The Bengal government will set up a plasma bank at the Calcutta Medical College and Hospital to help conduct trials for plasma therapy for Covid-19.
Doctors and health department officials welcomed the move but wondered how many people would agree to donate plasma after recovering from the disease. Only a few donors have come forward since clinical trials of plasma therapy were launched a few months back.
The bank has been planned to help carry out trials by storing plasma cells — donated by people who have recovered from Covid-19 — before they are infused into patients undergoing treatment for the disease, said officials.
Plasma collected from the blood of a person three to four weeks after he or she has recovered from Covid-19 is expected to contain anti-viral antibodies, said doctors. As part of the therapy, a patient gets 200ml of plasma, stored in -80 degrees Celsius, daily for two days. After a few days, the blood is analysed for immune-response.
“We received Swasthya Bhavan’s nod on Sunday to set up the plasma bank,” said Prasun Bhattacharya, the head of the department of immunohaematology and blood transfusion at the Calcutta Medical College and Hospital, now a dedicated Covid treatment centre.
“The bank will help us continue our clinical trials. We will require some time to create the necessary infrastructure for the bank to be fully functional,” he said.
Over the past few weeks, experts in immunohematology and blood transfusion have been trying plasma therapy on patients with mild to moderate acute respiratory disease symptoms at the Infectious Diseases Hospital in Beleghata.
The trial had begun following a nod from the Council of Scientific and Industrial Research, which had collaborated with the Indian Institute of Chemical Biology, Calcutta, for this initiative by the Bengal government.
The first person to donate plasma for the trial was Monami Biswas. The 23-year-old postgraduate student of business management at the University of Edinburgh had tested positive after she arrived in Calcutta on her way home to Habra in North 24-Parganas in May.
But, like in other parts of India, doctors and scientists in Calcutta are facing reluctance from potential donors.
“Forty patients are supposed to get plasma as part of the trial that started in May. Till date, we have been able to infuse plasma into 10 patients and have managed to get 12 donors,” said one doctor involved in the trial.
According to the health department, 15,235 people have recovered from Covid-19 in Bengal till Monday.
A doctor said they had approached many who have recovered. “But most have turned down our requests. Some are scared they might catch the virus again if they come to donate plasma. A few were discouraged by family members from donating plasma,” the doctor said.
“Stigma and fear of getting infected again are preventing many from donating plasma,” said Abhijit Chowdhury, a public health expert. “Many people who were infected by the coronavirus suffered trauma because they were ostracised by neighbours. Some suffered trauma because of the behaviour of a section of healthcare workers at the hospitals where they were admitted.”
India’s first plasma bank was inaugurated at the Institute of Liver and Biliary Sciences, in Delhi’s Vasant Kunj on July 3.
The same day, a brigadier who had tested positive for Covid-19 died at a Calcutta hospital. Sources said Brigadier Vikas Samyal, who was posted at Fort William, was subjected to plasma therapy at Command Hospital in Alipore at the last moment. The therapy apparently didn’t work.
“Since trials are on, it wouldn’t be proper to comment on the outcome so far. But yes, plasma therapy cannot be tried on any Covid-19 patient anytime,” a doctor said.
source: http://www.telegraphindia.com / The Telegraph, online edition / Home> West Bengal> Calcutta / by Kinsuk Basu / July 07th, 2020
These men from Kolkata sport only HMT watches and boast an impressive collection of the brand.
Madan Mohan Chakraborty begins by making an irrefutable statement: that a watch is a watch; whether it costs a hundred rupees or a million, it shows you the same time.
He should know better. His fascination for watches dates back to his childhood. “A watch is a consummate combination of art and science,” says Mr. Chakraborty, CEO and managing director of a European technology MNC. “I was always attracted by design, art, engineering, accuracy and precision, and in a watch, you get it all.”
But what sets him apart is that a large chunk of his collection consists of HMT watches. Even though he owns many expensive brands as well, it is always an HMT that adorns his wrist. “Here, look at this,” he shows off an HMT Surabhi, “this is better than most Omegas. And this is HMT Priya, look how gorgeous it is!”
HMT — set up as Hindustan Machine Tools in 1953 — began making watches in 1961 and the first batch of its hand-wound watches was released by then Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru. For decades, HMT remained synonymous with a wrist watch before, towards the end of the century, Titan took its place, a process that was soon followed by the easy availability of internationally reputed brands in the market.
As an icing on the cake for Mr. Chakraborty, his best friend, Debasish Singh Roy, also happens to be an HMT collector. “I collect coins, cameras, currency notes, but watches are something that I collect as well as use. HMT has been a part of my life, right from the thread ceremony to marriage. I feel good when I think that my watches will go to my daughters and the generation after. Spending time with my collection was one of the most interesting things I did during the lockdown,” said Mr. Singh Roy, a businessman and a sports enthusiast.
Why this fascination for HMT?
Mr. Chakraborty replied on behalf of both: “HMT carries the ability of India. It demonstrates the capability of India, second after second, minute after minute, hour after hour, day after days and generations after generations. We feel extremely proud when we walk in the by-lanes of Switzerland with an HMT Janata or a Pilot on our wrists. People who understand watches can tell whether a watch is mechanical or battery-operated.”
Mr. Singh Roy said: “Many are not even aware that HMT watches are still available on their official site. Many are also not even aware that most HMT factories have closed down and the last one may close down soon. The irony is that HMT was not making money when the watches were available within Rs. 1000. Now when you have to pay between Rs. 1,000 and Rs. 12,000 to get an HMT, there is a queue. HMT failed as there was no effort in its branding. When the world is talking about going green, it’s time for us to stop using battery-operated or even smart watches.”
Mr. Chakraborty, as he fished out more sturdy-looking HMTs from his collection, added: “There are many reasons that HMT should be revived. If properly promoted, the entire globe is your market. You don’t need exclusive showrooms to sell watches. HMT-lovers groups active online will promote the brand. Atmanirbharta [or self-reliance, readvocated recently by Prime Minister Narendra Modi] must be an action, not just an empty slogan.”
source: http://www.thehindu.com / The Hindu / Home> News> Cities> Kolkata / by Bishwanath Ghosh / Kolkata – July 09th, 2020
‘Self-respect often stands in the way of seeking help’
Somnath Roy, 49, is possibly the only Bengali to play the ghatam, an instrument synonymous with the Carnatic tradition. But then, his life has been about making unusual choices. Mr. Roy was a full-fledged sportsperson until the age of 19 — first as a gymnast and then as a coach for West Bengal’s sub-junior kho-kho team — when he discovered his love for classical music. Today, as an established cine musician who designs rhythm for movies, he is helping raise funds for classical musicians who have been without an income due to the prolonged coronavirus-enforced lockdown .
Looking for more
“Classical musicians are in the field out of passion and not because of money because there is hardly any money. With the [enforcing of the] lockdown, whatever income they made from concerts dried up. We — a group of established artistes — have managed to help about half-a-dozen musicians so far. We are looking for more people who need help,” Mr. Roy, a resident of Howrah, told The Hindu.
“The problem is identifying such people, because self-respect often stands in their way of seeking help. It wasn’t easy finding out musicians who were really hard up — they included people whose kitchens had almost stopped functioning. Now we have come to know of a young tabla player from Asansol who is in need of money,” he said.
“Cine musicians like me are part of an association — there will be some kind of help if a musician is in need. But classical musicians belong to the unorganised sector, they are pretty much left to fend for themselves,” he said.
Online classes
With recording studios shut for the past nearly three months, Mr. Roy himself has been making a living from online classes he gives students, teaching them the concept of tala — or beats. Mr. Roy, however, did not begin his musical journey as a percussionist. After he quit sports at the age of 19, he was learning to play the flute from the flute-maker and -player Nepal Sarkar, who discovered that the pupil had a gift for rhythm and sent him to Bablu Biswas, a classical percussionist. Subsequently, he learned Western drums from Amal Roy and began playing for films.
“In 1996-end, I happened to watch a show of Zakir Hussain’s Shakti group, and was mesmerised when I saw Vikku Vinayakram play the ghatam. I approached [the respected Kolkata-based mridangam player] Pandit S. Sekhar, who taught me the mridangam for a while and then referred me to Suresh Vaidyanathan, a well-known ghatam player living in Chennai. I lived in Chennai — in Mandaveli — for over two years, learning from Mr. Suresh,” said Mr. Roy.
“I continue to learn from Mr. Sekhar and Mr. Suresh even today. You can say I have introduced the ghatam as a Hindustani percussion instrument to audiences here. I have accompanied many artistes — Amjad Ali Khan, Vishwa Mohan Bhatt, Ajoy Chakrabarty. I am absolutely fascinated by the ghatam,” he said.
source: http://www.thehindu.com / The Hindu / Home> Cities> Kolkata / by Bishwanath Ghosh / Kolkata – June 16th, 2020
WBBSE Madhyamik Results 2020 Live Updates:West Bengal Board of Secondary Education (WBBSE) has declared the WBBSE class 10th result at wbbse.org. Check latest updates of results, pass percent, direct link, steps to check results and other details he…
WBBSE Madhyamik Results 2020 Live Updates:
West Bengal Board of Secondary Education (WBBSE) has declared the WBBSE class 10th result, at 10 am today. Students can check their results online at wbbse.org and wbresults.nic.in. This year, WBBSE has recorded the highest ever pass percent at 86.34%.
Out of the 10.03 lakh students who took the exam,8.43 lakh passed.
Aritra pal has bagged first rank in state in his class 10th exam. He got 694 out of 700 i.e 99.14%. He is from Memari Vidyasagar Memorial School.
Sayantan Garai and Avik Das scored 693 out of 700 to bag second position while Soumya Pathak, Debosmita Mahapatra and Aritra Maity scored 690/700 to bag 3rd rank.
The WBBSE conducted the class 10th exam from February 18 to 27.
Over 10.15 lakh students have taken the class 10 West Bengal Madhyamik exam this year. Over 5.7 lakh students are girls. Due to the coronavirus outbreak students do not have to come to school and collect their West Bengalu 10th mark-sheets , this year. Instead, their parents would have to come to school with the student’s admit cards and registration certificate to collect the mark-sheets.
Here in the liveblog we will provide you information about the exam, results, pass percent, direct link, steps to check results and other latest updates:
(with inputs from Joydeep Thakur in Kolkata)
source: http://www.hindustantimes.com / Hindustan Times / Home> Live Blog / by Hindustan Times / posted by Nandini / July 15th, 2020
There is a house that oftentimes appears in my dreams. And no, it is not called Manderley. In fact, it is not a house at all, but an apartment building of the old fashioned sort. And most likely it never had a name.
On the banks of the Hooghly river, in the small town of Sahaganj, a subsidiary of the British tyre company of Dunlop had set up workshop in the early 20th century. The residential colony that overlooked the river was referred to as the “Compound” by locals. It had been built in the mid 1800s for the officers of the American Jute Mill. After the mill shut down, Dunlop acquired a large expanse of land in Sahaganj and set up a factory there and what was known as the “Estate” — a gaggle of red brick apartment blocks, a hospital, schools, a club, a swimming pool, a co-operative, a hostel for trainees referred to as the bower, playgrounds and everything possible that the employees and their families might need. It also acquired the Compound and its surrounding land.
The first time I stood before the green gates to the Compound I was no more than five. I remember looking up at the enormous gates with the spikes on top and the pink and purple bougainvilleas wrapped around them and thinking it would hurt real bad if I tried to pluck a flower and somehow landed atop one of those pointy things.
Upon entering the Compound, the first building to the left was the house that now lives in my dreams. We used to call it the Green Flat.
Like I said, it was an old fashioned apartment building. Three apartments on either side. The front of the building had two or three concrete stairs with a stump for a stairhead on either side. Those stairs led to a winding wooden staircase. A red mat affixed with brass clamps covered the wooden stairs. And whenever anyone climbed them, they heaved like a heavy heart.
One evening, before we actually moved into the Green Flat, we went by to see the place. A group of children were just wrapping the evening’s play. They crowded around to inspect me, the new addition. “Which house,” one asked. “Which school,” asked someone else. One boy, who was a head taller than the rest, said out loud to no one in particular, “That house is haunted. Those dark patches on the cement stairs outside, those are ancient blood stains.”
So many years later, there are nights when I am back at that very spot, just under the gulmohar tree, looking up at the faded green house in the purple dusk, and the house staring back at me.
It is never the same dream, though it is the same house. Sometimes I am outside, sometimes I am on the stairs, my hand on the smooth dark wood of the bannister. At other times I am running down the never-ending sun verandah of the second-floor apartment that was our home for 11 months. There have also been times when I have dreamt that I am inside the building next to it, a more modern structure referred to as the “Highrise”. Our apartment in the Highrise was at a level higher than the Green Flat, and in my dream I am looking down at the other house and I can feel it glowering back at me.
Everyone who ever lived in the Green Flat had a story, even some of the grown-ups. The smell of coffee brewing at odd hours. Voices. The bars of an invisible piano. Only one person I knew claimed to have seen something, and though she was one of the adults no one believed her. I remember her telling some of us how she had folded her hands and prayed to the white blur to leave her alone, progress to another world.
I myself don’t remember seeing or hearing anything, but there is a memory of an evening that comes alive in my dreams. It must have been just a couple of weeks since we had moved in. I was in my room playing or reading. When I was done doing whatever it was, I realised I was home alone. The next couple of minutes I moved swiftly from room to room. To this day I remember my mounting anxiety, the sound of my own beating heart and the drone of the cicadas. For some reason that day I couldn’t run out of the house but remained confined to the verandah, pasted to the net of the window, howling for my mother in some unknown fear.
Today, I don’t remember anymore how that evening resolved itself. No big deal I assume or else the parents would have told me. But in my dreams now, revisiting that moment I am sure of a presence dark and sad. An undiscerning presence that wanted to be friends with a scared little girl.
In our 11 years in the Compound we changed houses four times. All the other houses also appear in my dreams. And not just the houses, sometimes I dream of the Club House. The inside of the club, where we watched movies on Sunday afternoons on a TV with shutters and a VCR — Mr India, Moses, Ben-Hur — as we munched on jam sandwiches. This was also where a lot of the parties were hosted throughout the year; there was much dancing and one time Lanadi fell and chipped her tooth. Then there was the billiards-cum-library room. Every Christmas, this is where we put up chartpapers with cottonwool tufts to mimic the North Pole. On the lawn overlooking the club we acted out the nativity play, had fancy dress parades and quiz contests, while the grown-ups used it for lawn bowling and skittles over Abdulda’s freshly baked mince pies and trayloads of Bloody Marys.
I dream of these spaces but the tether always is the Green Flat. In my dreams sometimes I am on a rickshaw winding down the road before the Club. There are chairs and tables on the lawn, but there is not a soul in sight. I look to my right and I cannot see Nirmalda, the bearer, on the club verandah, and the doors are shuttered fast. Only behind me there is something, and I know it is that thing from the Green Flat. And it wants to get into the rickshaw with me.
In every dream I am egged on by the thing into areas of the Compound I never realised I had paid any attention to. Sometimes I am inside the Highrise lift — the one with the green doors. Sometimes I am amidst overgrown grass and I am thinking where is Maalibhai, the same who had a pock-marked face, called a bouquet, “booket” and wore a sky blue fatua and dhoti. Often I am walking down the road that connected the Highrise with the bungalows. The morum tennis court is to my right. The two copper sulphate benches are to my left. And I want to feel happy, because I am finally home. I know the road will rise at an angle soon and the bottlebrush tree will loom into view and if I walk on for another minute or so I will get to smell the magnolia outside Bungalow No. 4. But I can never get to the magnolia tree, and behind me I can feel the thing from the Green Flat, closing in, closing in, closing in.
In other dreams I will be approaching the bungalows from the club side. The narrow road that wound past the vegetable and flower patches. When I get to Bungalow 1, our last address there, I want to just burst in through the netted back door into the pantry and past the broom cupboard and up the stairs into what used to be our room.
One dream, surprise, surprise, I manage to get in. And even in my dream I am thinking, I am finally home, well, almost.
The door swings open but inside there are no lights. I walk into the dining room and I find the table laid out. I peep into the small drawing room and it is empty. I see the telephone table with the stolid black telephone — 3025 is our number. The facing window still has that lace curtain, I note with relief. The door to the other drawing room is half open and I can spy the blue carpet as I start to take the stairs. Even in the dark, even in my hurry I notice the three framed birds on the landing, and then I reach the top. But it is all dark.
On a whim I make a dash for the parents’ room. But where are they? The fans are turning, the ACs are on, the giant bed is made. There is the dresser with the oval mirror and the half mirrors on either side like angel’s wings and a heavy bottle of Oil of Olay. By the time I walk into the dressing room with the full length mirror, I am frantic. I stare into the mirror but I cannot see my reflection. It is so dark I cannot see my hands. And I am thinking I have to turn the latch, if I cannot find my hands how will I turn the latch? And I know the thing from the Green Flat is in there watching me fumble and panic. Waiting to pounce.
***
Last to last winter the Sahai siblings were in town after many years. They wanted to see Sahaganj and the Compound and, thereafter, some of us. “For closure,” all three of them chimed. It is from them that I learnt that the place is in ruins. “It was a dreary sight,” said Shippradi. “So many trees and bushes all growing wild. The club, the pool, I could see nothing. The Green Flat was a khandahar,” she added.
source: http://www.telegraphindia.com / The Telegraph, online edition / Home> Culture> Heritage / by Upala Sen / February 22nd, 2020
Mookerjee was the founder president of Bharatiya Jana Sangh which later became BJP.
Kolkata :
The Union Cabinet has approved the decision of renaming Kolkata port as Syama Prasad Mookerjee Port which was announced by Prime Minister Narendra Modi during his Kolkata visit on the occasion of the 150-year celebration of Kolkata Port Trust in last January. Mookerjee was the founder president of Bharatiya Jana Sangh which later became BJP.
While announcing the new name of Kolkata port in the programme in Kolkata on January 12, Modi had said, “It is a significant day for Bengal and those connected with the Kolkata Port Trust. It is a historic port that saw India’s freedom and has been a witness to India’s progress. It will be called Dr. Syama Prasad Mookerjee Port.”
Mookerjee was independent India’s first minister of Industry and Supply and known to be a harsh critic of the Congress party. Mookerjee, who led the Akhil Bharatiya Hindu Mahasabha from 1943 to 1946 as its president, opposed Article 370 and expressed his displeasure at special status for Jammu and Kashmir. Mookerjee was arrested by Jammu and Kashmir police and died in custody in 1953.
Shortly after Modi announced the renaming of Kolkata port, trade unions at the port protested saying the move will hurt the history of the organisation. A mass signature campaign from the employees of the riverine port against the Centre’s decision had been launched by the National Union of Waterfront Workmen(I), backed by West Bengal’s ruling Trinamool Congress.
source: http://www.newindianexpress.com / The New Indian Express / Home> States> Karnatka / by Express News Service / June 03rd, 2020
Academics specialising in Indo-Bangladesh relations consider the close ties between the border towns quite natural given their shared ethnic identity and Durga Puja’s importance in the Bengali community. SHREYA DUTTA
Taki in West Bengal is a town of green paddies and greener ponds on the banks of the Ichamati river separating India and Bangladesh. Like the rest of the state, it sees enthusiastic Durga Puja celebrations every year. The streets are lit up in canopies of fairy lights, Bengali songs and Bollywood hits blare from loudspeakers, and pandals, or marquees, compete for who carries the tallest, glossiest pratimas—idols—of the goddess Durga.
But what distinguishes Taki from other border towns is a particular tradition on the final day of the Puja. As its residents gear up for the immersion of idols, so do its counterparts in Satkhira, a district across the border in Bangladesh. The inhabitants of both towns place the pratimas in their respective boats and sail up to border security boats floating in middle of the river, along the international boundary. With a dozen metres between them, the two groups of neighbours wave at each other, exchange greetings and—with deafening shouts of “Aschche bochor abar hobe!”–Until next year!–immerse the idols together. For a day, citizens of the two countries, divided by geopolitics, come together to celebrate a shared heritage.
The practice of joint celebrations goes back several decades, Sridip Roy Choudhary, a local Communist Party of India (Marxist) worker, told me over tea and rasgullas when we met in late September 2017. Until the early 2000s, residents of both countries would cross the riverine boundary and dock in the neighbouring country to shop and socialise on the eve of visarjan—the day of immersion. “There would be a little mela on both sides,” Choudhary said. “We’d buy coconuts and sugarcane from there, they’d buy oil, soap and Boroline (antiseptic cream) from here.” Some people would even find a wedding match for their sons or daughters. His friend Subhas Pal, a 48-year-old LIC agent, recalled it as a time of fluid movement across the border. “I made a lot of friends in these visits across the border. Hindus or Muslims, they always treated me with the best of hospitality,” he said. “We’d fish in the ponds and have a feast after.” While those from Bangladesh made use of the medical facilities available in India, Indian visitors were keen on the cheap, “king-size” cigarettes of Bangladesh. And Pal added, these would not be bought, only bartered.
At 6 pm, the border guards would announce the end of the meeting-time. The residents would get into their respective boats and trawlers and return to their countries across the river. There were no passport-checks or entry pass for visitors. At its heart lay an implicit trust, according to Taki residents. The practice of an open-border tradition seems extraordinary now, with security concerns about cross-border terrorism, illegal immigration and cattle trade dominating the mainstream discourse. But academics specialising in Indo-Bangladesh relations consider the close ties between the border towns quite natural given their shared ethnic identity, the mutual practice of soft diplomacy and Durga Puja’s importance in the Bengali community.
“The Puja festivities have always been more social than religious affairs,” Somdatta Chakraborty, a research associate at Calcutta Research Group, told me over the phone. “Not only do Muslims participate in large numbers in the celebrations, most pandal-makers belong to the community.” Many villages along the border lie within shouting distance of each other, sometimes separated by a narrow mud path or shallow streams. Given their shared linguistic identity, it was not easy for many residents living in the border-towns to come to terms with the creation of East Pakistan in 1947 and, later, Bangladesh in 1971. Many had friends and relatives across the border—at times, in their backyards—and restrictions on free movement were often too much to bear.
According to Chakraborty, the Ray Chaudharys, an influential zamindar family, first began communal Durga Puja celebrations in Taki in the 1970s. As it grew in scale, visitors came from across the border for visarjan. “After the economic liberalisation of 1991 in India, people started coming in from Bangladesh for work,” she said. “Then in 1992, the Babri masjid demolition happened. In Kolkata, it prompted communal disturbances for the first time after 1947. This began to dilute the homogeneous Bengali identity.”
Beginning in 1989, the Indian side decided to fence its 4,098-kilometre border with Bangladesh. Thirty years later, the work remains half-finished. A 10-foot fence with concertina wires, and two-foot rock stumps for border-pillars, are visible along the border. The Border Security Forces, or BSF, did not fence the perimeter of the Ichamati river, since local livelihoods depended on it, but ramped up security and surveillance. They also erected watchtowers along the riverfront and floating outposts in the river. By the early 2000s, a day-long free pass across the border on visarjan had all but stopped.
In May 2011, the All India Trinamool Congress, led by the now-chief minister of West Bengal, Mamata Banerjee, swept the state assembly elections. The party, known for promoting better relations with Bangladesh, reportedly organised a Milan Mela—a festival to celebrate the immersion—in Taki, and it allowed for the relaxation of border norms on the day of visarjan. According to eyewitnesses and media reports, thousands allegedly trooped into India under the garb of festivities and boarded buses and trains to bigger cities in search of employment. There was a near-complete shutdown of immersion festivities for the next three years.
The BSF South Bengal Frontier, in charge of the security at the Taki border, refused to either confirm or deny that there had been any security lapses in 2011. Instead, a representative speaking for the BSF chief PSR Anjaneyulu told me, “Such an incident hasn’t happened in the past three to four years. Now it is very organised.” His reluctance to speak about the incident had a familiar ring to it: in a report published on Rediff.com in 2014, a security personnel in Taki told a journalist, “It’s an unpleasant memory that is buried. Let’s talk about today and tomorrow.”
When I attended the Taki visarjan in 2017, the diplomatic relations between the countries were at their least combative. Over the previous four years, India had resolved the administrative anomalies of its border enclaves and started a public border-retreat ceremony at the Petrapole-Benapole checkpoint, the highlight of which was the security personnel shaking hands before calling it a day, every day.
At Taki, the border forces of India and Bangladesh were alert but not intrusive, as they patrolled on steamers with guns, cameras and life-jackets. Thousands had turned up to witness the unique Puja celebrations along the leafy riverfront. Nearly a hundred boats chugged along the length of the Ichamati promenade, carrying revellers from both countries who clicked photos, soaked in the September drizzle and waved at their neighbours across the border. At 6 pm, the security forces announced that the celebrations should wind up. Over the next hour, their loudspeakers and flashlights led the boats back to the coast.
Pal was also among the revellers that day. “My only regret is that the next generation will never know of the joy we had experienced,” he said. “For us, visarjan was not about taking the pratima and throwing it into river. It was about making the journey to the other end, of interacting with people. The charm has now diminished. It now seems like a formality.”
I asked him what he missed the most about the border-crossing tradition. With a laugh, he said, “The free cigarettes, of course.”
The print version of this article mistakenly stated that India and Bangladesh had signed a pact for sharing the waters of the Teesta River. The Caravan regrets the error.
OMKAR KHANDEKAR is a journalist from Mumbai, and an alumnus of Cardiff University. His reporting from India, the Maldives and the United Kingdom has appeared in numerous publications, including The Caravan, Open and Scroll.
source: http://www.caravanmagazine.com / The Caravan / Home> The Lede – Community / by OmKar Khandekar / March 01st, 2018
Nandi calls himself a first-generation tanner, but sitting in the hall of his factory, it occurs that that is just a technicality.
Tan man : Tapan Nandi in his workshop / Moumita Chaudhuri
There is a misconception that it was the Muslims who dominated the tanning industry, he says. It is difficult to tell his age from either appearance or agility, but from time to time Tapan Nandi scratches his head and wrings his hands to recall the names of people and events. He continues, “It was rather the Chinese refugees (read immigrants) who had the technical knowhow of this business.”
Nandi calls himself a first-generation tanner, but sitting in the hall of his factory in Bantala on the southeastern fringes of Calcutta, it occurs that that is just a technicality.
The hall has been divided into two units. To the right, there are open shelves with ladies’ handbags, wallets, key-holders and whatnot on display. And to the left, there is a table stacked with files and papers. That is Nandi’s workstation. On the floor, there are some wooden crates. “Those have come back from an exhibition in the US,” says Nandi. Indeed, it is perhaps more accurate to call him a leather enthusiast than a tanner.
Nandi joined the trade in the 1970s. He is almost apologetic for not having a hard luck story to share. His manner is affable and he is very literal and clinical. “It was not due to any financial problem that I started my career early. Neither was it because I was not interested in academics. I was a good student,” he clarifies. Hard luck or no, it is a story of a stray passion, of starting out from a small room in north Calcutta with three labourers and getting here, a full- fledged factory for leather goods with a workforce of 600-plus.
He returns to Topic 1, continues to foreground that tanning was not a Muslim-only industry in the 1950s and 60s. He talks about the owner of Canton Tannery, Michael Lin, who taught him the basics. According to Nandi, Canton Tannery was the oldest tannery of Calcutta and one Sanjay Sen was one of the pioneers of the leather industry. Marwari businessman Shyam Murarka set up the city’s first modern tannery in Kidderpore.
But Muslims did play a large part in the industry, as they were in control of the raw material, which in this case is the skin of the animal. Nandi talks about Gulab Nami, a small-scale manufacturer who taught him how to craft leather. He says, “Muslims were otherwise low on entrepreneurship and also on the technology aspect. The labourers were Hindus, Bengali and Bihari, but not Muslims. And what the Muslims mainly sold were goatskins. Cow and buffalo hides were available in China Town. He says, “In fact, 90 per cent of the cow hide I used to purchase was from the Chinese. Those days cow hides were available at Rs 2 or Rs 3 per square feet.”
A revolting smell hangs about the Bantala leather complex. But Nandi does not seem to notice. He talks animatedly about giveaways that distinguish good hide from bad hide — mosquito or bug bites leave marks that will show only after the first stage of tanning. “Also, it is very important to know where and under what condition the animal has been reared. This is something only a butcher knows,” he adds.
He goes on about the technique of rubbing salt on raw hide to keep the hair intact. The need for it — “If the hair is gone, the skin will go bad.” The process thereafter — “Soak it in limewater to get the hair off and dip in water to wash off the lime. A few more steps and the leather is put out to dry.” He seems to have a chemist’s precision. But of course, he replies, he has a degree in chemistry.
As he climbs down the stairs he talks about the future of the industry, the pollution and the environmental hazards. “I can work for another 10 to 15 years,” he claims and walks swiftly down the corridor, way ahead of everyone else.
source: http://www.telegraphindia.com / The Telegraph, online edition / Home> Culture> People / by Moumita Chaudhuri / March 14th, 2020
The Nizam’s Roll is one of India’s great dishes but it never gets the recognition it deserves
Kebabs rolled in paratha with onions is a fantastic dish that needs to be popularised and preserved (Shutterstock)
Over the last two decades, more and more restaurants have switched to wraps over sandwiches. You would think that Indians, with our tradition of rotis, would be perfect for this trend. But it is Central America that has taken the lead. The pattern for most wraps closely follows the Mexican taco in terms of style and construction.
I find this odd. Why shouldn’t India, land of the flatbread, have a place in this wrap boom? A few months ago, Gaggan Anand opened Ms. Maria & Mr. Singh, a Mexican-Indian restaurant in Bangkok. Gaggan recognised the similarity between Mexican tortillas and our breads. So his food plays on the similarities, especially in the wraps he serves.
This is great but it still intrigues me that our rotis have been excluded from this boom. I can think of only one exception: the kathi kebab roll.
I had never heard of the dish, till I moved to Calcutta in 1986. Nobody called it a kathi kebab in Calcutta. Instead, it was called the Nizam’s Roll. I stayed at the Oberoi Grand when I first arrived and I found a place called New Nizam’s, opposite the hotel, that served rolls.
I was alone in Calcutta, so there were many evenings when I would stroll across and watch them make the rolls. From what I remember, the cook heated a massive tawa and then put a half-ready paratha on it. As the paratha heated up, he broke an egg on the paratha and cooked it on both sides. Then he took ready-made kebabs, heated them on an empty portion of the tawa before placing them in the centre of a paratha. He added onions, which had been sliced long, and a little chutney, before rolling up the paratha so that it became a cylinder. He wrapped the cylinder in paper and gave it to you to take away.
Mexico-style wraps are super popular in Central America ( Shutterstock )
I was so hooked on the rolls that I began ordering them for lunch in my office. Except that the ‘bearer’ (the Calcutta term for what we used to call a peon in Mumbai in that era) said he had never heard of New Nizam’s. He insisted on going to what he said was the only real Nizam’s. The rolls were great so I didn’t really care where he got them from.
But I was intrigued enough to go to what was called “the real Nizam’s”. The first thing I saw was a sign that read “We have no branches”. So okay, “New Nizam’s” may have had nothing to do with the original.
The ‘real Nizam’s’ guy told me that they had invented the dish and that their version was special because a) it used charcoal-grilled kebabs, which others did not and b) it was made on an ancient tawa. (I was never able to establish how old the tawa actually was.)
I did some digging. As far as anyone in Calcutta could tell, the dish had really been invented at Nizam’s. That’s why it was called a Nizam’s Roll. Most non-Bengali meat dishes in Calcutta are always attributed to Wajid Ali Shah (the man who put the potato in biryani if Bengalis are to be believed) but this one, everyone agreed, had been created by Nizam’s around 50 years ago. (That would have made it the 1930s or so.)
As time went on and the dish began to spread out of Calcutta, I discovered that it was called a Kathi Kebab Roll. Ah, I said to myself, the fact that it has a name means that it exists elsewhere in India. But nobody would claim ownership of the KathiKebab Roll. No Delhi chef. No Lucknow chef. No Hyderabad chef.
But kathi kebab? Where did that name come from? The guys at Nizam’s had an explanation. They said that kathi referred to the sticks on which they would skewer the kebabs before cooking. Jealous people who did not want to give Nizam’s the credit, they said darkly, called Nizam’s Rolls, Kathi Kebab Rolls.
Indian sandwiches only became popular in the 1960s and 1970s ( Shutterstock )
I have no idea if the kathi-wallahs had such evil motives but it is true that fewer and fewer people call them Nizam’s Rolls now – even in Calcutta. I was there a few months ago and everyone just called them ‘rolls’ and directed me to various newer restaurants and outlets.
At the same time, there are restaurants that serve rolls and call themselves ‘Nizam’s’ all over India. Are they related to the Calcutta original or are they, like “New Nizam’s”, not quite the real thing? I have no idea.
But in my view, and I said so in one of the very first Rude Food columns I ever wrote, the roll is the great Calcutta dish. The puchka comes close (but there are other contenders in Lucknow, Mumbai and Benaras). Otherwise, if you want to search for Calcutta’s unique contribution to Indian cuisine, you’ll be reduced to discussing rasgullas and ras malai.
When I first wrote about the roll, I complained that it was not widely available outside of Calcutta. In the 15 years or so since that article appeared, that has changed. You get rolls everywhere from Delhi to Dubai to Nagpur to New York. The roll has finally been given its rightful status as a great Indian dish.
Gaggan Anand serves wraps at his Mexican-Indian restaurant in Bangkok
But the questions that started me off on this chain of thought remain. Why is the roll the one famous Indian wrap? Why don’t we have more wraps in any of our cuisines? We have all the ingredients – from the breads (rotis, parathas, makki rotis etc.) and delicious fillings. And yet, even as the world has embraced wraps, India never gets a look in.
I asked chef Manjit Gill, my guru in matters relating to the history of Indian food, if he could think of any other Indian wraps. He couldn’t. I asked then if he had heard of kathi kebabs outside of Calcutta. Manjit said he hadn’t. As far as he knew the kathi kebab was a Calcutta dish.
I then asked Manjit the big question. Why doesn’t Indian cuisine have more wraps?
I liked Manjit’s answer. Wraps are meant to be eaten on the go. In India, we rarely ever eat standing up, let alone on the go. We are not a fast food culture. We like to sit down and eat our meals. Many of us would prefer to eat the kebabs and the parathas separately, rather than combine them and wrap them in paper. For most of our existence, we have been the ultimate slow food nation.
Pav-bhaji was invented in the 1960s for traders at the old Cotton Exchange ( Shutterstock )
I reckon that till the 20th century, India was a country where nothing in the kitchen was done fast; all food was slow food. Even chaat, which is eaten standing, is serious food. You can’t really walk around while eating a golgappa as you can while eating a sandwich or a wrap.
The Nizam’s Roll is usually dated to the mid-1930s, which, I suspect, is when things began to change.
Pav–bhaji was invented in the 1960s for traders at the old Cotton Exchange who would stay up till early in the morning to see the New York cotton prices. It is not a cold dish. It has to be cooked on the spot. But they did eat it standing up and for many of the Gujarati bania traders, it was the only time they ate bread.
Indian sandwiches only became popular in the 1960s and 1970s. The Bombay sandwich (freshly made but cold), which you could eat on the run is really a ’70s phenomenon.
The vada-pav is essentially a Maharashtrian hamburger ( Shutterstock )
So is vada-pav. Both seized upon the industrialisation of baking and the availability of cheap (and fairly disgusting) bread to create new dishes. Both have Western antecedents. The sandwich is not Indian, by definition, and the vada-pav is essentially a Maharashtrian hamburger.
So, what happens in the 21st century? Now that we have lost out in the global wrap movement, will India just follow the rest of the world and make fast food based on hamburgers, pizzas and sandwiches (all suitably Indianised)?
Sadly, I think that we are headed in that direction. So, value the roll. It is a great dish.
And one that’s truly Indian.
From HT Brunch, July 12, 2020
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source: http://www.hindustantimes.com / Hindustan Times / Home> Brunch / by Vir Sanghvi , Hindustan Times / July 12th, 2020
“He wanted to provide the best quality food at the cheapest price,” said daughter Sohini Basu
Arnab Basu, the man who created Mio Amore / sourced by the Telegraph
Arnab Basu, the owner of popular confectionery brands Mio Amore and Winkies, died on July 2 at a city hospital. According to family sources, he was battling liver cancer.
A resident of The Residency in City Centre, Basu was 65 and is survived by his wife, son and daughter.
Basu, who started as a bank employee and then ran a bakery in Saudi Arabia with a friend, founded Switz Foods in 1989. Two years later, he would open his factory in Kasba Industrial Estate.
He arranged with a Mumbai company to bring the brand Monginis to eastern India, taking it in a new direction. The chain, that started with a shop in Dhakuria in 1992, expanded to over 300 outlets in Bengal and Odisha, including 220 in Calcutta.
In 2010, he entered a joint venture with Bauli of Italy to start production of croissants. He launched the brand Winkies to enter the packaged confectionery business in 2012. Soon after, he decided to set up his own brand and thus was born Mio Amore in 2015. Within two years, turnover soared over Rs 500 crore.
“He wanted to provide the best quality food at the cheapest price,” said daughter Sohini Basu, who owns the popular cafe and cake shop Mrs Magpie. “My father was happy that one of his children got into cakes,” she added. Basu’s son is a London-based banker.
source: http://www.telegraphindia.com / The Telegraph, online edition / Home> West Bengal> Calcutta / by The Telegraph, Special Correspondent / July 10th, 2020
