Episode 3 - Enter The Metropolis [From P For Pheesh]

I have been writing a weekly column for the Bengal based site - http://maamatimanush.tv - started by Derek O'Brien and associates since August 2013. I will be reproducing those articles here in my personal blog too. Here's part 2. [Original link]

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Every Kolkata taxi has a personal story to share with you and it does so through the ‘charms’ hanging from the rearview mirror, the miniature statues of idols and other paraphernalia on the dashboard carefully collected over years, and most importantly the cassettes (yes, they continue to live in these vehicles) that introduce you to the driver’s eclectic taste in music. While the scratchy music embraces you for the rest of the journey, the driver engages you with stories from his village or moffusil (a most favourite word in this part of the world) in Bihar, Jharkhand or Orissa. However, there are things that unite all of these black and yellow machines in their shared stories and that’s the unmistakable smell of rexine covered seats as soon as you enter, the rickety sounds the doors make whenever you close them or the taxi goes over a speed bump, the dirtiest piece of torn cloth, which had seen better days as a garment, tucked in the door by the driver’s side, or the ever popular “Jai Maa Kali” written in red letters on the ample behind of the car. 

Our taxi trundles out of the station compound, passing by the stalls with their charcoal stoves and narrow wooden benches getting ready for the lunch crowds to arrive. Every few minutes an overloaded yellow and red minibus with its destination stencilled in flowery fonts overtakes us. These are not manned by drivers, but by “pilots”. Don’t believe me? Check out the “pilot’s door” on any of these and put your doubts to rest. 

Dad would usually be sitting next to the driver in the front seat, with an air of authority over the roads of the city. My mom, sister and I would be sitting behind, suitably impressed with Dad yet again with that mighty skill every Bangali is proud of - knowing Kolkata’s roads and its millions of shortcuts. 

Although we would take the same route every time, the first view of the Ganga and the Howrah Bridge invariably drew a collective gasp inside the taxi. The ferries taking some of the late office goers into the city, across the watery lifeline of the capital. A few large ships floating around. Hundreds of bicycles, scooters, rickshaws, ‘thelas’, cars, buses and what not on the bridge. The sight never got old. 

We crossed the river. We entered the city. The faint winter humidity, sm

#HappyBirthdaySRK

Wish you all a very happy SRK Jayanti. May the festivities continue forever.

Having written these personal posts in 2005 and 2012, this year thought of looking at the star and his legacy. So the quizzer met the fan and here's what we have for you.

Sir & his ladies over the years

Call a star by any name he's still a star!

He's a hero, a super hero a mega hero and more

And this is how the years panned out

Feel free to play with the data here.

Episode 2 - Taxi & Beyond [From P For Pheesh]

I have been writing a weekly column for the Bengal based site - http://maamatimanush.tv - started by Derek O'Brien and associates since August 2013. I will be reproducing those articles here in my personal blog too. Here's part 2. [Original link]

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For all the talk about the lazy Bangali enjoying life in slow motion with a cup of milky tea and the morning paper, Howrah Station is an anomaly. It is in a perennial state of motion. There's more energy and speed on the platforms than the trains that chug into the terminal. Standing on the platform feels like being in those fast forward scenes in the movies where things around one character seem to move at a much faster, almost cartoon like pace.

Once off the train, the usual sequence of events would be Dad following the coolie - who seemed to be in a constant rush to catch the next train, all the way out of the station. Mom holding on to me and my sister with both hands, bags strewn over all our shoulders, following in the blazing trail left behind by the coolie and Dad. Remember, this is much before the age of cordless telephones, let alone cellphones. One goods laden cart coming between us would mean losing sight of Dad, and a series of frantic Lost & Found announcements from the Inquiry office.

If this wasn't enough, the road to the taxi stand would be laden with the land-mines of private drivers – ever ready to take you anywhere from Belghoria to Bulgaria (lifted that from an old Kolkata newspaper tag-line) for free, and give you a chilled Frooti for the honour.

Finally, after tackling the crowds, keeping up with the Usain Bolt-Yohan Blake combination of the porter and my father, and tactfully dodging the driver's promises of flying chariots, we'd reach the official taxi queue - row after row of the iconic yellow ambassador taxis waiting for their passengers; the guy at the pre-paid taxi counter, playing his match-making role of assigning passengers to their correct cars with unparalleled efficiency and boredom.

The sun starts to get stronger in its fight against the wintry morning around this time of the day. The smoke from the nearby food stalls make the air thick, and the smells of the last shingara (samosas) and tele bhaja (vegetable fritters) from breakfast start to get replaced with the aroma of starchy steamed rice and the frying of the fish about to go into the curry.

We finally reached the front of the queue, paid the fare to Jadavpur and started to load our bags into the cavernous boot of a yellow pre-paid taxi...