My vacation

A happy Dussera and Bijoya to everybody.

I wrote this last week but couldn’t publish as I wanted to insert pictures. I gave up trying, published this and then, finally, thanks to Muktadhara, I succeeded!!.

There were only four pujas in town. All of them blared loud music, but ONLY Bengali songs. (Not a single Hindi song in four days pf puja!) The locals spoke a dialect that I could not comprehend. (I was told it’s an admixture of Bengali and Oriya.) Yet I was not very far away from home - at the Bengalee’s favourite weekend retreat, the beach town of Digha.

A well deserved vacation, a desire to avoid the festival crowds of the city and at the same time banishing the sloth that grips me on holidays, visions of a vast, endless water body, the memories of the pretty sea shells that I loved collecting as a child and a late realization of it all directed me towards the nearest holiday retreat, Digha.

 
I wasn’t too happy with my decision at first; Digha is at best, a poor man’s paradise, with cheap hotels and cheaper food that is not much different from the usual fare we get at home. The shells sold on the beaches are imported from elsewhere. Most of my friends and colleagues have been there several times and so, there was nothing to brag about. However, having taken a late decision to go on a vacation, I had little choice.

I felt my resentment ebb when I caught the first glimpse of the sea from my hotel window. The sea was as mesmerizing as all other seas, yet it was different from all. The colors of the water and the beach sand, the nature of the waves, the smell of the air, the surroundings, were all different.

On our second day at Digha, a rickshaw puller named Shubrati became our unofficial guide and advisor. He took us to places we hadn’t planned on visiting. Thanks to him, we witnessed fishermen unload their stocks of varied fishes, including lobsters and baby sharks; we knew where to hire a car from and what fares to expect; we visited all accessible beaches, each one different from the other and concluded that they were as good as the best beaches in India and that the region had the potential to become a hot tourist destination.

Looking at the waves, I found it hard to visualize another breathtakingly beautiful sight that was before me barely a month ago. Much though I admired that sight, I couldn’t become one with it. But here, on the sea shore, I had become a part of the environment - an insignificant element of a magnificent scenery.

Of course, I was going to brag about the wonderful vacation I have had.

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It’s that time of the year again!

Friends, I guess I over reacted in my last post, Ibibo Frustrates. But you have been very kind and encouraging. Thank you.

It’s that time of the year when one forgives and forgets. There’s a feel-good factor in the air. The sunlight is of a different colour; there are special flowers in bloom, spreading fragrance?in anticipation of the great festivals.

It is that time of the year when you ’shop till you drop’, exchange gifts, deck up, and freak out.

But it also that time of the year when the weather changes quickly, daring you to keep pace or?be under it. (You can ask me about it; I got the flu twice within the span of a month.)

It is also that time of the year when our American bosses start preparing for their vacations and want to get most of the work out of the way. So you work long hours and weekends…

To sum up, it is that time of the year when you stretch yourself to your limits to keep everyone, including yourself, happy and spoof! - the balloon goes bust as the weather wins a point and you go under it.

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Ibibo Frustrates

Hey! I came back after a spell to find that Ibibo has changed! and how! All the comments on my last post have vanished! Thanks, Idlemind, for re-inserting yours.�

Now where is my list of favorite blogs? Vanished! How will I navigate to those blogs now?

I want to complain. Where’s the feedback link?  Can anybody help?

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Soap Opera

Apologies for the delay. Reasons are many - some selfishness, some tiredness and some helplessness. One of the selfish reasons is the urge to see the comments on the my last post swell in number Thanks very much to all of you.

 I would blame the flu for the physical tiredness, while the mental fatigue is the gift of the soap opera name Singur. I am not particularly fond of soaps, but this one I was forced to watch as there was nothing else either the media or the people around me were prepared to discuss with any degree of seriousness. Like all soaps I am bored of this one; hence the fatigue.

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The Bloggers’ Rendezvous

The meet was to start at 3 p.m. I, who take pride in always being punctual, was there bang on time, only to learn that the others had already arrived, and were seated. Such was the enthusiasm of the bloggers.

Waiting for me at the head of the staircase was the man whose idle mind had conceived, planned and organised the event. (He had even despatched a suitably designed invitation card a couple of days before the meet.) I still had several steps to climb, when a lady stepped in between us, and, for a brief moment, he must have wondered which one was Gopa.

Everything seemed perfect for the occasion – the venue, the weather and the small, tastefully decorated restaurant where we gathered. On entering, I first caught sight of, and immediately recognised Surya Pratim. I then met the others – Manjula’di and her husband, Solaris and Rakhi. Only one person was yet to arrive, the person I am very much in awe of – the Old Man in the Sea. His arrival further enlivened the gathering and the conversations that followed inevitably swerved towards other Ibibo bloggers.

I learnt a lot about the history of blogging at Ibibo and felt proud to have become a part of an elite community.

 When we had exhausted the three hours that we had, the reluctance to end the meet was writ large on all the faces. The promise of another meet in the near future finally prodded us to proceed towards the exit. It will be really nice if, on that occasion, we have more bloggers joining us.   

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Dance? Sleep?

Friends, after my last post, I did try to look up the origins of some dance forms. I need not tell you that there are innumerable dance forms and their origins curious as well as controversial. During the course of my “research,” I came across the lyrics of the song, “Dance Myself to Sleep.” Thereafter, being more of a sleep enthusiast than a dance enthusiast, my research took a turn towards that subject.  

[I know, this sounds a little like the student who had come to the examination hall prepared to write a composition on the cow, but found that he was asked to write about a river instead. Undeterred, he started off with the river, mentioning how its waters nurture the growth of grass along its banks – the grass that cows feed on. He then went on to describe a cow, thus completing the composition.]  

I refreshed my memories of the wonderful fairy tales – Sleeping Beauty and Rip Van Winkle, learnt about sleep apnea, which is a common, yet potentially fatal sleep disorder that often goes undiagnosed and also read about Andy Warhol’s film Sleep (1963), featuring poet John Giorno. The film’s 8-hour footage only showed Giorno sleeping, much to the chagrin of viewers who had paid to enjoy an unusual movie.   

I found a journal called Sleep (http://www.journalsleep.org/) which is the official journal of the American Academy of Sleep Medicine and an organization called the Better Sleep Council (BSC), which is a non-profit organization supported by the mattress industry!   

Finally, while trying to understand the science behind sleep and dreams, I started feeling drowsy. I shut down my computer and went off to sleep, satisfied at having spent my time in a better way than reading the newspapers.   

Sleep is the sweetest thing in the world. Who cares about the rudra tandava dance being recited across the globe by terrorists, activists and sometimes a furious nature? Do not let them disturb our blissful slumber. Let them all dance themselves to sleep. 

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The morning ritual

It’s a place where all buses stop and that includes my office bus. Because the buses stop there, auto-rickshaws queue up by the side of the road to ferry passengers across the narrow lanes. Eager to grab a piece of the pie, taxis too pile up behind the autos. Often the autowallahs and taxiwallahs quarrel with each other for space.

I watch all this while waiting for my office bus every morning. I stand on the road, along with many others, because the pavement is occupied by vendors. Behind me is the line of autos. I take a small step backwards whenever a public bus arrives. Undeterred, the bus stops with its door wide open right in front of me, as if to suck me inside. I take two steps sideways to allow passengers to alight from the bus. Thus I wait, sandwiched between the bus and the autos, for the bus to pass.

The bus moves on and the queue of autos advances as some of them get passengers to carry. Suddenly I find some space behind me and take two steps backwards to occupy the space. Soon another auto comes to queue up behind the others. I take a few steps sideways and take position behind the newcomer auto. A taxi arrives and claims that space too and so I take a few steps forward to return to my original position.

When I returned home last evening, I found my folks watching an old film on TV. The scene was that of a ballroom dance, in which the dancers took a step backward, then two steps forward and then a step sideways, and so on. It gave me an idea. Right after posting this piece on Ibibo, I’m gonna look up the origins of different dance forms on the World Wide Web.

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The Saree - II

It appears from the comments on my last post that I have been misunderstood by some. Indeed, I love wearing the saree, as do most women. On certain occasions my (female) colleagues and I ‘conspire’ to wear the saree and even if 50% of us manage to wear it on the appointed day, we consider the venture a success. Luckily, unlike the dhoti, the saree is included in the list of formal clothes that we are allowed to wear to office.

Sadly, in some organizations here (in a metro city like Kolkata!), it is the only permissible dress for women employees. A friend was strictly instructed to that effect when she joined a college as a lecturer. Apparently, it helps to distinguish teachers from students!

Worse still, we have schools where the saree is the prescribed uniform for students. I watch with sympathy as young girls carry off five metres of cloth along with a heavy school bag and other things. At an age when they should be free to hop, skip and run around, isn’t it criminal to inhibit their movement with the garb of tradition?

I know women who swear by the saree. They vehemently deny that it restricts movement in any way. And true enough, when I look around me, in public places, on the roads, inside buses and local trains, I see lots of sarees, worn as if it is the most comfortable dress in the world. Imagine a well-loved national dress that needs - as Umbrella 22 has said – several safety pins to keep it in place!

I agree with all of you who said that the saree is a beautiful and elegant dress. It is my favourite party wear. Much as I like to flaunt my sarees, I also love to gaze at others’ sarees and marvel at the change in their looks. But most of all, I like to watch little girls in colourful sarees on Saraswati puja day – shy smiles on their little faces, too conscious of their appearances and an amusing change in their gait.

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The Saree - I

This happens almost every morning: for a fleeting moment I consider wearing a saree to office. I even think about which one to wear and smile at the thought of the exclamations from my colleagues and then, courage fails me.

(Fortunately, my mother doesn’t read blogs; if she did, she would frown at this one and give me a piece of her mind – a Bengali woman, wary of a saree! What a shame!)

Draping five yards of unstitched cloth around your body is not as easy a task as for centuries Indian women have made it out to be. Carrying it through the day, with every pleat in place, is even more difficult, especially if it is one of your favourites and you want to protect it from unwanted creases and smudges.

I have always considered wearing a saree a work of art. The folds of each fabric fall in a different way, thus giving you a different look. On the other hand, a lot of scientific thought and rationale must go into wearing a saree. For example, you should wear it in such a way so as not to inhibit movement. I am justified, therefore, in taking a rather longish time to wear one – time that I cannot usually afford to spare in the morning.

I am also terrified of doing injustice to my saree as I pay more attention to my handbag, my computer and my work (not necessarily in that order). The last time I wore a saree, the pallu went under the wheel of my own chair and ruined it, much to my dismay.

To one who is not used to wearing it, summer can be very uncomfortable in a saree. In winter the sweater or the shawl takes prominence. You would think this (monsoon) is the best time to wear a saree. So this morning (- a Saturday, and so I wasn’t in much of a hurry) as I lovingly picked a saree from my wardrobe, I suddenly had a horrific vision of myself drenched and unable to walk – the wet saree clinging to my legs, mud splattered all over it as I helplessly hold on to my umbrella and handbag.

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Glad to be back!

Hi everybody,I had to be away from Ibibo for quite sometime, but Ibibo was never away from my thoughts. Whenever I could spare a minute, I took a peep. Yet, I missed a lot, I guess. Hope to catch up with all the interesting blogs, soon.In the Mandrake stories of Indrajal Comics, I remember reading about the talking heads who were so wise that Mandrake went to them to seek advice. These people had done away with their bodies as they no longer required them. Ibibo, for me, is one such place. Here, I meet so many minds with diverse thoughts, opinions, memories and fantasies. A congregation of intelligent minds is hard enough to find, a group of creative as well as friendly minds, a rarity. I am fortunate to have found this place and I hope to be accepted as a part of this crowd.

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