Blasts Do Not Rock Me

It has been an eventful eighteen hours and while I sit in a bus ( in my attempt to get to office) helplessly staring at the skies and at the standstill traffic, I thought it may be a good idea reminiscing over the sequence of events which happened since last evening.

Three blasts tried to scare us. No, I dare not say that three blasts rocked Mumbai. We are now seasoned veterans, we have been through 26/11, the serial blasts on 7/11 and so on.

As for me, in the words of Shakespeare, "I let this pass by me as the idle wind which I respect not".

My friend Santosh, the encyclopaedia that he is, tells me that yesterday was Kasab's birthday. I trust him to be a fairly authentic source, so I will take the liberty of using this information.

Many of my colleagues including Shalinee, Dignesh, Joseph, Binsy, Sunayana and yours truly were around when Kasab wrecked havoc on innocent people, we are all there when his friends decided to give him this equally 'bloody' birthday gift.

What did the blasts mean to us? As a first reaction, anxious phone calls to and from our family, relatives and friends; surfing on the net to authenticate the veracity of the things we heard; cautionary sms's to all we care for and then leaving for the safety of our homes.

Most of us reached home at the stroke of midnight and did not have time to do retrospection.
It was "A Wednesday" and all of us had to get back to work on the next day.Talking of the above film, the protagonist there thinks of the society and embarks on a purging exercise. However, that is a film and the reality is a stark contrast.

Most people could not spare a minute to think of such details as to how many innocent people died, how many were injured, how many were rendered homeless and the overall damage it may have caused.
If anyone did worry about these things, that is great. I do not blame anyone for not doing so, it is just that we are so busy with ourselves that we do not have time for such finer aspects of life.

When we woke up this morning, we did not have fear in our minds as we left home. We were not worried as to what might happen today, it was the incessant rain that was more of a concern for us.
 It is as if we have learnt to throw caution to the wind, we have long resigned ourselves to our fate, we are prepared to take life as it comes.

To summarise, we have become tough. We are not overly perturbed by anything happening around us, but the bigger question to be asked is "Are we losing our human virtues in the process?"

Reminds me of the song
"Ei Dil Hai Mushkil Jeena Yahan
Zara Hatkey Zara Bachkey Yeh Hai Bombay Meri Jaan
Be Ghar Ko Awaara Kahtey Log Hus Hus
Khud Katey Galey Sab Ke Kahey Isko Biz Nas (Business)"

That is what is Mumbai.

I have become a part of this system. After four long and gruelling years, reality is far from my expectations, better to say, I have decided to lower my expectations.

I have often read that Mumbai embraces all who come here; there is a living for everyone here. The fact is that while there may be a living but there is no home.

Needless to say, I have to go back to the great man
“Diney Diney Kothin Holo Kokhon Bukero Tol
Bhebeychhilem Jhorbey Na Amar Chokhero Jol"
(Never realised how gradually I have turned into a stone and my tears have deserted me.)

They all say, Mumbai is a very professional city, I would say more of a heartless city. Professionalism has nothing to do with shunning normal human values.

Did I not read any where that Mumbai was voted the rudest city in the world? As they say “the proof of the pudding is in the eating”.

I have lived through a blast, probably I will live through many more. I have learnt the art of ignoring the pain of the people who have lost everything, I am too insensitive to feel it.

I will worry about increments and bonuses because I will never realise that all these are important only as long as I am alive and how long I am alive is something I do not know. 

I will worry more about the inflation than a bloody inferno because for me an inferno is a temporary scalding for some people; inflation is a permanent hole in my pocket.

I will not die in fear of a resurgence of the blast, I will live on because I am already dead and you cannot kill a dead man.

Bengali Culture- The Changing Landscape

"Shokatorey Oi Knadichhey Shokoley Shono Shono Pita

Koho Kaaney Kaaney Shunao Praney Praney Mongolo Barota”

(Listen O Lord to the wailing nation,

Whisper in their ears, spread in their hearts Thy Holy Message..)

For a very long time, I have been toying with the idea of penning down my feelings about this topic but my well ingrained habit of procrastination has always got the better of me.  Finally, on an idle and lazy morning, with the skies pouring and having loaded myself with a heavy breakfast, I decided to do a bit of introspection.

I have been branded by some as an orthodox imbecile, no prizes for guessing that this article of mine would not do much to improve my reputation in their eyes. However, that does not deter me from expressing my honest opinion even if that means incurring the wrath of many unfortunate readers who happen to set foot on this blog.

I have no qualms in humbly expressing my opinion that the entire Bengali culture has reached a rock bottom and am quite certain that only a Herculean effort can resurrect the entire race to its former state of glory, if at all.

What is the cause for this moral and material degradation? Numerous. A clinical assessment will tell you that the decline which started in the late seventies, spread its tentacles through the eighties and nineties culminating in perhaps the most deplorable state over the last decade. The most affected has been the younger generation who have suffered the maximum from the pangs of this steep decline.

Just as an example of where our present generation lies, when I recently asked a couple of highly educated representatives of the modern era as to who coined the phrase “Jai Jawan Jai Kishan” – they all gave me a bewildered look. Like an apologetic parent trying to divert attention from an embarrassing question asked by a kid, I quickly changed the topic and asked them as to who had said “Marbo Ekhaney Lash Porbey Shmoshaney”? They all had the answer at their finger tips.

May be this incident is a slight deviation from the topic at hand; it was just a humble attempt to highlight how the present generation is disillusioned and have not developed the interest in things they ought to know.

Coming back to our culture, my conclusion about its downfall stems from certain glaring areas where the decline is most prominent.

Game Shows- the small screen

The most popular platform for demonstrating talent today happens to be the numerous game shows which are conducted across the various Bengali television channels. Superstars of yesteryears who appear as judges or compeers are the biggest attractions for these shows where the performers display their multifaceted talents in the field of music, dance or in joke shows. In most occasions, we are left dumbstruck, silently admiring the tremendous talent that this generation possesses. What is amazing is that this ability is not restricted to kids alone; you see glimpses of the same among the youth and even middle aged housewives. Hats off to them for coming out with flying colours in their persistent endeavour but still, one cannot help asking a few questions and extremely pertinent ones at that.

As my late grandmother used to enquire about the child performers, “Accha shara bochhor jodi ora ei shob korey, tobey porashona kokhon korbey?” (If they are performing these acts throughout the year, when will they study?)

Perhaps a very valid question to ruminate about, but a bit out of place in the current context. This problem may haunt a septuagenarian who has always believed that studies hold immense importance in the life of any adolescent irrespective of his or her socio economic background but the fact is that today’s parents do not feel likewise.

Modern parents (at least one segment of them) may feel that that the real test for their three year old daughter lies in successfully replicating Madhuri Dixit’s ‘Dhak Dhak Karney Laga’ or Kajol’s ‘Jaati Hun Mein, Jaldi Hai Kya’ with the same degree of aplomb and sensuality rather than going to school and trying to find out what a tyrant like Mahmud of Ghazni did more than thousand years ago.

“Service to man is service to God”, so by entertaining people, they are indeed doing a noble act.

My question to the most esteemed parents is that what is the moral and material benefit that the child is garnering from participation in this kind of a show? Agreed, their daughter’s talent is coming to the forefront, agreed she is getting rid of the element called ‘stage fright’ but are their childhood not being ruined in the process?

To put it in Bengali, as the great man had said

“Bonyora Boney Shundor, Shishura Matri Krorey”-

(Wild animals are most beautiful when seen in the wild; a child is most beautiful when in the arms of his mother).

Please allow them to grow in the normal course, do not fast forward their childhood and make them wonder what those pelvic thrusts mean in reality.

If we corrupt our future generations, we will suffer and so will mankind. In an era already contaminated by unwarranted negative influence of electronic and print media, let us try to shield them from the wrong things rather that expose them to the naked facts and that too at an impressionable age.

Coming to the joke shows, most of the jokes that we hear today have a sexual connotation. It is as if, entertainment of any form is not complete without a reference to the three letter word. It is as if the performers forget that there is an appropriate time and forum for these things; one cannot just say anything anywhere. I do not know if there is any censor board which approves or edits these shows but all I can say is that sometime, we need to put our foot down and draw the boundary.

At times, watching these performances becomes quite embarrassing, especially if one is at home with elders.

As far as the child artistes are concerned, some of these performers will ultimately make it big, one or two may become household names, but the others will all fade away. In the process, they would have lost prime time of their lives searching for something not worth it salt.

The consciousness will not arise in these young minds; it has to come from the elders. Elders can only think in the right direction if they have the right bent of mind, if they are willing to foster the right culture, a culture which had made Bengalis a dominant force in the world, a culture which has long deserted us.

Bengali Films- from the small to the big screen

Graduating from the small to the big screen, while the level of non commercial Bengali cinema has gone up tremendously, one cannot help but only take pity at the abysmal state of commercial Bangla films.

As I proceed to evaluate Bengali Cinema of any form, one basic assumption is that Satyajit Ray does not figure in this comparison. He stands like a Colossus in the history of Bengali, Indian and even World Cinema, so drawing any comparison with him will only shame our fellowmen and skew our findings.

We have the new genre of directors like Sandip Roy, Rituparno Ghosh, and Aparna Sen who take very relevant social topics or social problems and try to convey a strong message through their movies which do not necessarily have a commercial perspective.  

 Even if there is no underlying message, it is a good reflection of the changing times. One can readily think of ‘Ballygunge Court’, a movie which explores the pain of parents whose kids have all left for US in pursuit of greener pastures; it brings tears to our eyes as we reminisce our selfish motives and complete disregard for the people who have given everything to get us to where we are.

Talk of ‘Nishi Japon’ once again a beautiful narration of the complexities of the human mind.

Talk of ‘Anuronon’, a depiction of the changing times and how individuals living under the same roof drift apart and what it leads to.

Talk of ‘Hit List’, one wonders how difference of opinion among simple people can lead to heinous crimes and what is the ultimate outcome of such action.  The list is quite long.

Movies of Prodosh Mitra (our very own Feluda) or Byomkesh Bakshi (the indomitable creation of Saradindu Bandyopadhyay) are still crowd pullers. These films may not have a social message or a commercial perspective; they do not call for too much directorial acumen as well. The sheer creative skills of Ray and Saradindu are able to carry the film. The other important factor that contributes to popularity and entertainment of these films is familiarity. We know the characters from our childhood days, we know that Byomkesh’s wife is Satyabati and how they met for the first time. We do not need anyone to tell us that Lalmohanbabu’s driver is Haripadababu and that Lalmohanbabu’s creation is Prokhor Rudro. We know the end of the story, so neither does the director have too much of flexibility to twist the story, nor will the audience accept anything different from that what they know will happen and therefore they want to see. So it is not true that the common man every time wants something very original or something outstanding, he is prepared to accept the simple things, if served in good taste.

However, in the case of commercial Bangla cinema, what we get is far from palatable.

The story line is pathetic, the dialogues are in poor taste, the outcome predictable and sitting through a fully commercial Bangla cinema can be a horrendous experience. Some of the films are blatantly copied from Hindi movies, so many of the ‘hits’ in recent times can be traced back to some Bollywood blockbuster.

What adds to the woe is that the director does not care about the fact that a village in West Bengal is radically different from that in Punjab, so the scenes shot by Kajol in ‘Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge’ cannot be replicated for a Tollywood heroine whose role is that of a girl living in some remote village of interior West Bengal.  

This stark deviation from reality makes the entire experience of sitting through the movie unbearable. As one goes through the ordeal of watching the full movie, the rational mind can only wonder what has led to this terrible decline.

It is not therefore a surprise that I would rather watch a ‘Saptapadi’ or ‘Trijama’ or ‘Bicharak’ a hundred times over rather than watch some super hit movie of recent times.

It is not as if there were no remakes in those days. Many of Uttam Kumar’s movies and hit ones at that were remakes.  ‘Jay Jayanti’ was a remake of ‘The Sound of Music’ while ‘Jhinder Bandi’ was inspired by ‘The Prisoners of Zenda’. Even ‘Ogo Bodhu Shundori’, Uttam Kumar’s last movie was inspired by ‘My Fair Lady’.

What made the difference between the remakes of those days and the remakes of today is that the director used the story as the backdrop and did the appropriate modifications, not to forget the superlative performance of the actors which added a new dimension to the movie like Soumitra Chattopadhyay’s unforgettable performance in the role of the villain ‘Mayurbahan’ in ‘Jhinder Bandi’.

Okay, enough of criticism of modern Bengali cinema. That is not to say that I do not watch new films, I do so because I feel that some of these movies are a good cure for insomnia and to develop the virtue of patience.

 I wonder at times as to whether the actors also feel that way as well or is it that they are motivated by the monetary aspect only.

I feel sorry for Bengali cinema, I feel sorry for the numerous talented actors who for lack of script or for lack of proper audience are not able to do justice to their talents or are required to things that they themselves may not appreciate. I feel sorry for the industry as a whole.

My analysis would not be complete if I do not refer to the subject of comedy. We had some of the greatest comedians of all times who not only enriched Bengali cinema but even stamped their class in Bombay film industry, most notable being the legendary Kishore Kumar and Utpal Dutt, not to forget Bhanu Bandyopadhyay, Jahar Roy, Tulshi Chakraborty , Santosh Dutta, Rabi Ghosh, Anup Kumar and Chinmoy Roy.

Who can forget the camaraderie of Soumitra Chattopadhyay, Rabi Ghosh, Anup Kumar and Chinmoy Roy in ‘Bashanta Bilap’ or the performances of Tulshi Chakraborty and Bhanu Bandyopadhyay in ‘Sharey Chuattor’ or Kishore Kumar in ‘Lukochuri’? The list of modern day comedians may be long and there is no doubt about their capabilities but the humour depicted in the movies can at best be described as “constipated”. The dialogues may appeal to the grass root level but for the logical mind, there is not much to laugh unless someone from the row behind tickles you.

Even after I have watched it a hundred times, I still want to see ‘Sharey Chuattor’. We see still burst into laughter as we see Bhanu Badyopadhyay’s episode of ‘Mashima Malpo Khamu’ or the sequence where Uttam Kumar is being followed by his mess friends as he tries to find ways of meeting and talking to Suchitra Sen. Everything is so uncomplicated, so simple, yet it has an everlasting effect on the minds of the audience.

It is a well established fact that the fate of Indian films hinges on the quality of music and the songs. People remember ‘Shaptapadi’ more by ‘Ei Poth Jodi Na Shesh Hoy’ or ‘Hospital’ by ‘Ei Shundoro Shornali Shondhaye Eki Bondoney Joraley Go Bondhu’.

However, being from the land of Tagore, I would like to take music as a separate chapter in my analysis.

One last retrospection, may be the standard set by Uttam Kumar in tandem with Suchitra Sen, Madhabi Mukherjee, Sabitri Chatterjee or Arundhati Devi  was so high that the average Bengali mind will never be able to accept any one else as the matinee idol . Also, it may be that the positive competition that existed that between Uttam Kumar and some of his compatriots like Soumitra Chattopadhyay, Biswajit Chatterjee and Anil Chatterjee took Bengali cinema to heights that will never ever be scaled.

Forget about heroes, I think the calibre of some of the supporting artistes like Kali Banerjee, Shyam Laha , Chhaya Devi to name a few, are still unparalleled.

One thing we cannot ignore is the effect of a good story. Uttam Kumar may have made Sata Bose a household name (‘Satyasundar Bose’ in ‘Chowringhee’) but one cannot forget the contribution of Shankar. Bikash Ray made the role of ‘Jibon Moshay’ immortal but then Tarashankar Bandopadhyay had to write ‘Arogya Niketan’ first. Bonophool wrote ‘Hatey Bajarey’ first, the late Ashok Kumar merely enacted the role and that he did to perfection.

One does not get to see uncomplicated fully family entertainment oriented movies like ‘Dadar Kirti’ (once again the original story was by Saradindu) or ‘Balika Badhu’, the kind of movies made by Tarun Majumdar.

It is not that present day Bengali authors are not as talented as their predecessors; somewhere the marriage between the right story, the right director, the right artistes is not happening.

Once that happens, we can expect greater things from the same industry.

Bengali Music

The other day I had the misfortune of switching on the television and coming across some movie where the hero is dancing and singing a song which when translated means that “Oh I cannot take the heat of the chilly any more, only panache is the sweet smile of your sweet face”. I was told that it is a hit song.

The state of music in Bengali films is deplorable to say the least. There is nothing new in the tune, the lyrics are mundane and one feels disgusted after hearing a song.

Talk of the yesteryears; the lyrics were touching, the music melodious and the effect  long lasting.

Love in those days, was conveyed beautifully using such sweet words. Songs like “Shaat Shagorer Parey- Amar Shopney Dekha Rajkonya Thakey” (Sagarika) still creates a different atmosphere. It is eternal, it appeals to all ages and across all times.

One still wants to hear romantic numbers like “Ke Prothom Kacchey Eshechhi, Ke Prothom Cheye Dekhechhi” (Sankhabela) or “Shurjo Dobar Pala Ashey Jodi Ashuk Besh To” (Indrani).

The words were captivating, the tune mellifluous, and the effect lingers on in our mind.

Profound love between the hero and the heroine used to be expressed in sweet words, sublime expressions and soothing music and did not need the most abused three words “Ami Tomai Bhalobashi” (I love you).

There was no element of vulgarity in the whole song. In yesteryears, the same feelings were conveyed through use of such pristine words. Who can forget Uttam Kumar and Suchitra Sen singing in ‘Idrani’

“Tarporey Shara Raat Amra Dujoney Miley Bhabbo

Hridoyer Lipikatey Ke Jeno Likhechhey Ek Kabyo

Jonakira Dwip Jweley Amader Shathey Raat Jagbey

Duti Praney Chupi Chupi Notun Shey Shur Ek Lagbe

Jonakira Jaguk Na, Parney Shur Lagook Na

Paoatey Chaoar Hobey Shesh To”

(We will wonder through the sleepless night as to who scripted our epic love story. The fireflies will stand testimony to the tune that we sing in the dark night as all our longings culminate in attaining the cherished.)

There was no dearth of emotion, yet use of metaphors left so much to imagination. It is not always that everything has to be said in so many words, let some things be assumed by the audience and that will have a different effect altogether.

Songs like ‘Jiboney Ki Pabona’(Teen Bhuboner Paarey ) where Soumitra Chatterjee plays the role of a road side Romeo in trying to eve tease Tanuja or “Hoy To Tomari Jonyo” (Teen Bhubaner Paarey) will be enjoyed for ages.

Songs with a comedy effect like ‘Ek Poloker Ektu Dekha’ (Lukochuri) or ‘Arey Kya Sharam Ki Baat’ (Chadmabeshi) are eternal creations; these songs were not the stereotyped hero heroine songs but they will remain with us forever.

Is the decline attributable to the fact that we do not have playback singers like Hemanta Mukhopadhyay, Shyamal Mitra, Gita Dutta or Manabendra Mukhopadhyay amidst us or the likes of lyricists and musicians like Gouriprasanna Majumdar,  Salil Chowdhury and Pulak Bandyopadhyay?

Today we have Bengali singers who are ruling the Bombay film industry; most notable being Shaan and Shreya Ghoshal. There lies the grief and agony; if they can rule Bombay, why cannot they resurrect Bengali film music to its former glory?

Talking of non-film music, somewhere around the eighties, we first stumbled upon songs of a different nature by a group called “Mohiner Ghoraguli”. While we had to wait for the Indian Pink Floyd Suman Chattopadhyay to make his mark through ‘Tomake Chai’,  concurrently in Bangladesh we had a host of groups like ‘Feedback’, ‘Souls’, ‘Miles’ and ‘Renaissance’ coming up with these so called ‘Jibonmukhi Gaan’.

Slowly and steadily, we had this trend in Epaar Bangla ( West Bengal) as well with the likes of Anjan Dutta, Mousumi Bhowmick, Nachiketa, Shilajit and Pallab Kirtoniya to name a few.

The first few Bengali bands to make a mark were ‘Bhoomi’, ‘Chandrabindu’, ‘Cactus’ and so on and today we have numerous ones like ‘Dohar’.

‘Jibonmukhi Gaan’, as the name suggests were songs of life.  Simple language used to convey a sense of revolt,  had a tremendous appeal to the teenage segment and created a revolution. Gradually over time, the themes assumed more mild proportions. The catalysts that contributed to the popularity of these songs were ‘catchy’ tunes, simple words interspersed with abuses to create a revolting effect and of course the theme which was designed to curse the existing state of things, all  so reminiscent of the youth.

Today we have numerous singers possessing the highest level of talent who sing in bands or as solo performers. However, with time, there has been a sharp deterioration in terms of content and quality.

Again, one gets to hear in every other song , the words ‘Raater Abdar’  or ‘Bichhanar Chadorey’ or ‘Leper Adorey’ so frequently that at times one feels the sanctity of nuptial love and conjugal relations is lost.  These songs have now lost the freshness and appeal of their initial years.

What happened in the process is that amidst all this turmoil, the so called “Adhunik Bangla Gaan” went into some kind of oblivion. Who can forget Shyamal Mitra’s golden numbers like  “Keno Tumi Phirey Eley Ami Andhokarey Khnujey Pai Ni Jarey Jodi Aloye Taarey Peley”.  In another of Shyamal Mitra’s unforgettable numbers “Dur Noye Beshi Dur Oi Shajano Shajano Bokul Boner Dharey” , the sweetness of our mother tongue  and the use of words leaves us spell bound. I die to hear words like

“ Bono Horini Torito Chokito Charaney Chomoko Lagaye Diye

Taar Cheye Bhalo Chok Duti Dekhey  Jekhaney Jeto Shey Dnariye
Shekhaney Amar Matal Hridoy Shedin Giyechhey Hariye”

( Even the frightened doe stopped in her tracks  as she witnessed the eyes of my beloved)

One still fills a sense of intoxication to hear Arati Mukherjee’s “Tokhon Tomar Ekush Bochhor Bodhoy, Aami Tokhon Ashtadoshir Chhoyaye” or “Ei Mom Jochonaye Ango Bhijiye Esho Na Golpo Kori”.

Today we do not get to here songs like “Kotha Bolo Na Keu Shobdo Koro Na Bhagoban Nidra Niyechhen Golojog Shoitey Parenna”. Tarun Bandopadhyay, Protima Bandyopadhyay and Nirmala Misra were luminaries at one point of time but the art that they practised and propagated has gradually moved into obscurity.

In summary, we have to work together to resurrect Bangla music, how and when is for all of us to see. We have the talent, we have the words, we have the tunes. It is just that we need to think in the right direction.

In the words of Tagore,

“Protidino Tobo Gatha Gabo Ami Shumodhur

Tumi Deho Morey Kotha, Tumi Deho Morey Shur”

(Everyday has been woven by Thee, give me the words and the tune to sing Thy praise)

Saving grace

Developments have their negatives but I cannot ignore the blessings of this boom. Cultural degradation may have happened but there are still some sublime moments that you can pick up from the wreck.

My three year old niece, an American by birth, after watching Gaaner Oparey on You Tube, sings to me on the phone

“Gaye Amar Pulok Lagey Chhokhey Ghonaye Ghor

Hridoye Mor ke Bnedhecchey Ranga Rakhir Dor”

(An inexplicable sense of pleasure grips me and sends me into a frenzy as I wonder who is it that has tied the pleasure strings around my heart.)

As I hear her, I can only think of what Tagore had said (who else could have said it so aptly)

“E Shudha Bochono E Shukho Porosh Angey Baajichchey Bnashi”  

(These sweet words, this pristine touch, rings all the bells)

Could I have asked for anything more ethereal?

                                                                          

The Changing Face of Cricket

Love at First Sight

My first tryst with cricket was way back in the winter of 1982 when as a youngster, I remember seeing on television how Imran Khan mesmerized the Indian batsmen with his in-dippers.  While most Indian fans would want to forget the series merely because we lost the 6 test match contest 3-0, it left an indelible impression in my mind. A handsome Pathan with unruly hair running in, followed by a lethal leap as he hurled the ball at break neck speed, the next moment you see the rattle of the timber as one of the most famed batting line ups of that time crumpled like ‘nine pins’. It all seemed to be so romantic. Imran, who had claimed 41 wickets to win the “Man of the Series”, tormented the Indian batsmen but admittedly, he was instrumental in instilling in me an everlasting love for the game.

Today, at thirty seven, as I reminisce over the last twenty seven years, I feel that cricket has given me much more than it has taken. My studies did suffer as my addiction for the game grew by the day and I can never forget the bewilderment of my infuriated father as he had to silently tolerate the long hours I spent watching as he called ‘ball to ball’ live telecast of almost all of India’s matches from 1983 to 1993.

The real defining moment in my love story came in the following summer when the whole country watched Kapil Dev lift the Prudential Cup on the balcony of Lords. I started breathing cricket. Kapil Dev became my instant idol. For the next decade till his retirement, I would always be more interested in how many runs he scored and how many wickets he took in a match rather than whether India won or lost the game.

It was much later and again courtesy Lords, that I found my second love, Sourav Ganguly. Admittedly, he was a hero, not an idol. About a year elder to me, Sourav was the pride of Bengal. He was a fighter who represented a race long wiped off from the face of Indian cricket so much so that the chauvinistic Bong started comparing him to Tagore, Ray and Amartya Sen. But then, we Bongs have always been known to be that passionate- emotions run high in our blood and our lives border on a thin line of demarcation between heroism and insanity.  Dear reader, forgive me but we still love to believe Sourav is greater than Sachin – (of course on the offside).

Garden of Eden 1983-84

A father would give anything to fulfil the dreams of his son, my father was no exception. So it was no surprise that he decided to take me to see a test match for the first time in Eden Gardens Kolkata when the Windies played against us in the December of 1983.

It was a disastrous test for the home team where we lost by an innings, being bowled out for less than 100 in the second innings after Clive Lloyd scored a marathon century to thwart our bowlers, my only consolation being that I got to see my idol Kapil Dev score a typically breezy 69 on the first day.

Leaving statistics aside, I still recollect my personal emotions.

The feeling for me was ethereal as I entered the ground on a cold winter morning. As is wont with most Bongs, we carried a lunch box full of bread, boiled eggs, fried cauliflower and a bottle of water, not to forget a bagful of oranges. If it was Eden Gardens, if it was a test match, then it had to be oranges, a correlation that existed for decades.

The lush green outfield, the two captains in white coming out to toss, the fielding side getting into the ground, all those things we read in the books  were happening in reality.

Marshall came in to bowl the first delivery, that angular run up with the red cherry in his hand. I did not spot the ball leaving his hand, neither did the greatest opening batsman of our times but all I saw was that the West Indian players went up in a flash and the scoreboard read

Gavaskar c Dujon b Marshal 0  

So the first ball that I saw in a cricket match turned out to be a disastrous one for the Indian team. (Jinxed as I may be, till date, India has lost most of the matches that I have watched at the Eden Gardens, most notably the Nehru Cup loss to Pakistan and the 1996 World Cup semi-final loss to Sri Lanka.)

One could only sympathise with the Indian batsmen as a cordon of four to five huge West Indians stood at slips with a gully, a forward short leg and even a silly point. The saga was indeed no great. Anshuman Gaekwad, Dilip Vengsarkar, Mohinder Amarnath, Ashok Malhotra and Ravi Shastri all followed one after another till Roger Binny and Kapil Dev joined in a rear guard action. The tall Indian skipper just tore into the West Indian bowling reminding one and all that just a few moths earlier, this man had scored a mercurial 175 not out at Tunbridge Wells.

As the West Indian fielders ran to get the ball from the boundaries, I realised that there was so much difference between what we saw on television and what happens on the ground.

The feeling was captivating. Nearly a lakh of spectators clapping as Andy Roberts charged in and delivered a bouncer and before you realised anything, I saw Kapil Dev playing a characteristic Nataraja shot and the ball ricocheting off the fence.

I could go on and on describing the single day although a good twenty eight summers have gone by but that would be digressing from the topic.

The description would not be complete without alluding to the quintessential Bong cricket fan. In those days, a man with a paltry income would blow up a fair share of his savings to spend a day at the Eden Gardens watching a test match.

I have always been amazed by the knowledge the average Bong possesses about the game and the players. They would prophesize accurately which batsman would come in next, which bowler would come on from which end, how the breeze from the Ganges would prompt the fielding captain to take the new ball, why he would not have a third man and so. Even the ladies would accompany their husbands with their knitting paraphernalia.

Last but not the least, the Calcutta crowd has always been hailed as one of the most generous lot of spectators. Branded as hostile, when the home team has miserably failed, they are gracious in defeat when the opposition has come up with a sterling performance and unanimously raise a toast to the winners.

Eden Gardens 1993-94

For the purpose of comparison, I would like to contrast the above experience which I narrated to my experiences when I went to see a one day match in 1994 at the same ground. It was the first time I went to see a day night affair, a game in which we saw the ‘Men in Blue’ take on the ‘Springboks under the floodlights.

Everything was so different, the  white ball and coloured clothing, lots of lofted shots, fours and sixes by scores and dozens and acrobatic fielding ; in summary I had my full share of entertainment.

I was entertained but not captivated; so the event did not remain etched in my memory as the earlier test match, in fact I have even forgotten who opened the batting for India and most other details, all I remember is that Mohammed Azharuddin scored a match winning ninety.

I was happy that we had won, I was satisfied that I got the entertainment worth the money I spent but I left feeling the game had gotten poorer. Something had changed that made me abhor the idea of going to the cricket ground again.

So what has the limited over version done to the game?

Positives

“Do not cherish the unworthy desire that the changeable might become the unchanging.”

— Gautama Buddha

In this fast world, time is the most precious commodity. As the rationalist would argue, no one has time to sit back and watch a game for five long days, with no guarantee of a decisive result. For them, it is a never ending duel between bat and ball meandering to a tame draw. In fact, as one would say, it is a perfect cure for insomnia.

The limited over version provides a rush of adrenalin and test of nerves as we see even lesser known batsmen slog the bowlers to attain the unimaginable. In a nutshell, limited overs cricket acts as a stimulant and has resurrected the lost interest in cricket.

Cricket was earlier a winter sport. As I mentioned , if it was cricket, then it had to be oranges, it had to be pullovers, it had to be the chill wind across the ground. It also meant that cricketers were virtually resting from June to September unless they played in England where the climate was comparatively cooler. Today, the advent of day night matches has made cricket an event of all seasons.  Thus cricket is no longer dependant on the vagaries of the weather. The rain Gods, have in the past, saved so many teams from the jaws of sure defeat. Today, the same rain Gods have been robbed of their divinty. Now, Melbourne has an indoor stadium that can hold a match even when the heavens are pouring.

Cricket now provides us unadulterated entertainment for nearly 365 days in a year. Players have become multi millionaires. BCCI is one of the richest cricket boards in the world. All these have a positive effect on the economy.

Technology developments have progressed by leaps and bounds. Today we have stump microphones to prevent players from swearing and sledging. The extent and scope of human error is minimised by things like the “hawk eye” and the snicko-meter. Today even simple decisions on run outs and stumpings are referred to the television umpire to weed out the possibility of human inconsistency.

Negatives

Cricket has lost its artistry; players have lost their artistic touch. The slam bang slog version of modern day cricket has become a bowler’s nightmare. It is an oft quoted fact that even Kapil Dev, the greatest exponent of swing bowling, lost his killer instinct because of excessive one day cricket. The Haryana Hurricane who tormented batsmen world over with his “banana outswing” was a shadow of his former self as he started concentrating on restriction rather than destruction. In fact, with restrictions like one bouncer per over, power plays and so on; asking a bowler to roll his arm over is akin to a gladiator being asked to face hungry lions at the arena so much so that it is a matter of debate as to whether aspiring youngster would want to be a spinner given the plight of spinners in the limited overs version. I am afraid; we may not get to see one more Erapalli Prasanna or Srinivas Venkataraghavan in the future. Brilliant bowlers will strive for wickets, average bowlers will try to contain the batsmen and wait for the batsmen to make mistakes.

We have all read about Abhimanyu being trapped in the Chakravyuha in the Mahabharata. I remember seeing it in Test matches when you had one unfortunate batsman surrounded by three to four slips, a couple of gullies, a silly point and even a forward and backward short leg. It was an intense battle and as spectators we would bite our nails in suspense. It had its own beauty, and it created a very unique impression in our minds. The slips going sown together as the bowler started his run up, all of them up in a flash to appeal. All that is no longer there today. Today that kind of a field setting cannot be imagined as teams score 400 runs in a day’s play of 90 overs; the fielding captain would be termed a lunatic if he tried to attack the batsmen on a rampage.

Test cricket was all about talent, technique and temperament. While talent continues to exist in abundance, technique has changed according to the need of the hour. Test match temperament, the willingness to occupy the crease for long hours etc is a thing of the past. The question now is that whether modern day cricket will give rise to a Sunil Gavaskar or an Everton Weekes whose principal strength was to occupy the crease for hours and hours and test on the bowler’s patience. For that matter, we may not get to see another GR Vishwanath or a VVS Laxman who were more artists than plunderers. Batsmen world over have realised that they cannot afford to play the waiting game unless of course the team is in dire straits and then one would need a Rahul Dravid to help them save a match when a win is clearly impossible.

In modern days, when you see the reaction of a bowler at having dismissed a batsman, the way he swears, abuses, exults and so on; one wonders whether they were playing a game or vying for each other’s blood. They tend to forget that it is a game. We tend to forget Frank Worell’s benevolent gesture when Charlie Griffith hit Nari Contractor, yes they too were cricketers. The lure of money and fame has turned cricketers into warriors. All this is killing cricket. Earlier there was a phrase used “this is not cricket”. That, I am afraid, cannot be said any more.

Finally there is too much of cricket today. I can feel the frustration of  my hapless dad  a good twenty five years ago as he felt my studies were being affected because of too much cricket and that too when there were not so many matches around. Life has gone a full circle.  Work comes to a standstill, productivity is hampered and  the scenario is such that once in a while I genuinely hope there is no match today. 

As far as my dad is concerned, the old man does not miss a single match in his retired days. I fret and fume as I cannot watch any other program on the television. Probably his way of getting back at me. Ha Ha.

All said and done, while cricket boards have become rich, cricketers have become millionaires, in the turn of events; cricket has become poorer.

Trip to Shantiniketan

Finally vacations arrived after nearly a year and needless to say, I was overjoyed at the thought of probably witnessing a spell of Kaalboishakhi, something the Mumbaikar cannot dream of. For those of you who wonder what it is, well, a “Kaalboishakhi” is a sudden shower that hits Gangetic West Bengal during the onset of summer.

It is characterized by gusty wind followed by a torrential downpour for a good couple of hours, in the process bringing down the mercury levels by a good three to four degrees Celsius, thereby completely paralyzing life in the city. Roads are waterlogged, traffic comes to a standstill and the average office goer is severely inconvenienced, but still the quintessential Bong like me finds a new lease of life. “Shnoda maatir gondho” – the typical smell of wet mud that makes one nostalgic and brings one closer to his roots. The icing on the cake can be the “shila brishti”- the ice-cubes that so typically accompany a Kaalboishakhi”.

No prizes for guessing who would call me “Antel”- (the sarcastic term for intellectual)  but I would not make any effort to curb my sentiments for fear of invoking cynicism.

As the poet had said

“Kaalboishakhir Hobey Je Nachon

Shathey Nachuk Tor Morono Bnachon”

Let your life and death dance to the tune of the Kaalboishakhi storm.

Fortunate as I was, a sudden spell of Kaalboishakhi hit Calcutta and the adjoining parts on the Monday and filled my heart with a profound feeling of happiness so much so, that I decided to undertake a trip to Shantiniketan, the hub center of Bengali literature.

While for the present generation, Shantiniketan is more of a name in the books of General Knowledge, for me it is the nerve centre of Bengali culture. So it was more to bask in the sentiment and philosophy of Tagore than anything else that I travelled to Shantiniketan, all alone, on a hot summer day, ignoring the advice of all at home.

A short but sweet trip that it turned out to be was made all the more memorable by Sir and Angshuman,  I dare not consider myself to be a member of such an erudite statistical fraternity, hence we spoke on politics, the institute education system in West Bengal, Tagore and post Tagore era  and everything except our dreadful subject.

The day began with an eventful journey by Ganadevata Express from Bardhhaman to Bolpur.

No sooner had the train left Barddhaman than the “Bauls”  came inside the compartment and rendered a few unforgettable numbers including  "Lal Paharir Deshey Ja" followed by "Koshto Pabey Sheshkaley"- a song my grandmother used to hum. Accompanied by a single stringed instrument, these simple sons of the soil, render melodious numbers, often oblivious of their surroundings. Some of these songs have a social message; others merely carry the essence of Bengali folk music.

 As I travelled by rickshaw to Shantiniketan, I was amazed by the level of the knowledge of the rickshaw puller regarding Rabindranath and the entire Tagore family. Little hesitation do I have in confessing that he probably knew much more about Rabindranath and his works than many of our so called ‘educated’ brains collectively.

After a long chat with Sir and Kakima and having thoroughly enjoyed their warm hospitality, I set on foot to explore Shantiniketan with the sole intention of inhaling the pristine air and fulfilling my intellectual pursuits.

My first stop was the prayer hall. Disappointed to hear that the same was closed, I managed to click a few photos from the outside.

Visit to Uttarayan was followed by a long session at the museum where I witnessed some of the memorabilia and personal articles of the great man including some rare photos.

After a quick trip to Kala Bhavan and Sangeet Bhavan, I sat down under a banyan tree and proceeded to sing by myself

Modhyo Diner Bijon Batayaney

Klanti Bhora Kon Bedonar Maya Shopnabhashey

Bhashey Money Money

The tired breeze of the lonely summer afternoon is the harbinger of my deep sorrows.

Time flew by till the realization dawned on me that it was time to go home, go back to Kolkata, finally back to Mumbai and the same routine life.

Immersed in the the serene beauty and immaculate simplicity of the life around, it was almost as if I had lost track of my surroundings till I was awakened by Sir’s call inviting me for lunch.

After a sumptuous lunch of paratha and chicken at the Science faculty canteen, I proceeded to visit Khoai and Kopai with Angshuman who was gracious enough to come with me leaving aside his commitments.  A long rickshaw journey through the red soil reminded me of one of Tagore’s very popular number

“Gram Chhara Oi Ranga Maatir Poth

Aamar Mon Bhulaye Re”

My heart gets lost along the red village road 

Drenched in sweat but filled to the brim with happiness, I proceeded to the station to catch the Ganadevata Express. Not the slightest perturbed by the delay of the incoming train, I sat in one corner of the station enjoying the setting sun and singing to myself

“Aji Godhuli Logoney

Ei Badolo Gogoney

Taar Chorono Dhwani

Aami Hridoye Goni

Shey Ashibey Amar Mono Boley

Shara Bela

Akarono Pulokey Ankhi Bhashey Joley”

Sitting by the clowdy dusk, I could feel her footsteps throbbing in my veins as needless streams of tears flowed from my eyes.

The hospitality of Sir and Angshuman, the tranquility of the surroundings, the richness of the culture and traditions, all of it will remain my cherished possessions.

As I reminisced about the entire day, I came to the conclusion that whatever little I gathered during the course of a single day completely satisfied my emotional and intellectual thirst and filled my heart with an intense longing to come back and spend some more time at the abode of one of the greatest human beings to have set foot on this earth.

“Tumi Kemon korey gaan Koro Hey Guni

Aami Abaak Hoye Shuni ………...

Money Kori Omni Shurey Gaai

Konthey Amar Shur Khujey Na Pai.”

Dumbstruck I listen to the ethereal tune that stems from you.  Wishful longing in my heart to repeat thy words, my vocal chords seem too meek to echo thy mellifluous numbers.