Ok, everybody seems to be all over the place.
Baba (Babua) is off to Tokyo I understand, where he is to meet Chhotokaku (Khokon), Arkakaku and Kasumi Oba-san (khurima). He returns to India via Singapore, so hopefully some chocolates will attach themselves to his luggage en route. Later he is to go to Vienna.
Barapishi (Khuku) is travelling around with Mejopishi (Keka); M'pishi has gone to visit the US and is looking very smart in her western attire. I know they've been to Disneyland but I've lost track of the rest of it. Chhotopishi (Kanchi) is there as well, of course, and I'm very impressed by the resilience of the denizens of Atlanta, GA. All three Roy sisters, just think of it.
It will surprise nobody to hear that Anindyakaku was in the US too. A month before M'pishi, of course. This is one couple that refuses to stay together. Such jet-setting...
Kaku is having Moore Avenue painted. Didi (Guria) is back in town, working in a legal firm off Prince Anwar Shah Road. Munia is probably finishing with a set of exams.
Ma (Swati) is coming to Calcutta in a few hours. She's here for a week and then Vicky (Soubhik) and Rahul (Bheblu) visit them at Madras for Jamaishashti. I stay back in Cal. Not sure if it's a good thing or a bad thing, but I'll find out soon enough.
Tua is in B'lore, sending me pretty earrings. (Thanks, Tua!)
Mithi and Medha have brought their mother to Calcutta for a holiday. Pishithamma was with them in Gurgaon and came along as well.
Dada (Lattu) is in Cal, helping to clean/clear out Moore Avenue. (Thanks, Dada). Vicky pulled his [share of the] weight as well, so thanks V.
Jimma is staying by herself in Garfa and seems to be doing a good job of cadging meals off folks. I'm pretty proud of her.
This is all the news I have and I'm aware it's pretty sketchy. So please tell me what you and yours are up to. Chhotima? Linnetpishi? Arkakaku? Chhordi? Indi? Anybody?
Monday, May 26, 2008
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Voices
An anecdote of Madhupur from Baba/Babua[da].
There are any number of people who will listen to just a little piece of a song and tell you who is singing. They can do it with ease, especially with the more well-known singers.
There are also those who can recognize voices merely in speech or over the telephone with perfect accuracy.
While happening to be married to somebody of the first type, myself I have never been able to make out different voices with any appreciable degree of certainty. I like Hindi film songs, the ones that were hits forty years ago, and usually express my admiration of singer A while listening to somebody widely and usually correctly believed to be singer B.
But once this same failing, in somebody else, had turned out to be a good thing for me, and I will now tell you all about it.
First a general observation about the importance, in the old days, of the ability to identify the owners of voices emanating from all types of different beings. In those days, in our rural surroundings, women and domestic animals, often in the reverse order of importance, used to be identified mainly through their voices. I will leave the other, obvious cases and concentrate on explaining this matter of women.
There used to be exactly two kinds of ladies in general in those days. The first kind was short, stout and completely covered in a "ghunghat" or sari veil. The other kind consisted of ladies who were taller, similarly stout and identically covered in similar ghunghats. Any third variety was so rare that they really did not exist.
The visible mehendi marks and "churi" bangles rarely exhibited any discernible variations, and accordingly there was little left by way of individual identification. Passport style, voices thus were important "marks of identification".
Mewa Lal was the local orchard "ijaradar" or contractor. As befitted his position, he had multiple large families who were usually at peace amongst themselves. All his wives were nice aunties of ours who would never hesitate to pass on the best off the orchards somewhat in defiance of the patriarch. Having duly delegated most of the day to day management to his able sons who ranged in age from one to forty-five, Mewa Lal restricted his precious attention to preventing socially powerful people from nationalizing the better fruits from his trees. But an old man of nearly seventy could always have some failings, physical, sentimental etc., and basically intelligent marauders faced little problem in overcoming his security systems.
The confusion that generally prevailed over the identity of the various ladies in that family's harem(s) is very difficult to appreciate today. In summer, with mangoes, litchis and jackfruit ripening all around, the men would often stay away at nights over the vast expanses of the orchards. Sometimes they would return in the daytime to replenish supplies. Thus for long periods they would be away from the women and more importantly, from the women's voices. So it was but natural for confusion to arise.
And so again it was that a mildly inebriated and intoxicated Samwa (obviously the second son of Mewa Lal - why? - just logic this one out!) got into an argument with two individuals he confidently felt were his younger sister and his wife. Soon the three were on the ground and the dust was flying, for Samwa was not one to let mere women talk back to him. The two women, however, successfully thrashed him and were continuously cheered by some of us youngsters who did not count Samwa amongst their friends.
Just as a diversion we will explain the quiz posed about Samwa being obviously Mewa Lal's second son. All first sons were expected in our parts to be definitely followed by a second son, and woe betide any poor woman who dared beget otherwise. All first sons were naturally named after Lord Rama. This was the reason why Shyam (Samwa) and Lakshmana (Lachchhu) were automatically the names of gentlemen's second sons without exception. Thirty years later in Calcutta, when a barber from Bihar came and offered his services to my father and me for morning shaves, introducing himself as Shyamlal, I casually asked him how his elder brother was and shocked him into believing that I had actually visited his village and met the fellow who had never dared leave their district.
Well, to return to our main tale, Samwa had actually attacked two of his stepmothers, one of whom was younger than him. It was but a simple matter for us to prevent our honest selves from rushing across to his father and spilling the beans, the only requirement for which was just a little plain and simple co-operation from that devil Samwa for the rest of the mango season. This he tamely agreed to accord.
I for one still remember that one summer of "langra" mangoes and giant jackfruit cloves.
There are any number of people who will listen to just a little piece of a song and tell you who is singing. They can do it with ease, especially with the more well-known singers.
There are also those who can recognize voices merely in speech or over the telephone with perfect accuracy.
While happening to be married to somebody of the first type, myself I have never been able to make out different voices with any appreciable degree of certainty. I like Hindi film songs, the ones that were hits forty years ago, and usually express my admiration of singer A while listening to somebody widely and usually correctly believed to be singer B.
But once this same failing, in somebody else, had turned out to be a good thing for me, and I will now tell you all about it.
First a general observation about the importance, in the old days, of the ability to identify the owners of voices emanating from all types of different beings. In those days, in our rural surroundings, women and domestic animals, often in the reverse order of importance, used to be identified mainly through their voices. I will leave the other, obvious cases and concentrate on explaining this matter of women.
There used to be exactly two kinds of ladies in general in those days. The first kind was short, stout and completely covered in a "ghunghat" or sari veil. The other kind consisted of ladies who were taller, similarly stout and identically covered in similar ghunghats. Any third variety was so rare that they really did not exist.
The visible mehendi marks and "churi" bangles rarely exhibited any discernible variations, and accordingly there was little left by way of individual identification. Passport style, voices thus were important "marks of identification".
Mewa Lal was the local orchard "ijaradar" or contractor. As befitted his position, he had multiple large families who were usually at peace amongst themselves. All his wives were nice aunties of ours who would never hesitate to pass on the best off the orchards somewhat in defiance of the patriarch. Having duly delegated most of the day to day management to his able sons who ranged in age from one to forty-five, Mewa Lal restricted his precious attention to preventing socially powerful people from nationalizing the better fruits from his trees. But an old man of nearly seventy could always have some failings, physical, sentimental etc., and basically intelligent marauders faced little problem in overcoming his security systems.
The confusion that generally prevailed over the identity of the various ladies in that family's harem(s) is very difficult to appreciate today. In summer, with mangoes, litchis and jackfruit ripening all around, the men would often stay away at nights over the vast expanses of the orchards. Sometimes they would return in the daytime to replenish supplies. Thus for long periods they would be away from the women and more importantly, from the women's voices. So it was but natural for confusion to arise.
And so again it was that a mildly inebriated and intoxicated Samwa (obviously the second son of Mewa Lal - why? - just logic this one out!) got into an argument with two individuals he confidently felt were his younger sister and his wife. Soon the three were on the ground and the dust was flying, for Samwa was not one to let mere women talk back to him. The two women, however, successfully thrashed him and were continuously cheered by some of us youngsters who did not count Samwa amongst their friends.
Just as a diversion we will explain the quiz posed about Samwa being obviously Mewa Lal's second son. All first sons were expected in our parts to be definitely followed by a second son, and woe betide any poor woman who dared beget otherwise. All first sons were naturally named after Lord Rama. This was the reason why Shyam (Samwa) and Lakshmana (Lachchhu) were automatically the names of gentlemen's second sons without exception. Thirty years later in Calcutta, when a barber from Bihar came and offered his services to my father and me for morning shaves, introducing himself as Shyamlal, I casually asked him how his elder brother was and shocked him into believing that I had actually visited his village and met the fellow who had never dared leave their district.
Well, to return to our main tale, Samwa had actually attacked two of his stepmothers, one of whom was younger than him. It was but a simple matter for us to prevent our honest selves from rushing across to his father and spilling the beans, the only requirement for which was just a little plain and simple co-operation from that devil Samwa for the rest of the mango season. This he tamely agreed to accord.
I for one still remember that one summer of "langra" mangoes and giant jackfruit cloves.
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