October 01, 2026

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In Ink and LONGING

THE AFTERNOON HEAT in our village of Ulumb always brought a peculiar stillness, broken only by the crunch of my worn-out slippers on the dusty ground. Ulumb is nestled on the banks of the sacred Krishna river. Though it originated not far from the mist-covered peaks of Mahabaleshwar, its flowing waters couldn't wash away the heavy, persistent poverty that gripped our lanes.I didn't own a bicycle. I walked everywhere on foot. But I was armed with a few marvels of my own making: a wooden ruler, a lined notebook bought with carefully saved coins, and my most prized possession--a fountain pen filled with royal blue ink.It was the 1990s, an era before ubiquitous screens, when soil alone couldn't feed empty stomachs. Almost 90 per cent of the adult men had left Ulumb for the roaring, concrete belly of Mumbai in search of any work they could find--driving cars for wealthy families, pulling carts, or working the textile mills. They would toil for five or six months, living in cramped, suffocating rooms, just to bring home a small bundle of rupees to sustain their families for the next few months.Not everyone could afford the fare to return at will. The distance between our riverbank and the city felt as vast as an ocean, and the silence between families was deafening. And the connective tissue keeping these broken homes whole wasn't a telephone wire--it was me.

When the Goddess Meets the 'Gram

Pujo has been celebrated here with great gusto for decades.There's a particular flavour to the festivities, with all the ingredients of a good old para (locality) pujo, so dear to the creative Bangali: food, music, dance, art--and the general sense of self-importance that comes with wearing a badge and entering pandals through the `VIP gate'.Until recently, this was a relatively contained affair, drawing weekend visitors from neighbouring areas in search of fish fry and puffy puris with kosha-mangsho (spicy chicken curry). And then came social media.Over the past few years, interest in this UNESCO-listed Intangible has mushroomed, with the virtual world descending upon hapless aunties in classic red-bordered white saris, armed with selfie sticks and zoom lenses. Our neighbourhood snacks corner has become a `hidden gem'--much to the astonishment of Dadu, its owner, who has spent about a decade blithely serving us potato chop and cutlets refried in oil of unknowable provenance. The other day, I spotted good old Montu on my feed. His customary grimace had given way to a Colgate-grin as he served jhalmuri (spiced, puffed-rice street snack) with great aplomb to