Three Encounters with a Revolutionary

It was 1981.

He was slim, of medium height and was sporting beard. He was very casual in his dress; he was clad in trousers or pyjama with kurta or trousers with a simple half sleeved shirt. He was doing his Masters in Philosophy. He would be invariably sighted where there was a group of students agitating for something or other. He would organise the students on any issue; if there was increase of college fee, price rise, or if there was an incident of rape or anything happened anywhere in Odisha or India or even in the world. It appeared as if he were waiting for something untoward to happen so that he could get a chance to organise a movement. He hawked his party tabloid (Proletariat?). He along with his friends collected donations in a tin box in bus stand or in other public places for the party cause. He was a member of the student wing of a leftist organisation. He professed to bring in revolution for a classless, exploitation-free society, to establish the rule of the proletariats. Let’s call him a Revolutionary. In the University he was one year junior to me.

A student from Balasore while returning from home had an altercation with the conductor of the bus. The conductor of the bus allegedly threw away a bag of puffed rice he was bringing from home. He came to the campus, told his friends. His friends and friends of his friends went to the road and hijacked seventeen buses (all government buses) into the campus and demanded action against the culprit bus conductor. It was given the colour of prestige issue for the university students. The bus, the conductor of which misbehaved with the student, belonged to the president of the Bhubaneswar Bus Owners’ Association, who was also an MLA. The demands of the students were not always rational. The bus owners were also united against the students. The administration could not resolve the issue immediately. Mrs Indira Gandhi, then the Prime Minister was scheduled to inaugurate Institute of Physics at Bhubaneswar within three-four days. The administration was very cautious not to take any step that would precipitate a strike on the eve of the PM’s visit to the state. They were dilly dallying.

The day of PM’s visit came. The Revolutionary reached the scene like a vulture reaching a carcass. We had our last semester within a week or so. We were apprehensive. If anything happened which led to a students’ strike, our exam would be postponed and we might lose one year. In the name of students’ unity, against inaction of the administration and for students’ honour he mobilised the students to protest and show blag flags to the visiting PM at the site of Institute of Physics. I was standing in front of our hostel with a few of my friends. He started his harangue and urged upon us to join the demonstration at the Institute. His very appearance infuriated us as we could smell disaster. We reasoned with him and tried to dissuade from showing blag flag to the PM, but he was made of a different stuff. Out of anger a friend of mine threatened him with his fist; he went away castigating us ‘reactionaries’.

The things happened as we had apprehended. The students demonstrated and showed black flags to the PM at the Institute of Physics. The police lathi charged to disperse the mob. A few students including some girls were injured by the lathi charge and the stampede that followed. The students came back to the campus and set alight the hijacked buses. The police arrested the students, whoever they chanced upon, including many innocents and put them behind bars. The university was closed sine die. But our revolutionary escaped the arrest. Our semester exams were postponed. We lost one year, we took three years to complete a two year Masters’ course.
*******

1982. One day I was taking tea with my friends in a jhopdi hotel inside the campus. We had appeared the exams and waiting for our results. I noticed the revolutionary sitting on the cement structure of the culvert in front of the jhopdi hotel with some of his friends. I saw he opened the tin box they used in collecting donations, counted the collections, picked up a few coins and came to the hotel. He ordered some boiled eggs. His harangue on the day before going to disrupt PM’s programme immediately came to my mind and all my anger for having lost a year was directed at him. I shouted, “You are collecting donations from the public for the cause of revolution and buying boiled egg with the money. This sort of moral character you bear?”

He went away without waiting for the eggs and responding me. My friend taking tea with me remonstrated, “What happened has already happened. The revolutionaries have also hunger and perhaps, he was hungry.”
*******

1993. I was working as Treasury Officer, Satyabadi.

It was a day of the first week of the month. There was rush in the Treasury of the old people to take their pension. The left parties had given a bandh call against inflation, unemployment, etc. etc. I was in my office disposing pension files. A group of persons trooped into my office room. They were holding red flags and shouting slogans against the government. They forced me to close the office. There were around 80-90 pensioners. Many of them, mostly retired primary school teachers, were drawing minimum pension and the amount of minimum pension then was a paltry sum of Rs 300. If they returned without pension, they had to come again. I tried to reason with the agitators. They were not in a mood to listen to me. One of them threatened, “Are you going to close the office or face the consequences?” I knew the consequences. They would vandalise, ransack the furniture, set ablaze office files and papers. They could do anything.

I was helpless and bewildered. At that point in time I spotted the Revolutionary through the window of my office room. He was outside the office arguing with some retired persons who had come for their monthly pension. I went straight to him and said, “Most of the old people here take minimum pension and that is rupees three hundred only. They might have spent rupees ten for the rickshaw or towards bus fare. If they don’t get pension today, they have to come again, and again they have to spend towards rickshaw or bus fare...”

He stared me for some moments. Perhaps, he was not certain of what he should do. I did not have patience. I lost my temper. I said, “You might have forgotten me, but I still remember you. You are that person who buys boiled eggs with the donations collected in a tin box for the party cause. Of course, it is futile to request you. I am well aware of your conscience and moral standards.”

I told my office people to close the office. But to my surprise, the revolutionary instructed his followers to leave me and my office. He told them in a loud voice, “The officer tells he will close the office within one and half hours after disposing the pensioners. Let him do, otherwise the old people would face hardship that we don't want.”
*******

Now a days bandhs are not as frequently called as it was in the seventies and eighties of the last century except in the Naxal affected areas. Many of the student ‘revolutionaries’ of those days have joined the so called ‘reactionary’ parties and some of them have also become MPs and MLAs of the parties they have joined. Some of them have also joined government/company services, in other words, working for ‘bourgeois’ class. I have not met our revolutionary since 1993.
*******

Mumbai Musings

We reached Mumbai on 9th Feb to attend the workshop conducted by NSDL on IT preparedness for GST on 10th and 11th. Mr Patra, my senior colleague and immediate boss wanted to have a darshan of Mahalaxmi on 10th evening after the workshop was over. We visited. The next day, on the 11th, he wanted to visit Siddhi Vinayak. While returning from Siddhi Vinayak temple in the evening after the darshan, he exclaimed, “Yesterday we visited Ma’laxmi, incidentally it was Friday, an auspicious day for visiting Maa and today, we visited Baba Vinayak.”
He was visibly pleased and satisfied. He described his feelings as if he were in a trance after the visit.

Last time I had visited Mumbai with my niece. She had to appear interview for Grade-B officer of Reserve Bank of India. On the day, after her interview was over by 3 pm, we went for sight-seeing to India Gate. The next day our train was at 10 in the night, so we had a full day at our hand. We went to Khandala.
During my last visit to Mumbai it did not strike me to visit Mahalaxmi or Siddhi Vinayak. I was even not conscious of the God and Goddess.

I am not a religious man, the names of Gods and Goddesses do not evoke devotion or the kind of religious feeling in me as they do to Mr Patra. During my school days I was under the influence of my teacher Kalindi Charan Jena, who was a professed communist. I had an overdose of Marxist clichés such as religion is opium to the masses, Religion and Gods are creation of the ruling class to exploit the proletariat, etc. The impact it had is still with me and perhaps, will remain till I die. I never do puja, do not relish going to a temple. If my wife and children are not at home and I am left alone, they request my neighbour’s wife or daughter to light at least an incense stick in our puja room; my wife never trusts me in the matters of Gods, Goddesses and worship.

On our way to India Gate I came across an Art Exhibition on the road side in the open space. We got down and saw the exhibition. It was theme based (I have posted a picture); I wished I would have spent some more time. I would have loved to see the exhibition, studied the arts, but my boss did not seem interested in such things and we did not have also much time for it.
********

Security arrangements were made elaborately, the devotees/darshan seekers had to pass through security check and metal detector test. There was a long queue for the darshan of Siddhi Vinayak when we reached the temple around 5.20 pm. We stood in the queue. One person approached us and told if we paid Rs 150 each, he would take us inside avoiding the security,and enable our darshan without the travails of standing in the queue and wasting time in waiting. He warned darshan would be stopped at 6 pm and we might not be able to have our darshan. We did not agree to his proposal.

A few years back I had gone to Agra with my family. After we booked tickets to visit Taj Mahal, we had to stand in the queue for security check. The queue was more than a kilometre long and I reckoned it would take at least an hour to pass through the check. One person approached and suggested if we paid Rs 100 each he would take us inside avoiding the security check. I did not heed to his offer. He lowered the price and said Rs 70 would do. Still I did not listen. He further lowered the price to Rs 50. The person standing near me bargained and said, twenty. The person said, “The police shall take Rs 20 each, what shall I get? Make it thirty.” The person standing beside me agreed, paid Rs 30 for him and for each of his family members and went out of the queue.

The security arrangement is for ensuring terrorists not to sneak into and create mischief that would not only damage the shrines/monuments but also result in communal catastrophes. If a person of my kind can avoid security by bribing Rs 30 or 50, can’t a terrorist do the same?
********

Among the friends working in Mumbai, I had close friendship with Sailendra, Radharaman and Ranjan during my college and university days. On reaching Mumbai on 9th, first I rang up Sailendra. He was in his office and seemed busy. He talked and suggested if I could drop in his home and told me how to go. I was put up in Odisha Bhavan in Navi Mumbai and his residence was somewhere in Dadar. I could go by taxi or catch the local train at Vasi. I told, I would try, but considering my schedule it was not possible. I stayed till 12th, but he did not remind me, perhaps, did not find time to talk to me till I left Mumbai.

I talked to Radharaman. He was also in his office and obviously busy. First he could not recognise me; he had not saved my number in his cell phone. While talking, he recognised aafter I self introduced, the phone went off and neither I nor he thought of reconnecting. On 11th he called me up. I was in a meeting. I told I would ring back during lunch. I rang up at 2 pm. His office was within two kms from Lower Parel where we had our meeting. He told that he would leave his office for home within ten minutes. It was Saturday, perhaps, he had half day off. I said we would meet next time I visit Mumbai, and switched off the phone.

I rang up Ranjan on 12th, the day I was to leave Mumbai for Cuttack. He responded to the call and seemed to have been peeved. I asked what he was doing. He replied he was sleeping. It was 8.45 am. I had already taken my breakfast. He invited me for lunch. But I was sorry for I had disturbed his Sunday morning sleep. I said, “Next time.” He switched off his cell phone and, perhaps, continued his interrupted sleep.

All the three friends are sincere and hard working. They work for banks and are successful in their profession and have also moved high in ranks in their respective banks. They have tight work schedule. They leave for office around seven or seven-thirty in the morning and reach home after nine in the night on the working days.
********

A few days back, poet Rajendra Kishore Panda had posted in Facebook the most common dying regrets, as recorded by Bronnie Ware in her book titled The Top Five Regrets of the Dying-A Life Transformed by the Dearly Departing. She was an Austrian nurse who had worked in palliative care, and had to spend with the patients during the last three to twelve weeks of their lives. The most common five dying regrets of her patients are
1.I wish I’d the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me
2.I wish I didn’t work so hard
3.I wish I’d the courage to express my feelings
4.I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends
5.I wish that I had let myself be happier

She concludes, “Life is a choice. It is your life. Choose consciously, choose wisely, choose honestly. Choose happiness”

I know I do not have choice; I shall have the same regrets at the time of my death. What’s about yours?
********

A Cup of Tea on Puri Beach

Sakhigopal is historically famous and religiously important, but a small semi- urban place. There were a few offices when I was there Sub Treasury Officer during 1992 to 1996. I did not have much work after first week of the month, after pensioners were paid and pay bills were passed. During the rest of the month I had on an average hardly thirty minutes’ work in a day. I spent the time reading daily newspapers, magazines and books. Sometimes I would start a book of two hundred to three hundred pages in the morning and finished reading before I went to bed in the night.

Somehow or other, I learnt to pass the working days, but Sundays and holidays were problem for me. I ate good hearty meals and slept. I added fat. One day in 1993 I found I weighed eighty two kilos. (Now after nearly twenty years I weigh seventy eight.) To pass time and avoid boredom, on holidays, mostly after lunch I went either to Bhubaneswar or to Puri. I participated in the old bus stand’s writers’ Khatti. (That Khatti still continues, some old participants continue to attend, many new members have joined.) The day I went to Puri, I would get down at the bus stand, walk to the sea beach, wander on the beach aimlessly and come back by the evening bus. Sometimes Prafulla Mohanty or Anup Dwivedi or both joined me. Prafull was then on study leave, doing his research for his Ph.D. Anup was an officer of State Bank India, Sakhigopal. He had rented a house in Puri, was staying with his family and daily commuting to his Branch. But most of the times I was alone strolling on the beach till evening.

One day while rambling on the beach we went up to Pentkata. Pentakat is a fisherman’s village, a large cluster of huts on the beach. Prafulla was with me. We found two foreign ladies sitting on sand and enjoying the soft afternoon sun, cool sea breeze and watching Pentakata urchins playing on the sand. One lady came to us and asked pointing to a couple fisherwomen doing some chores near their huts at a distance, “Do you speak English? Can you interpret them for us?”

We readily agreed. They were from Sweden.

The ladies queried the women on matters like how they felt like living on huts at the sea, how much they earned a day, whether they feared when their husbands went into the sea on the boat for fishing, what they wanted to see their children to be in future…. A few more women and children gathered. They asked questions to the children and the other women. They also took photographs and they paid ten rupees to each of the children present there. We worked as interpreters for both the ladies and the women and children.

They spent almost two hours with the fisherwomen and children of Pentkata. After they finished their interview, one of the two ladies, who I came to learn taught anthropology in a college, asked me, “How much would you take?”
“What for?” I asked
“You have worked as interpreter and spent almost two hours with us …” She replied.
“We don’t want; we have enjoyed your company. Thanks.” I said.
She looked surprised, and proposed, “If you don’t mind, have dinner with us. We are staying in a nearby hotel.” She could not relish that we should go unpaid for the time we had spent interpreting for them.
We were walking back towards Puri hotel. Last bus to Sakhigopal was at 8 PM. It was 5.30. I said, “No, thanks. I have to catch the bus to go to my place of work where I also reside.”
Then the lady said, “Let’s have tea. Actually we have enjoyed your company as well as your talk. We can spend some time more before you leave for your place of work.”
We could not decline. We saw a tea vendor walking and selling tea in the beach. Prafulla called him. The vendor served us tea. When asked the price, he said, “Forty rupees.”
“What?” Prafulla exclaimed. Then he turned to Odia and with typical Puri style of speaking and accent charged him for the exorbitant price of the tea.
The vendor, aged about twenty, smiled and said in Odia, “Sir, the cost of tea is rupees two for an Odia, rupees five for a Bengli or non Odias and rupees ten for white skinned foreigners. I could not conceive you two could be Odias. I thought you might be from South India accompanying the white skinned ladies.”

He mistook us, often it happens with me, because of my dark skin, and our speaking in English with the ladies.
“Is there any difference in quality?” I asked.
“No, the quality remains the same.”

“Take eight.” Prafulla commanded. But the vendor entreated, “Please, make it to twenty.”

The Swedish ladies could not understand what we were discussing. She asked,“What happened? How much I have to pay?”
“Twenty.” The vendor now said.
The lady could not believe how the price was reduced to half so suddenly and asked again, “How much?”
“Twenty.” Prafulla pitied the vendor.

The ladies looked Prafulla with admiring eyes and paid the vendor.
The vendor left the place with a look full of gratitude for Prafulla.
*********

Where God Comes As Witness

I was elated when I was transferred to Satyabadi as Sub Treasury Officer in 1992.

Satyabadi that is Sakhigopal is a historically famous and religiously important place. It is believed that pilgrimage to Puri, the abode of Lord Jagannath is not complete without a visit to Sakhigopal. The name Sakhigopal is derived from a legend in which it is told Lord Gopal has come to be a sakhi (witness) for a poor Brahmin. The story runs like this:

Two Brahmins went on a pilgrimage. At Brundaban the old Brahmin fell seriously ill. The young Brahmin nursed him. The Brahmin recovered, and pleased with the service of the young Brahmin, promised to give his daughter in marriage with him on their return to village. After their return, the old Brahmin changed his mind as the young man was of a lower caste Brahmin. He denied to have made any promise. The young Brahmin went to Lord Gopal who obliged him and came from Brundaban to be a witness.

At Satyabadi, Utkalmani Gopabandhu had started his famous school in 1909. When the house of the school was burnt, the classes were run in the nearby grove of chhuriana and bakul. That is why the school was known as Satyabadi Bana Vidyalaya (Satyabadi Garden School). The school was set up with a noble intention of inculcating national spirit and humanitarianism in the students. The school was justifiably called a ‘man manufacturing factory’. The teachers of the school included Neelkanth Dash, MA in Philosophy, Krupasindhu Misra, MA in History and Godavarish Misra, M A in Economics. They had forsaken allurement of government or any kind of high salaried jobs for an ascetic life of teachers. All the teachers were dedicated and learned. Neelakanth along with Acharya Harihar, another teacher of the School had taken a vow with Gopabandhu on the bank of river Bhargavi that they would work to see a better world at the time of their death than what they had seen at the time of their birth. They were not only great teachers, but also social reformers, litterateurs and freedom fighters.

My euphoria gave way to disappointment soon after I joined.

I had a notion that the place would be nice; the people would be sophisticated and progressive in outlook. But contrary to my belief, I found the place just like any other place, nothing special or different, the people rather proud, orthodox, and caste conscious. On the first day in the office, three-four persons who came to give me curtsey call asked my caste. Disgusted, I replied to one, “How does my caste relate to my official functions?”

In the hotels you had to wash your own dishes if you took tiffin or meals. I could not find a hospitable house to take on rent to stay with my family. All of my predecessors were either commuting from Bhubaneswar or Puri or from Cuttack. (My successors till today, what I learn also do the same). But I decided to stay there. I managed to get a house; it was of mud wall and asbestos roofed. There was no piped water supply. We had to drag water from a well that was inside a small courtyard of the house I lived in. One had to be careful against mosquitoes and snakes. One day, within first week of my stay there, I found a snake, a king cobra, in the office under my table; another day my wife discovered a snake in the kitchen. The climate was humid, and added to it, there were frequent power cuts.

A Brahmin used to meet me in the office. He was normally clad in dhoti. He did not wear a shirt; he used a dhoti chadar to cover the upper part of the body. He would bless me by reciting a Sanskrit sloka, and take one rupee that I offered in return.
One day I was in the office just gossiping with my staff after our day’s work was over. The Brahmin came, blessed me and also took the one rupee I was in the habit of giving. One staff member said, “Why are you offering him money? I was about to tell …he is a retired Sanskrit teacher, taking pension.”
This information surprised me. I had mistaken him to be a poor temple priest, begging by way of reciting slokas. I said, “How could he accept? I was mistaken, but he should have declined, and told me his true identity.”
Another staff member who happened to be incidentally a Brahmin said, “Sir, if a jajaman offers something, a Brahmin cannot decline. If he declines, it would be harmful for the jajaman.”
I did not know about this sort of Brahmin-Jajaman relation. But next time when the Brahmin came and blessed me by reciting a sloka I did not offer him the one rupee. He waited for some moments, but did not ask for the rupee, which he never did, and went away. But after that day he had not come to bless me.

I wanted a transfer, but could not as I was, and still am shy of approaching anyone for anything personal. But as days passed by I got used to the conditions, the mosquitoes and snakes, the people and the place. And after some days I found I had started liking the place. I liked to sit on the veranda of the house where I lived and watched bullock carts carrying loads of coconut to the market. I waited for anla nabami, the day people thronged to have a darshan of Goddess Radha’s feet in the temple. I loved to watch the queue of the devotees snaking in front of my house for the darshan of the feet. I fell in love with the special dishes of dalema, besar or mohura, the way these dishes were prepared in the locality. The pandas (temple priests) loved me and my children. They never forgot to give us special prasad offered to the God on special occasions. I stayed in Sakhigopal for more than four years till August 1996. When I was transferred I was given a teary farewell by the pensioner-friends, and I left the place with a heavy heart.

I lovingly treasure the memory of Sakhigopal and watch avidly even today any news concerning Sakhigopal including Silpa Shetty getting kissed by a priest in the temple precincts.
####

PIPLI Live

Pipli’s gang rape case has shocked the people. The newspapers have front page headlines, TV channels have panel discussions. There are demonstrations by the opposition parties, road blockades, students’ agitations, protests by the journalists and intellectuals. The OIC, who allegedly did not act upon the FIR, has been suspended, judicial inquiry has been ordered, the Minister of Agriculture, who represents Pipli Assembly constituency, has resigned. The protestors demanded more. The OIC is dismissed, the SP is transferred. Still the opposition is not satisfied. They demand the case should be handed over to the CBI, and the Chief Minister himself should resign.

The state, it seems, has woken up from its deep slumber.

On 13th January 2008, two anti-socials of Arjungoda village of Pipli Assembly constituency molested two minor girls. FIR was lodged. The police did not take action. The accused got advance bail from the High Court. One of the two girls could not withstand humiliation. She committed suicide. The other was the only witness to the outrage.
The accused, after they had obtained bail, intimidated the girl and her father. They threatened them to withdraw the case or face the consequence. On 28th November 2011, the girl was found lying in a field complete naked and unconscious. The girl was raped and attempt had been made to murder her, to silence her for ever.
Her father went to the police station. The OIC did not accept the FIR as it was, but allegedly forced to change its contents. He did not take action. The victim was taken to hospital, but was not attended. Her father moved from pillar to post, but was not listened. Forty-two days passed - the victim, already in coma, rotted without medical attention- till 9th January 2012 the media highlighted and Human Rights’ Commission intervened, the victim was given neither medical attention nor any action taken against the culprits. The victim is speechless, she is still in coma.

Can we claim we do live in a civilised society?

Some say it is election time. The heat and dust generated now will die down after the voters cast their ballots in the panchayat elections. They may be cynics. Maybe the girl would recover and be able to speak again. Maybe the culprits would be punished.

But this is time one should ponder.

How could the people be so insensitive? Arjungoda is not a metropolitan city. Unlike in the city, there exists a bhaichara, a ‘we feeling’ among the villagers. The people in village have lived together for generations. Their fathers and grandfathers have also lived together, and living together creates a bond, a good neighbourly feeling, at least, there is caste affiliation. If some misfortune happens to a person, his neighbours, his caste people, his friends in the village come forward to his rescue, to his support at the time of need.

How could a person, a helpless father was left alone to fight his own battle for more than forty days until the media noticed it? Where is that bhaichara the village was so proud of?
xxxxxxxxx

KHATTI

There is no exact English word for Khatti. In Gopal Chandra Praharaj's Purnachandra Bhasakosh, Khatti is described as a den or rendezvous for drinkers and smokers i.e. those who take intoxicating drugs. Purnachandra Bhasakosh was compiled in the early thirties of the last century. The meaning of the word has changed over the years. The recent dictionary meaning of the word is adda, only a meeting place, a rendezvous. There is no reference to drinkers or smokers.

But Khatti is more than a meeting place. Khatti in Odia is equivalent to the word adda of Bengli language. Adda, as described in Wikipedia, is a form of intellectual exchange among members, who are originally of the same socio-economic strata. It is most popular among the youths belonging to the so-called ‘middle class intelligentsia’.

But this is also not wholly true. There is intellectual exchange provided the persons meeting in a khatti/adda belong to an intellectual group. The kind of discussion or exchange of views depends upon the persons meeting in a Khatti.

Khatti meets normally before a tea stall with paan/cigarette shop nearby, either in the morning or in the evening or both in the morning and evening. Discussion goes on over cups of tea and smoking/chewing paan by the participating members. Subject matter of the Khatti varies; of course, it depends on the kind of Khatti members. The subject may be music, literature, sports, politics, economy or anything, especially the event which is in news at the present or the members’ fond subject. The discussion in a khatti is not always intellectual, though there may be an intellectual tinge in the views expressed by a member. It ranges from the affair/elopement of a girl of the locality to the love affair of the French president, displacement problem of Kalinganagar to famines of Sudan/Ethiopia, gang war of Kendrapara to fall of dictators in Egypt or Libya or prospects of BJD candidates in the ensuing Panchayat elections to chances of Republican candidate in the next American presidential election.

The Khatti at Kisu paan shop, Buxi Bazaar, Cuttack has already found its due place in literature and memoirs of some great persons. It is the place where the legendary Akshaya Mohanty used to sit. The other members who attended the Khatti are lyricst-writer Debdas Chhotray, poet Haraprasad Dash, singer Prafulla Kar, etc. It is said Akshaya sang there the song he composed and others including Kisu listened. Everybody was free to give their opinion which Akshaya gave importance, and modified his composition if he found the suggestions worthwhile. He fine-tuned his composition on the basis of the inputs at the Khatti. Mostly singers, composers, lyricist, writers assembled in this Kisu paan shop . Most of the members of the then Khatti at KIsu’s are all great persons now in the field of music and literature.

I sincerely attended a Khatti after I had completed my M A and before I got a permanent job. All of my friends attending the Khatti were like me, educated unemployed youths. Our Khatti met at Gada paan shop, Rupali Chhak, Bhubaneswar. We were of different educational background. I had done my MA in History, Bimal was MA in English Literature, Goutam Jena, a published poet by that time was MA in Odia, Ashok and Brahmanand were M A in Psychology, Jadu was MA in Economics, Jayakrishna, J K in short, was M Sc in Zoology. After even twenty five years Gada still remembers us and our taste and habit. Whenever I go to Bhubaneswar and find time I try to meet him. He offers me paan, now free of cost, and tells me about other friends if he had happened to meet them or they had met him, and enquired about others from me, purposefully to pass on the news to other of the old Khatti.

I have been attending a Khatti since I came to Cuttack on transfer fourteen years back. Though the Khatti sits every day at Sarat’s tea stall near Jobra fish market, I cannot attend every day. But I make it a point to attend it on Sundays and other holidays. Accordingly, I schedule my programme. If I have any work, I try to schedule it in a way not to miss the Khatti in the morning. Other members also do likewise, especially for holidays. Some of the regular members of this Khatti are: Saroj Ranjan Mohanty, poet, and editor of Jhankar. Prafulla Mohanty, a retired Section officer, but an actor. Mr Mohanty has acted in more than three hundred dramas and has been appreciated for his performance. A recognised artiste of AIR, he gives voice in many radio plays. Ajay Barik is the president of Cuttack Bus Owners’ Association. He also dabbles in politics. Chagla is a Municipality Tax Collector. Cuttack, its geography and important persons of the City and the major events that take place in the City are on his fingertips. Mana sells fish in the nearby market, but he is a cricket buff. Sometimes other persons such as writers, professors, and poets come as many who know Saroj Ranjan know also at this time he is available in the Khatti. So also the friends of other regulars. Discussion in the Khatti goes on literature, language, sports, politics, economy, and what not?

Sarat serves tea and does not bother about payment. He enjoys the company and the discourse whether he understands it or not.
xxxxxx

Cruel December and Kind People

While waiting for Lal Quilla Express, which was running late by five hours, at Patna Railway Station in biting cold, it dawned on me that December had been unkind to me most of the times when I made a travel in the month.
On December 17, we checked out of the hotel, visited a few historical places in Patna and came to the airport to catch our flight at 12.20 PM. But after one and half hours waiting in the airport, it was declared our flights had been cancelled.
With much difficulty we were fortunate enough to arrange two tickets in the ordinary sleeper class. Santosh Sinha, the officer of Bihar Commercial Tax Department arranged the tickets using his connections. The scheduled time of arrival of the train at Patna was 7.35 PM, but it reached the station at 12.45 AM i.e. exactly by 5 hours and 10 minutes late. The temperature at Patna on that day was below 6 degree Celsius. That day and also the day before, there was thick fog and the sun was not visible. We were not mentally and physically prepared to travel by second class sleeper. To protect myself from cold I purchased a khadi chadar. I had telephoned a friend of Kolkata to book tickets in Coromandal Express to come from Howarha to Cuttack. He booked two wait-listed tickets, which could not be confirmed.
Three stations behind Kolkata we found the way the train was running late we could not reach on time at Howarha to catch Coromandal, scheduled to depart at 2.50 PM. We got down and rushed to Howarha by a taxi and just reached a few minutes earlier to catch Coromandal. We travelled six hours sitting, sharing the seats with our noble co-passengers by their mercy and goodness.
I have caught cold, glands of my neck have inflamed and I am still suffering, not fully recovered till the time of writing this blog.

********

In 1982, I was travelling in the month of December by Neelachal Express from Delhi to Bhubaneswar. I was a student. I had one blanket, one bed spread and, perhaps, the arrogance of youth to brave the winter.
My co-passengers were a Sikh family. They were eight, but they had six confirmed berths. They were going to Howarha to attend a marriage of a relation. The family included a grown up daughter, perhaps studying in a college. I had noticed her reading an English novel during the day sitting on the side seat.
In the evening they took their dinner they had brought with them, spread their bed on the floor of the compartment and two of them slept on the floor. Others slept on the berths. They prepared the bed in such a way as if they were at home, and in fact, they created a home like condition in the running train.
I slept on the side lower berth allotted to me.
In the night, at around 1 AM I woke up trembling. The train was running at its highest speed in Bihar region. The cold was unbearable, my teeth were clattering. The blanket and the bed spread were no help against the severe cold. Since I had the lower side berth, cold wind coming through the gap of the window was also hitting my body. I desperately wanted a cup of hot tea, but at that hour, it was just impossible to get. I thought I might collapse, die of cold.
The college going girl noticed my plight. She woke up an old man, perhaps her grandfather, travelling with them, and told something. The old sardarji lent me a quilt and told me to spread the blanket and the bed spread on the berth and sleep wrapping up the body with the quilt. I did as he instructed and could sleep a few hours in the night.

********.

In December, 2010, I had been to New Delhi for training on GST. Every day in the morning I used to take tea with Pradeep, who had also gone for the same training, in his room. The training was over on Friday. Our flight was on Saturday in the evening. We were in a relaxed mood. As usual on Saturday in the morning I took tea with him and stood up to come to my room. Suddenly I felt head reeling, everything looked black, and to save myself from falling down, I rested my right hand on the wall. But my hand hit the glass painting fixed to the wall. It broke, the glass pieces fell one by one on my hand. I had a deep cut on the back of my palm, which bled profusely. Pradeep took me immediately to Safdarjang Hospital and I had as many as thirteen stiches on my palm in that chilly December morning.
The wound took more than a month to heal, the scar remains.

********

In 2000, in the month of December I had been to Bangalore for training on VAT organised by NIPFP in collaboration with Karnatak Commercial Tax Department. I had booked tickets a fortnight in advance. I had confirmed tickets to go to Bangalore, but my tickets were wait-listed for my return journey from Chennai to Cuttack. I thought the tickets would be confirmed within twenty days by the time I would return after the training was over. I enjoyed the training with the officers of other states. In the afternoon every day we went for sight-seeing in a vehicle provided by the CTD, Karnatak.
My travails began when I started for my return journey. I sat on the seat allotted to me in Brundaban Express that came from Bangalore to Chennai. A person came and claimed that that seat was also allotted to him. He also produced the ticket issued to him bearing the same number of the seat . However, the Train Ticket Inspector (TTI) intervened and prevailed upon him not to insist for the seat I was occupying as it was a mistake committed by the Railway Authorities in allotting the same seat to two persons. He promised him that he would arrange another seat for him, but he failed as there was no vacancy. The other person was gentle enough not to demand the seat and travelled standing the whole six hours.
My wait-listed ticket booked from Chennai to Cuttack could not be confirmed. The journey from Chennai to Cuttack was more than thirty hours. I saw no way to get the ticket confirmed, and it was also too difficult to travel thirty hours in general compartment without a reserved berth. I got panicky. I approached a police officer sitting in a cabin in the platform with a board ‘May I help you?’ I said to him. “I am a government officer. Had come for a training. Have already stayed a week and my wallet is almost empty. I cannot stay a night at Chennai nor also do I have a certainty that I would get a confirmed ticket tomorrow. Could you help in any way?”
He looked at me, from my head to toes, thought for some moments, and indicating a person said, “Go and tell your problem to that person and say, I have sent you.”
I went to the person he indicated and told him what he had told me to tell. That person, indicating a compartment, said, “Go to that compartment, sit there and tell the TTI that I have sent you.”
I went to the compartment and sat on a seat. The train started and took speed. After about half an hour a TTI came. I told hm. He did not enquire, allotted me a berth. I heaved a sigh of relief.
I did not know their arrangement, how they passed on information . They also did not charge any extra fee (i.e. any bribe).

********.

I have similar experiences in the months of December of some other years. What is the moral? Should I avoid any travel in the month of December in future?
********.