My colleagues, being journalists, are characteristically cynical. So, in cubicle talk, they have this chronic tendency of turning the most humane story inside-out. That is exactly what happened to this story of mine, which was shared with them in the general adda session that one indulges in on rejoining office after a long break, especially if the break was used in travelling to -- what habitual urbanites like my colleagues will call 'god-forsaken places'.
The story in question, is about Amit Karmakar.
But before I tell his story, I need to tell you about the place where I met him. The place is called
Bermiok, or Hee-Bermiok, in West Sikkim. Hee and Bermiok are actually two villages about 150 kilometres from Siliguri, but the catch is in the altitude. The place is about 3500 feet from the sea-level and during winter months, can greet you with night temperatures going well below minus 4 degrees celsius. Nothing unsusual for the area, but it can be absolutely killing for somebody like me, whose acquaintance with low temperature ranges around the 12 degree celsius mark, and is regarded as biting cold.
So, I was here at a hotel in Bermiok. Dibyendu Ghose from Kolkata has taken a hotel on lease and has been sending hoards of 'offbeat destination seekers' from Kolkata like me. Hoards, because that's the only 'Bengali' place to stay at least in Bermiok, though there are quite a few home-stay facilities in the two villages. You see, Bengali 'offbeat destinations seekers', even in modern times, are a different species altogether. They can trek for hours with a rucksack or a backpack, they are capable of appreciating anything from the jungles of Arunachal to the sweeping lines of Ladakh, and not be daunted by the absence of urban facilities, they can, once the travel bug bites hard, even travel RAC -- which in Indian Railway terms means travelling on a sleeper coach without managing a wink because you may be sitting cramped in between two other such badnasibs the whole night, while the rest of the compartment thunders away to snoring glory.
But, the modern Bengali tourist, he and especially she, still cannot travel without two necessities-- 1. A good toilet at the place of stay and 2. Bhaat, daal and torkari, if not maacher jhol. And it is on both these counts that the Kanchan View hotel in Bermiok scores. You get WC, 24x7 running hot and ice-cold (alternatively) water, and you get not just bhaat-daal-torkaari but also maacher jhol and chicken curry for lunch and dinner. Naturally, that's the only spot in the whole of Hee-Bermiok where you also get to hear such endearing expressions as 'arektu jhol de to' (some more curry here, please) and 'breakfast-ey luchibhaaja hobey bhai?' (can one expect luchis-- a fried pancake made out of white flour-- for breakfast if you may).
Dibyendu, as his surname suggests, is not a Kundu (as in Kundu Travels, estd:1933) and therefore, according to Bengali folklore, is not born with the inherent talent of achieving the daunting task of providing luchibhaaja and macher jhol at a height of 3500 feet. So how did he manage the impossible, despite being surrounded by Lepchas, Gurkhas and Limboos, whose claims to the Bengali taste bud has been limited to the momo and thupka?
Because Dibyendu understood a simple business strategy of the Kundus. They just do conducted tours, and hence take all their staff from Bengal. So this guy, just like his tourists, has also imported his hotel staff, like Amit, from Bengal.
The catch is, he has imported Amit and his other colleagues from near the villages of the Sundarbans, where temperatures at their lowest are just about 13 degrees. In search of a living, Amit and his friends are braving temperatures of -4 degrees. You will say, so what's the big deal, it happens. One has to survive. But that's not the point. Because survival in this way wasn't exactly necessary for Amit, if Hurricane Aila hadn't happened.
Amit is 16. He has reached the heights of Sikkim for the first time in his life. In fact, it is for the first time in his life that he has left his village, leaving his family-- dad, mom, elder brother and younger sister under a roadside tarpauline-- the version of the West Bengal government's rehabilitation package or refugee camp, whatever way you describe it, for the Aila victims of Sundarbans.
I met Amit shivering under a jacket and a sweater at the doorway to my room one December night last year. The room, in contrast, had a nice warm interior, thanks to the electric room-heater. It was 9 in the night, the air outside was blowing in straight from the Kanchenjunga, and it was as cold as a mommy . Naturally, Amit lingered at my room, trying to get some warmth out of it I suppose. And because he chose to linger, and I had yet not finished by regulation rum for the day (which considering the cold, combined with first day fatigue, had long exceeded the so-called 'regulation' mark), I got chatty with him. It was then, that I came to know of all the things that I have said till now.
"So how long have you been here?"
"Six weeks, sir."
"And how does it feel?"
"Cold, very cold."
"That's natural. But don't you miss your family?"
"I do sir"
"So why did you take up this job? Didn't you know you will have to live without them?"
"I knew. But I had to take this job. I will survive. And one day I will no more feel bad. They also wanted me to take this job."
"Who?"
"My dad, mom. elder brother."
"Why?"
"The fields are all salty. Can't grow anyhthing there. So many months have passed. How long will they give relief? We have to eat."
"But then, your elder brother could have come here?"
"He stayed back to farm and fish, once the salt recedes. He has a family, kids."
So that's about the truth. A 16-year-old, being sent out by the family, all seniors of the family conceding to the decision, miles away from home, in an entirely different climate, because survival is much more important than bonds. For Amit. For the family.
Survival, in the face of natural odds-- how deeply it can affect our accepted norms of relationships, giving rise to an almost new perception of what I would term as 'evolved disconnect'.
On hindsight, I had wondered, was I actually interested in Amit's story, had it not been as 'humane?' If it had not had the potential for a good 'cpy'? Wasn't I getting an almost voyeristic satisfaction out of talking him of his misery-- a misery, which Amit himself was unable to realise.
If that is true, then I have almost chiselled my senses to the 'evolved disconnect'.
And, as a matter-of-fact, isn't Amit also suffering from an evolved sense of disconnect with his self?
But then, my colleagues, after hearing all this had just one thing to say, "Oh, you always end up with some Swapan Saha brand-of-story. So who's going to play the hero? Prosenjit?"
Swapan Saha, by the way, was even a couple of years back, the master of melodramatic potboilers of the Bengali film industry, and his most favourite hero had been Prosenjit, who apparently was the 'king' of that industry, around the same time.
My colleagues, like me, and Amit, were 'evolved' in their sense of 'disconnect'. But then, we are surving on our own terms, and it feels good.
The story in question, is about Amit Karmakar.
But before I tell his story, I need to tell you about the place where I met him. The place is called
Bermiok, or Hee-Bermiok, in West Sikkim. Hee and Bermiok are actually two villages about 150 kilometres from Siliguri, but the catch is in the altitude. The place is about 3500 feet from the sea-level and during winter months, can greet you with night temperatures going well below minus 4 degrees celsius. Nothing unsusual for the area, but it can be absolutely killing for somebody like me, whose acquaintance with low temperature ranges around the 12 degree celsius mark, and is regarded as biting cold.So, I was here at a hotel in Bermiok. Dibyendu Ghose from Kolkata has taken a hotel on lease and has been sending hoards of 'offbeat destination seekers' from Kolkata like me. Hoards, because that's the only 'Bengali' place to stay at least in Bermiok, though there are quite a few home-stay facilities in the two villages. You see, Bengali 'offbeat destinations seekers', even in modern times, are a different species altogether. They can trek for hours with a rucksack or a backpack, they are capable of appreciating anything from the jungles of Arunachal to the sweeping lines of Ladakh, and not be daunted by the absence of urban facilities, they can, once the travel bug bites hard, even travel RAC -- which in Indian Railway terms means travelling on a sleeper coach without managing a wink because you may be sitting cramped in between two other such badnasibs the whole night, while the rest of the compartment thunders away to snoring glory.
But, the modern Bengali tourist, he and especially she, still cannot travel without two necessities-- 1. A good toilet at the place of stay and 2. Bhaat, daal and torkari, if not maacher jhol. And it is on both these counts that the Kanchan View hotel in Bermiok scores. You get WC, 24x7 running hot and ice-cold (alternatively) water, and you get not just bhaat-daal-torkaari but also maacher jhol and chicken curry for lunch and dinner. Naturally, that's the only spot in the whole of Hee-Bermiok where you also get to hear such endearing expressions as 'arektu jhol de to' (some more curry here, please) and 'breakfast-ey luchibhaaja hobey bhai?' (can one expect luchis-- a fried pancake made out of white flour-- for breakfast if you may).Dibyendu, as his surname suggests, is not a Kundu (as in Kundu Travels, estd:1933) and therefore, according to Bengali folklore, is not born with the inherent talent of achieving the daunting task of providing luchibhaaja and macher jhol at a height of 3500 feet. So how did he manage the impossible, despite being surrounded by Lepchas, Gurkhas and Limboos, whose claims to the Bengali taste bud has been limited to the momo and thupka?
Because Dibyendu understood a simple business strategy of the Kundus. They just do conducted tours, and hence take all their staff from Bengal. So this guy, just like his tourists, has also imported his hotel staff, like Amit, from Bengal.
The catch is, he has imported Amit and his other colleagues from near the villages of the Sundarbans, where temperatures at their lowest are just about 13 degrees. In search of a living, Amit and his friends are braving temperatures of -4 degrees. You will say, so what's the big deal, it happens. One has to survive. But that's not the point. Because survival in this way wasn't exactly necessary for Amit, if Hurricane Aila hadn't happened.
Amit is 16. He has reached the heights of Sikkim for the first time in his life. In fact, it is for the first time in his life that he has left his village, leaving his family-- dad, mom, elder brother and younger sister under a roadside tarpauline-- the version of the West Bengal government's rehabilitation package or refugee camp, whatever way you describe it, for the Aila victims of Sundarbans.
I met Amit shivering under a jacket and a sweater at the doorway to my room one December night last year. The room, in contrast, had a nice warm interior, thanks to the electric room-heater. It was 9 in the night, the air outside was blowing in straight from the Kanchenjunga, and it was as cold as a mommy . Naturally, Amit lingered at my room, trying to get some warmth out of it I suppose. And because he chose to linger, and I had yet not finished by regulation rum for the day (which considering the cold, combined with first day fatigue, had long exceeded the so-called 'regulation' mark), I got chatty with him. It was then, that I came to know of all the things that I have said till now.
"So how long have you been here?"
"Six weeks, sir."
"And how does it feel?"
"Cold, very cold."
"That's natural. But don't you miss your family?"
"I do sir"
"So why did you take up this job? Didn't you know you will have to live without them?"
"I knew. But I had to take this job. I will survive. And one day I will no more feel bad. They also wanted me to take this job."
"Who?"
"My dad, mom. elder brother."
"Why?"
"The fields are all salty. Can't grow anyhthing there. So many months have passed. How long will they give relief? We have to eat."
"But then, your elder brother could have come here?"
"He stayed back to farm and fish, once the salt recedes. He has a family, kids."
So that's about the truth. A 16-year-old, being sent out by the family, all seniors of the family conceding to the decision, miles away from home, in an entirely different climate, because survival is much more important than bonds. For Amit. For the family.
Survival, in the face of natural odds-- how deeply it can affect our accepted norms of relationships, giving rise to an almost new perception of what I would term as 'evolved disconnect'.
On hindsight, I had wondered, was I actually interested in Amit's story, had it not been as 'humane?' If it had not had the potential for a good 'cpy'? Wasn't I getting an almost voyeristic satisfaction out of talking him of his misery-- a misery, which Amit himself was unable to realise.
If that is true, then I have almost chiselled my senses to the 'evolved disconnect'.
And, as a matter-of-fact, isn't Amit also suffering from an evolved sense of disconnect with his self?
But then, my colleagues, after hearing all this had just one thing to say, "Oh, you always end up with some Swapan Saha brand-of-story. So who's going to play the hero? Prosenjit?"
Swapan Saha, by the way, was even a couple of years back, the master of melodramatic potboilers of the Bengali film industry, and his most favourite hero had been Prosenjit, who apparently was the 'king' of that industry, around the same time.
My colleagues, like me, and Amit, were 'evolved' in their sense of 'disconnect'. But then, we are surving on our own terms, and it feels good.
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