Daughter

London Love: Last day

/ sangeeta_chakladar / 5 Comments

I did not marry a chocolate cream soldier. Chalk does not understand flowers, chocolates or gifts unless told to do so! For him, the essence of any strong relationship is mutual respect, loyalty and responsibility. I too value the more meaningful aspects of life than the frills. And somehow life without the fancy frills makes it more easy at my age. As for romance, I am Cheese the romantic, I can do double shift romance, both for Chalk and myself.

For Chalk and Cheese special days are usually no different from everyday, but their children feel differently. They want to celebrate their parents anniversary and won’t listen to any of our arguments. Last year we were in Pittsburgh with our son and he had made his parent’s anniversary extra special .This year our daughter, aka Kessari was in London with us. She had meticulously planned the day, keeping in mind what Chalk and Cheese liked, but most of it was her secret, to be revealed gradually. It was almost like a parents day out kind of feeling for us.

“London has to be seen with the ‘London eye’ ” ; Cheese had said this to her daughter at some point and the daughter had remembered! The first surprise of the day was tickets to the London Eye. Chalk, Cheese and Kessari Iined up in drizzling rain for the ride. The wait was long, the wind and drizzle added to the chill. A panoramic view of London slowly unfolded as the giant observatory wheel completed one circle in thirty minutes. For thirty minutes we sat in a capsule looking down at The Big Ben, Westminster, St.Pauls Cathedral, the majestic buildings of London and the river Thames reflecting the city and its skies like an old trusted friend.

Our trusted Kessari had made plans of taking us for shopping . We followed her to the The Harrods department store. The cursory visit was more out of curiosity than necessity. The merchandise were mostly very steeply priced. My choice was clear, between empty pocket and empty hand, I preferred the latter.

A friend had recommended the store Fortnum and Mason. The store was established in 1707 as a grocery store, it has ever since gained in reputation and inventories and now stands as a luxury brand in London. It is heard that the Queen Elizabeth ll, visited the store personally and that the store has been the royal grocer for a century. Kessari, my genie for the day was making me feel nothing less than the queen. So the queen mother of Kessari entered Fortnum and Mason holding her daughter’s hand. Fortnum and Mason was indeed a beautiful store at every level. It had a winding staircase leading on to different floors. The interiors were elegantly done up, there were delicate glass wares on display, teal coloured tea sets, napkins, bags, and so much more. I felt adequately tempted to buy almost the whole store.

A visit to these landmark stores was definitely not about filling the shopping bags. Cheese was melting with other emotions. My daughter was holding my hand and taking me through the different sections of the stores , as if I was the child and she was my mother. She kept asking me whether I fancied anything in particular and with choked emotions all I could do was nod. I already had my world with me, holding my hand and walking along, how could I possibly fancy anything more precious than this moment .

Chalk and Cheese had started getting a little tired after all the store hopping, they wanted to sit for a while. On any other day we would have loved to find a bench at Trafalgar Square or Covent Garden, but this day was different. Kessari had hidden surprises at every turn. She had booked a table for afternoon tea at the Theatre Royal Drury Lane.

The wide staircase with a red carpet welcomed us into the interiors of the theatre, almost like royalty. The tea room gave vibes of an old Victorian drawing room, an ideal place to sit back and enjoy a cuppa of English afternoon tea. But there was more on the platter than just tea. Elaborately layed out tables with the finest of tableware and delicate flowers had already set the mood for the evening. With touristy mode
footwear (screamingly out of place ) Chalk, Chesse and Kessari settled down to an evening of style. Tea was served along with three different courses of delicious savouries. The service and courtesy of the staff was impeccable, they also got us a cake for our anniversary . Keeping to the Coronation theme, pastries were shaped like the crowns of the King and Queen. Sitting in the heart of England, your Indian Cheese was biting into the sweet taste of the crown! What a magical moment indeed.

After such a stylish experience of afternoon tea, I felt my London trip was almost over. But the daughter had yet another special treat waiting for us. The celebration continued with a theatrical extravaganza at the Piccadilly Theatre London. As we took to our seats the curtains were still down but the artists were amongst us, gyrating in slow motion, enthralling us, captivating us; titillating the imagination of the audience till the curtains raised to the dazzling show ‘Moulin Rouge The Musical’. The colours, sparkles, glitters were as much on the stage as on our minds. The delightful performance of the actors and the craft of story telling got embedded in our minds.

It was certainly the perfect romantic fairy tale ending to our anniversary date. The curtain had drawn on the stage of “Moulah Rouge” and finally it was time to draw the curtains on our celebrations for the day. A beautifully packaged gift of love from our children, a day filled with wonder, grandeur and dazzle. Chalk and Cheese themselves could not have planned it any better.

Chalk and Cheese are now back in India, settled in the comfort of home and the routine of everyday life. Writing this series of Chalk and Cheese European trip would not have been possible without the support of my friends and dear readers. Your encouragement kept me going. I cannot end without thanking my son for constantly nudging me to continue writing. He has been my cheer leader and one man technical
support team in this entire series.

It is time to wrap up Chalk and Cheese tales for now. With a promise to come back with Chalk and Cheese when we travel again, signing off, your’s truly ….Cheese.

The End.

Turning Pages Through Ages

/ sangeeta_chakladar / 1 Comment

Waking up to London mornings, waking up to a wonderful feeling of anticipation of a new day, in a new city was slowly drawing towards its end. This would have been our perfect family holiday only if our son could have joined us. But perfection is an ever changing concept at its best. So Chalk, Cheese and Kessari made the best use of this vacation time by packing in as much as they could in the space of the given time. We traveled to places unknown; we saw what was unseen, and a lot more always remained unseen. The abundance of history, nature, people, culture, and much more could not ever be put into a box of a package tour. For me, each day ended with a tired body, yet a mind filled with so much wonder that dreams had no space to knock.

Reality looks like a dream when we walk through places we had never envisioned before. To stumble upon old traversed roads amidst lost forgotten forests, to find ancient monuments, or simply a church hidden at the bend of the road, such tranquil sights warms the heart and once more it reiterates, joy is in the journey alone. We drove through picturesque English countryside to reach the Warwick Castle and Windsor Castle.

Castles in the medieval period played a military role, battles were fought from here to protect territories. Castles were also the residences of noblemen. They were the epicenter of power of the ruler and a show of his strength. Warwick Castle was built by William the Conqueror near a meander of the river Avon. The proximity to the river helped to maintain good trade links as well as served as a tactical advantage point in battles. The high impenetrable stone walls of a castle guards the secrets of an empty barren world within . As tourists we enter this world to fill it with our imagination.

Windsor Castle (in the county of Berkshire ) is different from other historic castles. Windsor Castle has been home to royalty for over a thousand years. It is a working royal palace. Royalty still live here. Buckingham palace is the home of the King in the city and this is his home in the county. One section of the castle is open to tourists. We walk through the different rooms, the dining halls ( formal and informal), the meeting rooms , the room where the queen used to meet her visitors and so on. The grandeur and opulence of the place truly reflects the life of the royalty.

There is a doll house in Windsor castle which was built between 1921 and 1924. It was built for Queen Mary, wife of George V. The miniature doll house is a fascinating work of art. It is a miniature representation of the real rooms. The intricate detailing from furniture to crockery was absolutely amazing. From playing dolls to ruling a nation ,the royal life leaves their impression on our mind all the way.

As a testimony of buried centuries Stonehenge, on Salisbury Plain stands amidst what seems like endless green fields. They are big vertical solid stones, set in a semi circular formation, and are prehistoric in age. Archeological research have different explanations to these remains. But to a clueless visitor like me ,they looked like massive stone pillars placed there in a symmetrical pattern. There are many variations to stories of how they came to exist in the present location, some mythical versions, some more research based. Stonehenge stands like a mystery of why and how but not eclipsed by the march of time .

As we followed the river Avon we reached the ancient city of Bath nestled in the river valley. Bath was built in Roman architectural style. The Roman Baths in England was once a religious spa where people came to worship the Goddess Sulis Minerva and bathe in the natural thermal springs. Bath is a beautiful city and deserved a longer time of stay to experience it in its totality. But alas, we were no more than passing tourists through a place which was centuries old.

As we drove out of Bath, Jane Austen was on my mind. Every house here looked like her house to me. In reality she had lived here for six years. I made a mental note to re read ‘Persuasion’ ( the novel was largely set in Bath ) once I got back home. Sometimes pages of a book tell us more about a place than a what we see as a tourist in a few borrowed hours.

“All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players :
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts.”
William Shakespeare.


We were playing our part of a tourist, a traveler. We were not here to live forever but to carry the visions in our mind, forever. The bard was calling. We couldn’t come back from England without seeing Shakespeare’s birth town and his house in Stratford-upon-Avon.

Shakespeare’s childhood house was a small and simple house. Trying to understand the great bard’s life with one walk through his house was impossible. Reading an author is the only way we get to know them and also to understand a part of the world they lived in. Shakespeare’s plays were written for his time, for the Elizabethan stage but there timeless universal appeal makes Shakespeare and his work immortal.

The poets, novelists, playwrights who were born in this country through the span of many centuries, who wrote large volumes of work under these skies gave England and English literature a pedestal to stand tall in the world of literati. The universal appeal and everlasting relevance of great writers is measured by their work and not by the boundaries of the world.

Our Nobel Laureate Rabindranath Tagore, wrote a poem on Shakespeare to mark 300 years of his death. Tagore wrote in praise of Shakespeare that though born in England, his writings were for the whole world. Greatness and genius recognizing each other. In Shakespeare’s house we walked into that section of the garden where the bust of our Kabi Guru Rabindranath Tagore stood amidst trees and flowering plants. We spent a few minutes in reflection, paying homage to both the Bards in heaven.

The Oxford Dictionary and the Oxford Book Store in Kolkata was the closest I had ever got to the word Oxford. And then, there we were entering the campus of the prestigious Oxford University, the university of dreams for many scholars.

Of course, we were still wearing our tourist shoes which meant our time here was limited. The daughter had been to Oxford earlier, so she once again got into the role of Kessari tours. Chalk and Cheese followed her around like two young graduates.

Those precious few days in London city and around English countryside seemed like a kaleidoscopic vision of multi-coloured pictures. At a whirlwind speed, we roamed from one place to the other. So many times we lost ourselves in the beautiful maze of panoramic views, of history, of culture, of people and their lives. My attempt at recollecting and putting my thoughts down in words and photos is my way of
preserving memories for a longer time.

Chalk and Cheese had their Anniversary celebration in London. A beautifully curated day by our darling daughter Kessari, and that my dear readers will be the last chapter of this series.

To be continued….

Little Pearl

/ sangeeta_chakladar / 1 Comment

The little girl lived in the royal palace,
Playful, unnoticed, unseen.
She was a daughter of the king,
But her mother was not the queen.

Her playmates were princesses, 
Young girls of her own age,
The palace was her only home,
The courtyards her childhood’s stage.

Once upon a time, as enchantress of the ragas,
Her mother was the nightangle of the royal court.
But now fallen from grace with her lost sagas,
A favorites position she could no more afford.

In the mother’s khol black eyes,
The king had once found his peace,
Their love was her mother’s forbidden sin,
For which she wouldn’t be given a lease. 

In oblivion the little girl was growing,
Like a flower in a trusted shade,
But the thorns around her were waiting,
To tear her from her restful glade.

Long banished from the court,
Her mother now lived like a shadow,
Hiding her life behind the heavy veil

An unwed bride but now living like a widow

The king was ailing and had grown fragile,
Ministers and queens were fuming with wicked guile.
To banish the little girl, or make her a slave
The palace was filled with such whispered waves.

The mother loved the daughter,
Beyond any measure.
To the King she send her last plea,
To save her little treasure.

The girl was summoned into
The king’s private chamber,
There she stood shivering,
Her face a flushed amber.

The king placed his tender hand
Upon her small head,
A sparkle drop of tear,
Her fearful eyes had shed.

The king took a pearl string
And placed it on her palm,
His soft gentle touch
Seemed like a father’s loving balm.

“Keep this royal jewel , it is a parting gift”,
Said The King, in a quivering voice,
She stood holding the string of pearls
Not daring to make a sobbing noise.

The mother and the little girl,
Left the palace in the darkness of the night,
All the glorious years of love and leisure,
Had turned to a shameful fright.

They walked out together, 
The mother clutching onto her little girl,
A home forever lost,
But on her tiny neck,
Hanged the royal pearl.

The Stethoscope Of Heartbeats.

/ sangeeta_chakladar / 6 Comments

I am a doctor’s daughter. When your father is a doctor, you grow up amidst stories of patients, patient behavior,  diseases , medical representatives and loads of medical  journals all over the house. I don’t recall ever wishing my father on doctor’s day , father’s day, or even on his birthday.  My father fell ill, very seriously ill twenty five years ago, and the medical  profession he had lived for couldn’t give him a second  chance. So I miss him ever since, I miss him everyday and on these special days I want him to know that  “Baba, you were special “. I want to write about a few of the stories I have grown up hearing . They are the sweet and sour stories of a doctor who chose to practice medicine in a small town instead of shifting to the big city.

Warisaliganj was the name of the place where my parents lived,  the place where I grew up till I had to be sent away to Kolkata for better education. Kolkata made me the person I am today but my fondest memories still go back to that small place called Warisaliganj. But this story is about Baba and his patients.

Since the town was very small Baba had opened  a pathological laboratory within the premises of his chamber. Little did he know that one of his naive patient would one day land up with a ‘mithai ka handi’ filled with his morning job’s  sample and place it on the doctor’s table with a victorious smile. Baba had just about started scolding the person for getting him rasgulla when he was stopped short and was told about the contents within the handi, it was a sample for the path-lab! Needless  to say what happened after that ,but my poor Baba lost his appetite for handi full of rasgulla forever.

In the seventies, the small towns and villages of Bihar were often attacked by dacoits in true Gabbar Singh style. The ‘gaon walo ‘ would run indoors, shut all doors and windows and wait for the bombarding  to stop , which was an indication that the  dacoits had left. No one ever dared open a door or come out to help anyone. But a doctor’s door is open at all times without any discrimination towards the patients. One such night, when the dacoits were raiding our town , amidst  bombardment someone rang our bell loud and sharp and insistently. Baba opened the door, only to find two armed dacoits in black clothing with their faces masked standing there. They had not come to rob us, we were not wealthy enough to be robbed ! They had come to take Baba to their adda/ thikana ( whatever you may call it ) to treat a fellow dacoit who had suffered  bullet injuries. Yes, my Baba had to go that night with the dacoits. They blind folded him before starting their jeep. I still remember the extreme agony and tension Ma went through that night, though quite young I too stayed up the night with Ma waiting for Baba to come back home. Baba returned home in the early hours of the morning .Though such incidents were never again repeated in our life but Baba loved to recall this hair raising experience in light jest and call himself “Daku ka Doctor.”

If poverty is a curse, being poor and sick is a bigger curse. I understand now the immense sense of purpose Baba must have had to spend his life amidst the poor, to give them access to healthcare they otherwise might not have received. He spent many nights in small huts to be next to his ailing patients. His resources as a doctor were not many in that small town. Many patients had to be referred to the bigger hospitals in the adjoining district towns, but Baba stayed on with grit and determination. Another extreme story of poverty had left its mark on my childhood  memory. During a house visit to a seriously ill patient Baba noticed the man of the house leaving  home stealthily with ‘pital ‘ utensils. On being asked he admitted of not having any money, he planned to sell his utensils to pay for the medicines. Baba paid the medicine bills for many such patients. He had set up an arrangement with the medicine shop. He would write the word “free patient” on top of the prescription,  this was a code for  the shopkeeper to understand that the bills would be paid by the doctor himself and not the patient party. His diagnostic expertise and selfless dedication made him the most famous doctor amongst many districts of Bihar. People thronged from far and wide for their faith in his medicine.  What Baba earned in cash fell short to what he earned in kind. He earned trust, he earned goodwill, he earned the blessings of people who didn’t have much to give.

These stories were not meant for the world to know,  these  stories were not meant to sing his praise. These stories are of my Baba, who just lived a simple life being truthful to the oath he had taken once as a medicine man. Ending my story here with a last funny note. When my Baba and Ma left Warisaliganj and came back home to Kolkata to start their retired life, his chamber did not shut down. Baba’s very accomplished  compounder continued  practicing ( as a quack doctor ) in the same chamber with “Dr. Chakladar” written on the board. Many admonishing letters were sent his way, whether to any avail or not, we do not know.

Thank you Doctors, health care providers, and scientists.  Thank you for holding our hands all through the pandemic raging days. A big salute to our real life super-men and super-women.

Suitcase full of love…..

/ sangeeta_chakladar / 2 Comments

The Atlantic Ocean never seemed so deep, big, far and wide before. It was just a tiny ocean on my Atlas. But oceans separates countries and countries separates people. My daughter was about to cross the ocean and enter New York with her three bags full with as much India she could pack within them. She had got admission in the Columbia University for her masters program and as much as we were delighted with her achievement the thoughts of sending her to another country was mak8ng me restless by the days.

In the last few weeks before her departure, my time was consumed in packing and re- packing those three bags full. It all began with the purchase of suitcases. Much research was made, about durability and brand. There were suggestions from well meaning friends. My family likes considering many view points before making any major purchase. In this case suitcase was the major purchase. Our existing suitcases were heavy duty stuff meant to last a life time ,doing train journey but failing the ultimate test of air travel. The permissible luggage weight in domestic travel is a mere15 kilograms. Thus the travel people became wiser and flooded the market with slim trim multicolored beauties with sleek handles. The display almost looks like a beauty pageant where each suitcase is competing with the other in weight, height, and beauty category, My family too possesses a few of these delicate beauties which we use for our short travels. But situation in hand was different , we needed big ( size specifications very accurate), light weight, not very costly suitcases. After two three trips to the stores we finally came home with what seemed the perfect choice.

The next step was a much more uphill task. My darling baby opened the ‘ Alibaba ka khazana ‘, her wardrobe.! I sat in a room filled with soft , colorful, dainty looking silks , cottons, Khadi all around me. All of this were her clothes! When did we buy all this I wondered. Mother and daughter sat down sorting out the pile. There were sarees to be packed for those festive days, lehenga for Diwali, Churidars and Patiyala salwars, kurtis for class, tops, shirts, dresses, jeans, shorts, sweaters, jackets, scarfs , shoes, socks, the list went on and on and we kept getting tangled amidst all this fabric and nic knack . After days of struggle I triumphantly announced mission accomplished. Father of the daughter joined the ladies with a weighing scale in hand. Quintessential army man ( hubby dear) would not allow us to weigh the suitcases . After all it’s a mans privilege to carry the burden !

Lo behold, the drama unfolds, the suitcases are overweight. Never mind the overweight father and mother, but the suitcases need to be exact 23 kilograms each. The fauji father takes charge, unpacks both the suitcases, (my two days hard work ) and empties the contents on the floor. Daughter dear had smuggled in diaries, letters, cards, books, all favorite memorabilia , without which she refuses to depart. Don’t go, stay back, I almost blurt out these foolish sentiments. But I have to make things lighter now, in every way I can. No space for sentimental baggage.

A visiting family friend stated that their son had gone abroad carrying three jeans, six shirts, one foot ball boot and a deflated football ! I looked at my daughter wistfully. Alas, daughters are our Princesses, they need their pumpkin carriage, they need their ball gown, they need their glass shoes too ! Search for the lightest baggage started all over again.

Finally, the perfect suitcase, the perfect weight combination had been achieved. Wearing the tri color ribbon ( saffron , white and green ) the suitcases were ready. The day and hour of departure came way too soon. The lost, unrest feeling within me would know no rest. Did I pack everything ? Was I forgetting anything ? Will she need anything more ? The questions haunted me long after she had walked inside the glass door of the international airport. The glass wall separated us for a while and then the vast Atlantic Ocean separated us !

How could I pack my first sensation of motherhood, those little fingers entwined with mine, the gentle smile, the naughty smile, the foolish smile . How could I pack our hours of fights, arguments, sulking . How could I pack our short walks, long talks. How could I pack our lazy Sundays, late night dances, our reading each other’s unspoken thoughts ! I could not pack all this and much more. So I sitting on my side of Atlantic with all my excess baggage of emotions very neatly, carefully, lovingly packed within and hidden ! Waiting to open them together before the pages turn yellow .