Moudja, Souad Massi

I have shared this song with a few people now. I can actually count them on just one hand, in fact. Mirat first gave it to me. Back then it sent shivers down my spine. What's strange is that it's been over two years and the song still has the said effect. Goosebumps.

The song begins with the sound of waves crashing. A sound that created such a lasting image in my mind that for the longest time I harboured the wish for a tattoo of the same design. It's what Bombay had come to mean to me. But the song transcends any place or person, or episode.

When I close my eyes and play the song, the sea, the stars, the longing and tears, all come flooding back. And no, it is not even a melancholy song. It is a song that asks for permission. To love. And not on some whim, but the strong reason, that with that man alone, the feeling is of talking to the impossible - the impossibly far away, the impossibly unreachable.

Some day, I'd like to be able to vocalise it myself. For now, I am happy I have it on my iPod for every possible time of day, season of year.

Happy Engineers' Day

I’ve lived with some, I’ve worked with many and I’ve dated only them. The story of several nations begins with them, and often enough, develops into legends. They’ve made our hospitals, our schools, our homes and offices. They’ve made the infrastructure that runs them, and the technology that makes them better than previously.

Man or woman, I do believe they’re the only ones in this country who take on the pressure of proving themselves beyond their qualification. They’re the only ones who want to tamper with a DSLR, or spend a train journey reading by the window, rather than choosing the upper berth to catch up on much lost sleep. They’re the only ones I know who appreciate art, business as well as the nuances of science.

They’re practical. They know when to be around and when to step back. They’re the only ones I know whose embraces stay. They spend four years in college, toiling on assignments and poring through journals just so that degree will give them the freedom to explore the world. I used to think, what a waste of a whole seat. But an engineer who does not think that way, is really just so limited. It is not about being the jack of any trades and master at none – no, it isn’t about mediocrity at all – though, I do often label them all with that blanket for the sake of convenient argument. But a workforce that emerges from its hefty contribution to the business of education, can’t be neglected. They’re the crème de la crème among the call centre-ites. They’re the ones preferred over even commerce students at business schools. They’re the ones our Tier II city dwellers still pay handsome dowries for – second only to the docs. So hey, if you can have a Doctor’s Day, why not this?

The country celebrates the 44^th National Engineers’ Day on the 15^th of September 2011. So what are we celebrating? Nation building? Sounds L&Tish. Logic? Sounds CATish. One of the most lasting careers? That’s almost wannabe-in-the-USish. Perhaps it is all these and then some more. Actually, much more. It is that spirit of being boisterous. Of stressing over trivialities. Of competing for the IITs, NITs and then the IIMs and IITs again. It is the celebration of the world looking to India to not only direct (which just sounds so damn pompous), but also design the future. To physically shout out instructions to labour and contractors. To prevail when others are dilly-dallying in contemplation.

Then I’ve also known of those who drop out. Those who commit suicide because of all the pressure. Those who abandon the cause because it’s just not their calling.

Hopefully, we shall respect them a little more. Hopefully, we’ll honour their place in society a tad more. Hopefully, we shall not in our generation, aspire for our sons and daughters to be part of a mob. A significant mob, nonetheless. Hopefully, we will know that being an engineer is about being a certain way. That, despite half the country’s science students blindly heading for a tech school, it is not the end of the path to progress, but only one of the trajectories that lead to a beginning.

Saptaparni

I used to call it October Fragrance. because I couldn't remember its name and never remembered to ask Dida either. And somehow, the name has just stuck.

I was nearing the last lap of my very zig-zag and impossibly unpredictable "business trip" to Hyderabad that also extended to Delhi, last Sunday. I thought there was only so much excitement that could enthrall me at one go. The resort at Vikarabad, the Mineral Museum behind Shankar Market in Delhi, Sushmita's god level sprouts-n-daal-chawal dinner and our BDC party...

So the bus swerved left towards Kala Ghoda from Fatehgunj (all this is Baroda talk haan), and suddenly this overpowering fragrance pervades my olfactories and I'm in a daze. I was frantically looking for its source. Turning my head almost like an owl's 180 degrees, I spot the Saptaparni. In full bloom, the while flowers in their bunches emanated this heady aroma...

I was already looking forward to the tree near my house - albeit it had not caught up with the season yet. But the fragrance had not left my senses yet. It took me back to those several rides down the road in Wadala...

Mobile Boutique

I bought my first Dhakaii cotton sari this morning. And my first Kota-zari yesterday. The Dhakaii couldn’t be more typical in terms of the work, but the body motifs took my breath away. Vermillion neem leaves on a turmeric background. I still remember my first. It was the green batik border-and-pallu on white I got from Shilpakala Vedika – the Hyderabad version of Delhi Haat. That was followed by a simple bandhej (a different shade of green from the previous) in a similar design. The Kota in midnight blue with a Banarsi style pallu and border from a small shop in the city’s newer shopping hub, and the Dhakaii bought today will be the only ones added since. The rest are mostly silks or chiffons.

Today’s buy was different in many ways.Not just the women, but also the man of the household was involved in selecting the right number.

My father is not one to visit sari shops, or for that matter, accompany us on our clothes-buying sprees. So it was novel to have him around as we got dada to open his potla (small pile packed in a cloth) of weave after weave of the nine-yard.

Why just a potla though? Apparently this chap picks pieces himself and comes to a select few families in the city. He’s like a mobile boutique. And he remembers each customer and the sari he sold to them. In his pile are none of those ordinary minimal weaves. His auction starts somewhere at two grand and can escalate to any heights he pleases (depending upon the time of year). He’s eager to sell right now so he can make some moolah and go home to his village in the 24 Paraganas and make it in time for the Pujo celebrations – the man is also an artisan. He decorates pandals, though I don’t suppose he’s very adept with the brush. His fingers aren’t nimble enough – they laze to fold the more difficult-to-fold silks.

I still wonder when a vendor says, “Madam ka choice bohot badhiya hai,” what it really implies. Is the statement made because “madam” chooses the most expensive piece? Is it because she chooses the most muted? Or is it because she chooses after him having displayed all his wares?

In that hour-long interaction in my living room though, I also sat amidst a philosopher – what “poverty makes one”, as papa puts it. The man spoke simple truths. How diplomacy works at the grassroots. In his little village, the Mamtadi government is not about radical changes. Well, definitely not changes in how the system functions, but surely the alliances men like my sariwala must strike up. “homara kya haay… aaj iska baju mein, kol uska torof…”

That statement alone took me back to all the Bengali connections I've ever had - alive and even the ones long gone - my dadi, the whole झुण्ड at CIEFL, Neel, Subir, Upas, Sushmita... a race that has earned its reputation of being a thinking one; of thinking enough to take care of the finest nuance of any task - cerebral or material - that comes their way...

I don’t know when I will wear these saris. It is most likely to become a family heirloom of sorts.