Suman Kumar

Movie Chor?

May 24, 2017May 24, 2017
by Suman Kumar

Timeliners wrote a piece on how alarmingly similar some visuals were from Bank Chor to a Telugu movie called D for Dopidi, a 2013 Telugu crime-comedy.

So ‘Bank Chor’, with Riteish Deshmukh, Vivek Oberoi, and Rhea Chakraborty releases on June 16, 2017. It is safe to assume from the title that we can expect a bank heist comedy caper. The gist of the seems to be this: three desperate young men try to pull off a bank heist by holding the people inside a bank hostage. The news spreads and a media circus ensues. And a tough cop hot on the heels of a dreaded thief goes head-to-head with these guys. This is the story of a disastrous day in the life of these amateur bank robbers, which I am sure has some twists and turns. Now, there is a 2013 film called ‘D For Dopidi’ (Telugu), which released in 2013, directed by Siraj Kalla and starring Sundeep Kishan and Varun Sandesh. (disclosure: I know Siraj personally.)

I’ve seen the film too. And here’s the summary of that 2013 film:

Four desperate young men try to pull off a bank heist by holding the people inside a bank hostage. The news spreads and a media circus ensues. And a tough cop hot on the heels of a dreaded thief goes head-to-head with these guys. This is the story of this disastrous day in the life of these amateur bank robbers, which does have twists and turns including a hilarious one where another set of amateurs come to rob the bank on the same day.

Get my point?

Déjà vu or glorious coincidence? A serendipitous twist of fate where two creators separated by four to five years stumbled upon the same story? And, er, similar visuals?

Here’s the trailer of Bank Chor (2017):

And here’s the trailer of D for Dopidi (2013):

I gather from the Timeliners piece that Y Films has denied the comparison and the claims of plagiarism by some YouTube users.

Some of you might say ‘how can you judge Bank Chor from its trailer and claim it is a rip-off of D For Dopidi?’ Fair point. And, that’s why I call it alarming. I am not saying Bank Chor’s ‘story’ is the same as Dopidi’s. The plagiarism argument by some YouTube users probably came up because of the similarities in the ‘visuals.’

And I want you to understand that at this point in time, just by looking at Bank Chor’s trailer I can list a bunch of visuals that seem ‘inspired’ by Dopidi. Take a look:

Puja praying for the success of the heist — Praying for the success of the heist in Bank Chor

Praying for the success of the heist in Dopidi

You guessed it! The tough cop in Dopidi.

In both movies, the tough cop engages the media.

The media frenzy is broadcast in both movies.

Both movies have a funny, clueless bank manager.

I could go on:

Cops get ready for an ambush in Bank Chor

The protagonist runs out only to realize he’s running into a bunch of cops (Bank Chor)

The protagonist in Dopidi… you get the drift?

The robbers negotiate with the cops from inside the bank and make hilarious demands.

Robbers in the movie Dopidi make hilarious demands with cops. From inside the bank, yes.

Hostage situation in Dopidi. Did you notice the senior citizen sitting on the chair?

Hostage situation in Bank chor. Did you notice anything similar? Hint: senior citizen on chair

In Bank Chor, the tough cop is actually after a guy. The real chor.

D for Dopidi also has *drum roll* a real chor.

I know that sometimes coincidentally two creators can think of similar visuals. But this?

Here’s the kicker:

Fin.

chittoor

KL and the Circus Called Life

March 14, 2017October 27, 2018
by Suman Kumar

In the summer of 1985 Arun KL confided in me. He was in love with a girl who was in my class. I was in seventh grade and he, in the eighth. He seemed quite disturbed by his lack of courage in approaching the girl and letting her know what he felt for her. So I told him he should join Bharathanatyam classes that she went for every week. I suggested it to him because I was the only male in the dance class and to say the least, it was awkward. He laughed continuously for two hours at my plight. He got over the girl and I quit dance classes. That was Arun for you. Fleeting, transient, spontaneous, and delightfully silly.

KL, as he was called by friends, was the whitest boy in Chittoor. He had auburn-brown hair and skin like a white man. He had freckles even. For some reason, right from when he was a kid, some of us called him the Red Indian. And some weren’t so subtle. They called him White Dog. Once during a Cricket match in Palamaner, KL wanted to take a leak but he could not, for school kids surrounded him wherever he went: they were curious if he was white all over.

KL and I shared a special bond. We were romantics in a time and place where success equaled a job in a nationalized bank as a lower division clerk, no less. Unaware that within a few years, we would be pounded to fall in line and embrace mediocrity, we walked the streets of Chittoor with the wind in our hair and hope in our eyes.

Cricket was our religion. We did all the dirty work like nailing in the mat on the pitch, draw the creases, and carry the massive kit bags to the pavilion just so that we could play a match—at the least, be the 12th man—for the mighty Town team.

The seniors–most of them–were rich young men from wealthy families. They rode on their fancy bikes to the ground and drank ice-cold water from their Allwyn refrigerators. Arun was always in awe of wealthy people. Just like me. We wondered often, ‘how does it feel to live your life without worrying about your next meal? Without the worry of debtors lining up outside and shouting at your parents? How does it feel to switch on that Telly and watch Cricket matches while sipping on lemonade? How does it feel to wear Old Spice? Does one actually hear the Gregorian chants when you applied that after-shave lotion? And, KL called everyone ‘Sir.’ The postman, the bank cashier, senior cricketers, and even my father. No, no that is not weird. The trouble was he punctuated using ‘Ngotha.’ Once he appealed f

or an LBW yelling, ‘Ngotha, howzzat, sir!’

Our lives were similar: we were from lower-middle class families where ‘lower-middle class’ was just an ironic euphemism for poverty. Arun wanted to become a Probationary Officer in a bank. But we had a few more years of freedom left before the vicissitudes of life caught up with us. So we played Cricket. Watched Chiranjeevi movies multiple times and fell in love with girls. Over and over again. A hardcore romantic, he fell in love with Jayaprada (‘classic beauty maama!), Meenakshi Seshadri, and Manisha Koirala. After watching 1942 A Love Story, we walked out in a daze. As we sipped chai, he proclaimed, ‘I have decided now. I’ll get married to Manisha.’

KL and I grew up reading The Hindu and one of his ambitions was to get published in the Letters to Editor section. He sent them hundreds of letters and when they finally published one of his letters, he came home running and as he struggled to catch his breath, he said, ‘Miracles do happen maama! Now I can approach Manisha Koirala.’

Years later, KL signed up for B.Sc, but I wasn’t going to take my chances. I took B.com. Within a year, I quit college to pursue this mindfuck engineering course called AMIE, in Chennai. All thanks to the elders in my family who served the ultimatum ‘engineering or auto driver?’ I said, ‘auto driver?’ But they didn’t find that funny. The plan failed big time. I failed to clear a single paper. So it was back to B.com. And, we moved to Chennai.

1994 was when KL and I reconnected in Chittoor. I was still moping over this girl I really liked and I made some excuse or the other to visit Chittoor. Once I told my mom that Kodhandaraman, a dear friend, had met with an accident and lost his leg. She gave me money and asked me to rush to Chittoor. Months later Kodhanda came home and my mom kept asking him where he got that prosthetic leg that looked more real than the real thing.

On my Chittoor visits, KL and I talked the night away: about love, careers, and life. And how the popular, accepted idea of success will never be ours. He could never crack the Probationary Officers exam. And I discovered the opportunities that a big city like Chennai offered. I pleaded with Arun to move to Chennai but he never budged. He refused to leave Chittoor. And we drifted apart again.

In 2005 he called me. I had moved to Bangalore a year back. He sounded happy. He landed a job in IT in Bangalore! He moved to my apartment complex. We were neighbors again! He even took my dad and me for dinner once. Throughout the night, he kept saying ‘ngotha’ and follow it up with an immediate ‘ngotha, sorry sir!’ Those were the happiest days of his life I’d presume. He even told me, ‘If I hadn’t landed a job in Bangalore, I’d have probably killed myself.’

In 2013, when Sachin Tendulkar retired I wrote a piece on ESPNCricinfo. A fanboy piece yes, and it featured KL. I met him shortly after that; after a gap of nearly two years. KL was so moved by the Sachin piece that he wanted to meet me right away. He was a weary, exhausted man. A mere shadow of the guy that he was. We spoke at length about Sachin, life, and how hope is everything and nothing.

We were at the Suri bar in Domlur. KL was a teetotaler and never really liked hanging out when we drank, but that day he was only happy. I noticed that every ten minutes he’d get lost and stare into oblivion and shake out of it with a poignant smile. When I asked why he was doing so much melodrama, he guffawed, and said, ‘I should have come to Chennai when you called me maama.’

KL passed away on 1st March 2017. I have yet to shed a tear for his passing. I didn’t attend his last rites. I still nurse a hope that one day he’ll appear at my doorstep, guffaw, and say, ‘Ngotha, you fell for it maama!’

We lost him because we choose prosperity over happiness. Money over dreams. Success over relationships. We forced him into believing that one needs to wear the uniform and start dancing at the circus to gain acceptance. And that, it was the only way to live. It is obviously not the only way. He found another way I guess. And I pray he finds that elusive peace. So long my friend. You will live in my stories and in the memories that I hold very dear.

So long until we meet again maama. Ngotha!

I will miss you ra KL.

stories

The Dream Is No More A Dream

May 25, 2016
by Suman Kumar

Early 2016. An open-mic comedy night is in progress at Take 5, Bangalore . Aamer Peeran–possibly one of the wackiest comics around–is on stage, eating shit like it’s Thai food. Only a few days back he’d opened for Matt Davis and killed it, like a boss. Matt, sitting by the bar, smiles at Aamer’s predicament. As Aamer finishes his eating-shit-on-stage and walks away, despondent and broken, Matt stops him and says, ‘If you breathe it, you’ll make it. Relax!’

That’s golden advice. And coming from someone who has been on the scene for 20 years, you’d better write it down and chant those immortal words, every day. Just. Breathe. It. Don’t long for glory. Don’t fret over your not getting opportunities. Don’t lie to yourself that you’re good. You’re not. Or maybe you are, but you could be better.

I started writing when I was eight. Thanks to Sister Rajam, the assistant headmistress of Little Flower Convent, Chittoor. She threw me out of class because my shoes were slipshod. I loved it. I never fixed my shoes. I wanted to sit under the massive Gulmohar tree all day, along with other slipshodders. They sat around me as I regaled them with stories that I made up on the fly. The war of the ants. Secret Agent Munirathnam (who had a TV on his bike that showed the whereabouts of baddies.) Jimmy the flying dog. There were many tales.

I was too young and ignorant to have realised then that I had found my calling. I started ‘writing’ when I was 14. I wrote in longhand and filled up 192p unruled notebooks. I wrote two novellas. Zinda the terrorist who became a hero. Kill or Die, a spy thriller. My folks wanted me to become an engineer. I was stubborn. Maybe at that time, I didn’t know what I wanted. But, I knew what I didn’t want. So I signed up for B.com and continued writing without knowing why I was doing it and expecting nothing from it.

I also read lots. Madhu Babu’s wonderful detective, pulp fiction: the Shadow series. I hope he allows me to translate it to English from Telugu. Yendamuri. Yerramsetti Sai. Malladi Venkatakrishnamurthy. In Tamil, I read Rajesh Kumar, Rajendra Kumar, Suba, Kalki, Balakumaran… I didn’t discriminate. I read everything that came my way. Desmond Bagley, Alistair Mclean, Chase, Wodehouse, Stephen King, Chandler… Those days they used old books to pack groceries. I remember standing in the kitchen watching my mother unpack dal, sugar, coffee powder, or rice and as soon as she was done I’d snatch the paper, run to the backyard, sit on the washing stone and read what that paper from an old book had in store. I was addicted to stories.

I started working as a Salesman in 1995. Three years later I ended up in a small ad agency. Writing was a distant memory and an impossible dream. So in 1998, in a fit of incomprehensible rage and despair, I wrote a book. My first book. It was mostly biographical. It was shit. I even sent it to Penguin. One of their editors was sweet enough to send me a rejection letter. I trudged on, sliding deeper into the quicksand that is corporate life but somehow miraculously steering clear of the dreaded EMI trap.

It took me until 2011 to take the plunge. I had started blogging in 2002 and I was atrocious. My writing was shit. It still is, I guess. It took nine years to convince myself that I can write. By then, I had developed a new addiction, something far more sinister than stories: the paycheck. The missus cracked the whip and said, ‘Enough of bullshit. Give it up. Come with me to Kolkata. Stay at home and write.’ Just like that, I stopped being miserable. I hadn’t known until then how miserable I was in fact. Imagine you lived all your life in the Bangalore airport smoking room. One fine day, you step out and you’re in Nandi Hills. How would you feel? That’s how I felt when I quit my day job.

It took me more than 30 years. To stand where I am today and tell you the bored reader that I finally managed to become a published novelist. See http://sumankumar.com/ranga

You can also follow Ranga on FB to stay in the know. https://www.facebook.com/rangahalfpants/

Or you could just buy it from Amazon: http://www.amazon.in/Ranga-Half-Pants-Suman-Kumar/dp/8184958250/

Don’t forget to rate the book on Amazon once you are done reading the book. I’d love to hear what you thought of the story.

Okay now that I am done pimping, here is the real point of this long post: I have started writing my second book (actually third, but let us not talk about it.) Nothing gives me more joy than spinning stories. Nothing. I don’t know how Ranga Half-Pants will do in the market. But it is done. Time to move on. By the time I turn 50, I am 42 now, I want ten books done. Tough target. I know. But I breathe it.

Books

A Quick Update On Ranga Half Pants

December 16, 2015December 16, 2015
by Suman Kumar

Jaico, my publisher, had originally planned to launch Ranga Half Pants, my debut novel, in January 2016. But after consultations with the editors, we decided to push the book-launch out to April. The new financial year plus the summer holidays in May, are something we want to ride on. So if the three of you were wondering ‘What the hell happened to that book?’, hang in there. I have a lot planned for the launch (details of which I can’t divulge right now), but I assure you that it is going to be a lot of fun.

I know I haven’t been updating my blog at all (I am talking to you Jahnavi). I intend to restart blogging soon. I have been doing a lot of writing work in the recent past. I co-wrote a couple of movies. I wrote the screenplay for one of the episodes of Darr Sabko Lagta Hai. And so many synopses which I pitched to many production houses and directors. I have also been writing a lot of material for my stand up comedy. And, here is the news that I am sure will excite you. I have started working on my second novel.

After dabbling in many vocations (as a writer), I have gained clarity on what keeps me ticking. Going forward, I will be focusing on writing novels and performing as a stand up comedian. The only two places where I don’t have to worry about being myself. I am enjoying this journey and I look forward to meeting you in person, very soon.

2015 was a great year. I know, I know it is not over until it is over. I hope you had a great year too. Have a safe, fun, mad holiday season! Over and out.

P.S. Pay-check is the worst addiction in the world.

Books

A Long Cherished Dream

November 19, 2014November 19, 2014
by Suman Kumar

So all the readers of my blog, all three of you, yes, here is why I was not updating my blog. Read no?

The past three years were tough. I quit my job, became a stay-at-home-dad, rekindled the chase of a long cherished dream: writing. I started writing very early in life. I used to write novels when I was in 9th grade. There were only two boys in 9th standard ‘F’ section, Bangarupalem Zamindar High School, Chittoor, who wrote stories. One was Krishna D.K. The other boy was yours truly. We were very secretive about our stories. I don’t know why DK was, but I was secretive because of fear of ridicule. Back in 1986-87, forget writing English stories, if you so much as speak a sentence in English, they mocked you. Also, my street gang discovered that the stalker–some random guy–was documenting our ‘activities’ so he could write a Telugu novel. We cut Stalker an extra posterior cavity and almost drove him to suicide. I just didn’t have the balls to admit to my friends that I was writing English stories. But DK and I wrote, I think, two novellas. And, we critiqued each others’ work. DK moved on. He went to USA after his Engineering. I was stuck in good old Chittoor for another three years, before moving permanently to Madras. The writing dream found a home in the back-burner.

It was not until 1999 that the writing itch resurfaced. But, I was insecure. Before venturing into the dream world of IT, I was working in a small Ad Agency. I managed Accounts. I wrote some copy. I was all things and nothing. But that stint made me realise that my writing skills were shit. I was a grammar nazi’s (I still am I guess) nightmare. But writing was cathartic for me at that time. It was my break from the monumental ennui that an IT corporate dispensed with. I wrote on my elder brother’s old laptop that ran on Windows 3.1. He had graduated to Windows 95 by then. I wrote a novel. Loosely based on my personal experiences (*coughs and clears throat*) but most of it was fiction. It will remain the shittiest story or book I ever wrote. I even tried publishing it. Nanda even sent the printed manuscript to–wait for it–PENGUIN! Yeah! Sometimes I wish I had that kind of stupid courage now. Of course, Penguin sent a letter stating that they won’t publish my book. I was actually offended back then. I felt like the world back-stabbed me and I was roaming around with a smug, feigned sadness; telling people how ‘talent’ alone is not enough yada-yada. By the end of ’99 I met the love of my life. She said ‘That book is shit!’ We got married in 2004. Moral? Marry your woraashhhtu critic.

So the writing took a back seat yet again. And I was getting fried in the cubicled hell that is a corporate office. By 2010 I had aged a thousand years. The money was good. I made some great friends when I was a corpowhore, but hey, that was not enough pay off for refusing to do the one thing that made me truly happy. And guess who I speak to? Krishna D.K again. I will never forget what he told me during our initial conversations after reconnecting with each other. He said, ‘We still are the only two people chasing a dream.’ Damned right we are! I was happy for him and I told him that I was working on a book. That book took a long fucking time to happen.

I quit my job by the end of 2011. Why? The wifey (MBBS, MD,) wanted to pursue a doctoral program (DM) in Kolkata. Endocrinology she said. Here she was, the mother of my child, who right after having a baby, cracks the DM seat before our daughter grew seven teeth. And she didn’t stop at that. ‘I will go to Kolkata only if you and baby are going. Quit your job. Come with me. Chase your dream.’ I said ‘Yes.’ That’s how I gave up on the pay check (worst addiction in the world, like Kingsley says)

Anyway, I co-wrote a screenplay with DK and Raj first. We made the story, the four of us. Raj, DK, Sita, and me. And the damned thing got green lit! When Farzi got green-lit by EROS it was surreal: My name in the august company of Raj, DK, and Sita. Aaaand Shahid and Nawzuddin… And yet again wifey came along and said, ‘Wow! Congrats baby! Now, write that damned book and can you please fix that clothes line ya?’

So I finished writing that book day before yesterday. I still have to fix the clothes line. My literary agent read the full manuscript in one day flat and said, ‘Suman, I don’t think we need to change anything. The book is ready for me to pitch it.’ I was like, ‘What the– wow!’ He also said the book has great potential. And so the wait begins… In the interim, I have put the Pillayar Suzhi for the next book. Getting published is just a result, but telling stories is life for me. So here I go again!

Pssst! If this one does get published, buy the book yo! Watch this space.

Books

The Sceptical Patriot

May 8, 2014May 8, 2014
by Suman Kumar

Sidin Vadukut has found his niche methinks. And boy, has he nailed it! Sidin’s The Sceptical Patriot is a racy, fun read. Writing non-fiction is easy and tough at once. It is easy because, unlike fiction, you needn’t design characters, plot, and story arcs. It is tough because to make it engaging you need to move mountains. Bill Bryson’s A Short History of Nearly Everything comes to my mind: science served with humor. Sidin achieved more or less the same: history and humor. And I am inclined to believe that he moved mountains to achieve that.

My maternal grandfather, G. Srinivasachari co-authored ‘The Advanced History of India’ with the great Nilakanta Sastri. When I was sixteen, I discovered that only half of the hardbound version of gramps’ magnum opus was left. Termites had eaten the rest. I enquired within the family and was shocked to discover that not one person had bothered to keep a copy. This has nothing to do with the review of The Sceptical Patriot. I know. I just wanted to highlight how important History is to an average Indian. Even the immediate family of an acclaimed historian didn’t give a shit about history.

It was 1988 and I was applying for my pre-university admissions. I mentioned to one of our family friends,
“I am thinking of signing up for History and Economics.”
He just blanked out for a moment and said,
“Are you into drugs?”
No sane person studied History.
“Learn Typing and short-hand instead,” they suggested.
That’s how I ended up NOT studying History.

I am fascinated by History and I tried reading my grand pa’s book (it was a prescribed book for B.A. History back in the day.) I hope my grand pa will forgive me for saying this, but he made Ayn Rand look good as a writer. Now, that’s the problem with textbooks: death by prose. So, I stopped reading grand pa’s book after 11 pages.
In the years that has passed since, I didn’t bother reading up on History. Enter: Internet. I was consuming e-mail forwards, blog posts, Facebook notes, and what have you, about the wondrous, inspiring past of our great country. It took me a few years to realize that not everything the internet serves up is verified, authentic information.
I always wondered– how could a country that was so prosperous, inclusive, liberal, and diverse, fuck up so bad? What happened in-between? Well, those pages in history were never written or, they are stuck to each other.

Through The Sceptical Patriot Sidin addresses these key questions. Was India the richest country in the world before the Brits came in? Did Arya Bhatta invent zero? Was Sushruta the world’s first plastic surgeon? Will Pulli Raja get aids? (Okay I made up the last one.)
Sidin picks all the popular ‘facts’ on India that the internet has been bombarding you with and takes you on a journey of discovery and investigation. The Vedas, Cholas, and Indus valley. To Marconi the bastard (Italian hehehe), Bose, and Neuro-linguistic programming… It is one hell of a roller-coaster ride.

Every Indian needs to read The Sceptical Patriot. It helps in understanding what exactly being Indian means.
I need to add that Sidin walks the tight-rope of history like Prabhudeva on steroids. It is so easy to offend people these days and it is not easy to write an honest story and also make it inoffensive. A friend from Orissa stopped talking to me because I threw a food packet at him in a house-party. So there.

Stay with me da! I am almost done. There are a few things Sidin could have done better. Nothing major, but these things do intrude on the book’s experience.
I think he should have dwelt a little more on the concept of India. Was it a single country hundreds of years back? Or an odd amalgam of fiefdoms and princely states? I have heard some ‘nationalist’ friends thunder,
“India never attacked any country in ten thousand years you sickular, paid-media, Congi traitor!’
Was there a country called India thousands of years back? I don’t know. But yes, if only The Sceptical Patriot had dealt with that topic a bit more… Oh well.
Each chapter has an elaborate preamble before Sidin cuts to chase. I did wonder a couple of times, “Wasn’t this chapter about Takshasila? Why is he talking about Iran here for so long?” It is my ignorance that makes me say this, but I am sure a better ‘design’ would have made it an YES Bank Awesome-max.

Now go buy the book and tell me what you thought of it.

stories

Ismail

November 18, 2013November 18, 2013
by Suman Kumar

“I sleep in the railway station.” Ismail said. I tried not to display my shock but I kept staring at him, biscuit dunked in my tea. He took a deep drag of his cigarette, held it for a moment, and exhaled clouds of smoke.

I met him after my game with a 10 year old boy. The boy had just thrashed me with his Caro-kann defence. I shook the boy’s hand and stood up and I was face to face with someone who looked like a homeless man, clad in a dirty t-shirt and dirtier lungi. He bared his tobacco stained teeth and pointed to my chair. I was too heart broken to be curious. I had plans you know? Plans to make some money from the weekend tournament that the T Nagar Chess club organised.

It was a heady year for Chess in India. Anand won the Reggio Emilia beating none other than Kasparov in the process, playing black. And I was in college doing odd part-time jobs to make money. I thought playing a Chess tournament every week was a great way to pocket some cash. I wasn’t hoping to win any top prizes, but I was hoping for a consolation prize at the least. I was confident because I had already played a few tournaments in and around Chittoor and even won the ‘Man of the match’ in the Penumur tournament. (Yes, the Penumur guys had a wicked sense of humour.)
But, I wasn’t ready for what hit me in Chennai. These kids were at a different level. They knew their theory. Even that 10 year old boy did. He in fact showed me 7 variations in our post-match analysis. Within three minutes. Just like that!

That killed me. I knew the first few moves of some popular openings and thereafter I relied on my ability to generate crazy tactics. But no, that won’t work in T Nagar Chess Club. It would in Penumur, where a grand total of three people played chess.

I stepped outside the venue. The imposing apex of the Valluvar Kottam temple car was visible through the still trees. I crossed the road and reached the tea stall. I smoked a couple of Berkley’s. When I had money it was the King’s but today I only had enough money for the bus and probably another tea and smoke.

I was wallowing in self-pity. I wasn’t sure what future held. I couldn’t get a berth in the engineering colleges as I botched my EAMCET big time. I was doing B.Com, and had some 10 papers as arrears. My dad was convinced that I should become an an Auto driver for, according to him, I’d fail in every other vocation. It was increasingly becoming difficult to source pocket money. And, my grand plan of making money from Chess didn’t quite work thanks to 10 year old prodigies. Why can’t kids just stick to Cricket or something?

I walked back inside to see who were leading in the final round. And that’s when I noticed Ismail playing. I walked over to his table. The man couldn’t even write his Chess moves (as required by rules). He scribbled some nonsense and the Organisers didn’t mind. But he played some serious chess for a guy who couldn’t read or write the Chess notation.

Ismail playing White was all over his top seeded opponent. I peered into his score sheet. Ismail had scribbled some doodly stuff. A win here and Ismail was assured of the second place. Before long his hapless opponent shook Ismail’s hand and resigned. People slapped Ismail’s back, who just nodded smiling coyly. As he stepped out, I caught up with him. I introduced myself, offered him to buy tea but the man insisted that he would buy it himself. Well, there’s always a first time isn’t it? Bumming smokes from a homeless man that is. But truth be told, I wasn’t aware he was homeless until he told me.

“What happened to your matches?” Ismail asked.

“Don’t even ask,” I said and explained the mauling I’d received from the 10 year old. Ismail guffawed. ‘That’s okay he bought you tea and smokes.’ my inner-voice reminded me.

As I was stubbing my smoke, Ismail patted my shoulder and said,

“A few years back a young boy defeated me. I was also dejected like you.”

“I am sure!” I said.

“You didn’t ask me who he was.”

“Okay! Who?”

“Anand.”

“…”

He continued, “But I love the game too much. So I moved on. Also, I got to pay my rent!” and winked at me.

I never wallowed in self-pity after that. Also, I stopped playing Chess.

childhood

Be Calm and say Ram, Ram

September 5, 2013September 5, 2013
by Suman Kumar

The monkey’s (Bonnet Macaque to the foaming-at-the-mouth naturalists) exterior calm belied his cruel intentions. I should have known better. Monkeys in Chittoor, back in 1984, were omnipresent. They stole your utensils, ransacked your kitchen, terrorised kids, and violently shook innocent boy’s head( who was reading a book in the verandah). Yes, the last one featured yours truly. I used to be a firm believer in the saying ‘leave the monkey alone.’ So when a group of monkeys descended on our terrace, my mom ran inside the house and locked the door. She reailsed that I was still lounging outside, in the lawn, reading a book. And, she warned me, “Dei come inside! The monkeys are all over the place.”

I closed the book, turned to look at her and smiled one of those patronizing smiles, and said, “Mom, if you don’t bother them they won’t too!” and I continued lounging, watching the Alpha male lead his group: they climbed the compound wall and ambled towards the gate. Alpha sat on the wall at the gate and watched his subjects trickle out of the house. He was a handsome, well built monkey and appeared, from what I saw, to be a good leader. He was chewing on something. Some food that he had stored in those sacks near his throat (yes, Macaques do that.) He was glancing around and his gaze rested on me. The hair on the back of my neck stood erect. Time stood still as I stared at his moist, dark eyes. And he climbed down from the wall.

“Dei! Get inside da!” My mom said. Of course she wouldn’t step out and come to my help. But I wasn’t worried, I mean, I left him alone and he should return the favor. The only thing that bothered me was ‘what if this monkey was a book-lover?’ And you know how book lovers are. If you carefully observed them you’ll notice the unmistakable similarities between them and monkeys.

He took a step towards me. Alpha didn’t look agitated. On the contrary, he looked like he just walked out from under the Bodhi tree. He was composed and even serene. Despite the constant, reassuring thoughts I manufactured in my head and my mom’s incessant ‘Dei’ my heart started banging against my ribcage. Something told me I had to do something to keep Alpha at bay. My mind raced: should I stand up and growl to show him who was the boss? Should I just say ‘shoo’ ? Or maybe I should go prostrate, for it serves two purposes; it can be a message ‘I am your subject Alpha! Accept me. Take me! Whatever. And, lying prostrate it is very easy to play dead. I had read somewhere that animals don’t harm you if you play dead. I found that nugget of truth a little too hard to digest. So what if the animal doesn’t believe you are dead? You will be, eventually, all right but hey!

Now he was even closer. A few rapid strides and there he was sitting right in front of me on the ground. He just parked his monkey ass down as if he ran out of ideas on what to do next. I realised I had masterfully moved my feet and now was sitting in a fetal position. My mom said ‘Don’t look into his eyes!’ So I looked away, at the Kanakambaram plants that were in bloom. And epiphany struck. I recalled what Dr. Venkatesan used to tell kids just before he jabbed those evil syringes in their butts. ‘Be calm. Say Ram, Ram.’ And, if the kid still wailed, the legendary Doctor slapped the same bum on which he’d just administered the injection and said, “Didn’t I ask you to chant Ram, Ram?” I don’t know why I recalled it at that moment but the connection was made. Lord Hanuman loved to chant Ram, Ram. Thereby chanting Ram’s name can tame this tresspassing monkey?

So I started slowly at first “Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram…” Alpha appeared bored. And he yawned, exhibiting his arsenal of teeth. My heart skipped a beat and I desperately wanted to pee. The chanting of Ram’s name wasn’t helping. Now, as a 12 year old, I believed in god… only on the days of my exams. Otherwise, I didn’t give too much thought about such lofty questions like ‘are you a believer?’ All that mattered was that I had to pass my exams. And of course the prasadam at the temples. Despite that I was upset that the chanting didn’t work its magic. I wanted to kill Dr. Venkatesan.

Alpha walked behind the chair where I couldn’t see him. I heard the tearing of papers. My book. I loved that book, ‘So What Happens to Me’ by Chase. It had a beautiful cover. That of a young lady, scantily clad, educating boys like me on what the future held for us. Of course that cover was covered another newspaper cover. The Hindu’s Editorial. Most excellent book cover material I’d say.

My mom was now screaming some gibberish. And I was actually a little relieved. The idiot wanted my book. I hated Alpha. That was that, I thought. And I was all set to get up and leave when I heard my mom making really strange noises. She was shaking the iron grill gate violently. I really didn’t understand why she was panicking over the loss of a book!

And Alpha climbed on my chair, held my hair with both hands and shook me like I was a rag doll. So ‘Ram, Ram’ which I was still chanting became ‘Rambambambambam’ like from this song.

Next, I thought, he was going eat my ears or just pluck my head off and keep it as a trophy. And he stopped, just like that! Jumped down, and as he walked away, he looked back. It was like he wanted to say, “We need more people like you.”

That was the day I decided that I will be an atheist forever.

india

An Evening in Kalimpong

April 8, 2013October 27, 2018
by Suman Kumar

It hit me in Kalimpong. Not one commercial establishment had ‘West Bengal’ on their signage. It was always Gorkhaland. I could always shield my ignorance with the excuse that I am from south India, which is far removed from the politics of West Bengal, leave alone Gorkhaland. But that is just plain lazy and lame. The truth is, we are all tourists at some level. The insensitive, check-list jockeys ticking off ‘to-dos’ on a holiday. The vermin that systematically destroyed the souls of beautiful places. So here I was in Kalimpong without a clue about why the words “West Bengal” were practically non-existent in the town.

I decided to spend a day in Kalimpong for various reasons. I just wanted to relax and enjoy some comforts after having roughed it the past week. Despite being unemployed, I booked myself a room in a star hotel-like resort called The Soods Garden Retreat, Kalimpong. Yes, so the haven’t-had-a-paycheck-in-a-year poor me alighted in center of Kalimpong, thanked my restaurateur, ex-army friend from Lava who’d given me a lift in his car, and took a cab to the hotel. Yes, took a cab to the hotel which was exactly 750 meters away and paid seventy five Rupees for it.

The Soods Garden Retreat looked nice. The room was posh. It had air-conditioning, which I never used. I am a Chennai boy and Kalimpong to me is like the North Pole. The room had running hot water, room-service… and carpenters making a racket in the floor above. 2600 INR per night. A criminal waste of money. I took a long, hot shower and lazed the whole day. In the evening I recalled that Ben, my friend in Kolkata and vocalist for Hip Pocket, had suggested King Thai as a nice place to hang out.

So I walked around a bit in the evening in the bazaar. Kalimpong is filled with old structures, just like in Kolkata. And there’s something about old buildings that attracts me. So I inspected quite a few structures as listless shopkeepers looked right through me. And it sunk in slowly that people– the locals– were distant. As if they suffered an incomprehensible ignominy in the muted recesses of their hearts. I felt like an incongruity. An aberration. Like a clown in a funeral. Maybe it was all my imagination. Maybe. But I was sure that people were not happy. I dismissed these ideas as I thought I was being hyper-analytical.

As darkness swooped in, I entered King Thai. The place was practically empty. An elderly gentleman was drinking in a corner. Something told me he was part of the furniture. A couple, seated at the table by the entrance, were having a fight. That’s all. And me. The waiters stood in a row by the bar. The Captain stared right back at me. I was confused. I stared at him for a bit. Not one guy bothered to ask me what I wanted. I walked up to the Captain, who was standing behind a small desk. He looked at me and said something in Bengali.

“I don’t understand Bengali… I am from Bangalore.” I said. That changed everything. The Captain ushered me to a table and was all smiles. I was actually waiting for him to ask the dreaded “Are you on Facebook?”

As I settled down, it struck me. The people on the streets weren’t unhappy or forlorn. They probably were trying to ignore me. So I started speaking to the waiter in pure Tamil to be on the safe side.

I was anyway being a vain, irresponsible jerk, so instead of the cheap Old Monk, I ordered a double of Teacher’s. Bob Marely smiled from the murals on the walls. He was the presiding deity I think, for he was all over the place. The top of the bar counter was festooned with football club insignia and memorabilia. Of course, this is football country.

King Thai Restaurant — The Funky Dais at King Thai. Click to enlarge.

Across the hall, behind me was the stage. No one performs on it anymore. A lonely bike stood at a corner as a stunning wall-to-wall mural of white people having a good time provided the backdrop.

I was half way through my third whisky when I heard commotion down in the street. King Thai is on the second floor and the windows were right above the street.

I walked up to the windows and joined the staff of King Thai in watching the procession of people below. It was dark now. And what I saw was poignant. A large group of protesters, carrying torches and chanting Gorkhaland slogans, marched on. But business was as usual. People continued shopping, eating, talking to friends, talking on mobiles, or just stand by. A cruel thought popped in my head. ‘Harlem Shake’ it said.

The staff said they marched every evening. A bunch of people marching on, reminding people about their cause.

My waiter hastened to reassure me. “Don’t worry. It is nothing dangerous.” He said. He asked me if things like this happened in ‘South.’ I wanted to tell him “No. Things like this don’t happen. Worse shit happens. For example, when a movie star dies, we go on a rampage of looting and arson.”

I walked back to the Hotel. What bothered me more than their demand for a state was their scream of agony to be seen as Indians.

In his book The Story of Darjeeling, Basant B Lama asks an important question. The import of it is that when you hear the word “Nepali” you think Nepal. When you hear “Bengali,” you don’t think Bangladesh, do you?

I was appalled when I discovered how our leaders and founding fathers have been woefully ignorant and discriminatory:

“…The People inhabiting these portions have no established loyalty or devotion to India. Even Darjeeling and Kalimpong areas are not free from pro-mongoloid prejudices.” ~ Sardar Vallabhai Patel in a letter to Pandit Nehru.

Ironically, Patel had to call upon the Gorkha regiments during the Partition riots to police Bengal and Punjab. And, 90% of gorkha soldiers opted to serve India post-independence even though Britain had offered them jobs.

Jai Hind!

birds

Notes from a Mountain Hamlet – Part 2

April 8, 2013October 27, 2018
by Suman Kumar

Continued from part 1

26 Feb 2013, Lava

The next day our plan to to go Chaudaferi didn’t materialise. A bunch of people were trekking through the trail, and Joseph thought it might hamper our birding exercise. So I spent the day outside the Forest Department’s Guest House: a colonial structure whose garden attracted birds and offered breathtaking views of the mountains.

Jospeh suggested that we hike in the woods for a bit. So we left the bungalow and went into the woods. The woods were so thick at times, I had to crawl through it on all fours. The woods were abuzz with the steady hum of insects, bees, wasps, and what have you. Soon enough we stumbled upon a shepherd’s path. We decided to wait near a small clearing. That’s when I heard the Collared Owlet. Whatever hopes of sighting it were dashed when Joseph clucked and said “No way.”

The Green-tailed Sunbirds were all over the place but I couldn’t click a decent portrait. They flit about and never stay still for a moment and, they are almost always in the shade. Or maybe I wasn’t patient enough. However, the day’s reward was a flock of Red-billed Leotrix. I was a little surprised to discover they belonged to the Babbler family. Prettiest Babblers in the world!

We walked back to the Forest Bungalow. Joseph offered to go get lunch and I was more than happy to just sit around in the lawns. I was a little tired, for it was unusually hot that day. I waited without any hope of spotting birds when a Green-backed Tit braved my presence and started feeding on the Rhododendrons. You know what’s a shame? Not a single nice shot of the bird, despite it almost sitting on my lap. Which means only one thing: I should unlearn my technique and learn how to take pictures from scratch. I can’t seem to find a better explanation for all the crappy pictures I had shot. I am not a great photographer. To me it is just a bonus. I love getting out and getting lost in the wilderness as often as I possibly can, and photography is only eventual. No, I am not offering an excuse. I am only highlighting the flaw in my approach. Even if it is just ‘eventual’ I ought to do it right or not do it at all. So after a few hundred pictures and almost jumping off the cliff out of exasperation I decided to sit still and just be. And, I dozed off.

Joseph returned with lunch, which I wolfed down. We decided to call it a day at around three in the afternoon. The next day, we were planning to hit Chaudhaferi and it was going to be a long day.

Some Pictures from the FRH

27 Feb 2013, Chaudaferi

The Maruti Gypsy arrived at half past five in the morning. We set off towards Chaudaferi. The plan was to hike from Zero point, a few kilometers inside the Park. The Gypsy wheezed and coughed as it laboured up the mud road. A Long-tailed Nightjar flew past us. It was still dark. We stopped in a clearing. “Your best chance of spotting a Satyr Tragopan is here.” Joseph said. It was not to be. We heard its call but it never showed itself. There was consolation in the form of a Khaleej Pheasant. He was foraging in the undergrowth and bolted as soon as I pulled my camera out. I think birds have something against photographers. Take a walk in the woods without your camera, and the birds come out like you are hosting an Annadhaanam. Take your camera– even a point and shoot– Crows don’t turn up.

It was light when we reached the Chaudaferi Forest Check-post. I had to log my visit in a Register. The staff knew Jospeh. I discovered later that Joseph has been working with the forest department for years, on a contract basis. So the boys in the camp were only happy to cook breakfast (Maggi again) for us.

The park was pristine and undisturbed. Well almost. A trekking party was behind us. They had camped at the Check-post and were getting ready to resume their trek. They could be heard miles. Probably that’s how you trek, that’s what the manual says, but it was like stabbing the place in the heart and slicing it to pieces. And, why do some trekkers reserve their most colorful outfits for the treks? Is it a ploy to repel wildlife? Or is it out of hope, to score some ‘chicks’ ? I never understood!

Trail inside Neora Valley Park, Chaudaferi

We kept walking in a resigned silence. I knew that this was not going to be the day when your dream bird appears, perches on the world’s best perch, and begs you to take a picture. No, not that day, this. This was more like, ‘how-far-are-you-willing-to-go’ kind of a day. I didn’t go too far. The thing was I was a little exasperated and I think Joseph sensed it. He tried to reassure me but I said I was fine. I mean sighting animals in the wild is a question of luck. “Don’t worry, I will show you Red Panda and Tragopan before this trip ends.” Joseph announced. I rubbished the claim. I was right. At the end of the hike, after we returned to Zero point, Joseph promptly took me to the big notice board and pointed to the Red Panda and Tragopan pictures there. I was so glad I didn’t have any sharp objects with me then.

After five days of non-stop hiking, I wanted to just relax so I decided to spend a day in Kalimpong, before I went to Darjeeling.

The next morning I bade farewell to the Lepchas. There has not been a single day ever since, I didn’t think of Lava. I am already making plans to visit Lava.

Some Bird Pictures from Chaudhaferi

###

So that’s how my Lava trip had unfolded. If you’re visiting Lava, please hire Joesph Lepcha as your guide. He knows the forests like the back of his hand and is a keen birder himself. More than that, he is a wonderful human being: kind, considerate, and fun.

Before you land in Lava, do speak to him (Nine Nine Three Two Zero 95242 is his number. I also created a mail id for him, try your luck with josephlepcha49/yahoo dot com). He charges a very nominal fee for being your Guide. He will also help you with stay arrangements. Remember that Lava is a remote place so carry all essentials like first aid, cash (no ATMs there) etc. Also, carry warm clothing if you are visiting in winter or spring.

Reaching Lava

Nearest railhead: New Jalpaiguri (NJP)

Nearest airport: Bagdogra

From NJP or Bagdogra you get cabs. You need to negotiate. The price is usually around 2k for a vehicle like Sumo, but play it by the ear. If I were you I’d plan to reach NJP very early (before dawn), and do some birding in Mahananda WLS and then go to Lava. So convince the cab guy and work the cost out. It’s worth the trouble. Or you can contact Deb who lives in Siliguri. He is an eminent birder himself and he will help you with the details. You can write to him at sahadebapratim at gmail.