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A Man Who Would Be A Magician

Discussion in 'Snippets of Life (Non-Fiction)' started by ojaantrik, Apr 14, 2017.

  1. ojaantrik

    ojaantrik IL Hall of Fame

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    [My apologies for this overly long snippet. I have been absent from IL for several months too. I don't know if one length compensates for the other. Do please forgive me if the composition that follows challenges your patience. Recall that you are at liberty to ignore it.]

    I have caught this nagging infection that makes me travel backwards in time. Unlike Benjamin Button or Barnaby Fulton, it doesn't make me any younger mind you. (In case you haven't heard of Barnaby Fulton, you will be well-advised to watch Monkey Business on YouTube. It was made in 1952, when most of you here were still to be born. I was there of course, not to speak of Cary Grant, Ginger Roberts, Marilyn Monroe and a few other inconsequential people.) The infection reared up its head, I suspect, since the day I cogitated about Kamala Bastralaya around three years ago. That was a tailor shop, let me remind you, at the crossing of Manohar Pukur Road and Rashbehari Avenue in erstwhile Calcutta. The shop has evaporated now having fallen victim to the ravages of time and the prime location is occupied by Asian Paints, which, paradoxically enough, gloats over its anti-ageing formula. But it is not Asian Paints that drags me back to my foggy past today.

    Instead, I wish to dwell upon Rashbehari Avenue alone and a little man who once lived on that street. The busy road stretches from east to west, a road that is uncompromisingly straight compared to Manohar Pukur Road. The latter never fails to remind me of a rippling river winding its way along the plains. It is full of feminine curves as it were, charmingly illusive through rain and shine. Not so Rashbehari Avenue. As you walk westwards along it, you go past Deshapriya Park (recently redecorated), Kamla Vilas (the well-known hiding place for South Indians of yore), Lake Market (which still sells the best fish in South Kolkata), Melody (a widely visited music shop that, unlike Kamala Bastralaya, has kept Asian Paints at bay) and then finally take a sharp left turn to reach the Keoratala crematorium with military precision. That's the point of no return. Sunset land.

    But return we must though today, for our time machine is driving in reverse gear. Let's walk eastwards therefore to the other end of the avenue. Somewhat in the spirit of Einstein's General Theory of Relativity, however, the road, like universe itself, curves back on itself at its eastern fringe and begins to traverse back west. It has a magical quality about it, making you believe that you are moving east, when in fact you are actually headed west.

    Magic, yes, uniquely magical it is, this eastern end of Rashbehari Avenue. No wonder therefore that it is exactly here, where west swallows up east, stands Indrajaal. Indrajaal was a mansion of sorts constructed by TW's GM as a residence. Though palatial during its early youth, it has assumed a somewhat stunted appearance now, facing as it does a gigantic shopping mall on the opposite side of the street.

    TW's GM was an acronym used by an American Magazine to refer to P.C. Sorcar, who had performed in the US advertising himself as The World's Greatest Magician. Unfortunately, I cannot recall the name of that magazine any longer. He was probably the most successful magician that India produced during his lifetime, which ended abruptly and far too early with a heart attack sustained during a performance in Asahikawa, Hokkaido, Japan. P.C. Sorcar's passing away created a void for a while in India's presence in the world of magic, till he was replaced by his equally capable son, known as P.C. Sorcar, Jr and the latter too held the world in awe for several decades.

    I should have been a schoolboy then, and so was my younger cousin Rana. And we had a common ambition, to turn into master magicians. TW's GM was still alive and kicking and we were avid readers of the books he wrote for youngsters, but we knew only too well that they could never lead us to the Holy Grail of sorcery. We needed a teacher and Sorcar Senior, given his eminence, was unreachable. Hence, we set out on a search mission for a Guru if you will. It was around this time that we came across another name, a magician called A.K. Sarkar. Quite obviouslyly, P.C. Sorcar was born Sarkar and had changed his family name to Sorcar, to draw people's attention to his link with sorcery. A.K. Sarkar too held magic shows, but unlike Sorcar who performed in the best known auditoriums, Sarkar probably never went beyond the confines of make shift stages occupying pavements during seasonal festivities. And once in a while, he wrote in magazines for young people like us.

    It didn't take Rana and me too long to discover that A.K. Sarkar was related to P.C. Sorcar, though the exact relationship remains obscure. I assumed they were cousins, whether near or distant I have no idea. And for all I know, they need not have been cousins at all.

    Even at that young age, we were shrewd enough to guess that a man with limited fame was likely to be somewhat more approachable than a famous person. We discussed the matter in detail therefore and then hatched a plan. Rana used his contacts and discovered that A.K. Sarkar's residence was no different from P.C. Sorcar's. They both lived in Indrajaal. The building was not far from our own homes, but we were not sure if we could gain admission into the premises, given that we were both teenagers. Nor did we have any idea about the plea we needed to forge to begin a conversation with Sarkar.

    An adult was required to accompany us we decided. We were too young to attract attention. In this connection, help arrived in the shape of Moni Kaka (Moni is a name and Kaka means paternal uncle in Bengali). Rana was Moni Kaka's only son and despite his busy lawyer's work schedule, Moni Kaka was never a spoil sport, especially when young people approached him with bizarre proposals. The proposal in this case was that he chaperone us to A.K. Sarkar, without any appointment whatsoever. Moni Kaka, Rana's doting father and my doting uncle readily agreed and one fine evening drove us down eastwards along Rashbehari Avenue in his shiny black Ambassador (or, was it Landmaster?) and parked it in front of the imposing gate of the mansion. The gate was tightly closed. Even though we didn't notice a No Admission sign, there was a stern looking gateman posted there with that telltale message radiating from his eyes.

    Moni Kaka led us to this obviously unsympathetic man and struck up a conversation.

    "Can we see Mr. A.K. Sarkar please?" asked Moni Kaka without any preamble at all.

    The gatekeeper, who was eying us suspiciously, grew even more suspicious. I tend to believe now in my old age that his overly suspicious behaviour had a solid foundation. Given Sorcar's international recognition, the gateman was probably used to dealing with autograph seeking tramps waiting for chance encounters with the master. He knew how to send them off. We, on the other hand, could well have belonged to the minority who ever sought an audience with A.K. Sarkar and the gatekeeper might have been assessing our nuisance value. In the absence of Moni Kaka, the two cousins might have been sent back immediately. But Moni Kaka being an adult and exquisitely well dressed in a dark suit, the man was on the horns of a dilemma.

    "Who -- umm --- are you?" asked the man, somewhat heistantly.

    "I told you I want to see Mr. A.K. Sarkar," said Moni Kaka. "I have important business with him."

    The gatekeeper's eyes shifted from Moni Kaka to us and then back to Moni Kaka. Even if Moni Kaka could possibly have important business with Sarkar, what were these youngsters doing with him? But Moni Kaka too had his lawyer like looks and he used them to his advantage. The two of them kept staring hard at one another till the gatekeeper finally gave in.

    "You wait here, I will go and inquire," said the man and disappeared behind the gate, locking it from inside as we waited outside on the pavement. But Moni Kaka smiled back at us.

    "Battle won," his eyes whispered.

    We were waiting for around ten minutes I think, before the gate reopened a chink or so and the guard signalled us to enter. We stepped inside gleefully, but were somewhat disenchanted to discover that we were not being invited inside the building. Instead, we had to stand on the courtyard in the gatekeeper's company. A short flight of stairs led up to a ground floor balcony along which were located a set of rooms. Out of one of these a gentleman came rushing out, happily excited. He was frail and shortish, in his mid-thrties probably, if memory serves me right, dressed plainly in casual garments. A Bengali style pyjama possibly and a loosely hanging un-pressed shirt. We could see his face clearly, since the balcony was well lit. He stared at us, as the gateman had done, but not with grim suspicion. Instead, a hopeful smile lingered across his lips.

    "I am A.K. Sarkar. Are you looking for me?" he asked Moni Kaka, his face still glowing in excitement.

    "Oh yes, Mr. Sarkar, we have come here to see you," said Moni Kaka smiling brightly.

    "Which club do you represent Sir," said Mr. Sarkar in supreme naiveté.

    "Club?" It was Moni Kaka's turn now to lose his poise. He quickly recovered though and continued with supreme grace. "I am not representing any club now, though I am a life member of several in the city. Today however, I am not seeing you on behalf of a club. Instead, I am here with a request on behalf of these two boys. My brother's son and mine. They are deeply interested in the art of magic. I have brought them over to find out if you might agree to help them train."

    The expression on Sarkar's face went through a series of transformations upon receipt of the message. The elation travelled downwards and ended up in a dark chasm of despondency. He was completely taken aback to hear what Moni Kaka had to say. He gazed at Rana and me for a while, totally befuddled. He seemed to be at a loss for words.

    But then, suddenly, a trace of hope leaped out of the Pandora's Box we had opened up for him.

    "How did you find out about me?" he said in a voice that could remind you of a dying man catching at a straw. There was pathos in the air. I smelled it even at that immature age. Sarkar was not a sought after person as Rana and I had correctly guessed. Unfortunately, the magician had not learnt the greatest trick of all. He failed to hide his emotions, suggesting to me what his status probably was in the family with which he resided. It was Sorcar who was known the world over. But here were people who had come looking for Sarkar! Was there a glimmer of hope in the horizon finally? Had Lady Luck herself wielded the magic wand?

    It was my turn to speak out now, since I knew that Moni Kaka didn't know the answer to the question Sarkar had asked, and Rana, being younger to me, could feel shy.

    "We are familiar with the stuff you write for magazines. We learnt several tricks reading your articles." I quickly responded.

    My response resulted in the bursting of the bubble of hope. I had driven in the proverbial last nail in the coffin. Hope gave place to gloom almost instantaneously. Seeing Moni Kaka's smart attire, Sarkar had probably taken for granted that a wealthy party had arrived to hire him for a magic show in a carefully chosen venue. Instead, he was being asked to tutor two juveniles in the art of magic! We were standing face to face before a monumental sigh.

    I don't think the conversation proceeded too far beyond this point and he found a way of getting rid of us without sounding too rude. I have forgotten how he excused himself or how, for that matter, the gatekeeper showed us out. Nor can I remember what Moni Kaka told us on our way back home.

    Moni Kaka continued to flourish as a lawyer and Rana made quite a name for himself in adult age as the first person to run a private news channel in Bengali. Even though he didn't turn into a magician, he is well-known in India and abroad in the television show business. I managed to survive too in my own small way.

    What life did to Sarkar though continues to be a mystery. Soon after the senior Sorcar passed away, his son, Sorcar, Jr, took a prodigious leap into the world of magic. And while this phenomenal transition from senior to junior was in progress, Sarkar probably took a curtain call unaccompanied by encores.

    Rashbehari Avenue may well know which way he went in the meantime. I suspect myself that he headed and never came back. But the busy avenue now, with its shopping malls, restaurants and traffic jams, is hopelessly uncommunicative.
     
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  2. jayasala42

    jayasala42 IL Hall of Fame

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    An interesting narration Ojaantrik Sir, about an unsuccessful meeting with Sarkar, not a much popular magician.The way you have taken us through the streets of Calcutta, the meeting with watchman, the dress of the magician and the help rendered by Moni Kaka have a special stamp of Ojaantrik.
    The meeting was unsuccessful. A blessing in disguise to everyone in IL. Otherwise we would have missed a great writer.Had the meeting been successful, and had you continued as the disciple of Sarkar, perhaps you might be be rightly addressed as Ojaan TRICK
    and as we open the pages of the long narration the snippet would have disappeared from the screen.
    Enjoyed the snippet, more enjoyable than the magic of SORCAR.
    Jayasala42
     
  3. satchitananda

    satchitananda IL Hall of Fame

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    Strange how JS Ma'am has mentioned Ojan TRICK. I was just thinking that that name suits you rather well, given the fact that you do know a trick or two about leading us down the magical path of the past. I couldn't help a chuckle as I thought of you as a magician, though you do have a magical way with words.

    Thoroughly enjoyed reading your sojourn into the past. Am I glad you came here instead of trying to play an Indian version of Houdini! Of course, you do play that role, given the way you keep vanishing and turning up from time to time. :)
     
  4. Viswamitra

    Viswamitra IL Hall of Fame

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    Dear Sri Ojaantrik:

    What a delightful snippet from you after a long time! I never knew you had the fortune of visiting the residence of the world-famous magician P.C.Sorkar. Even though I was not born in 1952, when I was a child, I have heard of his magics though didn't have the fortune of seeing one of his magic shows. Ugesh Sorkar continue the famous PCS' legacy. Who can forget PCS' majestic look with fancy colored outfits and a big Turban? Those days, there were no Televisions and unless one makes an attempt to go for a magic show in person, there is no way, one can see a magic show.

    It is interesting that the first response for a very well written snippet of yours is from a Psychologist. Isn't magic about blind-folding the discriminating mind of the audience and succeed to get their emotional mind excited about the risks taken by performing magics?

    As Smt. Jayasala mentioned it was a blessing in disguise that you didn't get the opportunity to be trained by the cousin of PCS as otherwise, we would have missed this kind of wonderful snippets. Besides, the world would have missed a wonderful Economist.

    Seriously, you and your cousin knew a few tricks already before being initiated into the world of magicians to convince your uncle to accompany you to the residence of PCS. Your collection of young age experiences is worth writing into a book form and added with your excellent narration, would make an invaluable book to read when someone likes to ease the mind.

    Viswa
     
  5. shyamala1234

    shyamala1234 Platinum IL'ite

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    [QUOTE="ojaantri
    Dear Oj sir,
    Welcome back.
    You seem to make your comeback only after Cheeniya sir comes back. You both are good friends.
    You took us on a time machine back to 60s 0r 70s. Described Rashbehari Avenue in such a picturesque way . Map is very clear even clearer than a google map. The picture came right in front of our eyes.
    Teenage psychology of wanting to meet a celebrity, learn from him about magic, taking your uncle with you. Beautifully described. Other side....A.K. Sarkar thinking your uncle has an invitation for a big magic show as all artists expect and his frustration...remarkably depicted.
    As Satchi said you have become a magician, magic of words which we are all enjoying.
    Thank you for the tour to Rashbehari Avenue.
    Hope we would see you more often.
    Syamala
     
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  6. ojaantrik

    ojaantrik IL Hall of Fame

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    Thank you jayasala42 for reading this piece. As always, I discovered several typos and other stylistic mistakes after putting it up. I have taken care of them elsewhere now, though not entirely to my satisfaction. I am particularly dissatisfied by the quality of my writing, which, I think, has deteriorated. Being out of practice could be the reason. I might have been involved in less interesting ventures as well, which damaged my creativity. Incidentally, even the title of this piece had to be changed. I have now called it The Man Who Would Be Magician. (This is

    I still wonder what happened to that aspiring magician. He was overshadowed by others in the family. And then he disappeared. Some years ago, I came across P.C. Sorcar, Jr and had a short conversation with him. But A.K. Sarkar didn't figure in the discussion. I wish I could get back in touch with him and find out who A.K. Sarkar was. He should know.

    oj
     
  7. ojaantrik

    ojaantrik IL Hall of Fame

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    Dear Swati,

    I do want to preserve as much of my past as possible. Especially, my younger days. Only today, I woke up, I know not why, at 4 AM and could not go back to sleep till 6.30 AM or so. As I lay quietly in the darkness, I heard the early tram cars leaving their stations. This is a very old tradition in Kolkata. People catch the early trams to go to the Hoogly for a dip. There is something uniquely rhythmical about the noise the wheels make as they travel over the rails. When I was a young boy, the noise used to make me happy in the early hours of the morning. Arrival of a new day. I used to be full of expectations. Now, the feeling is different. I am transported back to the past. Trams are no longer a popular public transport. They are mostly empty. But they used to be most popular during my younger days. Jam packed most of the time. As soon as I think of those tram cars, memories begin to invade. How my pocket was picked in a packed tram car and then later, my wallet was returned to me by post by the Police Station. The person took the money away and dropped the wallet in a post box. It had important documents in it for which the pickpocket had no use. As a friendly gesture, he gave me back what he had no need for!! I wish I can write about tram cars one of these days. Young boys and girls used to go and occupy the seat in the front much to the annoyance of fellow travelers. Girls had specially reserved seats, but people in love used to ignore them.

    oj-da
     
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  8. satchitananda

    satchitananda IL Hall of Fame

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    Looking forward to that, OJ-da!
     
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  9. ojaantrik

    ojaantrik IL Hall of Fame

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    Dear Viswa,

    Thank you for your kind words. I don't know how good a writer I am, but I do enjoy traveling back in time.

    When you mention not watching P.C. Sorcar's stage performance, I recall my good luck in this context. He was performing in the New Empire Theatre in Kolkata and my elder brother and I wanted to go and watch him. It was hard to get tickets, the shows used to be sold out completely. Then one day, the same Moni Kaka I mention in the snippet bought two expensive tickets for the two of us and we managed to witness Sorcar's sorcery. The tickets were Rs. 7 each, an unthinkably high price those days for middle class families. My mother was not too happy about the extravagance. But it was truly value for money. I remember every bit of it. The show started with Sorcar materializing on the stage out of nowhere and it ended with him disappearing in front of our eyes. As people were wondering where he went, they heard a loud voice from the back of the auditorium. "Here I am, here I am!" We looked back and saw the smiling Sorcar. How on earth he manged to travel from the stage to the back of the auditorium, the audience had no idea.

    There were two other occasions when I watched Sorcar. Both were performances he gave at the request of a rich uncle for his son's birthday. I suppose this uncle and Sorcar were good friends. I remember a few of his numbers for those two shows. They were short shows of course. Since my interest in magic continued for a long time, I found out later the secret of one of the (somewhat dramatic) card tricks he presented at my uncle's home.

    True, I want to write up these stories in the form of a book. But I don't know how to go about it. They are all here in IL of course, but they need to be collected in one place. This is one reason why I maintain my own site too, where my compositions are revised and uploaded subject wise. Once in a blue moon, someone or the other arrives there. From that point of view, I think I get more readership at IL so long as the article shows in the front page.

    In any case, writing these up is itself an enjoyable occupation. So, there is nothing to complain.

    oj
     
  10. ojaantrik

    ojaantrik IL Hall of Fame

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    Dear shyamala1234,

    Thanks for welcoming me back. I was occupied with assignments since April last year and had no time for creative writing. And then, only the other day, as I was talking to my son over facetime, I remembered my experiments with the art of magic. I told him briefly the story I have now written up in the form of a snippet here and he seemed to enjoy listening to it.

    You have got it so correctly. There are two sides to the story, the magician's disappointment being the more important of the two. Our failure to convince him to teach us was childish by comparison.

    Regarding the roads I bring in, I think they are quite essential for the narration. I can't separate out the incidents from their location. I suppose the locations add concreteness to the events. I remember reading an article by Satyajit Ray, where he said that he found it difficult to make a story into a film if the author had not left enough information about the whereabouts. Not that anyone will make a film out of my simple stories, but whoever reads them will see a little more given an idea of the locality.

    Note, however, that I missed the trees. All roads, or most of them at least, have trees lining them up. I think I should try and recall them too for completeness.

    oj
     

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