The Last Tram

“I have ridden on the last tram for twenty-one years, and I know every face that rides it.”

These were not Neal’s own words. They belonged to the man sitting next to him on the tram the other day.

Calcutta street cars, trams as they are known, had two cars connected together. The first one was premium—it had ceiling fans. The fare was 10 paisa more than the second car. Neal was in the city for the weekend and making the most of it, hopping bars and catching up with friends. The tram ride that night was for ticking the box, and he was travelling in the second car, as a fan was hardly necessary on this October night.

“We have a team of nightriders,” the man whispered. “The hospital nurse going home after her day shift. The press men with ink still on their fingers. The drunk man who sleeps and wakes along the journey, crying about the girls who left him.”

Neal smiled. “You seem to know them all.”

“Twenty-one years is a long time. You learn to recognise people. Some have been riding longer than I have.”

He nodded towards the back of the car.

The only other passenger in the car that night was an old woman in a white sari, a cloth bag on her lap, sitting upright on the bench by the rear door. She did not look out of the window. She looked at a spot on the floor between her feet, like someone recounting.

“She always rides this last car, sits on the rear bench, always looks at this spot on the floor.”

“How long has she been doing that?”

The man took a moment before answering. “Longer than I can remember.”

“Does she ever get off?”

“Not before I do.”

Neal looked towards her again. The tram rattled through the familiar streets, past shuttered shops and sleeping buildings. At each stop, a few passengers got off and others climbed aboard the other car. The old woman remained still.

“Does she speak to anyone?” Neal asked.

“Not anymore.”

The man got to his feet, as if he suddenly remembered something important. “Tonight is Bhoot Chaturdashi, when Bengal lights fourteen lamps for its dead.”

There was something in the man’s voice that made Neal turn towards him.

But before he could ask another question, the tram slowed and the man stepped down into the lane, beneath a lamp-post. The tram moved on.

Neal’s stop was still some distance away. He had the urge to go and sit next to the woman and speak to her.

She stood and gathered her bag. At the entrance, she held the bar, turned and looked at him properly for the first time. Hers was a face very familiar, someone he knew, though he could not have said from where.

She stepped down into the lane.

The conductor came to check tickets.

“You’re late,” Neal said. “The lady has just got off.”

“Which lady?” the conductor asked.

Neal looked back once. The lamp was already behind them, and the street was empty.

.... and let there be Hope - My 2 Pleasant Experiences

The media seldom portrays the positive side of our society, while in reality good things happen constantly leading to integrity, hope and trust. Through the following narratives, I have shared two of my recent encounters in Kolkata that give rise to hope.

Adhaar Card

We took the first opportunity to walk up to the bureau office to get our applications through unscheduled registration. We were elated by the professionalism demonstrated by the government officer on duty that day. After waiting for some months and a bit of follow-up the day arrived to get photographed and fingerprints taken. Fortunately for us, it coincided with our vacation time.

We were pleasantly surprised to discover everything well organized and there was absolute discipline … an order not too synonymous with our land with billions. Everyone came strictly by appointment. 

My daughter and I breezed through the procedure and all waz well till it was my wife’s turn. Her residence proof document had parental home address and despite all cross references in our documents they did not accept our home as her residence. While the supervisor was slightly inclined to make a concession, the person on duty insisted on adequate paperwork. But he did leave us with one solution, that too quite politely.

We were to approach the councilor of our municipal ward and request for a permanent residence certificate. Hearing that I said to myself 
… “now are into a never-ending loop”.

We hesitantly went to the councilor’s office, unsure what to expect as they did not know us personally. She was a very cordial person and though about to leave, she stepped back inside. 

The required certificate was issued then and there. To my apologetic “thank you”, she smilingly reassured saying it was her duty.

Completing the remaining procedure back at the bureau was easy breezy. Before leaving I thanked the person in-charge saying

“you are doing a great job and insisting on proper documents will go a long way to weed out the infiltrators.”

Mobile Recharge

One of this days we went to the Spencer supermarket in Kolkata for shopping. While making a decision on a humble mop, we got stuck between an unbranded products priced INR 149 and one of a known brand that cost 400.

A sales lady was present there from the brand explaining the advantages of the product. She highlighted this one was entirely covered with plastic not letting any direct contact of water with the metal preventing rust. She also told us that there was a 50 INR discount in the form of a mobile recharge coupon that would work with all service providers.

I said, “fair enough, decision made. But do we have to come back all the way to collect the recharge coupon or it will be available at the checkout station?”

She said, “I will give it to you now.”

Surprised I asked, “Now! What if somebody takes it and goes away without buying the product?”

She said “How much would one gain by doing that?”

I smiled and thought common people of Kolkata have so much trust and integrity...... Let there be HOPE .......

We are like this only!

A Mumphaliwala (person selling roasted peanuts) used to go around the neighbourhood in my childhood selling roasted peanuts in cones made of old newspapers along with a minuscule pack of salt. He had to shell out a few extra packs of salt as freebies to keep his consumer content coming back.

Someone enlightened me quite early that “Maximum Retail Price” was the highest price at which that product could be sold and the aim should be bring it down from there. But the customer was not the king when I was a kid and the shopkeeper charged the MRP. I am talking of the seventies when availability was limited choices did not exist and Bajaj Cheetak scooter used to have 15 years waiting.

But haggling and bargaining was the order of the day for everything that did not have MRP printed on it. The common man had a sense of victory being able to knock down the asking price. The victory lap would however be short-lived with the neighbours announcement that his second cousin has brought the same stuff for 8 rupees less.

But today the customer is the king and one can easily cut a deal even while buying a refrigerators or a television set. Kolkata they say is the most (in) famous when it comes to this skill, where a street vendor like the phuchkawala (panipoorie seller) is not spared by a well versed Kolkata shopper. He cannot escape without giving that free dry poorie, locally known as churmur at the end of each session.

But his is not about Kolkata, this is us from Kashmir to Kanyakumari. We, the Indians, love to haggle and take immense pride in what we do. We all know a uncle or aunt or a neighbour who has earned the honour of being the best negotiator in this respect.

If you thought this is limited to street vendors and the shopkeepers, my friend, you are grossly mistaken! Leading architectural practices, I have witnessed, bear the brunt of this extraordinary “little extra” phenomena. In the nineties, we were working on design for high rises on Barakhamba road and other places around Lutyens Delhi.

While preparing designs for those multi-storey towers, the firm also had to provide some services as extras. Trust me, I am serious! It was an extension to his farmhouse or an additional floor to her bungalow or something similar.

We used to wonder if the surgeons faced similar situation whereby a patient says “I shall have my heart operated, but you have to operate my knee cap for free!” 

But, we are like this only!

Revive the Tradition

The last festive season, we embarked on a mission inspired by a lady in a far away country. It was beginning of December of 2014 and the time when most of the places in the world are in a festive mood, some more than others. We were on a train and we saw a lady, from a couple of generation before us, having a glass of wine and writing the Xmas and New Year cards.

I thought why not try revive the old traditions of sending cards for the festive seasons to some of our friends and relatives. That way we will give a chance for the postman to shake their legs a bit. . Cards and letter are fast getting extinct and by now and I do not see anyone campaigning to save the post box.  My last “partner in post” has also given up about two years back and got baptised to the internet. When I started to receive response to my letters through emails, I did not know how to react. It took the experience out of getting informed though I got the response almost instantly. I had no idea if I wanted to get a response so instantly but in the process brought the whole communication business to a standstill.

So we bought some art papers and started to create our cards right from the scratch and managing the envelope was as difficult a challenge as the card itself. Trust me it is not as easy as you would imagine when you start something that you have not done for such a long period of time. It reminded me of Shakespeare’s quote from The Merchant of Venice.....

“If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches and poor men’s cottages princes' palaces. “

But there was no going back and I took out my old address book form an old trunk (the one made of real paper) and drew up a list of friends and relatives with still valid addresses. The list was as follows:

Kolkata -              8

Mumbai -             2

Pune -                   2

Delhi –                 2

Bahrain -              2

Bangalore –         1

Agartala -            1

Doha -                 1

Al Khobar -         1

Muscat -              1

London -             1

Finally it was time to go to the post office and buy the stamps, stick them to the envelope and drop those in the mail box. Even though it cost a small fortune, it was worth it as my daughter got the first taste of writing and posting a real letter. This was our contribution in reviving the tradition and also give “Stamp collection” another chance.

However, 4 months later there seems to be still 6 cards undelivered. It appears that it will take more effort to remove the rust out of the postal system. Come December, we shall have another attempt.

Kolkata - The City Of Joy

Someone once told me that a camera does not lie (Photoshop does though). If I click a photograph today and another one after a year, it will show me difference in Black and White (may be in color). The point here is that the differences shows up without any emotional bias as opposed to human eyes.

Calcutta, now known as Kolkata has been very unlucky with the publicity she received in the recent past. It has been mostly bricks and seldom praises, in spite of being the City of Joy.
Today I am posting a series of pictures that I have received by an email from a friend. It will change your perception. These are photographs and they are not supposed to lie! (Kudus to the photographer)

Kolkata is in the heart of every Bengali with all its pluses and minuses. We all dream of settling back there one day.

We too say... next Durga Puja, we will be in Kolkata!

Kolkata is in the heart of every Bengali with all its pluses and minuses. We all dream of settling there one day! We too say... Come next Durga Puja and we will be in Kolkata!