TALES FROM THE BOHEMIAN'S CLOSET- II

 (Published on tripurainfo.com on 17th October, 2013)

IT’S ONLY WORDS... 

In August 2009, I had this wonderful opportunity to work with one of the finest English teachers of the state. Let’s call him Mr. A. I was told that Mr. A was an expert in the subject, a man who had then been teaching English literature and language at one of the reputed schools of Agartala, for the last twenty years of his life. He was much respected and loved by his students and colleagues for his simplicity. He was not a very tall guy, mostly wore off-white kurta-pyjamas, carried a shantiniketani jhola and a smile on his face, but thankfully he did not sport the so called AANTEL look! He was extremely soft spoken as well as refined.

But unfortunately, the camaraderie had to die an early death. He left the institute probably on the fourth day after he had joined us! He was a little ‘KHEYALI’. Like, on the very first day of our interaction, he said to me,

"Listen, could you please remind of my classes? Could you please remind me when to board the bus and also lead me to the bus stop? I mean...err, I am a little forgetful you see...” he smiled.

But despite my reminders, he missed some of his lectures on the first two days of the session.

Reason? He was a chain smoker. Every day, he would carry at least three packets in his pockets, and like a Prodosh Mitter, would kiss the nicotine almost without a break. In fact, he was found busy smoking in one of the canteens, during the lecture hours. To add to the misery, some of the students had complained the matter to the authority.

Phir kya! All hell broke loose and the Head of the Institute sent for him on the fourth day. Naturally, Mr. A was asked for an explanation. Our poor guy spoke for about non-stop twenty minutes, apologized for his behavior and also honestly admitted his forgetfulness. But he made a blunder! He had spoken in a polite tone, in a refined convent English, taking care of all the pronunciation, intonation, syllabification and other phonetic details of the language. At the end of those twenty ‘English’ minutes, the boss shook his head and yelled at my colleague in khaash bangla,

"Itta aami janina, aafne claash nisen na kere kon? Mamar bari ni?”

Mr. A quietly left the room.

...and the jhola was never seen again after that day...

(Life, like the poet, charms us with its words. Life, like the painter, amazes us with its colors. Life, like the teacher, blesses us with its experiences. When life is so filled with these learning moments, does one really have to imagine too hard while penning down one’s thoughts?)

TALES FROM THE BOHEMIAN'S CLOSET- I

(Published on tripurainfo.com on 17th October, 2013)

PHONETICALLY CORRECT!

Once upon a time, a senior colleague of mine had bought himself a new car. He was known as a slightly eccentric guy with a funny vocabulary and a weird pronunciation. This man, like all ‘new car owners’, loved his car more than he loved his degree or probably even his own wife! He would treat it as his little child; he would pamper and cuddle it, and would often brag about it to us. But he had made sure that nobody touched it in an insensible way, not even his colleagues, let alone any Tom, Mike or Harry of the campus! 

It so happened that during those days, an interview was being conducted for some new recruits and I happened to feature on the list of the interviewers, along with HIM. I was not at all expecting this but I had to go by the decorum and could not say no to the official notification. But I really hated the fact that I had no other option but to return to the city with him since the interview thing was taking really longer than expected. I was wondering what I would discuss with that guy on the homebound one-hour long journey to kill the time, not that I’m very garrulous, but given the fact that unlike him, I’m at least not boring! 

Somehow, the question-answer hullabaloo was over and we came out of the interview room. He told me to get into the car. Even before I had reached the point where it was parked, HE screamed from behind, 

"Madam, please sit in the front Seat, or people will think I am your Driver".

I was literally shocked at such a not so funny utterance although I chose to ignore the sarcasm. Just when I was trying to make myself comfortable on the expensive seat, the over-protective man asked me again, 

"Madam, did you ATTACH the door properly?” 

I replied in the positive, but it seemed he wasn’t convinced with my words. He requested me to close the car door once again. At that point, his over possessiveness literally killed me and I lost it completely. 

“Sure Sir,” I said, and this time, slammed the door really hard to assure him that it was properly locked. 

"Oh God!”, My colleague almost died of a heart attack when he heard the bang and looked at me with all the contempt and disgust on earth and only said, “ Madam, please be gentle, that’s my new car for god’s sake, it’s a brand new “ CHEE-BHRO-LETT-ISPARKK” (CHEVROLET SPARK)! 

My mouth almost fell open at the consonants and vowel sounds and I had no guts to reply to him... 

RUN PEOPLE RUN

( Published on tripurainfo.com on 21st July, 2013)

When you watch a Rakeysh Omprakash Mehra film, you tout de suite know that it's certainly a Rakeysh Omprakash Mehra film, for no other filmmaker ‘dares’ to portray a PRESENT-MEETS-PAST account of life so effortlessly and with such great subtlety as he does. He had earlier employed this technique in his blockbuster Rang De Basanti that had touched a million hearts and he does it again in his latest Bhaag Milkha Bhaag, a Biopic on India’s fastest runner, Milkha Singh. In BMB, the Present meets the Past on several occasions, and every time, it's a new revelation of the already known tale. Like DJ meets Azad and they smile at each other near the end in Rang De Basanti, Rakeysh makes Milkha meet Milkha in the closing moments of the wonderfully woven tale of the Indian Legend, a Refugee-turned-Coal thief-turned-Smuggler-Turned-Army-Jawaan-turned-Athlete-turned-Padmashri of our country!

In BMB, Rakeysh uses the ‘story within a story’ or the ‘play within a play’ technique to depict the life of the Sikh lad, who had lost miserably at the Rome Olympics in 1960, who was heavily criticized and condemned by his countrymen for that ‘terrible act’, who brought laurels to the country on a hundred occasions breaking the world record, who was orphaned during the great Partition of the country, who grew up at a refugee camp amidst goons and rag pickers, who shared a beautiful relationship with his elder sister, who protested against his first realization of a brutal love-making in the refugee camp where his sister had to submit to the wishes of the husband, who celebrated his first falling head-over-heels for a girl in his locality, who promised her that he’d come back to marry her, who was held behind the bars for travelling without ticket on train, who joined the Indian Army as a Jawaan, and finally who earned the title of “the Flying Sikh” for his ability to fly in the ground. Kudos!

For a moment, let's forget all the Khans and the Kapoors. Could I include the Bacchans too, with your permission? Instead, let's all talk about this extremely adorable, tall, soft- spoken, husky-voiced guy who had ‘wowed’ us with his directorial debut Dil Chahta Hai in 2001 where he had sensibly explored the themes of friendship and love. Yes, it’s him, Farhan Flying Akhtar, son of lyricist and poet Javed Akhtar, who has been entertaining us for years now not only as a film maker, but also with his singing and acting skills in movies like Rock On and Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara, an International Youth Icon, who gave a soul- stirring performance in his recent flick, Bhaag Milkha Bhaag. Man, what physical metamorphosis he underwent to make himself look like the Legendary Indian Sprinter in question! Farhan’s determination and dedication to his work showed that he did not leave any stone unturned to get into the skin of the character so much so that the real Milkha Singh, after seeing the film said, “Farhan even looks like me”.

Farhan’s amazing acting skills made us laugh, made us cry, made us hold our tongues, made us whistle, made us clap- all in those enchanting 180 minutes in that dark room, where it seemed that a Milkha was running in us all, probably drenched in the rain of all the finished and unfinished hopes, hopeful and hopeless desires, desirable and undesirable expectations, expected & unexpected actions in the odyssey called LIFE.

BMB is certainly one of those movies with amazing cinematography; brilliant screenplay and feel-good songs, which you’d love to watch again and again, for it inspires, motivates and makes you happy from within.

LOVE IN THE TIME OF POLLS

 (Published on 13th February, 2013 at www.tripurainfo.com )

Come February 14 and the air will be filled with the ethereal fragrance of romance, with soft breeze pampering the already passionate hearts and perhaps maddening them all, especially the youth. Youngsters will be seen wandering aimlessly through the streets, hand in hand with their partners, who perhaps surprises him/her with a cute teddy or a box of chocolates or if nothing else, with a beautiful red rose, as if it were the long preserved, priceless heart, which was waiting for its true soul mate. Our very own Agartala is not an exception to it. Since the last few years, the youth of Agartala has been giving a real hard time to the city florists at Shakuntala Road or Kaman Chowmuhani to supply the “bestest” flowers available in the market, only to win the beloved’s heart and celebrate the day of love. In fact, not only the high profile restaurants, but also the not so posh eat-out junctions of the city seem to be a party to the occasion, which is still believed to be an emulation of the West, but do these euphoric lovelorn youngsters really care? Nay…

Just in case you think I am an ardent VHP fanatic, let me make it crystal that I am not. But I do remember the times when I was growing up a decade back. Well, back then, we really did not have a gaudy Valentine’s Day, let alone a Valentine’s week! I believe we celebrated mostly New Years’ Day with Archies gallery cards and not a V- Day! We mostly looked into each others’ eyes and then fell in love, dressed up in a very traditional Bengali way and acted really coy when it came to going out on a Khejur-Date! A kiss on the first date was like an achievement and the taste would linger for a long time in the hearts and the minds. Going out with a special someone, especially on a luncheon would surely bring butterflies in the stomach; we did hold hands, did dream about the beautiful future, did exchange gifts and yes, did spend sleepless nights thinking of our beloved!

But times have now changed and so has the city. It is really amazing to see those young men and women wear a bindaas attitude, now getting no more scared of the ever questioning eyes of the society, when it comes to falling in love or going out on a love-meet.  It is really amazing to see how these young people pine for blood red Bangalore Roses at the florists’, pick up the best gift in the market, wait in long queues outside the restaurants or if nothing, go out on a bike ride to celebrate their platinum day of love. With the increasing number of eat-out joints, coffee shops and theatres at Agartala, not to mention the shopping malls, it seems, people are ready to fall in love anytime and spend their day of love with a greatgung ho.  

But will this 14 February be a V –day or a V- day in the heart of Tripura? Perhaps for the first time, the streets of Agartala will not see ecstatic lovers walking, hands in hand but only hear the thumping thunder of military boots on patrol. The markets will remain closed and people will prefer staying inside the confinements of the four walls. The roses will have no admirers; the restaurants will flaunt empty chairs, the coffee machines will not make any noise and the menu cards will lie flat on the table tops. The schools will not hear the cacophony of the children or the harmonious Morning Prayer, the desks would lie vacant and no screech of the white chalks will be heard on the black boards. Instead, groups of enthusiastic democrats will get up early in the morning, carry heaps of hope in their pockets and go to the polling booths where a machine would be waiting for them. Then perhaps, estranged lovers will meet after five years, one gently touching the other and a smile of satisfaction would gradually flash on the numberless faces; faces longing for a newer life, a better life, a safer life.

Ending on a humorous note, a friend of mine recently cried his heart out to me, “Yaar, I really want a PORIBORTON in my life after this 14, fed up of the same old life." 

I said, “Oh, is it OPPOSITION RULES for you this time?”

He gave me a disgusted look and replied,” Who’s talking about damn Elections? I want a girl friend now, tired of this Sainthood." 

JUSTICE

EARLY IN 1948

His name is Deepchand. His mother fondly calls him Deepu. He is a happy-go-lucky young man in his early twenties who lives in Kanpur with his family. He, like many men of his locality, is uneducated and unemployed. But that has not made him lose heart and there seems to be absolutely no dearth of hope in his eyes or smile on his lips! In fact, every morning, he roams around the streets of Kanpur in search of a livelihood, which he never gets. Days roll by, slowly hope turns into stone and he, tired with the constant nitpicking of his relatives, decides to leave Kanpur.

He goes to Allahabad leaving behind his ailing mother, the nagging relatives, the familiar alleys and the long summers of Kanpur and continues his chase. After much struggle, lady luck smiles at him and this time, he manages to become a blue collar worker in the city. He works day and night to feed his stomach with the little money he gets, quenches his thirst from roadside wells, sleeps on the footpaths and remembers his mother. Sometimes, he feels like crying but he consoles himself and hopes that someday he will be able to save some money and send a beautiful saree to his mother at Kanpur. He dreams a beautiful dream ignoring the nightmares!

21^ST NOVEMBER 1948

Winters are in. The nights at Allahabad are freezing cold. The fog has almost de-peopled the streets and the chill forces the humans to remain in the cozy confinements of the four walls. Everything seems so dead and still. Without disturbing the spine-chilling tranquility of the night, in the fade light of the fog-drenched moon, a figure rises from the dirty footpath. The silhouette is Deepchand. He wears a torn shawl that barely covers his body. He shivers incessantly. Not being able to withstand the cold on that platform, he decides to walk and warm himself. He also hopes to find himself a more comfortable shelter for the night. He tries to take hurried steps and reaches near a police station. Just when he thinks that he has reached the most secured place in the city, two constables from the police–thana see him roam around and drag him to the chamber of the officer in-charge. They start interrogating him like anything. He tells them the truth about the miserable condition of his financial life. The police do not believe him. They consider him not only guilty but also a fugitive who’s been escaping from law. Without paying any heed to his innocent plea, they lodge a complaint against him under Section 109 of the Indian Penal Code (IPC). He is then sent to Malaka Jail, Allahabad.

Thus starts the real struggle of Deepchand’s life, rather, the next thirty five years of his so-called life. The police do not seem to be bothered about putting a young man behind the bars without any trial or evidence. In fact, the trial never happens. The jail authority too gives the issue of his arrest a cold shoulder. The filthy cell of Malaka Jail gradually kills all the dreams in his eyes, making him die every day. As time flies, a helpless Deepchand realizes that neither the police nor the Jail- authority really gives a damn to his deteriorating physical and mental condition. He tries to contact several Human Rights groups and convey his condition but fails miserably owing to the non- cooperation of the authority in question. His poignant screams do not even reach the sensible ears of the top- notch law- keepers of an Independent nation.

1958

Almost a decade passes and Deepchand, who has lost touch with his family at Kanpur, decides to contact his father. He writes a long letter to his father about the trauma that he’s been going through all these years and also requests him to get him out of the place as soon as possible. But little does the young man know that it is mostly nightmares that often come to life! No member of the prison authority takes responsibility of posting the letter and the piece of paper never reaches his father! To add to his miseries, the unhygienic, stagnant and pathetic condition of the prison cell leads him to a nameless physical disorder, completely shattering his body and most importantly, his soul. Deepchand’s declining physical condition suddenly sets an alarm to the prison authority and it refuses to take the burden of his responsibility anymore. They send him to the Jail of Benaras in the name of better medication. But everything seems to be in vain. The authority at Benaras too, fails to give him a proper medication. They understand that Deepchand’s unnamed disease is too difficult to be cured at their hospital. Deepchand gets tossed again and is sent to a bigger prison now, the Naini Central Jail, Allahabad. Misfortune, in a more miserable form, waits for him here too.

Right after being transferred to the Naini Central Jail, Deepchand understands that if he does not stand up for his own rights, he is going to perish soon. He tells his story to the inmates of his cell who sympathize with him. Soon he finds several inmates who support him but again none of them really turns up and helps him.

1959

Four months into the prison, Deepchand’s mental condition starts deteriorating to such an extent that on 4^th February, 1959, the Civil Surgeon of Naini Jail declares him a person of unsound mind, an insane, a lunatic and all the other adjectives available. The Central jail authority then presents him before Allahabad District Magistrate’s Court, which in turn sends him to a mental asylum in Benaras.

A heavily traumatized Deepchand spends the next numberless years of his life in the company of his asylum mates and loses complete touch with the outside world. Meanwhile, the chariot of justice mercilessly rolls on. The authority does not even bother to inform Deepchand’s family anything about his arrest, the disorder or the asylum days. Much like the Abbe Feria in Dumas’ The Count of Monte Cristo, Deepu too, loses count of time along with all hopes and desires. Now he stands somewhere between the realms of sanity and insanity with no one to listen to his silent prayers or look at his wrinkled face or hold his skinny hands!

1984

Deepchand finally gets out of the Benaras Mental Asylum in 1984. The tale of a young man who spends more than three decades of his life behind the bars and in an asylum without any reason or trial or evidence spreads like a wildfire and soon people start talking about it. The media highlights the story and it gets published in many leading newspapers of the country. This proves to be the greatest turning point of Deepchand’s life. He is then produced before the Court of District Magistrate, Allahabad on 30 March 1984 by the Superintendent of the Naini Central Jail. On 1^st June, 1984, they produce Deepchand in the Court of the City Magistrate. On 5^th June 1984, the court acquits Deepchand of all charges against him and declares him innocent and free.   

Soon after the court declares its verdict, Deepchand does not wait a minute and goes to Kanpur, the long lost land, to meet his family. But Kanpur suddenly turns into a strange land, and Deepchand, a stranger. It does not welcome him now. His parents are long gone from the world. None of his new relatives recognize a wrinkled old half–sane man. Deepchand turns just a helpless face in the crowd. Slowly, he starts parting with sanity. Who will take care of him now- the country, the government or the Omnipresent, Omniscient and the Omnipotent One?

1985

The Uttar Pradesh Government declares that Deepchand would be given a compensation of Rs. Twenty Four Thousand (24,000) so that he can bear the medical expenses. But Deepchand asks a piercing question with the little sensibility that he possesses, “Can you return me those thirty- five years of my life? Can this money return me even a single day of those lost 35 years of my life?”  And the question never gets answered…

Death, be not Proud..... Long Live Damini, Rest in Piece(s) India...

 

Dear Damini

Congratulations!!! Your battle is finally over, You’re no more going to be suffering on the pungent hospital bed constantly going under the knife, trying to preserve every single breath you took and fighting tooth and nail against the monster “death”; You’re no more going to be photographed and be published in national dailies; You’re no more going to be a victim of the cheap politics of the state; You’re no more going to be facing lewd remarks on the streets; You’re no more going to be boarding a bus in the evening with your friend and no one could dare assault you; You’re no more going to be hiding yourself from answering all those nasty, embarrassing questions from the society, neighbours, lawyers, media and the citizens of the nation; You’re no more going to be Raped and brutally slaughtered by a group of powerful human beings!!!

But I wonder how suddenly you have snatched all the limelight, became the cynosure and look, now everyone’s talking about you and only you! This is not right my dear. How could you do this to our respected political leaders and other celebrities making them suffer from an inferiority complex? It must have really been quite a long time that these people have not been captured on Page 3! That’s so bad of you Damini! What on earth have you done to gain such attention, recognition and support? Oh, you’re merely being “raped”, why so much fuss about it? Is it only because it happened in the national capital? Poor you, it happens everywhere across the country.

Weren’t you a proud Indian woman of 23 who gave a standing ovation every time she heard the national anthem play, or watched the parade on 26th January in the capital or jumped with joy when the country won laurels at the Olympics? Then how could you not know that a Rape, much like a daily sunrise & sunset, is something that happens regularly in our country, states, capitals, towns, villages, even at homes? So what the heck about it and how does one more incident of rape affect the system??? 

Damini, did you not know that women in our country, right after being born as the fairer sex, lose their rights? Did you not know that you were born in a country where women are worshipped as Goddesses in temples only and beaten up in the confinements of the four walls whenever they claimed their rights? Did you not know that every year numberless foeticides are being carried out in almost every nook and corner because the mother was carrying a girl in her womb? Did you not know that when you were born, your mother might have been cursed for giving birth to a baby girl, depriving the family of the much desired joy, had she been blessed with a boy? Did you not know that women in our society have always been treated as the property of men, instead of being their equal counterparts? Did you not know that every time you stepped out on the streets, curious eyes would be following you and you’d be at the receiving end of some totally “cool” lewd comments which you have no right to protest against? Did you not know that every 22 minutes a girl gets raped in India and nothing happens at all? Did you not know that what had happened to Hetal Parekh or Hannah Forster could someday happen to you as well? And did you not know that ours is the country of Ahimsa where the rape-victims die but the culprits don’t?

Damini, you forgot that women in our society are constantly driven by a never ending fear; it is the fear of being raped, the fear of being the victims of molestation or assault, the fear of not being able to speak up or take a stand against any injustice done to them, the fear of carrying a girl child in the womb, the fear of being tagged as an infertile, a rape-victim or a prostitute! This fear eats her up when she steps out on the road, boards a bus or auto, goes to work; what more, it kills her even when she’s quietly sitting at home thinking it is the safest place on earth! You forgot that whenever a girl goes out of her house, her family constantly prays for her safety because they too are haunted by this fear. You forgot that we get molested at crowded places and raped at deserted ones. Isn’t it funny that they tell us to join martial arts classes for our safety, carry chilli powder or safety-pins to protect ourselves from sudden attacks?

In fact, when the news of your unfortunate accident spread, some intellectuals were asking questions like, why was she travelling so late at night, why did she board a private bus, was she wearing something revealing, why did she not carry chilli powder or pepper spray in her bag when everyone knows roads are not safe for a girl? My question to all those damn intellectual parasites is why should a road be unsafe only for a girl and not for the guy? How long should I continue living with the fear of getting raped just because I am born with a pair of breasts? What a hypocrite society we are a part of wherein a woman is made responsible for protecting herself while no one seems to point a finger on the men? Is the onus not on men for not taking women as objects of fun and pleasure? Are men not to be made responsible that they should treat women with respect and not look down upon them as the weaker sex? Are men not to be told that every woman is an individual who values her life as much as they value their own? 

Damini, when you were being treated at Safdarjung and Singapore, I, just like those numberless people who did not even know you, protested and prayed for you. Thousands of Indians protested at the India Gate, Raisina Hill and across the country. But little did we know at that time that those prayers would all fall on deaf ears and you’d be gone from us, forever. Now they’re calling you the Braveheart, India’s daughter, Sister, Nirbhaya and what not! True, you were someone’s daughter, sister, friend, but most of all, you were an individual, born with all the fundamental rights (?), the most important of them being the right to live.

Damini, now we are all waiting and hope this won’t be a long wait. We are waiting for your culprits to be hanged. We want capital punishment for all those who committed this heinous act. 

Sorry seems to be the hardest word of the hour.....

Damini lives, Daminis live........

Truly yours

A heartbroken Indian

I MISS U SIR.... HAPPY TEACHER'S DAY......

THE GOOD FOR NOTHING “GAME”

Controversy and Indian politics have always shared a hand and glove relation since time immemorial. In fact, one cannot do without the other. The recent Naamkaran of West Bengal to Pashchimbanga / Poshchimbongo (whatever! it gives me a real headache) has once again sparked off comments, protests, dissatisfactions across the state (Lokpal is not the only issue which has taken the country by storms). From politicians to film stars, officers to hawkers, students to homemakers, everyone seems to dislike this “useless” new name.


“ISSHHHHH (the word made famous by Mr.Bhansali , Mrs. Junior Bachhan and Miss Shreya Ghoshal in Devdas, with the famous Bangla taan to make the pronunciation longer), ki pochaa naam!!” was the common response when this new name for the old state was declared on August this year. In fact, no body, I mean no body except (may be) Mamata & friends is happy with the not so Posh Posh-chim-bongo (this is supposed to be the exact bangla pronunciation). ! “A state in the east of India is being called Pashchimbanga?” mocks an eminent personality of the state.


The apparent reason quoted behind this transformation was “to lift the state up”, not literally but in the alphabetical order from’ W’ to ‘P’.
“But if that was the case, why not lift it up among the first five letters of the alphabets between A – E, just as was done in the case of Madras, from M to C?” ask the frustrated and annoyed citizens (the Awpheesh goers and all Maa Maati, Manush of the state) who (literally) broke into tears after watching the news on telebhishon or reading the newspapers, fearing that this might make the state lose its identity. In fact, most of the ‘Bangalis’ of the state had wished their state to be called just BENGAL, without any sense of direction or region or baangaliyana (just as the English have a tendency to Anglicize, Bengalis do have the same tendency to Benglicize, no offense to my dearest Bengali friends, I will come to this in the later part of this write up) imposed on it. But who will bell the cat? I mean who would tell Mamata that?


The non Bengalis of the state and the foreigners must have had a tough time pronouncing KOL-KATA, when in 2001 the name of the capital was changed from Calcutta to “Kolkata”, reflecting a prevalent Bengali pronunciation and pride. This time, I guess, they are going to have a tougher time pronouncing POSHCHIMBONGO in the way it should be. But the most important question of the hour is: was this name game really needed? Would the people and the place be any better off with such “transformation”? Or simply, if it can be put in straight words, “does the change in the name of a place really bring a positive change as far as the development and prosperity issues are concerned? Is it the only issue that the Govt. needs to resolve? Well, with the disappointed Poshchimbongoans, who are anything but happy with the “unfortunate” decision of the lady in blue and white, the answer seems to be a big NO.


Commenting on this, one of my friends says,
“ Aar koto dekhbo, Aamader Fuldir Rongo
Kolkata ke korben London, West Bengal ke Poshcimbongo!!!”

William Shakespeare had said in Romeo and Juliet, “What’s in a name? That which we call a Rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”


I wish the Bard of Avon would be living in the present times to see this naamkaran utsav, which has literally victimized many state capitals and cities of the country including Bombay, Madras, Calicut, Cochin, Trivandrum…the list is rather long ! How I wish we could now make Shakespeare understand, “Everything is in the name, old man!”
Now I wish to share a mail that was sent to me from a Bangali friend of mine who’s working with Times of India, Ahmadabad. With no offense to my dearest Bengali friends and well wishers across the country, here it goes. (Just read it, enjoy and forget!!!)
What does a Bengali say if the phone disconnects? – Kol- Kata

A talkative Bengali? - Bulbul Chatterjee

An enlightened Bengali? Jyoti Basu

A stupid Bengali girl? Balika Buddhu

A Bengali marriage? Bedding

An awful place? – Awe pheesh

A mad Bengali? In Sen (insane)

A dark Bengali who lives in a cave? Kalidas Guha

A perfumed Bengali? Chandan Dass

A Bengali goldsmith? Shonar Bongla

What’s bigger than the Bay of Bengal? The Bengali Ego

When does a Bengali sound like a dog? When he says Bow (wow)
Also when he bharks! (Works).
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

OH OSAMA !!!

Back in the 90 s, like any child of my age, I too was a great fan of mythological stories which my grand ma used to tell me every night, while I was lulled to sleep. I remember the tale of the Buffalo demon Raktabeej who was killed by Goddess Durga in a fight. But this victory did not come off so easy, even for the goddess. The demon had a boon that whenever a drop of his blood fell on the ground, a duplicate Raktabeej would be born at the spot, thus making it very difficult for the goddess to win, as hundreds of duplicate demons were born as his blood fell on the ground. Finally, it was goddess Kali who came to her rescue and sucked off the blood pouring from the body of the demon. Ultimately, he was annihilated.

The 6.94 billion population of the world had a great sigh of relief on the wake of May 2, this year, when the U.S Navy Seals gunned down the planet’s “Mostest” ( I could not find a better word, though might be meaningless) wanted ever born, Osama Bin Laden, in his luxury hideout in Pakistan. It added yet another feather in the cap of the U.S forces and marked an end to the chase, the manhunt that began nearly a decade ago in September 2001, post 9/11. The U.S sources confirmed that the man killed was indeed Osama, the terror king of all times, who had now been reduced to a “bloody corpse”, bringing a smile on faces across the world.

But is it really celebration time for us too? Is Bin Laden really dead? Does his “physical” absence from the earth mark the end of fear in the world? Have the words “terror” and “terrorism” vanished with the “long cherished” death of the Al Qaida supremo? Can we now have a sound sleep at night, without having to worry about any more violent killings of tomorrow? Can the common Indian man can now be relaxed even if he is late for home or his children do not return thought it’s late at night?

Well, with the recent Mumbai blasts last month, the answer to all the questions above is a big NO. In fact, 13 July 2011 has once again exposed the hollowness and impotency of the security system of the country and the powerlessness of the citizens who are fully dependent on the system, a system which has no backbone. The politically correct diplomats are forming committees, holding meetings, making new “advanced” (?) strategies to tackle the security threats, but is there anything really happening? How long will the babus hide their shameless faces behind the milk white curtains of their posh chambers and hum the tune of “Spirit of Mumbai”, letting innocent lives suffer and suffer?

The U.S did learn a lesson from the 9/11 attacks, unlike India who did not “care to learn” from 26/11. Advertising Guru Mr. Alyque Padamsee truly says
” I wish I could tell the prime minister and the Government that there is no shame in admitting that we Indians understand Vedas and Kamasutra, but not how to handle terrorism… what do we have? Police that come late, hospitals that do not know how to handle patients in a terror attack. Why am I complaining? We will never change.”

True, Bin Laden is dead. But what about the hundreds and thousands of Bin Ladens, who are being trained to become new faces of terror for the world, who are roaming freely across countries and continents, like Raktabeej and who are engaged in the heinous plotting and planning of taking innocent lives irrespective of nations, creeds and races, and thus immortalizing the Osama Cult? When will we learn? Probably the only difference between the buffalo demon and Osama is that while the former was a mythological figure, the latter is not. Osama was here, he still is. Actually, Osamas never die. We don’t let them die.

WINTER- A REASON TO CELEBRATE!!!

[This post was written in mid December last year, but could not be published for some reasons... hope it will bring some relief in the scorching heat....:) ]




Have you ever felt the warm embrace of the wind on a cold day? Or seen the magical beauty of the dew drops on a blooming marigold in the month of January? Or ever felt the mystical fragrance in the air when the surrounding is wrapped in fog and mist, when you could hardly see things around yourself? Well, unlike the poet who hailed winter as a symbol of human sufferings and pain, winter has always been the most favorite season of mine since I was a little girl. But it’s not just these few reasons which make me fond of the chill and the fog, but the most important reason is that winters make me Nostalgic. In fact, winters take me deep down the memory lane, making me yearn for the lost days of girlhood, which I could get back probably in my dreams and thoughts only, or may be in some other birth, if such things are to be believed.

I remember how I hated attending the morning school especially during the cold season in my pre primary and primary days back in the early nineties and would often find a stomach ache or a toothache as an excuse for getting a day off. My parents would go through a kind of an ordeal to wake me up and get me dressed up, but somehow how they would convince me and take me to attend those not so interesting classes without fail, and even if I pretended crocodile tears, anyone hardly cared! The “great loss” would soon however be “compensated” with some chocolate candies or a new drawing book when I returned home. But such ordeals were a common thing almost everyday at my house. And in the midst of such childish mayhem, winter vacations would come to rescue me. Yes, long winter breaks were a great relief to me. It meant no more getting up early in the morning, no daily drama of crying and scolding, and yes, and no morning classes to go for! Thus, winter, to me, was a reason to celebrate.

I remember traveling to my father’s native village, about 30 kilometers from Agartala, to spend those luxurious times, a place where I had realized that sleeping till late in the morning was not the only beautiful thing that winters could offer, in fact, there was so much more in store for me. Most people of the village including my grandparents, lived in mud houses, which would be properly cleaned and washed every day with water. There was a large courtyard in front of the house adorned with rows of marigolds, roses, hibiscus, and many other flowers and orchids. Unlike the city dwellers who smile at the sun not before 8 O’ clock on wintry mornings, every morning my grand parents would get up at five and start their usual domestic chores, and to my own surprise, I would accompany them too. That was the beginning of my real interaction on a winter morning, with a winter morning. That’s when I started loving foggy mornings drenched with dew and mist on the face of earth, making it more beautiful. That’s when I could inhale a nameless fragrance, the fragrance of the fog and the mist which took me closer to Mother Nature.

I remember standing in the open fields, stretching my arms wide open and letting the rings of smoke out of my mouth, on a winter morning, without actually smoking! And I think I am going to miss that forever. Every evening, we would have a bonfire in the courtyard, where neighbors would rush in, and we would warm ourselves in front of the fire, holding a cup of tea in each hand, enjoying every bit of the chilly gusts of wind that ran down our spines. The celebration had no name of its own but I guess it was a celebration of humanity, a celebration of togetherness, a celebration of taking time out of the busy schedules and spending it with near and dear ones, a celebration dedicated to Nature.

Besides cheering up the four senses, viz. sense of sight, hearing, touch and smell, the arrival of winters added to my taste buds as well. I am a complete foodie and the smell of local delicacies on Makar Sakranti and the incomparable taste of patishapta, pitha, malpua, gurer payesh …and hundreds of mouth watering dishes would literally make me go mad, and if given a chance, I would choose not to be sane again, given the condition that you guys have to provide me with these food in the asylum!!!

But truly has someone said that Change is the only constant thing on earth. True, life has changed a lot for me. Now I hardly get time to visit my native village, the sweet dishes do not taste the same as they used to be, the jaggery does not taste as sweet as it used to be, no more bon fires because there is hardly any space in my house in the city, no more standing in the open fields and feeling the "warm" embrace of the foggy mornings, no more watching the dew fall on the coy leaves, well … the list of no more’s will go on. All I am left with is just a bagful of those good old memories that I cherish whenever I am sitting alone in my room or trying to pen down a few lines in my diary. But I still love winter and try to welcome it in every way I could because to me winter is nostalgia…