My Father

 I am very bad with dates. I cannot remember any important date or year. For example, I routinely forget the year of our marriage. I even used to forget the precise date in February but my wife taught me an easy mnemonic - spread your palm out, it's five. So 5th February. I can never remember in which year Mampu was born. Fourth July I remember because it's the American day of independence and Mitch was in India that year and he earnestly believed the child would be born on 4th July. 

So it is natural that I would not remember the date on which my father died. I clearly remember the situation. It was a Sunday. We were upstairs. Our mother called out for us. And we went downstairs to find he had breathed his last. He was suffering badly and we were happy for him. 

These last so many years that he is gone (I cannot remember which year - possibly 2007) I remember him almost every day. Something or the other reminds me about him on a daily basis. But the dates are totally unimportant to me. What I am trying to say is that I have not forgotten my father at all but the precise dates are obscure in my mind.

There is one thing that keeps reminding me about his death anniversary is that my Mama (my mother's brother) had suddenly died a week or so before him. The nephews and cousins discuss it in our family forum every year and I remember that my father's anniversary is coming. I ask Monisha about the date and she would say - "25th November" and I would try to remember it but quickly forget.

This year early morning on 25th a queer thing happened. I saw in my dream as if my father was asking me for some water. He was tired and asked me for a glass of water. This was quite routine when he was alive. One of the enduring memories of my father is how he would look when he came home. Tired. Sweating profusely. His punjabi drenched in sweat. And one of the first things he would say is - get me a glass of water.

After seeing the dream I woke up with a start and asked Monisha if that was his death anniversary. She said yes. I felt very guilty. I was intrigued the whole day about this incident. The dream. In the evening I placed a glass of water in front of his photograph in Mampu's room. Next morning we poured it in one of the plant tubs. 

Actually we have this Hindu ritual of ceremonially offering water to our ancestors on the day of Mahalaya. Those whose fathers are no more, go to the Ganges (or any other large water body) and offer a very elaborate prayer standing in waist deep water. My father used to do this every year till his sixties. After that he would do it at home. After his death I did it for a few years in the Katwa Ganga with a very senior Priest who explained every mantra to me. He was a very educated Sanskrit scholar and a pandit in the true sense of the word. Unfortunately, after a few years he developed cancer and died soon. I had planned to record the whole thing from him so that I could do it on my own but that did not happen. 

Mezda and I tried to go and do it in the Calcutta Ganga. We hired a young priest near the Ghat but soon realised he just knew nothing. In fact between Mezda and I we know some of the mantras better than him. So we threw him out and I never went back again. 

But at the back of the mind I feel guilty about it. Not that I am a very religious ritual oriented person. I do it only in honour of my father because he himself used to do it. I try to do it in his memory. I do not really think that our forefathers are languishing in hell without water from us. 

But this incident rattled me. I have tried to reason that this was my guilt consciousness that came to the fore. But I swear I was not conscious about his exact date of departure. I was also not conscious that that particular day was 25th November. It is possible that the date was there in my super subconscious state. But I am not aware of it. 

I have the Purohit Darpan at home. This year I intend to jot down the entire process and do the ritual myself. Let me see. Purahit Darpan is a book that details all the Hindu rituals. It's a thick book. It has been written by different people over the last few hundred years. I hope I have one of the authentic ones. 

Garh Panchakot, Purulia

In August 2008 Monisha, Mampu and I went to Garh Panchakot in Purulia in our Esteem. Partha (Dr Partha Sen) also went with his wife and son in his Accent. The trip was very pleasant for all six of us. We stayed at the WBFDC resort. The resort is fantastic in terms of facilities and service. Here is a short account of the road journey. If someone benefits from this it will be my pleasure. View of Panchet hill from the main road that goes to Raghunathpur We had crossed the Dankuni toll plaza at 7.45 am and Asansol Morh came at around 11 am (distance of around 185 km), including a half an hour break near Shaktigarh and about ten minutes wasted at Panagarh due to jam. This little elephant had somehow got into the car & we loved her From the Asansol exit (that is, the point where you see the sign board on your left hand side saying “Welcome to Asansol Municipality”) the toll plaza on GQ is exactly 9 km. Exactly 7.5 km ahead of the toll plaza (Rs 50 for car) take the left turn entry into Sitarampur. This is where you leave GQ (basically 16.5 km from Asansol exit). This turn is called Chowringhee and this point is very non-descript. You will miss this unless you are very careful and watch out for it. Drive on straight for another 4 km to hit a T junction. Turn left here. You are now in Niyamatpur. After proceeding for about half a kilometer there is a traffic police point where there is a road going right. You should take this right turn. The straight road goes into the city of Asansol. (Some people try to save the Rs 50 toll and go through the city of Asansol to reach Niyamatpur. I think paying Rs 50 to avoid the confusion of Asansol city is worth it.) This was our official driver. Pic by co-driver It seemed this part of Niyamatpur is under a perpetual traffic jam. On a bad day, clearing this half km can take more than half an hour. The lone policeman looked like he was fighting a losing battle against the plethora of minibuses, trucks, motorcycles, cycles and rickshaws. Somehow we made it through this chaos. After all I negotiate the Tolly tram depot and Karunamoyee jams every evening! After turning right from Niyamatpur your next big town is Sanctoria which comes after 7 km from Niyamatpur Morh. Dishergarh Ghat comes right after Sanctoria. Here you cross the river to enter Purulia district. Exactly 14 km or so from Niyamatpur Morh comes Sharbari Morh where you turn right towards a small village called Puwa Para. The straight road goes to Raghunathpur (another important town of Purulia). From Sharbari Morh to Puwapara is about 8 km on reasonably bad road! If you drive carefully you won’t hit the road with your oil sump. Take the final left turn towards GP Kot resort from Puwa Para. From Puwa Para Morh to the resort it is a 1.5 km road through the horrendous village road. If you go straight you reach Panchet dam in another 1.5 km from PP Morh. I hope the above paragraph isn’t too complicated. The road from Niyamatpur to Sharbari is fairly decent. You might find trucks carrying slushy iron ore on this stretch. Keep a safe distance from them, as they spill out the red slush on the road and often on unsuspecting pedestrians near the railway crossings. On this road watch very carefully for the Sharbari Morh. Otherwise you might miss it (as we did). We finally reached GP Kot at around 1 pm. I drive really slow, as I enjoy the drive more when I have time to look around. There were a few bad stretches, especially around Puwa Para but nothing much. Won't scrape the bottom of a 170 mm GC vehicle like the Esteem. The drive through Puwapara In terms of things to see around GP Kot – apart from the brilliant greenery, you have the Panchet dam which was awesome, in terms of the sheer force of the water that was gushing out through the gates. However, I wonder if that would quite be the case during winter or summer lean months. The Panchet dam Damodar - once the terror of South Bengal You can also consider going to this ruin on the other face of the hill. A distance of around 12 km from the resort. You basically circumambulate the hill. Go in the direction opposite to Puwa Para with the hill on your left hand side It is a fairly simple narrow forest road upto Gobagh (8km from resort) where you meet the Asansol-Raghunathpur road. From Gobagh turn left and drive for another 1.5 km on the state highway. Turn left towards the hill again here and drive for 2.5 km on this road towards the hill. The road just ends here. I hope you can locate this left exit from the main road. If you come to a single rail line on the main road you should know you over shot and go back. Needless to say I learnt this the hard way!! A ruined temple in the ruined fort Apparently there was a king who lived here with his 17 queens. He was attacked by the Portuguese and fled leaving his queens to commit suicide in a well in the palace. The fort was subsequently abandoned. The ruins are really ruins and there is no ASI protection or any other such government effort to preserve anything there. The place only has a few shepherds and their goats and cows. Apparently there is also a perennial waterfall somewhere up in the hill. We walked for about 45 minutes up the mountain trail with a shepherd trying to reach the fall. Since we were not carrying any water we abandoned this quest and came down very thirsty. The shepherd is totally clueless about time and distance and we couldn’t understand from his words if it was ten more minutes or an hour away. The trekkers of GP Kot The view of the district from high up on the hill is very nice. It’s all green all around. The town of Raghunathpur is another place you might want to go to if you want to buy some Tasser silk. There is a place called Tanti Para inside Raghunathpur where they have quite a few silk cooperative shops. Whether the prices are reasonable, I have no clue. We went there in Partha's car. The lane was terribly narrow and we had a very tough time turning the car around while coming back. Mampu had a small injury on her finger when the door got shut on it. Those who are interested for the other mundane details – I went in my Esteem and my friend went in his Accent. None of us kept any FE record. We quite enjoyed the trip. One other word of caution. Please book your accommodation in advance. Don’t just land up there. First of all the resort staff there are not authorized to take in any guest, even if rooms are empty. Second, the resort is virtually full all the time. Third and perhaps most importantly – there is nothing else in that locality, except a small lodge in Panchet and a few shoddy lodges in Raghunathpur. I wouldn’t go all the way from Kolkata to spend my time in those lodges.

A Suicide In Runikhata

I wonder how many Calcuttans have any idea where Runikhata is. In 1989 I had never heard the name either. I was on my way to Gaylegphug for the first time in life, in a Bhutan bus and waiting in the middle of a desolate highway on a dot of a hamlet called Samthaibari. Waiting for army escort to come and take us to the Bhutan border town. The main convoy of trucks had gone ahead towards Guwahati with their army escort and we were to turn left (north) towards Bhutan outside the Bongaigaon town from where another escort van would help us complete the journey. Just two buses but packed with passengers. When the army escort jeep proved elusive for about 15 minutes and our driver was getting nervous, it was suggested that we should go up the route to this village called Runikhata which had a police station and the bus could wait inside the complex safely, as it was fortified.

The driver had reasons to be nervous. Assam was reeling under the Bodo agitation and we were in the heartland of this extremely violent agitation that took hundreds of lives and disrupted normal civilan life for a few years. Trains were suspended to the North-East for months, if not years. Even the insignificant hamlet of Samthaibari had bullet marks on the abandoned street-side dhabas.

Runikhata, it turned out, was a Bodo village on the outskirts of an elephant infested deep forest that would start from there and continue up to Bhutan for about 30 kilometers. There were other Bodo villages on this route where many Bodo men and women would board or disembark the bus. These two Bhutan buses every morning in either direction were their only means of transport. They were mostly local passengers though. 

On this narrow jungle road the most bone chilling sight used to be the remains of a bombed out army truck where more than 20 soldiers were blown off several months ago by the terrorists. I remember another sight on this route. Most of the Bodo villages had a library near the bus stop. The villagers weren't very affluent (but none of them ever looked shabby or visibly poor) but their love for books was evident in the presence of these libraries. I have never seen a library in such remote parts of India anywhere.

Between May 1989 and September 1990 I had made several journeys on this route. Mostly by public transport or the dangerous army ration truck that would pick up supplies from Bongaigaon. Dangerous because the army was the prime target of the terrorists. I found it very thrilling that this was a dangerous thing that I was doing. Apparently as harmless and innocuous as a ride in a truck but fraught with the real risk of dying in a moment.

Ever since I came back from Bhutan I never had an opportunity to even talk about these names like Runikhata with anyone. Even Aisling wouldn't know this name because being foreigners in Bhutan they were not allowed to enter that part of India even for transit purposes to go to Phuntsholing. So these names remained buried deep in my consciousness. Therefore, when I read the name of Runikhata in a news item this morning I reacted more than just emotionally. 

As it is, the news is really shocking. A class ten boy in Runikhata has commited suicide because he couldn't take an online examination as his father couldn't afford a smart phone. Read the news here . There have been other similar suicides in India which also affected me but because this was Runikhata, with which I somehow feel emotionally connected, my emotions were really stirred.

I made a post about this incident in facebook. Perhaps I was looking for some cathartic effect. One of the first comments was from a lady facebook friend. I had met her online through her curiosity and interest in birding and trekking. She has even come to our flat. She is a senior from my daughter's school and went to work with some big multinational in the US. I have no idea why she came back. I believe she is from either IIT or IIM or perhaps both. Right now she possibly does nothing except take general interest in everything on facebook. 

She felt the boy in Runikhata was stupid. I told her that her privileged upbringing has not only made her insensitive but has also dehumanised her. And asked her to get lost (after she failed to take the subtler hint dropped initially). I probably should not have been vulgar with a lady I hardly knew. I was not only hopping mad about her insensitivity and this "I know it all" attitude, I felt she needed to be tackled bluntly. But evidently I was not in control of my emotions.

Even without getting into an argument over the complex issue of why a child commits suicide, I felt like asking her, as a child if she had ever been denied (by her parents) any object of desire or need that most of her friends had. Denied not on any moral, ethical, health or disciplinary grounds but because the parents just didn't have the money to afford it. I have gone through this and I know exactly how it feels. Imagine this scene that was common to most middle class Bengalis in the 70s or before. 

You are playing cricket with your friends on the footpath with a rubber ball. A speeding car flattens the ball and your game stops. In the evening you ask your father for 30 paise to buy a new ball. It is the 20th of the month and your father says, let the month be over and let me get the salary then we shall see. Now this is a salaried father. In fact even my mother worked. And they were not miserly.

And here we are talking about a daily wage earner father in a remote village in Assam reeling under the impact of the lock down and struggling to organise a square meal and perhaps failing every day. 

My father had no vice. He did not drink, gamble or go to the races. He had no expensive habits. He took a second class tram to work. He saw no point why he should spend 3 paise more on a first class ticket only for the cushioned seats (which he hardly ever took) and the slow fan. My father spoilt me rotten with gifts and toys but even he would often wait for the month-end to get a 30 paise ball for me.

My daughter, I can say, has never been told this - wait till the month-end. In fact she has never had to ask for anything. They all come before she can ask about them. She has no idea how it feels to be told no. She is so satiated with everything that she does not even want anything.

Today when I spend Rs 12,000 on a bicycle saddle, double the cost of an average Indian cycle, I know it is that child that is spending. Mike Tyson has this expensive habit of buying luxury cars. I know where he is coming from. 

Touching The Knees

I have been practicing yoga at home since the lock-down. Initially I did a lot of rope jumping or skipping as we call it. I even mastered the art of cris-cross but after some time the rope broke and I got kind of bored jumping ropes (though I think it's an excellent aerobic exercise). So I shifted to practicing yoga. 

I daresay that I made some progress with certain poses. The basic salamba sarvangasana is almost cracked and I can raise my legs straight almost from the shoulder now. It's now a matter of practice and time before I am able to hold the pose for 5 minutes. As of now, it's about half a minute perhaps :-) 

I can rotate the legs 180 degrees to the back of my head without any support and get into the sarvangasana pose from there. When I do the halasana the body indeed looks like a "hal". I can sit in padmasana for ten minutes on each side - meaning left leg up first and then right.

I was also trying to get to perfection with the front bend pose called janusirasana where you stretch your legs out, hold the back of your feet with the hands and then bend down to touch the knees with your forehead first, followed by your nose and then the chin. 

After trying every day to get there for about two months now and making progress bit by bit, last evening I finally first touched the knees with my forehead. I felt such a sense of accomplishment to just brush against the knees. The progress is like the hour hand of the clock. It is moving but you cannot see it unless you look after an hour. 

I know I have a long way to go before I reach even 80 per cent of perfection but it is definitely a milestone. 

I have yet to be able to hold the back of my feet with one hand holding the wrist of the other. I have yet to bend the back almost totally straight from the pelvic region. I have yet to flare the elbows out fully as my head touches the knees. But I am getting there. And I will get there. There is no rush.  

Another pose that I want to perfect and I am currently working on is baddha konasana or the butterfly pose. I am close but not quite there. I give this pose about five minutes every evening. In this pose the knees should touch the floor and one should be able to bend forward with the spine straight and touch the floor in front with the forehead. The knees are almost there but not quite. Bending forward I can bring the forehead within about four inches of the ground. I will probably take a couple of months more to get there if I do it every single day. Let me see how it progresses.

My Commute

I live just south of Rashbehari crossing and my office is a straight line 3.25 km from home. On an average evening I jog more than this distance in the Lake. But during the working week I drive to work. My father, incidentally, used to take a second class tram.

Before Covid-19 hit us, the three of us - my daughter, my wife and I would go out every morning in our diesel Renault Duster. My neighbour's daughter, who studies in the same school and class as my daughter would also come with us. After dropping off the two children at their school - Modern High School for Girls - I would drop my wife off at Dalhousie and then come back to my office. In the evenings I would pick my wife and go home together. My daughter and her friend come back home using public transport. Therefore my daily commute on a working day involved driving for about 25 to 30 kms burning around 2 litres of diesel.

This was our arrangement until lock-down struck us and left us all home bound. When it was partially lifted (20th May, 2020 - the day Amphan hit) and going to office was no longer considered a criminal activity, I grabbed the first opportunity to get back to work. Attendance wasn't compulsory but to me getting back to the work place was very important. It has a therapeutic effect on my mind. I realised this during the protracted period of sitting at home. Office is not just a place where you work. In today's world most work can be done from anywhere in the world. But to us old timers the office is like family and I missed being with those old familiar faces. I may not be talking to everyone every day but being in the company of known persons is important. 

From my family I was the only one who went out to work. My wife is happy working from home. All she needs to do her job is her laptop. My daughter's school is closed. So I was the odd one out. I decided not to use the car for the short commute. Instead I started using my cycle for the office commute. Truth be told, on day one I drove to work. But from the next day I started cycling.

There are many reasons for this particular choice. I am a serious hobbyist as far as cycling goes. I have often considered going to work on my cycle on the odd days when only I go out from home (and my wife and daughter stay back due to some holiday that does not apply to me) but for various reasons it did not quite happen so far. This time several things went on inside my mind that helped me take the final plunge. 

First, when I saw the pollution free atmosphere that the lock-down gifted us I felt nostalgic about the old Calcutta of our childhood. And then I felt guilty about driving to work for such a short distance. This guilt feeling further gripped me when I spoke to some of our peons. They were coming cycling from places as far away as the interiors of Garia or Nepalgunge, easily covering a distance of more than 20 km each way. 

As it is, while reading the horror stories of the migrant workers first and then the Amphan victims, for the last more than two months I was feeling very guilty to be as privileged as I am - sitting at home safe and secure and getting all the modern conveniences without a problem. So at some subconscious level I think I felt cycling to work was perhaps the least I could do to identify with the less privileged members of our society. A sort of redemption for the sin of being privileged in a nation of millions of poor people. 

My small contribution to the environment through cycling is also important to me. I think it is ridiculous for a fit person to be driving to work over such a short distance. Another fact perhaps helped me go for the cycle. Just before the lock-down I had sold off my motorcycle meaning to replace it with something new which never happened. When I had the motorbike I often used it while going to work alone.

Now cycling to work for me has a few small problems but plenty of advantages. A. Calcutta is very hot and humid during this time of the year. I sweat a lot and arriving at work looking prim and proper is not possible when you cycle in the hot sun. So I choose to wear darker shades of clothes. After arriving I use a fat pocket towel to wipe myself dry. B. If you are not used to cycling in Calcutta you might find the traffic and even pedestrians on the road quite intimidating. But if you are used to it, it is not such a big issue. Of course one has to be careful, particularly with pedestrians who look through you as if you don't exist. C. If it rains it may take up considerable time on the odd day but luckily I don't have any deadline to reach office. D. There is a chance that there might be a flat tyre. While I carry a spare tube and all the implements needed to replace it, I am not sure I will want to do that on the road side in office wear. It hasn't happened so far, touch wood. If it does happen I shall see what to do. I would either walk back home or towards the office depending on where it happens. Ever since I went for puncture resistant tyres (that cost more than an average small car tyre each), I have never had a flat. But it does not mean it cannot happen. 

In my office I am lucky to be able to park the cycle in our ground floor garage space where there are security staff. If I had to park the cycle out on the road I wouldn't bring it. Even if people don't steal it, too many curious onlookers will finger its parts and ruin the bike.  

Some ask me how friends and colleagues see my new way of commuting. Friends who cycle as a hobby love this and are encouraging. Colleagues find it funny and some pull my leg. Peons, with whom I have always had a cordial relationship, hold me in higher esteem now. My other white-collared colleagues all drive to work, some from a distance that is less than 2 kms. Some come riding motorcycles. Few even bought new motorcycles to come to work. No one among the "management staff" cycles to office.

The problem in our society is that cycling is seen as a poor man's compromise. No one rides a cycle with any pride or love for it. Even the blue-collared worker does not like cycling and they all curse themselves that they have to suffer this hardship. Most of them aspire to own at least a motorcycle. 

I had the good fortune to visit Amsterdam a few years ago. Virtually the entire city cycles there. Outside railway stations or launch ghats you see literally thousands and thousands of cycles parked. I wonder how people find their own cycles back at the end of the day from that confusion. Every one there has a car but no one uses it for average commute. They enjoy cycling even in biting European winter. And none of them rides any fancy bike. They are all ordinary cycles with butterfly handles and brakes on the pedal. The city was not always so cycling friendly. Amsterdam changed the character of its roads sometime in the 60s and 70s and made it more cyclist oriented. And their citizens took to it with a lot of pride. I am told other European cities like Copenhagen or Brussels are also similar. 

Here in Calcutta it is just the reverse. The government, instead of trying to promote cycling as a cost effective and sustainable mode of transport and make it safer for people to cycle, made rules making cycling on city roads a criminal activity. I believe they have relaxed this rule after the lock-down. I didn't care to find out if the road I cycle on is within the allowed list. I dare a policeman to come and stop me one day. I shall see how to deal with that. He will also see how to deal with a particularly stubborn citizen.

Let us hope some day in future our city planners will have the wisdom to realise that cycling to work needs to be promoted and encouraged and not banned. But till such time we have these colleagues who drive to work over 2 kms it will have to wait.

Life of a Tree

They came equipped with all the cranes. In fact two cranes and a backhoe excavator. The main road was blocked from two sides so that no traffic would come and they could work in peace. They were replanting a fallen tree. A large one. It was reclining on our building for close to two weeks now. It used to be a large tree but now it is just a long stout wooden staff. A man with an axe had come the previous day and hacked off all the smaller branches that had green leaves. Nex day the other larger branches were chopped off by a man standing on the dolly of a boom crane. He used an electric chain saw because these branches were fatter. The large fallen tree with so many branches was shorn of all its branches. Then they pulled the slanting tree out of the ground and rested it on the footpath where some disinfectants were painted on the exposed and cut wood. After digging a deep hole where the tree stood they put the trunk back, essentially a straight piece of wood with one thin branch holding a few leaves and some roots. They covered the base with freshly dug mud so that it does not fall back again.

I was wondering. Why are they taking so much trouble? If they could pull the tree back (it was uprooted somewhat and leaned against our building during the super cyclone Amphan - see pic on the left) as it was it would be fine but after chopping off all the branches what is the point of planting it back? Why not plant a new sapling instead? It will grow much faster than this old tree. This tree, will actually never grow back to what it was. At best some new small branches will come out of the place where there is a Y now. It will look quite ugly actually.

But then a realisation dawned on me. To us Indians that old tree is a person. It has life. It is like we are trying to save an old injured man. It is not just another tree that we want there. We want this particular tree to be revived. We want it to live. I wonder if this view will be taken anywhere else in the world. 

We take great pride in the fact that one of our finest scientists, Sir Jagadish Chandra Bose had scientifically demonstrated that plants have life. Whenever vegans talk about cruelty to animals Indians say plants also have life and it is equally cruel to kill them for food (most food crops are harvested after they die and most vegetables are basically fruits that are collected without killing the plant but who will argue with logic).

When I shared the news of this replantation on facebook it was shared by complete strangers and got likes and comments from many many viewers. I was indeed amazed. For the record, three trees in our neighbourhood were revived like this.

We might forget in a few years. So it is best to note down here that while we were holed up in our respective houses fearing the Covid-19 infection, Calcutta and coastal Bengal was ravaged by a super cyclone called Amphan. This happened on May 20, 2020. Though life loss was minimal due to timely evacuation of people in coastal regions, disruption to normal life was severe. Parts of the city were without electricity for close to a week. Rural south Bengal was worse. Telecom lines were down for weeks. And most visibly hundreds of trees were uprooted and fell all over the city bringing down all sorts of cables. Even lamp posts and traffic signals were flattened. I have never personally seen such fury of wind.

Traffic signals in our neighbourhood

The tree in front of our house also fell. It was a large tree. About the height of our 4 storey building. I do not know what variety it is. It had the leaves that were similar to an Ashwath tree but obviously it was something different and not quite the same. The tree, along with several other trees on our side of the road, that is the western flank of the road, fell. They all fell to the west, suggesting the wind was blowing here from east to west. 

The tree in front of our neighbour's house fell on their boundary wall and broke it. Our tree reclined on our building and didn't fall to the ground. On the next day I realised some of the leaves had wilted. I thought the tree was perhaps dead. It did not break our building in any way but I was worried that another strong gust of wind might push it down and break our and our neighbour's boundary wall if not injure people. 

After a few days when we discovered that no one so much as bothered to come and even inspect the fallen tree we went to inform the office of the local councilor. She is also the Chairperson of the municipal corporation as well as the local MP. Quite a heavyweight. Someone from her office told us they don't have any manpower as every one is stuck in the lockdown and advised us to inform the local police station, which we dutifully did. Police noted down our name, phone number and address. 

After this a group of municipal workers came to remove the tree that had fallen on the shed put up by the local club in front of their club room. I asked them about the fate of our tree. They said this tree will require cranes and ropes etc and only the Parks And Gardens 

Kite Runner

Very fast read. I finished the book in one go reading it through the night right up to the next morning well past break fast. Binge reading :-)

I can see why this book became as famous as it did. It is written in a very easy language. You don't need a dictionary to understand a single word. The story's backdrop is very different. It's exotic Afghanistan. A country associated with violence and mass killings and not even remotely linked to literature. The book shows very realistic portrayal of the place. The story is very well told. The central theme of the story - redemption and retribution for past sins - is very well handled and executed. There are various layers and sub plots and complications of life. 

But it reads like a Bollywood movie in places. Certain scenes happen only in Bollywood formula movies. Like the final scene with the Taliban Assef. It's a little difficult to believe really. Such things don't happen in reality.

Also every time you think X will happen after Y, it does not happen and something totally different happens like a Z. That's also a cliched Bollywood style these days. Surprise for the sake of surprise.

I can understand that such a book would be a bestseller because it has all the elements of a bestseller - an exotic locale, immigrant life, almost true and seems like autobiographical, redemption of guilt etc. But I can also see why it has never won any award anywhere in the world. This book will never become a classic. It can sell millions of copies though. Apparently the book was on top of the NYT best seller list for two years :-). I am not surprised. It has everything that will please an American audience. Hosseini is a master chef and knows the recipe for a good dish that would be a big hit. But he may not provide any nourishment for you.

PS: I learnt about a new type of people. I am afraid I had no clue about the Hazara minority of Afghanistan. May God save them.