Fading Romance of Rimjhim

A short commentary

By

SKT Nasar ‘Babul’

Arrival of monsoon is eagerly awaited when scorching summer is intolerable. And, with the prayers rewarded, we passionately embrace the joy of monsoon. Dusty settlements and parched crop fields dance with relief. Apparently lifeless vegetation suddenly jumps back to life, spreading a carpet of soothing green everywhere.  Organisms from miniscule bacteria to large trees to gigantic whales start proclaiming that life is beautiful; life is not extinguished, after all!

Rimjhim, the monsoon drizzle sprouts romance all around. The thirsty soil produces a fragrance unmatched by branded perfumes in sheer ecstasy when the first rain drops kiss it. Young people get soaked in rainwater so their skin-clinging clothes highlight contours to attract adoring attention of the other gender. Love stories are set in motion. Intoxication of rimjhim continues through the entire rainy season running well into deep winter.

Jhamjham, a heavy downpour, produces twists to the romance of rimjhim. Birds find shelters; so do domestic animals. Burrowing animals stay put in underground perches. Romancing couples sprint for secluded lodging, lonelier the better. Children run to the open to splash muddy water, to swim in mud, to float little paper-boats on streaming water. Family Moms are like angry birds, worrying about the daughter in school, the college going son loafing around, her romantic husband flirting someone. Family oldies try to find comfortable postures in vain. Romantic gestures by the old man are rebuffed by his old lady. In frustration, the old man prevents younger members from rejoicing the rains; he had done through his life. Is it jealousy? Yes, of course!

Jhamajham is the category of torrential rains. Only farmer-tillers are coaxed into action. They rush to crop fields with cattle and ploughs. Affluent folks stay put in cosy homes, sipping hot drinks. Water logging in metropolises brings life to a halt. Jhamajham for several days in a row is a sign of oncoming floods.

Cloud bursts that cause excessive rains in short spells wash away all romance; it could be a sign of disasters especially in mountain slopes. Acid rains are scary. Rare blood-red rain fills everyone with fear; hearts and minds are left with no room for romance.

Seasonality of rains with connected romance is fast disappearing. Global warming, unprecedented carbon footprints and climate change are blamed for the distress. Are we, or the extraterrestrial humanoids, responsible for the malaise? Our forefathers passed on to us the romance of monsoon. We, the present generation of humanity are gifting to our children, our children’s children, their children a mother earth devoid of the romance of rimjhim. Yet, oldsters shed crocodile tears on the fading romance of rimjhim.

Let humanity join hands to reverse the processes of disastrous climate change. Let humanity revive the fading romance of rimjhim.

A Costly Lesson

No Car, Life Bekaar?

A mini-story by

SKT Nasar ‘Babul’

Kumar was engrossed in one file among a pile of 157 folders gathering dust and awaiting his immediate attention. His cell phone suddenly woke up with the familiar bang-bang ring tone. He glanced at his mobile screen. Raghu was the caller.

‘Yaar, finally I bought a car. You have for two years been telling me: No car, Life bekaar! Now I realise you’ve been right. Thanks for tutoring me to drive. And, apologies yet once again for thrice denting your car through the training. I’ll soon take you and your gorgeous wife on a long drive to ..’

Kumar interjected knowing Raghu would continue till eternity if not stopped.

‘Long drive to hell? No, thanks, Yaar! We’re OK on this planet. But, Raghu, be cautious while driving.’ advised Kumar. He added, ‘Don’t use cell phone when driving. Hang up now, you, my gorgeous wife’s brother.’

Raghu: ‘Yaar, no worries, I’m an expert now.’

Kumar: ‘Hang up, you idiot.’

Raghu wouldn’t give in. He continued. ‘Oo, la la. Yaar Kumar, she is beautiful. You know ‘no wife, no life’. If I could get her, my life would be jhing-a la la. Car and wife together would make my existence zing-a la la, yes zingggg!’ Raghu had spotted a bare back girl on the side walk. In tight jeans her buttocks rubbed like two footballs rolling half way over each other.

Kumar: ‘Bastard, hang up. You should be ...’

Raghu stopped talking but did not disconnect. There were sounds of clutters and groans.

Kumar spoke in anger: ‘Saala, dramabaaz!’, and disconnected the phone. Back to his dusty files!

Two hours later, his cell phone woke up again with the same loud bang-bang rig tone; unknown caller this time.

‘Hello! Who is this?’ Kumar asked with artificial politeness.

‘Beta, I’m Raghu’s father.  He met with an accident. He is in God’s Mercy Hospital.’

Kumar was struck by a 440 volt electric shock, literally.

Raghu was fast asleep on hospital bed number 420. He had suffered cracked lumbar vertebra. His lower limbs were paralysed. His recovery would take at least three months with intensive care at God’s Mercy Hospital, and with God’s mercy.

Kumar murmured: ‘Don’t use cell phone or look sideways while driving. It could be a costly lesson for any of us.’ 

Always Retain Rationality: A Lesson Re-learnt

by 

SKT Nasar ‘Babul’

My rationality wobbled; then it crumbled. I was sad. Yes, very sad, indeed! It took four hours of dreamful sleep to regain myself. But, I re-learnt a lesson, thanks to FIFA 2014.

  

I watched FIFA-World Cup 2014 final match, Germany versus Argentina. The ceremony had begun at 1210 (Indian Standard Time). I turned off the television at 338 am. This span of time had first excited and then depressed me. My hope and prediction were blasted. Mario Goetze, jersey number 19 and a last minute substitute, rocketed the Brazuka ball with a flashy hit past goalie Sergio Romero into the Argentina goal. The net shook violently at the strike of 113 minutes into the regulation match time. I was devastated.

My personal experience with the game of football spans four generations. My granduncle, the Great Samad aka Football Wizard played for India in international circuits. He mentored my father, the eldest Nasar who played for the state of Bihar. My father, in turn, coached me, a lethargic fatty that I was. I took to refereeing quickly after having played for two universities. I soon shifted to watching the game on field. It has been long now that I began watching football lying on bed since the day my father bought the family’s first television set. Our love for football has now entered the fourth generation. My grandson, Farzaan plays soccer at school in Nashville. My daughter’s six-year son, Aryan, has begun to watch TV football beginning FIFA 2014 season, his couch being my plump body. My past and present encounters with the game either on grassy field or in a cosy bed made me love football. But this morning I was in love with Argentina. I abandoned my first love, football and fell infatuated with another love, the Argentina football team. I wonder if it is infidelity!

I also wonder why billions around the world are supporters of non-European and non-North American teams rather than being lovers exclusively of football-the-game. Many among us have double loyalty, with game and also the preferred team.

My love narrowed down for Brazil and Argentina once the teams of our own subcontinent were purged out of WC 2014, one by one. And, when Brazil was defeated 1-7 by Germany, my faithfulness focused on Argentina. Such attitude is likely to be because we detest the supposed torture perpetrated for over two centuries on most of the world by white sahibs. Our resentment finds expression through the game of football. But, the Brazuka, the official match ball of FIFA 2014 games, is innocent, after all. The poor ball is there only to be kicked left foot and right foot through the tournament. The Brazuka ball deserves sympathy, not antagonism! 

My and Aryan’s preferred team, Argentina, had begun the match in style and harmony. It belied two hypotheses, that Argentinean defence was weak, and that Latin American football was lesser in substance than European football. The ‘goal’ by Gonzalo Higuain was brilliant but for the off side. The team appeared tired, especially during the extra time. The much awaited magic by Lionel Messi was waning as the goalless match progressed into extra time.

My grandson Farzaan’s favourites, Germany, played its own game of enviable teamwork. It maintained extraordinary pace between the first and the last whistles. Miroslav Klose was close to nothing remarkable. The Germans failed to penetrate Argentinean defence. Germany cashed on just one laxity by the tired Argentina. And, goal! It was brilliant football.

The match was a treat to watch. Both teams deserve congratulations. On the whole Argentina played a notch better but failed to maintain its sting till the end. Germans displayed exemplary fitness. They maintained their prowess, and deservedly won! The game of football triumphed.

The lesson I re-learnt is that one should love the game even while being in love with playing teams. And, one must always hold on to rationality, be it the game of football or be it the game of life!

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 Of Birthdays

By

SKT Nasar

Do you really know the day, time, date, month, year and location of your birth? If you said yes, you are right. And, if your reply is a no, you are right. What nonsense is this? How can both yes and no answers to the same query be simultaneously right? Even the bigwigs of our society are not sure about their birthdays. Some have gone to courts to resolve their actual dates of birth. How come? Well, I will explain in my confused manner.

Like you, I too knew nothing about birthdays when I was born at Purnia in Bihar. I now realise at seventy years following that day that a birth is an extraordinary and divinely fascinating phenomenon. Its origin is not yet expounded by mainstream scientists. Only theories from cutting-edge laboratories flooded our science and our conscience once this phenomenon became known to be universally embedded in the multiverse system. Theologists say it is His desire for He designed the phenomenon of birth. I am still grappling with the question as a student of science. I also struggle to know why He, the Creator of all Creations, designed birth. I have to call on Him in person some day for the answer. Sinner that I am, I have to die to meet the Almighty. That brings me to another intriguing issue. Why should birth and death be friends forever, for everything?

Birth, despite the newborn’s first cry, is a happy occasion. I did not know if I was happy or sad at birth. Perhaps all earthly creatures from Mimivirus to Sequoia tree to the mammal Whale except us the human species do not display joy at births. Birth of a universe is not known to have made the clan of the multiverse to dance in delight. I wonder why my birth brought happiness to my large but nuclear family at that time.

I learnt later that my whole family was happy. Especially, my mother was delighted. I knew all facts related to my birth through acquired knowledge as given by those who were witness to that event. This acquired knowledge became belief that graduated to a fact as I grew up.  That is why I filled in thousands of forms with the concluding declaration that ‘the statements made above are true to my knowledge and belief’. Mark the words ‘knowledge’ and ‘belief’. Thus, our birthdays are based on our knowledge, the acquire knowledge and on our belief, hammered into us through non-stop counselling.

I was the focus of welcome celebrations on arrival on this planet in to my mother’s lap.  Festivities were organised beginning with the azaan, the call to prayers in the name of Allah. That call, I was repeatedly told, was directed at me. I did not act in response then. And, I am still striving to respond to that azaan in vain to a degree. I was told that my first and a few subsequent birthday celebrations were masked in sorrow, fear and apprehension. The first child of my parents, my elder brother named Iqbal, had brought heavenly joy when he was born. Death overtook him at nine months of age devastating my mother along with the entire clan of Moulvi Tola at Purnia. I arrived in that milieu. As was the taboo then, I was sold out for one grain of rice to my eldest aunt, my mother’s first cousin and wife of my father’s eldest brother. The idea was to hoodwink the evil spirit who would again have targeted the second child born to my mother. The devil would not find me since I was already sold out. I have defied the evil spirit thus far. The devil must still be trying to locate me.

My parents’ later two sons were born at Hooghly in West Bengal and at Bhagalpur in Bihar. In accordance with the custom then, the carrying would-be mother would deliver her child among close relatives. Since my father had moved to Bhagalpur as a faculty at TNJ College later renamed as TNB College, my mother moved to Hooghly to deliver her third son. Times had changed later and her fourth and fifth sons were born at Bhagalpur where my family now had many friends and relatives by then. Taboos and superstitions were almost gone except that my mother had brought five of her sons to this world at homes, not in hospitals. That was my mother, strong enough to survive tribulations yet embracing happy moments! I would not be sitting here to write this piece if my mother had not given birth to me. I wonder as to why one should celebrate my birthdays rather than my birth seven decades ago. Why should one not rejoice my birth and pay tribute to the one who has been the worldly source of my birth. I mean my mother. International Mother’s Day in my reckoning indicates a separatedness of the mother from her children. I believe that birthdays deserve to be truly celebrated as the Mother’s Day.

Biologically speaking I am more a mother’s child than my father’s son. Each of my cells carries 23 chromosomes of my mother and 23 chromosomes of my father in the nucleus. It is the ‘Y’ chromosome from my father that made me a male baby. I carry the ‘X’ chromosome of my mother. Above all, each cell in my body is almost a replica of my mother’s cytoplasm with many essential genes contained in mitochondria. That is another reason for which I salute the mother; all mothers.

The funniest part is that the growing number of candles on my birthday cake reminds me that I am inching closer to the friend of my birth. The death! One is born to die. Why do we not celebrate death, then? I am glad that the tradition of some communities is to celebrate death, especially of old men and of women preferably old and married. I would wish that there be no strings attached to rejoicing the death of persons past their prime yet in good health. I am aware that my suggestion is easier said than done.

My birthday falls on 27 June. Celebrate, if you so wish, both as my birthday as well as my Mother’s Day and Parents’ Day. And, finally, when I am gone, do not mourn death; just keep celebrating life, my life, and our lives!

AD & BD Bhai, Bhai!

SKT Nasar

22 June 2014

I waited at Howrah railway station for the entire morning to receive AD, my long-awaited friend-in-dream. By the way, AD is not a She; it is a He. Or, may be AD is concurrently both a She and a He. AD could be a pseudonym. AD could also be an ephemeral utopia, not a person. I really do not know.  In fact I and AD are virtual friends having met over the internet Social Media, and the Godi TV Channels. I waited for AD like an infatuated lover. But, that is beside the point. 

The worrying part of the episode is that AD did not arrive. I am a member of Technology De-Addiction Campaign. So, I did not use my cell phone to ascertain the reason for AD’s non-arrival at the appointed time. 

I moved to Shalimar station and from there to Santragachi rail terminus hoping that AD might be travelling by a long distance train that terminates there. AD was not to be found there too. Where the hell AD got stuck up, I wondered in disgust.

I then took a heavily crowded AC bus to Sealdah station. I paraded across the ten platforms; but AD was nowhere to be seen. I calculated, since Kolkata has five rail heads, AD must be waiting at the fifth station; after all AD is visiting me for the first time ever.

I dashed for Kolkata station at the Chitpur locality as my last attempt in my ascending frustration. I waited till late in the evening. Dammit, where the hell was AD? By this time I was too tired having traversed around Kolkata Megacity spanning both sides of Hooghly River.

Home at last after a 15-hour search for AD!

You know how terrible a bus ride in Kolkata is! You have to dribble through the crowd like World Cup footballers. These greats do not worry about pick pockets while playing their games; but, a bus commuter in Kolkata, has to take care of his pockets while dribbling past the crowd. He has to be one notch above the soccer legends in agility, alertness and stamina. The commuter has to be more flexible than IPL cricket cheer leaders for he must keep moving the torso nonstop while hand-holding the overhead rod like a monkey.

I said to myself ‘Damn AD; I must sleep now.’ I gave up the idea of receiving AD on waking up in the morning.

My cell phone groaned sharp at 10 am, the caller introducing himself as GP. I told him that I did now know Mr. GP. The caller laughed in a manner as to tell me I was an idiot not to have known GP. He continued.

“GP is not someone’s name; it means Great Patriot among nation servers. I am charged with the responsibility to inform that AD could not book a railway ticket because of 14.2% increase in passenger fares. AD has poor purchasing capacity. AD is also grappling with rising food prices to escalate further with the 6.5% rise of rail freight charges.”

GP spoke again after a pause, “Unfortunately, AD is afflicted with a deadly BD disease aka Burre Din or Bad Day. BD is caused by antibiotic resistant superbug named BacillusUPA strain 70Y, presently in suspended animation. Do not agitate about AD for it shall be deemed as an antinational act. Do not recall the 2012 letter of NaMo chiding MaMo for raising rail fare and freight costs ahead of Parliament session.” GP paused again.

GP: “Bandhu, it was then. Let us only think about tomorrow. Only together we can, and we shall act decisively; you must have blind faith on what we say and what we do even if these are opposites. Wait for AD; Achche Din shall come someday but not as was promised in the last pre-poll circus. Just sit back and wait for our future promises. Be prepared for more promises from time to time, again and again exclusively in the national interest. AD & BD Bhai, Bhai, this means that AD and BD are brothers; our success in pitching the brothers against each other shall finally banish BD from our motherland. Achche Din will arrive, Bandhu!”

***

SKT Nasar's Ramblings: My rediscovery

SKT Nasar's Ramblings: My rediscovery

Meri ek chhoti koshish

تم جوان حوی تو، حر شے جوان ھوا
دھرتی جوان ھوی، اسمان جوان ھوا

کوھ قاف کی پریون کی شھزادی تم
بس کے ھوا ھوا' اتش فشان ھوا

ستارون نے چرایا' ترے تن سے دمک
تب و مدھم مدھم عدش چراغان ھوا

عروج شباب تمھارا، عشقیا بارشین
نامرادی تنویر کی، درد عیان ھوا