Category: Archive

Monolina Bhattacharyya

Sei Somoy…those days or those times! Yes, those were the days. Most of us who have gone beyond “those days” live in a mental capsule where time has become frozen memory. We re-live, cherish, reminisce, and remember…those days… in our gatherings in a plush living room in north America over a glass of wine or scotch. Gone are the carefree days, as we grapple with the realities of moving on, fulfilling our aspirations, living the dream, and yet we want those days, sei somoi, back. We all live in the present, but we carry a part of our past selves with us, which define our identity and history and help us understand who we are today.

Recently, I connected over WhatsApp with an old classmate of mine from Jadavpur University, lost for almost a quarter of a century. Beyond a few exchanges of information about ourselves, our families and our work, we immediately reverted back to our old identities as buddies, as if we were chatting inside the classroom or in the hallway. And then there was remembering our friends and what we used to do…where we used to hang out…

My friend: তুই কিন্তু একদম একই রকম আছিস।

Me: তুই ও। তোর গলাটা একদম পাল্টায়নি।

Friend: আচ্ছা মিলনদার ক্যান্টিনের সেই ঢপের কথা মনে আছে?

Me: Yes. Of course.

A flood of JU memories swept through my mind, taking me back to my graduate school days.

Milandar Canteen. Dhoper Chop…this inimitable, legendary item on the menu still came out of the same kitchen in 2012 when I went back to visit campus and met up with friends at none other than Milandar Canteen. Where we meet was not even a question. The answer would be instant, simple, doubtless. I think this is the biggest legacy that Milanda will leave for our university. And amidst the gamut of food items on the menu now, it is the Dhoper Chop that has remained a must-have after all these years.

As my friend and I talked, in a flare my mind wandered back to Milandar Canteen, the quintessential identity of Jadavpur University campus. Shuddering, yet everlasting memories. A dingy hole in the wall, something beyond my young mind’s imagination or experience (I was nurtured in a protective environment), the sultry air inside thick with smoke, high pitched voices of the young and the restless, tingling teacups, calling out of orders, and of course the cutlets and chops being relished notwithstanding that they were fried in unhealthy oil on a greasy wok or being handled with bare fingers…Milandar Canteen would be the converging place of all debates, discussions and dates, from politics to people, academics to movies, from the most sensible to the utter nonsense…and get etched in the memories of all who attended Jadavpur University and those who came to visit it. The hierarchy between scholars and students disappeared, even if for a few moments of mingling over grubby teacups. It was where the ‘phakibaj” or the class drop-outs would hide from being caught by their professors. In the pre-internet or fancy text messaging days Milandar Canteen was the ultimate place to hang out on campus, to build long lasting human relationships, face to face, heart to heart.

Milanda also became a legend for the creation of his Dhoper Chop. Chop is a Bengali specialty snack. Vegetable chop, Macher (fish) chop, mutton chop…alright…but Dhoper Chop? In colloquial Bengali youth language, dhop is a word that encompasses falsehood: lie, incorrect, unreal, fake. Anything to that effect. And yet there is an element of harmless and zestful simplicity in which that lie is perceived or received. How could a chop be any one of these? Milanda has explained to us that once asked by students to create “something” of a chop of his choice, he simply put potatoes, vegetables and/or meat, wrapped in bread and deep fried…and viola! A chop was born. Most ordinary, and yet, extraordinary! It was the “something”-ness of the chop that made it unique and unforgettable.

Milandar Canteen was a complete package. A package of good times in an unremarkable place where we built memories. Where dreams were dreamt. Where aspirations were born. Ideas were cultivated. Where love blossomed. And above all, where hunger was met, and the palate satiated.

I have lived in the western world for two decades now, perhaps even a tad bit longer. I have met and mingled with several Jadavpur-ians in north America coming from different disciplines, different graduating years, perhaps even different generations. Milandar Canteen has come up over and over again as the focal memory of college days. Even those who did not attend school at the University knew about it and its infamous Dhoper Chop. Recently, a random search on the internet took me to a listing of suggested food joints in Kolkata along with a listing of their specialities. And guess what! There is the Dhoper Chop from Milandar Canteen. And it is on Tripadvisor! Milanda, who has greyed his hair catering Dhoper Chop among other items on his menu to hungry students on low budget for over forty years, is probably unaware of his worldwide publicity. The affection with which he catered to students in turn generated a fondness for him that led them to keep his legacy alive.

Much has changed on campus over the years. There are beautiful patches of gardens with signs to keep them clean, buildings are neatly painted, asphalt on the paths smoothly laid, litter is well controlled; a massive fibreglass group sculpture adorns the front yard of the Central Library, the old rickety bridge connecting the Arts Faculty with the Science and Engineering has been repaired and made pretty (I have been told movies are shot on this bridge), an old decrepit building beside one of the arts building has now been converted into a bookstore; the algae-ridden jheel looked much cleaner, perhaps a tad bit romance-inducing for young lovebirds. Even Milandar Canteen was a cleaner, refreshed place, grown in space and time, just like Milanda himself. The teeming students clustered in friendly cacophony as usual, some agitatedly talking on their cell phones or texting messages. The energy and positive changes of the place were heartwarming no doubt, indicating that the University has moved on with the times despite some familiar facets still standing as they did then. They evoked a jarring nostalgia at the same time, and a chilling fear of the passing of time at what seemed to be an unexpected rapid pace.

I took off from the university premise yet again, in appreciation, in denial, and in apprehension of the ageing progression that was to greet me yet again in my next visit down the years, when Milanda will have added on a few more strands of grey hair, and a few more wrinkles on his face as he smiles in affection for his ever flowing clientele.

                                                                                                                                Illustration: By Debojyoti Mahapatra

Aindrila Chatterjee

Working in a business school I come across quite a few management jargons in daily life. One such term is value creation. The definition of value creation says it is the performance of actions that increase the worth of goods, services or even a business. Many business operators now focus on value creation both in the context of creating better value for customers purchasing its products and services, as well as for shareholders in the business who want to see their stake appreciate in value. Such definitions are correct but they really rest in the mind and not in the heart where value truly lies. I would tend to argue that what you value most, lies close to your heart: family, friendship, love, etc. I somehow found it difficult to associate value with business till the following incident occurred.

My son had been complaining of severe headache for some time. Since the regular tit bits and homely advices did not seem to yield any results, I thought of taking him to a doctor. I looked up at the nearby clinic and found they had a child specialist. He was quite an elderly doctor and his mere presence seemed to add a comforting effect. He checked my son and said he seems to have sinus and needs to be referred to an ENT specialist. Since the ENT was not available till the evening and my son was in severe pain, he wrote a prescription for immediate relief but said we had to see an ENT at the earliest. As we were about to leave the room after thanking him, he asked us to wait, called the person at the reception and asked him to refund his fees since he was referring the patient to another doctor.

The receptionist tried to say that was difficult, to which the doctor said, ‘Please find out a way and get it done’. To my thankful and surprised look, he simply said, ‘It is my duty’. I was pleasantly surprised at how his traditional value of serving mankind transcended the orthodoxies of the system and created value for me. Today, I have an unshakable faith in him and will never have any second thoughts about taking my children to visit him. I am thus increasing the clinic’s revenue.

In today’s highly money oriented, competitive world, we are on the verge of losing many of our traditional values. However, the basic values of humanity are still valued at heart. Following them will surely create value in the business world too. The old doctor, to me, was an exemplar of true value creation. I am sure there are many such people. Wish we come across more of them in our daily lives as well as practice and create such values ourselves.

Shipra Chaudhury

I believe in a whole lot of things – the serenity of the rising sun, the scorching rays of the mid-day sun, and finally the soothing hues of the sinking sun.

I believe in the hassle-free simper of a new-born baby, the naughty and boisterous laughter of a young teenager, and finally the tooth-less grin of an old man.

I believe in the strength of the mighty Himalayas, the roaring waves of the Indian Ocean and the vast expanse of the tropical rain forest.

I believe in the teeming Indian population, the numerous political problems of the country and its various solutions provided!

In other words, I believe in my roots!

Roots are actually the anchor of our life, the culture, tradition, inheritance of our entire being. No matter how far we are from our roots, how assimilated we are in a different cultural world, how engrossed we are in our surrounding foreign ambiance—we can never be broken free from the shackles of our roots.

Having lived in Toronto, Canada for the past decade has really changed me a lot. I have led a happy and fulfilling life here, seen my children grow up into positive personalities and got amazed at what the country has to offer. The smell of pani-puri at a road-side snack-bar at Gerrard Street, also known as ‘Little India,’ the many Indian channels keeping us abreast of recent news and developments, the video and cinema halls housing an immense collection of Bollywood movies, the multicultural ethnicity of a community where people of all caste, creed or rank can grow equally, schools and universities that boasts of producing capable and competent individualities — all have never made me feel away from my basic nature.

In other words, Toronto, an immigrant magnet that attracts tens of thousands from around the globe has been “a home, away from home.” It has not uprooted me, but implanted in me the feelings of a true citizen, of an Indian citizen rooted in the Canadian soil.

                                                                                               Koyal Roy

“Why do you want to find a husband for me, when what I need is a wife?”

I turn around, to see my twenty-seven year old daughter, a pretty picture in a pastel t-shirt and jeans, sitting cross legged on my aged sofa that was once green. She is innocently devouring a plateful of mangoes, apparently oblivious that her question has sent my head reeling.

“What do you mean, you need a wife? Are you…you know…?” I stop, not quite knowing how to phrase it. After all, we’ve always wanted to be modern parents, dreading being called ‘old fashioned’ by our kids. This, however, is a little out of my syllabus.

“Uff, Ma, how one-track mind you oldies have ! Of course I am not, you know that. Though if I were, I have no doubt Dad and you would go bonkers…”, she collapses on the sofa, a wicked grin pasted on her mango juice stained face, probably regretting a missed opportunity to drive her “oldie” parents crazy.

“So, then, what exactly do you mean?”, I am curious now, curious enough to ignore the “oldie” jibe.

“Well, I mean – look at Dad and you. You have a husband, dad has a wife. It’s obvious who got the better bargain.”

“Uh…ok, I’ve heard you say this before, so I’ll take it as a compliment. But then, go on…”

“See, from the day you married him, you became his governess, cook, housekeeper…all rolled into one. Even when you got a job, you continued to cook for him, wash his clothes, ensured the house was in order, watered plants, did puja, called relatives, booked tickets…uff, even enumerating the stuff you did exhausts me!”

“Oh, ok…now I see what you’re getting at. But then, that was the first couple of years. Then your brother came along, then you…”

“Yes, and that’s when you upped the ante. You became a superwoman. Yes, you had a cook, a maid and we had a nanny, but to your other skills you added managing help and bringing up kids. I still remember how you would test us on our English, decide the menu for the day, manage calls from work, and through all this, remember to send Pishi flowers on her birthday….”

By this time, my eyes have stinging feeling, and my throat is constricted, so I don’t speak.

“However, I am so not like you. I don’t think I have the energy or the will to do all this over and above what I do at work. So hence, I’ve decided, I’ll have a wife instead, thank you very much…”

“But Ira, the world has changed since I married your dad. Men help around the house almost as much as women nowadays…”

“Really?Give me an example…”

“Hmmm…uuuhhh…what about Anu’s son?,” I say, bringing up my favourite example. “Anu says he does everything, even cleaning his son’s susu and potty”

“Yes Ma, and I’ve heard Anu Mashi criticizing him for being hen-pecked even as she praises him to the skies, like typical Bong moms. Thinking her son is a gift to womankind…”

I roll my eyes.

“There you go again, with the prejudices of your generation. Why, I never praise your Dada, although he really is such a sweet boy”, my eyes light up with a smile as I recall Dodo, my firstborn and apple of my eye, now a doctor in faraway Manhattan.

“Really? Just the other day you were saying whoever marries Dada will be the luckiest being on earth, although all he does around the house is lounge in his pajamas, surf TV channels and read. Strangely, Dad does the same, but I’ve never heard you call yourself lucky…”

She winks, now licking the empty plate clean. Really, this girl is such a slob.

“Ira, now you’re being unreasonable. You know how busy Dodo is, with his work and studying, so what if he does relax at home? That’s what a house is for. And please, go and wash your face and hands…next I know, there ’ll be mango stains all over the sofa.”

She complies, but then rushes back to me, touches my cheek and says, ”Really? If a house is for rest, how come I’ve never seen you relax? Dad would come home, change, and fix himself in front of the TV, occasionally speaking to us. But you would barely give yourself time for a cup of tea, even after a hard day at work.”

“People always seem to expect that the wife will take care of everything. Even if she works, or she doesn’t, the expectations are clear. Even you Ma, with all your education, know you won’t expect Dada to do the same things as his wife.”

“So anyway, instead of trying to change the definition of a wife, which is too much of an effort, why don’t women start a movement called “We want wives”? This has so many benefits-first, we get taken care of, same as men, next if no one marries men, the market will be skewed and people will think twice before they kill baby girls. Eventually more women will realize they don’t want to be “wives” in the traditional sense, and maybe stop bringing up men who’ve cause this tradition to persist.”

“But what about children? What about continuing our line?” I am into this hypothetical extreme world, almost as if it was real.

“Ma, both you and I know, marriage is neither a necessary nor a sufficient condition for children”, she stops, looking at the outraged expression on my face. ”Besides, even the line that you want to continue, is your husband’s. Your progeny will bear your husband’s name, although if you were to count the number of sleepless nights you spent vis a vis Dad…”

“I never knew you were such a feminist”, I say, really thinking, how little we know our children.

“Every woman is a feminist by virtue of her being a woman. Or should be, if she isn’t. “

“Also, think about it- I am actually doing you and Dad a favour, making your job easier. aren’t there more eligible women than men on this planet? Do you know, my theory is, that’s the reason why women fast for good husbands…after all, they’re a rare commodity.”

She finishes, kisses my cheek, and goes out into the garden, even as a voice that I’ve known so well for over thirty-five years calls from the study “ কই গো , এক গ্লাস জল দিয়ে যাও আমায়…”

                                                                                                                                                      Illustration by Aditi Chakraborty

Soumalya Chakraborty

There’s nothing like a place full of life which suddenly changes to personify death itself.

The ever-bustling market presented such a picture this morning. The air was thick with smoke which bore the stench of death and carried the helpless wailing of humanity far and wide. Posters on the wall advertising the latest cinematic release were half burnt. Crumbling walls in desperate need of paint were splashed with a fresh coat of blood as victims of the bomb blast lay strewn around like discarded leaves. Some attempted to move, only to find the limbs which aid movement were gone. Some sat and stared in a daze, too stunned to assess their injuries, trying to come to terms with the tragedy that was forced upon so many lives.

Ambulances sped in and screeched to a halt. Medics ran around attending to people and stretcher-bearers carried victims away. The police kept a close watch on proceedings and were busy keeping onlookers from interrupting the rescue work.

It was over in a few hours. The injured were ferried away to the nearest hospital, the dead, packed like cattle were transported to mortuaries where they would be disposed of post identification. Free of official obstacles, residents entered the market to survey the damages to their livelihood.

In this suburb of Karachi, blasts appeared an eventuality which many were prepared for. Having seen a number of them over the years for reasons best known to the messengers of death who perpetrated them, a resident of this decrepit locality had learnt to say an extra prayer whenever it occurred, to thank the lord for sparing his/her life and carry on with business till the next one came along. Life teaches us that it always comes with a full-stop. However, to these residents, it also taught that the full stop could be placed just as a sentence was beginning or in the middle of it, cutting it off abruptly.

Meanwhile, 9-year-old Arif wandered through the market looking at the wares strewn around. His dad ran a shoe repairing shop which had managed to evade the impact of the blast. With his parents helping others overcome the disaster, Arif had set out to check on his friends and their families.

A mannequin suddenly caught his attention. It was that of a magician wearing a colorful robe and felt hat, brandishing his wand. Amidst all the burnt, trampled-upon and broken goods, the mannequin appeared brand new. The magician’s winning smile defied the pall of gloom, his sparkling eyes stared straight at Arif.

That evening as Arif and his family said their prayers and readied themselves for bed, the magician stood on a bedside table, close to Arif. His parents were initially apprehensive about bringing it home but preferred to say nothing as they hoped it would cheer their son up on a day when he learnt that three of his friends would no longer be with him at school and in the playground.

It appeared to be a dream when Arif heard his name being called in the middle of the night. However, the persistence of the voice woke him up to the fact that it was not. Arif looked around but there was nobody in sight. His parents were fast asleep beside him. Their faint snoring coupled with the crickets outside were the only things he could hear for a few minutes.

And then it sounded again, “Arif”

It was a deep, rich voice, yet not loud. To Arif, it appeared that it was meant for his ears only. The direction of it made him look at the bedside table and he gasped!

The magician was standing in his usual pose, however, the magic wand was no longer pointing upwards. It was directed at him!

“Arif”, said the magician. “Don’t be scared. I have something very important to show you”

“You can talk!” exclaimed Arif. “Like one of those rich men’s’ toys”.

“Hey, I am a magician, remember? Now extend your hand”

Arif did as he was told. The magician tapped his palm with his wand and instantly a view of a glorious place appeared before him. A majestic vista of tall, snow-clad mountains, pine trees, shepherds taking sheep and mountain goats for a stroll and streams brimming with cool, clear water.

Arif smiled. For the first time that day.

“Where is this place?”, he demanded.

“In this country”, smiled the magician. “Far away from where we are now”

And thus it continued. Every night, after Arif’s parents fell asleep, the magician would show him something new of the beautiful place. The trees, the flowers, the way to get there. After tiring days involving school, housework and helping his father at his shop, the nocturnal sojourns were a refreshing release for the little boy who had hardly been anywhere beyond the boundaries of his town. To him, the existence of such a place was a dream come true.

Then came a night which changed it all.

The magician appeared disturbed that night. He was tapping on Arif’s palm with his wand as usual but could not get the vision to appear.

“What’s wrong, Daanish?”, asked Arif. The knowledge he gained from his toy reflected in his choice of a name for it.

“We are in great danger, Arif”, said Daanish, the magician. “I can’t show you what you want to see as another vision is suppressing it. I didn’t want to reveal this but now I am afraid I must.”

“What is it”, said Arif. “What were you trying to hide?”

“The events which led to you finding me in the market. Look!”

Daanish tapped Arif’s hand with his wand. Instead of the paradise he was accustomed to seeing, a view of the market appeared before him”

“The market looks different! Majid uncle’s shop was destroyed in the blast. He and his family were killed.”, exclaimed Arif.

“This is the day of the blast” said Daanish in a grave voice.

Arif looked on as a girl, roughly of the same age as him, entered a toy shop with his father. Looking around in anticipation, her eyes gradually settled on something.

“See something you like beta?”, asked her father, smiling fondly at her.

“Umar bhai”, the shopkeeper greeted him. “Buying something for your daughter?”

“Yes. She came first in her class at the annual exams. I promised her a gift if she did well”

“Masha’Allah!” exclaimed the shopkeeper. “Your daughter will make you proud one day. I will give you a discount on whatever she chooses to have”

“That’s what I want”, the little girl said. She was pointing at a mannequin of a magician, wearing a colorful robe and a felt hat. His cheerful smile gave him a debonair look.

Wrapping the toy in a parcel, father and daughter were ready to leave when the shopkeeper picked up another packet.

“Umar bhai, would you be so kind as to take this parcel and drop it in the post box across the street? My assistant is absent today and I can’t leave the shop in the middle of a busy day such as this. It’s a toy ordered by my brother-in-law for his niece.”

“Certainly”, smiled Umar. Clutching the parcel in one hand, he held his daughter’s hand in the other as he left. The little girl appeared super excited. Walking with a spring in her step.

As they left his shop and mingled in the crowd, the shopkeeper picked up a device which resembled a remote control. He watched intently as father and daughter approached the center of the market which was the most crowded.

Then he pressed the button.

A deafening sound made Arif block his ears with both hands, a ball of fire erupted from the centre of the market as a shockwave spread outwards-destroying everything in its way.

The vision disappeared. Arif was shaking, his mind taking him to the scenes after the blast, a month back.

“The time has come for us to leave. Towards the “jannat” which you have been seeing every day”, said Daanish.

Unbeknownst to his parents, Arif walked out of the house holding Daanish in his hand. He walked through the market, past the houses in the small town as his neighbours slept peacefully, leaving his erstwhile life behind, guided by Daanish towards the mountains and the spring.

He was far away as another blast rocked the hapless town the next morning. It wasn’t kind to Arif’s parents this time around. Their shop was blown to smithereens and both of them had the full stop placed firmly in the middle of their sentences of life.

As the familiar cloud of death engulfed the town, Arif was walking steadily away from it all. To a place where a toy could be a child’s friend, instead of a messenger of destruction.

Illustration: By Debojyoti Mahapatra

Sabyasachi Raychaudhuri

After Charminar, the second thing for which people all over India recall Hyderabad, is its biryani. Citizens of no other city can remotely come close to the fascination that we Hyderabadis feel for biryani. We steadfastly refuse even any comparison with the other variants of biryanis in India, let alone accept that they come anywhere close to it in taste.

Let us take a close look at the Hyderabadi biryani. It is supposed to be a dish which originated in the army of the Nizam. The army was mostly on the move, so there was a need for a dish which needed to be cooked easily with minimum utensils and have both rice and meat. So the idea of putting rice, meat and masalas on dum resulted in the Hyderabadi version of the biryani.

Of course, there are more versions about the origin of this dish. One version states that the Mughlai biryani met the Deccani spices and became Hyderabadi biryani. The other talks about the biryani originating from pilafs (pulao) which was a dish of Arab traders who entered the country through the West Coast.

The popular version of Hyderabadi biryani is called Kacchi Biryani as the meat is marinated in masala and then cooked along with the rice in a slow fire. This is as opposed to Pakki where the meat is pre-cooked to certain extent and added to the rice in layers.

While it is important that the biryani is prepared well, it is also important to make sure it is served the right way. As we open the biryani degh, on top is the flavourful but dry rice, and as you dig in under, you find the spicy and moist rice with masala and then the meat. Ask the person serving you to serve a serving spoon full of biryani cut across all these layers, otherwise you may end up having more of either bland rice or excessive masala. Usually Mirchi Ka Salan and Dahi Raita are served as accompaniments, but if the biryani is good, the real connoisseurs would normally like to enjoy it in a standalone mode.

In modern times, Paradise Restaurant has made Hyderabadi biryani famous. In 70s and 80s the best biryani in Hyderabad was available at Paradise. The restaurant has expanded rapidly and has branches all over the city, as well as Bangalore. Any visitor to Hyderabad including foreign delegations include a visit to Paradise restaurant in their itinerary as a must do in the city. These days some true blue Hyderabadis feel that the taste of Paradise biryani has gone down, and their tribe seems to be increasing. However, there is no denying the fact that Paradise has had a huge role in making Hyderabadi Biryani a big food brand, and it is still by miles the largest selling restaurant chain in the city.

Any Hyderabadi has his or her list of favorite biryani joints. I too have one which is given below (not in any order). A small note of caution – do not expect ambience and very clean surroundings in most of the Irani joints of Hyderabad. Usually, any of this restaurants will have a special biryani, where the ratio of meat is much higher compared to the usual ones. If you like spicy stuff, ask for double masala.

1. Shah Ghouse, at Tolichowki, Charminar and now Gachibowli: Shah Ghouse is well known for the Haleem during Ramzan. But this place belts out some great biryani too. The biryani here is very spicy with lot of masala and some succulent pieces of mutton. But the blend of spices is just perfect which makes this biryani special. The kababs here are also must haves.

2. Meridian, at Panjagutta: Panjagutta Mutton Shop is possibly the most famous mutton shop in that area. Few years back Yusuf Bhai, the owner of the mutton shop started Meridian Hotel just next to it. In a short period the place has become very popular for its aromatic biryani. The highlight of their biryani is that they use Potla goat meat for their biryani. Unlike most of the Irani Cafes, their Mirchi Ka Salan is not to be missed. Try their Tala Hua Mutton too.

3. Bawarchi, at RTC X Roads (www.bawarchihyd.com) : The biryani from Bawarchi is so popular that many restaurants have opened up in the city with Bawarchi as part of their name. So you have ‘Green’, ‘Golden’, ‘New’ and many other Bawarchis. However, the one and only original Bawarchi is at RTC X Roads. The biryani here is flavorful and not excessively spicy, and the meat is tender.

4. Shadab, at Madina near High Court: This is another iconic restaurant in Hyderabad known for paya, nahari as well as its biryani. The biryani here is aromatic, well cooked and spicy, but be prepared for a long wait to get a table. If you happen to visit the Charminar area in the forenoon, do not miss the Nahari or keema breakfast here.

There are few other varieties of biryani available in Hyderabad. Kalyani Biryani is the poor man’s biryani prepared with beef. Places well known for this pakki biryani are Alhamdulillah’s at Nampally and Hotel Prince at Mehdipatnam. The biryanis available in Andhra restaurants are essentially pulavs. However they are delicious in their own way, and a visitor to Hyderabad should try them out too. Ulavacharu, Spicy Venue or Rayalaseema Ruchulu are some of the restaurants serving this version of the rice and meat dish.

Sabyasachi blogs at http://www.foodaholix.in

                                                                                                                                                 Illustration: By Aditi Chakraborty

M.K.Chattopadhyay

During Biochemistry practical examination of our B.Pharm Part 1 Examination at Jadavpur University, one of our class-mates was asked in the viva-voce: “Why do we prefer animal proteins over vegetable proteins as food? She promptly replied: “Because they are tastier than vegetable proteins,” much to the amusement of the external examiner,

The correct answer is related to the fact that all naturally occurring proteins are made of 20 amino acids. We require all of them to build body proteins. Among them, 10 amino acids are synthesized in our body, 2 are synthesized but used up in some other reactions (so not available for protein synthesis) and 8 are not synthesized at all. Hence we require these 2+8=10 amino acids as supplements in the food. They are called essential amino acids. The content of the essential amino acids is higher in animal proteins than in vegetable proteins. That is why we prefer animal proteins to vegetable proteins in our diet. Definitely chicken, mutton and egg are tastier than dal or soya bean. But their food value hinges on the fact that they are rich source of the essential amino acids. Hence, they are dubbed as first class proteins while the proteins obtained from plants are called second class proteins.

Benefits are most often associated with some problems. In this case also the high food value of the first class proteins is accompanied with a health risk. Methionine is one of the 10 essential amino acids. When we take animal proteins, they are digested to generate a lot of essential amino acids including methionine. It is further metabolized to produce a compound called homocysteine. Accumulating evidences strongly indicate that increased blood level of homocysteine is associated with increased risk of some vascular diseases (e.g, heart attack and cerebral stroke). The exact role of homocysteine in triggering the deadly diseases is yet to be elucidated but scientists are sure about its association with the ailments. A blood level above 140-150 microgram of homocysteine per deciliter of blood in adults is considered “high” by the doctors.

So what should we do to avoid the danger? Should we avoid the first class proteins or the proteins as a whole in our diet ? Definitely not. That will invite many other health problems. Homocysteine is metabolized with the help of some members of the Vitamin B group. We should supplement them through vegetables and fruits. Thus we could help metabolize homocysteine and maintain its level within a safe range in the blood. So we should opt for a balanced diet (food containing protein, carbohydrate, fat, vitamins, minerals in the desired amounts) instead of overemphasizing on a high protein diet. A healthy food habit will help us keep the doctors at bay. The widely held notion that only high protein foods are nutritious and vegetables are junk is not only wrong but it may ultimately lead to serious health hazards. When we do not get sufficient amount of vegetables and fruits with a non-vegetarian meal, we can resort to vitamin supplements. But we should try our best to acquire vitamins from their natural sources.

Subrata De

What matters in life is not what happens to you but what you remember and how you remember it.

Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Bolivia was an unknown place for me. Little did I know that this beautiful country of South America blessed with deep forests, springs, high altitude lakes and hills, is at the same time a storehouse of rich mineral deposit of nonferrous metal like tin, gold and copper. I had visited a few other countries of the world by then, but never in my dreams thought of visiting Bolivia – that too not as a tourist but as an engineer serving in that country for some time.

At the very outset, let me confess that I am a poor wordsmith. Whatever I have written is culled from my memory and viewed through the lens of an enthusiastic and inquisitive layman who had the good fortune to visit Bolivia. At this age, memory too plays with me…… however as far as I can recapitulate, it was in the month of March 2001 (Those days, I was posted at Baia Mare Copper Plant in Romania) when I was suddenly called for an emergency meeting at our London head office. Our CMD requested me to take charge of our Bolivian tin mines and plant situated at Oruro, approximately 150 kms from La Paz, the capital of Bolivia.

Happy with the prospect of visiting a part of South America I immediately agreed for the new assignment. Bolivian Visa was issued from the Bolivian Embassy at London in those days (back then there was no Bolivian embassy in India, and it had to be issued from London only). I came to Kolkata before leaving for my new assignment.

Those days British Airways had a flight from Kolkata to Bolivia. It was a very long flight having multiple stop overs and connecting flights via London, Sao Paulo, Santa Cruz , and ultimately to La Paz, the capital city at the highest altitude of the world.The total flying time was almost 36 hours to reach my destination (including the layover time). I had to learn a bit of Spanish, the official language for basic communication.

After I landed at La Paz, I was served Coca tea prepared from the Coca leaves. I was also given a few coca leaves to chew (as in we take betel leaf or paan) to prevent altitude sickness and acclimatize in that high altitude environment. Fortunately, unlike most visitors, I was not feeling drowsy or sick. coca leaves had for sure done their magic.

We had our lunch at a restaurant at La Paz. Bolivians are mostly rice eaters and almost all Indian vegetables, like potato, cabbage, cauliflower, radish and other tropical vegetables are grown and cultivated at lower altitudes. The Amazon basin is famed for producing good variety of pineapple and papaya. Juicy and sweet mango are imported from Brazil. At the same time, these parts of South America also continue with illegal and unauthorized farming of poppy plants (used to extract opium to produce drugs). Some amazing variety of fresh water fishes are also available. I fondly remember the trout among others. Lamb, chicken and beef are easily available. Cochabamba in Bolivia produces very sweet oranges. Almost every house has an orange tree. Like most Bengalis, I am a foodie. So whichever country I visit, I make it a point to gather some ideas about their local cuisine. This in turn helps me to know their culture, food and improvise my food intake. I also do not miss an opportunity to visit local markets. Bolivia gave me a feel of our very own Indian markets……somewhat like our “haats”.

I had a short visit of the city. It looked like Darjeeling or Sikkim. The roads were so steep that we had to use hand brakes if we stopped midway. Most of the hills were covered with snow dazzling in the sunshine. Shades are a must to cut off the glare. Though it was not winter, it was very cold and I learnt that due to the high altitude, it remained cold throughout the year.

From La Paz, I had to go to my work place at Oruro, almost a 2 hour-long drive. On my journey, I was accompanied by an Indian office colleague who had worked with me at Romania before. It was a beautiful road. We were passing through lots of small towns and villages. Many boys were playing football which is a very popular game here. Llama, sheep and alpaca (resembles a goat) were found plenty in number. It looked like we were crossing from one hill to another. The area was full of unknown flowers and varieties of cactus.

Ultimately, we reached our own campus Oruro at Playa Verde (In Spanish, Playa Verde means green valley). The soft gurgling sound from a scantily flowing river, the mellowed sunset lent an ethereal glow to this place. My bungalow was situated on the bank of this river (Later I came to know its name as Hanuny River). However, during the rainy season, it gets flooded and sometime water reaches our campus). The campus was really a solitary valley and our plant was approximately 2 kms away from my residence. The whole area was surrounded by lots of small barren rocky hills sans vegetation. Only the foot of the hills were covered with long grass and cactus. The local language of Oruro is Spanish and the natives do not know any other language. One of their major profession is farming Llama, sheep, and alpaca (generally, it is the ladies who move with a flock of sheep or Llama for grazing, from one hill to other). As far as cultivation is concerned, they grow soybeans, ground nuts etc. But majority of the community members are miners. Many make a living by selling the tin ore which they collect by manual shaking and sieving of the river water that contains residual ore after ore dressing. (I had experienced the same at Ghatsila where local people use to collect gold dust from Subarnarekha River). I remember, near Oruro there was a hot spring. Since the weather was very chilly, we used to frequent the hot spring which was well maintained. The swimming area was nice with facilities for natural sauna bath.

The local people are sturdy and stocky like the people of Nepal or Bhutan, or any other natives of the hilly regions of India. The next morning I and my colleague (a metallurgist by profession) had a nice breakfast. The only problem was that it took a lot of time for boiling food at high altitude. Our lady cook knew very basic English so I could order some food. Within a few days, however, I was compelled to learn Spanish names of the food items to avoid hunger pangs.

Previously,I was accustomed to underground mines or open cast mines but this tin mine was absolutely a hill. We had to enter the main gate of the mines through an elevator. Tunnels with rail track and Low Voltage Electric car over rail track took me inside the mines. The nugget tin ore had a very high percentage of tin, as high as 30 to 60 % and balance around 8 to 10%. There was a big security problem in this mine. All the miners looked alike and in case a miner’s brother would enter through a different tunnel from the other side of the entrance (Security gate), it became very difficult to distinguish him. These men called Jukus (pronounced hukus, in Spanish means a thief) were really a menace.

From the dreary mines of Bolivia, let me take the readers to the rich and vibrant culture of Bolivia. A Bolivian痴 life is a zesty mix of the hot lokoto (Mexican chilli) and the sweet cocada (coconut candies). Song and dances are a vital part of their culture. The drum beats are intoxicating like the much loved chica de jora (locally brewed maize beer). Given a chance, one must not miss the Carnaval de Oruro (carnival) – a unique cultural extravaganza. Celebrated for over 200 years, it is one of UNESCO masterpieces of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity. For months young men and women prepare for the dances representing their culture and tradition. Young men and beautifully dressed senoritas shall walk down the streets in pomp and gaiety. These days the younger generation is geared towards education provided by schools and universities. Bolivians are friendly and fun loving. The men (Senior) are always game for a drink, a friendly chat, dance and siesta and like to enjoy more than they work and earn. Bolivian women (Seniora) are very hard working. They multitask and raise their family. However, no matter how hard a day goes by, no Seniora shall refrain from a dance to set alight her spirit. The Bolivians are equally enthusiastic about football. For most, football is a religion. Since I did not know Spanish, I could not enjoy Bolivian literature. Bolivia has great writers. Many amongst them are very politically conscious.

As I write, I recollect a few other places of interest that I could cover during my stay. As I attempt to tread through those alleys, dear readers, hold my hand steady. Forgive me for the mistakes of omission or commission in course of this travelogue…. for I am no writer and I only write what has appealed me most.

COCHABAMBA and Cristo de La Concordia

With fantastic scenic beauty, lots of trees, beautiful parks and flower gardens, the city Cochabamba can boast as one of the major tourist attraction of Bolivia. This city of central Bolivia was in fact a fertile valley and was once home of the indigenous ethnic groups: Tiwanaku, Tupariya and the Incas before the Spanish invasions. Even today at almost every house of Cochabamba one shall be welcomed with orange, avocado and apple trees. Grapes are also produced in their fertile soil.

Today it is one of the most important cities of Bolivia housing the Cristo de la Concordia  (Christ of Peace). This statue of  Jesus Christ is  located atop San Pedro Hill, to the east of  Cochabamba. The statue is higher than that of Christ the Redeemer in Brazil .It is accessible by cable car, or by climbing 2,000 steps.

.. LAKE TITICACA AND INCA CIVILIZATION

The author at Lake Titicaca

Copacabana  is the main  Bolivian  town on the shore of  Lake Titicaca (the highest navigable lake). In one of our visits to Copacabana, we stayed at a beautiful hotel by the Lake Side. A part of the lake extends to Peru. Dotted with small islands and hills, the lake is accessible by motor boats. Among the many hills, we found one quite crowded and people waiting in long queue. This was a place of worship for the devout. It did not have a shrine or an idol, but a stone where people prayed for fulfilment of desire. If they purchase a new car, they come to this holy place at Copacabana of Titicaca and would go to the hilltop to break a bottle of champagne. We found thousands of broken bottles dumped for collection. I was reminded of varied but similar rites in Hindu culture expressing adoration of the Divine. Lake Titicaca is vast and to a first timer it seems like a sweet water ocean. One cannot see the other side of the lake. We enjoyed a hearty meal of rice and Trucha (Trout fish) which is available plenty in this lake.

A visit to the well maintained museum of the Inca civilization was very memorable. Many sculptures, artefacts and remnants of this great civilization were preserved as relics bearing testimony to their glorious days.

UYUNI SALT LAKE

At Lake Uyuni

The place Uyuni is almost 6 hours drive from Oruro. The journey was tedious. I along with four Indian families and two young bachelors travelled by car and reached Uyuni Salt Lake (popularly known as Salar de Uyuni), the world’s largest salt flat at 10,582 square kilometres.

We were driving on the surface of salt, as if we were driving over hard marble. There was only one hotel which we had booked in advance. The cottage of the hotel was made of salt blocks. Only in the roofs tin sheets were used. But the interior was totally different. It was as good as any other luxury hotel. The beds were made of salt blocks and foam mattress was kept on it. Continental food was available. The hotel was looking like an isolated island in the Salt Lake. It was difficult to believe that we were driving on salt slabs. Our guide dug a hole to show us that the water was found just a meter below. The entire Salt Lake was floating. In fact when we reached the spot it was almost evening and our plan was to visit the place next morning. Fortunately, it was a full moon night and I cannot express in words how beautiful the spectacle was. Moon light was reflecting on the white salt lake. It seemed we were in a different planet. We were enjoying the exceptional beauty braving tremendous cold and chilly wind.

We had a warm and once in a lifetime sleep on the Salt Cot. In the morning, we had a nice breakfast and our guide showed us the place. There was every possibility of getting lost without a guide. It was as if we were in a salt desert. The borders of the Salt Lake were lined by numerous dead volcanos. We had the privilege to see some of them. Cactus jungles, rather Cactus Park grew along the border of the lake. The beauty seemed surreal.

I found the Bolivian people warm and hospitable. Language was a great barrier, however, I enjoyed my almost year-long stay at Bolivia. It was indeed an unforgettable experience!

                                                                                                                                                                 Photographs: By the author

অঙ্কুর চক্রবর্ত্তী

চোখ ছুঁলে নদী হয়, ঠোঁট ছুঁলে জল,

মন ছুঁলে কাব্য । তোর কথা বল-

চিবুকেতে অভিমান, কুন্তলে শ্বাস,

বিভাজিকা, আল-ক্ষেত, জলডোবা ঘাস ।

গুল্ফেতে ছন্দ, পদতলে তৃণ;

চলনেতে লয়কারি- এভাবেই চিনো ।

পদ্যটা কেড়ে নিলে, কি থাকে হে নারী ?

রক্ত-মাংস আর ভাত-তরকারি !

 

অলংকরণ : অদিতি চক্রবর্ত্তী

 

সোমালী সরকার

 

সেইদিনটা ছিল আষাঢ়স্য প্রথম দিবস ।

মেট্রোস্টেশন থেকে বেরিয়েছিলে ,

টুকটুকে লাল শাড়ি পরনে

বৃষ্টির প্রথম ছোঁয়াটা তোমার কপালে ।

এমনভাবে চমকে তাকালে-

আমি তখন রাস্তার এধারে

অনামিকা বলেই ডাকব ভেবেছিলাম ।

 

বহুদিন পর বইমেলায় হঠাৎ দেখা

চিনতে ভুল করিনি তোমায় ।

তোমার সেই গভীর কালো চোখ

আমার বুকে এঁকে দিয়েছিল তোমার নাম

সুনয়না বলেও ডাকব ভেবেছিলাম ।

 

অনেক সাহস করে সেদিন তোমার সামনে দাঁড়াই ।

পরিচয় হল- আরো কিছু সাক্ষাত-

আর পাঁচটা গল্পের মত সুস্মিতা বন্ধু হল ।

প্রেম হল , সংসার হল ।

 

 

একদিন যাকে অনন্যা বলে ভেবেছিলাম,

আজ তার সমস্তটাই জানা ।

তার রাগ-দু: খ-অভিমান সমস্তটা ।

জীবনের উত্থান-পতন

ঘাত প্রতিঘাতের সাক্ষী সে ।

আমার বিজয়িনী- আমার প্রথমা ।

 

অলংকরণ : সোমালী সরকার