Prantik Home
Episode 001
There is ofcourse a history to making our home at Prantik. But I will come to that later.
For twenty long years it was a combination of our getaway from the murky city, our escape from unpalatable social pressures, our honeymoon home of togetherness. But most of all, at this age nearing retirement, it was the first time that we had the opportunity to create a space to meet just our own needs – an empty canvas that could not get any emptier. It began as a bare brown rough hewn and L shaped plot of land without a blade of grass growing on it. It was a corner plot bounded on three sides by what were euphemistically called roads.
The gaze travelled unimpeded southwards for a couple of hundred yards to a lone bungalow belonging to one Mr Sehgal, I was told, as I looked around rather bewildered. About as far off to the West were two squat single storied structures one of which was a health centre – Sheetal Toru Shastyha Kendra – not very functional by the looks of it. Apart from two distant bungalows still under construction at a distance, the bare brown earth stretched away northwards to the horizon. The most significant feature was a hundred metres away to the East. This was a train track – the sahibgunj loop line running north-south towards distant Darjeeling. I gazed enraptured by a train trundling by. Yes, this was the right place – this was it.
I wanted only 10 cottahs. The original quest had been for a larger plot. It was to have been for three sets of friends building cottages on adjoining plots with shared infrastructure. It was based on an ill conceived romantic notion of a rural life of retirement. But much water had passed under the bridge since then. One friend became hog tied by the sudden need to relocate in the city itself while the other was hit by marital upheaval. But Soorjyo Sinha was crestfallen for had done the search for the entire plot of almost double the size I needed. The report of the search of land records that he handed over was complex and in Bangla legalese, but legal eagles later pronounced the titles free of encumbrances.
Monoj, who was to become mentor and guide in the following months, drove across field and furrow as the crow flies, to Prantik station. I was immediately reminded of Podipishir Bormibaksho. A pair of tracks merged in the grey distance. Behind two empty benches a tiny station building of red brick and green shutters clung to the single low platform. An ornate wrought iron structure of gas lamp nostalgia, sported an electric bulb inside. A huddle of people stood around a tea stall adjoining the platform. Over cups of hot sweet tea I was inched into the local ambience.
Most trains to the north east whizzed through Prantik station without noticing it. Only a few lowly passenger trains stopped here. The Viswabharati Express heading from Howrah to Rampurhat was the only exception of merit. It left howrah at 4.50 pm and covered the distance to prantik in three hours and a half. It also boasted of an ac chair car. On the return journey it clocked in at prantik at the ungodly hour of 10 past six in the morning. Only in later years when we already had a home base at prantik this was to become a dear friend.
When the spouse called from the Iranian port of Bandar Abbas that evening, he said, “Buy the whole plot.”
Prantik home
Episode 002
It all began at Christmas 1997
Notwithstanding its noble connection, Shantiniketan had certainly not featured in my list of favourite places. But I was persuaded to join a gathering at my friend, Prathama’s place at Poorbapalli, Shantiniketan. She simply would not be put off by excuses. Chandan was away at sea. So there I was on my own some lonesome, alighting from a cycle rickshaw at her gate on a sunny morning in December. Prathama emerged from the kitchen wiping her hands on an apron tied around her middle. She led me inside to put my luggage away and freshen up. I stepped out to find the entire garden alive with dozens of people enjoying the winter sun. Colourful garden umbrellas dotted the place. Beer and vodka sat under a large mango tree. Kebabs were being grilled on a brazier. Platters of crispy fried delicacies kept emerging from the kitchen. In a manner typical of Kolkata, most people present were known through some connection or the other. There were friends from my swimming days, folks I knew from the club, doctor friends, lawyer relatives, scholars of repute, and childhood buddies long unseen. The weekend passed in a hazy mix of bonfire and bonhomie, mulled wine and single malts, carol singing and choral singing, and more beer and more lunch, Rabindra Sangeet and Nazrul Geeti, until it was time to board the Geetanjali express at Bolpur station.
Suddenly this corner of the world looked attractive. These were like minded people. Most were Calcuttans of my vintage, some had hill school backgrounds, and all were well travelled empty nesters. They escaped here from the city to let down their hair. Surely it was worth exploring. As soon as the spouse was back after that contract, we swung into action. The winter was filled with weekend trips of exploration peppered with estate agents and plots galore. The agent who seemed best connected with all our friends was Soorjyo Sinha. He escorted us to many possible plots. He introduced us to other folk with longer connections in prantik, with whom there was instant rapport. The right plot was proved elusive but it was time for Chandan to join back for his next contract as kitchen fires had to be kept burning.
Out of the blue, the right plot emerged, and along came Soorjyo to collect his cheque. An account payee cheque will need weeks to be cleared at Bolpur, please could he have a bearer cheque? Not a problem thought I. With no deed of sale and no receipt being given, a bearer cheque was handed over based on sheer trust. Hadn’t he introduced us respected residents? Would anybody do that if fraud was the intent? So what if there was no signed receipt. Our trust bore fruit. A couple of months later Chandan was back for a short stay. We made a quick visit to see our piece of earthly possession, and to sign the deed of sale. Soorjyo was given charge of putting a barbed wire around the plot.
Meanwhile conversations had begun with every friend who had a home there. If there was a chance to rebuild their homes what changes would they incorporate? Of course we wanted a garden, why else would we think of a home in the wilderness? My friend Anuradha put it succinctly – the garden is inaccessible in summer because of the heat, in winter because of mosquitos and in the monsoons because of snakes. Hence it is best viewed from the comfort of one’s balcony. An upstairs bedroom and a sit out would be a godsend. This was the most valuable piece of advice I received in this context.
Prantik home
Episode 003
My cousin Dulu, involved in the building industry, was the first to give me a ball park figure for making the simplest of structures. “Drawing ki hobay?” he said. I was to inform him of the numbers of bedrooms and toilets needed and leave the rest to him. Good heavens thought I. A match box home was the last thing I was looking for. Besides why would I hand over total charge of my life to someone else? I may have been utterly insular or else, my corner of the planet may have been still in the dark ages in this regard, for I had no inkling that an architect was essential to the proceedings. Architects I imagined were these fashionably fancy professionals that only the well heeled would employ if they were about to build the Taj or the Petronas. Luckily I discovered in time that this is a species that usually renders good value for money to one and all, by maximising utilisation of space and reducing cost and time.
It was my cousin Bunty, a professor of architecture, who took the trouble to design a questionnaire especially for me. Which clusters of jobs would we be tackling simultaneously? How much time would we assign to various categories of jobs? Which would be my share of the jobs? Since we were both still neck deep in work and all this was being planned for some distant post-retirement future, ofcourse I hadn’t the foggiest. But there were some things I was determined to have. The first ofcourse was a first floor bedroom and sit out. So budgetary constraints notwithstanding, a staircase was a necessity. My second requirement was a tad more complex. I was determined to have an inner courtyard for I had recently learnt that as heated air over the courtyard rises, an inward draft of fresh air is set up through the house. I had not thought of how a small house was to wrap itself around a central courtyard. A little knowledge as they say, is a dangerous thing.
Bunty’s spouse Naren was the hands-on architect who was to design and construct our home. He took the trouble to make an exquisite 3-D model for my approval. It had a grand sitting room with two sets of seating, and an atrium high above. But there was clearly a lapse of communication, for this was a far cry from what I had in mind. This was more of a chateau than the cottage I wanted. Much discussion followed. Didn’t I want guests to visit? Ofcourse I did. But entertaining was not the primary purpose of the project. It was a private home where, friends visiting, would have to slum it out with us. The issue got sorted out.
Then we came upon an insurmountable hierarchical divide. As the architect in charge, he would listen to all suggestions made by all involved parties, (including the plumber and the electrician, he said, 😳) but his was the role to take the final call on the design and he was not about to budge from this position. But this was not how I viewed things. I was ready to listen with keen appreciation to all technical advice rendered, but not necessarily to follow it. Despite all difficulties, if I wished for things to be a certain way, then that is the way they had to be. Finally we decided mutually to call it off because we were both too strong willed to hit it off professionally, and this would strain our valuable personal relationship.
One afternoon soon after this, while a group of us were seated at the Calcutta Club balcony sipping beer and generally discussing homes in prantik, Khokon pulled out a 3D pencil sketch and spread it out on the table. “Is this the kind of place you had in mind?” he asked. Khokon was known to me from birth. His, not mine. He was ex Martinian. His family and mine had lived a hundred yards from each other and been friends over three generations. Moreover, he. Had been a constant travel companion on all our Garhwal trips. He must have known intuitively what the Sens were dreaming of. In his sketch, he even had a tree growing out of a tiny courtyard. He had it just right. For us, it was love at first sight.
Prantik home
Episode 004
The year was 1998. Even the junior offspring had flown the nest. Only a few short years ago it was full house with both offspring at home driving both parents up the wall with teenage antics. Their friends were in and out of the house by the half a dozen at any time of day, as were ours. The home had an organic life almost of its own. And then suddenly it was empty of inhabitants with even the spouse out at sea. There was just my eccentric mother upstairs and myself downstairs knocking about like peas in a house that felt like a mausoleum. I was absolutely devastated. My life’s mission of launching the children having been done, the future stretched ahead - a featureless desert leading downwards straight to the grave.
It was at this juncture that my guardian angel stepped in again providing two huge involvements. One was the launching of my website named plus2physics.com which was to have been my swan song. (However 23 years have passed, with no swans heard singing yet!). And the other was the building of the prantik home with every aspect of which I was totally involved. Both turned into labours of love gifting me back the enthusiasm to live my life to the hilt.
Having come aboard as architect for the project, Khokon made his first trip with us to Prantik. He traipsed up and down and inspected the plot from many angles impressing us deeply. We needed a well from which water would be drawn when the building activities commenced. Khokon turned water diviner, sniffed and snorted, and then identified a corner where, he felt in his bones, water couldn’t be very far away. It was only much later that we realised that according to Baastu Shastra, of which Khokon is an ardent fan, the north east was the corner recommended for the water source!
Soorjyo was instructed to get the well dug at the specified location as soon as possible. This entailed a rural team of well diggers working on sheer manpower. Only when the building was up and ready did one qualify even to get the application form for supply of electricity. Till such time all work would be manual labour and confined to daylight hours, we learnt.
I took to visiting Shantiniketan and our precious plot of land almost every weekend. Overnight stays were mostly at my friend Shelley’s home at Ratanpalli as I was made welcome with a spare key. Shelley’s help was invaluable at this stage. For day trips local guest houses sufficed. Monoj was my ever obliging friend, chauffeur, and guide. I developed a kinship with the bare brown plot as it inched along. With tender loving care I planted a rain tree and a mahogany tree. The barbed wire fencing was up. I chanced to be present for the bewitching experience of the digging of the well. A thick cylindrical wall of brickwork stood on the ground. Labourers with pickaxes stood encircling the wall digging up a trench a few feet deep around the wall leaving a cylindrical mound of earth as support under the wall. Then they started digging radially inwards. They must have been working carefully in tandem for suddenly the brick wall sank several feet into the earth with a huge crash as the workers jumped aside. The men sat back to enjoy a smoke. They were hailed like heroes and even given khullars of chai before they were released for the day. Another team swung into action, two were laying bricks atop the sunken cylindrical wall so as to raise it by another couple of feet. A third carried the bricks needed for the building. A youngster was inside the cylinder shovelling the earth out of the well. For days in succession the same process was to be repeated making the brick wall sink a few feet lower each day until they struck impermeable bedrock. It was a complex and risky procedure undertaken only by rural experts.
There were several talks with Khokon. He wanted to try some technology called rat trap bonding to create hollow walls for better heat insulation and reduction in the cost of raw material. He also wished to use layers of terracotta tiles affixed into the steel mesh of the roofing to improve insulation and to reduce cost he explained. He was asking for permission for the experiment. My one concern was whether the house would come crumbling down because we cut too many structural corners in order to save money? I would have to consult the spouse on this one, so would he please wait a few days? Chandan’s view was typically pragmatic. He said that houses are not given to collapsing without provocation. Besides, we were not really looking for a building to be handed down through generations, so Khokon could go right ahead. To friends who considered me too venturesome with new fangled techniques, I explained that if one did not know one’s onions, er fish, then one had to trust the fishmonger!
Prantik Home
Episode 005
One becomes knowledgeable of the pitfalls of building a home from scratch, only after one’s first home is made. By that time one’s opportunity to put the learning to practical use is over, as my friend Chandra bemoaned, for we Bongs do not ever rise to making a second house. Had I belonged to any community other than the one given to careers in recirculating outdated knowledge, I would certainly have jumped ship sensing a business opportunity here.
Khokon continued to create drawing after drawing - plan views elevation views and then some more. My lay person eyes could view nothing without him being around to translate squiggles into explanations. But the then sanctioning authority in Bolpur, one SSDA ( Sriniketan, Shantiniketan Development Authority) which many of us grew to consider ‘Soorjyo Sinha Deals Associated’, must have understood the techspeak, for they blessed us with requisite permission. Soorjyo’s relative Ashesh, who had just done an impressive job of our friend Chandra’s home, was appointed contractor. When the spouse was home again, with great motivation and touching faith, the Bhoomi Puja was done at sunrise on an auspicious day in August 98.
The first pitfall was the building loan we took from HDFC. All necessary paper work was completed. The loan was sanctioned. We had it confirmed by them that from this point onward my solo signature would suffice. The breadwinner then went confidently off to join his ship wherever. It was only when I put in papers for the first instalment of the loan that I discovered that their representatives would first visit the site to ascertain claims of construction made, which was fine. The part that was not so fine was that this could only be done when he was next scheduled to visit the Bolpur area, which could be weeks away. Everybody held on patiently awaiting payment in due course. After this visit came the bombshell : for the first instalment both signatures were needed. But he was on the high seas. A signature on the dotted line would take months! The paper would just keep following him around across the globe, I explained. The manager kept staring straight ahead and stating that I must submit the form signed also by him. In hindsight I realise he was asking for a forged signature, but I was too much of a novice to even dream of such a blatant act of crime.
In desperation I approached my bank, for a loan to continue the work. I struck lucky again. The manager was my ex student and the son of a good friend. He was an absolute godsend. Why would I want to pay the bank’s rate of interest when I already had a loan? I was to bring to his office any document bearing the husband’s signature. He would have waiting in his office, a professional who would copy it to perfection on my document. I should then be careful to collect all scraps of signed papers to prevent further misuse! I had occasion to observe his miraculous ability to keep smiling through the most difficult and trying of situations and his masterly capability of getting any job done with the minimum fuss notwithstanding mountains of red tape. With capabilities like these, small wonder that his career has been meteoric. My own capabilities of handling matters beyond classrooms, were at neonatal stage!
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I was taken to meet Krishna Babu, proprietor of Krishna Mercantile in Bolpur. He was the locally renowned supplier of bricks, cement, steel, paints, floor tiles, toilet fixtures and fittings. I would choose from his catalogues and he would have any brands ordered in on my account. Shades of wall paint could be viewed on his monitor screen under varied lighting. It was all very up to the minute.
I also met the local grill maker who seemed a pleasant young man and came strongly recommended. I was most impressed. The materials part should be smooth sailing, I concluded foolishly.
Friends who had trodden this path ahead of us suggested that we employ another expert to prevent misuse of raw materials and inflated billing. Soorjyo escorted us to meet one Akshoy Babu, a retired government employee famed for his honesty. We were happy to have him onboard. But the first meeting between him and Ashesh proved that they already had their daggers into each other. So this was going to buy into a great deal of trouble. Since Akshoy Babu was not available to take on the contractor’s responsibilities, we had no choice but to do without
Prantik home
Episode 006
The architect sahib took one look at the bricks supplied and rejected them outright, because most of them did not rise to sharp corners. Bricks made of the local red earth are all brittle due to inadequate firing I learnt. Because of the colour of the soil itself, bricks turn red long before they are strong enough for use. The best bricks are made of silt of the Ganges. Our ‘gangamati’ bricks were to be transported from Murshidabad more than 100 km by road. To increase longevity, these bricks were to be leached of soluble salts, by being soaked overnight in highly acidic tamarind water in a tank specially constructed on the premises. As brick work continued, our construction site became a local tourist attraction called ‘tnetuler bari’
Termite problems were extreme in these fields we, were informed. After a mere month of absence, the entire front door had crumbled to dust at a touch in a house belonging to friends,. The underground termite treatment done in the foundations is no good beyond five to six years. Faithfully relayed to Khokon was the need for all door frames, window frames and shutters to be done without a particle of wood or board.
The bedroom windows were to be narrow in width but floor to ceiling in height, like doorways. This would let in more light said Khokon. The living room windows would be normal sized. The staircase was to be cylindrical with multiple windows all square in shape but differing in size. All would be grilled ofcourse, as would be all arched apertures of different dimensions all over the house. It sounded delightfully quaint and personal. Somebody should have bonked me on the head right then. Today I know that each one of these grills would merit a separate technical drawing with its own specs, blending with the shape of the aperture. Each one would have to be put together from scratch separately with no duplication involved. On the primitive facilities available at Bolpur, each one would face repeated rejection on account of not being dimensionally accurate. Read weeks of delay and frustration.
Our contractor proclaimed expertise at tiling floors, adding that mosaic floors are also nice. In real terms this translates to mean, “We can rise to mosaic floors but we are now about to learn to lay floor tiles at your expense.” But this item of learning was to unfold itself in due course.
In the city we visited facilities of tile manufacturers hunting for tiles of a particular shade of rust and for a particular shade of smoky apple green, each of which was from a different brand. These were visits to their storehouses for the user friendly one stop shop hadn’t been born then. Only Jaguar, only Havells, only Finolex were the mantras of the day! We inspected showrooms of toilet fixtures and fittings, perhaps simply out of a need to do things Columbus style.
Chandan being away for months at this stage, like clockwork I would arrive at Bolpur by Gonodebota express every Sunday morning and head to prantik armed with my dictaphone and packed dry lunch. All day long I would hang out on the empty fields, munch on sandwiches sitting on a shawl spread out under my sapling rain tree. By late afternoon, there would be a session of stock taking on dictaphone of work done over the week, work not completed and reasons thereof, and of work targeted for the next week. Records of changes expected and payments made were in meticulous detail as were the reminders and the requests denied.
At sundown, I would hike to Prantik station and clamber across the tracks to the ‘down line’ awaiting the arrival of an overcrowded passenger train. This had to be boarded from ground level and rarely was there an empty seat to be found. After the 15 minute journey, I would detrain at Bolpur and await the Gonodebota Express where I had a reservation in the ac chair car. Even my then 75 year old mother had voluntarily put herself through a couple of these rough and tumble trips. Occasionally Khokon’s assistant Tandra would accompany me to report on technical progress. When Khokon himself went along, the doings got more complex. Once an entire wall had to be redone as it was out of alignment by an inch! He would typically bypass the contractor and explain technicalities directly to the head mistri. I recall him squatting to arrange brick on brick demonstrating the curvature of what came to be called the sine wave wall of the courtyard. It allowed only outward vision.
Despite his self proclaimed illiteracy, Amin, our head Mistri became comfortable reading Khokon’s drawings. This sheet would be flapping about in the breeze weighed down by pebbles here and there. Amin would walk over to peer at it every now and then. From my seat on a mound of earth nearby, I had the opportunity to absorb the proceedings . Rounds of tea would be made. Sometimes I would send out for teley bhaja and muri favoured by all. From the newly constructed steps of the dining space, there was a clear wide angle view of trains trundling past. Quite apart from this hands on involvement with our dream home, it was my first ever close encounter with blue collar workers who had a skill far beyond my ken. Amin Mistri was a keen learner and took professional pride in his handiwork.
The jury is still out on whether it was the education that was the fringe benefit or the house itself.
Prantik home
Episode 007
Week by week there was noticeable progress but the appearance was still of a jumble of walls with no discernible feel of rooms emerging from it. Along came the time of casting the concrete slab for the first floor ceiling – a big event for a small bungalow. A rotary mixer was hired for the scheduled event. It took the whole day to put the wooden shuttering in place. The entire team was present to cheer as the cement concreting work began at sundown. Chandan’s sister and brother in law were also present to participate in the of the day of celebration. Darkness had descended by the time it was done. After the big event, samosas and chai were handed around. All of us stayed over at a guest house in Shyambati. In hindsight I realise that since, at that stage of proceedings, one was not entitled to an electric meter, the lights for that evening must have been drawn from the neighbouring electric lines by the time honoured process of ‘hooking’. Sometimes the red tape itself forces the law abiding to turn to crime. But hopefully, that is the closest I will ever get to being a hooker!
Because the walls were hollow inside, the electrician was to keep laying wires as the walls mounted said Khokon. But this would require the electrician’s services to be billed on continuous basis. Since this was mere additional expense without added value, grooves were still best cut for the cables and junction boxes, after walls were completed. Day to day glitches kept one on the toes. Many instant decisions were made hoping for the best.
Khokon was keen to set up water harvesting. It seemed the right way forward. At that time it was another aspect unknown in those areas. It was explained in detail with drawings done. Cylindrical soak pits were dug at chosen locations, and filled with broken pieces of brick. These were to collect and channel the water to the well.
The upper floor was now under construction. On removal of the wooden shuttering, the ceiling of the ground floor was found to be checkered design of regularly spaced terracotta tiles. Khokon obviously expected this but I was taken aback. He explained that terracotta tiles were placed in the square spaces between the widely spaced steel rods. Then the cement mixture was poured on to the structure. The requirement of steel was reduced without compromising strength. Insulation was to be improved because of more terracotta and less cement concrete. All said and done, it did not please the unaccustomed eye at all.
The design and construction of the staircase generated a great deal of interest all around. There were no slabs cast. Around a central bunch of vertically held steel rods were placed single layers of horizontal squares of brickwork. Each such square layer was centred on the same bunch of rods and was skewed slightly by a fixed angle from the layer below. It grew into an intriguing central column of red brick twisting around its own axis. The steps were identical triangular slaps of well polished black karappa stone with smoothly rounded edges. The apex of each triangular karappa stone step was dug into the brick pillar while its base was fixed into the outer cylindrical wall of the staircase. The column and the steps turned in tandem with each other. Along with the open spaces between the steps and the randomly spaced square windows of varied sizes the staircase had a uniquely eccentric feel to the space. At that stage I was not sure of its potential to please or otherwise. But by that time I knew it was not ours to reason why, but to do or die. There was only one way and that was forward.
I was also offered a carefully camouflaged hidey hole under the staircase wherein I could stash my cash! This offer had to be regretfully declined for sheer lack of any cache!
Prantik Home
Episode 8
The contractor took his own sweet time to raise bills. This was to his advantage as the price of bricks and of cement were on a steep incline at the time. Materials bought months before, were billed at current rates. Immediately on being placed, the second and third bills were cleared by the gullible little woman. The fourth bill seemed inexplicably high. There was also a phone call from the hardware store claiming that his bills were not being cleared by the contractor. Upon being questioned mister contractor declared with ill advised aggression, that his was the decision of the order in which outstanding bills were to be cleared. May be I was overdoing the little woman act! Why were there outstanding bills at all? Since they were billed on me, they were to be cleared in time and that was not open for discussion. It was an order – read first signs of disorder - verbal fisticuffs.
Re-enter the spouse after his next contract. There was now strength in numbers to deal with these headaches. Duplicate bills were collected from suppliers. The contractor’s bills were scanned with a tooth comb. Mr Chief Engineer was in his element. Catching out suppliers on over inflated billing was what he did for a living when his engines were not malfunctioning. Discrepancies galore came to light. At a first degree calculation, as per Khokon’s plan view, external area minus internal area was the area of brickwork, that too, ignoring hollow spaces. This multiplied by the increase in height since the last billing was the volume of brickwork. The number of bricks used was easy to calculate. The number purchased could be higher allowing for wastage but it could not be five times this number!
But much work was done in the compound as well, it was claimed. Armed with a retractable measuring tape we arrived at Prantik on the evening before Viswakarma Puja. This provided an opportunity for us to take actual measurements of brickwork done in the compound, without artisans getting in the way. All external brickwork was measured early next morning. Almost the whole of the next day went in calculations. Again there was quantum mismatch.
Terracotta tiles were affixed on the uppermost roof slabs using soorki which was powdered brick. (Mixed with lime, this was the magical cement potion of yesteryears.) This common building material was apparently not available in the locality. We were informed that whole bricks had been powdered to produce this. But given that the thickness of this layer could not be more than a few inches spread over the roof whose area was easy to calculate from building drawings, this total was easy. Even assuming volume of surki was equal to volume of brick demolished, leaving no airspaces, there was still a huge mismatch.
Raw material that is bought by area is harder to mess with, as anybody can verify the square footage used. Reduced to dire straights, our guy tried his hand here too. He billed for 10% wastage on tiles and granite. This was a bad move that gave away his inflation game altogether. He had overlooked the fact that, because of his refusal to clear the bills of the hardware store we received duplicate copies of bills directly from Krishna Mercantile. Wastage is calculated at 10% above the amount used. But it is absurd if used amount and wastage together exceeds the amount purchased!
By this time the whole picture was out in the open. The owner couple were busy calculating what should have been the amount payable as per rates earlier quoted. The amount already paid was vastly in excess of the grand total payable. The contractor was to have raised five bills altogether. Not only did bill number four not merit any payment at all, we were to get money back from our contractor. He must have by then started debating whether to cut and run or to complete the assignment to save his professional reputation. Bill number five was not raised at all. We paid off the outstanding raw material bills without routing them through the contractor. Payments receivable by the artisans were also directly cleared as per their claims.
Having burnt his fingers, mister contractor, would never again take on clients having less money than maths.
Prantik Home
Episode 9
Our house was inching closer to completion. The door frames were fixed. White synthetic shutters were ordered along with knobs and handles. But each window frame, fixed with its own grill was flawed. Either the grill strips weren’t perpendicular where they were expected to be, or there was curvature where none was expected. Or else something called a weather bar was missing. Each weekend visit brought its own frustrations. Progress seemed elusive.
Chandan ordered multiple changes. I definitely lacked the eye for such fine aesthetic detail but was happy to go along with the suggestions. It was true that the overhead storage in the dining room looked quite hideous, and should be dispensed with. The additional dining top on the kitchen counter was to be removed along with the bar style foot rail around it for surely we did not see ourselves eating there perched side by side? Nor were there kids who needed to be rushed through breakfast and packed off to school. The inner courtyard was so tiny that it appeared more like a well. It needed to be raised by at least a couple of feet to make it more inviting. The zigzag brick wall bounding the balconies looked heavy and cumbersome and totally out of sync with the feel of the house. These were knocked down and replaced with iron strip railings. This made a huge difference for house seemed suddenly far more warm and welcoming.
Since the peripheral boundary was a barbed wire fence that anybody could breach, the bulky iron gates were ludicrously out of place. The garage gates were heavy and ugly too. But rolling shutters were trouble prone and security was important. We decided to compromise on looks for these two outer elements.
The kitchen was to be open shelf as shutters invited cockroaches. There were to be wire basket drawers on runners only at one counter. Ofcourse this had not been heard of in bolpur at that time. We explored availability in Kolkata and came up with hurdles. Only unaffordable package kitchen deals were available from fancy up-market players. What they would charge to make a trip to Prantik and design things especially for us did not bear thinking about. Besides they were not ready to take on any piecemeal job. It had to be all or nothing. Our granite tops being already in place, this was a non starter.
Bangalore was clearly a much more advanced civilisation for we discovered on a fortnight’s sojourn there, exactly what we were looking for. Wire baskets on runners were obviously commonplace household items because any ordinary supplier would custom make at comfort zone prices. The required specs were not available with us. It was a difficult and unimaginably primitive era of life when one could not click and WhatsApp in microseconds. All measurements were dictated over a phone call and followed up with a telegram. The ordered baskets were made ready. To procure adequate bulk of cardboard packaging material, needed to transport the drawers, we waded through knee deep water in Bangalore’s equivalent of Kolkata’s Posta. Having invested so much energy we were not about to let our precious packages out of sight. There would be no new fangled transport service for us, thank you. They would be far safer accompanying us on Indian Railways.
Prantik home
Episode 010
The floor tiles were done by the time we were back at Prantik, but the job was not finished to meet any level of acceptability. Gaps between tiles were a tad too wide and would collect dirt. There were already some cracks across the corners of several tiles indicating inadequate surface preparation done beneath them. At every right angled edge between vertical wall and horizontal window sill, the unfinished thin edge of the tiles were in ugly sight. By this time the thin edges of everybody’s patience was also beginning to show. Some of the tiling work would just have to be redone but clearly not by the same person. For the moment we decided to move on.
The wireframe baskets were appreciated. Khokon’s carpenter team from Calcutta worked overnight to get kitchen cabinets in place. Runners were affixed and the smart new drawers were inserted. A thoroughly professional job was efficiently executed. Alas, as soon as the drawers were pulled open, each one of them keeled over and dropped off. The think tank figured out the cause. The natural karappa stone partitions were not smooth enough for runners. But I was not going to allow board or plywood. These karappa verticals would also need to be tiled before runners were affixed. Would not that reduction of space necessitate drawers of different dimensions? But our luck held here a repeat exercise of a trip to Bangalore was not needed!
Meanwhile the grills meant for the large arched apertures kept up repeated journeys back and forth from the workstation of our grill maker, Kripa. The arch was on the top surface. How was it possible that his supposedly flat grills were ever so slightly convex horizontally and yet curved marginally inwards vertically? This would be a complex shape to achieve even by design. A visit to the workshop revealed that this was being done on a cement floor and was taking the natural curvature of the floor. But if this was the best that the local team could rise to, then we had to like it or lump it.
Where the local supply system won the day was in in the custom made metal hand rail affixed to the curving central column of the stairway. Kripa and his team would work outdoors heating and hammering away at this long solid cylinder of iron. Then they would carefully carry this thick unwieldy rod inside. One end would be placed against the top of the stairway column. The rod would be marked at places and then taken outside again for more heating and hammering. They kept at it with commendable dedication for two whole days before the curvature was declared right by Kripa himself. Fixed to the column and finished, it is an easy and elegant sweep. But it was achievable only because an unusual man took it on as a new and challenge and was determined to get it right.
All that was left to do now were the finishing touches. But the devil, as they say, lies in the details.
The granite counter had to be cut to size to fit in the hob. The kitchen chimney had to be set up. The toilet fixtures and fittings needed to be put in place. All this was to be done by the local plumber Bharat, already too big for his boots. The smart Alec local electrician had already visited and swept aside all instructions with a flick of the wrist in a declaration of superior knowledge. He managed to set my teeth on edge. We decided that wiring needed to be done under our personal supervision. This ofcourse meant nights of staying in a house without electric lines. But what could not be cured had to be endured. We would get this done during our three night sojourn post Grihoprobesh, we decided.
We knew that for these piecemeal jobs we had no alternative but to depend upon these local artisans, but evidently, so did they. It was at this stage that we discovered that they were smarter than us by miles. They knew all about lying low during weekends as the owner gadflies never hung around beyond such times. There may have existed a common pool of varied excuses for non appearances. Several 48 hour weekends of absence or sporadic fleeting appearances passed with a complete drought in progress. We were at our wits end. Other friends senior in the experience provided solace and advice over telephone. The plumber was sacked and a new one unearthed. This time the spouse hung around at a neighbouring guest house to get jobs completed while the missus ran home to earn a living.
It was a socially acceptable gesture of empathy for friends and neighbours to make uninvited inspection visits to the construction site. One such visitor who walked in and looked around was clearly unimpressed. He remarked that this was a kitchen for making beefsteak but would not rise to making pnui chocchori! Another caller was blessed with Poirot vision, for he looked around appreciatively and then declared that somebody in this family loves to cook!
Prantik Home
Episode 11.
It was the first of November 1999 and Grihoprobesh was upon us. The same purohit who kick started proceedings with the Bhoomi Puja was commissioned to put the finishing stamp. It was a celebration of completion of work, aimed at thanking the working team. Add ons were only those who were already a part of the ongoing process, being my mother, my cousin Kuhu and my friend Joyita. The unexpected bonus was the appearance of the son, who declared upon arrival, that this was “the kind of dream house that other people are supposed to have and you are supposed to long for.”
Divine blessings having been sought through the Brahminic conduit, we attended to appeasement of hunger and thirst, not necessarily in that order. The guests dispersed. Soorjyo returned with a lean and wiry Adibasi of middle age and introduced him as our newly minted caretaker, Lakshmiram Hansda. We must have had the usual relevant exchange with him but this part has completely been erased from memory as Lakshmi seems to have been there with us from the beginning of time.
So we now had a home in Prantik. Liveable, but only just. Even the lights and fans were yet to be. Though we were now proud owners of an electric meter, the first night we spent there involving the three resident Sens plus Joyita Sen in addition to Kuhu and Khokon, also involved sleeping on mattresses piled on the floor of a mosquito ridden verandah, pint sized at that. The electrical connections were up and running only after two more days.
The architect sahib then moved on a mere half kilometre across the fields to reconnoiter the site of his forthcoming project – the next dream home waiting to emerge – Joyita’s.
Our grounds were then in a stage of devastation, much like any other construction site - littered with scraps of wood and metal screws, stone chips and plastic bags, tiles and sand. But I was not prepared to wait a whole season for my flowers. The very next day we went to work. While Chandan monitored the electrician’s work, I directed labourers to have the junk cleared, the ground scraped, and levelled and drenched with slaked lime. Using dry lime we marked out the layout of path ways. The remaining tracts were planted with mustard seed. This was pure brilliance on the part of Monoj. Not only did it cost a song, the field would be nourished when the seed crop would be mixed into the the soil.
Set amongst the open fields that stretch away from the train tracks there now stood an intriguing cottage, clad in terracotta tiles and bright as a button, with mystifying lines and curves. It was set in a sea of mustard flowers glorious in the winter sun. And it was all ours. A new experiment waiting to begin.
Prantik Home
Episode 12
A house needs a name. But poetic names were already taken. There were Abosar, Bishram, Shanti Neer, Dhan Siri, Mukti, Prashanti and Nirmalyo. But this was not the image I had in mind. For me, it was not an abode of peaceful end but of a new beginning. Many suggestions later I hit upon my preference. It was to be a new sunrise - Nabarun. But Nabarun found outright disfavour as it was apparently reminiscent of a callow youth with newborn fuzz on the upper lip! We finally hit upon a compromise - Notun Alo.
Lakshmiram came on board from day one, along with his wife and five children ranging from eighteen to two. He is still caretaker and gardener rolled into one. Lakshmi’s wife being his namesake, goes by the name of Lakshmi Bou.. The caretaker’s accommodation comprises two rooms and a toilet with an attached yard and an adjoining covered space for cooking. It also has a sit out. To Lakshmi and Lakshmibou, this is home. They learnt to trust us as we learnt to place faith on them. Being a son of the soil, Lakshmi shares its natural simplicity. The added bonus is that he has green fingers and a magical synchronisation with the soil.
There were some job requirements that he picked up very fast. At the appropriate hour of evenfall, the delivering of a tray containing the ice bucket, the tongs, the glasses and a bottle of water, he considered his most important duty. But it him took years to learn to keep his upper body covered. Mercifully for us, it took relatively less time for it to dawn on him, that it was mandatory for him to remain stone cold sober through working hours. Laying the table and cleaning the window planes to satisfaction sat heavy upon his shoulders.
I have always believed that I am a minimalist. Things of beauty are better admired in homes of others. In one’s own home they demand elbow grease which has always been in short supply in my case. I was not about to put into our Prantik home, anything that I would need to take care of. I was quite sure there would only be things which take care of me. These should also be things which would not break my heart to replace. As such the home boasted of a large pile of mattresses, several plastic chairs and a plastic table that served to dine upon. And that would just have to suffice.
It was in this avatar of the home that large groups of friends have gathered for weekends to rekindle bonds decades old. Mattresses on the floor lent well to rounds of tea, which merged on to chilled beer on the sunlit lawn. Sharing memories and swapping much recounted stories in glee, went on through sumptuous lunch and beyond, unfaltering through sundown and clinking glasses with tears of mirth. The lack of luxury did not impair the enjoyment perhaps because such were the mindsets and the times. It may also have been because these bonds dated back to childhood. There may even have been strains of ‘be his forever’ heard at Bolpur station on the way back.
A home however, is always work in progress, much like a flowing river. By the time one has put in place the things one needs, the very needs have travelled elsewhere. Over the years, we have blocked ac spaces and removed grills, punched windows in walls, put in acs and their grills. We have had a bore well dug, and a Lilly pool. Then we blocked up the Lilly pool and dug two more. We added arches and lamps and birdbath and changed garden layout. Cement slurry was injected to strengthen the foundation. Sofas and dining table arrived, along with beds almirahs and desk. The kitchen grew to be state of art. TV and dish were put in place along with rug and rocking chair and bookshelf. Photographs arrived. Curtains draped. Shelves filled up with Salim Ali and History of Bengal, Mahabharata and cookbooks, Ramchandra Guha and Sanchayita and Gitobitan, Pele and Bradman, partition horrors and mountaineering and, Louis L’mour along with Eaton and Niall Ferguson, and Yuval Harari. Telescope and binoculars arrived. We changed to a three phase connection and installed broadband. Somewhere along the way, Notun Alo had gradually moulded itself into a perfect fit for the Sens.
The other aspect of this perfect fit were the utterly compatible group of urban friends of local footprint with whom we have enjoyed a comfort level. This was an easy going group of seniors, who would meet sporadically during winter stays. It was all the more pleasing as we were well past the age of aiming to impress. Since our days of shaking a leg were done and dusted ages ago, leaving no room for regrets on that score, new year’s eves would unfold cosy around a bonfire in our inner courtyard recounting anecdotes to the accompaniment of heavy protein snacks and good Islay whiskey – memories which some have already gone beyond.
Prantik Home
Final Episode 13
Life at Prantik has a completely different flavour. Just as space is undivided into cuboids, so time stands free of chimes. Life is not slotted into activities harnessed to the clock face. Mornings begin when birdsong beckons and red tints glint through the jacaranda as the star in the east brings forth on promises. A delicate floral scent wafts in on the morning breezes as one sits mesmerised till morning sounds break into the consciousness. Newspapers arrive along with coffee. I reach for the crossword page. I am happy to get the headlines filtered through the spouse’s comments on them. The world shimmers happily from this perch.
In due course the spouse reappears bathed, after-shaved and ready to take on the day. The discussion on breakfast results as usual in agreement on Kochuri torkari from Sanat’s which Lakshmi is despatched to procure. Spouse disappears downstairs to potter happily in the kitchen. I remain happily inactive lost in my own thoughts until I am called for breakfast. This done, I am kept in the loop on the day’s menu. I nod and disappear upstairs to slumberland.
There is no bath quite the equal of that where water cascading on ones head breaks up into unhurried rainbow colours in the filtered sunlight, making Rabindra Sangeeť burst forth from the soul. Having sung adequate praises to the lord above from under the shower one happily descends in time for chilled beer sufficiently primed for arguments on life universe and everything. As is the case in all of togetherness, there exists always plenty to argue over. Lunch is always hard core Bengali, multi course and sumptuous as it is a love affair – between the spouse and his palate. Afternoons are spent usually in brief but deep sopor induced by posto and lubricated by beer.
By the time darkness descends, we are back in the verandah. In the summer months there are gale force winds pushing unoccupied chairs across the verandah. Power cuts are welcome as my ringside view of the richly studded velvet canopy overhead is unmarred by the ambient glow of electricity on earth.The Akash Ganga is dramatic in its flow across the sky. I gaze up bewildered at the size of the universe. This is when our emotions find involuntary expression in Akash bhora Shoorjyo Tara, or in Akash joorey shunenu oyi baajey, or in maha bishwe mahakashey moha Kaal -o maajhey. Or jogother anandyo jogye. Back and forth go our songs. Every thought that one can think in wonderment of the enormity of space time, has already been versed. Words are not needed for communication is total as songs spontaneously follow one another. Songs in praise of life are not necessarily all rabendrik. Other favourites commonly sung in chorus were eyi toh hetaye, and Jetta ramdhonu othay heshey, or Hoyto tomari jonyo hoyechi ami he bonyo. The only interruptions were to refill the glasses. Those evenings of total unison are enormous strengths for me to draw upon today.
