Mexico Diary 1

Mexico City, La Ciudad de México in Spanish (Pronounced LA SIUDAAD DE MEHIKO), is easily one of the most cheerful places I have been to. After reaching there, what you immediately notice about the city is her music. Everywhere you go, on streets, in markets, in restaurants or ice cream parlours, you hear music. Not the slow soulful tunes that remind you of the other world, but the fast, foot-tapping variety that celebrates the present. At a street corner near our hotel, there was an old man continuously winding a music machine that produced the same tune from 11 AM to 11 PM or maybe, later. I guess he is completely deaf, otherwise, he couldn’t have survived the same music for so long. I have no idea how much he earns through such hard work, but he looks seriously malnourished. He was not the only one, another equally thin and old man I saw was playing the saxophone quite beautifully. Also,  little boys and girls sat on the roadside with a pet cat and played a small accordion. The deal is that you listen to her music, pet her cat, and pay a few pesos in exchange. After listening to the music played by the first boy I saw, I understood why he needs a cat to be petted as an add-on attraction. But I gave him a twenty-peso note all the same. The divine smile on his face was worth travelling 3,010 kilometres from San Francisco.

Maybe, to make themselves heard over all that music, Mexicans talk loudly like us Bongs. Close to our hotel in the centre of the city, there is a mosaicked road where cars aren’t allowed (even if allowed, cars would skid on such a surface). So, it was a pedestrian only street with colourful stores and eateries on both sides. On that stretch, even at 11 in the night, there are crowds of men and women in small groups talking noisily and walking aimlessly. For couples, cuddling and kissing on the road is a done deal! Pubs and restaurants (not much difference between the two) are teeming with people, with perhaps more women than men. The city seemed safe for women. It's also possible that young Mexican women are a little tired of men. I saw lots and lots of them in unisex groups of two to six, making merry. And a particular custom of women is perhaps universal. In a group, everyone talks simultaneously. I have thought about it deeply and have come to the conclusion that it is possible only because women are good at multi-tasking. They can talk and listen to at the same time. Incidentally, many women I came across in Mexico don’t spend much on buying the cloth that is made into their dress. Also, they take their nails seriously; there was hardly a young woman who didn’t have long, beautifully manicured nails. One of them was the driver of an Uber cab we took.

You are possibly thinking that this seventy-two-year-old is (still) obsessed with women. Let me change the topic. A wonderful feature of the city is that tequilas, mezcals, and whiskies are sold everywhere, in roadside kiosks, groceries, and convenience stores. That means, people can buy their daily needs like bread, butter, and liquor from the same place. So convenient!

If I have to compare Mexico City with the few other metropolises I have been to, I would say it is a cross between Paris and Kolkata.  Like Paris, the capital city of Mexico too is a fun-loving place, where people enjoy food and drinks at tables laid on the pavements, which are extensions of restaurants. And the merrymaking begins by 2 PM. (In Paris, I wondered when people went to office(!), but I wouldn’t say so about Mexico City because I was there only for three days and visited mostly the touristy areas.) At 2 PM at a roadside eatery near the Frida Kahlo Museum, while we had a forgettable lunch, a gaudily dressed man and woman (the woman, gaudily painted too) entertained us and the passersby with a few dances. And as it happens with Spanish flamenco and possibly most Mesoamerican dances, the long train of ruffles of the female dancer’s skirt did most of the hard work! (“A flamenco dancer’s skirt is stitched with five yards of cloth,” Mr Google tells me!)

Unlike in Paris, people, particularly men, are not immaculately dressed here. And like in Kolkata, there are crowds on the streets, lots and lots of them. Roadside markets thrive. In a way, large parts of Mexico City are an extended bazaar. In a park, I was pleasantly surprised to find painters selling their works. The city takes fine arts seriously, like both Paris and Kolkata.

Economically, Mexico is about five times stronger than India. In 2022—the World Bank website says—the per capita GDP of Mexico was US $ 11,091, while for India, it was US $ 2,389. The five times stronger economy is seen in beautiful, much wider roads, an intricate network of metro lines that seemed as good as the London Metro, cable buses and spanking trolley buses, well-maintained parks and grand mansions, and stores brimming with merchandise. The roads and the pavements are particularly beautiful. But lots of people in Mexico City sleep on the road. (I didn't photograph them for obvious reasons.) And everywhere, from street musicians to traders in roadside bazaars to the  to the artists selling pictures in parks, you come across lots of people who are clearly struggling to make a living.

So, beneath the gloss of an almost middle-income economy, an ugly underbelly of deprivation is plainly visible.

Cupertino, California

13 July 2023

“Jete pari, kintu keno jabo? / I can, but why should I leave?”

Written by the late Shakti Chattopadhyay (and published in a collection of poems in 1982), this sentence of enormous simplicity has become a catchphrase in Bangla. Most educated Bengalis would have heard and spoken the sentence at some time or other. Many a time, I believe, these words would have changed the course of their thoughts.

Having crossed the decrepit milestone of seventy years some time ago, I think of leaving more often than before. This morning too, as I read the poem, it didn’t fail to shake me up, like every other time I read it. 

Here is a feeble attempt to translate the poem. I would love to hear what you think of the English version.

 * 

I can, but why should I leave? 

Shakti Chattopadhyay >>>

I think maybe, it would be better to turn back.

I’ve dipped my two hands in so much darkness

For so long!

I’ve never thought of you as the you you are.

Nowadays, when I stand beside an abyss at night,

The moon calls me, ‘Come, come, come!’

These days, when a sleepy I stand on the bank of the Ganga,

Woods from the pyre call me, ‘Come, come!’

Yes, I can go

I can go along any path I choose

But, why should I?

I will hold my child in my arms and kiss her once

I will go, but I won’t go just now

I will take you all with me

I won’t go now

When it’s not the time.

 

Translated in Cupertino, California

On 7 July 2023

 

*

 

যেতে পারি, কিন্তু কেন যাবো?

শক্তি চট্টোপাধ্যায় >>>

 

ভাবছি, ঘুরে দাঁড়ানোই ভালো।

এতো কালো মেখেছি দু হাতে

এতোকাল ধরে!

কখনো তোমার ক’রে, তোমাকে ভাবিনি।

এখন খাদের পাশে রাত্তিরে দাঁড়ালে

চাঁদ ডাকে : আয় আয় আয়

এখন গঙ্গার তীরে ঘুমন্ত দাঁড়ালে

চিতাকাঠ ডাকে : আয় আয়

যেতে পারি

যে-কোন দিকেই আমি চলে যেতে পারি

কিন্তু, কেন যাবো?

সন্তানের মুখ ধরে একটি চুমো খাবো

যাবো

কিন্তু, এখনি যাবো না

তোমাদেরও সঙ্গে নিয়ে যাবো

একাকী যাবো না অসময়ে।।

 

Photo courtesy:  https://www.observerbd.com/2016/03/24/143159.php

Remembering Suhita-di

Suhita Sinha Roy, Suhita Saha before marriage, was two years my senior at college. A bright student, she was tall, slim, beautiful, and a basketball player. But more importantly, she had a beautiful mind. I consider myself fortunate to have found a place among the circle of her close friends. I called her Suhita-di.

Suhita-di did exceedingly well in MA a few weeks after her father passed away after long illness. I think adversity brought out the best in her, just as it does for all strong and capable people. From her MA until her passing, Suhita-di battled multiple incurable diseases. They were so serious that—I believe—lesser mortals would have given up long ago. But Suhita-di kept working at government colleges in different places, managed the family alone when her husband was away on a foreign posting, and managed to do a PhD when she was in her forties / fifties after doing rigorous field work in rural Bengal. Her life came to an end when she was in her early sixties. 

A fascinatingly well-written recollection of memories by her daughter Mallarika, which I read just now, did two things. It brought back the poignant memories of Suhita-di, and threw light on an unknown facet of her beautiful life. 

Here is a lightly edited translation of Mallarika’s story followed by the original in Bangla. By the way, Mallarika followed her mom in the academic world. After doing her PhD from Oxford, she taught at a Danish university before coming back to teach at JNU. I have a mild suspicion that she won’t sue me for lifting her story without permission.

*

During the three months my mother lived after her retirement, she ran a free elementary school in our parking lot, which is the entire ground floor of our apartment building. The nursery began with story-telling sessions for just one child, the five-year old son of Sandhya, our domestic help then and now. The boy was so hyper-active that Sandhya could neither leave him at home nor take him to the homes she worked in. 

Ma began to engage him by telling stories, so that Sandhya could work in our home in peace. In a few days, our caretaker’s four-year-old daughter Bulti joined, pulled in by the stories. Then ma decided to teach them a few nursery rhymes, which allowed Sandhya and Bulti’s mom Aparna an hour more of freedom. The message spread in the neighbourhood; four more kids of working mothers joined Ma’s nursery soon. 

Post breakfast, Ma would sit down on a chair in the parking space, as the children sat before her. Ma would drink tea; the kids would munch biscuits. The teacher was a Dida to all the kids. The grandpa was then tasked to bring in slates, pencils, and cloth seats for the pupils. Ma used to teach them Bangla vowels, got them to memorise rhymes, and told them stories. At the end, the children would stand up, join their tiny hands in a namashkar, and sing a hymn: “In this promising morning, let’s go to our Father’s home,” or “We are all kings in the kingdom of our king.” As the half a dozen kids sang with all their might, it created quite a racket in the neighbourhood. 

Their mothers too knew it was time to take the toddlers home.

Ma was an atheist. After her passing, we did not perform any religious ritual. There was a memorial meeting attended by ma’s friends and colleagues, where songs were sung and people recollected their memories of Ma. 

On the following day, Baba, my husband Baidik, and I invited Ma‘s little students and two of my nephews of their age for luchi and sandesh. We pushed the sofas to a side of our drawing room and spread a sheet for the guests to sit down and eat. At one side of the room, there was a framed photo of Ma with a garland made of white flowers. Every one of the pupils joined their hands to pay respect to their dida and sat cross-legged on the bedsheet to eat luchi, tearing them with both hands with much glee. The little angels also sang for their departed dida. I have rarely experienced the happiness that I felt during that miniscule party.  

Two days later, I was to return to my place of work. The nursery had to be closed down. Dad said he didn’t have the expertise to keep little children engaged. The mothers of the children were sad. As I was packing my bags, our caretaker’s daughter Bulti came in with a clean-shaven head. When I asked her mother Aparna why she had had shaved her girl’s head when the summer was months away, she said after some hesitation, ‘You don’t believe these things, but we do. Bulti’s dida was close to us all, wasn’t she? We called a priest and offered a small puja through Bulti, and got her head shaved as instructed by the priest.’

I kissed Bulti’s clean crown and thought, beyond the world of her mother’s beliefs, her dida would have accepted her offerings happily. And for me, my atheist mother, after having gotten merged with the elements, came in as a gust of breeze in the early spring to sway the red oleander tree in front of our home.

*

আমার মা রিটায়ার করার পর যে তিনমাস বেঁচে ছিলেন তার মধ্যে তিনি একটি অবৈতনিক পাঠশালা খুলেছিলেন আমাদের ফ্ল্যাট বাড়ির নীচের গ্যারাজে। পাঠশালা শুরু হয়েছিল একটিমাত্র পড়ুয়াকে গল্পবলা দিয়ে। আমাদের বাড়িতে সন্ধ্যা ঘর-মোছা, কাপড়-কাচার কাজ করত (এখনো করে) এবং সে ছিল আমার মায়ের সব কাজের ডান হাত। তার ছোট ছেলেটির তখন বছর পাঁচেক বয়স। সে এমনি দুরন্ত ছিল যে সন্ধ্যা তাকে না পারত বাড়িতে রেখে আসতে, না পারত সঙ্গে নিয়ে বাড়ি বাড়ি ঘুরে কাজ করতে। মা তখন শুরু করলেন তাকে গল্প বলে বসিয়ে  রাখতে, যাতে সন্ধ্যা আমাদের বাড়ির কাজটা নিশ্চিন্তে করতে পারে। মায়ের গল্প বলার এমনি গুণ যে কদিন বাদেই আমাদের কেয়ারটেকার অপর্ণার চার বছরের মেয়ে বুলটিও হাজির গল্প শোনার জন্য! মা তখন ঠিক করলেন ওদের মুখে মুখে দু চারটে ছড়া ইত্যাদি শেখাবেন আরও অন্তত ঘণ্টাখানেক ব্যস্ত রাখবেন যাতে সন্ধ্যা এবং অপর্ণা নিজের নিজের কাজের বাড়িতে কাজ করে আসতে পারে। এই বার্তা ধীরে ধীরে পাড়ায় রটি গেল। আরও জনা চারেক গৃহশ্রমে কর্মরত মায়েদের দুষ্টু ছোট্ট ছানারা মায়ের পাঠশালায় ঢুকে পড়ল। মা সকালের খাবার খেয়ে এক খানা চেয়ার নিয়ে গ্যারাজে বসতে লাগলেন সকলকে সঙ্গে নিয়ে। মা চা খান, তারা বিস্কুট খায়। খেয়ে নিয়ে পাঠশালার কাজ শুরু হয়। মা সবকটি শিশুর 'দিদা'। শিশুদের 'দাদু' কে প্রত্যেকের জন্যে একখানা ছড়ার বই একটি করে স্লেট পেন্সিল এবং একটি কাপড়ের আসন কিনে আনতে হল। মা তাদের স্বরবর্ণ শেখাতেন, ছড়া মুখস্ত করাতেন, গল্প বলতেন আর সবার শেষে সবাই উঠে দাঁড়িয়ে, দু-হাত জোড় করে চেঁচিয়ে গাইত 'আজি শুভদিনে পিতার ভবনে' অথবা 'আমরা সবাই রাজা'। ছয়-সাতটি শিশুর প্রাণপণ গান গাওয়ায় পাড়ায় বেশ শোরগোল পড়ত আর তাদের মায়েরাও তখন পাঠশালা ছুটি হয়েছে বুঝে এসে তাদের নিয়ে যেত। 

মা মারা যাবার পর আমরা কোন ধর্মীয় মতেই কোন পারলৌকিক কাজ করি নি। মা নাস্তিক ছিলেন। একটি স্মরণসভা হয়েছিল। মায়ের বন্ধু এবং সহকর্মীরা এসেছিলেন। গান আর স্মৃতিচারণ হয়েছিল সেদিন। 

তারপর দিন আমরা, অর্থাৎ আমি, বাবা আর বৈদিক মিলে মায়ের পাঠশালার বাচ্চাদের আর তাদের প্রায় সমবয়সী আমার দুই বোনপোকে লুচি সন্দেশ খাইয়েছিলাম। আমাদের বসার ঘরে চেয়ার, সোফা সরিয়ে চাদর পেতে মাটিতে খাবার আয়োজন হয়েছিল। ঘরের এক প্রান্তে মায়ের ছবিতে মালা দিয়ে রাখা ছিল। পাঠশালার পড়ুয়ারা সবাই এসে ছবিতে নম করে মাটিতে বাবু হয়ে বসে দুহাত দিয়ে লুচি ছিঁড়ে ভারি আনন্দ করে খেয়েছিল। সেইসব শিশু ভোলানাথ-লক্ষ্মী-সরস্বতীরা তাদের দিদা র জন্য গানও গেয়েছিল। আমার জ্যাঠতুত আর পিসতুত দিদি লুচি ভেজে দিয়েছিল। তাদের ছেলেরা একসঙ্গে পঙক্তি ভোজনে বসে দিব্যি লুচি-সন্দেশ খেয়েছিল। ঐ ক্ষুদ্র ভোজ-সভাটির মত আনন্দ আমি খুব কম পেয়েছি।

এইসবের দিন দুয়েক বাদে আমি কাজের জায়গায় ফিরে যাবো। পাঠশালা বন্ধই করে দিতে হল। বাবা বললেন অতটুকু বাচ্চাদের মনোযোগ আকর্ষণ করে রেখে গল্প বলে যাবার পারদর্শিতা তাঁর নেই। পড়ুয়াদের মায়েরা আমার কাছে এসে দুঃখ প্রকাশ করলে। যেদিন ফিরে যাবো বলে বাক্স প্যাঁটরা গোছাচ্ছি সেইদিন দেখি আমাদের নীচতলার বুলটির মাথা নেড়ু মুণ্ডি! কি ব্যপার? তার মাকে বললাম এই ফেব্রুয়ারিতেই মাথা না কামিয়ে গরম পড়লে কামালেই হত। বুলটির মা অপর্ণা একটু কিন্তু কিন্তু করে বললে, 'তোমরা তো এইসব মানো না, কিন্তু আমরা মানি। বুলটির দিদা তো আমাদের সকলেরই আপনজন, তাই পুরুতমশাইকে ডেকে একটা ছোট পূজা দিয়েছি বুলটির হাত দিয়ে আর পুরুত মশাইয়ের কথা মত ওর মাথা কামিয়ে দিয়েছি।' 

বুলটির ন্যাড়া মাথায় চুমো খেয়ে ভাবলাম  বুলটির মায়ের বিশ্বাসের যে পরপার সেইখানে বুলটির দিদা প্রসন্ন হাতেই বুলটির পূজা গ্রহণ করেছেন। আর আমার নাস্তিক পঞ্চভূতে মিলিয়ে যাওয়া মা প্রথম বসন্তের এক ঝলক বাতাস হয়ে রক্তকরবীর গাছে দোল দিয়ে গেছেন।

Translated on 23 May 2023

Hosur, Krishnagiri District, TN

Genuine fountain pen, awful cooking oil

 

This happened long ago in the last century when Indian Railways had non-airconditioned first class coaches. The coaches, which were partitioned into eight cubicles with either four or two berths in each, had a corridor on one side connecting them. (Is there an English word for them?) I miss those coaches with large openable windows that let in strong gusts of air while the train moved, besides offering an unimpeded view of the world outside.

If you knew me well, you would perhaps know that I am not particularly fond of self-promotion. But for a change, let me say that I have a world record. It is as follows: as a passenger, I have always been the first person to reach a railway station or airport, invariably hours before time. That morning too, when I boarded Coromandel Express, my fellow passengers hadn’t arrived. I was alone in a four-berth cubicle. My destination was Madras, mother of Chennai, where I would change train for Trivandrum, my workplace. At that time, I had lived in Kerala for many years. I had fallen in love with the place and her people. In particular, I loved three things of Kerala, the undulating lush green landscape, the unmatched cleanliness of the people, and their delectable food.

I opened an India Today, which was an eminently readable magazine those days; its owner, Aroon Purie hadn’t become the cringeworthy sycophant of the ruling party he is now. Midway through the first article, I was interrupted by a thin young man in shabby clothes and uncombed hair, ‘Dada, this is genuine Chinese,’ he took out a golden fountain pen from his pocket, ‘… Please buy one, dada. For just 10 rupees, it’s a steal!’ That it was counterfeit was written all over the product and the vender. It had been manufactured not in China, but perhaps in Howrah. Even then, I bought a pen without saying a word for two reasons: first, although his pen was fake, the fellow seemed to be a genuine struggling young man, and second, I wanted to get rid of him quickly.

Soon, a man, who seemed to be a Malayali, walked in with a small suitcase. He asked me where I was headed, and when I said ‘Trivandrum,’ his face lit up with happiness. He volunteered with the information that he had come to Calcutta on office work and spent a difficult week here. ‘What a horrible place! Men bathe in the open!’ Was he disappointed because women didn’t? Anyway, I didn’t feel like pointing out that if men bathing in the open was the chief criterion for a place to be horrible, then every Indian village too was a horrible place.

Although I didn’t share his indignation, my companion kept talking in a friendly manner, ‘I was in my company guest house. These beggars (some Malayalis pronounce buggers as beggars, at least they did then) eat such awful food. … Do you know what cooking oil they use?’ After a long pause pregnant with possibilities, the gentleman announced, ‘Bledy mustard oil! Can you believe it?’

At that point, a portly middle-aged Bengali walked in, followed  by a porter carrying two suitcases. After finishing a brief argument with the porter about what would be a fair compensation, the man sat down with a sigh and asked, ‘Apni Bangali?’

In the meantime, the Malayali gentleman had gone to the loo. My new acquaintance began talking to me in Bangla. When he heard I was going to Kerala, he looked sad. In a heavy voice he asked, ‘Have you been in Kerala before?’

‘Never,’ a white lie.

‘Go there, but I tell you, you won’t be able to eat anything.’

‘Why?’

‘The fools use coconut oil for cooking. Can you imagine?’

Meanwhile, the train had started to move. To avoid hearing more unpleasantries, I took out my diary and began writing. To my surprise, the new pen wrote beautifully. I felt bad for presuming that the young man was a cheat. I admonished myself for being judgmental.

A few minutes later, as train crossed the outer signals, the flow of ink stopped. It never restarted.

That it would malfunction was expected. But its maker’s expertise was astonishing. It worked exactly for the period of time for which it was required to work. Amazing perfection!

3 April 2023