The Raconteurs of Ulhasnagar

I begin with a description; allow me to defamiliarise a familiar landscape. The town I describe of is Ulhasnagar, a small town with narrow lanes and busy bazaars. A town where a common history and myriad anecdotes stride across the paths and lanes. A walk down the streets and a friendly encounter with the townsfolk is all that is needed to spark a curiosity about this land with bountiful stories waiting to be narrated. All of us, at least those living in and around Mumbai, know about the city and its history; and those who do not, might acquire the factual details easily from the internet. Yet, what would fascinate one is history narrated from the point of view of those that have lived different times. And when the townsfolk become the raconteurs, what one hears is the same story told from unseen perspectives.

Almost immediately, I felt the warmth of hospitality with scrumptious kokis prepared by different mothers and grandmothers under similar thatched roofs. Recounted an old grandmother thus: I left a kilo of onions and potatoes in my basket. I wonder if they are still there. Another old lady, fondly known as Amma, remembered the frantic drama at the time of the exodus. We had hidden some gold in different sections under a few clothes we had packed. Some people knew this. We knew so many of them who were looted before they could escape. Nobody complained. Of course, life was dearer than gold. Eighty three year old Dada still remembers the day he was most terrified. It still seems to me like yesterday. It’s so fresh in my mind, you know, I doubt whether one could have such instances whose impact, ah, how do you put it? The image; that ghastly, hopelessness one feels at a certain point is sometimes so deeply etched into the mind, it still rolls over like a tape playing a recorded cinema. My father asked me to leave that day with the whole family to India. He stayed back and promised to call us once the situation got better. It didn’t. we traveled a lot of places. Karachi, Agra, Hyderabad, and finally Ulhasnagar. Back in 1981, I went to Pakistan for eight days. I saw our old home and the years had left it untouched. The air was the same; similar laughter, murmurs and other voices, unheard, unless you closed your eyes and breathed that familiar, knowing air again.

A still of Ulhasnagar railway station.

The Kalyan camp  which is what is known as Ulhasnagar today was the biggest camp. A sigh of relief was yet to be heaved, for the quest to earn peace and rest had not been accomplished with their safe arrival at the camp. Those who thought they had managed to evade the turbulent weather in Pakistan and thought had dodged the dangers of imminent death during the journey were in for a shock. Survival at the camp was as difficult or perhaps more difficult than the hardships they had so far faced. We were ready to do any kind of work. We didn’t have much choice with families to feed. The government gave us ration supplies for about six months. Some of us started out with small businesses like baking breads, making papad or designing dresses.

Importantly, we did not give up. I saw some students studying under the street lights. That was a big inspiration to us. I still use that image to motivate someone when he or she is down. You see, those students silently gave me a message: of a brighter, educated tomorrow. I think that’s always something to look forward to, isn’t it? Nalandji, a simple man, and a staff of the Sindhi library fondly celebrated his memory of encouragement of education. A lot of teachers came together to establish schools in the newly formed town. New Era was one of them, especially for girls so that they did not have to go far from the city to study.

The newer generation today may not have experienced the wrath of displacement and forced migration but it is certainly a history that should not be forgotten. Those who still think Ulhasnagar is just another small suburban city outside Mumbai without much importance, might just subtly discover the treasure of anecdotes hidden away in the narrow lanes and small houses. I end this with a smile; allow me to reverberate on the stories I had heard from the raconteurs I hadn’t imagined to meet. 

Tinkle, and Reading Memories

I remember the last period of the day in school when I’d be itching to go back home, not for being bored of the long hours of school or even the delicious lunch mom would have prepared, but to lay my hands on a magazine which I know I’d enjoy reading for hours on end. So, the last time I’d been to Crossword, which was just a few days back, I happened to chance upon this month’s issue of Tinkle. For those of you who don’t know what Tinkle is, it is a children’s illustrated magazine which instilled a healthy reading habit in me.

  

So, instinctively, I reached out for the magazine and started browsing through it. Now, I’m reading Tinkle again after eight or ten years and I must say, they look more attractive now. The pages are glossier and the illustrations are brighter. However, I did notice some changes. For instance, the number of ads in the magazine is a lot more than they were a decade ago. Understandably, the printing prices must have gone up which must have forced them to place these ads. Then again, there are some of the ads which are made quite well, for instance, a child would read them and get influenced by it. These are ads that take up an entire page and which has illustrations and dialogues promoting the product of concern. The good thing about them is they are made in manner that a child would read them instead of turning the page by; sadly though, they take an entire page which reduces the number pages that may have been used for printing, say, a nice Suppandi tale.

Some of the older editions of Tinkle I still possess

Tinkle has retained a lot of its older, original characters. I must say, I was really pleased to read Suppandi, Tantri, Shambu; and also columns like “It Happened to Me.” Language still is, as it always has been, proper. One does not often find errors in an edition of Tinkle which motivates parents to let their children read them. Their inclusion of a few more informative sections adds to the education of children. Anyway, while I have seen most good publications die out or some which I’m about to subscribe to, dying out, it’s really heart-warming to see Tinkle still out there in the newsstands and bookstores encouraging and inspiring a lot of children to read, and write.   

When it’s a Crazy World Inside Your Head

If you ever decide to stay up an entire night without a wink of sleep, I’d suggest you, quite seriously, not to step out of home the next day. The consequences of doing so might just be hilariously serious. Although, I have spent sleepless nights (this is, in no way a metaphor, it is “sleepless” in its literal sense) burdened by the pressure of examinations or presentations, quite successfully, I realise that at 23, my body is already trying to revolt against such horrific feats. Additionally, in case you were to involve yourself in a mentally stimulating activity such as writing ten pages of a play in a single night, rest assured, you may also have to tackle a headache alongside a sore back the following morning.

Now before I get to the point, my first question to you is, have you ever been drunk before? If you have, then you may relate to a few things I will be stating in the due course of this article; in case not, then you’d understand how similar it is to stay sleep deprived and drunk.

Because you are sleep deprived, the moment you sit down anywhere in a moving vehicle, you’d fall over the next person beside you. Be ready to be pushed or tossed over to another neighbour. Please be really careful in case there are female passengers nearby (especially if you are a man) because you might just get a rude awakening.

Once you wake up, whether in between dozes or for good, you won’t be sure which stop to get down. This is because the entire world suddenly appears like a new place on Earth.

You’d wake up suddenly with a jolt thinking you've slept for hours and you've missed out on something important.

You’d smile at a stranger and when he or she doesn't smile back, politely inquire whether you went to college together.

You’d realise that people are watching you, considering you've done all or some of the above, and yet you’d wonder why they are staring at you.

You’d be extra-cautious of your mobile phones and wallet and anybody even accidentally touching you would get a stink eye.

Lastly, when you walk, brushing someone’s shoulder and apologizing to someone else, and people assume you to be slightly drunk, you’re justifying in your head what a horrid night you've had working without a wink of sleep.

A Chat with Siddhartha Gigoo

He casually lit a cigarette and enquired if I smoke. I refused, smiling and marveled at how comfortable he was at getting along with a perfect stranger. I must admit, when I was first asked to pick him up from Hotel Jawahar, Ulhasnagar, I was very nervous mostly because I hadn’t spoken to anyone of his stature yet. My assumptions of him being supercilious and rather too erudite were proved false when I started conversing with him.

Cover page of The Garden of Solitude

When I reached Hotel Jawahar, Siddhartha Gigoo was at the reception awaiting my arrival. I was to keep him occupied until some final arrangements were being made for his reception back at college. We shook hands and I introduced myself as I sat beside him on the couch. Mr. Gigoo is a compulsive talker and high on inquisitiveness. His initial interest was unsurprisingly about the town, its people and the small lanes and busy bazaars. Shortly after, I tilted the conversation towards literature and writing. As each minute ticked by, I was learning something new about him. Siddhartha Gigoo is a man who loves to write. Undoubtedly, for that is how any writer should be, one who takes utmost joy in the process as a whole but sees his writing as something that needs to be worked on carefully. He uses realist settings, might even write with the help of a few personal experiences, but eventually he writes to produce art. When I read his debut novel, The Garden of Solitude, I felt that his angst against injustice was reflected in his writing. I discovered upon talking to him that I was only partly right about my observation. Siddhartha Gigoo represents a community of Kashmiri Pandits who are not often spoken widely of these days. The camp settlements and the stories of migrants are being erased with the passage of time. However, Mr. Gigoo’s focus is to create an art to keep the voice and culture of this community alive. . this is clearly demonstrated in the passages of The Garden of Solitude; being “the last generation of Pandits to have lived in Kashmir” as Sridar, the protagonist of The Garden of Solitude puts it, Gigoo feels that the coming generation must know and read about the rivers, the valleys, the customs, the rituals, traditions and most importantly bear in mind the fact that they co-existed befriending a majority Muslim population for over a hundred years.

Our conversation invariably shifted from books to culture and to writing. In reply to my query about how writing was going on, Siddhartha Gigoo narrated an anecdote of Victor Hugo who was attempting to rewrite one of his published novels. Often, he felt the urge to rewrite The Garden of Solitude, but he would never get the time for it. He could relate to the tale I shared with him of Kafka writing to Max Brod about his despair at not finding sufficient time to write and added that it is in fact an inveterate tendency of every writer to be too involved in the task. Being a literature student himself, he was curious to know which authors I read and was pleased to hear that I shared an unequivocal passion for writing.

A personal note by Gigoo which reads "With Love, Siddhartha, Ulhasnagar. One day I shall read your novel"

On our way to college, we were discussing cinema. As it happens, Mr. Gigoo is trying to make his mark even on the visual medium. He talked to me about his debut novel, The Last Day and narrated to me of its making. Shot under two days, he told me it was a collective effort with lots of inputs from his friends who happened to be in the media. The Last Day unmistakably elucidates itself as another creation of art. A lot of shots, carefully constructed without dialogue and at times even without music at its background is left for the audience to fill in. It is artful naturally in this regard as it evokes a participation of the audience in the construction of meaning. When asked why the shift from literature to cinema, Gigoo confirmed my inference of him as a romantic at heart. He had just wanted to try something new; it was another venture in which he sought to exhibit his thoughts and feelings.

Siddhartha Gigoo was whisked away from my presence by the teachers and other dignitaries minutes after he stepped into the hall. Though the session he conducted later did not involve bombastic speeches about the exodus of Kashmiri Pandits or the politics of militant groups, it was more or less, a discovery and exploration of Gigoo’s venture in cinema and literature. When, at the end he signed my copy of The Garden of Solitude and added a personal note hoping to read my published novel one day, I was filled with warm, unspoken encomium for his gesture.

The Beauty of Simplicity

The anecdote Sanket narrated that rainy evening when I stood waiting for the bus to take me home made me smile hours later. It was a strange coincidence that I was thinking about people and relationships and to meet him then unexpectedly only continued my thoughts in the manner of speech. Only minutes before I could reach the bus stop, I had seen a young couple sharing a laugh. Having lived alone for nearly two years, I could feel the warmth of their affection reverberate inside me. So, I stood at the bus stop holding an umbrella and reflecting on the image I had just seen.

Sanket met Ketki through a common friend. He had begun narrating the tale after an enquiry of “Are you seeing someone?” They became friends instantly, began chatting daily and even went out a few times. When he got a job, they got together yet again and treated her. It was, however, when the next time they met that they raised the question of what was going on. I turned my head to look at him at this point, catch his expressions and possibly guess what he was feeling at that instant. He seemed cheerful and jumped forward to finish his tale in a hurry. “We realized we liked each other a lot. I'm falling in love with her each passing day.”

I smiled even hours after he had finished his tale. I was perhaps smiling even as I was in the bus on my way back home. Their relationship would complete a month in a few days and I was smiling at how easily they hit upon that realization. Not many people are lucky to fall in love quickly and as I believe, the complexity of most things actually lies in their simplicity. If one were to wonder how it is possible to fall in love this quickly, one would have to keep wondering in vain. Love is a simple thing which we complicate often with too many thoughts unnecessary.   

English, Not Latin

Me

(Absorbedly narrating and explaining the story of Lal Bahadur Shastri’s childhood to my ten-year-old student) …and little Shastri was only two months old when his mother lost him in a crowd during the mela.

Ten-Year-Old

(Nodding, apparently listening to the tale intently)

Me

So, how old was Shastri at the time?

Ten-Year-Old

(Continues nodding, eyes unblinking)

Me

How old was Shastri?

Ten-Year-Old (still nodding)

Me

No. That was a question.

Ten-Year-Old

Oh, a question? (Thinking. Looks up at the ceiling) Two years old? (Smiles sheepishly)

*

I knew when I started teaching children a couple of weeks back that it was going to be a challenge. And this instance I mentioned above was funnier if you were to be present at the moment when it happened. I wondered if it was really English I taught them or whether what I spoke to them sounded like Latin.

I teach students from standard five to nine and I handle minds from childish to maturing. Despite our colonial rule by the British for over a hundred and fifty years, communicating in English has been a problem. I am not really sure if that is a good thing or a bad one but I think as much as knowing our own culture and language, it becomes essential that we know some of the other languages, especially English, as it is, today, used as a standardized language at all institutions. As I see students grappling with words and meanings, I am compelled to do something to make them familiarized with the texts in their syllabus, their relevance and its use outside of their curriculum.

When teaching and learning become a difficult task

Schooling in Mumbai has changed rapidly over the last few years. I remember a decade ago when I was in school, we had fewer, thinner text books and were given enough writing assignments as homework apart from  encouraging interested students to take part in various written and spoken competitions. I was quite astonished to learn that students are instructed not to write more than a page for essays in their exams. It makes me wonder if teachers want students to be precise about their expressions or they do not want to read too much. Whatever the case, when students battle with the language and fail to even express their thoughts, I think that is the signal for teachers to be proactive and make the students involved in the process of teaching and learning.

Challenging the task may be, but the thought of guiding young minds and constructing efficient citizens out of them makes my job more meaningful. And although I realise that students may not entirely like the additional assignments I enforce them to work with, I know it will bear its fruits once they are out of school. And though other teachers and parents might wonder how my assignments help them score in their exams, I look at a bigger picture.

So when my ten year old student sheepishly smiles at me and answers my questions wrong, I simply grin at him and ask him to read his text aloud and narrate to me the story in his words. And when he does that, he looks at me with a look of epiphany and replies, “Oh, it is two months!” I heave a sigh of relief thanking God that I teach them English, not Latin.

My Thoughts as they are: The Absurdity of Togetherness

It was one of those rare lazy afternoons I could afford to lie on the couch with a hot cup of tea cooling off right beside on the table. Outside the window, it was raining quite heavily and the imagery might have become a cliché now with frequent online posts about people watching the rain with a cup of tea or coffee. It was, however, how it was and I was contemplating over what I had read for an hour and a half. If Thoreau’s Walden spoke about the joyous solitude in the woods, then Albee’s plays talked about the misery of loneliness and the vain efforts to seek contact. And I could understand best and relate to both, loneliness and self solicited solitude, as I lay down on that couch thinking about the year I had celebrated Christmas with a group of strangers. This was something I would never have done, say, a few years back. I am sure most of you would agree that after a certain period of time of silence, conversation becomes necessary. Like water after a long jog in the morning.

What if I have to say something?

Albee elucidates a similar theme in his plays The Zoo Story and The Death of Bessie Smith. In The Zoo Story, two strangers start talking at a park and as the play progresses, we realise that the two people hardly have anything in common, yet they are trying to seek some connection, linking each line of their speech to something or another. This reminded me of nothing but the Christmas episode when I was in the train on my way back from Kerala. So you see, even this story follows a similar route. We were about eight of us in that small compartment and within a span of twenty four hours, we had celebrated Christmas, shared a cake and enjoyed a movie together. It is quite something if you ask me, yet not at all unbelievable and if you were to wonder how this was possible, you would not find a logical explanation to it. That is the absurd nature by which we communicate.

Carver, in his short story Viewfinder, describes a stranger visiting the protagonist with a photograph he had clicked of the character’s house. The story centers around the conversations of these two characters. And throughout the story, the characters do everything except talk about the sale or purchase of the photograph in question. And what were they trying to achieve by prolonging the talk of business? Nothing. They probably wanted to break spells of long silence.

Mundaneness ought to be obliterated and what comprises of our existence is the rest. We find a little joy in the brief conversations we have while commuting or while travelling alone somewhere. My “viewfinder” is this screen you are peering into and just in case you find the entire idea absurd, think about whether you know me. Of all the things we read, or speak, or write, what do we really do? And if not for this absurdity of communication and togetherness, what would we possibly share?