Indiaspeak

" Mumbai is for Marathis. India comes later."

Untitled

It was a nice restaurant. A nice evening too. On the table beside mine, there was seated a couple who thought themselves handsome.

Ten minutes into his meal, the guy brings out his cellphone and blares out at the top of his voice,"
I WANNA DEDICATE A SONG FOR MY GIRLFRIEND." The girl acts a little taken aback and then simpers and smiles.
"HER NAME? WELL, LET HER NAME BE 'P'." The girl is reassured.
"MY NAME.....HMM....LET IT BE 'T'. T FOR TABLE."
"LET THE SONG BE THAT ONE FROM ROCK ON...ROCK .....THE SLOW ONE....HAA....."
"WHEN WILL I HEAR THE SONG?"

He brings out his earphones and plugs them into his mobile phone. The girl is happy. Quite a happy moment. He unplugs the earphones. Probably he was told it could be a while.

Just before they finished their romantic dinner, the lights went out. Beautiful candles were lit 5 minutes later but by that time they had finished their meal in the dark. They chose to leave.
They left their earphones though. I am guessing she never heard the song.


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I was walking along Kalighat road on the outskirts of the Kali temple. The place was milling with thousands of people who had come there to purge themselves of all sin; to salvage their lives by ending others. A melee of piety and dirt oozed out of the holy pathways. Potbellied priests and henchmen clashed magnificently with impoverished beggars. Offerings of gold made inside the golden doors while dying women lay outside. Incense sticks, holy perfumes, blood and sweat made for a odour that was both intoxicating and vomit- inducing. Lapierre said it was humbling to see the steadfast faith. I tried to agree.

A couple of beggars were clinging on the corner of my mum's sari. She had tried to shrug them off, albeit unsuccessfully. She tried to pay them off. They left, leaving 4 more hopefuls. It was amazing how 2 rupees was all that was needed to gratify them. An old woman hobbled alongside my mother. All the others had given up any hope of mercy. She evidently hadn't. As my mother seated herself in the car and tried to close the door, the woman advanced her hand and said in failing Hindi, "Ma, humko kuch de do. Gareeb ko dene se kam nehi ho jata."
I wanted to translate that. I just can't.

Walked into the room, he did,

while I wasn't looking.

He crept up behind me

like old white spiders I couldn't see.

He looked at the mirror

where I was trapped.

In the layers of silver sinking,

the face of a laughing boy.

He roughly took hold of me,

And made me face him,

I tried to hide amidst the layers of satin.

He peeled off me the attire,

I should never have had on.

He tried to see if the boy was still there.

Amidst the purple shimmer of his mum's wear.

And all he saw that night was me

And not the boy he wanted to see.

He took in a deep breath and

for a moment did pause,

My father beat me then,

for what I never was.

Kolkata

Its been raining in Kolkata for the past week. And I have conveniently lost my umbrella. I miss my blue umbrella.
I love it when it pours down after nightfall....there are so few people on the otherwise bustling roads; you actually get a feel of the city. I am glad Kolkata still isn't the posh metropolis that Delhi is trying to become. I hope it never does. It ensures that you can walk with your friend for five hours on the rain soaked streets under an overcast sky after a taxing day at college. It lets you walk down Park Street at 9 in the evening in a slight drizzle and not care about it being unsafe. Where you could walk for hours and get lost and not care.
It allows you to talk to people without worrying that someone is stalking you. I have grown up in a small town where cows lined the avenues in neat rows and fields flanked the paved roadways. Where you could walk for hours and hours and not get tired. Where a cycle would be quite enough for transporting you if only your ego would allow it.
Kolkata still retains some vestiges of being a city of real people. It isn't the City Of Joy. It is, for many, the City Of Eternal Sorrow. In a way I am glad Kolkata hasn't become Delhi.

Or I was. Kolkata isn't such a nice place anymore. Not since the blasts in Delhi. People exchanging glances of disgust at the government and roadside "Adda"s have transformed into people walking at night knowing full well that this Puja might well be the last Puja for them.
There is a rumour going around that Kolkata will be the next target. And it will be the Pujas.
I don't feel safe any m0re. Nobody does. Not the mother in Delhi who lost her son only because he had tried to warn the terrorists that they had left their bag behind. Neither the mother here who isn't sure if her headstrong son will come back at the end of the day.
We can no longer trust. Nor can we hope. A friend of mine said yesterday that she was afraid to go shopping because she was afraid she would die.
I am much too little to blame anybody. So its pointless talking about Shivraj Patil or the Police. The only thing I noticed was that as I reached home last night, I couldn't find a single channel which giving uninterrupted coverage about the blast; I saw cricketers instead. ...It seemed we had already moved on.

Its one in the morning. And I am researching stuff for a conference later in the day. The world,as I look out of my window, is dark and quiet, just the way I like it. Of late, blogging has become too much of an imposition and less of a pleasure. Hence I have putting it off.

I have been busy. And strangely,busy with things I like doing. None of them have a direct bearing with my college course but I like doing them anyway. I meet new people, do new things. I hardly find time to go through my favourite blogs nowadays, much less update mine. A year ago, I had nothing else to do. I just read and blogged and listened to music.
I have been reflecting on my past year for the past two whirlwind weeks. I was incredibly thankful for having too many engagements to be solitary.
I just read my favourite blogs for the first time in 7 months. And I loved it. I had lost the connection somewhere. I searched for it. Old friends from unfamiliar blogs who had moved on with their lives, people whom I knew only from what they wrote; I met all of them tonight. They seemed alien. And I type this out, I am slowly becoming aware of the fact that I am listening to "1973" after almost a year. It feels nice.
I have too much to do almost everyday now. But perhaps I let life pass me by. I liked the moment tonight to pick up the pieces and reminiscence. I sure had met new people. But I had forgotten the old ones.In my haste to be in the thick of things, perhaps I didn't realize how good I had it back then. A year ago.

Sarah's Night

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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.

Thought

A friend informed me today it was popular belief that Rock music was somehow better and 'higher" than pop.He quoted Paris Hilton to substantiate his claim.

Vote and a little Ghosh

Exhilarating is the word.There is no other I can think of which can describe the events of the last few days.It has been a whirlwind last week and a half,both in my personal life and of course,in the national scene.There has been a little fun,lots of heated discussions,a little more fun at the expense of the nation's future and the discovery of Omar Abdullah.

It does seem eons ago that I walked into the cinema to watch Rituparno Ghosh's latest,"Khela".I was disappointed.There was the trademark Ghosh style,the much-better-than-usual Manisha Koirala and a story which seemed unpredictable for the most part.However,I had gone in with much higher expectations which were not gratified.The little boy was adorable,the quaint manner of narration was sweet,the North Bengal scenery breathtaking and there was a discernable sense of intimacy,closeness which the director managed to weave throughout the film.The subtle underlying pain was most elegantly shown.The ending was beautiful.In any other director's hands,this would be hailed as great cinema.however,Ghosh has dazzled me with his brilliance so many times earlier that the perfect little intimate tale was inadequate.It lacked the genius,the "Oh my god!" moment,the one magic moment of divine brilliance.

Trouble is still brewing in college over my obstinate stand against ragging.I was accused of splintering the unity of the class.People are going mad,which must be a good sign for they don't tell you to shut up if your words aren't having an effect.I am on the verge of being accused of taking away a fundamental right...Things are hotting up.

The fun was of course provided by the sycophancy of the Left at the centre.Delhi seemed quite like a gladiatorial ring.I like it better than T-20.There are all the hourly updates and scores but the spice seems more here.Who wants Shoiab and Dhoni?Give me Mayavati and Sonia Gandhi any day!

And where was Omar Abdullah?Either he speaks very rarely or I have been completely stupid in missing his speeches.I had almost fallen asleep during the trust vote when Omar Abdullah's two-minute speech roused me.He not only spoke forcefully and made himself heard over the din but was coherent and witty.He is indeed a very good orator.He has got that one quality Rahul Gandhi lacks...intelligence.And he makes Somnath babu smile!


Another post about the trust vote in a couple of days....I am waiting for the second act."Picture abhi baaki hai mere dost!"

P.S-Awful quote,I know!Apologies.