Omani uut vs. Bangali uut

"Uut ki kanta bechhe khaye?''

Era Omani Uut, Bangla-e jiggesh korechhilam bole bujhte parlo na bodhoye. Bangali uut-er shathe aalap hole jene nebokhon.

Alexandria Get-away

This talks of untold stories. Dark and cosy back-lane in hedonistic Alexandria, the crumbling, sea-salted playground of Islamic Egypt. A man and (his?) woman caught out in the prying headlights.
Shall I be sensible and opt for the "elderly couple taking a shortcut to the main road on the way to the rail station'' story? Or is it the star-crossed lovers running away from unreasonable families, the way ravishing bengali belles fly to freedom with smoking hot kashmiri shawl-wallahs? Or do they anymore?
Or is it a prelude to the last action stand of the rebel, running from the swarming government forces?
For now, they will keep this picture alive, and the possibilities would remain tantalising.

p.s: the drama gets heightened when I think of the place the picture was taken from - a tiny balcony of the legendary Cecil Hotel in Alexandria, wartime headquarters of the British Secret Service, time and again haunted by the likes of Winston Churchill, Somerset Maugham, Lawrence Durrell, etc. on a balmy night of the Mediterranean summer.

E-rummaging through old Calcutta bin

E-rummaging. Through old letters on an email acoount. Excerpts from an email sent after I had moved out of Kolkata, my home, for the first time, six years back.

hi,

bol ki khobor. r u in calcutta? man,i'm so jealous!!! anything that's slightly kolkata in colour and bangla in taste seems so good now. the name "calcutta" sounds like straight out of a black n white hollywood classic, where i travel on the red road on a cloudy sunday morning, in an old tram, sucking on orange lozenzes bought from a chirpy 10 year-old. i stand on the footboard for the last part of the journey, feeling the wind, as the tram makes it's way towards khiddirpore. i get down, buy a bhutta, and start walking along the tree-lined street named after a doctor. maybe he was an old man in a white coat and a white beard, with a hearty laugh, and treated poor people for free. maybe not. anyway, i walk past the old, dusty houses, some of which have space for gardens in the front, gardens which don't exist anymore. the houses stand splendid in dust and rust. i finally walk up three short steps and knock on the door of a similiar house, which is slightly ajar, and i enter. the man in the room sits talking to one of his students. he is a musician and has a few students. i take a seat at the back of the room. somebody asks him about bluegrass. he starts playing. the room is dimly lit and filled with music. i close my eyes and listen. he starts playing a different tune, playing chords and notes at the same time, something very jazzy. he suddenly stops laughs and says,"this is for the gin and lime mood...in a new york club." and i sit fascinated - what IS this music?

Here's a rum and coke to you.

Singh of the road...

Alibhai (a Punjabi from Pakistan), my private taxi-driver, has a new Toyota 4X4. He is very proud of it. The new possession ensures that he is in excellent spirits these days. As a result, he spoke non-stop from Abu Dhabi to Sharjah for three hours. The I-am-pretending-to-fall-asleep ploy failed completely to stop him.

In his fit of enthusiasm, he also made the following profound comments to a couple of my co-passengers -

1. to an irritable Indian lady with a broken leg - "Madamji, you should lose some weight to ensure that you dont break any more bones in the future"

2. to a middle aged Egytian lady who kept us waiting - "Madam, dont feel bad about keeping us waiting - ladies will take their time for putting on make-up and trying to look good"

Alibhai also explained to me patiently the benefits of a 4X4 - "you need to battle the sand dunes in this rocky country". And to demonstrate the capabilities of his vehicle, he climbed back and forth across pavements, paying little attention to sounds of protests from other drivers on the road.

An accent to "Pank" on...

I met a young Brit of Sudanese origin during one of my projects recently. He was there as a translator (Arabic to English) for representatives from our client's side - one French, one Egyptian (he didn't need translation), two Koreans and one American.

This young man did his job well, except for the fact that his 'P's were replaced by 'B's and vice-versa.

So when I called him to find out where he was, he told me, "I am barking".
Later during the interview he was translating (which was about banking), he kept referring to Banks as Panks.

The client didnt mind because he had a strong British accent.

he ain't heavy, he's my brother...

"I work in the laundry shop all day. I save money by sleeping in the shop at night. This Arbi (Arab) is very good to me. He trusts me blindly.
I have two houses in Bangladesh. My sister and nephew live in England. The agent said I'll have to spend just few months here, then England. He ran away with five lakh rupees. And since then I am stuck here, trying to earn the money back. The first two years were difficult, couldn't save anything, got 600 dirhams a month. Now its increased to 1000, and I also wash cars. I am saving 1000 a month now.
My brothers asked me to come back, but I didn't want to. Haven't been home ever since I left. I feel like going back all the time. I planned throughout last year to go back during Ramadan, then ran out of money in the end. My brothers said they will pay for my tickets. I didn't acept, doesn't feel nice going back for the first time, with no money.
Washing cars is illegal for me. So is sleeping in the shop. The police caught me twice. I didn't lie to them. I told them I earn 800 dirhams, 400 I spend on food, 200 on calling home every month. I can't afford an accommodation. Would you rather I steal? I don't do that. I told them I am not Alibaba. I pray daily, I work hard. They didn't say anything to me.
I am alright now. I am saving enough. Some other people I know have gone back, they didn't last. I want to see the end of this. I wont give up. Ami Bangaler bachcha.
Just that I am very lonely here. Back home I had friends, I would barely be home 2-3 hours a day. I had family. I am very lonely here."

I had known Salamat was a bengali the first time he had spoken to me in English. I guess the same way everybody knows I am one when I speak any other language. Salamat is short and thin, with a bad squint and (I suspect) a hearing problem as well. He is my laundry man, my dhopa.
The same day I got a packet from Kolkata with new pujo clothes, from my parents. It also had a letter from my kid brother, thanking me for the Chelsea shirt and telling me he bought kites on Bishwakarma pujo. And he would like to come and visit me and see the ocean and the desert.

I shook Salamat's hand, wished him luck and asked him to take care.