But then, what truly makes it such an enriching and life-changing experience are the people.

Waiting at an European airport with fellow Kolkata passengers for the 5-6 hours layover between the flight from the US and of that to Kolkata is what I most keenly look forward to, as it brings back happy memories of being stuck in a railway waiting room. A Bengali man, wearing a sendo genji (a  type of baniyan), whose face I vaguely remember from a CPM michil (morcha) throwing stones at a state transport bus, walks out of the restroom with toothpaste flowing down from his mouth, shouting at his wife and kids. Another Bengali handsome hunk with an upturned pot of misti doi as his stomach, getting comfortable after he had missed his last connecting flight, has changed into a lungi and is reading a newspaper while propped up on a seat in London. A pudgy looking woman, walks about self-contentedly, telling till-5-minutes-ago total strangers “Amader na upgrade hoye geche…or to anek frequent flier miles ache” (We got upgraded, he has so many frequent flier miles), working from the assumption that people whom she befriended, for the express purpose of telling them her good fortune and how “high-fly” her husband is, care a flying eff whether she is traveling in economy or business. What’s unique however is that they do, as they mill about her, their congratulatory Baah baahs doing nothing to hide their “Oooh I wish my husband had gone to IIT instead of Titagarh Polytechnic” writ large on their faces.

An aged couple, obviously returning from having visited their son or daughter, have a passionate conversation; the lady looking out at the window and giving her husband a running commentary of the planes as they taxi about on the runway, occasionally throwing in an Arun-Lalian expert observation like “They have given a big plane”.  The gentleman’s morbid interest are the passengers in the waiting list as it scrolls down the large monitor, as he relays his judgment on whether the Banerjees (of course total strangers) will “get in” or not.

It seems everyone in the plane is traveling with small kids and one wonders whether there will be even more kids coming out at Kolkata then those going in.

And then the flight is announced. Immediately everyone gets up and starts approaching the turnstiles like an army of zombies moving towards fresh meat, as the harried flight attendants try to hold them back. Feet are stepped on, suitcases bang against knees, but the crowd pushes on inexorably.

First class and business class passengers please.

Immediately, our “Moulali-r Mala” (reference to old Anjan Dutt song where Mala from Moulali ditches her poor boyfriend and marries rich) stomps past the masses of the dis-privileged, smiling triumphantly at everyone else, brandishing her business-class boarding pass like a baby does a colorful rattle.

Next the call is for those who need pre-boarding and traveling with small kids.

Another rush since almost everyone there is traveling with “small kids”. Or so they think. One air attendant gets into a fruitless argument with a lady who insists that her eleven year old boy qualifies as a “small kid”. A lady pulls up a gentleman for cutting into the line of pre-boarders. He argues that his kid is smaller and hence he deserves to go first.

Hell breaks out among the minority who do not have small children. Namely between uncle and aunt who are both standing at the turnstiles, watching everyone boarding before them. The attendant keeps repeating “Small children please. We will board in order of zone numbers.” much to the dismay of those without children who had hoped to rush the plane once pre-boarding was over.

Then she says  “Zone number 4 please board.”

Aunt pushes uncle—-”What’s our zone number? I told you to read the ticket well.”  Hassled uncle fiddles with his glasses trying to read the small print. He shouts out “34C”. Aunt does not get the unintentional humor. “No…..that doesn’t sound right..look again you…” to which uncle immediately responds “Ooooh we are in Zone 4.” Right on cue, the attendant announces “Zone 3″. Aunt spits out “You and your glasses. Now we are too late. Everyone is going ahead of us. Ufff….” as she clutches her purse and elbows a peaceful looking European Vaishnav (in a coat and dhoti) in his ribs to cut into the line.

And then you get onto the plane. The passages are of course clogged with people conversing with each other while they try to fit their gigantic bags into the overhead bin while everyone else standing behind, fret and fume, only to do the same thing once they get to their seats. Moulalir Mala, sitting in business class, makes a point to make eye contact with everyone who passes by her to the rear of the plane;  as she occasionally exclaims “Amra seat-ta peye gechi” (We got out seat) like a cat who has eaten the cream, as if anyone had any doubt.

Then the flight begins. Babies cry in-tune. The mother behind me decides to use the back of my seat to teach her 5 year old how to do Thai-boxing, making sure that every time I doze off, I am awakened by a thump on the seat and a cry of “Haha ki mauja” (Haha what fun !). Not that I complain. I dare not. Unlike the poor man who tells a father “Sir please ask your son not to pull at my hair” which the father dismisses with a lazy smile, as he studies intently the  coloring book his son was given so that he does not pull at the hair of other passengers. Unable to take all this inflight entertainment, I try to watch a movie but am instantly enveloped by a foul ghostly smell, right as the aunty tells uncle in a hushed voice that three rows up and down can hear—- “I told you not to eat so many cashews on the last flight”.

Trying to shut off my olfactory and auditory senses as much as possible, I try to look within. I know that there will still be many an obstacle—–the lengthy lines at immigration, the over-eager porters, the one hour spent at the conveyor belt but in the end it will be all worth it.

All for the joy of being home.

And there I found it. Right next to Linda Goodman in the references section. The urge to turn around and exclaim tearfully to the store clerk, in Alok Nathian fashion, “Beta tumne yeh kar diya” was immense.

And then I figured it could have been worse.

I could have been kept besides the “SMS for love” collection of books , whose pages bristle with pre-written SMS-s for those spontaneous times when you must express what you have in your mind, typically by skipping vowels.

Publishers may say that the Kolkata Book Fair is nothing in terms of sales, Kolkatans come to eat at Arambagh’s but not to buy books. But what do they know? Have they gone there, year after year, gawking at the shelves of books, imagining their names up on the spines, in the august company of those that can call themselves “authors”?

No they have not. So what do they know?

Of course this wasn’t my father’s book fair. Nor was it mine. The venue had changed. Admission had become free. Books, all them campus love ishhstories,  written by men and women whose bio read “Fourth year student at XYZ college. Wrote this book in the second year” crowded the stores, their English enough to make Queen Elizabeth swoon nasally “Oooh huzur, kya tha mera kasoooor….”.  Television channel personnel trawled the grounds with more determination than pickpockets. A girl cooed to her boyfriend—”Cannot decide which one to buy—- Pamuk or Chetan Bhagat?”, reflecting a rather eclectic taste in world literature. Another teenager grabbed a copy of “Twilight” as well as “Heartbreak and Dreams ! Girls at IIT” , revealing a fascination with imaginary creatures. Books promising to make you money IN DOLLARS by blogging were advertised prominently. People thronged the Income Tax booth for reasons I could not fathom, unless of course they were, like every other shop, giving a 10% discount. An old battle-hardened salesman shouted “Uff sob bikri howe geche. Aro baksho theke Chetan bar kor” (English: Damn we sold all of them. Bring out more Chetans from the box), bringing up images of mythical creatures of yore where one when you lopped off one head, a hundred more would grow in its place. The cheap kamasutra Rs 60 bound-pamphlets we would leaf through while pretending to look at other books, had vanished, reflecting perhaps these times where the Net has made such tomes redundant.

The most damning sign of the changing times? Karl Marx’s “Das Kapital” being sold at 50% off. Yes you read that right. The market forces have finally caught up with Marx. In the last place he could hide in the world. West Bengal.

And as Shiv Khera smiled proudly down from his big poster and people filled their basket with Robin Sharmas, one could not but detect an expression of sadness in the faces of the comrades manning that booth, almost as if they were wondering whether it would be worth learning how to earn IN DOLLARS from blogging or if they should try to pass “Ten Days That Shook The World” as a never-been-published Chetan Bhagat novel.

Yes things have changed. Whether for the better, I am not too sure.

The last time I had been here at Jadavpur University had been 1999. Salman was seeing Aishwarya, Buddhadeb was still considered a Communist and Azharuddin was our knight-in-shining armor idol. So yes I was anticipating a whole lot of changes.

And changes there obviously were.  A person was sitting below a tree listening to music on an iPod. A boy and a girl were touching shoulders while looking at a Sony Viao laptop (presumably class notes but I know better). There were shiny signs all around like a zone marked off as “Only researchers in this department can throw litter here”. Some of the departments had appended cool buzzwords at their end to make themselves more with-it like Metallurgy now had Material Science and Nanotechnology added to it, even though Mamata has made sure Bengal is a Nano-technology-free zone.  There was a new book store in the Arts section, stocking books which “socially aware” students in JU read in the same breathless manner that most of us read porn, easy-reads like  “The Marxist Reader”, “Agrarian movements in post-independent India: a manifesto for revolution” and anti-capitalist tomes like “Learn .NET in 21 days”. The jheel-paar (side of brook), where countless generation of men and women (and also frustrated Nawabs and Babas) had held hands, had a gate. Gandhi Bhavan, the auditorium, full of memories of ogling “outside college” women during Choreography, had been torn down. My department now had a spiffy looking office with a computer—though why the computer was there I could not fathom. The old ancient monitors (black/white and some with green Matrix-like lettering) in our labs had been replaced by flat-screen Dell monitors.

However what surprised me was how so much had actually remained the same. One of our regular canteen haunts still looked like it has been excavated at Harappa. Aurobindo Bhavan, the nerve-center of JU administration, still had that air of silent, peaceful “Men may come and men may go but I do no work..ever” intransigence. Massive piles of files left out in the passages, dusty, molded and covered with cobwebs, in exactly the same place as they were in eleven years ago. The classes now had air conditioners (that’s new) but as a professor told me, not supporting lines to draw power which is why they didnt work (that’s classic JU). The engineering section of the university still looked like a men’s prison. And the arts section a garden of butterflies.

For me the  most important thing was that the benches in the classroom were exactly the same. No not exactly. Because what we had written on the benches, as aids during exam, had been overwritten for 22 more semesters. Needless to say, there were scribblings on the walls  like the caves of Altamira—proofs of theorems, code snippets, mathematical formulae and derivations. But it was what was on the benches that fascinated me and my friend, Nilanjan as we sat in silence poring over each bench trying to trace the evolution of the JU CSE syllabus over the years. Because a bench in JU isnt just a piece of wood on which you rest your arms but a living history of education. Given that, we were thankful no one removed these heritage monuments.

The students still had demands. Many of them. One of them I couldnt exactly make out since it said that “We don’t want just reviews. But also previews”. I presume they mean that they dont just want their exam scripts to be reviewed on demand, but also that they should be given the right to preview the question paper should they want to. An entirely reasonable request in my opinion.

When an oldboy like me comes back to his university, what he actually is looking for this constancy, an ossification in time , if only so that he can feel “Everything is the same as I left it”. Change on the other hand is disquieting, it makes one feel old and strange in familiar surroundings.  But positive change is also necessary and ultimately, in the larger context, welcome. From that perspective, if there was anything a bit saddening was that, despite some transformations in the window dressing, based on my impressions (hasty as they were) I felt JU had perhaps not changed its fundamental nature enough.

My favorite moment of the afternoon was however when I peered into an old classroom. There were some students there hanging about. One of them caught my eye. Thin with big outsized glasses he was standing up, laughing at possibly something inanely silly he had done. What caught my eye was with his shirt— hanging out, and with the buttons not aligned with the holes.

I don’t know why that was my favorite moment. It may be because I saw in that person, someone else. As he used to be eleven years ago. Someone who was also thin, had big glasses and had problems aligning his shirt.

Then of course he reached for his cell-phone. And the moment was forever lost.

Salesmen.

“Sale boudi sale” [not to be translated as Bhabhis for sale but Bhabhi, we have a sale"] they would shout, a never-dying cacophony that seemed to emanate from the bowels of Hell. As you tried negotiating the narrow rope that was left of the sidewalk, you would bump into people standing and bargaining, their sweat mingling with yours, with directed howls of “Ashun dada ashun notun shirt wholesale” [Come Dada come new shirts at "wholesale" prices] aimed at your eardrums making you stop in your tracks, just in time for someone to stomp your right toe.

This tedium would sometimes be broken by comic relief provided by cries of “Boudi boudi blouse niye chole jacchen” [Bhabhi is running off with blouse] as a hook of some garment hanging from the rope strung across the footpath would catch the hair of some lady walking by or by a violent diversion  provided by two shopkeepers, angry at being undercut by the other, hurling the most poetic of abuses. And no sooner had you crossed the zone of clothes-salesman would you be set upon by the “greeters” of illegal egg-roll shops that lined the footpaths. They would literally hold you by the arm and with avancular words of empathy (“Boy, you look tired after school, why don’t you have some chicken cho-men with extra sauce?” or “Going to tuition son? Ei Bhola whip up an egg roll double pronto for this gentleman right away”) entreating you to sample their wares while you tried to extricate yourself from their grasp, your senses nevertheless drawn to the chunks of meat of doubtful provenance sizzling like a seductress on the tawa .

You were not safe from salesmen even if you vowed never to go out on the streets. They would come a-knocking right when you were going to take your afternoon siesta or when you were bang in the midst of it, or when you were sitting down for lunch with your hand dripping with daal or just when you were going to put the first mugful of water on your back . No they would not go away easily, banging on the door and assaulting the bell. Nor would they be satisfied by “Barite keu nei” (No one is at home) as they would retort, somewhat logically,  “But you are there.” And some of them would not stop even there—for instance sellers of “products for leddies” would sometimes start doing their sales pitch from the other side of the door, in their loudest voice so that the neighbors giggled, till the “leddy” in concern would open the door out of embarrassment.

Salesmen. Sometimes the object of irritation, sometimes of anger, and sometimes of awe. It takes something special to be able to take the first step, to reach out to a stranger, suppressing ego in the face of possible rejection, often conveyed in a manner that is hardly gentlemanly. All this in order to make a sale.

My favorite salesmen however were those whom one encountered in the book fair (an old post I wrote about them) , authors and poets who would roam around, engage book-hunters in banter and then sell them their writings. They were my favorite because of the quiet dignity they bought to the joy of writing, radiating an earnestness and love of what they do in a way that would touch even the most cynical of us.

And now I find myself, in a very different context and using a very different medium and using words like “buzz creation” , in the ranks of those who sell their words, peddling my own book “May I Hebb Your Attention Pliss”  as I use my own little corner of the cyberfootpath to block your virtual surf path for a second, entreating you to do the needful.

Yes the book has gone on pre-order. Come this way please.Sale. Sale.

A feature on “May I Hebb Your Attention Pliss” in the Indian Express today (February 18, 2010)

Aah the sheer joy of destroying public property. [Picture courtesy Telegraph and Sanjoy Chattopadhyaya]

Here are two Kangress supporters from Kolkata smashing windows of a public bus as the city faces yet another debilitating bandh.

Observe the heavenly bliss on their countenances. [The Telegraph calls it "gleefully picking up road dividers and attacking a state bus"]

This is what their entire lives have led up to, one moment when their ordinary useless existence, spent playing bridge on local trains, forcibly extorting subscriptions for the community Pujos, watching Rojgere Ginni, attending Didi rallies and in general doing dadagiri (and didigiri),  come to fruition.

For one moment, one glorious moment, they are at the center of the world. They have the power to stop students from going to examinations and the sick from going to the hospital. They have the power to inflict suffering, cause nuisance and severe financial damage and make sure that Kolkata with its collapsing public transportation has a few less buses come Monday.

And in Kolkata such moments of dream fulfillment come. Again and again. As Paulo “Chhai phelte bhanga”Coelho says: “When you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it”. In our city, the entire universe isn’t needed. Mamata-didi and her minions, the Congress and the CITU are enough. 

In the city of false dawns, vampires walk in the light. The law looks away as infrastructure and opportunities are destroyed. To be honest, what can they do? Any attempt to arrest these “peasants” and “common people” and “angry folks” and  what have you will be met with violence and resistance. And God save our souls if in the inevitable fist-fights a single button from the protester’s exquisitely tailored shirts from Naihati pop off. If that happens, then the intellectuals of Kolkata will come streaming out of their Ballygunj Circular Road apartments like wailing banshees, “Citizen’s Forums” and “fact finding committees” will be formed faster than an army of intestine-munching zombies, a certain jeebonmukhi artist will belch out the fart of the Devil and call it a song, another protest twenty-four bandh will be called and all shit will hit the fan.

Better to just let the roof be set on fire. Better to let the motherf-s burn. The buses suck anyways.

And better to back out of a critical infrastructure project that will not only lose the state millions in investment but also send a knock-off effect that will potentially kill the chemical hub at Nayachar and several other proposed projects. After all, the Bengalis are not interested in development as long as they get a bandh holiday on Friday (note how all spontaneous displays of people’s disaffection lead to long weekends) and as long as they are suffused by the “feel good” that Naxalite Luddite-ness and the good hour of sleep that follows a “sorshe-ilish”(Mustared Hilsa) lunch  brings.

Finally, just to show that even God cannot help but laugh at the state of the state here is a picture, again from that excellent photo-essay at Telegraph.

On the side of a bus set aflame by Congress supporters (backed by Trinamool) it says “Hum hain toh dum hain”. [English: As long as we are here, we have the life-force. Bengali: Amra jotokhon achi, amader ache alur dum]

Brilliant. Just brilliant. On a day the state accrued untold losses, lost investment in millions and saw the wanton destruction of public property, there was at least one silver lining of dark irony amidst the gray smoke of burning metal and of shattered dreams.

[Images courtesy Telegraph]

[Note: The Bengali sentence means "As long as we are here, we will eat potato curry"]

On a lazy Sunday,  Misses (or as the traditional Bengali bhodrolok would say “songsar” or the more bourgeois would say “phemily”) and I were discussing the dying traits of the traditional Bangali and his culture (pronounced kaalture), traits that would be lost in a generation or two as he becomes globalized into that mythical beast known as the “Bong”, assailed by the integrating and homogenizing influences of cosmopolitanism.

Here are few that we identified.

Shopping For Fish:  Note I do not say the love for fish—which I believe will persist for some time. What I however believe we are losing is the sense of sheer joy that people of our parents’ generation and those above partook in the experience of procuring fish for the family.

Bengalis were never an overtly religious community. The closest they came to a regular communion with God was their weekly expedition to the fish market. Make no mistake. This was a ritual. First there was the proud walk to the market holding a bag (“tholi’). This would be followed by a slow survey of the cornucopia of aquatic edibles, as the expert spotted the will-be-rotten-soon from the fresh specimens by expertly pressing the belly of the fish, glancing at the color of the gills and the eyes all the while smiling to oneself at the mistakes of the novice shopper Barin-babu who does not know the significance of a fish that has its belly full of eggs and Banerjee who is unable to distinguish genuine Padma-r Hilsa from the local variety.

Then there would be a lengthy comparative shopping/ bargaining process where the bhodrolok/mohila would wag his/her finger and through a mixture of threats (I will stop buying from you) and entreaties ( come on I am your old customer, make your profit from Barin-babu not from me) that would impress a hostage negotiator, fix the price. Finally there was the observation of the fish cutting process where the Bengali Zen Master had to make sure that the fish was being diced into appropriate sized pieces (too big makes it difficult to cook and too little means it breaks in the pan) while at the same time keeping an eye out on the rapscallion fish vendors, who were known for their legerdemain by which they would tamper with the weights or make prime-cuts that had been paid for vanish somewhere near the folds of their lungi.

Bengalis arent proud of their wealth because they have none. Bengalis arent proud of their physiques either again because they have none. But they were always proud of their fishy skills and Bengalis of past generations would discuss their fish market conquests with the same enthusiasm (“Where do you get good shrimp nowadays–all the good shrimp gets exported to the US”)  and one-up-manship (You paid Rs. 50 for a kilo of hilsa —well I paid Rs. 48) with which today’s generation discuss their cellphone models.

That pride is gone today as a new generation slowly and surely migrates to supermarkets and packaged fish with even those who are still forced to go to the fish market treating it as a horrible chore that needs to be dispensed with as quickly as possible. Consequently, the savoring, the languidness and the pride that used to be associated with this almost mystical activity is now slowly dying away.

Tea: Accepted that drinking tea (cha) doesnt face imminent obsolescence like the expedition to the fish market. But its pre-eminent position as the discussion-fuel of the Bangali has been challenged by the ever-rising popularity of the coffee which once upon a time used to be the exclusive prerogative of”South Indians” as an uncle would say. When people now drop in, the host asks “Tea or coffee”? A generation ago it would be “two teaspoons of sugar or three” with tea being assumed to be the beverage of choice. Not convinced about the demise of tea? Ask 10 under-30 Bongo-sontans and Bongo-tanayas whether the word “Makaibari” rings a bell or “Barista”? I am sure most of you will come to the same conclusion that I have.

An Obsession With Catching The Cold:  The Bengali is always catching a cold or the flu, at least much more frequently than any other lingual group in the world. Critics say that is all nonsense and just an excuse to avoid work but to be honest the Bengali does not need an excuse to do that since shirking work is his birthright.

So yes. It is true. Bengalis do have a genetic susceptibility for viruses and bacteria which explains why we have CPM and the Trinamool Congress and why we are forever sneezing and sniveling and running up a temperature, blaming it on what we call “season change”.

The Bengali has historically been well aware of this limitation of his constitution.  That is why he used to fortify himself against the cold, even if it as mild as the Kolkata one, in such a heavy-handed manner that non-Bengalis could barely suppress their mirth. First there was the ubiquitous monkey-cap, black or brown in color, with which the Bengali would cover his head making him look he was on an expedition to the Antarctic than on a quiet stroll in the park on a November morning in Calcutta. Then there was the muffler and the turtle-neck sweater protecting the neck and torso from the depredations of Mother Nature. If one was going out for a picnic to Calcutta Zoo (which is where 80% of family expeditions finished up), the Bangali almost always carried a thermos flask with hot tea and oranges for the Vitamin C.

The women, unfortunately, did not have the luxury of the monkey-caps but had voluminous shawls and sweaters that kept them warm together with heavy woolen socks that protected their feet (since cold evidently attacks from the feet). During the winter, windows were usually stuck tight with the first breeze of spring (bosonter haowa) considered specially treacherous, known not only to bring out romantic poetry but also snot from the Bangali nose (Rabindranath Tagore reportedly tried to rebel against this trait of the Bengali to isolate himself from the environment by keeping his windows open during the extremes of summer and winter but then again there are certain changes even he failed to bring.)

Today’s generation of Bengalis have become more “fashionable” and scoff  at wearing the monkey-cap and the woolen socks publicly. But they are still as afraid of the common cold as their predecessors were and don’t be surprised to find them surreptitiously wearing three heavy cotton vests beneath their shirts and thermal underwear beneath their trousers as they look over their shoulders from time to time to check if their biggest enemies are creeping up behind them.

Namely capitalists and rhinoviruses.

A Healthy Disregard For Allopathic Treatment The Bengali spends much of his lifespan in pain—either doubled up from stomach convulsions or sitting on the potty passing stool or having ice-cold napkins pressed to his forehead. But there was one thing old-timers avoided like the plague even in the midst of all this pain—allopathic medicine. As a matter of fact, the ultimate macho Bangali line used to be ” I do not believe in allopathy” with those who took Crocin or Enteroquinol being considered wimps of the first order.

For the Bangali Sunny Deol, any disease, from cough to cancer, could be cured by neem/basak leaves, karola (karele) and “chirotar jol” with the potency of the “medicines” being directly proportional to their vile taste. Every Bengali mashima (aunty) was an MBBS in plants and herbs while Bengali meshomashai (uncle) knew everything there was to know about homeopathy. This meant people went to Dr. De’s allopathic clinic round the corner for two reasons–1) death was imminent or 2) a fake health certificate was needed to explain why someone fell ill on the very day of the Mohun Bagan-East Bengal match.

Today’s kids are however different. Having lost their faith in the remedies of old and slavishly following the West, they rush to the allopathic doctor at the first sign of trouble, whether it be a slight rumble in the stomach or a temperature of 99F.

Adda Again it is not that Bengalis do not get together and talk today or will cease to in the future but the defining characteristics of what was the Bangali adda (community chat sessions) is gradually dying out under the ceaseless attack of modern life and bi-yearly performance evaluations at work. Much as we Bengalis want to cling onto our glorious pasts and our four-hour workdays, the breakneck culture of today makes it impossible for the Bangali to come home from work at 3 pm, take a relaxing siesta, have a cleansing bath with Margo soap, wear a “photuya” and “pyjama” , slip on a hawai chappal and walk over to the community tea shop or to the “rock” of a house (an elevated unroofed portico) and have a relaxing discussion with fellow Bengalis over tea and alur (potato) chop.

There is much romanticization of the adda of old as if the topics of discussion were almost always Socrates and Camus and Trotsky and Tennyson. It was not. Much of adda was idle gossip about whether Uttam Kumar was really going out with Supriya and whether neigbhourhood  Minu who had run away with the taxi driver will ever be able to get a decent husband. [Satyajit Ray's "Agantuk" has a discussion on this with Rabi Ghosh asking "Rabindranath ki adda diten?"(did Rabindranath engage in adda?)]

Just to make things clear once again.  The concept of adda and gossip is as alive as ever and will always be with technology like the internet allowing it to expand its scope beyond the boundaries of geography. However what is steadily dying out is the languid late-afternoon community gatherings and the face-to-face meetings as  Twitter, email and SMS take their place.

Maidan Football Ask any Bangali old-timer about cricket and the chances are he will tell you that it is a pansy game played by imperialists. Not that the Bangali did not love cricket. After all in 1976, more than 40,000 came to the Eden Gardens on the fifth day morning to watch Bishen Singh Bedi bat as India crashed to a loss to Tony Greig’s England. But the passion generated by cricket was nothing compared to that generated by the baap of all games—football. More specifically local club football played at the Kolkata maidans.

The bitter rancor between Shias and Sunnis pales in comparison to that between old-time  East Bengal and Mohun Bagan fans with migrants from Bangladesh (Bangals) constituting the support base of the former and the traditional denizens of West Bengal (Ghotis) comprising the latter. Offices would empty during East Bengal-Mohun Bagan games and those unable to leave work would huddle over radios and transistors at their tables as all life would come to a standstill. There would be heated debates during and after the game with hands reaching for collars and with even bricks being thrown after particularly acrimonious referee decisions. The first game of the season used to be a social occasion. Goshto Pal and Chuni Goswami had their place in the pantheon of Bangali Gods along with Subhash Bose, Rabindranath Tagore and Ishwarchandra Vidyasagar. And grandfathers would get all teary-eyed and emotional as they would recall how in 1911 Mohun Bagan taught a colonially suppressed nation “to believe” when they defeated the “sahebs” to lift the IFA shield, an act the British never forgave the city for leading to the shifting of the capital to Delhi (All historians would disagree with this being the reason why the capital was shifted but try telling that to an emotional Mohun Bagan dadu).

For today’s generation of Bangalis however, cricket has knocked football off its pedestal. Blame it if you will on the steady decline in the standards of Maidan football or on the jazzy marketing strategies of cricket or the arrival of a certain man from Behala. Even those who still love football follow Manchester United rather than Mohun Bagan and obsess over which club Cristiano Ronaldo will be playing for as opposed to Baichung Bhutia. As a result of this lack of interest, Maidan football is slowly dying out and with it a hallowed Bangali tradition.

Elocution (abritti) and Rabindra Sangeet In College Fests: Tough for the young uns to believe today but the abritti competitions and the rabindra sangeet concert were some of the most well-attended events in Kolkata college socials during our parents’ generation with artists like Chinmay Chattopadhyay enjoying the kind of adulation reserved today for a Lucky Ali or a Shan.

But then the “social” became the “fest”. The old flowery elocution style with the trembling voice went out of fashion. Rabindra Sangeet is now considered too boring for the “masti public” since it doesnt get the crowd head-banging and grooving in the same way that Bangladeshi rock bands with their profound songs like “Frustration. Ami hote chai Sensation. Jiboner Expectation gulo sudhu baaki roye jaaye” [Rough translation: Frustration. I want to be a sensation. My life's expectations remain unfulfilled] do. Which is why they are no longer financially viable in the corporate jamboree that college fests have become.

One can still take a look at how things used to be if one goes to college reunions, whose organization is typically dominated by generations past. Here elocution and rabindra sangeet is still the accepted mode of entertainment as the oldies sit awash in their memories.

And bachelor Debu-da wonders how his life would have been if he just had the courage to put the rose in Debolina’s Geetobitaan in 1966 as he wistfully looks at the 250 lb giantess that is the Debolina of today. However in his mind’s eye he sees only the Suchitra-Sen lookalike of 1965 which is how he remembers her.

Yes. The Bengali is changing. Fast. Not always for the good. But somehow I do not think that the romanticism that is wired into our DNAs, that Debu-da part of us, can ever be wiped away.

And for that strangely I am thankful.

[Picture from this movie]

That’s Claudia Ciesla, the lady in the news recently.  No that’s not why I posted the picture.

It’s seldom that in a picture with 2 ladies and that too when one of them is as fantabulous as Claudia that my eyes wonder over to the gentleman in the center, playing the role of a don.

But in this case, what else can one do?

Yes. When Thakurpo sung “Ami chini go chini tomare o bou-thakurani” many decades ago in Charulata who would have thought that the he was not being figurative about the bideshini? And who would have that when Mastermoshai was getting harassed by “Sir aapni kichu dekhen ni” in Atanka that he would give it as bad as he got.

Indeed who would have?

Of course not that the man was never bad-ass. He sometimes was as good as Bangali Bachchan in angst and anger , but in a very different way, as this scene with Bikas Ray from Baghini amply demonstrates.

Go Feluda go. Topse is a fish and Jotayu is a bird. You however are a legend. (The man’s next movie is interestingly called “Sugar Baby“)

We have and will always love you, no matter what avatar you be in.

And as to the marvelous Claudia all I can say to her is:

Samne ja dekhi jaani na se ki, ashol ki nokol sona.

[For non-Bengali readers, apologies for this very Bangla cinema post]

“If Trinamool Congress comes to power, we’ll show what is called development. Tell me why East Midnapore’s vast coastline, Digha, cannot be turned into Goa? Or northern Bengal cannot be developed like Asia’s Switzerland, when we’ve all resources available in these regions?” Mamata told a press conference in Kolkata.

“Kolkata is an international place and it will be transformed into London, if Trinamool Congress comes to power,” added Mamata.

March, Year of the Lord 2013.

This is Ghatothkoch Basu, reporter for BBC (Bongiyo Bakwaas Company) and ITV (Ilish TV), reporting from the city of London which used to be known as Kolkata which previously used to be known as Calcutta. Today we take a look at the transformation that has taken place in the state under the leadership of chief minister Boro Didi who from yesterday has requested that she be called ” The Big Behen” after the “Big Ben” of UK’s London.

Right now we are standing outside TataByeBye Palace, a building that was once a factory but has now been transformed into a grand memorial for Bengali industry . Tourists are gathering to witness the change of guard when the Singur Peto Panchoos will transfer their pipe guns and country-made bombs to the Malda Division outside the steel gates that say “Lock Out” on it in big letters.

We have with us to give his reactions Mr. John Smith who used to be known as Janardhan Sen. He runs a local tea-shop “Earl Grey Cha” for government clerks, poets, ex-Naxalites masquerading as independents and striking workers.

Located on a street named after Calcutta’s millions of unemployed youth namely Bekar Street, “Earl Grey Cha” is the state’s second biggest business house in terms of revenue just behind Beenapani Mistanna Bhandar, makers of fine chana-r (cottage cheese) pudding.

So Mr. Smith, how do you like the new Calcutta aka London?

John Smith: “Bloody good old chap. Now I serve tea by the pint.

Before the bloody officers would be sleeping at their desks. Now they catch forty winks.

Before we would say “Abbe West Bengal ke minister”. Now we just say “Westminister Abbey”.

Hooghly Bridge is now London Bridge. Looking at the amazing maintenance of civic facilities, we do get a kick out of singing “London bridge is falling down, falling down” now mate.

The “parar” (community) mostaans and gundas are all Dukes and Earls.

The parliamentary elders now sit at Lords Bakery.

Shyambazar is called Sam-bazar. In honor of umbrellas, Ballygunj is now Brolly-gunj. Park Circus is Piccadilly Circus. Teni-da is Tennyson.

Mohan Bagan is Manchester United. East Bengal are the East Enders.

And yes most importantly the intellectuals now talk in cockney. What is there not to like?”

Mr. Smith do you have any opinions on the sea-side Digha becoming the new “Goa” and North Bengal the new “Switzerland”?

John Smith: “Yes. I like to take my family out to the countryside in London’s preferred mode of environment-friendly transport—cycle rickshaws. You can hardly recognize Digha now. The old seedy gambling joints near the beach are now called casinos and the “dheno” they used to package in old Mother Dairy plastic bags is now sold as locally-brewed beer to all the foreign tourists that thong Digha—foreigners from Bangladesh that is !

As to the Jungfrau region previously known as North Bengal, I have not been there for a while. But my brother whose old “Joker moori lozenge” company is now called “Swiss confectionary” says the new changes have been marvelous. Cannot tell you more as he has been stuck on a ski lift for the past month as there has been no power in the region.”

Thank you Mr. Smith for your valuable insight.

Coming up next, we go live to Oxpur University where a band of formidable girls from the engineering school calling themselves “Iron Maidens” will perform the theme song for the city— “Children of the Damned“.

[Link via separate mails from Suhel Banerjee and Shubhadeep Roy]

–Jibanananda Das

Are beautiful women, like industries and jobs, migrating away from Calcutta ? Is female beauty, in its most pristine Bong form, dead and dying in the city of Joy?  This article in the Telegraph argues it does.

First of all, let me say that I am offended by this article and shall be filing a PIL against it soon. Just after the judge clears the one against Slumdog Millionaire filed by Mr. Vishwakarma.

Surveys are yet to be conducted on the number of beauties Calcutta has lost to the lures of Mumbai, for professional reasons, and Maryland (for which you can blame the dollar-jingling NRI who flies down in the winter and flies away with a beauteous bride before you can say winter).

Here is the reason for the grievous offense. Maryland? Hello. As a tax-paying resident of Maryland (not dollar-jingling though) who has flown down for a winter or two and also an autumn, I think I can speak for all residents of the Free State when I say that we strongly resent the accusation that it is us who are responsible for this supposed shortage, that somehow it’s people from Maryland who are hogging the buffet line. If the author wished to use Maryland for alliterative purposes to go with Mumbai, why not Maine or Montana or Missouri or Mississippi or Minnesota? If the reason is the similarity between “marry” and “Maryland” may I kindly also point to our neighboring state Virginia and its similarity with the word “virgin” and wonder why they are not being singled out as the poachers of pristine beauty.

Secondly, why rue the fact that Celina Jetley and Bipasha Basu have left the city when we have so much left behind?Have we Bengalis, the most liberal of all races, become so blind so as to turn our backs to non-conventional definitions of beauty? An alternative aesthetic  that finds jannat in  “Ekti dhaaner sisher opor ekti sishir bindoo”s. [The simple beauty of a drop of dew on paddy], the kind that discovers true beauty in courageously opposing industrial development from the grassroots till the “bhoice bhi choked hain” accompanied by the mellifluous singing of (with “besht weeshes phor all)”Aye mere wotooon ke logooo” [Video: Must watch], a performance so moving that it brings tears to all our eyes and makes some of us remember those immortal lines from “American Beauty”: Sometimes there’s so much beauty in the world I feel like I can’t take it, like my heart’s going to cave in.

Thirdly, as someone who visits the city on and off and still looks either side of the street before crossing, I would hold issue with the basic premise of the piece. As a matter of fact, I would argue that the standard of conventionally good-looking women has gone up in comparison to the 80 and early 90s. Beauty lies not only in the eyes of the beholder but also in the presentation. And in that I believe I have seen a sea-change in sartorial styles for women, mostly in the positive direction. Shapeless jute-bag like coverings have been replaced by ones that hug the contours, wearing white sneakers with salwar kameezes outlawed, spaghetti strapped tops have become de rigeur, the bottom line of the skirt no longer starts from where the socks end (Tomar holo shuru, amar holo shara is thus dead), make up more tastefully applied than the “let’s just put powder everywhere” Chaitro-masher-shong principle and women in general are far more aware of what looks good on them. And yes the backless blouses at Maddox Square boudis have not done too badly either.

Fourthly this “they are taking away our beautiful womenfolk” is not a sentiment that is being expressed by this generation of local menfolk only—its variants have found resonance through the decades. Jibanananda Das in his poem 1946–47 said [translated to English]

In this world, interest accrues: but not for everyone.
Indescribable bank notes in the hands of one or two persons.
And these high-ranking persons of the world demand
And take everything, even women.
The rest of mankind, like profuse leaves of late autumn in darkness,
Wish to fly off toward a river somewhere,

My father told me of this anecdote when in the late 60s, one of his friends back to USA after a Calcutta visit told the bachelor Bangali PhD students that they should have been as smart as my dad who had come to the US already married. This is because he had just found out that there is a crisis in Calcutta, all the beauties have been married away to other lands and all that remains are the left-overs (jhortiportis) for the bachelors who lacked the foresight to have bought into the boom.

And finally if indeed there really is an unprecedented shortage of female beauty in Calcutta today, then perhaps the reason could be that the Bengali sons of the soil today force Bong women to fly away by talking like this,

One such has just hit town. Sambaran Mitra, a mariner in his early thirties, considers himself a veteran birdwatcher.
On a night out in Park Street, he exclaims: “Where are the babes gone?” If you can’t find them in Park Street, you can’t find them anywhere

And also

Now even rock shows, he complains, don’t throw up hot babes!

If Bengali men start using stereotyped “wannabe” phrases like  “babes” to refer to lolonas and latikas, then yes we have lost the last surviving vestige of Bengali manhood—the ability to be poetically original when referring to women. I recall during school days when a gaggle of giggling girls passed us by, we boys would nudge each other and say “Durge e je streelok” (Oh lord, it’s a woman) [ a line I recall from Bankimchandra that was part of an extract in our Bangla text book] to express our appreciation while now it seems they just say “Oh what a babe”.

Oh what a let down.

So my advice to the Bongo-sontaan when he sees an “aparoopa” striking up a conversation with the dollar jingling NRI,  is to put on his best Soumitro Chatterjee voice and say:

“Suronjona, oikhaane jeo nako tumi
Bolo nako katha oi juboker saathe
Phire esho Suranjana
Nokhotrer rupali agoon bhora raate.

[Surongona, don't go there
Don't talk to that young man
Come back Suranjana
On a night that is alight with the fire of silver stars]

If however all that comes out from the Bongo-sontan’s mouth are SMS Shayris and “Chalti hai kya nau se baraah” then yes he deserves to lose.

No need to blame the guy from Maryland for that.

[Pic courtesy Times of India]

Setting: A Puja committee meeting, somewhere in Kolkata. Circa 2010.

Sujit-da (Mamata-fan and president of Puja committee) : Nontu, so have the people from Sheyal TV Bangla (Fox TV’s Bangla venture) sent in the 30 lac check for the Pujo sponsorship?

Nontu, secretary: Sujit-da this year we decided to do things a little bit differently. Do you remember Habla?

Sujit-da: Of course how can I not remember Habla? A Jadavpur engineer but still so committed to the cause. During the Singur andolon, he was a front-line warrior with us, beating up the people who tried to enter the plant. I still remember Habla standing in the afternoon sun, throwing stones at the Nano plant and shouting Tata-Bye Bye. So what about him?

Nontu: Well after the Singur andolon, he joined Tata Consultancy Services as a business analyst and then went to US. There he did an MBA or something and has opened a marketing consultancy of his own in Manhattan. When he heard that we had given Sheyal TV Bangla exclusive sponsorship last year, he was pretty upset.

Sujit-da: Why has Sheyal TV Bangla said something against Didi, (dubious) PhD? Do we have to go and break some chairs and computers at the Sheyal TV Bangla office?[Getting up]

Nontu: No no not that. He feels that we should sell rights of different parts of the Pujo to different commercial entities. He called it “more bling bling”. He seemed so knowledgeable that we have decided to give the Puja rights to his firm and he will sell it out to different companies. He says we can get lots more money that way.

Sujit-da: (a bit worried): I don’t know….how much more?

Nontu: Sixty lacs he says. Double of last time.

Sujit-da: The problem with corporate sponsorship is that they make us do so many compromises. For instance, I have been wanting to do Ma Durga-r face in the image of Mamata-didi and the Asura with 2 heads—Ratan Tata and Buddhadeb Bhattacharya but every time Sheyal TV has shot my idea down. I am sure even this time…

Nontu: Come on Sujit-da. Be rational. I know that we owe a Didi a lot —after all had not Didi made all industries leave Bengal, we wouldn’t have such beautiful open spaces to have our Puja pandals.

But come on, even then we cannot just put Didi’s face on Ma Durga ! If we do, how will we ever get “Red Bull” Sarad Somman, which you know has strong CPM connections? We have a big tradition for Ma Durga’s face—-Deepika Padukone, Jessica Simpson and Angelina Jolie. Surely we cannot compromise on that?

If you insist, we will put Didi’s picture on Kolabou (Ganesha’s wife depicted by a banana-branch covered by a white sari)….

Sujit-da: Okay okay….whatever. So what does Habla recommend we do?

Nontu: Well first of all, he has negotiated a sweet deal with the Sheyal TV guys. This year they will pay 20 lacs but for that they only get rights for putting the television cameras in front of our pandal and not exclusive sponsorship like last time. Nontu talked to the Sheyal TV people and advised them to be more upfront with its promotion of their program—no more “Sharod dorshon” (Durga Puja “darshan”) like last time which he felt didn’t quite convey the message.

Sujit-da: Not convey the message?

Nontu: Yes. This time he recommends calling it “Bari theke Jhari” (Ogle From Home). The message is simple—why come and jostle with the thousands to catch a glimpse of the boudi in a backless blouse or didimoni in a tight kameez, all the time pretending to be watching the idol, when you can sit at home, open a packet of Lay’s chips and ogle in peace. Of course every 15 seconds the camera will cut away to an image of Ma Durga so that when thakuma (grandmother) comes into the room, she will not know what you are doing.

Sujit-da: Sounds good. What about this year’s music video? Can I dance in it this time? I have lost 4 Kgs since last October. And I have even started dyeing my hair.

Nontu (hesitantly): Actually Sujit-da why don’t you do it next year? This year Sheyal TV has already conceptualized the promotional music video. There will be Bangla mega-star Prosenjit dancing with a bunch of models from Uzbekistan, all clad in traditional Bangali white-sari-with-red-border(lal paar sari) to the tune of ” Jibonto Protima Darshan” (seeing live goddesses), which Habla says succinctly conveys our Pujo’s USP. Not sure yet but Sheyal TV says they can get Himesh Reshammiya to sing the song. If that doesn’t work out, we always have Aneek Dhar. Or the man whose claim to fame is that he sings “Kajra Re ” and Sachin Dev Burman songs perfectly in a female voice.

Sujit-da: Sounds good. So what about the rest of the sponsorship?

Nontu: Habla has another idea here. Get individual corporate sponsorships for each God. For instance, Lord Ganesh will be sponsored by Dr. Sen’s Weight Loss Clinic, Laxmi Devi will be sponsored by Vyasa Bank, Sharma IIT classes have expressed interest in sticking a flier on Saraswati Devi’s head and Lord Kartik will get a deal from Raymonds.

Each of these sponsorships for approximately 5 lacs.

For 10 lacs, Ma Durga rights have been sold to Kolkata Knight Riders. In exchange, Ma Durga will wear a KKR golden helmet, her trident will be replaced by a stump, the Asura will look like Salman Khan (who as you know is Knight Riders owner Shahrukh Khan’s sworn enemy) and the slogan “Korbo Lorbo Jeetbo Re” will be written in a semi-circular fashion behind Ma’s head.

Sujit-da: Excellent. So will Mithun-da be the brand ambassador of this year’s Pujo also?

Nontu: Slight problem. Mithun-da is associated with the ICL. If he is there, Kolkata Knight Riders will withdraw sponsorship. Plus Mithunda might insist that Lord Ganesha’s face be modeled on Mimoh’s with the Asura wearing a T-shirt that says “Am I a rejected person?”

Sujit-da: Ha Ha good joke. I still remember thirty years ago, when I was a kid, Sukhen Das wearing a jean jacket covering his paunch would inaugurate the Pujo. In any case, if not Mithun-da then who?

Nontu: We might try Rituporna..

Sujit-Da: No no are you crazy? Not that……em…. man ! He is always obsessed with bodily fluids, be it urine or other things of a periodic nature….how can we have him as part of a Pujo..

Nontu: I mean Rituporna and not Rituporno.

Sujit-Da: Ooh good.

Nontu: In addition, we have the usual sponsorships for food-stalls, the Grihini (housewife) Games every afternoon, basically everything we had last year.

Rathin-da (60 years old Vice President): Call me an old stick but is this Pujo?This seems to be a gigantic corporate enterprise—where is the personal touch, the feeling of community and togetherness, the simple joys of Pujo?

Sujit-Da: Rathin-da, you don’t understand things have changed….

Rathin-Da: I know I know. You guys have it so easy. In our days, we had to fight for every paisa as we went from para (street) to para begging for chanda (subscriptions). I remember writing fake receipts from last year and shouting at people saying “You had paid Rs 500 last year. Why not this year” even when we knew the poor guy moved in a few months ago.

And then there were the turf wars with Four Friends Boys Club with pipes and hockey sticks and hours spent standing on the main road, often in the pouring rain, stopping trucks and collecting “Ma Durga” tax.

Aah those days.

Things were so simple and personal.

Intimidating the Chatterjee widow for Rs 100, vandalizing that miser Dr. Sarkar’s car every year—sometimes slashing his tires, sometimes scratching his bonnet with Gold Spot caps, peeing on the door of that crazy ass Pandey, puncturing the rice sacks of old Lalaji. I still remember the look of hurt and anguish on the face of the people when we would armtwist subscriptions —ah the spirit of the Pujos.

Nowadays you guys snap your fingers and so much money comes from these faceless corporate behemoths who don’t even beg and plead and grovel. Where is the fun?

Nontu: Yes those old days sure sound good. But then again Rathin-da, as you know times have changed, some may say for the better.

Wait, that’s my cellphone….seems to be Habla from Manhattan….what ? We got Himesh? And what? Wow ! Hey Sujit-da hear this. We got Rakhi Sawant for Hayward’s 5000 Bhashan naach (“immerson dance”)? No kidding………