The Befrienders of St Paul’s Cathedral

Kolkata’s Cathedral: St Paul’s

The iconic buildings and grand edifices of Kolkata are intricately woven within Kolkata’s cultural fabric. Much Kolkata’s character and attitude is shaped by these edifices, as much as its distinctive beauty. One such is the magnificent Pre-Raphaelite structure of St Paul’s Cathedral, the Diocese of Calcutta. Designed to resemble the 12^th century Canterbury Cathedral of England, St Paul’s was commissioned to replace St John’s Church as the cathedral for the growing European community in 1800s. With its majestic tower, stained glass windows, the grand Parish Hall, beautifully manicured garden and a well-stocked library, St Paul’s is one of the important landmarks on the face of Kolkata.

The Cathedral Friendship Centre

Since its inception, St Paul’s has been playing a seminal role in Kolkata’s cultural progression. With its patient kindness and love, it has always kept its doors open to all—the locals and the tourists, the pilgrims and the laity, the happy and the troubled, the young and the old. People came back time and time again in search of a safe house to St Paul’s Cathedral. The quiet walls of the cathedral beckoned many, and many came seeking peace, mercy, relief and love. Mostly people came seeking a friend to talk to, to seek some advice, to unburden.

Last year, after the painstaking efforts of Rev. Nigel Pope, the Presbyter-in-charge of the cathedral, St Paul’s Cathedral, in partnership with the St Peter’s Church of Derbyshire, and with incredible help from the Westminster Abbey, The Bishop of Derby, The Diocese of Derby and Ruth and Adrian Whitehall, set up the Cathedral Friendship Centre on 21^st August 2016.

The Friendly ‘Befrienders’

In this one year the Cathedral Friendship Centre has extended its friendship to several. People of all faiths or no faith, troubled or lonely can come to the centre to read, listen to music or talk to one of the wonderful ‘Befrienders’ (the volunteer friends from the Cathedral). Over this one year the befrienders have helped many, and many have, thus, come back to the centre to share their experiences and help the troubled.

The Friendship Centre with its befrienders and coordinator-in-charge remains open to all from Tuesday to Saturday. Mondays are off days and Sundays are half days.

Call it slow or call it old-fashioned with want of opportunities, Kolkata is more than a city of glitz, glamour and urbanised industrilization. Its beauty lies in its compassion, its simplicity and its warmth. Its history is as rich as its present—a proof that the edifice of St Paul’s and its community bear by itself.

Sanjha Chulcha Opens Kolkata’s First Food ATM For The Underprivileged

Want to donate food for the underprivileged? Join hands with Sanjha Chulha and donate food to Kolkata’s first food ATM and help feed the impoverished.

Food ATM

Wondering what’s a food ATM? Well, it’s a refrigerator which acts as a food bank that restaurants or food joints keep by the street to store excess food or leftovers that they give away to the needy or the underprivileged.

Sanjha Chulha’s Food ATM

Sanjha Chulcha restaurant in association with the Rotary Club, JITO and Round Table India launched a food ATM on this Independence Day as an innovative answer to food wastage and hunger. Come and leave your leftovers and excess food in this fridge, installed in front of Sanjha Chulcha’s Ladies Park outlet, for the needy. This fridge with an inbuilt camera helps the restaurant keep a tab of the space available for storing drop offs.

Budget Meals For The Needy

Keeping up with the spirit of feeding the impoverished, Sanjha Chulha has also launched budget meal packs, which customers can buy and donate to the poor and the hungry.

Come let’s get together with Sanjha Chulha and make the ‘Hunger Free Kolkata’ project a success.

Botswana's No 1 Ladies' Detective Agency

A few weeks back when a teacher of mine recommended me to read some of Alexander Mccall Smith’s writings, I set out to look for a book which will be best for me to step into his oeuvre with. So, I picked his 1998 released novel, The No 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. Precious Ramotswe’s intelligence and affability combined with McCall Smith’s witty narrative got me hooked so much that by the end of this book I was itching to read the next instalment of the series.

Set in Botswana, The No 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency is one of its kind in the entire country. Following her father’s death, Mma Ramotswe used her inheritance to set up a detective agency because she unwaveringly believes that ‘women understand what’s happening. They are the ones with the eyes.’ Ramotswe along with her assistant Mma Makutsi and a small white van set out to solve cases and help people ‘solve the mysteries in their lives’. Though business starts off slow with small cases involving con men, embezzlers and rebellious kids, it does not take too long to pick up momentum as the perceptive and quick-witted Mma Ramotswe bags important and high-profile cases in her kitty. Through the tribulations of the ingenious cases, cups of bush tea and Mr JLB Matekoni remain as constant friends to Mma Ramotswe.

Precious Ramotswe with her easy and patient demeanour and a keen understanding of the human psyche comes across as a detective, au naturel. Her progressive and feminist ideals does not come in conflict with her traditional African values, compassion and grace. She is a patient feminist who puts an arrogant man in his place with her intelligence and sharp wit and her amicable disposition. Mma Ramotswe is a confident woman who is not only sure of her looks and her colour, but also of her self and her identity as a feminist. She is unlike the stereotyped sleuths who are endowed with atypical qualities, for her judgement is tempered with compassion and human understanding—the Moretsi case for instance.

If Mma Ramotswe’s character is instrumental in keeping the readers glued to the book, McCall Smith's
narrative is no less in making the novel such a success. The narrative’s inspection of human character, foibles and pressing issues of the society is deceptively covert by Smith’s lucid language and easy humour. McCall Smith let’s his protagonist use sly humour to cut through chauvinism, patriarchy and superstition. The narrative is interspersed with actions from Mma Ramotswe’s curiously interesting present and thoughtful ruminations from flashes of her painful past, thus, striking a delicate balance of wit and philosophy, of humour and pathos.

While some may dismiss McCall Smith’s handling of the pressing social issues as trivial, it is undeniable that his protagonist, nonetheless, comes across as a nosy realist who hesitates for no two seconds before plunging headlong to address such issues in her own capacity. The plot doesn’t follow the whoddunnit genre, nor does it involve sensational crimes, indomitable criminals or the maddening chases. McCall Smith’s novel relishes the slow-paced life of Gabarone, the challenges that form the kernel of the mundane, and studies the foibles of human character in a different light, unlike most detective novels. The novel, at best, stands out as a optimistic and humorous commentary on human life, character and society. 

7 Things That Happen When You Go On A Social Media Cleanse

To go on a social media cleanse for a week is not everybody’s cuppa tea! It needs strength of will and character, and a really messed up mind for one to dare take up such a purifying task. 

So a week back, someone (read, someone special) I have taken a liking to did a brutal turnaround, and my peace of mind fell victim to a game of Russian 'Love' Roulette! I yearned for a comfortable place to wallow in and some dusting of ‘inner peace’! So I took to a week-long cleanse—a social media cleanse! 

But then starts the side effects. Here’s a few to be warned of.

1. Your fingers start twitching desperately. 

     

    Your fingers be like a druggie without your smartphone. You start missing the smooth touch of your 'smart ass' phone!

2. Notifications desert you.

You want to dismiss Bae! So you look forward to your bros and chickas to pump you up, between bouts of 'leave-me-alone-for-heaven's-sake' mode. But dammit! there's no scope for notifications. You are just left to syncing your email a dozen times in a minute. Self-esteem plummets at it's lowest low. 'I-am-not-important-enough' mode is on.

3. You become a sad, but creepy stalker.

You hope for crush to miss you, but there are no messages or calls! You are clueless. You roundly end up stalking your crush online (incognito mode). All social accounts stalked at least five times a day.

4. Dangers of drunk texting!

When you can't get enough of stalking your crush, you drunk text your crush! Well because all the other modes of stalking are just plain useless.

5. On the plus side, you get to eat warm food!

Social media absence accounts for zero fancy food photographs and the no risk of drool dripping out of your mouth. You enjoy lots of scrumptious satisfying meals that are eaten while still warm.

6. You undergo Selfie-withdrawal Complex.

A rather difficult problem, but you slowly start realising how much your skulking personality, racoon eyes and mopey looks are bad recipes for selfies. What do you do when your membership of the selfie nursery (social media platforms) have been taken away. You go to a shrink to get over 'selfie-withdrawal complex'.

7. The Epiphanic moment — Life is okay without Memes 

You suddenly realize the lame ass memes on social media are half as funny as the amazeball funny friends you have. You wonder how did you miss this for so long!

Those Summer Morning Walks

                 

The quaint little town of Andul was inhabited by a few hundred people who knew each other all too well. They were friends or neighbours, acquaintances or relatives. There were the old men who trudged along for morning walks, young chaps who flocked around at the market place or the ladies troop who gathered around the puchkawala.

One such simpleton was old Mr Manna. He was one among the old residents of this town. Every morning at the crack of dawn he and his friends would take the mile-long walk to the railway station. This summer the old men had the company of a little sprightly girl and her tiny white furball, Jimmy. Five-year-old Dona was Mr Manna’s granddaughter and Jimmy was her pet spitz. This year she was spending her summer vacation with her grandparents. 

‘Come now little one, don’t wander away’ Mr Manna would often call out to Dona and her pup. 

The old men were thrilled to have this little girl for company. Her abundant energy kept them rattling tale after tale to her. Dona was an eager listener and couldn’t get enough of stories.

‘Grandpa Mitter, would you tell me the story of the mango tree Giant again? I won’t be scared today, I promise’, Dona said pleadingly.  

Mr Mitter rubbed his chin and said, ‘hmm…so you see little one, there was once a giant who lived in the mango tree that stood behind my house…’

As the story followed Dona and Jimmy trotted along the path collecting wildflowers and greeting the townsfolk.

‘You’re late today, Kanai uncle’, Dona chirped as Kanai smirked and cycled past her with his cart full of bread.

Then as they neared the field, there was no stopping Jimmy and Dona from running amuck among the dewy wet grasses.

‘Look at those munchkins!’ the women piped as they queued around the squeaky tubewell to fill their pitchers.

When they reached the railway station, the old men ordered tea from Bishu’s tea stall at the platform. Dona and Jimmy carefully sneaked away and climbed the foot-over bridge to visit the town on the other side. But hardly had the reached the middle of the bridge than the train came rumbling and shot its loud whistle. Dona and Jimmy trembled and crouched low in fear. The burst of laughter made Dona look up with wide eyes.

‘Want to sneak away alone anymore?’ Pintu dada asked as Dona shook her head vigorously.

When Pintu took Dona and Jimmy to the old men, they all chuckled and asked, ‘How was the trip Dona?’ 

‘I-I’m sorry’, Dona mumbled tearfully before her grandpa wrapped her in his arms and soothingly said, ‘It’s okay. Next time we will take the trip to the other side together.’

Today, Dona is a grown woman and lives in a lifeless city. Her Grandpa and Jimmy had died. But the memories of these early mornings and the simpletons of Andul have brought her closer to life and have taught her to cherish the simple joys of life.

Of Mother and Daughter

Of Mother and Daughter
I stood in the corridor, just outside the class;
Transfixed to the spot, as I held the sight before.
There, he came strolling towards me,
My best friend since we were three.
Hopefully to certify a relationship that was yet to be.

Last night he had called to declare his love,
But surprise and awe had tangled my nerves.
Sputtering and stammering words incoherent,
I couldn’t fully convey my feelings intent.
Couldn't confess my feelings of love that our friendship has long augment.

A crooked smile tugged at his lips,
His mussed hair and the familiar cowlick.
Last night’s frenzy now fogged my mind,
Hitched my breath and pounded my ears.
And I stood staring at my friend as he morphed into my lover.

Memory’s river flooded my mind,
Our years of togetherness came floating by.
Locking our eyes, we silently hoped,
That our time-stained Joy, Anger and Sorrow,
Would plough the field of our Love’s tomorrow.


Now he stood proudly before me,
His palpable love setting my soul alight.
He twined his fingers softly with mine,
Like he did that day we buried father,
When we were no more than just nine.

With his head bent forward, his forehead on mine,
A sudden peace washed over him.
Happiness and Fear danced in his eyes;
His face a canvas of myriad emotions.
A perfect reflection of my own impressions.

At the self-same moment I recognized the look,
The one I had seen in my mother’s eyes.
Trust and Love sewn together with Peace,
Would shine in her eyes as she talked of Jim.
Or when she would look at my father, before him.

Understanding plundered my thoughts,
How I wronged my mother’s heart.
Hurt and angry on my father’s behalf, I had lashed out at her;
Deaf to what she had been telling so far:
‘Love is boundless, unconditional and free; and it has given a second chance to me!’

Seven lonely years sucked at her life,
Seven lonely years withered her soul,
Until mother met Jim who brought back Love.
With utmost care Love had bloomed,
And then she gave birth to Hope!

This inexplicable strength, power and courage,
Born of Love’s depth and faith,
Has touched the core of my soul’s being;
And has schooled me in understanding my mother’s feelings.
That Love is born not to die, but to breed in one the love of Life.

The House

He remodelled the house for a lacsome money,
The house that stands at the end of the dirty alley.
The cow shed overlooks the ornate main door shy,
Urchins play amidst cow dung and flies.
The house shines garishly with its white-tiled exterior,
It adds to his pride and makes him feel superior.
Tall and scrawny like a narrow piece of cake,
The house awaits to tumble at a legal inspection's wake.
Three years of savings he spent to rise above
The tacky poor neighbours with no taste or class.
The red-oxide flooring was ripped away with marble,
Friends and relatives sighed and appreciated his bauble.

Seven months and ten days it took to remodel the house;
The house that stands like his ego profuse.
Orphaned and poor, his childhood had lured
Him to own land and be secured.
Money cured his unassuring lack,
He didn't care for any law's smack.
Orange and purple filled the walls of his imagination,
Though unkempt articles didn't add to the reformation.
Hailing from the suburbs in far off East,
The  proud house had his identity fixed.
Teenager from a village, alone and abandoned;
He survived the city; a man ripened and hardened.

But fickle Fate with an unscrupulous smile,
Trapped him in a cancerous vice.
Metabolic dysfunction and a malignant liver,
Rocked his world, his forehead burnt with fever.
Anxious and agitated, and distraught with fear,
His wife strived to fetch him every possible elixir.
Money escaped like a mirage in desert;
Her aching tears bought no relief from Fate pervert.
Addled and hapless, his wife begged for help
From friends and relatives who sighed and sidestepped.

That Ego and Pride—trifles to life;
That money humbles the archest brows;
That perfect luxury equals no love;
Dawned on him, and she thought thereof
To sell the house; the one that stood
In the dingiest and shabbiest neighbourhood.
The house now snuggles a tacky poor family,
Who saved another with their classless money.

If money be the grave, and ego be the dirt,
Let Life be the wind that blows over us.