Of collection, hobbies and hoarding

It is generally believed that collecting too many material possessions is not good. We can carry nothing to the other world, the songs and messages of famous spiritual leaders always remind us.

But what about collecting as a hobby? There are collectors of all kinds in the world, and those who spend fortunes to build up piles of old gramophone records or antique show-pieces are mostly praised for their efforts, despite often being prone to acting on impulse, behaving in an impractical manner or even turning obsessive in some cases.

But in this fast-paced age of internet, has collecting lost its charm? Earlier, a favourite song being played on the radio would make me elated and I would rush to find a pen and paper so that I can write down the lyrics, which I had a habit of collecting. Now I can hear nearly every song in YouTube and Google the lyrics in a jiffy, but the fun quotient is considerably less. Photo albums are now passé, but photographs stored in pen drives are rarely revisited.

My mom has a trunk-ful of old and apparently useless stuff. A leaf from a tree in Mussourie where she worked as a young schoolteacher, a letter written by her grandfather discussing a proposal of marriage of her parents which she came across somewhere, a pic of an Iraqi boy during the war, cut from The Statesman and kept because he "looked a bit like" her eldest grandson.

Now nearing 90, she often says, "I don't know why did I keep all these, nobody will have any use of these after I go." I don't try to reassure her, though I myself have been guilty of collecting bus tickets and match- boxes as a kid, and posters of sportsmen as a teenager (mom did not like me putting up photos of "males" like Maradona and Gavaskar, so I balanced it with PT Usha). However, 20 years of migrant existence has changed me. Now I throw away things mercilessly, lest they become a burden during the next move to a new house. The only exception are my books, half of them unread, earning glances of displeasure from porters during shifting, and in constant strife with pests and bookworms.

Maybe, someday, I will have the heart to stop hoarding them and give some of them away to a library. After all, the poet said, "kya leke aya bande kya leke jayega".

(P.S.: The dead-body of my first mobile phone is still with me. Call it Psycho-3, or whatever. Photograph enclosed)

A chilly morning and a poet’s resting place

On Mathura Road, at a walking distance from Jangpura-B where I have been staying for most part of my 20 years in Delhi, lies the grand Red sandstone mausoleum of Abdur Rahim Khan-e-Khanan (1556-1627), son of Akbar’s mentor Bairam Khan, a statesman and a general, and one of the “nine jewels” in the Mughal Emperor’s court.

I used to pass by the ruins twice every day, but never tried to go in, as I could hardly see any visitor inside. Then in 2014, the Agha Khan Trust for Culture started to renovate the structure as part of its Nizamuddin Urban Renewal initiative. But if not for an exhibition that I came across during an impromptu visit to India Habitat Centre in March 2017, I might not have realized that Abdur Rahim was also Rahim Das, a poet proficient in Braj bhasha, Sanskrit, Arabic and Persian, and known for his verses on life and spirituality. Those studying Hindi in schools would know, for “Rahim ke Dohe” are in CBSE syllabus along with those of Sant Kabir.

The tomb has recently been reopened by ASI, and this morning, I ventured for the first time into the complex that I have been seeing from outside for so long. The helpful ASI guard at the gate offered me snippets of information about the mausoleum, which was built in 1598 by Rahim himself in memory of his wife Mah Banu. However, now it is only referred to by his name.

The garden pathways have been restored, along with the square-shaped main tomb. The dome remains half-painted, apparently to keep some part of the original ruins untouched. Plaques have been placed in the arched cells on the tomb’s lower edifice with Rahim’s poems inscribed on them. The pic enclosed with this post is of this doha: "Gahi sarnagati Ram ki, bhavsagar ki naav/Rahiman jagat udhar ko, aur na kachhu upaiy".

It will be relevant to mention that Ramdhari Singh Dinkar, in his “Sanskriti, Bhasha aur Rashtra”, notes that it is said that Tulsidas and Rahim were good friends and the latter, in fact, had effusively praised Ram Charit Manas in one of his poems. A rare personal copy prepared for Rahim of a Persian translation of Ramayana commissioned by Akbar is preserved at Freer Art Gallery, Washington.

Several blogs mention a conversation between Tulsidas and Rahim, after the former came to know that while giving alms to the poor, Rahim lowers his gaze. He asked Rahim in a couplet, "“ऐसी देनी देंन ज्यूँ, कित सीखे हो सैन/ज्यों ज्यों कर ऊंच्यो करो, त्यों त्यों निचे नैन”. (Sir, Where have you learnt that way of giving alms? As your hands go up, your eyes start going down). Rahim apparently replied with, “देनहार कोई और है, भेजत जो दिन रैन/लोग भरम हम पर करे, तासो निचे नैन”. (Giver is someone else, giving day and night. But people may make a mistake and think I am the giver, so I lower my eyes). Disclaimer: I don't know if the story is a true historical account.

(Note: 1. Inputs have been taken from nizamuddinrenewal.org site, and articles by Shashank Bhargava and Sayeeda Hamid in The Hindu and Indian Express, respectively. Also, jantakareporter site for the Tulsi-Rahim tale.

2. Reading wish-list – ‘Attendant Lords: Bairam Khan and Abdur Rahim, Courtiers and Poets in Mughal India’ by former diplomat TCA Raghavan.)

The Wizard is Dead. Long live the Magic

How to explain an ordinary middle-aged working woman, roaming in the dull world of   “your kind consideration" note-sheets in a city in India, feeling empty, almost as if she has lost a near one, when she hears about the death of a celebrated footballer in a country thousands of miles away?

That Diego Armando Maradona was the first magician she encountered in her childhood.

During the 1986 Football World Cup, I was 10. We didn’t own a TV set and my half-yearly exams were nearby. Still, I remember watching with amazement, at someone else's house, the short-statured stocky guy who runs like lightning, the ball stuck on his feet as if with glue, dodging and throwing off defenders on his path with casual ease.

The run, the goals, the assists -- footages of which are now easily accessible through internet, can still make someone feel better on a partlicularly gloomy day.

Reams have been written about the '86 tournament in which, as a famous football critic had said, "The Argentine artist single-handedly delivered his country its second World Cup.” With that, Maradona had barged into the psyche of (till-then) Brazil-crazy football fans of Kolkata. Newspapers were singing his paeans. Bangla children’s magazines like Anandamela were publishing articles on the childhood struggles of the man who can “make the ball listen to him”. We were trying to imitate his run during four-a-side matches in the neighbourhood. (Football was the only game in which I was somewhat okay, not the “elebele", good-for-nothing, in others) My old scrapbook still has an outline figure of Maradona, cut from an Anandamela page which I rediscovered today in internet, thanks to a blog archive called Dhulokhela.

Four years later, during 1990 World Cup, I watched every match of Argentina. The glimpses of Maradona's miracles were coming only in flashes, but it was enough for us. I was secretly coveting a no. 10 Argentina jersey, but did not tell my mom. I had learnt new words like “ball control” and “playmaker”, using them proudly during arguments with peers who doubted Maradona’s genius. If one would raise the issue of “hand of God” in 1986 QF, we will point to the “second goal” in the same match, the majestic 60-metre slice of knife that cut through the hapless English defence. Much later, years after it won the sobriquet of “Goal of the Century” in a 2002 FIFA online poll, I read the English translation of legendary description of that goal by Uruguayan commentator Victor Hugo Morales.

"Maradona on the ball now. Two closing him down. Maradona rolls his foot over the ball and breaks away down the right, the genius of world football. He goes past a third, looks for Burruchaga. Maradona forever! Genius! Genius! Genius! He's still going… Gooooal! Sorry, I want to cry! Good God! Long live football! What a goal!”

Yes, football can offer moments which can make grown people cry. It can create situations when Real Madrid fans will rise to applaud a Barcelona goal, as they did after an iconic strike by Maradona in the El Classico on June 26, 1983.

And because the “golden boy" created so many such moments in his lifetime, his controversies take a backseat in the mind of a fan. Hand of God, Cocaine, Ephedrine, unpaid taxes – all get thrown off the path to goal like opponent defenders.

Maradona Ra Mara Jan Na. Wizards never die.

P.S. I bought a no. 10 Argentina jersey in 2014 

Words, and words

    The old wizard says, "words are our most inexhaustible source of magic, capable of both inflicting injury, and remedying it." 

    The wise say one word can be powerful enough to make or break - an empire or a heart. T

    hose who know the truth, also know that words are often powerless, rebounding off the hard walls built by the mighty, the heartless, or even the introvert.

    But when it comes to her, it's only words, and words are all she has, just like the song says. Mundane, meaningless words. If no one wants them, she will keep them to herself, packed in a forgotten tin box with yellowing letters and envelops. 

    Maybe someday, someone will again want to see them. But then, she might be somewhere else. Somewhere, where her words will not come out like this - full of doubts, haphazard, confused. One day, she won't blame herself for wasting too much time on words that are lying here and there like the toys of an untidy child. Then her words will form themselves into a train of thought that will know its route and run its course, unhindered. 

    Maybe in some other world?

    

Puja in Covid times

 Durga Puja trip to Kolkata this year is a story of ayes and nays.

In this "new normal" world, there is no frantic pandal-hopping, no clicking of pics, no eating out, no setting up 'get-together' meets with different groups of friends, no queuing up for 'bhog', no Panchami evening visit to see 'lighting' in pandals.

Yes, family lunches and dinners are there, along with Google Duo meets with friends, online darshan, app-based Puja Parikrama and live telecast of pujo in YouTube.

But I am missing the real Puja spirit, which has disappeared amid raging debates over social distancing in Puja pandals and too many stories of economic hardship in the Covid era. The world has changed, perhaps for ever, and even the desperately-trying- to-act-normal crowd, wearing matching masks with their attire, can feel it.

I, like many others, neither belong to the group of people who get upset that Durga Puja for most Bengalis is more about celebration than rituals, nor to those who view it through the complex prism of Aryans/non-Aryans. For us, it is a symbol of nostalgia, childhood memories, power of women, social inclusion, harmony, and pure, unadulterated happiness.

Happiness. A word which sounds like a joke to many people in the planet today.

Still, let's hope everyone will find it soon.


(Pic: a small terracotta statue of the goddess kept at my sister's house)

Six songs; six memories

1989/1990: I am at school. Watching movies are a strict no-no. Mom thinks they divert attention from studies. But I get to hear the first few lines of this Hindi song on a shopkeeper's transistor radio... "Aate Jaate Hanste Gaate"

I hardly know Hindi. I love the music. Didn't know then whether it was original or not. I get mesmerized by the voice.

1991 or 1992: Still in school. Durga Puja days. Rickety wooden folding chairs in front of the Puja pandal. Hits of new films on loudspeaker. "Tumse Milne Ki Tamanna Hai". I don't get all the lyrics, only some words. But that voice, again.

1992/1993: Everywhere, everyone talks about this new film called 'Roja'. A music director named A R Rahman and his tunes. A handsome actor called Arvind Swamy. I am yet to see the movie.

My sister just bought a Philips Walkman. Our first cassette too, of 'Roja', with Swamy and the red saree-wearing heroine on its cover. "Roja Janeman" is on loop. I still don't know the meaning of "vadiyaan". But I listen to "Yeh Haseen Vadiyaan" so many times that the batteries of the Walkman often run out. Sis not too happy about it.

1994: College days. A long, long film called 'Hum Aapke Hai Kaun' in Hind Cinema, Calcutta. Popular songs, but I don't like any of them. Except the first stanza of "Pehla Pehla Pyar Hai." I sing it often, when no one's around.

1994/95: The pleasant month of February. Buying a cassette for the birthday of a friend. Of assorted film music. I select a cassette just because it has one of my favourite songs. Lyrics are not that great, but the music of "Roop Suhana Lagta Hai" is catchy; and the voices are...amazing.

2002/03: Delhi. Job. Living with friends. Watching a film called "Love" on TV. The movie is just okay. But that voice, again... and another of my all-time favourite songs..."Saathiyan Ye Tune Kya Kiya".

Keep singing, S. P. Balasubrahmanyam sir.

(This post is a tribute to noted singer S. P. Balasubrahmanyam who died due to post-Covid complications on 25th September, 2020)

A piece of the sky

    At 4.45 am, she woke up. She went to her balcony. The stars were still bright, but a slice of sky was slowly turning pale-white. As trains chugged towards the Nizamuddin station, she watched it change into orange, pink, yellow, white, brighter.

    Her personal piece of sky. She has clicked the pics of the same point numerous times during lockdown days. And felt good.

    Or is it? Tomorrow she might be somewhere else. Who knows if the sky will be visible from there. Even if it is there, it won't be hers as well. As she does not own a piece of land anywhere in this earth, can she say with certainty that she owns a rectangular piece of the vast firmament?

    She doesn't need a slice of the earth, just a place, which will be enough to convince the document-hunters that she belongs here, will do it for her.

    But she won't say no to a scoop of the sky.

Dream series-1

It is late afternoon. The sun is soft and dull on the leaves of trees, on the rough cemented pavements, and greyish buildings in front of their hotel.

She has come out surreptitiously, to explore the town, alone. Her family is taking rest after lunch. Sisters. Kids. Brothers-in-Law. Mom is back home.

Why have we come to this city, she wondered. It is congested. Too many cars. Too many shops. There is a sliver of a river running through it. Is this a pilgrimage centre? Otherwise nothing seems to be extraordinary about it.

She takes a turn, and the scene changes completely. Just like that!

There is a rust-coloured cobbled path. Clean. Cosy white bungalows lining up the street. The pink of bougainvillea. The yellow of Amaltas. The flaming red of palash, bringing back childhood memories. Down the way, there are a few small eateries, like the “char dukan” of Mussourie. Families roaming around, laughing, gathering in front of a cart selling fluffy cotton candy of the colour of bougainvillea. She walks on. The road is deserted this side. She looks nervously. There are only a few dogs, fast asleep.

She can see a quaint bus stop, slope-roofed. One coach is waiting there. The seats have side-handles, just like those in a roller-coaster train. She gets in. The bus is nearly full.

And suddenly, the coach jerks and whirls upwards. They are at a circular spot, covered in glassy snow, and all around it one can see a breath-taking view of layers and layers of mountains. The white peaks are gleaming with a golden hue.

She doesn’t realize when and where she comes back, only feels an urgency to return quickly and bring her family here. They should see this.

She doesn’t realise she is in a dream. She doesn’t remember anything about any life- threatening virus. She doesn’t notice that none of the people at the shops or the bus was wearing a mask. That they were not looking furtively at each other, measuring  distance, avoiding touch. She doesn’t realise that this cannot be real.

She starts running back. In the dream.

(The accompanying picture is of Sikkim)

Another storm, another time

As Kolkata is assessing the staggering devastation and tragedy caused by the cyclone Amphan, references are being

made repeatedly to another super-storm that had destroyed the city three centuries ago, on 11th October, 1737.

The “Hooghly River Cyclone of 1737”, or the Calcutta Cyclone as it is known in the history of natural calamities of the world, had caused a storm surge of 40 ft in the Ganges, reportedly triggered an earthquake and 381 mm of rain in six hours, flattening the whole town.

Eight British and three Dutch ships were lost in the storm, with many of their men and cargo. The death toll, as per the records of East India Company which was then effectively ruling the city, was around 3,000 (in some records and reports, it is noted as three lakh, which, historians agree, cannot be correct).

The cyclone had also brought down the “sikharas" of the sky-high nine-spired Nabaratna temple in Chitpore Road. The magnificent temple, called “black pagoda” by the English, was built in 1731 by Babu Gobindram Mitra, the wealthy Deputy Collector of Calcutta. Its loftiest pinnacle was said to have been 165 ft high. Old photos show that its architectural design was a bit like the Dakshineswar Kali temple, which, of course, was constructed much later.
(Source: Purono Kolkatar Kothachitra by Shri Purnendu Patri and hurricanescience. org website; pics from internet, don’t know who are the copyright holders)

Lockdown journal: 22.04.20

Once upon a time, for me, a mask meant a green paper-made monster face I got free with a children's book in an exhibition. It had horns and holes in place of the eyes.

Later, as I grew older, the mention of a mask brought to the mind the image of a traditional tribal dance accessory, such as the life-like Chhau masks of Purulia in WB, depicting gods and demons and animals.

Now, a mask only means a life-saving face shield that may become a permanent part of our lives. Everyone is wearing one, of a different variety. The grocery-buyers are feeling breathless in 10 minutes and wondering how health professionals are sweating it wearing them for 10 hours at a stretch. Online video sharing sites and magazines are full of do-it-yourself mask-making instructions. Some business enterprises are even developing designer or customized masks.

If everyone is wearing a mask, will they all look the same? How will you talk to a person if you don't know if he or she is smiling or gritting his/her teeth? Will the lipstick-wearers or moustache-sporters change their style for ever? Will the fabric and price of the masks will be a new marker to know your socio-economic status? It will be an odd world, surely.

In pic: a mask and a pair of gloves, on a housing society washing line in Delhi.

Lockdown journal-20.04.2020

Lockdown is among the most commonly used words now, along with “quarantine”. Here’s a look at the words and some stories and histories attached with them.

As per Macmillan dictionary, its origin is of the old English words, “loc” (which refers to fastening something), and “doun”. But the word lockdown itself is being used only since 19th century. However, the instances of quarantine can be found as early as in 14th and 15th century, during the Black Death plague in Europe.

The word quarantine comes from Italian words "quaranta giorni" which mean "forty days". Under this practice, ships arriving in Venice from infected ports were required to stay in anchor for 40 days before touching the shore. A similar method, of 30-day isolation, was introduced earlier by Adriatic port city of Ragusa (now Dubrovnik). The practice continued to be followed in other parts of Europe and the US in various forms.

During the bubonic plague outbreak of 1665, the inhabitants of Eyam village in Derbyshire, England, self-quarantined themselves after a few residents got infected from a bale of clothes sent from London to a tailor. Their heroic act prevented the spread of the plague to other neighbourhoods, though the village lost 250 of its residents in 14 months. One of the villagers, Elizabeth Hancock, buried her husband and six of her seven children over a period of eight days in August 1666. The gravesite is now a British national trust monument.

Another curious quarantine story relates to Mary Mallon, a cook in New York in early 20th century. The first person in the US to be identified as an asymptomatic carrier of the bacteria that caused typhoid, Mary was believed to have caused 51 cases and 3 deaths, but never had the disease herself. “Typhoid Mary" was quarantined in North Brother island for 23 years, till her death at the age of 69 due to pneumonia.

(Information taken from the Guardian, sciencealert.com, CDC, history.com).

Lockdown journal-16.04.2020: A tale of two thieves

It is being reported that novel coronavirus outbreak and lockdown have brought the crime graph down across the world, including in Delhi. A friend, however, came to know of an incident of alleged theft in a locality in the capital yesterday. The guy apparently decamped with a bedsheet, a matress and some amount of atta.

"May be a homeless man who needed food and a bed, not a professional thief," my friend said, setting my train of thought back to one afternoon years ago when a thief struck at my home.

I was working in the desk of the news agency I was employed with at that time when my then landlady, who could never pronounce my name and preferred to address me by the name of my ex-roommate, called on my mobile, "beta Sheelpa, aapke ghar abhi chor ghus aya tha, jaldi aajao, dekh lo kya kya gaya". Being naturally over-reactive, I started shaking and sweating and ran to one of the bosses. He said, "but how can you can go home now, there are so many stories!" My heart was saying "your stories can go to hell", but the head did a bit of pleading and I rushed to my flat with the help of a kind car-owning colleague.

Everything was in place, except the locks and my wristwatch which I had forgotten to wear to office that day. "How come he didn't take anything else?" I was surprised. My gold earrings were lying untouched in my table drawer. "Maybe he was a drug addict and in a hurry," the colleague said.

We went to the local thana to lodge a complaint. After hearing my story, the duty officer said, "oh, it must be the same man who was caught stealing a little while ago at a house in the same area. Some people have beaten him up badly and left him here, just a few minutes back."

He took us to another room to show us a badly battered body lying on the floor. I don't remember anything else, just that at that moment I lost all desire to lodge an FIR over a wristwatch. I went home.

A few years after that, at another rented house, I returned after office one day to find the latch broken and every one of my hundreds of books spread all around, lying like the dead in the epic battle of Kurukshetra. It appeared that the guy spent at least an hour inside looking for cash, but couldn't find any money. Even my chequebook was in office. This time I had lodged a complaint, over theft of a pair of sneakers and a wristwatch (again!).

In short, the tales of thieves who broke into my homes did not have happy endings for them. Maybe, next time they will strike  "gold"! Of course, for that I will have to purchase it first.

Lockdown journal: 14.04.2020

In the season of new years and harvest festivals in various states of India, remembering my childhood visits in the day of Bangla Nabo Barsho to a few shops to which my mom was a regular customer. The shopkeepers will open their new cash-books in the new year (some will prefer to do it on Akshay Tritiya, though). They will offer a box of sweets and a rolled up Bengali calendar to all visitors. As soon as we return home, I will unroll the calendar, bearing images of gods and goddesses, and auspicious symbols, and go through the pages printed in blue letters with orange borders (these colours were used, traditionally) to look for holidays, especially Durga Puja dates.

This year, such traders are going through a phase of uncertainty. (So are people in many professions and jobs, even in media). It is not a "shubho nabo barsho" as such.

Only hoping that everyone remains safe and comes out mostly unscathed on the other side of this.

Lockdown journal: 07.04 2020

* Lockdown, at least for me, is not actually a leisure period, because I take a hell lot of time to complete housework. I don't know how my maid didi managed them in one-and-a- half hours. And hats off to those women (and men, where it applies) who are managing families stuck at home. Some of them also doing work- from-home assignments. Mujhse toh apna kaam hi bada mushkil se ho raha hai.

* When you think of it, you realise that actually so few things are "essential" items! Provided you have electricity and running water, you need nothing else except food, drinking water, cooking gas (and stove/oven of any kind), cleaning  materials, medical supplies, and a few clothes. Rest are dispensable.

Oh, and I forgot phone and internet connection!

* But friends and family are absolutely indispensable. And despite social/physical distancing, I have connected more than ever to my friends in the last few days. Many of them called or pinged, some after months, to check on me. I did so too. We are making regular video calls to keep in touch. Some friends are keeping a tab on my mental health as they know I am anxiety-prone. I don't own a vehicle, and more than one person have offered to drop groceries to my house. My friends, you know who you are! I am lucky to have you in my life.

Lockdown journal : 02.04.2020

[Some snippets of (non) happenings in my society, which I jotted down to divert my mind from news headlines about the terrible trail of death across the world]

* I don't know about other places, but in my area, there are even fewer people on roads. The morning milk buyers have also disappeared, mostly. And all talk of nature reclaiming itself notwithstanding, I am missing humans. I am missing the hustle and bustle and even the incessant honking which otherwise irritates me so much. I hardly interact with them, but I want to see the aloo tikki seller with his too-large-to -bring-in-a -crowded-market tawa, the crisp brown patties soaked in cheap oil, "Gupta jee" ka 10 rupaye ka burger in a glass box, the fruit-juice guy with his never-cleaned machine, the children from Madrasi Basti (sorry, it is called by that name) playing in the park in front of the temple, the solitary madman in a tattered shirt, the elderly Tamil lady frying vadas in a cart placed in close proximity to the garbage dump - where have they gone? In their homes, or some of them were part of that long march back to their villages?

I don't know, but next time I see them, I will try to know more about them.

* The first week of lockdown was a smooth affair for neighbours. I could hear them laughing and gossiping with each other across the isle. But now, they seem to be a bit anxious, especially after the markaz cluster outbreak. The teenager next door who used to listen to "Lamborghini Chalayi Jaane Oo" in top volume, were yesterday unleashing a long angry rant directed at her mother. I can understand Punjabi only if one speaks slowly (therein lies the catch!). What I could gather was that she was upset about her mom going out to buy something. The other side's responses were unusually low and defensive.

* While SDMC vehicles, using water jets to clean roads and buildings, visited the locality twice last week, our RWA guys sprayed disinfectant on stairs and doors yesterday. I rushed to close the narrow gap under the door with newspapers as I felt the crawling insects will come inside. My nameplate and the tricolour I pasted on the door also got soaked in phenyl. I can think of some symbolism there, but mere paas utna bhi khali time nahi hai.

Lockdown journal : 27.03.2020

[Some snippets of (non) happenings in my society, which I jotted down to divert my mind from news headlines about the terrible trail of death across the world]

* The RWA in my colony has barricaded both sides of the street in front of our house, effectively doubling the lockdown effect. They mean well, but it has ensured that there is not a soul in sight when you go out to the balcony in the morning. So, I have taken to birdwatching. The bird I clicked as a #stayathome icon on Janta Curfew day has now given birth to two babies. I have tried to find out the species with Google lense app, but failed. It looks like a kite, but I am not sure.

* The elusive garbage van paid a visit to the block today after a gap of two days, triggering such a frantic rush of neighbourhood ladies with bags and bins that social distancing went for a toss. Cannot blame them because the van driver seemed to be in a hurry, probably unnerved by the more-than-usual crowd.

* Landlady has forwarded a video, with someone in the background giving phone numbers of SGPC and Harmandir Sahib, and asserting that Sikhs are ready to feed anyone going hungry anywhere. As you see that the pages of the newspapers are full of stories of starvation and hardship, but you cannot do anything yourself, the good samaritans like them offer reassurance that at least some efforts are being made to ease the situation.

Lockdown journal : 26.03.2020

[Some snippets of (non) happenings in my society, which I jotted down to divert my mind from the news headlines]

* The isolation of human beings have made the birds happier, chirpier and louder. But the dogs look sad, be they of roadside variety or the gentle old Golden Retriever in our block. The big guy is missing his daily walk in the park. The commoners are not getting enough food. It's a lot like the human society.

After a posse of policemen in full battle gear marched through our lane yesterday morning, the jhola-carrying shoppers and the loiterers mostly disappeared. But in the sleepy afternoon hours, the Retriver's owners came out. The lady tiptoed into the park with him. The guy, wrapping a towel all over his face except his nose (!) stood in attention outside, ready to sound an warning in case a law enforcer arrives. The roadetians resting here and there barked a few times, but sans their usual energy.

Someone has locked the park gate today. Now only the neighbourhood cat can go in.

* The non-arrival of garbage van for last two days has caused anxiety among neighbours. A few are contemplating a journey to the dumpyard. Angry words were heard  this morning as they discovered that someone have kept a garbage bag in the narrow passageway. Hearing phrases like "singles staying here", I poked my head through the door and enquired about the trash collectors, to give a hint that I am not the culprit. It was a man from another floor, they later found out.

* Three boys walked through the street with a fat bunch of black cotton masks, shouting "tees ke ek, pachas ke do". There were no takers. By now, most people have collected enough masks, I thought, even though PPEs for healthcare professionals are in short supply all over the world.

* The otherwise bustling locality is so silent that even the sound of a bus passing by can be noticed.  The shouts of children can be faintly heard from the slum along the railway track. The slum-dwellers are now more aware of the problem than the "educated" lot, thanks to internet.

But Social distancing is a word too big for those small hutments.

Prayers of a football fan

The novel coronavirus has wrecked havoc in Italy, where the situation is so terrible that some people are looking at reports of 602 new deaths on Monday somewhat positively as it is a drop from a high of 793 recorded on Saturday.

Among the 6,077 deaths, most were elderly, prompting sombre news headlines such as “a generation has died”.

Italy may mean many things to many people – history, heritage, renaissance, art, Mussolini, mafia, Italian tycoons in Mills and Boon romance, or even the Gandhis.

For me and many Bengalis like myself, Italy always meant football.

Yes, traditionally, we have appreciated the more attacking version of the game played by Latin American countries like Brazil or Argentina, but no true football fan can ignore the Italian legends.

The worst-affected Lombardy region of Italy, with over 3,000 deaths, has at its centre the metropolis of Milan, home to A.C. Milan and Inter Milan, among the biggest names in European football. Lombardy boasts of a number of footballing greats, including Paolo Maldini, considered as the greatest left-back of all time, the good-looking winger Roberto Donadoni, Andrea Pirlo, Franco Baresi, Gianluca Zambrotta and goalkeeper Walter Zenga, who holds the record of having the longest period without conceding a goal in World Cup finals tournament (in 1990).

I faintly remember Italy’s 1982 World Cup triumph and a magazine article about keeper-captain Dino Zoff, the oldest ever winner of the World Cup at the age of 40. I remember supporting Brazil against Italy in the 1994 WC final match which the former won in tie-breaker, and I distinctly remember backing “The Azzurri” conditionally as they won their fourth World Cup, defeating France in Berlin in 2006, only because I, like many other Brazil fans, wanted “revenge” for Brazil’s 3-0 defeat in 1998 WC finals at the hands of Zinedine Zidane’s team.

May Italy bring their legendary defensive skills to the fore and win this game too, against the pandemic. This is the prayer of an ordinary football fan in a country which is preparing to fight its own difficult battle to combat the virus.

Apocalypse, now?

A few photographs of iconic landmarks in Japan and Italy, lying forlorn, emptied of tourists, eerily remind one of the Will Smith-starrer 2007 Sci-fi film "I Am Legend", in which the protagonist finds himself alone in the crowd of skyscrapers in New York city after a virus has wiped out 90 per cent of the Earth's population.

The coronavirus pandemic proves, once again, that despite proclaiming ourselves as all-powerful, we are just a vulnerable, weak species, trying to lord over the universe and inventing deadly weapons to fight over pieces of land we claim to be ours, but mostly failing when it comes to combating a micro-organism or even a disease like cancer.

Some people may harbour grandiose delusions because of their race, community, religion, financial status and other such man-made things, but they also find themselves facing an equal threat as those they consider as inferior. That's why the sages and saints, the wise men, always told us about the oneness of human race, howsoever ridiculous it may sound in this age.

Pic: ftom internet

Dalrymple's Delhi

A heritage walk in Mehrauli Archaeological Park and nearby areas, led by none other than historian William Dalrymple, sounded too tempting to miss. It was indeed a different experience to listen to the author of "The Last Mughal" discussing the last of the Mughals in front of the last Mughal structure, the Hathi Gate of Zafar Mahal.

In pic: 1. Inside a Mughal tomb which was turned into a summer palace by British official Thomas Metcalfe. 2/3. The Jamali-Kamali tomb. 4. Rajon ki Baoli 5/6. The author, in action.

Panipat: a cricket battleground, and a 100-day emperor

“Aaplog kab jaoge,” an exasperated teenage boy holding a cricket bat asked us, a group of camera-wielding and curious tourists roaming in the Kabuli Bagh Mosque complex.

On a recent day trip to the historic city of Panipat in Haryana which witnessed three key battles signifying important milestones in the history of the subcontinent, we were in the masjid built by Babur in 1527, in the name of his wife Musammat Kabuli Begum, to commemorate his victory over Sultan Ibrahim Lodi. The first sample of Mughal architecture in India was constructed in the pattern of royal mosques in Samarkand. The brick and red sandstone structure in the middle of a colony was full of, no, not tourists, but a large number of enthusiastic young boys playing cricket. In place of swords or horses, in Panipat we saw bats, wickets, good length deliveries and cover drives. However, our prolonged photo sessions were hampering their peace and pace, hence the question from one of the possible future India players.

We left the “battleground” of the other kind and gathered near the “Chabutra-i-Fateh Mubarak" added by Humayun on one side of the site to listen from our walk leader, Yusuf of Sair-e-Delhi tour group, about the incidents of 1526, aptly aided by knowledgeable co-walkers. It is generally believed that Babur triumphed against the much larger army of Lodi because he had cannons, but we also discussed the view of some historians that the Mughal guy had a sharper strategy and better battle formations.

Later, we saw the grave of the defeated king in another locality of Panipat, situated inside a park, looking forlorn. It was shifted there by the British during the restoration of Grand Trunk road and an inscription was added to it.

The three battles and their histories have also been projected in a small state government museum in Panipat, which we visited for some time. Another stop was at the site of third battle of 1761, which was the subject of a recent Bollywood film, and where the Kala Amb memorial park has been built. The park attracts people from Maharashtra in large numbers, paying tributes before a red obelisk that marks the spot where Maratha commander Sadashiv Rao Bhau fell in the battle. As per local legend, a mango tree stood at the same spot, and black fruits started growing in it due to the bloodshed of the war, thus earning the name of “kala amb”.

By the time dusk was falling upon the dull grey alleys of the town, we had a glimpse of the famous Devi Mandir built by the Marathas and visited the 700-year-old dargah of Sufi saint Baba Bu Ali Shah Qalandar. Among the many stories and histories shared by our walk leader, what I found most interesting was the tale of Mughal General Mahabat Khan, who had constructed this dargah, and who, with a band of Rajput soldiers led a coup against Jahangir and Nur Jahan in 1626. He succeeded in taking the king hostage and declared himself as emperor, but his reign lasted for only 100 days before he was defeated near Lahore by the forces of Nur Jahan, who used a combination of clever tricks and strategy to outwit him.

The trip to Panipat was worth it, but not recommended without a guide well acquainted with the area, as the sites are spread here and there. If I would have gone by myself, maybe I would have just seen the Kala Amb memorial.

We returned to Delhi after a long journey through unending highway traffic and I thought, yeh distance log ghode pe jate the uss samay, woh bhi ladhai karne ke liye. Kya yaar!!

Source: Syed Yusuf Shahab of Sair-E-Dilli and Haryana Tourism website

Kabuli Bagh Mosque

The cricket soldier

Grave of Ibrahim Lodi

Dargah of Sufi saint Baba Bu Ali Shah Qalandar

A Festival of Chira

The humble flattened rice or chira may not be the preferred food for city kids anymore, but there is a 500-year old festival in my hometown Panihati, which carries the name of “chira”, as we call the item known as poha/chura/chidwa in various states.

Traditionally, people in parts of Eastern India, including Bengal, eat chira with milk or dadhi/dahi (curd), sweetened by jaggery. Panihati Chira-Dadhi Utsab or “Danda Mahotsab” witnesses tens of thousands of Vaishnava devotees assembling in Mahotsabtala ghat on the banks of the Ganga every year in the month of Jyestha on Shukla Trayodashi, and having an auspicious feast of chira-dadhi, along with naam-sankirtan and other festivities associated with Gaudiya Vaishnavism.

Colloquially called “chirer mela”, the festival commemorates the Panihati visits of Bhakti movement icon Shri Chaitanya Mahaprabhu and his friend and disciple Shri Nityananda Mahaprabhu, together called "Gaur-Nitai" by devotees, in and around 1515 A.D.

Why chira-dadhi and why it is called Danda Mahotsav or the Festival of Punishment? The legend has it that Shri Chaitanya devotee Raghunath (later famous as Raghunath Dasa Goswami), the son of a wealthy landlord of Saptagram, wanted to renounce worldly affairs and join the Mahaprabhu, but was sent back by him. Once, Raghunath came to know that Shri Nityananda was in Panihati and went to him. Seeing him sitting under a banyan tree on the banks of the river, surrounded by disciples, Raghunath was hesitant and paid his obeisance from a distance. But he was called by Shri Nityananda, who told him in a tone of humour that he will have to accept a punishment for hiding like a thief, and treat all devotees to chira-dadhi, a direction Raghunath followed happily, and received the blessings of the lords. It is mentioned in Chaitanya Charitamrita, a biography of the Bhakti movement leader by poet Krishnadas Kabiraj.

কৌতুকী নিত্যানন্দ সহজে দয়াময়।/রঘুনাথে কহে কিছু হঞা সদয়।।/নিকটে না আইস,চোরা ভাগ' দূরে দূরে।/আজি লাগ্ পাঞাছি, দণ্ডিমু তোমারে।।/দধি চিঁড়া ভক্ষণ করাহ মোর গণে।/শুনি আনন্দিত হৈল রঘুনাথ মনে।।

A banyan tree in Mahotsabtala is believed to be the same under which Shri Chaitanya and Nityananda rested and is venerated by Vaishnavas. Shri Chatanya's first visit to Panihati from Puri in the month of Kartik in 1514 is also celebrated every year. Shri Ramkrishna was a regular participant in Danda Mahotsab. Mahatma Gandhi, who often used to stay in nearby Sodepur Khadi Pratisthan, visited Mahotsabtala in 1946.

(In pic: The revered banyan tree; for information, help taken from Panihati municipality website and some Isckon sites)