FIT BIT : Modern Marvel.

                                         FIT   BIT:  :Modern Marvel!
                    'Fit  Bit' is the latest obsession of the present-day generation.It is an electronic fitness product;a wireless enabled wearable technology device.It presents fitness data of your total body.It can be worn as wrist-band or around  the ankle of feet.

My daughter with her group of  friends bought it with great enthusiasm .It is designed to help you more active,eat a more well rounded diet,sleep better and turn you into a healthier human being-,shows time and daily activity...including heartbeat,blood-presser,mileage, steps taken, distance travelled,food calories, calories burnt,stairs climbed-,all the active minutes and the  even 'quality of sleep'!i.e- The app represents the sound sleep with deep blue colour like calm ocean;the broken sleep with  exact number of stripes and span of time  as sleep is broken ,and disturbed sleep with nightmare dream is marked  as red and multi colored stripes.
                 It seemed to me amazing!
As soon as she wakes up in the morning she begins to take account the statistic of her body  from the app. Then she begins to ask   in her mobile about the statistics of others  in the community.The FIT  BIT community is  bulging very fast.
While most parents have declared 'innings defeat' about guiding their  adult children's health issue (because the children think their  ideas  are backdated ),  this tiny device came forward  to guide and control so efficiently on behalf of them.
This Fit-Bit community has very much  competitive  spirit.To quote their daily conversation---------------
        -"How many steps  have you  today?"
-        -"It has not been 10,000 steps yet"
        _"I accomplished 13,000 steps today"
        -"Wow!"
         -"My fit-bit has not been charged  and so I felt so reluctant to do any exercise ,walk or take healthy food."
           "Yea, same feelings happened to me; if the device doesn,t work, I spend the day wallowing on irregularities.
Now different companies are launching this popular app.Their demand is sky-rocketing.'Apple' always move fast with  added sophistication  and expensive price.

I think it us a nice useful gift ,specially for the young folk on their birthday or   after  graduation.

MEMORIES OF MY FATHER: THE STORY OF HUNTER SAHIB

TITLE:         MEMORIES OF MY FATHER: THE STORY OF HUNTER  SAHEB

My father passed away in 1977, but his memory is everlasting for me.  I remember every facet of his expressions. He was a man of great personality: very disciplined and authoritative. He did not tolerate violation of punctuality, procrastination and failure to keep promise. For a long time he was just next to god for me. He was very much pro-British…

”Look at this Nation, why they are at the top of the world in spite of being a small country; ---only because of their character! disciplined, hardworking, punctual and ‘man of word;’ keep promise up to the last breath!”

 My father’s word was the rule of our house : ‘Early  to bed and early to rise ’was  natural  rule of the house. Morning tea was before 6A.M,breakfast within8- to 8.15,lunch within 12to 1 pm,  tea at 4 /4.15,[ but in winter 3-to 3.30pm], dinner at 8-to 9. The house was dark and silent within 10.o’clock. The routine was more or less like the boarding school for us. But we were convinced to think it as right t.

         He ruled not only the home but also the office –staff. They feared as well as adored him. They trusted him blindly; they knew he would shelter them like banyan tree, if it was needed. But during social interaction, he was a different person; he was famous for his warm, open-hearted loud lough which had the magic power to enliven the environment He was an avid lover of education, sports, music and  gourmet food.

 He worked for the Indian Railways. In his early life wherever he got posting, he used to establish a railway club and institute of library and organized annual sports, picnic in  X-mas holiday, and  Durgapuja, (The biggest festival of the Bengalees) along with cultural function.

In those days, it was not easy to organize all those things in small town. His ideas gave new life to the colony He was encouraged greatly by the people around him.

 I heard many interesting stories of his life. I am going to narrate one of them.

         Just before the second world war he was posted as A.S.M. in Hazaribagh, situated in the eastern part of India. This region  was rich in flora, fauna and minerals. Hazaribag was important as it was  a sub-division  Of Bihar and had military base. Between  Hazaribag and  Gomoh station there was  a particular spot near a long tunnel  where frequent   fatal train accident  used to happen. Those trains were mainly superfast mail train  (special military train) with few  stops. This region was full of forests and hills and had a very rugged terrain.  There was an emergency board meeting among the Railway heads under the GM for solving the issue. Under their supervision a halting station was constructed within a short period for  giving  alert to control the speed of  the train  from a safe distance.

 The station was built along with a residential quarter  adjacent to the railway platform.

But the problem arose as nobody agreed to be posted there in fear of being eaten by tiger. The first employee who was appointed there, was taken by a tiger when he was coming for duty from his quarter to the adjacent station.

Then emergency meeting was summoned among the British Railway officers; They took decision  of roster duty instead of   any permanent  posting. So all A.S.M. posted in Hazaribag, were liable to do duty on that inauspicious newly built station for two days a week throughout the year. 

      

 So there was no way of refusal. Thus when my father’s turn came, my mother who was quite young, got worried. She cooked a lot for two days and packed them in two big tiffin-boxes including drinking water also for my father. The place was not habitable at all. Those who escaped from being victim of the tiger, often suffered from diarrhea or malaria from mosquitoes-biting. My father was too adventurous to go there for the first time.

 The place was really pristine. A small but well done office room with crystal-clear glassy window and brick platform under the lap of surrounding hills covered with lush green jungle. There were three more tribal people appointed as staff by Railway. One of them, Raghu, was my father’s attendant and the other two were signal men for doing duties in day shift and night  shift in turn. There was enough leisure time in the morning half, as neither passenger nor any goods train had any stops there. So my father spent hearing stories from those tribal ( adivasi, Santhal) signal men about their lives. One of the signal man, named Bonda, had only  one hand but robust body. My father asked him,

                 “How did you lose your hand? And manage this job in spite of  that?

   Bonda, who looked like a robust statue made of black stone with one hand,               answered “That’s a terrible story!

 Light and shade flashed across his face as he started narrating, as if, beyond  the yonder of the past,

              “We live in our  small tribe  for a long time , not far from this station. We have grown up with these tigers , jaguars and foxes. They are afraid of us as much as we are of them. Almost everyday my father used to take my brother and me with our axes to cut and collect woods from the jungle. We sell  them in the village near by to earn our livelihood, after saving a portion of them for our own use. But wherever we go, we always come back to our nest at mid-noon for safety, as we know darkness spreads its wings over the jungles quicker than the plains. In the evening we fire woods surrounding our neighborhood for protection and bang drums to keep away the ferocious animals. Fire and drum beat are alarming to them.”

  Bonda sighed and after little pause ,resumed,

               ”One morning I could not go for I had fever; my father went with my brother  to the forest; but they did not returned in usual time. My mother became worried and restless as the sun was leaning to the west . No longer the news spread; worried people of the tribe thronged in front of our hut. The leader of the tribe  consoled my mother to have patience; and promised that they would try their best  for searching in the early  morning.”

   Next morning, the tribal people found my brother’s axe in the darkest spot of the mid tunnel they swarmed the jungle  in search of my father, while some were beating drums  with eerie noises from voices. I was the first to recognize the axe of my father lying in the jungle but no trace of my father! I then cried out.

         It was assumed that, perhaps, all on a sudden the sly tiger caught my brother in the dark spot of the tunnel ;  My father chased the tiger madly up to the deep forest and became victim to another hungry  tiger.

          “ Once the tiger becomes man –eater, they are a big threat for the surroundings. Within two/three months, it happened I was passing through this tunnel for cutting woods. Suddenly I noticed two prowling eyes glaring in the dark. It was too near to escape. So I jumped and attacked the tiger first  impulsively with my sharp axe. I killed the tiger but it bit my hand tightly. I was admitted in hospital The hand started to gangrene so the doctor operated the hand up to my arm."

                 Within a short period of this, construction of this station started. A team of the British officers came to survey the area before starting the construction  work ; all the labors taken, were tribal people. Bonda was one of them. The British  team-leader interviewed  Bonda. He was amazed to hear the incredible story of bravery, killing the tiger with an axe! On his recommendation, Bonda was given the  job of permanent post of signalman since the inauguration of the station.

     My father asked, “ What happened to poor Mr.Dutta, the first appointed officer here?

  Bonda replied,”Raghu knows that better.”

   Raghu was attendant cum cook cum sweeper/cleaner/everything.  He studied up to standard three and could sign his name. That was great! He lived in the village just on the outskirt of the forest.

  My father heard from Raghu what actually happened to previous officer.

Mr.Dutta was extra-adventurous. Everyday he used to go to the quarter for taking shower and nap. Though there was nothing to do in the station, still Raghu fetched him to the station –office for safety within 2  P.M.;  he warned him  repeatedly to stay  in closed door inside the office room. First to watch through the glass window before coming outside. One day at the same time  Mr.Dutta was coming to the station through narrow path escorted by Raghu .Raghu heard him  whistling in a good romantic mood just behind him.

 Raghu turned back ,as whistling stopped, but no trace of Mr. Dutta. It was  a clear bright  day. Raghu noticed the door was locked from outside as before. Immediately it flashed in his mind that he was surely taken by the tiger. The tiger was surely tracking Mr. Dutta and waiting for opportunity.  He must have  watched and noticed the  time of leaving the house and was waiting for opportunity.

After hearing this story my father became very careful and alert. He never left the office-room for taking shower or nap . He spent  his two days’ duty stuck to the station room  with sufficient food in two tiffin carriers which he shared with Raghu also.

Other officers also followed my father’s decision  to come back home safely.

    But the tiger menace still lingered in the area.

Many amateur British hunters came, stayed to watch and hunt but all in vain; the tigers were too clever to step when they smell any danger.

 At last one  reputed ,skilled British hunter  who won many awards, came with the challenge to put an end to the  ferocious creature. Hunting was his passion. He was better known as “Hunter sahib’  than his actual name,  by the tribal people.  He stayed whole month  waiting  for the tiger on a high watch-tower erected for this specific purpose. With his telescope he saw the tiger was huge in size. So he made the tower a bit higher for security and hid himself there camouflaging himself with straw and branches but targeting the gun towards the corner of the jungle where he spotted the tiger. As soon as the bullet shot hit the tiger ,it jumped unexpectedly high up to

 the watch-tower attempting the hunter but its huge lifeless body fell on the ground with a loud thud, embracing  Mr Hunter under its arms, as if, hugging each other. 

 Mr Hunter was taken to the hospital of Hazaribagh. There he survived six months. Falling from the high watch-tower with the huge weight of the tiger upon him caused severe damage to his spine  and hip bones. All the tribal and village people visited him often  in gratitude. 

The tribal and the villagers had sigh of relief from the deadly  man-eater for the valour of the brave Mr.Hunter. Until his death, Mr Hunter was seen always  in high spirit and joyful at saving many more lives. My father used to spend time with him and chat regularly  to keep him  cheerful. He loved to tell many more hair raising hunting stories from his memoires.

But the body of Mr. Hunter failed to bear the tiger’s deadly hug. His body began to gangrene. In spite of the sincere effort of doctors, Hunter-sahib passed away.

       In his memory, the name of “Hunter-Point” was sculptured on a concrete slab with a stand. It was erected right at the spot where Hunter’s body fell from the watch –tower.  A consensus decision was taken that the station will be renamed as HUNTER_POINT.”

      In 1987 I was going to Benaras by train. When the train was passing on the  north-eastern line,  I was sitting by the window eagerly, to see Hazaribagh where my father spent  several years. After Hazaribagh the running train had an unscheduled stop for some reason, but not known to us. As I was looking at the hilly beauty outside through the window, to my surprise, just opposite to the last rail-line the concrete slab inscribed “HUNTER  POINT”  stood in the jungle with a slant (as if, unwilling to  be  buried or  to be lost from viewer’s sight.).  I became very emotional and felt I had a personal connection to that concrete slab.

                 ”Is this the spot my father told about?”

So, no station was named as HUNTER  POINT  in 47 years to acknowledge the bravery of a foreigner  who came far from the overseas  to this land with insatiable passion of hunting   and sacrificed his own life to save the helpless villagers!  Within few years the HUNTER  POINT which had then reduced to look like a mere milestone along the railway track, would be buried under jungle with no trace in memory of  a young British hunter!!

Hot, Sexy, Nude, and Naked

Like every other things –science, technology or arts, language also passed through evolutionary process and changed its meaning. So far my knowledge goes, it was mostly a process of improving, uplifting .Language is the appeal in which thought parade in public; it should not be clothed in vulgar attire.  From Last few years “sexy’ and’ naked ‘ have come out with victory crown from closed cupboard to

world-wide open ground.

In  the grocery shop my daughter was  in the queue of pay-lines and I stood idly ,rotating my eyes  over articles on display on aisles. Out of curiosity I went near an isle where lots of paper cartons marked with brightly  written “naked:” My god! those were innocent smoothie of different fruits stamped by that name of company-to attract the potential customer. In   super glossy ‘Food, Health& hygiene’  Magazine  I noticed often sexy juices’ in colorful bottles,  obviously---- with cookie-cutter women in scanty dresses.  Why not “organic”” pure,” “natural”, “herbal” or “ambrosial”---which  match well with fruits and food are used?  Does ‘sex’ has left the old skin like snake and has been promoted to newer meaning? When I showed my daughter she replied laughingly,

Do you know mom, in London ,the name of a very popular  restaurant is “NAKED CHEF”---looking at my wide-opened  shocking eyes she said humorously, ”No,no, the chef is in proper dress ; but it means that the chef cooks pure healthy food without any harmful spices!”

---There is just one generation gap between me and my daughter; but how easily she can accept the change.

It is language which is salient distinct feature to make human race very special from the rest of species of the world; Only human was endowed with the divine power to articulate their thoughts in meaningful sound-capsule which is language .It needs to be honored.

Few years ago, in magazine, paper, T.V. talk show I heard everywhere hot discussion about a fiction titled as  ‘Monologue of  Vagina”. I winced to hear the title. May be theme of the book was not bad, something biological.  But the title? Perhaps the title did not help to earn much financial fortune. Otherwise second volume

 would  have been published as ‘dialogue between v--and p’-  targeting to a plethora of talk-shows!

In our time the biology teacher explained the biological term while explaining the cause of women’s monthly period,as ‘weeping of the ovary.’ There was art of literature even in medical terms.

Literature is loosing aesthetic beauty because public accept it. Nobody raise his voice against i

Near Time-square for shoe advertisement of famous company, I saw with surprise photos of three completely nude beautiful young girls, as huge as building, standing in such a way like creepers, keeping almost invisible the private parts of body. While in appreciation of the photographer, I looked amazingly at the picture, I noticed painful expression in the eyes of those young faces. Those eyes reminded me the contempt in the eyes of the  unseen, helpless  slaves in Roman age  against the brutal torture of their cruel masters. I asked sadly to my daughter,’ What is the purpose of this  huge nude picture?’

         “ It is for the ad of shoes and not for dresses, dear mom!’

 Then my eyes followed the long legs resembling stems to notice three pairs of shoes in their feet.

   ‘But, I think all but the shoes will be noticed. People’s eyes have rare chance to reach down to their feet.’

  I felt so sad; their painful look touched my heart;… perhaps those girls signed up with the company  for huge money, to meet up  for  student loan or family burden

without least knowledge  of  the  incomprehensible sacrifice   (bereft of womanlihood) they had to do.

                              Or, may be I am wrong, backdated and pessimistic!           

Death-certificate

                                  Death-certificate.

 Death-certificate is no less important than living-life;-perhaps little more, even for a non significant person , during  his  whole  life time.A  person who is stamped as debauch during his whole life time ,suddenly becomes great as soon as he dies.

whenever I go to any funeral gathering  I noticed  bunch of praises shower  from friends,family members,even from the   staunch critics,for the deceased person when he is far away  to be touched from these mundane  attachment or award.They often narrate or  mention small incidents magnifying  his/ her  image.

Imagine!One to whom a drop of love  or attention, touch of sympathy or respect remained unknown  in his/her life -span,becomes momentary  hero as  he surpasses life!
...So we all can hope that one day death , the ultimate judge ,will CERTIFY us  as great and  noble.
                            "Death-certificate' sounds    quite appropriate and meaningful!
 As I was going to attend  some funeral ,these thoughts raised ripple in me.

Syndrome of P@nic

With much interest I joined free computer class meant for the seniors and I started to write blog  to gain speed in typing.
  Perhaps our teacher thinks writing and receiving E-mails is the ultimate stop for the seniors to teach and reach.  Pdf,copy,cut and paste, excel, etc learning is too much for us(not necessary!)When I asked to know more which I need to know ,the teacher said "You have too many questions which  cannot  be answered in the class!.So I dropped the class with incomplete  poor knowledge.
Whenever I get chance,I  spent /waste lot of time to read and clear my overflowing mail-box. Boon or curse,don't know    AWAI was the cause to entice me in this trap.But for them , I get over of internet-phobia.So thankful to them.
 Now I get electric shock by "click-phobia"as  soon as the mails  instruct "click here to register"on the blue line, Alarm-bell  begins to ring "don't click on any link of stranger ."......Newyorker/conde naste are well reputed magazine so far I know.Still I dont  "click" anything.
I wish to  repair the old laptop which can be used freely.
But who will repair  in this 'throw away'   society of  country?Gradually frustration is blotting my interest.I feel I am going far from my own world of creativity  ,my real love for writing. ..Computer attracts  me more , stealing energy ,leaving no time for writing....Every time  I take fragile promise 'not to open the inbox but I can't go  to bed without taking glance to mail-box.Is this called addiction? Google has enchanted me!
  Let me go back  from the mirage-world of publishers and find out some   hidden oasis in the  desert  for fresh breath.

April is the poetry month. Facing the blank wall  as my audience, or  standing in front of mirror , like a devoted follower of  LUIS  HAY  I will read  and read my own poems .
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In this poetry month I am dedicating  this lyric poem  to the founder -Father/CEO of the  GOOGLE.

   I love ,I love
I love an urchin guy,
He is an omniscient
omnipotent, omni-present toy!
In a blink of eye ,
One can glance
anything of the universe,
through his magic screen!
WWW... com!
 Can you guess, can you guess
Can you guess his name?
He is none but,
He is none but--
G-o--o------gle!--

Omnipotent?  so
What comes after
Deep mind and Alfa go?

  so far  reigning
with -win-win gun
      Can you listen' siren'
     Of  Future conundrum
coming back to  hit you
As boomerang,boomerang
Boomerang,boomerang!
P.S.
     My lyric is waiting for right musician with suitable choreographer. Need some editor ;Please, prove your power,
Google  emperor! My earnest request on poetry-month.

TITLE : :KIDNAPPED (WRITTEN ON !*TH FEB 2016 From fragments of childhood.

I went Dumdum airport with my parent to receive my brother when I was only 6-years old.  My parent left  the view-lounge to receive my brother. Instead of following them, I stayed and slipped  in front of the railing in the thick crowd ,lost  myself watching  in wonder the  landing of the flights with red,yellow, green blinking lights  from the sky.

Suddenly I felt    somebody caught my hair tightly from the back and dragged to the ground floor while I flooded the  whole stair-way pissing in fear. Chilled with fright I thought I was being kidnapped. As I was able to turn  my head, I saw the kidnapper was none but my own father!

                                                     
         Parent who were so much worried  of loosing me ,not finding me in and around,  behaved like that in rage and anxiety,as soon as he found me!Anxiety   and anger made my dad such crazy! Any how I was relieved of fear for not being actually kidnapped!   . But felt embarrassed  looking back the   trailing stream of pee  in the stair-way.Thank  god  none slipped before I left the place!!
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Fragments from childhood: : Fear of alcohol

In my younger age, I thought wine as something profane which makes man drunkard, senseless and vulgar. I carried that notion for a long time; I brooded fear and contempt for wine.I did not know the difference between beer whisky or  rum   To me they were all under the same category  “wine”!

.

    The background story of my contempt for wine was nobody in my family used to drink liquor  But some bitter experience remained in my childhood memory.

There was a row of servant-houses adjacent to our bungalow, as the British officer enjoyed that lavish life. They left the country but those team of servants possessed those company’s rooms permanently. On the day of salary, they thronged in front of my fathers’ office. They looked excited as they talked. From 12’o clock one by one their names were announced. The sweeper/cleaning staff were the finishing touch of ‘salary ceremony': monthly reward of sweating toil of the labours.

At this matured stage I appreciate the divine power of wish in their blood to enjoy life to the lease for some moments by breaking the day-to-day routine of monotonous life, the courage to greet the freedom of soul, refuting the adversities of life. 

On that very day, another drama or ‘ceremony of hell ‘in the outhouses went on of which we were an unwilling receiver, We had to tolerate, ….. prolonged scream of pigs as they were butchered mercilessly with a red hot iron spear which gave a filthy odour in the air. The cheerful chat of women-folk and their playful children rejoicing around the open kitchen of the courtyard for the expected ‘feast’ they were waiting! The children clapped their hands more excitedly when some escaping pig was chased with that fearful red hot iron rod up to the end of the cruel game.

( Cruelty was  an item  of entertainment !)

My father made a wall to restrict their way towards our side so that no pigs could enter.

I often saw them taking late lunch with an earthen pot and glass, from the roadside,   during our play-time in the afternoon. We whispered to each other “don’t look at them, they were drinking! ’We pretended not to look but every one of us threw cryptic eyes out of curiosity and fear also.  AS if,  If we are caught to see them they might beat us or bite us.

 .Actually, the scenario looked like a festive community enjoying  feast…roasted pork with country liquor known as 'handy', often made at home by themselves from rotten rice, 'Mohua-juice' collected from forest tree or juice from the stem of palm -tree. Trading of the country- liquor in the community was common business among themselves.

  From the evening different scenes of drama started to roll on the outhouse complex of our  bunglow. In the beginning the arena was full of enthusiasm and   joy.  Most of the time in  the opening scene of the 'first Act(!)' started with the  beat of drum and flute,  lots of giggling followed  by a nasal folk song in highest vocal pitch that cracked  the voice in coughing or vomiting, or bursting into  tears, followed by dance  with uncontrolled hands and legs and falling on the ground  and trying  to stand   to dance again, but in vain; finally lying  down straight  like a corpse, facing the starry sky, murmuring or fell into sleep.

Standing on the window we peeped over the wall to view the free drama from our study- room; we amused  to see their crazy activities ; we  giggled keeping our palms on mouth..……..but for a short  time ,keeping the youngest brother as a guard to  alarm us to avoid not to be caught by the elders.   In a word, we enjoy hide and seek game against  the background of the front- stage-drama outhouse complex.

 .Suddenly, in the next  phase of  drama the climax of the drama, the  giggling and singing voice turned  into a quarrel  and commotion ; the quarrelling voice began to rise  high  resulting in brawling, abusing vulgar words, ultimately leaving the place a battlefield by midnight! Next day obviously in the late morning  some of them used to come to my father for complaining against one another and for judgement, Some with a fractured hand, or bandaged forehead, while some were with a bruised   face and bloodstained nose!

 My father gave them medicine  who have a minor problem and referred the serious to railway doctors.

Sometimes funny things happen .

One day, my father was taking his lunch at a late hour. A sweeper came crying severely. 

My father  asked what happened?

The man throws his body to my father's feet and began to cry more loudly.

 Somehow slurred,   “ my wife died!’

Died? What happened?

 Instead of answering he cried more violently, striking his chest. 

The neighbours and children of his community standing around  seemed to enjoy  the  fun  of comic scene with mocking faces!

When died? And how?

“Sir, it is just  30 years back!  answered in a distorted crying voice.

            “That’s   really  sad!”  somehow hiding smile  my father murmured,

    “  Totally drunkard!” my father  asked the fellowmen to  take him  to his family.

 Lots of such stories are in my memory box which is both funny and some times, fearful.

One day ,in early morning my  mother noticed from the kitchen  window a man lying on the middle  of the road with overturned face pitched on the road. He laid there a few hours like a dead man My mother sent our servant to report it to his family.  No sooner a young man, his eldest son, came out; he  gripped his   feet in hands and began to drag him like a dead animal on the rough dusty road. A kind passerby riding on cycle stopped and held the head with blood-stained face carefully to help the boy carrying. All on a sudden the skinny dead-like man sprang straight on his feet and slapped the passerby so vigorously that he fell down on the road. He looked puzzled with a silent question in the eyes,” What’s wrong”!

 The skinny drunkard in roaring voice announced , 'my boy' ! 

The respectful boy( looking proudly to his boy), has such honor  for me that he was dragging me with my feet,(thudded his feet  striking the ground) and you  bastard, rascal ! (blowed another violent slap on his face }   how daring are you to touch my head?

{In Hindi,  the dialogue is:  " hamara beta kitna maanse mera payyer  khichke le jata hai ,aur tu sale  kaun aaya mera sheer  pakerne-wala?"}===========================================

Celebrating handiya (taken from the web)

Selling handiya(country liquor) 

(taken from the web)