Beginning Digging

Three of us had bonded at university over shared love of the past. Now that we work at different places, canteen tables cannot serve as the best place to generate ideas. Something more virtual, yet something more lasting must take shape. Hence, this blog for ourselves.

But what for you? How do you make things last? Through living in places and deeply imprinting the soil, perhaps. Through home, through language and song, perhaps. A patchwork on a quilt or a soiled boot, perhaps? Stories, or photographs? Through the eyes of your grandfather or the hands of your grandmother? All of life is a remembrance of a life already lived. Our blog would talk about memories and places that pin the past to the earth. Places that cannot be subdued, just like the people who died while refusing to die out forever. We shall post about faded yet persisting stories. Ruins, objects, texts- 'vintage' if you must call them so, but far more than collectibles.

Our blog is not a personal blog. You can expect articles that interest a casual traveler; or if you are interested in folk culture of India, history or architecture, literature of a bygone century, handicrafts, ancient traditions, objects and rituals, or plain philosophical musings of old-souls like us. None of us are professional photographers or travelers- our vocation is humanities, and that is what we have designed our blog to incorporate and express best.

So, fellow nostalgists, return and remember.

Comments

A Visit to The Pen Hospital in Esplanade (Dharmatala)

Subscribe …I answered "The smell of old people's houses". The question was "What do you really like the most in life?" – Jep Gamberdella in The Great Beauty (2013) A few days back I had a chance to visit the Dharmatala area with a friend of mine, who was soon leaving for US. We strolled around the footpath amidst the bustling crowd of buyers, sellers and bystanders, and looked round. As we came near the Metro Gate no. 4, behind the stalls selling modern day clothing, we were able to find a shop not so modern- The Pen Hospital. On the wall by the shop Mr. Riyaz in his shop The shopkeeper of The Pen Hospital Pens on display The dusty rack Some of the pens I bought. I had to return the green coloured Parker England though since that one had a crack near the nib. Later I bought a Cross instead. For those who are fountain pen aficionado the existence of this shop is not a breaking news, for this shop with its dusty old di

Excavation of a Forgotten Painter: The Moments of his Art

Subscribe In the earlier post I had tried to dig up the silken glow of Maniklal Banerjee, an eminent painter aligned to the Bengal School of Art, not so well remembered, who also happens to be my great grandfather. Like the familiar yet elusive beauty of his native village Sonaranga, he has remained less than fully tangible. He has remained somewhere amidst the luminous haze of family reminisces and the "ghost paintings"-as I call them- mere photographs retained of his best work on silk. I have received them archived on a CD disk, that came to me as a family heirloom. Sonaranga of his younger days, drawn from memory and impressions. I have decided to call him, at times, by the name of Manik Babu, even though the man is both, a great painter and my great-grandfather instead of the more endearing “Boro-Dadu”. I have accused him at times in my mind, for remaining like a myth in our household. It was as if everybody knew half-truths about him, yet he did leave

Listening to Erosion at Gangani

Subscribe It is difficult to dig up faded stories of the earth or make up a story that both looks faded and smells earthy. My friends have shown great ingenuity in overcoming this impasse. Myself having none, must rely on the recollection of past before it completely fades away. My memory of Gangani goes as far back as my memory of picnics and hazy wintry mornings. A stretch of laterite with patches of cashew trees dips into a gorge with numerous caves and crevices before sloping into the river shilavati. We would cross the river barefoot and my Chhotka would spread his gamcha to catch a fish or two. There was no stair made yet to assist my trembling legs in descend on the yielding soil that glistened like gold in the sun. It was long before we read about soil erosion. For me every crevice was a haunt of stories etched on the soft yellow walls, a maze of figures, human, animal, demonic. Once down I had to stretch my entire neck to look up the ridge at the red rocks sittin

Faded Earth

Search This Blog