“I went for a picnic!” Ismo Leikola would greet this with a half-hearted “Yaay!” in a fake falsetto — go ahead and look him up, everyone needs a laugh. But it wasn’t just one, it was two picnics and there was a lot on display at both.
Put on your red dress, baby / Lord, we goin’ out tonight / …
Put on your hi-heel sneakers / Wear your wig hat on your head
I’m sure when Tommy Tucker wrote the song in the ’60s, he hadn’t thought it would be a picnic. And not dressed like that.
The first thing you notice, as the happy picnickers board the buses, is the resplendent dress code. Well nigh everyone, from dynamic to doddering, is wearing sneakers — from Almost Adidas to Nearly Nike, and plenty of the genuine stuff, the official footwear is running shoes. Back in the day, Bata keds were good enough, but not anymore — it’s a fashion statement whether you run, walk or hobble. And yes, there are red dresses and high heel sneakers, not to mention bermudas and micro shorts. This year, apart from the carefully worded tee-shirts and equally carefully ripped jeans, there were quite a few in the pervasive coord sets. These look suspiciously as though they could have been donned as pyjamas the previous night so that one could make sure you don’t miss the bus.
From Almost Adidas to Nearly Nike, and plenty of the genuine stuff, the official footwear at picnics is running shoes Leslie D'Gama
And then there are the hats! Peak caps, floppy straw hats, cowboy Stetsons, skull caps, beanies and some ‘steamers’ which were obviously knitted for Canadian winters, but look sooo cute! These are offset by goggles — I thought I had seen them all till I saw yellow frames, yellow lenses atop a yellow matching coord set. On a dull, overcast, blustery day, nothing could have screamed “sunshine” more loudly. And then everyone is aboard the bus, head counts are done, seat counts are done, last-minute washroom visits, quick purchases of bakarkhani and daal puris, and we’re off! Almost on time give or take a half-hour or two.
And then the singing starts…
Who remembers the wooden bench school buses into which we used to be packed? Today it’s airconditioned, padded seats, hooks to hang water bottles, overhead bins to house things you will never use, and everything that would make a budget airline proud, minus the PYTs handing out freebies. Three seats squeezed into the space for two completes the analogy, without extension seat belts of course.
And then the singing starts. She’ll be coming round the mountains, My Bonnie (who lies over the ocean), along with Daisy Daisy (she has a double name for the bicycle built for two). The longer the journey, the more raucous the singing, the more ribald the verses. In between, the ancient jokes, used once a year, are trotted out. As we pass the Alipore Mint, some wag will say, “Stop the bus, let me collect some cash!” and as we pass the Zoo on the return journey someone else will announce, “Those who want to get off, we have reached your home!” The proverbial titter runs through the bus.
Kids have a swinging time Leslie D'Gama
We reach the picnic ‘spot’, an official name for the venue. It’s been visited and checked earlier with the possible exception of counting the toilets. No sooner have we arrived then the PQ is formed — you can add a few vowels for clarity. The lower the number of washrooms, the longer the queues.
The old scramble for space under trees to spread picnic durries, sheets and blankets has now given way to grabbing plastic tables, chairs and garden umbrellas. There are frilly-bordered tables with chef-hat-clad attendants serving luchi-alu dum on china plates. It’s a step up, but not yet quite ‘glamping’ (go ahead, ask Google). Breakfast done, the fun starts!
Not quite ‘glamping’, but a step up from earlier days Leslie D'Gama
Badminton racquets and yellow plastic shuttlecocks are brandished; cricket bats, wickets and enthusiastic players head to any open strip of space they can find; smaller groups of serious card players set up shop under a secluded umbrella; adventurous gangs pull out various coloured liquids to begin chemical experiments; home cooks and bakers pop open lids to reveal delectable goodies which might include last night’s leftovers too. Music starts, usually through a distorted sound system arranged through the local ‘mike man’ — ‘helleo, helleo, mic testing, one two three, jeero’. Announcements precede the organised games. Oblivious to the aches and pains that threaten to punish muscles that haven’t been used since the last picnic, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, young and old, fit and unfit descend on the playing field to be organised along with the games.
Boys and girls, young and old, fit and unfit descend on the playing field to be part of the picnic games Leslie D'Gama
Simple games like Passing the Parcel or Musical Chairs become an occasion for thinly disguised aggression as war plans are made and executed. Creative team relays help judges to decide winners and generate a lot of excitement and competition. The Queen of Sheba, whoever she may be, is invoked several times and even poor Simon, whose job is to say things, is brought into the picture. Eventually the prized possession — the tug-o’-war rope — is pulled out, and pulled in opposite directions till one team lies laughing in a heap. In order to work up an appetite, music, community singing and dancing takes over and everyone has a well-lubricated good time till the lunch gong rings.
Eventually the prized possession — the tug-o’-war rope — is pulled out, and pulled in opposite directions till one team lies laughing in a heap TT Archives
It’s my age for sure, but I seem to recall picnics where every family had brought a picnic basket full of shareable food. People went around offering sandwiches, pulao, ball curry, pork grill, samosas, and a variety of goodies. Then The Caterer appeared. Accompanied by the Decorator who doubled as the Mic Man, they took over and decided the menu for lunch. There are no more sandwiches or finger food, but sandwiched between the rosogolla and the green salad is an array of food that can be found at any local lunch party — pulao, chicken curry, dal, mixed vegetable, paneer and sometimes a sausage or a fish fry — all served with crockery and cutlery, fingers are now passé.
As those who are heavily laden pass out peacefully on the grass, others limber up for a game of Housie. Veterans have brought their own pencils and writing boards, the ingenious raid the kitchen for toothpicks, and the clueless shout out “yes” for no apparent reason somewhere in the middle. The excitement mounts till the last paper house is won and then everyone makes a beeline for the buses that will take them to their own house and home. There might be a little confusion as blossoming romances, liaisons and friendships made during the day result in subtle changes of seating in the transport. Aunties grumble that “this is not done”, Uncles theorise that “all should go back the way they came”. Not possible. Some are going back a lot higher, some a lot heavier and everyone a lot friendlier with everyone slurring as they sing, “Show me the way to go home/ I’m tired and I wanna go to bed!”
The author is a Goan living in Kolkata and a learning and development consultant who plays music, writes blogs and teaches whenever he can.
