Mihir Chakravarti

Of all the addictions, like tobacco, alcohol, caffeine etc, I think tobacco is the hardest to give up.

Of course I’m talking here of the bad habits that the normal average person has. I’m not talking of the other types of hard drug users like heroin or cocaine addicts. Those I wouldn’t call the average, ordinary persons we interact with in our daily lives.

Why I say  this is  that the smoker affects all of us whether we  ourselves smoke or not. Scientists have found hard evidence that those who don’t smoke but stay within the vicinity of a person who is smoking are also exposed to the same level of danger, if not more than the actual smoker, from inhaling carcinogeneous substance through their inhalations, thus becoming what has now gained popular usage as ‘passive smokers’. Anti-smoking lobbies  have mushroomed all over the world and laws have been enacted with penal provisions that smokers cannot now befoul the air we breathe in. When I say “the world”, I of course mean the civilzed world. In civilised society, a smoker is viewed with the same distaste as a leper used to be in the times of J Christ. The smoker is practically ostracised from decent society and cast all together in small marked-off little  cubicles known as smoker’s areas in restaurants and bars and other civilised establishments, where the smokers can all crowd in together (like sardines) and light up and puff away (cough! cough!!) to the kingdom of cancer.

India, our beloved Bharat, not to be left far behind in the global scheme of things have also joined the anti-tobacco lobby and have enacted laws, with penal provisions built in such laws. But as expected, in a country where there is no education, where there is no basic health or sanitaion, where there is no provision for supply of drinkable water and supply of adequate  electricity, such anti-smoking enactments are a foolish man’s dreams of paradise. With no infrastructure in place or enforceability, these anti-smoking laws and enactments have been, as expected, relegated to their place in law books and notifications only.

Of course awareness has grown, but only among the enlightened strata of society.  In really top class restaurants and clubs and hotels and other establishments in big cities the law is stringently followed. But  sadly, the rest of the country just do not seem to care. Though the ban in lighting up has been made effective in privately run establishments, the public offices are a shame to watch. In these public buildings, government run offices nobody seems to be even aware that an enactment is there urging people not to smoke in public areas.

Even our dear Chief Minister himself, who could and should be setting an example, cannot help but light up his innumerable cigarettes in his own office,  admitting that he just cannot do without them.

All this proves  that this is one habit which is hard to kick. Even with full knowledge that smoking these cigarettes are killing you, you just can’t give it up. As they say habits die hard, only you die easy.

It was a chillingly cold night. The two railway patrolmen were on track duty  well after midnight along the track that ran through the dense forest area between Jhargram and Khatkura stations. This was the dreaded Maoist territory through which the tracks ran.

These two suddenly came upon loud clanging noise breaking the stillness of the night. Creeping forward they came upon a horrifying scene. About a crowd of two hundred or so shadowy figures, armed with shovels, sledge hammers and iron bars were hammering upon the tracks. About 400 metres of line lay twisted out of alignment. A catastrophe of death and destruction lay waiting for the next train that happened by. A gift from the Maoists to the people of India.

These two quickly doused their lanterns lest they be spotted and immediately reported their discovery to their station supervisors on their mobile phones. Steps were taken immediately and the next train due , which was the New Delhi-Bhubaneswar Purushottam Express was signalled ahead of time to stop.

Had these two lowly railway employees not had the presence of mind and their mobiles with them, (which could just as easily have happened) we would have a national tragedy in our hands today. 

It is only fitting that these two patrolmen, Kanan Mahato and Panchu Patro be given some sort of recognition for their valour and timely act by the Government of India. I shudder to think  of the scale of destruction and mayhem and the countless loss of lives and families that would have happened had it not been for these two bravehearts.

My mobile camera had quit on me.

It had stopped taking pictures. I have been taking pictures now for the last so many years and have made quite a collection. Some have come out pretty good. Some haven’t. That’s ok. That happens. But for the camera to show this sudden reluctance to function any more was a damned nuisance.

So I trudged across to the nearest Nokia Care Centre and handed over my trouble to the very nice and sympathetic lady in charge. She listened to my tale attentively and took in my mobile, promising to do whatever servicing and repairing that was needed to be done. And would I come back after two days? Sure I said and how much would it cost? She said the service charge was 330 but if parts were needed that would be extra. Hmm. What could I do but shrug and agree? She took out my Memory Card, battery and SIM card and handed the lot to me and further advised that I should go and have the Memory Card checked for virus and get it” re-formatted”. Why couldn’t she do all that at Nokia? Then everything could be done in one place, I reasoned. But no, she said, Nokia didn’t do Memory Cards. Ok then, where  should I go for this job? Oh, try any Cyber Cafe sir, she suggested. They’ll do it easy for you, she added assuringly at my puzzled frown.

Frankly. all this talk of virus having “corrupted” my Memory Card and to get it “re-formatted” are all alien language to me, not being of the techno-savvy generation. I was already beginning to get quite rattled. For one thing, although I have heard of cyber-cafes, I have no idea where they are located and what goes on in there. The only cafes I am acquainted with are the ones where you can order for a coffee and a salami sandwich.

To my further query as to how and where the nearest cyber-cafe was, the girl’s eyebrows climbed all the way up to her hairline. Suppressing a giggle at my unworldliness she gave me a direction of sorts and by way of further assurance told me not to worry so much, but just to take the Memory Card and tell the guy there to “re-format” the card and get rid of the virus lodged in it, if there were any. And how much would be the charge for all this work, if she had any idea? Oh about 150 or so she said.

Following the direction given I braved my way down a lane to actually find myself standing in front of a tiny hole-in-the-wall kind of establishment with an incongruously large signboard proclaiming it to be a cyber-cafe. The room was tiny, not more than eight feet by eight. In it were crammed , I counted six little cubicles with six computers with that many users furiously clicking away. The room was chilling, being cooled by a split-level AC that occupied nearly the length of one wall.

The guy whose cafe it was looked up and I handed him the Memory Card and asked if he’d be able to re-format it. Yes, but all the data would be gone he said. Did I have a back-up copy? This was yet another surprise for me. I mumbled that I didn’t think so. The Card only had pictures that I had taken with my mobile camera. The guy said he could then move the pictures to his computer hard disk and then later on transfer them back to my Card after re-formatting. That sounded like an excellent idea and I said ok.

Then he began his faster than the-eye-to-follow movements with all kinds of gadgets and gizmos and  a spare computer. All this was pure wizardry  to me and after a bit I even gave up trying to understand what he was doing. I just squeezed myself to an empty corner and sat down on a stool to observe life inside a cyber-cafe.

During all this time I saw people coming in, sitting down at an empty computer, doing their work, leaving after they  were done, paying the owner for the time spent on the machine. There was a constant stream of visitors, mostly young. Not one was even remotely near my age. I had a feeling of sticking out like a sore thumb. Nearly an hour went by. The ownner was not only doing my job but also minding the store, keeping an eye out for the trade that was constantly coming and going, collecting money, entering the amounts in his book, handing out cash receipts. He was doing all this single handed and not missing out on anything. He was one hell of a multi-tasker.

I was getting hungry. It was well past the lunch hour. I was worried that my job was taking so long. So I told the fellow that as it was taking long I’ll just pop over to my home, which was less than a couple of minutes away and come back after lunch. He said all right.

Lunch over, I got back to the cafe after an hour or so. The owner of the cafe said he had hit a snag with some of the folders in my Memory Card and that he was unable to transfer the pictures from his hard disk back to the Card, which now stood cleansed of all virus and all data too, a virgin, blank page. But, he suggested that he could transfer all the photographs to a blank CD and let me have that.

That didn’t sound bad. But did he have a blank CD with him, or would I have to go out again in the afternoon sun and look for a shop that sold blank CDs? He said he had a stack of blanks and immediately took out a box. He extracted a blank CD and in a whizz transferred all the photographs I had taken  on to this CD. That was cool. I hadn’t lost my data. Everything was now on the CD. My Card was clean, sparkling new and ready to be go in my mobile after I got back from Nokia.

Now I asked him how much I owed him. Considering what I had been told earlier by the lady in Nokia, and this extra work he had done by transferring my data on to this back-up CD I was quite prepared and expecting to be charged around 200 or so. This guy didn’t answer my question, but lowered his head and seemed deep in thought. I knew he was doing some fast mental arithmentic and figuring on how much he should nick me for.

Then he looked up and said thirty rupees. What! I said. My jaw fell to the floor. But I quickly recovered and paid him his thirty bucks, thanked him profusely and left. With my now squeaky clean Memory Card and a CD containing all my data.

What a nice and pleasant surprise!

For three weeks I was gone. From what I had thought had been an orderly, methodical, organised and systematic life. Where I knew where I had kept things and how to get at them at any given time. Well that’s what I used to like to think about myself.

Well, for three weeks, as I said I was gone away from all this, leaving clear instructions to my Major Domo where to keep my mail that would no doubt collect. How to store the leisure sections of  my favourite newspaper in which I regularly did my crosswords and anagrams etc etc.

After I got back from my brief three week sojourn to Gurgaon I found that my trusted lieutenant had carried out my instructions to the tee. Everything was at its proper place and kept just the way I had left instructions for. All patiently waiting for me.

Then I sat down to sort them all out.

At the end of an exhausting day and a half I made a sudden discovery. Looking around at the overflowing WPB and the floor around my desk, all strewn with unwanted letters, advertising leaflets, unsolicited brochures announcing sale of pearl necklaces and astounding reduction in jewellery prices I was stunned to find only about half a dozen  letters that were relevent. All the tons of garbage surrounding me, the heap growing by each weary hour as I had sat sifting through  this mountain of trash, had all found their way into , not only my home, but also my precious moments that make up my life! How could I have let this happen?

I’ve been mulling this point for some time now.  How does junk and clutter grow to this huge, monstrous proportion in a man’s life? It hit me hard because I had suddenly faced a three-week accumulation of clutter. Normally, I have always cleared my desk every evening upon returning home  so that junk never got a chance to build up. Now  when I suddenly faced this garbage heap sitting right on top of my desk, I got a lttle crazy.

But it just goes to show how much junk and clutter we carry with ourselves without being aware. And it’s not just unwanted mail that I’m talking about. Junk and clutter take many shapes and forms.

There’s so much junk and clutter in our day to day relationships as well. Relationships that have turned sour and rancid, and downright toxic. Yet we carry them around, unmindful of this unnecessary load that we don’t need. Of course it’s  difficult at times to know which is junk and which is real. Junk and clutter camouflage themselves so well that they often pass for the real thing. And even if you  know that a particular relationship has actually become nothing but an unnecessary load, you can’t toss it away like  a piece of junk mail, can you? A deep sense of guilt and  misplaced sense of duty won’t let you.

 But wouldn’t we be far better off without that extra load? Without that junk and clutter? Think.

My access to the Internet went on the blink from the night of the 10th September. I knew something was wrong. This had happened before and I knew the routine.

I called up the Helpdesk and was given a docket number and the usual assurance that the problem would be “addressed”  within six hours.

My experiences at other times in the past has been that such problems are  not only “addressed” but also redressed by about the next day. But not this time. Why? Well there was a technical hitch with regard to the fibre optic cable but that the problem would be “addressed” (again) within six hours.

Then began my wait. I’d call up every day in the morning without fail. Many instalments of the “six hours” came and went but no redressal of my grievance was in sight.

After five or six days of  agonising and fruitless days went by I bagan my own inquiries. I had realised by then that the Helpdesk, a BPO tucked away somewhere in  Hyderabad wouldn’t be able to offer anything more than their sincerest “regrets” and wishful assurances that the problem would be “addressed” (a fine, non-committal  word they had chosen) within the next six hours (again the six-hour slot). In fact they wouldn’t have a clue as to what was the actual problem in a neighbourhood in South Calcutta. 

So I went over to a local outfit which does the actual maintenance work here in our neighbourhood as an Agent of the my Server. Once there, I learnt the awful truth of what had actually happened.

It seems that the connection comes along the optic fibre line that is strung overhead along the light posts in our area along Ballygunge Gardens and then along Fern Road to my residence.

There are two clubs which had put up two puja pandals on Ballygunge Gardens. For the pujas which is just around the corner. The two clubs in their  attempt to outdo each other have put up huge pandals.  Each has to be bigger, brighter and better than the other. The club boys have shimmied up lamp posts stringing up their own decorative lights which must outshine in their brightness and colorfulness the other club. In their frenzy they have swept aside all other wirings that have lain in their path with little care as to who they are affecting. This has resulted in nearly 500 metres of valueable optic fibre cable of the Broadband Service provider to go missing.

After this  awful discovery was made the maintenance boys from the Agent, a crew of three or four, attempted to put back the cable . But the  boys from the two clubs outnumbered them and threatend them not to touch any of their lighting fixtures they had put up. Being thus soundly threatened and intimidated the crew had no option but to come back without any restoration work. I realised with a sinking heart that there would be no retsoration of the Broadband service till after the pujas were over and the pandals dismantled and taken away.  There was just no way to deal with this sort of naked vandalism.

I just don’t know what happened in the meantime. Last evening after a ten day starvation of the Net, the line was suddenly restored. I have no idea what negotiation took place between the Agent of the Broadband Server and the clubs and those vandals, but since last night I can again log on to the net. Whew! What a relief. What joy!

My last post was my lamenting the “dry” monsoons. The day after I posted it the Gods sent the rains.

Unbelievable. But true. Now it looks like we are definitely in the midst and grip of a real monsoon season in all its true form.

Makes me wonder ; is it a coincidence or my subconscious desire really did something ? Hard to believe that. But very nice to think that one possesses powers. Very easy to believe that.

But that is the first step to self delusion; just the very first one. And if you take the first step, the natural tenedency is to follow it up with a scond step. Then you take another, and another, and yet another. Wow! It’s all so easy to set one self on the way to a heady trip that takes you places you didn’t know existed. Only thing is that they all exist in your fantasy. And before you know what’s what, you’re on the ground, flat on your face, all your stupid dreams  in shattered fragments around you.

So let’s get real with the most amazing faculty nature has given mankind, the faculty of reason, the only GOD for me. It’s good that the monsoons are wet as it should have been from a month ago. But it’s not because I made that stupid posting on my blogsite.

The monsoon is wet because it just IS.

Doesn’t look like it’s going to rain at all this year.

We’re passing through the Bengali month of Asharh, which is supposed to be the wettest month of the year. But apart from a few clouds  lazily floating around in the sky, that sometimes look promising and at times actually shed a few drops,  there’s hardly any shower worth the name. Though the excruciating heat of last month is no longer there (Whew! Thank God!) the future looks kind of bleak and dreary.

If after all the monsoons pass us by without a single drop, as it looks like, the  crops would suffer and we’ll be facing a bad drought. As it is all commodities in the market have gone beyond the common man’s reach. Prices are soaring to dizzy heights and soon we’ll be facing a catastrophe.

The coming month of Shrabon is also very much a part of our monsoon. If the first innings was a bad one, I’m keeping my fingers crossed that the next one will bring us the much awaited rains.

The newly elected committee at the club was delirious.

They had made a clean sweep at the election. They had to make a triumphant cry of victory over the “slain” candidates. Yesterday was the day they had chosen to celebrate their victory.

This is an annual feature. We members know that this is what happens after each election. But this time, the celebrations had to be done in a bigger and a louder way. Because the win was such a “clean sweep”.

For most members it made liitle difference which side won. All they were interested in was the free-loading orgy that would happen at the victory party.

True to tradition, when I landed up around seven thirty there were already close to  eight or nine hundred members  milling inside the premises that had turned the club lawn into a virtual fair ground. A row of beaming ladies welcomed the invitees at the gate with a single golden-yellow flower and the card that would entitle the members to the freebies inside. 

There was a stage put up at the  far end of the lawn where, because yesterday also happened to be the birthday of the late music legend Rahul Dev Burman, a musical function had been arranged for. The orchestra hands comprising keyboards, synthesisers, drums, guitars and other assorted instruments of sound were vying with each other trying to outdo one another. In their midst there was an endless array of singers belting out Rahul Dev numbers on their hand-held microphones. The resulting noise, or cacophony at ear-splitting decibel levels, drowned out our “hellos” and “namaskars” as we ran into known faces at the club.

After a while I realised that the prospect of conversation was just impossible, unless one resorted to sign langauage. Not being adept at that, I decided to just smile my ‘hello’s and ‘hi’s to those I knew and concentrate on the snacks and booze. There was plenty going and the background symphony being blared out non-stop drowned out all our senses and sensibilities. 

Is it any wonder then that I came home staggering and am this morning nursing a humdinger of a hangover?

Since last week it has been really unbearable. Yes I mean the weather. Never in recent times have we in Calcutta  seen such a merciless combination of  stifling heat, humidity and prolonged power cuts in such mind numbing frequency. As with everything there’s always an explanation. No matter what the situation is there’s always a bunch of pundits with their special knowledge and insights into what actually the matter is and if only people would listen to them, they have the remedy at their fingertips.

If only the Budge Budge unit had not “tripped”. If only the unit that replaced it worked. If only the monsoons had really broken over the city instead one freak storm. If only… if only…and if only.

But things are the way they are. And no amount of wiseassing is going to change all that.

Why in hell can’t we just shut our traps and get to work where we are supposed to and just get on with it?