Devil Is In The Detail

Last month, little did the world know that the simple demand of the students of Kolkata's Jadavpur University (JU) for justice, for the redressal of an issue close to their hearts, would snowball into michhil, or protest marches, and assume gargantuan proportions not just in the city, but among the student communities in the rest of the country.

Had my impregnate Facebook newsfeed not been littered with the term #hokkolorob and had I not been the "chosen one" to edit the stories around “the state versus JU students” events (yes, I am a copy editor with a news daily), I would have let this uncertainty pass, of not knowing the meaning of that hashtagged word, of not knowing the depth of the matter at hand, of being indifferent like so many of my fellow countrymen. For starters, I thought it was gibberish, perhaps a Bengali version of Halla Bol, haq ki ladai (where hok would be haq or one's right and lorob would be lorbo or fight)—yes, you can judge me for being a probashi and not being lettered in the mother tongue—however, all hail be to Google, I found out Hok Kolorob is the name of a song/album by Arnob and that it means "Let there be noise".

Soon I felt enlightened and metamorphosed—the outer shell of a passive, old, indifferent self would wither and the younger, passionate, angered, revolting self unfurl, rekindling the memories of college days when "protest", "agitation", "revolt" were legit terms. But here the situation is a bit different. The totalitarian and fascist state deals with the innocents (or so we think, we the "anti-state" humbugs or “devils” in the eyes of the state) by making arrests in a Kafkaesque fashion. So I, the "outsider" humbug (an alumnus of the milder Delhi University), in support of the fellow students in Bengal, joined the protest in Delhi's Banga Bhavan this Saturday (Didi, didi, didi...  [*humming the Usha Uthup song*] ...catch me if you can!).

West Bengal: the state of bandhs, the state of michhils. The naysayers say that melodrama courts cultural, political and civil dos in this state; everything is overtly exaggerated, in the same way as unattended milk boiling away on a stove. You know what happens next.

But why so much deliberation on michhil in a food blog? Because, I was wondering what food item/dish can complement the idea of a michhil. Yes, a random thought. Go on, judge me. Actually the thought was planted in my head by this blog’s owner, my dear friend P—who made her mother's speciality deem er devil (my all-time favourite) today. (*You might scratch your head and hum in the puzzled Shakti Kapoor’s crime-master Gogo way, from Andaz Apna Apna: Yeh devil-devil kya hai? Yeh devil-devil?*). The uncannily named “devil” is the ultimate michhil food—the egg-mince mutton croquettes; shaped as bombs, only, they burst inside your mouth and, oh what a burst of flavours!

And no, you don't do "thoda khao thoda phenko" in the Satish Shah’s DeMello style, from Jaane Bhi Do Yaaro, in keeping with the spirit of the michhil (of hurling things, usually stones, at your opponent during a fight), you khao (eat) the full devil. And just to think, if you did throw these devils into your opponents' mouths, I have this strong gut feeling that with every disintegrated morsel consumed, they will have a change of heart and agree to your demands, for who wouldn't fall captive to the taste of these little devils.

In keeping with the mood of the times, and in support of the cause, Rupam Islam—champion of the bangla rock protest song—has come out with his rendition of the Hok Kolorob song.  Let there be noise.
Noise, I made all my life. Every time I wanted something. So you can imagine my battle cries each time I was refused the deem er devil. As a child, I would nudge at my dadu (maternal grandfather) to buy me these at the local Bengali sweetmeat shops, and ogle at these beauties stacked in the food stalls at (Durga) Pujo pandals, salivating, hoping someone would notice and buy me some, and finally coaxing the parents to let loose their purses.

Yes, I made a noise against those who ensured that an unbreachable distance was being maintained between me and the devil. This is fighting against injustice. How different can a michhil be then?

One is the desire to change the stasis in society; the other is the desire to change the monotony of taste in everyday meals. Tell me, what's my crime? What's my crime? All I ask for is the devil. Let the devil arise. What good comes of being a do-gooder anyway?

The devil is, at the outset, a microcosm of a michhil. Almost like the “salad bowl” Pablo Neruda conjures up in his poem Ode To Tomatoes marrying all ingredients in a happy union, indicative of the cosmopolitanism of the Spanish community in Chile; likewise the ingredients of the devil—a “bricolage” (aside: *tears of joy at finding the right word; thanks to Levi-Strauss and Derrida*) of minced mutton, boiled eggs, mashed boiled potatoes, chopped onions, chopped green chillies, chopped parsley leaves, salt, spices— all bound in a fine blend, difficult to ascertain where the taste of one ingredient ends and the other begins—all become one; one body, many textures, a unique taste. Likewise, protest marches are symbolic of the union of many personalities, where all differences blend to form one body of critical mass, marching forward, together, giving the michhil a unique character, a colourful cosmopolitanism. So what if one can cause indigestion, acidity, obesity, cardiac arrest, and the other might lead to the breaking of some bones, brain haemorrhage, or being jailed? Are these reasons enough to refuse a devil or refute a michhil? If you say yes, then I am sorry friend, shame on you. You will die a coward. 

But there’s still time to make amends. Next time your blood boils over an issue, carry out a michhil or make devils, eat them, and when the state machinery hurls stones at you, you hurl devils back at them.

P.S: A devil a day, keeps the rivals at bay!

(Disclaimer: Read it with a pinch of salt.)

Deem-Keema er Devil

(Recipe and food pictures Courtesy Pritha Chakraborty and 
'Guilt Free' http://prithachak.blogspot.in/)

Makes 10 devils

Ingredients:

Eggs, boiled and halved: 5
Salt, a sprinkling
Pepper powder, a sprinkling
Egg, whisked: 1
Breadcrumbs: 200 gm (or as required)
Oil: for deep-frying


For the mince meat filling:

Mutton keema/mince: 500 gm
Bay leaf: 2
Onion, finely chopped: 2
Ginger paste: 1 tbsp
Garlic paste: 1.5 tbsp
Red chilli powder: 3/4 tsp
Green chillies, finely chopped: 2
Salt, to taste
Sugar, to taste (optional)
Fresh parsley, chopped finely: 1/2 cup
Garam masala powder: 1 tsp
Mustard oil: 2 tbsp

For the potato coating:

Potatoes, boiled and mashed: 8
Mustard oil: 1.5 tbsp
Onion, finely chopped: 1.5
Green chillies, finely chopped: 2
Salt, to taste
Sugar, to taste
Fresh parsley, chopped finely: 1/2 cup

Bhaja masala: 2 tsp (make it at home by first roasting and then grinding a couple of bay leaves, some coriander seeds, cumin seeds and dry red chillies into a powder)

Method:

1. For the keema filling: Heat oil in a deep-bottomed pan, add bay leaf, let it splutter for 30 seconds and then add the garam masala powder. Saute for 30 seconds more. Add onion, salt and sugar and cook on high till it turns translucent and almost golden. Add ginger and garlic paste and keep sauteing for 4-5 more minutes. 

2. Add the keema, green chillies and red chilli powder, mix well, cover and cook for 7-8 minutes. Uncover and cook till keema is done. Try not adding water because you want your keema really dry for it to take shape.Once keema is done, turn off the gas and mix the parsley well with the keema. Set aside.

3. For the potato mixture: Heat oil in a deep-bottomed pan. Add onion, salt and sugar and cook on high till it turns translucent and almost golden. Add ginger and keep sauteing for another couple of minutes. Add the mashed potato, green chillies and mix everything thoroughly. Add the bhaja masala and parsley and continue to mix well for the next two minutes. Turn off heat and let the potato cool. 

4. For the assembly: Lay the halved boiled eggs on a plate, scoop out the yolks. Sprinkle salt and pepper over them. Mix the yolks well with the keema filling (I skip this step because I don't eat egg yolks).

5. Once the potato has cooled, take a big handful between your palms, roll it into a ball, flatten it by pressing between your palms. Place an egg half on the potato patty, stuff the keema filling in the scooped out depression of the egg generously and then fold the loose ends of the potato patty around the egg-keema to form a slightly elongated and roundish chop-shape. Repeat till all the devils are shaped this way.

6. In a bowl with a wide surface whisk the eggs and in a another plate pour the breadcrumbs. Keep a third plate ready sprinkled with a little breadcrumbs to prevent the chops from sticking. With one hand dip the devil into the egg and place on the bed of breadcrumbs. With the other hand roll it gently in the crumbs making sure it doesn't break. DO NOT use the same hand for doing both as that will render the crumbs moist. Once fully coated on all sides, rest on the plate kept ready.

7. Heat sufficient oil in a non-stick kadhai till it starts to almost splutter. Gently drop a devil and wait for it to get crisp and brown on all sides. Start with high heat but moderate as and when necessary. Fry one devil at a time. Once done, use a slotted spoon to take it out of the pan and drain on a plate lined with kitchen towel/tissue. 

8. Serve hot with ketchup, mustard sauce/kashundi and onion rings!

Es tu feministe?!

I often wonder why people (men and women both) shy away from being called feminists, even remotely, as if it's some kind of a plague one can better do without. Mostly, such indifference comes from ignorance. I would request people to READ READ and READ. READ about the struggles, read about the history, don't form your unfounded opinions basing them solely on hearsay. Feminism is not something to be ashamed of, it does not refer to beating up men (that's such a juvenile thought process)..it is about fighting for one's rights. Would you not put up a fight if you were grounded at home, not allowed to play outside or watch TV? Yes you would never find the names of those who sacrificed and died etched or engraved on any tombs, no amar-jawan-jyoti or suchlike, can you count on your fingers and tell me how many feminists do you know of---even feminist writers/ authors/ artistes/ activists would do. But do you know who they are, or even their names? I, unlike a lot of other people i bang into in the walk of life, am proud to be branded a feminist. It gives me a sense of pride, a sense of purpose, and a sense of belonging. You may call them the sub-altern, their stories will never be told, their struggles will vanish with the passage of time, their sacrifices/fights would be forgotten. And despite knowing that, when i come across someone (man and/or woman) who says that s/he is proud to be a fellow feminist (with full knowledge of the term), i have nothing else but sheer respect to offer to him/her.

Pseudo Guy

Bye Bye

You are a pseudo guy

You say you like the rain
But from showers you refrain

You say you have done this and you have done that
But testimony you have not to support your act gone bad

You say you like music, art, culture and all that jazz
But when I discuss genres and forms, you only spaz

You say you loved watching Knopfler’s film on Kurosawa’s book
Now, was I listening to Kafka’s music with my hair on the hook?

You liked me ‘coz I laughed at your joke?
Fool was I to believe you were a suitor bespoke

You say you think intense and progressive
But your act tells a story regressive?

You say you believe in and propound compassion
But you suffer from megalomaniac convulsion

You say you chase away pretense and scandal
But honesty is something you just can’t handle

Words pour out of your mouth
Like a fountain down south

Are these all lies?
Attempting to build future ties?

My dear, they mask the real person

Reason why, you, I must jettison

And so, bye bye
You are but a pseudo guy

Of broken conversations, and coloured perceptions…

The phone rang. It was his sister, Radha. She hollered over: Was the fight worth it?

Sharanya, in her new-found self, replied firmly: “Yes, because it opened my eyes and stopped me short from playing that gamble that I was about to play with my life.”

“Being emotionally inept isn’t a crime,” exclaimed Sharanya, further adding, “but I refuse to put up with such passive behaviour for the rest of my life, he remained unmoved by the news that my best friend was in the ICU. All he said, was an ‘Oh!’, what indifference!! The pile of differences is huge to be reconciled. Are we both willing to overlook our differences and accommodate each other’s priorities in our lives?

I guess not. Compromises and negotiations are the brick and mortar that build a relationship, hasn’t this been oft quoted in those ‘lists of things that make relationships work’?!”

A pause ensued, before Sharanya picked up her threads.

She continued in the same tone. “One day he says he loves me, the next day he says he had a revelation that we are not meant to be. That he is not certain that we would be happy together, so he is calling it off. Uh huh!!... And how many days did we know each other? Not even for a fortnight”.

Sharanya thought aloud: Is he whimsical or IS HE WHIMSICAL?! I mean, he owes me an answer for this. But I will never ask. It, now, hurts my already-wounded feminine pride.

“He can go on being a wall, but I refuse to bang my head against it. He can continue being stubborn, difficult, inexpressive, judgemental, egotistical and high-handed in his approach, or then just plain selfish. I am a selfish Jane too, and would rather be with somebody who makes me laugh and wipes my tears, is at least compassionate and respectful of my feelings”.

“Blah! Why am I ranting?! And how does it even matter now. It’s inconsequential and immaterial. The chapter is closed. And for the better. I would say his loss. Goodbye and good riddance,” said Sharanya to the person she saw in the mirror on the wall facing her.

There was no noise on the other side of the phone. Radha was silent---it was unknown whether she was patiently listening preparing her vitriolic verbal attacks in her head or had switched of­­­f mentally or then kept the white receiver on the table and left the room---Sharanya expected a long nasty retort. But all that Radha could offer was SILENCE!

Talking Frames

My tidings with reading and watching stories began at a very young age,
Gradually developed a penchant for cinema when I learnt the art of critical gauge.
Appreciating the art, its forms, contents and styles all floating in my dreams,
Lack of a community space for it fostered frustrated ambitions and silent screams.


Fighting the big-bad-world, hoping to find firm grounds on which I can run,
Lacking opportunities, initiative, and self-esteem added to my inherent confusion.
Still struggling in college, I became the film-club convenor and initiated the culture,
Charging it to be non-academic and frivolous, the authorities attacked like vultures.
My friends saw in me what I could not, they had faith in me when I had none,
Their encouraging support made me see in the dead-dark night the rays of the sun.


Film festivals and cultural ado got me thinking about my capacity at organizing one,
My search replenished and landed me at the doorstep of The YP Foundation.
The Butterfly Project – this peculiar name of its film division caught my attention,
Based on the butterfly effect philosophy - massive changes brought about by smallest actions.


Static broken columns of sunlight on stagnant waters suddenly started moving,
Everything fell into perspective, in the head it all started ringing.
To create a democratic space between filmmakers and their audience,
To generate respect for films as an end in itself, in all its forms of existence.
To show how films can both be entertaining and educative, of delight and utility,
Being a powerful agent of conveying issues about individuals and society.
Of all the places, YP gives me the creative liberty for alternative creations,
Through film festivals, monthly/coffee - house screenings, workshops and discussions.
Jumping in the pool to learn swimming, embarking on a viewer-to-doer flight,
My festivals at South-Asian and National levels blossomed me from cocoon to butterfly.


My projects’ name is an apt one,
And this journey has just begun……!!!!

Let not this desire die.....

T: There is just so much to say but all over there is still darkness, silence and solitude. Walls have ears, i have heard, but any kind of audio-verbal barter is prohibited. Who should i tell? I am tired listening to my mind's voice each time, and because of that all our deepest desires and longings remains buried.

S: This heart, despite the buried desires still dreams, that is its greatest achievement, that is what makes life worthwhile my friend.

T: Is this called living life? Wingless bird, how will i fly? In dreams can I escape, run away..far...ever so far; so many wishes, so many thoughts, life is short but desires are oceanic. I keep searching for the boat to cross this sea of a life; and then hopeless when i fall dizzy like you feel after being on a swirling and spinning ride, i stare around blankly but everything seems to be getting mixed up, fading away into the horizon beyond my reach.

S: Friend, you view life through drunken eyes, we exaggerate and eulogize our dreams so much that petite happiness gets lost somewhere; our desires are so many but how little is our capacity. Your looking at the sea is futile, I see tides in that, they go away with the promise of their return, I am drunk in that hope friend, my life is short but hopes are one basket full....

T: It is that hope-filled basket with which is built the house where I reside friend, I know the tides will come and shatter everything down to shambles, still incessant are my efforts, i again make my hope-filled hamlet. It is true, our petite happiness get lost in the constellation of our dreams, but the dreams in these little eyes are immense, their leash is not in my hands. Around me, everybody's dreams materialize, then why not mine? Where is my fault? I will not curse my destiny, but directionless I retract into that world of dreams.

S: If desires were fulfilled then it won't remain desires anymore, one gets fulfilled and another comes up. The one who writes her own destiny, is today strumming the notes of depression? Of all, her desires are the greatest, because they are not enmeshed in the dirt of reality. Friend, you are the queen of all our dreams.

T: Hahahaha...don't elevate me so high that when i fall even the memory won't remain, like water i will mix and get lost in life's mud. These dreams breathe life into my soul. To get kissed by the fresh, fragrance-filled morning air when i open the windows do i sleep the night before under covers to wade off the embracing darkness surrounding me. Me...a queen..hah.. am just a roadside vagrant begging for one piece of moon. Is that too much to ask for? Depression stands at every corner, junction and turnings to take control of my senses. My soul has dried up, laughter and tears refuse to burst out; with pale eyes I stare blankly. Oh dear friend, there is just no end to this yearning, to these desires.

S: I repeat, these longings and desires are our biggest gain. No matter how much depression strikes, this desiring should never get erased, it should never die.

T: Friend, in this journey of life don't ever get lost, you are the reason why I am alive, i am relegated to an extreme solitary confinement, a wayward, directionless sailor.

S: I will sail your life's boat through friend .. forever and for always. Many will come, many will go, even if you get angry with me, i will never desert you.

T: That is why i love you incomprehensibly and so i cannot bear when you look through me as if i do not exist, as if an apparition standing before you. Your attitude at times cuts through like a dagger in my chest. I want to hug you and howl and shriek, whine and smile. You are my life, I get really angry at times but where will I go with all that pent-up wrath and frustration? People change over time, whether that is a good thing or bad I cannot decipher... am just flowing with the stream of life.

S: Friend, no matter how angry you get with me, the fact remains and is known very well by you that i was, am and will be with you for all times to keep. The two of us are petals of the same bud, entwined forever. Love you. :)

Haariye na jaye ei shur...

T: Kotho kichu bollar ache, kintu charidike ondhokaar aar ekanto. Dewal e der kaan hoye, shunechi, kintu kono rokum er aadaan-prodaan nished; kaake boli? Nijer moner aawaaj aar shunte bhalo lagena, shei jonne shob mon-praan er ichcha debe hoye jaye shesh.

S: Ei mon eto debe thaaka ichche shotteo je shopno dekhche, shetai tar shobcher boro paoa, sheta tei taar baacha sharthak bondhu.

T: Ei baacha ta o ki kono baacha holo? Daana kata paakhi , udbo ki kore ? Shopno te ee je aami paalate paari, koto ki chaai, koto ki bhabhi, jibon ta je chhoto kintu ichcha bishaal. Jibon er ei shomudro ta paar korbar nouka khuje berai, tar por hotash hoye maatha ghure jokhun dhum kore pori, chokh duto daib daib kore khule dekhi chaari deeke, kintu shob kichu jaimon ekta kothao guliye jachche…..

S: Bondhu tumi jibon ke neshaar chokhe daikho, amra shopno ke eto bishaal kori, je chhoto chhoto khushi gulo taate hariye jae, amader chaoa ta eto beshi, kintu khomota koto tuku? Tumi shomudro e onasha e daikho; aami tate dheu dekhi, taara chole jae, kintu abar ashar kotha diye, aami shei ashatei matal bondhu, amar jibon chhoto, kintu amar asha ek jhuri bhora…….

T: Shei ashaar jhurir toh bari baniye thaaki tar moddhe bondhu, jani dheu eshe shob bheste debe, tao chestar shesh nei, abar banayi ashar kuti. Eta theek, chhoto chhoto khushi hariye jaye shopner taramondol e, kintu ei duti chhoto chok e je shopno bishaal, sheta je amar baush e nei bondhu, joto ee chesta kori, pere aar uthte paari na. Ashe pashe shobaikar shopno purno hoe, tahole amar keno noe ? Amar dosh ta kothae ? Bhagyo ke koshbona, kintu upaayheen palaee shei shopner duniya e...

S: Asha jodi purno hoe jeto, tahole shey aar asha hoto na, ek asha purno hole aar ek asha jaage. Nijer bhagyo je nije lekhe shei bondhu aaj hotashar shur taanche? Taar asha gulo je shobaar che boro, karon taar asha bastobikotar nongramo te maakha noe. Bondhu tumi je amader shopner raani……

T: Hahahahaha eto ta tulo naa amake je porle kono shriti o thakbena, jol er moton mishe hariye jaabo maatir moddhe. Shei shopno je amar shorir e rokt-er moton ; bhor bailar je shugandhit, porishkar thanda hawa jaanla khulle gaale chumbon dei, sheta roj shokaal e paoar jonne je raat e chador chapiye shuee ghurghutte ondhokaar e. Aami aar rani.. hah.. raastar bhikiri.. ek tukro chaand er asha e bhikke cheye berai. Hotashota je proti muhurte dariye thaake amake baush e korar jonne. Bhetor ta shukiye gaiche, na paye haanshi, na paye kaanna. Phail phail kore cheye thaaki. Ei chaoar je kono shesh nei bondhu…

S: Abar boli, ei chaoatai amader shobcheyer boro paona. Jotoi hotasha hok, ei chaoa ta jaino muchhe naa jaye.

T: Bondhu jibon er ei poth e kokhuno hariye jeo na, tumi je amar bachaar karon, aami boddo eka, poth harano maajhi.

S: Tomar paar aami korabo bondhu chirokaal. Oneke ashbe, oneke jaabe, tumi amar theke rege gaile o tomake aami charchina. :)

T: :) Shei jonne toh nijer theke beshi bhalobaashi tomake, shojjo hoe na jokhun tumi o amake dekhe obohaila kauro. Tomake joriye mon bhore kaandte chaai, aar mon khule haanshte chaai, tomar moddhe je amar praan aatke, raag ashe khub kintu shei raag niye jaabo kothaay. Shomoy er shaathe maanush paalte jae, sheta bhalo naa kharaap bujhe uthte paari na, jibon er sroth er shaathe boye chole jayi shhudhu.

S: Bondhu joto ee raag kauro, aami je tomar shaathe aachi sheta tumi jaano khub bhalo kore. Onek bhalobasha :)