Saturday, March 23, 2024

Of Cricket and Other Sports

I have started playing cricket after some thirty years. I can't claim to be the best bloke around in cricket, far from it, but I am one of the best batters this team has got. I have even hit sixes and fours, and people recognize my prowess on the offside, and fielding arrangements are done accordingly.

This has surprised me to no end. Since nobody will read this, I can confess without the fear of being outed that I was never a good cricketer or athlete, or anything. In every sphere of life, I have been average or even subpar. But the show must continue, and it has continued so far.

When I started playing here, I was fairly certain that I would be exposed. My bluster will have to be eaten humbly as my bat won’t even come within an inch of the approaching ball. Tail-enders have a special place in batting, and someone like me, who can't bowl, bat, or even field, has a special significance during team selection. When I was a kid, I was given to the team that was theoretically stronger than the other. I would have created the balance. Never mind, this is the story I love to narrate to people for some amusement. Can't say if such self-deprecating humor is actually tumors, but I was very convincing while narrating this favorite lie.

But not when I could hit a six and curse my destiny for getting out the next ball. As you can understand, dear reader (that’s me), the first one was an accident, and the second the normal course. I’d flip the sequence, of course, and leave the field shaking my head in disbelief. Someone give me the Oscar, please!

Anyway, seeing me playing like this has surprised myself to no end, and I have been thinking if all these are actually how we train our mind? When a batsman cannot connect his bat with the ball, is it because he is athletically slow, or is it because his mind is racing fast to have swung the bat without observing the ball? Now that I have matured and my mind is relatively calmer, I could follow the ball properly, and my hand follows my eyes. Of course, I cannot play all shots, but if I am getting out these days, it is an accident, and not because I can’t play.

Therefore, an easy conclusion for me is that our mind holds the key to everything. How we play cricket, to how we score results as students. I have a kid growing up very fast. She is connecting with the world around her, she’s spreading her roots. As a father, my biggest lesson to her should be how to get mastery over the mind. Talent and all are not really something one should bother about. Every talented person is actually a master of a certain aspect of his or her mind.

That’s what I realized in my forties.

Monday, February 13, 2023

তোমায় ভালোবেসে

 

বাংলা ভাষা লিখতে জেনে

হয়নি কোনো লাভ

তবুও যেনো বুকের মাঝে

নিশ্চুপ প্রতিবাদ

আমায় তুমি বাধ্য কর

ছোট্ট মেয়ের মতই

তোমায় নিয়ে মাততে হবে

নেইকো আমার গতি

তোমায় ফেলে এগিয়ে যাবো এই জগতের মাঝে

উর্দ্ধপানে চোখটি রেখে নক্ষত্রের বেগে

তুমি তখন পা টি ধরে আলতো ওঠো ডেকে

কিছুই করা গেলো না আর, বাংলা, তোমায় ভালোবেসে।


ঘেটুফুল 

১৩ ফেব্রুয়ারি ২০২৩

Friday, January 21, 2022

Finally, on a Mac

I have finally started using MacOS, and it surely seems impressive. If I had not been using Linux for a while, I would have been in awe of this, but those familiar with any polished version of Linux, like Zorin or LinuxMint, may not be mind-blown like usual Apple fanboys. Frankly, this OS seems like another well-made Linux version. They say Unix and Linux are completely different, but I have my doubts. Of course, I am not a tech nerd; rather, I have very rudimentary, or at best advanced consumer-level knowledge about technology. Both systems, in functionality and even appearance, feel very similar. Or it could be just that Linux copied MacOS, and may have influenced it back. I am not sure if compared to Windows, MacOS is way superior, but I am getting used to it. For certain, all those talks about MacOS being more intuitive, etc. are carefully woven marketing gimmicks. Windows is as polished as MacOS, and some more. I could, of course, be biased as a long-term Windows user who is used to the shortcuts there. It will take some time for the muscles to memorize MacOS commands. Once acclimatized, I hope Mac could be my go-to OS. Again, this is because of the Linux-like features with proper support and acceptability, both in terms of availability of applications and even socially! I don’t mind getting stuck in a walled garden if it is for my safety. I mean, come on, if I am not sure how to navigate the world on my own, I would want to stay under the watch of the police. These concerns of a big brother watching seem overblown to me.

Friday, July 09, 2021

Jethu




Jethu, as I used to call him, was fond of telling stories. Mostly, any incident from his life pinned somewhere between the 60s and 70s.
 
He was my Betal.

He was passionate about Bengal, and had elephantine memory about places and people and could connect the two easily within a particular time -- the year, and sometimes even month, if not the date. He wanted us to know the history of Communism in Bengal, and the Congress party before that. He never admitted to me that he was a communist, but he despised the current communist crop, the entire lot that joined the party after it came to power in Bengal in the 70s. ‘Benojol’, or flood water, he used to call them. He accused them of diluting the standard of the party. I am told, not by him of course, that he left the Communist movement somewhere in the late 70s. I never asked him if he was involved with the naxalite movement, but I strongly suspect he was. He never praised or citicised 70s naxalites. Like decorated veterans, he never talked about how he got his battle wounds.

Above everything else, he hated right wingers, and was really pained to see the state of the country now. “I don’t understand how we have become so full of hatred. It was never like this. There’s so much poison in people’s minds these days,” Jethu used to say often.

All his stories had hidden messages. But most of them seemed contradictory at first glance. The hardest part, therefore, was when he used to ask me what did you learn? Inexperienced that I was about his ways, and utterly incapable of deep thinking, I would blurt out the most obvious conclusion. My Betal would fly away to his chair in the verandah and get absorbed in the mounts of legal drafts stacked neatly. Luckily, my head didn’t burst out in a thousand pieces.

Over the years, perhaps I matured, or at least I realised coming to no conclusion is better than coming to hasty and wrong conclusions. That was his way of teaching people around him elements of patience, deep thinking, empathy, and perhaps wisdom. Of course, conclusions, his own interpretation, were delivered on demand. He was open to being challenged on his thinking, and I have seen him changing his mind too on decades old issues after my arguments seemed logical to him.

“Oh! I never thought that,” he would say, staring at a distance and muttering to himself.

Seeing me, he used to set aside his work and start chatting. Watching him chatting incessantly about old days, one could have got an impression that this retired old man has no other work but to live in his memories. Again, that would be a hasty and wrong conclusion, something he would have absolutely abhorred, not what one thinks about him, but the hastiness part of it. But he seemed to be bent on passing on the wrong impression, perhaps deliberately. That was his little entertainment even at the expense of himself.

Of course, he was one of the most famous and busy legal practitioners of Mumbai, and perhaps the country.

Very seldom I could catch him at home. Even on weekends, when I could get an opportunity to visit his house, he would be inevitably out of town. He would either be in Delhi, or in Kolkata, Bangalore, Lucknow, or all four at different hours of the day. Tight schedule of a busy lawyer, who changed flights like most of us change our dresses.

Or, he would be in Assam for days. He loved Assam. His PSU oil marketing company refused to release their Executive Director even after his retirement and decided to tie him down with the Numaligarh refinery. But when he was in Mumbai, especially around me, he was this chatty old man living in his memory.

My Betal.

He used to ask me about my impression of him. I sensed, like a kid, he was partial to praises. Again, that was my wrong conclusion about him. I later realised he actively sought out criticism, and thought as a journalist, I am a specialist in criticism.

Like Gandhiji, it was his experiment with truth. He was in a constant inner struggle to perfect himself. I once jokingly pointed out there was one more person like you -- Friedrich Nietzsche who was obsessed about Übermensch. I warned him about what happened to Nietzsche. And we had a belly laugh together.

By nature, and reinforced by my profession, I am always an incorrigible cynic, but what do I do with a person who trumps over me and asks me to criticise him? I had to surrender, much to his chagrin. Besides, I honestly didn’t find much scope to find fault in a person who is head and shoulders higher and superior than me in all aspects. It was perhaps his intellectual rigour, or just his huge experience and wisdom that age bestows upon one. Or, perhaps, it was the tragedies he faced in life since his childhood. I will spare the details here.

Whatever small fault I pointed out, I was astonished to find that he never ever repeated that. Ever, at least in front of me. Even a casual reference was taken seriously. And he often would poke me -- you are a ‘fankibaaj’ (shirker). You are not evaluating me enough. How will I improve? Tell me, what did you find in me?

I never replied to that last question. Deliberately.

I will try to answer it now. Again, confident of reaching all wrong conclusions. Sorry for the late response, Jethu. Because I was not sure what should be my well thought out conclusion about you. But I don't have any opportunities left now. So, Jethu, accept it with all its shallow thought elements.

Jethu, as you know, a few things become clear only after the person is gone. When one misses the person, he or she realises the departed has taken away something unique that appeared granted that time, but now appears priceless. Those aspects will never be revisited in any form. And then suddenly you feel this vacuum.

Unfortunately, vacuums have a nasty habit of not announcing their presence when the person is around. And unless the vacuum becomes apparent, one cannot point out what the void is all about.

I will try to give shape to those few voids. Feeble effort, but try I must. I'd rather point out a few important lessons I learnt from you.

I finally fully comprehend the meaning of this sentence: “When you have more than you need, build a longer table not a higher fence.”

I won’t elaborate on it. Again, that would be discussing your personal life that you surely won’t approve of. But I did learn how to walk pulling up people on your way. Pull up as many as you can bear, and nurse them back to health. Love, love, love, and seek nothing but his permission to allow you to help some more.

I learnt how to walk together holding everyone under an umbrella. I learnt the importance of the stem of that umbrella. And I learnt certain finer aspects of honesty.

Frankly, honesty is a trait that cannot be taught, or even inculcated. Either it is in you, or it isn’t there. And you agreed with me on this once. Still, at the age of 41-42, just a few weeks back in fact, I heard you scolding someone over the phone. You were at the other side of the call, but your angry voice was slipping through the speakers, enough to catch every word.

“Don’t ever lie to cover your inability. That way you are not lying to the person, you are lying to yourself," you said. "Don’t ever lie to yourself. If you have not been able to do a job given to you, fine, say I was not able to do it. Or, I was not in a mood, or even, I can’t do it. But don’t tell lies. Don’t lie on serious matters, don’t lie on light issues. Just don’t lie. Put this in your cranial, no matter what, I won’t lie. Whatever is my due, I will get it with all honesty. But I will not lie. Repeat after me, I will not lie. Say … “

Jethu, that is how I have always seen you. I never spotted you faking. You never made excuses. You had an unmistakable touch of arrogance, but that was the arrogance of truth, one could sense that. People felt secure around you. People trusted you. And people loved you unfailingly.

And you loved them back with whatever you had, doesn’t matter if they wronged you in the past. But you embraced them without malice. One interesting trait about you I noticed was that you always took care to honour an invitation. Being there with people you love at their happiness and sadness was important to you. You signed as a witness at my wedding, you rescheduled your Delhi visit to bless us at the grihapravesh of my new house. You were a thorough Gentleman.

That, my dear Jethu, is my little assessment of you.

The only thing that I didn’t like about you is your obsession with death. You often talked about your death. Seeing your lifeless body, I wondered if even death was your curiosity. Did you want to perfect death too? If so, you did exceedingly well.

You breathed your last while chatting on WhatsApp. One of those early morning personalised messages that was so unique about you. Unlike others, you never forwarded what landed on your inbox.

I am told the last message you typed was, “My life went well with all of you around. Stay Happy. Tapas.”

And you closed your eyes.

Tuesday, February 09, 2021

Musings on my writing

Perhaps I owe it to this blog to let the world know that I am working on a novel in my mother tongue and that explains why I have not posted here anything for a long time. I am too busy writing, and getting busier procrastinating 

The reason why I am posting this, though, is that I am frustrated that my novel has got stuck somewhere in the abyss from which I am not able to extricate it. I have a serious doubt now if my novel can be finished after all. But no point doubting, I will have to finish it.  

What do I gain writing it? Why am I struggling so much to finish my novel after all? Well, when I was young, I had this vision of becoming a great writer, someone who will earn his living writing. That has already been fulfilled. I am a journalist, and I have to write every day. So much so that I am tired of writing, and very cunningly and suddenly, of course, I take a day off for nothing. Or, there are days, perhaps once a month, when I don’t write anything at all even when I am very much on my duty. That’s my strategic timeout.  


There is a saying, be careful of what you wish for. Though, I shouldn’t complain too much. This is what I really wanted. I am not fit for any other job other than that related to writing. I was fired in my very first job as an accountant.  


So, why am I writing the novel? And why in Bengali when I have written my blogs in English (very bad English, that is)?  


Well, there are multiple reasons for that. English is not my native language. I can’t think in English, and most importantly, I cannot write the kind of English needed to write literature. I also had this strong urge to write in my mother tongue. I have been nourished by a steady stream of Bangla books in my childhood, not so much in English, and I wanted to write my book in my mother tongue purely as my homage to the language. Though, as a child, and in my teenage years, I always perhaps loved English more than I loved Bengali. 


Is that it? Umm ... Yes! But as I grew up, I really fell in love with my own language Bangla. These days I don't like to read in English. Even the Agatha Christie books I am re-reading in Bangla!  


There is also the question of my identity. I am a Bengali, yes, I don’t live in Bengal anymore, but why should I write in English? My daughter, my nephew will grow up one day and would want to read my book. They will learn Bangla to read it. Or maybe not. Who knows what Google will come up with by that time? Accurate translations perhaps? The whole book can be translated in a blink of an eye by Google in any language? Doesn’t matter, I have written it in Bengali, and my message to my kids is in my language. That’s what matters.  


But here are the practical problems that I am facing. No, writing in Bangla on a computer is not one of them, though, that’s a minor irritant.  


The basic problem that I am facing now is that I am realising I am not good in Bangla either! I am realising that I am able to communicate my mind better in English after all. May God have mercy on my soul.

  

So, I am confused. After writing nearly 40,000 words, two-third of the book perhaps, I am confused again if I want to write in Bengali, or in English. And that’s a great struggle really even after considering I have lost the plot of my novel. It is not progressing as I wished it to be. Either the characters are heartless towards the writer, or they are naughty kids who refuse to do what their parents want them to do. 


Me, as the father, can only hopelessly watch as my characters run rounds in the park like brats. There are so many of them that I cannot run and catch all of them. So, like a resigned old man, I am sitting on the park bench and wondering why I give birth to so many of them pesky kids? Sometimes I wonder too if I indeed gave birth to them. Most of them sprang from nowhere and seized control of me, I can figure that now.  


Writers who can manage to have tight control over their narratives or characters are indeed people to salute. I can do none of that. I am just hoping when the kids are tired of running, they will come to their father and hug him tight and will do what I want them to do – go sleep on the bed and let me relax too.  


I cannot relax till I finish my novel. I am not able to write anything, that is true, but I know the peace won’t come back in my mind till I finish the project. This is not like the previous one where Ian Vincent Mulder coaxed me to write and I wrote, and he edited and I again lobbed half-stories to him. This is a crying shame that I could not take advantage of his British discipline, rather, I suspect, he has become an Indian lazy person after facing me for the last 15 years.  


But why do I want to write? Answer is that I have no option left now. I have to finish the book, otherwise I will die and have to be born again to finish it in my next birth.  


The real question though, is, why did I start it? Yes, that’s the real question. And here’s my not so brief answer:

 

I started it intentionally, and well after I left the dream of becoming a famous writer behind. I don’t want to be famous anymore. I just don't want to be disturbed. That will give me perhaps more happiness than  fame gives to a celebrity. I don’t expect anybody would read my work. My wife read a few chapters, gave her valuable feedback. Perhaps a friend or two will read it too in my lifetime. I hope my kids will read it sometime in the future. But that’s it.  


The reason I started writing it is because I have nothing much to give to the world. I am not an artist. I am not a singer, I cannot play a drum, I cannot paint. Damn, I cannot even juggle a few balls and entertain kids. I have no avenue to connect with things around me, except for a few words that I can put together hastily.


I am deeply grateful to this earth, to the people around me, to life itself, and for everlasting friendships that came to me out of nowhere. Who would have thought I would become friends with Ian, a white man, double my age, and quickly make him compensate for the fatherly guidance that I missed so much in life?  


I never ever thought that I will truly be able to make writing my profession. I prayed for it frantically when I was a kid. I did not want to be anything but a writer. I am a writer as much as my talent allowed -- I am a journalist. And I came into journalism completely by accident. I am grateful to people who made it possible, but deep down, I know Existence played its part. 


Call it by any name, God, Existence, Providence, Chance, Fate, Accident, or Freak, ... whatever, it just wanted to show there's magic everywhere. Miracles do happen. And life is beautiful if you go with the flow. 


My sudden entry into journalism was a clear sign. Excellent things happened to me in life, a boy with very mediocre intellect. And I cannot but explain them only by being grateful. I believe excellent things happen to people all the time. God is kind. But we need to accept what life gives us with a deep trust. I believe that I am not good enough to understand the grand scheme of life. I can only accept without complaining. I have seen too many people push away what comes their way on its own. But early on, I decided to spread my arms in embracing everything that came to me. When I opened the wrapper after some time, I found the boxes were filled with diamonds. I accepted them with humility too, knowing well, if they want to go, I will let them go. I was careful not to disturb the flow, I am but a speck of dust in this great universe. These principles helped: When you want to make God laugh, do make plans. And, when life gives a lemon, make a nice lemonade. 

 

And so, my book is a humble submission to this great Existence. It is my 'Thank You' note. Maybe it will be utter trash to my reader/s, or even to my friends and kids. But I know, Existence will accept it with love and kindness. Not every kid is talented, but does the mother stop the other from singing? The mother enjoys every kid of hers. My book is that kid's song to his mother.  


I just hope Existence allows me the time to finish it, and do a great job of it, the best job that my humble talent allows me to do really. I just want to say a sincere Thank You! 

Sunday, August 30, 2020

not what it seems

 

Charming faces, full of life, or wisdom … all gone, god knows where

Never to return, that is for sure, or never to return in the form

God knows where they disappeared…

 

one day, or the same day everyday, he’d sit with his back to the sun

A paper in his hand, combing worthy something to read

Mostly miracles

 

Life is not what it seems, he’d say, and death is not what you fear

he knew things like that, the old man …

and so he searched for reality, mostly miracles

 

beauty, be mine, i prayed once

but the besty had her heart

gone in labour, the chid survived

the air turning lavender, she’s somewhere here

 

those sparkling eyes of little kids

They reflect my death

i smell their hair, they smell of me

I live underneath,

 

I am not what they see, I am what they’d feel one day

Life is not what it seem, and death is not what I fear

Saturday, August 01, 2020

Nearing the end, perhaps


I started my journalism career in 2004. I've had a good innings so far, receiving a few awards and a fellowship from the IMF-World Bank. I've received love from readers, along with quite a lot of trolling by anonymous cowards on social media, which these days seems to be a certificate of a journalist doing his or her job properly.


That innings is probably coming to an end in 2020. While the Coronavirus may not have killed me yet, it is very much raging everywhere around me, and so far, either I am lucky, or I am one of those super lucky asymptomatic 80 per cent. But I may lose my job at any time now. Even if I don’t, life and journalism won’t be the same again. This week they fired a bunch of my dear colleagues, including my boss, the resident editor of my newspaper. I have never seen a more dedicated person. We all were expecting he would succeed the paper’s editor who is retiring in October. But no, my boss had to face the ignominy of hearing his service is no longer required. What chance do I have in this profession even if I survive the present purge?


Five years down the line, there could be another crisis, and I will be dropped like a hot potato because my salary would be higher than the others, notwithstanding what I do for the paper. No, I am not going to face this. Media is a dying business, and I will have to jump the sinking boat.


The only place where I can go now is corporate communication. But the place is already crowded, and so many journalists have been fired, everyone will be crowding there and all will face the humiliation of a rescuing act by the employer. Will I also face that insult? It is depressing.


I wouldn’t have been so morose if I were a bachelor. I should have remained a bachelor and not fathered a child. I am now responsible for giving her a good life. Never mind, I have EMIs to pay on a home loan, and other liabilities. I would hang my head in shame if I am not able to pay even the school fee of my kid. I would be a failure, which I am sure I already am being a lousy father and a husband. I never saved any money. I am bad with finances despite being a financial journalist. Or perhaps I am a financial journalist who sucks big time with my finances. Somehow, I don’t trust money and I don’t trust that saving today saves us tomorrow. I have written stories on how the entire life savings of retired people got wiped out as one bank became a victim of fraud. Of course, the deposits aren’t lost entirely; the regulator will recover everything and pay the customers, but the senior citizen could be in the death bed by that time, or may be dead.


Besides, inflation in emerging markets like ours, and high interest rates, can quickly wipe out the value of accumulated wealth. If the kitty is small, it’s as good as spending today and hoping for the best you are dead before you retire.


Somehow, I have developed a deep distrust of savings. But I know I am wrong in that. But there’s a good system of mandatory deduction of provident funds. I thought that would save me in my old age, but looks like I won’t have a steady job for it to work. I have to save, just for the sake of my kid.


What I will miss the most is seeing my byline in a newspaper. I am now so used to it that I have lost the thrill of seeing my story printed in the paper. I remember, in 2004 when I was told my story would be printed in the next day’s paper, I was so excited that I couldn’t sleep the whole night. I stayed awake, eagerly awaiting the sun to rise and in Shillong’s chilling cold, I waited outside for the newspaper to come. Or did I take a taxi to the bazaar to buy a paper? Perhaps that, but I don’t recall now except that I stayed awake.


The 75-100 words single-column story appeared as that of a ‘staff reporter’. I was at the top of Mount Everest seeing that.


As I am nearing the end of my career as a journalist, I am actually remembering that day. Maybe I never got down from Everest. The day when my last byline appears, maybe I will have a free-fall to the valley and die.


If I am not a journalist or a writer, what will I be? A big nothing, a zombie who can't die because he is not allowed to for now.

Of Cricket and Other Sports

I have started playing cricket after some thirty years. I can't claim to be the best bloke around in cricket, far from it, but I am one ...