,” said Topshe quickly.

“Idea! Idea!” shouted Lalmohan.

He was literally jumping up and down clappping his hands and Topshe stepped back.

“Like I write under the pseudo name Jatayu, I can have a lit meet as a pseudo person. Tapesh you will be Jatayu in this online meet. You will do this for me right? Won’t you?”

Now it was Topshe’s turn to look aghast.

Then it suddenly happened. Lalmohan babu sneezed. Another one followed quickly.

He breathlessly ran to the window, peeped through the curtain.

“Nobody around thankfully,” he heaved a sigh of relief looking at the deserted road.

Feluda was watching all these histrionics quietly.

“Your phone is ringing,” he told Lalmohan babu.

*

Feluda reached for his cigarettes. The packet was not where it was always placed. Forgetful was the last thing you could call Feluda, but smoking was a very old habit and the hands went for the packet spontaneously. Then his brain got into action and reminded him he had just kicked the butt.

He had been planning to give up smoking for a long time and the lockdown gave him the right pretext. Cigarettes weren’t an “essential” he was going to go out for he had decided.

Lalmohan babu was back to his old position on the settee. The call that had come in the morning had pushed him into immense grief. His niece had contracted the dreaded coronavirus and died in the morning, he was informed.

“Even yesterday morning she had sent me a greeting video on WhatsApp. She never said she was unwell or anything.” Lalmohan babu was murmuring.

“In the last few days she never told you about a fever or cough or anything?” asked Feluda.

“Na moshai! Even a couple of days back she had cooked chicken kasha and paratha and uploaded on Facebook. I can’t believe she is no more.”

Lalmohan babu wiped his tears with a white handkerchief.

“Who told you she had Covid 19?”

“Her husband. He told me he had asked all relatives not to turn up since he had quarantined himself.”

“Did he call the concerned authorities to take your niece to the crematorium?”

“No, he said he had called the family doctor, who gave the death certificate. He had called the hearse and taken the body to the crematorium. After that he went into self quarantine.”

“Milcchey naa! Hisheb milcchey naa. (It’s not adding up) ”                                                    

Feluda looked out of the window at the blooming chrysanthemum tree, a furrow clouding his forehead.

“Do you have any of her recent photos?” he asked suddenly.

“Many! She sent her selfies frequently with her morning greeting.”

Feluda peered at the photos after magnifying those in the smartphone.

“I am sure you never noticed the marks,” he said after returning the phone to his friend.

“Marks! What marks?”

“She was abused frequently. The nicks and cuts are all over her face. She used to hide it with make-up.”

“Abused! You think so? She was such a happy girl. She never told me anything about abuse.”

“Very few talk about it Lalmohan babu. Do you know their family doctor who gave her death certificate?”

“Yes I know him. I have his number even. I had gone to him once when my house physician was out of town.”

Feluda called the doctor. He had thought he would be a tough nut to crack, but the opposite happened.

“Prodosh babu please help me,” the doctor pleaded.

The man came to my house with a gun at midnight. Took me to his place. He had shoved his wife down the stairs. She had died on the spot. She had a weak heart. I wrote heart attack in the death certificate. I didn’t want to do this. Please can you help?”

“So she didn’t have Covid 19?” asked Feluda.

“Covid! Who said Covid?”

“Now it’s crystal clear. The husband is saying it’s Covid, so that no one would go to his place and he wouldn’t have to give any explanation. If he is in self quarantine people would stay miles away from him.”

Feluda’s next call went to the Police Commissioner.

*

“I can’t imagine you solved a case in one day and that too sitting at home,” said Lalmohan babu.

“This is the new way. Work from home or WFH,” said Feluda.

They were at lunch. Piping hot khichudi was being served.

“I have been seeing you are wasting your time sulking at home Lalmohan babu. You could have very much finished your next mystery novel during this time. I even have the title chalked out – Covider Kobole (In the grip of Covid).”

Lalmohan babu was sprinkling pepper on the khichudi. His eyes widened and his lips broke out into an effervescent smile.

Then it happened. A sneeze came. A resounding one.

– By Amrita Mukherjee

Disclaimer: On Satyajit Ray’s birthday today May 2,2020 this story is written as a tribute to his Feluda. In no way this is an attempt to plagiarise the characters he created.

If you want to read on Ray’s mother Suprabha Ray click here.

Short Story: Washing the milk

Posted: April 28, 2020 in Indian Women, Men, survival, WPrightnow
Tags: , ,
0

Picture taken from the Internet

7 am. The doorbell rang. It took her a bit of time to get out of bed. The young man at the door knew that. So he waited patiently.

“No bread today?” she asked him.

“No supply. But I got cream rolls and cakes,” he said.

Devika Roy liked the idea. At 75, her breakfast had suddenly turned from the usual butter and bread to cream rolls and cake. Apart from the sweet swirl the cream rolls produced in her mouth, she liked the fact that it meant one job less of putting the bread in the toaster and applying butter.

“Did you wash the milk?” The daughter-in-law emerged from the bedroom. She was wearing a frown, the urgency in her voice, disturbing.

“Wash the milk….?” Devika couldn’t quite understand what that meant.

“It’s been a month now and I still have to check. If I don’t check I know you will not do it,” she said gruffly.

Without a word, Devika put the packets of milk under the tap.

“With soap…wash it with soap.” The daughter-in-law commanded.

Devika found her intolerable. Even a month back she was the one taking all the decisions at home. Her daughter-in-law would leave for work, return late in the evening, look after the boy’s homework and retire to bed. Milk packets and groceries were never her thing.

Now she would stand at the kitchen all day like a slave master with a whip and one slip and there was no escape from her fury. All packets brought from outside were cleaned with Dettol, all veggies washed immediately in warm water, she would keep telling everyone to wash their hands, she wouldn’t allow the kid to even go to the terrace, because other residents were going there as well and, she let go of the maids, even the full-time maid. When she wanted to go to her village pre-lockdown, her daughter-in-law just agreed without discussing it with Devika. She found that unacceptable.

Had it been some other time, Devika was sure that her daughter-in-law would have been sent to an asylum, but now her son was beaming and lauding her constantly for keeping the family “safe”.

Mad paranoia, that is what it should be called, thought Devika with a smirk. To someone who had survived diphtheria and cholera as a child, four bouts of malaria in her youth, typhoid in her middle age and dengue in her old age, how could some vague virus really matter?

She even shouted like a mad woman at Devika a few days back when she opened the door to the building security guard, who had come to tell them that he wouldn’t be reporting to duty since he was burning with fever.

“He was saying he had fever and you were talking to him? You even told him to wait and you would get the medicines? Are you crazy?” she shouted.

Crazy, she had called her crazy!! The tears had clouded the corner of her eyes, but her daughter-in-law had completely ignored it. Her son had come to her room and told her to take a break from dish washing for a few days instead.

“I will do it Ma. You rest,” he said.

“You? Your father never did it. I have never seen any man do it in our family,” said Devika.

“It’s okay. Times have changed Ma. You just take rest,” he said.

Devika had stayed in her room since then. Just taking the morning milk remained her job. She didn’t go out much anyway. It was the street below her bedroom window that had always kept her entertained. The street had suddenly died like her daughter-in-law’s emotions.

Her son called her to lunch. She expected the usual boiled potatoes and dal. Her son wasn’t going out to get fish. Her daughter-in-law wouldn’t allow him to go to the bazaar. For the first time in her life, Devika had lived without fish for a month.

Devika sat at the table with a straight face. She didn’t want to get into any conversation on cleaning, sanitizing and the rising number of Corona cases. It nauseated her.

There was rui maccher jhol (rohu fish curry) laid out on the table.

“We got a guy to deliver fish. I know it’s been hard for you,” said the daughter-in-law.

Devika noticed her face had softened, probably for the first time since lockdown.

The overpowering smell of Dettol came from the surface of the table. Devika usually puckered her nose and went through the staid reality called lunch. But now the smell of freshly-cooked fish transcended the pungent odour. Transcended everything.

– By Amrita Mukherjee 

Short Story: In Love With Social Distancing

Posted: April 10, 2020 in Love, Short Story, WPrightnow
Tags: ,
2

Social Distancing. Pix from the internet.

He badly needed a haircut. He hadn’t been to the gym for a month now. In his profession work from home was not possible. He was tired of mopping the floor and doing the dishes. He thought Covid 19 was a ploy to keep people at home and there was something more to this.

“What do you think it is Meera?” He asked in a huff.

“Surveillence? Are we going to have George Orwell’s 1984 now? Or is it an online experiment? To see how the world can function through the net? Do you think 5G will be introduced soon? Or is it a reboot of the environment? Or was the economic collapse coming anyway and now Covid 19 will be blamed?”

He was almost out of breath.

Meera listened to her man’s rant. It happened every day – morning, evening, night – over the phone. No matter what he said he was never in a hurry to hang up, like before. Meera savoured that. He was serious, frustrated, angry about being locked down at home for 18 days and she was smiling. She thanked her lucky stars they weren’t on video chat. Otherwise her smile would have amplified his anger.

While he was upset, she had found peace. The lockdown had changed her from inside. The ever anxious, watchful girlfriend had suddenly become calm, chilled out. Like every other relationship, hers wasn’t perfect. But she sometimes felt they fought more often than they spoke sweet nothings. They were always at loggerheads because love had a strange way of bringing polar opposites together.

She was a college lecturer, bordering on the introvert, had few friends and her weekends meant staying home, reading or meeting her boyfriend for a movie or dinner. He was a dashing corporate climber for whom networking meant everything. He could be doing that at corporate parties, at the clubs or at the nightclubs he frequented with his gang of friends on weekends.

She was always telling him to slow down. She found his extraneous social interactions loathsome.

Two people greeting with a hug. Pix taken from the internet.

 

And those “hugs?” Uggh!

“Hello hug” he called them but she hated those women coming so close to greet him every time. They had so many fights over it. He found it preposterous that she felt so strongly about just a “greeting hug” and she felt it was ridiculous that intrusion into personal space was called a greeting. A handshake was good enough, why was there the need for a hug?

The world would follow the namaskar now. Meera thought. The Indian namaskar, her beloved namaskar.  Prince Charles had already started. Not long before India would follow.

“You are right if we go by what Yuval Noah Harari is saying, then we might be stepping into a lifetime of surveillance because we care for our health. Our health would be tracked along with our movements to keep the population safe,” she finally said, realizing it had been a one-sided rant so far.

The world might come under surveillance now, but her surveillance on him would end. Those anxious thoughts of women hugging, women getting too close to her beloved, would finally rest in peace.

Social distancing gave her what three years of arguments could not achieve. The pandemic would end, but the fear of the virus would remain. People wouldn’t probably shake hands anymore, let alone greet with a hug.

Silently in her mind she said, “Thank you social distancing, please always stay.”

*

 

Another short story I wrote about life in lockdown:

The Maid’s Home

 

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