[untitled]
by Barun Jha

Chapter – 01

It is a clear evening with no sign of clouds on the horizon. No clouds-dark, white or grey, meant a canvas with twinkles and shiny moon as a night sky. The mild wind adds freshness to the evening like the sunshine does to morning dew. This is the time when people in Pelling will be active at most, tourists crowed at the eateries, people walked into bars, holidaying couples took stroll down the winding road after a hectic sight-seeing during day-time.  There is a small of gathering of boys, some aged, others married in front of the wooden house. The wood exposed after weathering of paint appears grey like the hair of an old man, the slanting tin roof is too low like the ceiling inside. Its lightless front gives it a sullen look suited for abandoned haunted house. But, the façade of the building is deceiving; what goes inside is all fun, drinking, dancing, and showing your skills on pool table.  How famous one is at this place is defined by how skillfully one can aim the balls through the pockets and how high bet one plays. It has a charm of a casino that draws fanfare from school seniors, footballers, tourists, drivers, hotel owners and the local arrivistes.

I am not a regular at this house; I went there first out of curiosity, then to watch some matches of my friends who were ardent inhabitants. If it was not alcohol they guzzled at the day start, I would have called them pool addicts. Despite my senior years, I tried to keep away from the place. Whenever I thought to hang around, a little reminder tinged, “You are not supposed to be seen here, it is a threat to how people perceive you and your established intellectual grandeur, whatever you managed to have.” Life gives you difficult choices, and it leaves you weird especially when you opt to study mathematics and biology which you equally hate.

The road has unusual windings and two hair pin bends down the house, lies Alpine Restaurant. Under the sepia of sodium lamp of the street, the ivory board with green texts says Alpine Restaurant – South Indian, Chinese, and Continental. It is another thrifty eatery which appears more of a desolate woodhouse promising the spread of platter wider than its own size. Instead of waiting for my friends at the pool house I walked down the road to the restaurant.  If they won’t find me outside pool house, they will surely walk in this restaurant; there is no other place we frequent. As usual for the evening, it is crowded with foreigners, backpackers, couples and a family of three generations – who have managed to join two of the tables together to accommodate themselves. I walk towards the only large table vacant by the window overlooking the tall pines and snow capped panorama beyond. On the side table there is a couple holding hands and tracking mysteriously every movement.  They were staring me as took seat; I stared back, at them, at their hands tugging each other to keep on their own lap. They looked away as I sat facing the room. There is another group of four occupying the front table, backpackers. Two of them who faced me smiled and I smiled and one of the other two on their front turned. With a grin on his face he said a big “Hi!” I have seen him somewhere, maybe on the roads or the pool house, I can’t recall.

“How are you doing?” I replied.

“Great, it is a beautiful place” he said. “Alone, join us.”

“Thank you. But, I’ll wait for my friends; they’ll be here in a moment”

“Aaa…you guys had a nice game today” he said.

“Not so good, I was out for nothing.”

So, this is the same guy whom we met in cricket ground.  We had a good game today. After two continuous losses with this team, we were back today. This guy came and sat near our team padding area and was continuously commenting of each of the blanks and boundaries.

The boy who was waiting at the cash counter came for orders. The guy turned back to his group and continued with their chat. I asked the boy for ginger tea which they serve only on request, it doesn’t feature on menu. I haven’t seen their menu though, my friends said so. We come here and ask for what want and they serve it. The owner who is a nice portly guy in his forties ensures it is served. We are the only group from the school, who frequents this place, and off the tourist season its customers like us who ensures that the place is up and running.

We have our own reasons of coming here, like it is only place that serves fried and spicy food in the land of bland and boils. It is the only place that offers you credit when you needs it and without having to say so.

My friends arrived when I was done with my tea. They came and we ordered our dinner. The boy who took order asked by what time it is to be served. “After an hour, in the meantime help us with some soup.” My friend suggested. “And Pakodas” said the other.  So started the evening with our usual chit chat about who played better and who lacked on performance. Everyone is happy that we are saved from three consecutive defeats. Other then mathematics, being topper from our previous schools, boarding common hostel and love for bunking classes and sometimes the whole day at school, cricket was another devotion shared by all of us. We loved cricket be it after school practices in evening or matches on weekends or mass bunking to watch matches on TV even it was a test series, which also ensured no attendance in mathematics classes of our batch. For cricket we were crazy enough to face the infuriated, stout, grumpy mathematics teacher next day who had a delusion that he contributed more than five hundred engineers to the country from this very school.

[to be continued.....]

7900+ words so far in 2012 on Barunjha’s Blog

© Barun Jha || 2012

It was a journey planned in haste, to some universities and colleges in Kolkata, for promotion of our new concern, a symposium, which we were hosting. Trains will be jam-packed to multitudes of its capacity when you are least prepared to travel so. It was month of December. On our waitlisted tickets we tried to board the general coach, but in vain. As usual it was too packed to let us enter without getting squeezed, if not crushed. We decide to endure the stench and managed to find a place to stand beside toilet in one of the sleeper coaches. Thus began the journey, a Train to Howrah.

As the night fell, so did the temperature and a few stops on the way, by midnight we found ourselves unusually comfortable in the humongous space created by people getting down to their destinations. Despite our pleading requests to the Ticket Collector who came afterwards and an offer of a few green notes, he declined on the availability and vacancy inside those coaches to sleep. There was not much to do, as on Indian Railways if a ticket collector refuses to give you a berth despite inflated bribe, he is being honest, he speaks truth and it is a truth that there is no vacancy inside. Although the elderly ticket collector was sympathetic enough to ask us to go inside and see if any friendly passenger can allow us to sit on their berth as the chill was unbearable. We stood there for some time in the cold, aware of the fact that after getting down at Howrah, the first taxi we will catch will be to a hospital not to Jadavpur University as we have planned.

As the night progressed and the journey, we planned that my friend will go in first as he had a more juvenile face, it will fetch more pity and sympathy, and that is what we needed despite the price of the tickets we paid. He went inside, I followed, and we walked to the other side inspecting every berth. We were careful like a feline on prowl; it was a hunt for a place to sit, to save ourselves from the harsh cold. It was warm inside and what we saw appeared to us a gross injustice. Two of the children were sleeping on each of the lower berth of a compartment. The berths oversized than what they require, we finalized this is the spot.  My friend positioned his haunches on one on the berth and I sat on other. In the dim of the dark and glow of the board indicating berth numbers, we sat still. We didn’t talk and made no noises, we smiled, we were grateful for whoever the parents were for these children.

“A couple of hours, it will be morning and we will be in Howrah”, I thought. Then I heard some noise other than the chug of the wheels, metal ranting on metal, I saw my friend look up, I turned to lookup too. A pair of eyes was peering over us in the dark. She spoke, she asked us who we were, why are we sitting on her berth, she don’t feel safe, why don’t we go away, why can’t people like us make a reservation then travel in class. We didn’t answer but we didn’t move. She said she will shout, she shouted at her husband who happened to be sleeping on the other berth opposite to her. He woke up and peered too, he asked us to leave or search some other place. We told them we mean no harm, no danger, like them we boarded train where it started and will go up to Howrah, we have not encroached any space to cause discomfort to them, that is why we are not even talking and it was too cold outside, unbearable. We told them we will manage on the edge of the seat, they need not to worry. The husband said, it is alright, but be on the edge, don’t encroach. We felt relieved and thanked him multiple times thank you, thank you, thank you… like the sound echo as it hit the darkness from the dim light.

Hardly 15 minutes passed, when the woman started peering again. “What now?” I thought. She shouted again at her husband, asking him to ask us to leave. We looked at each other and thought it is better to leave.

We walked out, sat beside each other, our backs against the side wall. We cussed the woman, the man, people sleeping cozily in their blankets, we cussed the ticket collector, our teammates who must be sleeping in their hostel rooms, and we cussed ourselves. My friend said, “Aadmiyeta rahi nahi aajkal” (Humanity is dead these days).With the only blanket we were carrying we covered ourselves from head to toe, a compact formation where we intended to turn ourselves into a ball so that minimum surface area will be exposed to the cold. Somehow it worked; we survived to see the dawn of the day. Howrah is near, people began to move around. One woman in one toilet the other one waiting for her turn, an old man with loose ends of his Lungi turned up and tied around his waist waited for his turn, murmuring things undecipherable. A young dad with toothbrush in his mouth held his kid mid air so that he can reach the level of the steel sink and spit in it.

Another guy came out, peeked out of the coach doorway and took out a pack of cigarettes. We were envious, he needs smoke to wake up, he slept too much, and we needed whatever available to keep us awake. “Where are you guys going?” he asked. “Don’t you know this train links Port Blair Kolkata? We are going Port Blair.” I felt like answering, annoyed at the stupidity of the question.

He asked us if we want cigarettes. My friend took one. I said we will share. “Which engineering college?” he asked.

I told him the college name as my friend was struggling to light the cigarette with his hand shivering of cold. My friend asked about him. So, all would be engineers, and then the rituals of handshakes and introductions…

Although he was sure from our faces, he asked “Were you on waitlist? Didn’t you get a seat?”

“No, somehow we managed to stay alive; it was too cold at night.”

“Let’s go and sit inside, we will chat, Howrah is still half an hour.” He finished the cigarette and we too hurried.

We went inside, we followed to his compartment. To rule out the coincidence, we were in same compartment. The woman was sitting with one of her child made room for us and asked us to have a seat.

“Are they your friends? In which coach you people were?” asked the man with another child by his side.

I couldn’t figure out whether the question was meant for us or for the guy. He appeared to be fixing his hair in the mirror, he turned and introduced us. After exchange of pleasantries, he expressed our plight of waitlist.

The couple made a face that showed complete sympathy for our sufferings.

“We booked separate berth for each of us. Kids don’t need a whole berth, a single one is enough for them. If you guys could have come at night, both of you could have shared that.” said the woman.

Whether she was being nice, I didn’t know.  Doesn’t she know it was us at night?

“It is so nice of you.” I replied.

“If we knew it before we would have come to you. There aren’t many kind and considerate people these days.” My friend added “Aadmiyeta rahi nahi aajkal”.

I looked at his face; he was struggling hard to control his laugh. That made my smile burst into laughter.

The couple was wondering what is wrong with us, so was the guy. “What’s so funny, why don’t you share?” The guy was interested to know.  I saw a fine grimace appear on the woman’s face. “Was it you…”

“Yes. It was us. And you were so kind” said my friend. We burst into laugh again. The woman looked away out of the window.

***

Next on the Series: A Journey through Rogue Lands and its Bahubalis

6880+ words so far in 2012 on Barunjha’s Blog

© Barun Jha || 2012

After reading the post, you will feel cheated if you are expecting me to write about Biharis and Bhaiyas in Maharastra, Assam or elsewhere living a happy life enduring the strike of patriotic Sena sticks on their bare backs or the blow of daus that separates their head from torso in the North East. It is also not about the happy life led by the people from the North East amidst the racial slur by the dark skinned countrymen in their own country.  Neither will I write about the university girl who gets groped by her bosom on the busy streets and the crowded markets. No, not about the Indian pursuit of getting themselves officially included in the list of backwards despite the palatial mansions they live in and BMWs they drive. I won’t amuse you by writing a warning longer than the actual post.

***

It left me nothing but agog when one of my colleague asked me, “How do you find out your coach on a train?” The sincerity in his eyes and earnestness on his face confirmed that he was not kidding.  Stilled, I asked him, if he really wants me to explain it to him. “Yes” came his prompt reply.

I tried to explain him where he should look for specific coach number as allotted to him and mentioned on his ticket. He is an honest guy who conveyed his confusion vide a frowned face. That left me pretty sure; he meant it when he said he is yet to board a train, yet to step out of the borders of Gujrat.  When same thing was mentioned by another guy past summer in the Kutch, I believed him. But, you won’t believe an engineering graduate in his mid-twenties, who spent at least one of his semesters studying Railway Engineering as a subject telling you that he is yet to get a feel of a train ride, huh… get me something credible.

I opened the browser, typed in train coach and hit the image search. With a few images, I explained it to him the things he should know if he is to travel by train, which he is deliberately planning to do this year. I envied his living, so contented within the borders; maybe he never felt the pangs of wanderlust. When I explain my travels and experiences so far in this career, I know he must be envious, for a curious mind he is, but he must be wondering why the hell one need to traverse so much.

On a Venn diagram, I live in the intersection between multiple sets. A set composed by people from Bihar, which is notorious for its migratory behavior more disturbing than the Siberian Cranes hunting for warmer climates this winter. A set of fleeting professional for whom settling down at a place signifies decay and compromise to the plans of freedom and adventure, he always wanted in life. A skill set and job choice that ensures you will leave the place once it turns livable. In short, before my introduction to the flying cattle class and even after that, it is the train rides that threw a world of human nature, survival instinct and shaped my perception in bits. What follows will be account of some of the selected journeys made.

***

To avoid one very long post and in an attempt to lure you back here again, each of the stories will be posted individually and appended to this post too for a single post reading.

5500+ words so far in 2012 on Barunjha’s Blog

© Barun Jha || 2012

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It is a story high up in the mountains of Sikkim. A hill top floating in the mists and conifers, entrenched in the sound of pipes, drums, bells, chants of monks, humming of the prayer wheels and fluttering of flags. The place is called Pelling.

Image Courtesy: indiatravelnext

I know a lot of you must have been there, as I can figure out its popularity from Google search. It is a decent place to live in, if you have nothing else in the whole world to worry about. It has the greenery and natural scenery around; you wake up in the fresh mountain air and bask in the mountain dew.

If you haven’t been there, but can picture the perfect place in your heads, then you should also note that the place also offers you a chilling climate fit for the freezer of your kitchen refrigerator. And it is not dry, it’s soggy throughout the year, you grow to love rain all year round and you hate the sun, as on any given day, its chances are rare and even if it is shining bright, you can hardly feel it.

That is how I describe this place. On the other hand, the Bengali version of it is ki bhalo hill station, whereas others in the group will defend the supremacy of Darjeeling. Of course, that is the nearest (beyond Gorkhaland… err Darjeeling) they manage on the leave travel allowance by West Bengal…ok… it’s Paschim Bongo Government. However, for the local it is heaven on earth closer than Darjeeling. As many of my classmates, who are school dropouts-turned taxi fleet owners-hoteliers says, “you get a better and closer view of Mount Kanchenjunga than you get from Darjeeling, so from next time come here we have good hotels good taxis and no strikes. And for you writers, you only gain here, no Inheritance of Loss.”

Schooling in Pelling had a lot to offer than fears of freedom, being on your own- no parents around to tell you when to eat, what to eat, when to go to study & what to read. It was kind of good and also tiring to walk uphill on way to school in morning (around 200 metres… if we talk in terms of difference in elevation). I know in Bangalore, that feat means a weekend hiking/ trekking/climbing expedition. It offered you weirdest things like whole of a family sporting same colored monkey caps and same colored sweaters. No I am not making monkey jokes.

And, although it was shining bright, that man wearing fake fur jacket, walking down the road. How everyone was staring on him, how his wear annoyed the hell out of even the street dogs. How the dogs not only barked but hounded him down the road.

These dogs barked and chased the weird dressed honeymoon couples as they held each other in not so public poses on the viewpoint for a photograph with Kanchenjunga, shining like silver in morning light in the background.

Those days were mystic considering the number of consecutive days you can do without a proper bath, mine was 76 consecutive days. I tried once again after that during college, but just could not beat that endeavor. Winter hardly lasts 76 days in the plains of the Ganga (…or the Ganges.. as you like it). If you love winter, for us it was winter throughout the year.

It was a place where a bottle of super strong beer came cheaper than a pack of Coke or Pepsi and bill for your salad would be more than what you paid for a bottle of Old Monk. Those wondering, what is a super strong beer, it is the one that gives you kicks, but not for the bucks.

If it is not raining, evenings on weekdays meant limited over, multi inning cricket on that little lawn of open garden restaurant of the Mondal Lodge (big enough for teams of eight on each side). Rain on Sundays meant football in the same lawn, defacing not only the grasses but also the façade of the hotel.

A Waterfall on Darap Road

Some evenings meant walking down the Darap road, shouting from the base of the vertical cliff for the echo-effect it produced, quenching your thirst while returning uphill from two of the springs on the way. And if you lucky enough, those sights of little shy Red Pandas… mesmerizing .

Image Courtesy: National Geographic

…

Oh… Pelling… I will write for you again…

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4950+ words so far in 2012 on Barunjha’s Blog

© Barun Jha || 2012

On way to office, I did a recall of things pending on writing front. I made a quick note of my phone which turned out to be a list. A few books were delivered yesterday. Gabriel Garcia Marquez… I need to finish on Graham Greene by the end of the day.

There are works for two new sections on the blog pending. One page will be for pure fiction, a novelette I am thinking of writing in parts. One post every Saturday will be optimum.

The other page will be dedicated to book reviews. I have not decided on any specific time frame, but it will be as and when I finish reading one. It is a derived idea, actually I thought of adding a reading page for year 2012. This reading page was supposed to document my reading for the year. Despite having read the book, I was fumbling over the words while writing its description. Gifted are those who do it with flair, it takes a lot of courage and confidence for commentary on someone’s published works. I found it challenging, so I decided to write a review for each of the books I will read. Let’s see how it comes up.

14^th January, a special day, sometimes it is cheerless not to be on that celebration.

Happy

Makar Sankranti, Bihu, Uttarayan, Pongal, Maghi,.. add what all I am missing 

To all

4200+ words so far in 2012 on Barunjha’s Blog

© Barun Jha || 2012

I cannot figure it out, how it works for someone. Browsing throw a plethora of blog, most of them related to writing and blogging, I found some interesting blogs, bloggers and habits on blogging. One common practice, which I even noticed among Indian Bloggers, is daily posting. Some of them have named their posts on the days of week like Monday XXXX, Tuesday YYYY and so on. It is a good thing; it not only makes you regular on blogging but also gives you fixed themes to concentrate on.

Therefore, last Monday I made a plan. Not personal, that I cannot share. It was a plan for blogging… i.e. on Monday I will blog on zyz topics, Tuesdays will be off, Wednesday will for abc topics and so on. But, plans will always be plans due to built in virtues of laziness and procrastination in me. At times, it seems funny considering all my failed plans and how my company pays me for being a planning engineer for them. If not the world, it takes me by awe, how can one entrust planning of millions of dollars worth to a person who cannot plan simple things in life?  Then, I figure out difference, at office I only plan, I do not execute, someone else does, and it works out fine, on time, and on track. So, it is I (…or is it, it is me?) who is responsible for my lagging writing plans.

I learnt that being an honest commenter pays in terms of your blog being read in return. Either some good writer will pity you and read your posts or there are a lot of stats obsessed people who lack visitors to their blog despite their brilliant content and crave for reader engagement on their comment section.  I also learnt that another way of attracting followers and it is no different from twitter. All you have to do is to change your Gravatar image to the most beautiful profile picture you have (applicable only for girls, ladies and all female species in between). It not only draws attention but also morph the shallow depth of your intellect in those profound thoughts you write. If you still lack visits, which translates to you still look ugly, use an editor, tweak those photos to sepia or black & white which will always remain in vogue. And if you belong to male species, grow your facial, look shabby as if the last time you bathed was at least two months ago and get yourself photographed with some really weird expression on your face. Turn it to black & white, post it and if you are lucky, it will work, for there are chances that some sixth grader will see a great writer in you.

Some people fake it but others prefer to be true. A good description is always catchy. It tells people what you are, beyond all the writing. Be crafty in writing a true description of yourself. Don’t ape the blunder of copying it from others.

Among all the good bloggers, there exist thickos who think the only way of getting attention back is by link dropping, and believe me they do it quite holistically. Only thing they do not understand is that the occasional heaps they get on their stats histogram are showing them fingers for their deeds. The best way I found out to make them feel their cunningness is to edit their comments and notify them to refrain from doing so, but for some adamancy rules.

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P.S.: Take away the lessons, not the bullshit out of this post.

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3920+ words so far in 2012 on Barunjha’s Blog

© Barun Jha || 2012

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• Notes to Self: On Blogging, Writing & Beyond
• Angrezi – My flirtation with writing in English

Ten days into the year, I feel the slack. Apart from this blog, I am already behind on my writing schedule. I didn’t promise to stick to daily word targets, for I didn’t created one for one instance. I know it is not possible with a day job that compares as apples and oranges to writing. But, it was scheduled to finish three scenes by now; I am still fiddling my mind on second one.

Right now, I am neither focusing on quality of writing nor on the words limits. If it takes a hundred words instead of a fifty, let it be, I am not a miser when it comes to words. All I am interested in is writing scenes. And I feel more creative, more enthusiastic to write individual scenes. I am trying to bring out the best of me to each of them. I have a focus on my characters. I hope, these independent (not so independent)  scenes will  come together to express a story of each of the character and somewhere each of these stories and characters will intertwine to give a solid shape to my final story.

I am lagging on research. Research on character, scenes, background and the list continues… Mind you, I never thought it is so important; you cannot live on your experiences.  Your characters are as strong as the research behind them and the words you write, thereafter. And, it takes time and with this firangi in office, it is very unlikely that I will have any this week. Already with nothing flowing out, I replace character of this firangi with one of the old experienced characters in the story. Just to analyze; will he fit in? Then he comes from a different culture, I should replace the culture too.  Cultures are not exchangeable. That means I will have to twist a few scenes which I have planned and not yet written.  No, I am not doing it, unless it guarantees the flow of words as the keys clatters. I type, I Don’t Write.

‘I can’t start writing until I have a closing line.’ Again that is Joseph Heller for you, one on the list of my favorites. I am not taking his words, ‘coz if I do, I doubt, if I will ever start.

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3333+ words so far in 2012 on Barunjha’s Blog

© Barun Jha || 2012

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This is my 101^st post on this blog. The last one was 100^th, I expected there will be fireworks on screen and crowd will cheer up, someone will carry me on his shoulder and there will be celebrations. Nothing of that sort happened. Somewhere, I saw this coming, no splendid celebration, just another post to count 100. I even waited with a plan that I will post my 100^th post to coincide with Sachin Tendulkar scoring his 100^th ton, after first innings of 2^nd cricket test match between India & Australia, I gave up on that too.

When I started blogging, I had grand plans. But, as with every plan there is lag, lag in this case is higher. It was a fantastic idea to summarize the journey; I took a look back and saw the subject and nature of posts going all over the places, like a wild cocktail of spirits, at an evening gone toot.

I started blogging, as I am devoted to writing and fond of English as a language. This romance for writing grew during school days; however this appreciation for English has a long story. By the time I accepted A for apple, B for ball, C for…, as true introduction of an Indian to English, I was already 09 years old. That was with my own consent, actual introduction predates it.

I was born in a Maithil Brahmin family, which thought of English as an express train leaving for success and a better life, beyond the ancestral farmlands and Sanskrit mantras and fish curries made from free fish that came from the small pond in the backyard of the house. So, as a child, I had a burden learning three different languages at a time – Maithili, Hindi & English. I was enrolled in the local government school along with my siblings. Again, this school had English as subject only when one reached sixth standard. I was a bit relaxed, it was relieving. But, my family had other plans; they hired a tutor who will give us lessons of mathematics and English, of course someone who was considered to be well educated but unemployed youth of village. Some of them left, seeking employment in Delhi, Mumbai, Kolkata and elsewhere… new ones came, even they left, and then came another one. It continued. Of all the things, I had one feeling that was common towards all of them, I hated them. I hated them because they taught me English.

Before they taught us, A B C, D… they made memorize answers to following questions.

What is your name? What is your father’s Name?  Where do you stay? Which school do you read in? In which class do you read in? And so on…

No, these were not any advanced lessons. It was a basic thing a child from a good family should know and understand. Answering these questions was a sign of bright child receiving very good education, at least in front of well dressed, good mannered, rich uncles, who lived in towns and cities and who came to village during holidays.  With all these responsibilities, we started each morning ranting the questions and answers.

That was just for starters. The tutors, most of whom were ill tempered, maybe they were frustrated of not having a decent job will write 10-15 English words with meanings, assign 1-2 page from grammar book Angrezi Vyakaran, and another 1-2 pages from general knowledge books… Bharat Darpan. And this was in addition to the usual, addition, subtraction, multiplication assignments and multiplication tables to memorize. With all these assignments to be presented next morning, the morning tuition ended. In the hours that followed we will be ready for the school, which was fun as there was a lack of teachers and the teachers present will doze off after roll call.  In the evening we will start again, reading aloud, ranting assignment, grammar, multiplication tables, making our every effort to commit to memory as we have been asked by the tutor in whatever light those lanterns could throw. With 3-4 of us ranting, it sounded like a chanting of Mantras at a Maha Yagya, like that of the chanting of Scholars who know Vedas by heart. Probably that is what our family wanted, ranting in English, not chanting in Sanskrit. Tired of the hard work we will yawn, will doze off, if it was not the smell of burning hairs (sometimes eyebrows) of one of my cousin, we would never know whether he was sleeping or silently poring over the book imbibing great lessons.

Yet another morning, the tutor comes. Mathematics, addition, subtraction, multiplication, division, ok…I stammered with multiplication tables of 12 onwards. But, he will ask meanings of words that he gave yesterday, I do not know. I knew what to do. I spread my palms, outstretched my hands, the raw, green cane, came striking down on my palms. Two canes, one on each palms, I knew, I was relaxed, it was over, the word is over. Then, the next word and same was repeated. The canes will break, split away. He will take a new one. The same happened with parts of speech, nouns, pronouns, adjectives, verbs… number, gender, person, case… and so on. The same things will get repeated tomorrow morning. Who care, I don’t, and I will see it tomorrow.  In fact, the tutors never taught me pronouns, because I never moved away from nouns. If teaching English to a Brahmin boy was any conspiracy of the British, we were radicals, me and my cousin; we had the grit not to bow in front of any effort that will teach us English.  You can’t force English on to us.  So, for the countless numbers of canes, ugly tutors and English, I hated English as a language.

It was later, in the mid 1990s, when my father moved to lonely mountains in the Eastern Himalayas as a teacher in a government run school that I came across what could be defined as a partially English medium education system, where things were in English except for the medium of instruction. Although I was about to enter high school, I could hardly read and write because everything was in English. I was left with no other option but to pick up English as a favored medium.  Thanks to the interactive nature of course material followed in those schools, I learnt to write more and worry less on the rules of grammar.

It was in the plains, on the banks of Ganga and around the ruins of Patliputra, the decay of suffocating growth which they called city, I came to realize that whatever language skills I have acquired so far, is more than average of an engineer, I was supposed to be. If it was not this place, I wouldn’t have understood the madness behind English in India. Here, I came across individuals and businesses that make millions, teaching people speak in English. They show them a dream or a promise that one day they will make them speak English better than the English do. Where banners, wall paintings, hoardings promise farratedaar (fluent) and dhurjhad (a local for fluent) English speaking within three months. No, they don’t have any program on writing. Writing in English is still elusive for the masses across India.

Then, came a phase of deterioration and amalgamation, which still continues; Kannada, Tamil, Telgu, Malyali, Punjabi, Bengali, Marathi, Gujrati… I heard a lot and I travelled a lot. With all these languages around me, I maintained my loyalty to English and my mother tongue, Maithili.  These not only affected my gastrointestinal functions and converted my taste buds multiple times; they influenced how I write English.

Today, I write, not for the sake of writing, not for the sake of English. I write for a greater purpose of telling a story about things that pleads my attention. Sometimes, I write to relieve the stress off my mind after a hectic schedule at work. It gives me a choice to record my thoughts and perspective, which in turn, provides a chance to evaluate the changes I have been through over the years and how it has affected my thought process. Moreover, I write because it keeps me engaged and make the best of solitude, which I feel, sometimes, working in faraway places. It helps me to maintain the creative pursuit.

And, I write in Angrezi… and it will continue.

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2950+ words so far in 2012 on Barunjha’s Blog

© Barun Jha || 2012

I know he was speaking Bengali, language, nothing alien to me. I was surprised, at the simplicity of refined courtesy from a man in grungy clothing. He is not handsome; the blue helmet over his head conceals his slightly over sized head. He has a broad face, jaws protruding, and prominent lips as if swollen of a bee sting. The sweater he wears is oversized, worn out and hangs skewed from his shoulder.  It must have been white, when it was new. Now it is reddish yellow, with rust stains, he could easily camouflage in the dirt and sand outside. Probably, he is a labor who toils hard bending bars, or rigger, the deep stains of steel bars around his shoulder confirms it. But no, no rigger in right mind will come to me, to convey New Year wishes.

“Who are you?” I asked. He introduced him as labor supervisor of one of our contractors. Labor supervisor, a labor and a supervisor, I am sure he is serving the double responsibility. “Happy New Year” I mumbled out, “Thank You”. I took the small notebook and a pen he was holding with both his hands extended towards me.

I still do not understand the idea behind New Year gifting of journals and notebooks.  Or may be journal keeping was a good idea, or the remnants of the English legacy carried forward by the cultured, not so bourgeoisie class. I took a little interest in the first one. I was planning to buy one, now I won’t buy any. Once I received the second I thought I may need it or will pass it on to someone else. But a pile of dozen diaries, big small, black, white, colored, leather bond, paper bond, fake bond with irksome smell, it annoys. The only corporate journal, my company gave me before New Year last year is still untouched and here I am in 2012, with stack of diaries of no use.

I find gifting ideas have really gone weird. Flower vases, photo frames, wall clocks, Made in Chinas … whatever be the occasion, whoever is the recipient. As long as it fits the budget and can be wrapped into a nice looking box with shiny, narrow ribbon that can be knotted as a flower. I express my deep sympathies with people like me; it doesn’t matter, even if you are working with IT sector. I am sure, you have similar looking, company logo bearing, arduous using, purportedly nonsense coffee mugs stacked somewhere in your room.

So next, you are gifting someone, gift something sensible. Till then, keep give-take, useless-useful, love-hate relationship with gifting.

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1520+ words so far in 2012 on Barunjha’s Blog

© Barun Jha || 2012

• Write small, clear and complete sentence. Avoids fragments. Two fragments places together (unless in a sentence) may make sense to you, but it may not for others. Use generic words wherever possible.

• A paragraph is a collection of sentence.

• A long sentence doesn’t make a paragraph but it makes your writing clumsy and obscure.
• A clear writing is interesting and garners more readers and reader’s interest.

• Obscurity is best left to successful writers, if you can’t refrain, write obscure clearly.

• Give a due consideration to genuine critiques, even it pinches and hurts.  Remember, you think you write real well, like everyone else.

• Be regular on your blog, do follow comments. Say Thank You for every appreciation and comments you get.

• Visit others blog, read posts on your commenter’s blog, give an honest opinion on their blog/ writing. They deserve it for the time they spent reading your posts.

• Reciprocity is good, but just don’t pat someone’s back because he/she patted on yours.