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.

Can We Do It

It is 42 hours away from perhaps the biggest sporting event of the year
and as I undertake another gruelling travel from Worli to Kandivilli, ,
I cannot help but think whether the hope, anticipation and expectation
is worth its salt.

My heart wanders back to a summer evening in 1983 when as a kid I
witnessed Kapil's Devils achieve immortality on 25th June in the balcony of Lords. It took the whole world by storm.

Thus far and no further. The crown has remained elusive over the next six editions of the tournament.

Not that we did not raise hopes, we always flattered to deceive. If Sourav's "dadagiri" took us to the finals in 2003 only for us to surrender meekly to the willow of Ponting in the finals, it was Kapil's slog sweep in the 1987 semifinals against England that swept away allthe hopes of a nation.
However,the quintessential cricket fan will agree that intersparsed between the above two, the most painful episode was the 1996 semifinal loss to Sri Lanka- I personally remember seeing Eden burning as whole India wept.

In spite of the episodes narrated above, one and a half billion still believe that eleven can do it.

As far as the World Cup is concerned, I feel that while patriotism is a virtue, rationality is a necessity. Collective superiority is the need of the hour, adrenaline can merely be a catalyst.

It is a little too much to expect a thirty eight year old to weave his magic wand and galvanise a bunch of highly talented, at times over rated but oft erratic individuals into a winning team.

True, a twenty four year old Haryanvi lad did so but that was a good twenty seven years ago when cricket still had some cricket left in itself, more importantly the hero in question was Kapil Dev, rightly nominated as the "Indian Cricketer of the Century", a man who had the ingenious capacity to transform a game either with the willow or thecherry.

Not that he lacked the ammunition. The avid cricket follower may still feel that a batting line up that boasted of Gavaskar Shrikanth,Amarnath, Yashpal, Patil and Kapil himself is always better equipped to handle the complexities of any situation than an order comprising Sehwag, Gambhir, Raina, Yuvraj, Yusuf and Dhoni. Just add that one man Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar and the scales will tilt automatically.

Fifty one test centuries, nearly fifty one day hundreds coupled with an unparalleled,  well chronicled saga of dominance over twenty years on bowlers of all variety, age and land; the story says it all.

But give it a break, the man is thirty eight and the time has come for us to admit that we have depended on him for too much, for too long. If he had hung up his boots by now, no one would have complained. It is that unflinching desire and burning passion in him that has helped him to keep going, let him walk like a Colossus over lesser fellow men, not stoop down due to the emotional burden of a whole country.

Undoubtedly he would want to win the cup for the country and for
himself, but the forces against him are no minnows either. You have the Pontings, Smiths and Pietersens eyeing the most coveted trophy in the cricket world.

Cricket is a team game, one man can make a difference in a single game or two, but he cannot pull a team through match after match. An analysis of the remaining players will prove that this team is too dependent on one man.

Sehwag may be a murderer but as impulsive as a child trying to get back home from school. Kohli is yet to be thoroughly tested while Yusuf's claim to fame still hinges on an acid test. Raina is susceptible to short pitched stuff and Yuvraj is well past his prime.
Dhoni has been very scratchy with the bat so much so that a Geoff
Boycott would say "even my grand mom would bat better". Perhaps Sachin can count on Gambhir to sail through.

This bowling attack can never be a captain's pride.  Talk of successful captains; Ponting had Mcgrath and Warne, Lloyd had Roberts, Marshall,Croft, Garner and Holding; Imran had Akram and Saqlain while Kapil had Madan Lal, Binny and Sandhu. Can the most chauvinistic Indian say that Dhoni's brigade of Zaheer, Nehra and Harbhajan has the required horsepower to help us win a World Cup? The only saving grace could be the fact that we have a handful of all-rouunders like the 1983 team, but there again the point is that the current lot can hardly match the Devils of 83.

In short, all I can say is that it will take a miracle for us to sail through.

While I also would love to see Lady Luck smile on Dhoni, deep down in my heart, I have my serious doubts.

A month from now and we will have the answer.

Will be happiest to be proved wrong

Pujas- a confused Probashi Bangalee shares his emotions

One more Puja is over.

Barely ninety six hours ago, as my aircraft was reaching the vicinity of Calcutta, an aerial view gave one the impression that the entire city was resplendent with a feeling of celebration.

The tarmac, the cabbies, the traffic the cops all seemed to echo an unuttered welcome. It seemed that the lights had washed away all darkness that may have existed in the city.

In the words of Tagore

"Akashey Akashey Ayojon

Batashey Batashey Amontron......”

(The wind is the harbinger of the celebration of the celebration writ on the skies)

Needless to say, as always, what followed was four days of fun albeit a little dampening of spirits caused by the rain Gods.

As I lay enjoying the serene tranquillity and immaculate simplicity of life in Bardhaman, I literally lost track of the clock. Spending time with dear ones, complemented by fills of luchi and aaloor torkari for breakfast, a huge spread of traditional Bengali cuisine for lunch and of course an equally sumptuous spread of dinner made me realise utopia.

"Dhwonilo Aobhano Madhuro Gaambhiro Prabhato Ambaro Majhey

Dikey Digontorey Bhubono Mondirey Shanti Shangeeto Bajey".

(The morning skies usher in a melodious welcome song from all directions)

"All good things come to an end"- this was no exception.

Four days flew by in a jiffy and I suddenly realised that it is time to get back to Mumbai, back to the PQRs, the RCs and the ECs.

Now, as I fly back to Mumbai, an eery feeling of voidness engulfs me.

Once more sitting in the aircraft, I stare across the window but it is a different picture on the canvas, a city struggling to shrug off the early morning sleep as it prepares itself for a gruelling day ahead.

It is difficult to believe that the feeling of joy, anticipation and celebration, all of which began with the early morning chanting of "Mahishasuramardini stotram " on Mahalaya, has vanished into thin air, all in a spell of ten days.

The same depression spreads to me and I go into a state of melancholy.  What have we achieved in the last four days is what I question myself. In these changing times, have we been able to hold on to our values, our culture and how do we ensure that we tide over the evil forces that constantly try to break us apart?

The very definition of Pujas has undergone a paradigm shift over the last couple of decades. Cynical as I may sound, one does observe the hugely contrasting mindset and behaviour of the present generation to that of our parents (no prizes for guessing that even in my mid-thirties, I feel that I am a part of the present generation).

For the previous generations, Pujas were a time for family reunions, honouring religious commitments and at the same time indulging in entertainment unique to the occasion and reminiscent of our culture and tradition.

Furthermore, it used to be an event that brought together the extended family across all age groups thereby having a unifying influence.  Each member was eager to contribute to the whole scheme of things, so that at least for these four days there never existed the concept of a generation gap.

That, is where, the transformation is noticeable, no doubt greatly influenced by the nuclear families as opposed to the joint family system of olden days.

Nowadays the Pujas are more of a pretext to seek a deviation from our daily chores. The religious rituals are performed more with the objective of marketing the concepts than adhering to customs.

 However the most worrying thing, to me, is that the Pujas is not a family event anymore.

Each member of the family spends the Puja in isolation, completely guided by idiosyncratic passion and is not quite bothered about sharing the occasion with the other family members.

While for the kindergarten kid, Pujas mean four days of uninterrupted cartoon show on television, for the teenager or the college goer, it is a 96 hours visa to roam around the town with a ‘special’ friend.  If you manage to drop in to the some of the reputed educational institutes of Calcutta, you should not be surprised to find mass scale pot smoking and other nefarious forms of entertainment crippling the youth of today.

For the middle aged professional, these four days now mean more parties, more drinking and late nights using the pretext of Pujas while for the septuagenarian, these four days merely mean a break from the early morning jogging and laughing sessions; no extra attention from the subsequent generations can be guaranteed.

Talking of food, it is a proven fact that we Bongs have miserably failed to promote our cuisine and give it a global dimension to the same extent as the South Indians or for that matter the Chinese have done. Does it give us the license to identify marijuana as a surrogate for mihidana (a popular Bengali sweet)?

As a proof of the pudding is in the eating, ask the erudite Bong gentleman about his culinary preferences during the Pujas and he will tell you that he preferred Arselan for Hyderabadi biriyani on Saptami or dropped in to Moulin Rouge on Nabami for chicken stroganoff.  No, he did not drop into Nobin Chandra Das for rasagolla or KC Das for “nolen gurer sondesh”.

Sorry did I hear somebody mention of a term called bhog? Bhog is again a part of marketing of Durga Puja, more desired at advertising than appetising.

 It would not be unfair to say that bhog has found a new dimension in Mumbai, where we have the Bollywood celebrities flocking to  Rani's Puja or Abhijit's Puja. There is a grand bhog associated with these Pujas but the attraction is neither the Puja nor the Bhog, it is the Bollywood heroine stepping out  of her "Babli" image to serve the bhog.

As Tagore had said

"Mor Modhuro Adhoro Bodhuro Nobino Anurago Shamo Rokto

Hey Amaro Chiro Bhokto"

(As I encounter my fans, I become flush red in the same way as a newly married bride does in presence of her lover)

Finally the Pujas had a tremendous unifying influence. The juniors  touched the feet of the elders to offer their respects while the elders showered their blessings on the young.

In this age of sms, there is simply no place for exchanging such pleasantries- just a simple sms “Shubho Bijoya”  has replaced the physical exchange of sentiments.

Exchange of sms shows one’s  sense of responsibility and may be at times it is the only recourse given the geographical distance between the two individuals but how much of emotion is exchanged is still a question mark.

 Durga Puja is celebrated across the globe with a level of passion that can be associated only with the people from the land of Tagore and Ray.  In countries like UAE, photos have replaced idols,  closed rooms in 5 Star hotels have replaced pandals,  biriyani has replaced khichuri and begun bhaja. Some of it is inevitable , but in the process the humane touch, the sweet sentiments all is lost.

The day is not far off when someday , Goddess Durga will send an sms saying “Sorry I cannot make it to earth this time as I have personal commitment on those days”

How the quintessential Bengali will react on that day is for all of us to see.

What I have just written is not universal, there are exceptions to the above.  Neither is it a criticism but more of a reflection on my subtle observations.

Would be the happiest person if proved wrong.

Till then…….