Strike out

There was a Bharat bandh today. A nationwide strike.

On the way back from the local mall yesterday, I decided to take a rickshaw. I was laden with bags and packets stuffed with supplies for the next day when the city of joy would come to a standstill. The mighty metropolis would be forced to kneel down for 24 hours in protest of a couple of policies nobody knew of. The important thing was the protest.

As I seated myself on the rickshaw, I felt a little queasy. The rickshaw wallah seemed a little mad. Cuckoo would be the word. As he pedalled tiringly through the narrow alleys, he scarcely seemed to hear me as I shouted my destination into his ear. He kept muttering to himself. I could only catch snatches of his muffled monologue. He seemed to be repeating the two words, "Ten rupees!"

I was instantly on my guard. The stipulated cost of the commute as fixed by their union was six rupees. He wasn't about to cheat me off the extra four rupees. I clutched with determination onto my two hundred rupees worth french fries and chips.

I tried to take my mind off the muttering menace and tried focusing instead on my itinerary the next day. The trade unions that had called the strike were left affiliated with strong ties with the incumbent government. They controlled most of the city unions, notable amongst them, the rickshaw wallah union. In fact the strike was partly for the benefit of the rickshaw wallahs, claimed the union. To resist the imperialist forces was in the best interest of the impoverished.

The approaching silhouette of my apartment on the horizon shook me out of my reverie. The rickshaw wallah suddenly turned towards me and muttered in his rustic Bengali,"dada,kalke ki shob kichui bondho?"..." Dada,will everything be closed tomorrow?" I replied in the affirmative,a bit surprised. Weren't these the people who actually backed the bandh?

He pedalled on for a few seconds. Then he turned back again." Dada, will schools be closed tomorrow?" There was a sense of desperation palpable in his voice.. I stammered out a "yes", all the while puzzled inside at his quaint questions.

We reached my destination. As I stepped down from the rickshaw, he looked at me and said meekly," Dada, kindly give me ten rupees. I have a girl studying at the local school; she is in class 5 and has just passed her exams. But the school says unless I pay the fees overdue,they're going to rusticate her. I have to arrange for three thousand rupees within the next week. Having asked everybody I knew for a loan, I now have resigned to asking customers I know well for small sums of money. You see, sir, I have been pedalling for the last thirteen years. But I don't know what will happen next. One whole day gone dada. Tomorrow I won't be able to pedal; no income dada, no food, no future. Wanted to meet a few people tomorrow for my girl. Now sir...."

Tears glistened on his sunken cheeks. I clutched at the tattered ten rupee note in my hand, the bag of fries on my other hand. I slowly reached out into my wallet and pulled out a hundred rupee note. The shrivelled face filled with surprise and disbelief. It slowly changed into ecstasy and hope.

I watched him pedal his way out of my neighbourhood. "Maybe dada, I will be able to educate my girl after all. God bless you..."

There was a Bharat bandh today.

The 7th of August

Its the 7Th of August. As I returned from College and switched the T.V. on, I was informed by the frantic looking news anchor, who blared in almost incomprehensible hindi, that tomorrow, the 8Th of August would be doomsday for the world. The unholy combination of the three 8's,the anchor expounded, was potent enough for a catastrophe.
I switched the channel. This time I landed on an English breed. True to its language, the hype here was international. The Beijing Olympic games 2008. Commencing from tomorrow is the greatest show on earth; the Chinese having been a model of fastidious,meticulous,albeit slightly robotic precision. The channel having sent a correspondent all the way to China, seemed to want its investment back fast. The correspondent was foaming at the mouth as he spoke about how the Olympic committee might be goaded into including cricket in 2012.

Fervently praying that they didn't,I surfed all the channels...everyone seemed to be focussing on the impending...all of those enlightened people seemed much too busy in the prospects of the future than the significance of the present. None were interested in today.
The day had been an unusual one. The college seemed to be teeming with young enlightened souls brimming with novel ideas about the commemoration of the day and posters were abound about the gala cultural recital that afternoon as a token of fond and cherished remembrance of the heritage of one of Indian literature's greatest exponents. I was disappointed. Not only was the program under-rehearsed and hopelessly amateur, there seemed to be a genuine lack of spontaneous outpouring of creative energy. The apathy was palpable. The dancers danced cuz they had been directed to; the singers sang the song in a particular drab fashion, never bothering to infuse the song with a breath of life. The dramas enacted were more about showing off personal skills than commemorating the life of a great master. Indeed, the loudest cheers received were for the street goon. And this was supposed to be a cultural event.
Every year, Calcuttans and Bengalis around the globe gather round a certain photograph on this day and apparently pay homage. The streets bustle with people talking of literature and every institution worth its name hosts a multitude of events to celebrate the day.The rest of the world thinks bengalis are fussing. That they have a perennial identity crisis and hence tend to cling to the last vestiges of glory. Indeed, I have seen many a wry smile smack on the faces of some of my most intelligent friends.Maybe all don't. But some sure do!
Perhaps part of it is fuss. Maybe it is ridiculous for the rest of the nation to see people going berserk over something that is not remotely related to cricket. But you know what? I like it. I like it when people remember their heroes, their poets, the people who helped the nation move onward. Even if blended with pompous self importance,even a modicum of hypocrisy,I like that people at least remember his name today, even if for a minute.
Naysayers will say he remains alive only on paper,not in our hearts. But that is better than dying and getting buried anonymous,isn't it?
Calcutta remembers. For the rest,today is the 7th of August. Rabindranath Thakur died today.