To CHC/WINSERV (A Saga of Togethership)

To CHC/WINSERV

(A Saga of Togethership)


4th Oct, 2005

It was years back, just seems yesterday,
Some memories, you see, always stay,
In a dilapidated building on AJC Bose Road
On me, the blessings of comradeship was bestowed.

Faces rush back, as I travel back in time
We plowed through the traffic, defying the grime,
Just to be with friends, some fantastic mates,
To meet some bright faces, beyond CHC's gates.

Maybe it was WINSERV, maybe CHC,
What matters the name, pray?
It was the best conglomeration of kindred souls,
Who made up a team, denouncing private goals.

Onerous task of making a Start-Up Dot-Com tick,
We laboured long, and we laboured deep
Bodies would be stretched to their utmost limit,
Yet brains were sharp, no work could dim it!

We fed off each other's success
Had high esteem for all, no less,
Hailing from various workplaces, we met and did prosper
About hard work, no complaints, not even a whisper !

The man at helm was redoubtable Mukherjee Arunava
Jolly good fella, temper of a Super-nova !
His fingers would itch unless it played on the buzzer
Face of a teddie bear, temperament of a badger !

He was done in by an evil duo,
With dreams of big money, did stupid Arunava they lure,
The devil's disciple was Chakraborty Subhankar,
Completely sans personality, but soitan bhoyonkor

Then there was the Satan, alias Lucifer
Das was his name, the malignant star !!
Before the evil ones took off their mask,
We had a happy family from dawn to dusk,

Work and play were interwoven with elan
We had adda and panu, jokes and gaan.
Milonda would serve us tea from the gutter
To get any better, him one had to butter !

So a computerized voice went "Milon, Mohamilon"
To the utter delight of amused jonogon !

Then we had Mr. Ghose. Oh gosh !

Couldn't keep him awake, even tea from Tosh !

He often pissed in his pants for fear of his boss,

Which was Arunava, who knew not between Cobol and DOS !



So Arun asked for a box of floppy

Ghosh complied with some unpalatable coffee !

When the buzzer went ringing

He would the register be bringing !

Last heard, he had a heart condition,

With palpitations complicated by Arun's malvision !



How can one forget Mr. T. Dey?

Subhomoy vouched Dey was gay

Not the "happy" kind, you dig?

It means, eh, he had it big !!



A slimy character, at best a perv,

Had a smile that would wreck your nerve,

Last heard, he was seen at golden-tree

Doing what he did best, being pimpish for free !!!



We had, on our floor, A ROOM WITH A VIEW

A balcony (what a luxury!!), in smoke-room's lieu!

There sat the leader Saurav malakar

The king of multi-media, biraat aakar!
A good leader, a natural, great at work,

Though his color-sense raised quite a few smirk.

We also had the artist Amit

Sometimes dabbled in besuro geet.
His masterstroke was the opening scene of CHC CD,

Lauded loud by us, and the entire audience-body.

Where the sun rises over water, and a boat goes sailing,

In art, he delivered, without failing.

Indramitra was there, with his kobita,

Roaming from Nondon to Eden uddyan, with Pinky or Bobbita.
He had a crush on Durga Daju's wife,

And platonic relation with many a tawaif.

There was a man, ganguly by name,

From Kishor Kumar ganguly's family, he did claim !
He was better at classical, but so-so at Flash

Over which with Amit had many a clash.

Then was protyush, with his mischivieous smile,

Warm and helpful, without trace of guile.
Had a couple of speakers with PC, blaring loud,

His sense of music was in great doubt.

If Saurav loved gawdy colors. Pratyush loved cackophonous music,

Often, people were brought out from the room, SICK !!

Subhoda was there, snoring or mp3 downloading,

Why didn't CHC provide him with adequate bedding?
Subhoda would often reminesce about Russia,

But about his stint at the KGB, had total amnesia!

Finally, joyonto was the foot soldier in the rank,

Day or night, always fuel in his tank.
Playing the clown, keeping others alive,

Where did he get all the adrenaline drive?



The room next had the esteemed Sumit,

Respected by all, yes by Dey, too, dammit !!
A good man to core, ferociously workcaholic,

His discipline was British. His food-habits, Gaulic.

Banerjee was always blaring at his best,

A man full of energy, good-looking and well-dressed.
He had a way about him, captivating and ernest

a dynamo on motion, a motivator at his best.

Subhomoy the choto bhai, was deceptively innocent

On pulling down amit's pants, his mind was bent!
His slangs were legend, his stuttering inimitable,

His tongue lashing were epic, his observations are part of fable.

Lahiri was the kid of the gang

But with slur at MohunBagan, he would go "bang!bang!"
A staunch propagandist for the HOWRAH-main-line,

Abhra-Subhoda the Gyne Goopies. Lahiri the Bagha Byne

Kallol was the Travel Database

Him and Abhra, like Lee & Hesh.
A software whiz-kid with a Ph.D. in Physics,

His brain had more data than our server maindisc.

Abhra was the silent scorpio,

The classic greek god profile, scented with foreign deo.
A Karate champ, and a lineage of kings,

Of the famed mukherjees of uttarpara, with royal links.

Dip was the livewire, smiling galore,

With him around, not a moment bore!
Budhdhiman Narayon, amader Naru,

Debug korto software, hathey jhata o gaaru.

Often, he would amaze us with his stock of bangla,

But when it came to tiffins, he was incorrigbly hangla.



In the room next, sat the sizeable Bonny,

He was a freelancer, Shampa was his honey.

He often left the toilet soiled,

To which most of our blood did boil!

Once we asked him, what is the matter?

Why shit at the office? Can't you do any better?

He said, "whole night I was busy in remote-server-upload,

This is the only time I get for download."

Next was Jimut, the database don

Cultured, listened to Suchitra Mitra song.

Rounak was there, with his appetite for parathas,

Smiling Soumitra, fan of Urmila, the queen of marathas.

Let us also recollect Sri Amitava Ghose,

Surprise how he and Banerjee didn't come to blows!

He was an anti-thesis of what Banerjee stood for,

Soft and gentle, mostly, a bore !!

CHC's highest paid employee, our "seer ka taaz"

Whisper was out, he did little kaaj...

Finally, Chomparani, the HR-cum-windfow-dressing

With atrocious English, which needs no stressing.

She strutted around with a spectacular gait,

To make a voice-over a failure, the sure-shot bet!



In a different location down south, we had effeminate Ghatak

To make CHC-Edu a success, the catalyst-onughotok,

Rimki was there, with her fantastic attitude,

And a marketing guy, what's-his-name, a cool dude.



A huge lady joined us, and claimed the voice-over room,

She was the fashion designer, with an NRI groom.

A pair of buffers she got from the Indian Railways

Was the wet dream of many, for many-a-days.



Durga Daju was our caterer par excellence,

With rolls and chowmin, his sales were immense.

Subhodeep was a marketing maestro,

No regular meals, developed problems of gaestro.

Onimesh was the the emperor of hardware,

When troubled with PC, by him did we swear.

Full of verve and never shirking work,

Anti-theisis of subhoda, hair-line of douglas Kirk.

Mr. Nandy, a suave man with french-cut,

Though in networking, looked like Guru-Dutt.

Dipok, slightly out of sorts in an cerebral group,

A knock on his ghutna, made him stoop.



Mitrakshar was the King of Tripura,

Looks of a model, (roktakto) pacha like a Tanpura.
Again, like subhomoy, a saintly face did hide,

The tongue that needed toilet cleaners, but for him the ladies died.

On a Christmas eve at Park Street, in front Tantra,

He shouted aloud the Kali mantra

"Ami Mantra Tantra Kichui Jaani Ney Ma"

Police almost arrested him for breaking the law.



Sunita was the mother of all

Cross her? None of us had the gall.
She cared for all and sundry, even tanmoy dey

Though girls were safe from him, as Dey was gay.

She was our version of Mother Teresa,

But enough of her ! Now for the Rogue of Russia:-

In a room by himself, sat Anirban da

Writing Marketing Manifesto. Spoke Russian, da !!

"da" is "yes" in Russian, you savvy?

Body of a russian wrestler, face of a baby.
Was the head of marketing, yet his own head,

Was shorn of hair, like a summer river-bed.

Good at adda, with faboulous GK,

Wonderful at speeches, though the sales angle was fikey,

Had a voice that would make AB jealous,

Lost money at bye-Pass, by some men who were callous.

He organized the best picnic of all,

Where, jayanta broke a leg, playing ball.

Anirban da could sleep at work, without getting caught,

Many, his argument of "dhyaan korchiam" bought !!



It all seems so far away, yet we are all still so close

Sorry folks, for this nostalgic dose.
I am sure, still, when you have time,

Though CHC owes us all plenty of dime,

Ruminesce about the time we had,

The group was good, though the workplace was bad.

We have woked, all of us, in various other altars,

Naming all of them, even the key-board falters,

But there is one place of work which shines through,

The broth of talent, the cerebral brew,

It was an alcove on Rippon Street-AJC Bose Road crossing,

We were all equals, there was no bossing.

My heart goes out to those days in the Sun,

The cradle of my making, the unlimited fun.



I miss the homely environs of CHC-WINSERV

Though we're all shrouded now in BRAND name's garb

Now I write mails from accenture.com
A good employer, sure, BUT THIS IS NOT HOME !!!



---- Jayanta Ray, the Script-writer