An Outcast

He never played football.

He was excellent in knitting wool.
He watched daily soaps with hell bent interest.
Thamma was his best friend.

She taught him how to cook Enchor chingri.
He always enjoyed male attention in school.
Dad was always his hero.
He never really understood;  

Why his college mates called him a sissy.

He walked. He talked. Quite normally.

Yet he always found girls giggling at him.
He had friends. They asked him to come out of his closet.
He never felt closeted. He only felt outcast. 
Then he fell in love. With her.

Parents breathed a sigh of relief.

Their son was normal, after all.

Little did they know, he's been in love before.

That died within him. Like his dancing.

He still cooks. His son loves football.

He cooks for him. His son plays the guitar.

Quietly he taps his foot to his tune. His son is not like him.

 But every time he prepares Enchor chingri;

His son says "Dad you are a star!”

He lives in moments.

His heart dances in triumph.

An outcast. His son's star cast.

Deja Vu

I was dreaming. Extensive dream.

 It was my daughter’s wedding.

How beautiful she looked.

Always different from the crowd.

Her plain white cotton saree, with a brownish border.

Draped in old-school fashion.

Her hair, almost like mine, a mess.

She was smoking her favourite brand.

I hated this habit of her.

Why has she become so much like me?

An elaborate buffet was laid by the sea.

Oh yes, she always wanted a beach wedding.

The blue shamiyana, the flying lanterns.

Perfect décor.

I was cringing in sleep.

I was not apprehensive. I was depressed.

Very depressed.

It’s normal.

A daughter’s marriage brings a lot of pain with it.

Does it?

Then why have I not felt alone when she was abroad?

The groom is with her.

That man- So bewilderingly handsome. With wavy grey hair.

Age has made him more confident.

Drinking his signature brand. Whisky- always.

His index finger grazing her nape.

And that familiar interruption;

As my daughter lights her second cigarette.

They signed the paper. The way I signed a few months back.

A clear sound of Rabindrasangeet played in some juke box.

I remember the rendition. A Sarad jugalbandee.

His favourite, then mine, now my daughter’s too.

The lights are fading in the horizon.

The phosphorus glowing in the waves.

Guests are busy with the elaborate cuisine.

Where is my daughter?

I can’t find her. I have the old apprehension again.

Once she was late from her school.

Her pool car had a tyre-puncture.

I remember losing my head.

I was SO helpless.  I feel the same now.

Her friends have gathered near the bar counter.

Some look familiar. I still can’t find her.

Then the vision drenches me.

Is she living that dream?

Consummating her marriage by the sea?

She always wanted that. Or was it me who desired that.

How oddly similar is her mess of hair.

The strategic dimple- that’s also mine.

When did she become me?

I signed my divorce last evening.

My baby girl is still in my womb.

It’s normal.

You have such hysteric dreams;

 When you are pregnant with a girl.

Is it?

Then why do I wake up drenched?

You are sweating dear woman.

You are stressed.

Must be so. Must be so.

A sigh passed my mouth.

I am sorry. I forgot to attend her wedding.

Who’s wedding? Asked the voice again.

I was blank, as the voice replied.

It’s your second marriage in a month.

It’s time to be happy again.

Is it?

Must be so. Must be so.

Food for Walk

The other day I was having a whatsapp chat with a cousin. She is a Techie working in Mumbai. While we were casually discussing food, I mentioned a plate of sumptuous Doi Cheeray (Curd with beaten rice and a bit of sugar) that I had in Bentinck Street, Calcutta. She was astonished. "Doi Cheeray, that too in a roadside stall? Are you kidding me?!" was her response. 

She is no exception. Many people, unknown to the typical office para (Office area) food culture of this city, would react in the same way. By street food I however do not mean the usual thoroughfare like Phuchka, Jhaal muri, Bhelpuri, chaat. What I mean is comprehensive meal. And that too at a very cheap price. 

There are many alleys and footpaths in this mad city where food is an eternal carnival. Chandni Chowk is one such hotspot.

Pressure mounting in mid week? No time for an elaborate lunch? Walk down the LIC Gully of Chandni Chowk (An alley surrounded by LIC buildings) and meet the most efficient Chowmein maker on earth! He handles atleast 5 customers at a time, and that too with amicable patience. Every customer has his/her own demands. "Don't put cabbage", "'Avoid the cucumbers". "Make it fresh with eggs and soya, please". And this man, never gets confused. He will pack you the much customized Chowmein that will leave you full and satisfied. And with an add-on of 7/- you get a piece of boneless chilli chicken!

From Paratha to Luchi, From Chholey Bhaturey to Biriyani, from Idli-Dosa to Litti Chokha, from Palak Paneer to Dim kosha- you name it they have it. Every stall has its own fan-following. Ever-thronging food stops, catering to thousands of hungry people. They do not lose their temper, ever-smiling. Cooking, serving and calculating. Multi-tasking at its best.

Wait! What are we missing here? Beverage and dessert? Chandni Chowk will make you meet the Hooghly Sweetmen. They travel in local train carrying the best sweets of Chandannagore and Chinsurah . If you have an intense sweet tooth, you can even lunch on these mouth watering sweets. From milk-clad Roshomadhuri, Nolen Gurer Rossogolla, Kaalojaam or the true-blue Bengali Malpoa- you'll be spoilt for choice. You gotta rush to reach their stall. If the clock goes beyond 3pm, you will be greeted by empty trays and empty bowls.

After a satiating lunch and dessert, burp with a glass of chilled lassi, served in clay containers. And trust me, your hunger quenched, your mind relaxed and your pocket would not even feel the pinch. In LIC Gully, or some other criss-cross lanes & bylanes of Chandni Chowk – a medieval era lives with pride. Money- no matter how little, is enough to feed you happy.

These busy nooks of old office areas- seem like an extended subsidised roadside canteen- A melting pot, where the food vendor becomes your friend- A not-so-commercial attitude where you are given food even if you run short of cash.  “Come back and pay the next day, didi” says the alu paratha seller. “No half boiled egg today?” greets the bread and egg vendor in the morning. “I have already kept aside your Malpoa”, says the sweet-man as you go back to collect the parcel you left at his stall by mistake.

 It’s not just the cheap food, but the cordial familiarity that grasps you, amazes you, and makes you fall into an incorrigible love with the city. Did you mention hygiene? Trust me, with the most faulty alimentary canal- I have never fallen sick. Neither have the innumerable salivating Kolkatans!

Come take a walk in my city. You won’t be left unfed!