Dusky Musings

It is late afternoon. The sun has set, leaving behind a pale, white light. The scorching Mid-May heat has eased a little. I sit alone on the sofa; feet propped up on the coffee table and watch the lilies in the flower pot sway gently in the soft evening breeze. Looking outside the balcony, one wouldn’t think of switching on the lights. But shadows start darkening certain corners of the room. Furniture, vaguely visible in that half-darkness, assumes a spectral aspect. 

 I open my Facebook page and dig out an old photograph. Carmel Primary School, Class 2, 
Section C.  The principal, Sister Leela flanked by our class teacher, Bipasha Miss, surrounded by the entire batch. “Why did I fish out this photo?” I wonder. Is it nostalgia? Hardly. Nostalgia would imply a yearning to re-live those days of the past. And I have no desire to go back to my school days in Carmel.

Class Photograph - Carmel Primary School, Class 2 C

It’s almost a cliché that school days constitute the idyllic time of one’s life. That’s far from true for me and some of my school friends. Recalling happy memories about Carmel is like excavating a mine in the hope of finding that rare diamond. After quite a bit of thought, two incidents pop-up in my head. One involves Sister Leela. She was not one of those typically oppressive nuns, ready to scathe you with her look or words for the slightest faux pas. She was amiable and perhaps that’s why some of us managed to acquire the courage to ask her for her address when she left for a convent in Australia. After much hesitation, I sent her a letter along with an appropriate card that Ma kindly bought for me. I never expected a reply. But it came! Not to my personal address but to the school’s address. In fact every single girl who wrote to Sister Leela got a reply. Our class teacher called out our names, one by one, we approached the wooden platform and the envelopes were handed over to us. I was eight years old. For the first time I saw my name scrawled neatly on the cover of an envelope. I couldn’t wait to open it! Inside, was a single sheet of ruled paper written over in tidy, cursive handwriting. On one side of the letter was pasted a picture of the Sydney Opera House, neatly cut out from a magazine.  Sister Leela fondly thanked me for the card, mentioned some details that indicated that she remembered me and added a few lines about her life in Australia. It was a simple letter. But for me it was like a talisman that repulsed, for a brief period, the curse that haunted me for the ten years I spent in that school – the curse of invisibility. Suddenly, I was part of a coterie that included the toppers, the teachers’ pets and the average students. The class celebrities were interested in seeing Sister Leela’s letters to us, lesser mortals and we were allowed to see her letters to them. Living miles away from Kolkata, Sister Leela, momentarily acted as the great leveller.

The other memorable incident involves our Life Science teacher in high school. She had distributed our graded answer scripts for the second-term examination. I was thrilled to see that I had received 75 out of 100, which meant that I got an A+. But once I re-checked the total, I realized that it was coming to 74 and not 75. Not very confident about my math skills, I asked a couple of my classmates to re-count. Every time, the total came to the same: 74. “I suppose I have to tell her to correct it”, I said. “Are you mad?” exclaimed my classmates. “It’s just one mark. She has overlooked it. Why don’t you let sleeping dogs lie?” Well, I must confess that I was tempted to lie low because owning up not only meant slipping down a letter grade but also losing the possibility of getting a certificate at the end of the year. The rule was that if a student maintained A+ in a subject for three consecutive terms then she would be awarded a certificate of merit for that particular subject. I had an A+ in Life Science in my first-term examinations and according to the teacher’s calculations I had scored one in the second-term. It was only a matter of maintaining an A+ in the final term, which I was determined to do. But then a voice started droning in my head: “Yes, you would get a certificate. Yes, perhaps, at least one teacher would notice you. But it will all be a lie. Is it worth it?” With a sinking feeling I got up from my bench and approached the teacher’s desk. My heart was pounding. My hands were clammy. Pointing out a teacher’s flaw was not looked upon very kindly at Carmel. I went up to her and said in a small voice; “I am sorry, Miss, but I think my total marks adds up to 74 and not 75”. She gave me a quizzical look, took the answer script from my hand, re-counted the marks and said: “Oh yes, you are right” and promptly changed it. I took the answer script and was quietly walking towards my seat when the teacher remarked: “Wait a minute. You are going down one letter grade, aren’t you?” she asked. “Yes, Miss” said I. She gestured for my script. I handed it over. With one bold stroke she wrote: 74+1=75= A+, smiled at me and said: “That’s for your honesty”. I froze for a bit and then gasped: “Thank You, Miss”! It felt like I had already won the certificate of merit. I wish I could recount more such instances of moral justice and impartiality in my Carmel memoirs. But sadly, I can’t think of any.   

 Recently, I caught up with some of my old school friends. We have long outgrown that blue skirt, white blouse and red sweater (during winter). One of them has turned her talent and passion for dance into a profession. She has made quite a name for herself in the Mumbai cultural scene. The other one is a teacher at a reputed school in Kolkata. But when we talked about Carmel none of us could admit to feeling any allegiance or love for the institution. My dancer friend was quite well-known in school for her talent and performed in almost every function. But, if she were to be asked to place her hand on her heart, even she cannot claim to have been completely happy in Carmel. The fact is one can outgrow one’s uniform. But one can never completely outgrow the slights, the insults, the unjust reprimands, the partiality. And most importantly the indifference – the feeling of being a “nobody” – a non-entity.  That was the story of most of the Carmel girls apart from the few fortunate ones who were either toppers or teachers’ pets or managed to distinguish themselves in some extra-curricular activity. The rest of the lot were treated either as creatures who had to be tolerated or worse still, as invisible beings. No effort was ever made to find out if an average or even a below average student might be good at some extra-curricular activity. For instance, my other friend has a real talent for sketching and painting. But she was never given a chance to employ her artistic skills for the charts/posters that were specially made for the bulletin boards outside the principal’s office or even for the soft-boards in class. Later on in life this friend completed a course in graphic design with flying colours. To put it plainly, Carmel stultified the spirits of most of its pupils instead of allowing them to blossom.

Ironically enough, my first ever job was in Carmel, as a teacher in a leave vacancy position. To my utter surprise, few of my former teachers recognized me – probably because I was the dark horse who had given some of them a bit of a shock with her results in the board exams. In fact, one of the teachers who never taught me in class went out of her way to show me the ropes. I would always be grateful to her. The librarian asked me, her eyes shining brightly: “So, how does it feel to come back to your own school as a teacher?” “It’s nice”, I replied with a polite smile. Her face fell a little. She must have expected a more animated response from me. But the fact is that I felt nothing except a slight contentment at being employed right after finishing my master’s degree. One might think that I must have felt vindicated. After all, I was standing on the same wooden platform from which so many of the teachers and nuns made many of us, lesser mortals, feel utterly worthless with their scathing words or their implicit attitude. But there was no sense of vindication. Because by that time I had been through the portals of another high school, a college and a university. Carmel had shrunk into a puddle. I had begun to hear and answer to the call of the vast ocean. I was preparing to apply for higher studies abroad.

So, did those ten years in school teach me anything? Yes, they did. They taught me what NOT to do as a teacher. One should try one’s best to be fair and impartial. One should never dampen a student’s spirit or an honest endeavour. However, a decade of convent education has also turned me into a task mistress. I cannot suffer laziness, lack of integrity, honesty and sincerity. Audacity and pretentiousness get my hackles up and my verbal whip comes cracking down harder than any nun in a medieval convent. When I judge a student’s work, I try my level best to be fair. But that also makes me brutally honest. I cannot sell justice to buy popularity. These attributes, ironically, at times, make me resemble the very educators I grew up hating. Perhaps, that’s the irony of life. In trying to defeat one’s enemy, one begins to resemble him/her. Then there’s the stultified spirit. Even today I grapple with lack of confidence and battle a sense of inferiority and worthlessness. They are like scars which lose their rawness over time but never quite fade away – haunting reminders of past wounds.

And that brings me to my opening question. Why did I dig out the old photograph that afternoon?  Probably because in that magical hour, as I sat flanked by the pale brightness of twilight and slowly creeping shadows, fragments of memory, scraps of reflection, long-lost feelings and sensations all mingled somewhere in my subconscious. And I instinctively reached out for that age-old picture. As I write today, it seems like that moment embodied my life itself.

Will I look out the balcony until the last glow of twilight fades away and switch on the lights? Or will I let the gradually approaching darkness engulf me?

The answer is still a mystery.

    

Bonding over Tales

 30^th September. 11 a.m. The seminar hall at SNU was brimming with university and school students, professors, teachers and invited guests. Ruskin Bond was about to arrive for a tệte-à-tệte organized jointly by the Techno India Group, Sister Nivedita University and the British Council. The crowd waited eagerly for Mr. Bond while a giant screen played a video about SNU’s exciting academic programmes and campus life. At 11:30 a.m. the eighty-five-year-old author shuffled on to the stage amidst loud applause. After the customary introduction, peppered with titles of Bond’s works, Dr. Debanjan Chakrabarti, director of the British Council, opened the conversation. Unlike other writers, said Chakrabarti, who drew their literary inspiration from external sources, Bond, like a spider, spun his own yarn. 

“Well, thank you for comparing me to a spider! I quite like them”, quipped Mr. Bond. 

Then he talked about the spider in his room that acted as a barometer of the weather, dutifully clambering down the wall to announce the onset of rain. While the audience tittered, however, Mr. Bond acknowledged the accuracy of the spider metaphor. A story unfolds like a film in his head. And then, it’s only a matter of putting it in beautiful language. Of course, lapping up everything from Dickens to Graham Greene aids in weaving the delightful, fictional webs; he added. Thus began the hour and a half tệte-à-tệte , enlivened by Bond’s witty digressions and quirky anecdotes.

One such anecdote came as a reply to the student anchor, Swagata Dey’s question: “How do you feel about sharing your surname with one of the most famous fictional characters?”. And “pat” came the answer, “Well; I had an uncle called James Bond”. As a dentist, he didn’t enjoy an adventurous life. But Mr. Bond’s epitaph for his “Uncle James” must have enshrined the gentleman in the community’s memory. The epitaph read: 

“Stranger, approach this spot with gravity,

  For here lies one who filled your cavity.”  

The audience had barely recovered from their laughter when they were treated to more of Mr. Bond’s wisecracks.

The British Council had run a short story writing contest for school children. Three lucky winners got to ask questions to Mr. Ruskin Bond. One of them asked if Mr. Bond had ever considered an alternative profession. He admitted having toyed with the idea of becoming a footballer, following it up with another story. He was watching the neighbourhood kids play football when the ball flew towards him. “I gave the ball, what I thought, was a mighty kick”, he said, quite forgetting about the gout in his leg and spent the next three days in agony. Moral of the story: authors have longer shelf lives than athletes. Thereby, Bond made the right choice. The formal decision to be an author was taken on his voyage back to India during his teens – in blatant defiance of his father and the times when soldiering rather than authorship was considered a manly profession.

Then came the inevitable question about overcoming writer’s block. Mr. Bond offered three simple solutions:            1) Don’t get writer’s block

                           2) Step away from the piece for some time

                           3) Keep a dustbin ready at hand to dump the torn up pages  

Of course, in the age of computers one wouldn’t need a dustbin. Mr. Bond’s next anecdote, in fact addressed the altered significance of a popular author in the new age of media boom. The BBC had invited Bond to talk about his experiences in India. As the nineteen-year-old waited for his producer, he indulged in some small talk with a fellow gentleman waiting next to him. Only after the gentleman departed did Mr. Bond’s producer inform him that so long he had been chatting with Graham Greene – an author who Bond not only admired but who was also at the height of his popularity at the time. But authors have lost that anonymity now. They have become objects of observation rather than quiet observers, Mr. Bond concluded with an amused but slightly rueful smile.                             

While Bond’s dry wit kept up the light-hearted tone, the session still touched on important literary topics and young writers managed to get quick tips on the writing process. Despite his shuffling gait and grey hairs, this celebrated children’s author proved beyond doubt that he was still one of the youngest souls. It was only fitting, therefore, that the vote of thanks would be delivered by two school children. And for his hundreds of avid readers Mr. Ruskin Bond certainly departed with the silent promise of regaling them for many years to come.   

Mr. Bond talking about the writing process and meeting Graham Greene

 Youtube links

<https://www.youtube.com/watchv=oMUSAO5Hjy4&t=12s>

<https://www.youtube.com/watchv=6fgtoFCI1uM&t=16s>

Quirky, Poignant and Fun:  Kapoor and Sons’ Unique Approach to 

Family Feuds

A row between husband and wife that starts with a leaking pipe and ends with their financial troubles – the parents’ subtle partiality towards the elder son and the consequent resentment of the younger one – a genuine bonding between the two brothers, in spite of their brewing tensions – a quirky grandfather who cracks bawdy jokes with his grandkids, frequently fakes death to gain attention, but also brings the entire family together, under the pretext of a family photograph. What happens when all these ingredients come together? You get a refreshingly fun, yet heartwarming family drama called Kapoor and Sons.

The brilliance of writers Shakun Batra and Ayesha Devitre Dhillon lies in portraying utterly familiar situations in the most natural manner. Realistic dialogues make the banter between the brothers, the snide exchanges between the Kapoors and the emotional outbursts; extremely relatable. All the characters are finely layered, each endowed with their merits and vulnerabilities. The message is simple:  we must accept our family with all their imperfections, for, as Tia (Alia Bhatt) says in the movie – “You should be happy that you have a family”. But Batra and Dhillon never hammer the message into the audience.

Batra’s subtle direction prevents the movie from becoming pedantic. When the brothers come home after five years, Batra merely shows us their rooms. The older one’s room has been kept just the way it was, while the younger son’s room has been occupied by the mother, as is evident from her clothes hanging in the wardrobe. These two shots are enough to demonstrate the parents’ partiality towards the older son – an issue that will recur throughout the family fights.  

Another smart directorial move is the sparing use of background score. Even during climactic showdowns, Batra deliberately refrains from using any background music. As a result one can concentrate on the nuances of the actors’ performances. And that’s a treat when there are skilled actors like Rishi Kapoor, Rajat Kapoor, Ratna Pathak Shah, and Fawad Khan, essaying the roles of grandfather Kapoor, the father, Mr. Kapoor, the mother, Mrs. Kapoor and the older son, Rahul Kapoor, respectively.

All these performers unravel the layers of their characters with perfect élan. Thus, we laugh at their quirks, get angry at their meanness, cry with them as they reveal their insecurities and pain. But we never judge them. Though not as competent as the others, Sidharth Malhotra (Arjun Kapoor), too, brings a charm to the light-hearted scenes and certain poignancy to Arjun’s pain at being constantly slighted by his parents. Alia Bhatt shines both as the chirpy girl-next-door and in the single emotional scene she gets. 

But the applause must go to Rishi Kapoor. It takes an actor of rare talent to make a lewd and frivolous old man absolutely hilarious without ever sinking into slapstick. At the same time, he makes your eyes well up when he begs his grandkids to come back home for one last family photograph.

In fact, Rishi Kapoor’s character maintains a taut balance between comedy and drama, preventing the script’s sentimentalism from degenerating into mawkish melodrama. Crisp editing also plays an important role in this balance. The ugly fights or the emotional outbursts never drag on. As we cut back and forth between grandpa Kapoor’s antics and the dramatic interactions, Rishi Kapoor’s character also offers a comically ironic lens to the entire family drama.

Using the songs, mostly as background music also keeps the narrative taut and realistic. It’s heartening to see that Batra does not fall into the usual trap of making the characters lip-sync to the numbers.

And thank god that the movie is not a love triangle. It’s a relief to see the brothers fighting over something other than a girl.

So, take a bow, team Kapoor and Sons. We finally have a family drama that’s real but not depressing; poignant but never mawkish.

    Not A Very Fishy Fare: A Peek Into ABP Ananda’s Ilish Fish Festival

On Saturday (8th August), the street next to the E.E.D.F grounds in Jodhpur Park was choker blocked.Cars let off passengers in the middle of the street. The resultant traffic jam led to incessant honking from irritated car and rickshaw drivers. Pedestrians brazenly walked through the chaos and onto the adjacent footpath. There, the semblance of a queue at a makeshift ticket counter jostled with the throng pouring in and out of two narrow gates. Welcome to "Ilishiash" - the Ilish Fish Festival, organized by the ABP Ananda news channel. After buying two tickets for Rs. 20, each, my friend and I wrestled our way in. Thankfully, the sprawling Taltala Math offered enough space for the crowd to thin out. Rows of yellow huts lined the three sides of the venue. Visitors strolled along a wooden walkway covered in green felt, browsing through the various stalls. The air was heavy with flavours of fresh Ilish and that familiar mustard sauce. Almost on cue a volunteer offered us a free packet of Pincon mustard oil, directing our attention to the first stall. On display were all the spices and oils one needs to cook this famed fish.

Line of stalls at "Ilishiash"

However, we stalled our exploration a while to check out the inauguration ceremony that began on a makeshift stage in the middle of the field. ABP Ananda's executive editor, Suman Dey, opened the festival with a few wisecracks about the Bengalis' passion for this fish. Welcoming everyone at the "delishiush" (read delicious) "Ilishiash" (Ilish festival), Suman singed off with a quip: "A longer speech would be as annoying as an Ilish bone stuck in the throat". A bunch of yellow and blue balloons were released into the air and we set off on our stall hopping.

Quite a few renowned restaurants had set up shop. We spotted 6, Ballygunj Place, Fish Fish, Sholoana Bangaliana and Khawab, among others. One stall was particularly eye-catching. It was called Bhooter Raja Dilo Bar. A pot-bellied fellow with giant ears, jagged teeth and black paint all over his body, posed as "Bhooter Raja". However, Satyajit Ray's iconic king of ghosts would have been ashamed of the meagre fare offered by his duplicate. Ilish Bhapa, Ilish er Paturi and a few other familiar recipes were all that the ghostly king could manage.

Raw Ilish @ Rs.1000- Rs.2000/kg

Baked ilish in a bowl of rice

In fact, it was a similar story in most of the stores. Shorshe Ilish and Paturi wrapped in banana or kochu leaves abounded. The baked Ilish at one stall wasn't a filleted Ilish with a continental twist. It was merely Shorshe Ilish with a fancy name. The salesman urged us to get a combo meal. It turned out to be a big bowl of white rice with a single piece of the so-called baked Ilish and a teeny-weeny baked rasgulla. The price of this “lavish” combo? Rs. 250! 6, Ballygunj Place priced the same item at Rs. 490. Needless to say, this festival was not very friendly to the pocket. Raw, whole Ilish was equally expensive, ranging between Rs 1000 and Rs 2000 per kilo.

Familiar Ilish recipes

Ilish er Biriyani

Nevertheless, there were a few innovative items on offer. Among them were Ilish er Polao, Ilish er Biriyani, Ilish er Cutlet and Ilish er Dim Bhaja. The Ilish Biriyani at Sanjha Chulha, priced at Rs. 180, wasn’t very impressive. A six-inch-long whole ilish sat atop a decent portion of yellowish orange rice. The biriyani was fairly tasty, but the fish tasted nothing like ilish. The annoying bones were the only indicator that it is probably a baby ilish. Though small in size and priced at Rs. 100 each, Fish Fish’s Ilish er cutlet was quite a tasty twist to the familiar chicken or mutton cutlet.

Ilish er cutlet - ready to be fried (Top row)

In fact, many stalls at this fish festival offered more of chicken and mutton dishes than ilish. And the meat dishes were friendly to the pocket as well. There were several renowned sweet shops too. So if one was disappointed with the fish, one could stick to familiar fare.

But if the crowd at the eating area was any indication, Bengalis did not mind the price, the shortage of innovative dishes or the scorching summer heat. People were getting their palms all dirty, digging into bowls of rice, their favourite Ilish, chicken, mutton and even sweets. Others were enjoying a chit-chat and some impromptu jig with ABP Ananda’s emcee. We also spotted a few t.v. celebrities.

In a way Suman De was right in his inaugural speech. For the Bengalis there is no greater breaking news than that the season’s first catch of Ilish has docked at the Hoogly port. “Ilishiash” did not turn out to be that much of a fishy affair. But it definitely celebrated Bengalis’ passion for a lazy afternoon of food and entertainment in any form.

A Wake – Up Call to Thinking People: Review of Budhhijibi

As the cast of Budhhijibi took the final bow, Mir stepped up to thank the audience and remind them of the play’s next showing. He announced:  “আমরা আগামী ২৬ এ জুলাই তপন থিয়েটারে বুদ্ধিজীবী র অরেকটি শো করব।Then added with a slight chuckle “যদি আমাদের করতে দেয়!” (We will have another showing of Budhhijibi at Tapan Theatre on 26^th July – if “they” let us).

Mir’s mock-nervousness could well have a grain of truth because Budhhijibi is a scathing satire on the current political anarchy in West Bengal. Renouncing a neat story line, the play moves ahead through a series of conversations, primarily between father (Mir) and son (Saurav Palodhi). Tublu (Saurav), an apparent simpleton, lists a series of unfamiliar words. As his father explains “democracy”, “politbureau”, “chameleon” etc, each explanation becomes a springboard for a scathing exposure of a political scandal or corruption. The socio-political critique is replete with ironically dark humour. Tublu keeps hearing “politricks” when his father says “politics”. Irritated, his father yells, “It’s POLITICS, you fool!” Tublu naively asks, “Are you sure there are no “tricks” in it?” Such puns abound, drawing roars of laughter and claps from the audience.

Equally hilarious are allusions to recent political events. Frustrated by a bad cell phone signal, a goon-turned-politician threatens, “আব্বে, বাড়িতে ছেলে ঢুকিয়ে দেব, সব নেটওয়ার্ক কেটে দিয়ে চলে আসবে!" Tublu’s sister, Tuki, is ordered to recite a poem at a local programme where the chief guest is “Dida Pishi”. No points for guessing who “Dida Pishi” represents! Irked, Tuki’s father asks her to recite “উলঙ্গ রাজা” at the event. Tuki stutters through a few lines before she is booed off stage. Dida Pishi’s electrifying speech follows with a solemn pledge to support “মা ,মাটি, মানুষ্”. An imaginary crowd, off-stage, breaks into thunderous applause. Tublu is ashamed of Tuki’s failure before he realizes that “Dida Pishi” was reading off a paper. In bewilderment he asks, “আমার বোন তো তাও ৪টে লাইন মুখস্থ বলেছিল।দিদা পিসি তো পড়া মুখস্থও করেনি। তাহলে আমার বোনকে কেন নামিয়ে দিল? In despair, he asks the audience, “তোমরা কেউ বলতে পার?" 

For a large chunk of the play, the protagonists speak directly to the audience. At one point, Tublu jumps off the stage and blends into the darkened theatre, rattling off his lines. In a similarly unconventional vein, various cast members, at times, shed their characters to become the voice of collective conscience, mouthing slogans and commentaries. At other points, poems echo on a dark, empty stage, lashing out at corruption and hypocrisy in party politics.

Music and lighting aid the process. “ভালো জনে রইলো ভাঙা ঘরে" from হিরক রাজার দেশে , rendered in full-throated baul style, enhances poignant moments. Encapsulating the irony of Tublu and his family, the song “কিচ্ছু পারিনা” offers the perfect denouement for the play. The actor who played Kunal/Khepada, a mentally deranged man, is also a gifted singer and guitarist. His guitar strings reverberate with indignation, anger or pathos, perfectly in tune with the mood of a scene or a character. Lights, at times, literally embody the political critique, apart from creating moods. In one scene where Mir’s character laments people’s shifting political allegiances, his figure is literally cut down the middle by green and red lights from opposite directions.

Stage props are potent symbols. Graphiti painted on the back wall capture the absurdity of our times. Flaming, red slogans, proclaiming “poribartan”, lie glibly beside injunctions against urinating in public. Tall partitions on stage are decked up with red hand prints.But this abundance of red does not make  the play a propaganda for C.P.M. It is a collage of a grim age, succinctly captured in Tublu’s father’s refrain: “দিনকাল ভালো নয়!” In these dark times, the so-called buddhijibis (thinking people), organize ineffective candle light marches. As Tublu hurls a volley of questions in the final scene of the play, these budhhijibis, dressed in spotless white, brandishing candles, stand silent – their faces deliberately hidden behind impassive, white masks.

Photo Courtesy: Saurav Palodhi

However, it was unclear whether the silent figure, hovering behind characters, in certain scenes, represented death or an ineffectual divinity. Tublu’s critique of his father’s ill-treatment of his aged parents exposed the hypocrisy of a man who spewed Leftist ideals. Nevertheless, these domestic issues did not blend well with the largely political thrust of the play. Inclusion of family issues made the play over-sentimental, in places. But given the fact that this is only Icchemoto’s fourth performance, these problems are easily forgiven. Able acting (especially by Saurav and Mir), Dodo's haunting music and above all, Sourav and Anurag's brilliantly satirical script reveal that this fledgling group holds every potential of becoming a major player in future.

Pittsburgh – The Seven-Year Sojourn

The swing in the porch rocks gently. A balmy breeze teases occasional tingles from the wind chime. Maple leaves glow into a fiery red in the afternoon sun.

For the umpteenth time, I try to pen my thoughts about bidding goodbye to Pittsburgh, in less than a month. Past attempts at this resulted in half-finished sentences. The words seemed silly, childish, sentimental, chaotic . . .

Frustrated, I threw down my pen or browsed the internet, in despair. How do I reign in the images that crowd my mind? How do I gather the memories that tumble out like a pile of clothes from a disorganized closet?

Do I start by saying how the past seven years have transformed me? Sure! I have become more organized, independent, efficient, confident . . .

But the words fade away. Instead, a sneering voice questions:

Organized? Have you packed the mounds of books that must be shipped to Kolkata?

Independent? Do you have a job, in Kolkata, to support yourself and your parents?

Efficient? Have you fulfilled your academic goals for the semester? Have you finished all those practical tasks required for your move back to Kolkata?

Confident? Don’t  your knees still shake at the prospect of public speaking? Don’t you still procrastinate tasks that look too overwhelming?

With a sinking heart I admit that all of the above are true.

Yet, I do feel an imperceptible change in myself.

 I don’t mean the changes that people typically associate with Indians, freshly back from the US. For that change, usually, amounts to a litany of complaints: it’s too humid, it’s too filthy, people are inefficient, nothing gets done on time, the political scene is a mess . . .

I know that I will not join this litany. I don’t make any arrogant claims of tolerance. Yes, I will feel frustrated and irritated by these problems. But I will overcome – just as I overcame the freezing, Pittsburgh winters, the excruciating work pressure and the merciless deadlines.

For Pittsburgh was not just about those pains.

Pittsburgh was about those professors, acquaintances and warm faces, who made “culture shock” an alien concept for this sheltered girl of 27.

Pittsburgh was about radiant Fall colours, glorious Spring flowers, melting city lights in the rivers,  picturesque hills and bridges and parks.

Pittsburgh was about my fascinating, American landlord who knows more about India than I will, possibly, ever do.

Pittsburgh was about those dear friends who reaffirmed a long-cherished belief that borders are mere shadow lines. Political, cultural, financial and national boundaries melted away at their human touch.

I don’t claim to be free of insecurities about the move. There are many nagging questions.

Would this degree earn me a job?

Would I be able to re-adjust to living with my parents after living away from home so long?

Do I know enough to justify my so-called qualifications to a potential employer?

Sunset at Schenley Park - one of Pittsburgh's many treasures

I do not have answers to these queries.

Yet, the word Kolkata brings thoughts of warm hugs, balmy breezes, yummy food and endless family gatherings.

So, have these seven years changed me? I believe they have. I can now embrace my insecurities, yet, hope to forge ahead.

And this optimism and the fond memories are the twin legacies of this seven-year sojourn.

The Changing Faces of Sherlock Holmes

Sherlock Season 3 just ended. A new season of Elementary is on. Time for the first post of 2014.

So, who do I prefer as Sherlock Holmes – Benedict Cumberbatch or Johnny Lee Miller? The answer is always the latter. Sharing the rudeness and arrogance of his BBC counterpart, Johnny Lee Miller’s Holmes is darker, grittier and more vulnerable. Miller is not given to eccentric flourishes like Cumberbatch. You will not find Miller leaping over the table in the middle of his best man’s speech. He won’t slap himself as he struggles to identify a potential murder victim at Watson’s wedding.  

Robert Doherty’s take on Conan Doyle’s sleuth facilitates Miller’s realistic portrayal. In the original stories Watson mentions that Holmes’s cocaine addiction nearly ended the detective’s career. Elementary takes this cue. In this series Holmes is undone by the two biggest threats to his deductive powers – drug addiction and love. He can’t resist the charms of the brilliant Irene Adler. Unable to solve her brutal murder, Holmes spirals into the drug world and ends up in rehab. Then comes the ultimate shocker.  Irene Adler was never murdered because she never existed. Irene Adler was Moriarty – the “Napoleon of crime”.

Defining love as a crack in his powerful magnifying glass, Doyle’s Holmes avoids it forever. But Doherty makes his Holmes suffer the consequences of this crack. In spite of the betrayal, Holmes writes to the imprisoned Irene/Moriarty. He admits to Watson that he hoped for Irene/Moriarty’s redemption. After all, planning crimes is her remedy for boredom just as solving them is Holmes’s. Cocaine, for Holmes, is an inferior alternative to the highs of deduction. If Holmes can recover from addiction, can’t Irene mend her criminal ways?

But Holmes makes a fundamental error in this assumption. In spite of breaking laws to solve cases, Holmes is essentially a moral person. And despite his anti-social attitudes Holmes serves people by upholding justice. Moriarty is the true psychopath and will never give up crime. Allowing this erring judgement, Doherty moves his Holmes significantly away from the original, but also makes him poignantly fallible and human.

Unlike Doherty’s Holmes, BBC’s Sherlock will never allow love to crack his powerful magnifying glass. His humanity shines elsewhere. As John’s best man Holmes declares: “I will solve your crime. But you need John Watson to save your life . . . Ask me . . . He has saved mine many times and in many ways”. Notwithstanding his constant proclamations, we know that John has cured Sherlock’s sociopathy. A sense of loneliness creeps into Sherlock as he watches John and Mary disappear among the dancing, wedding guests. His early departure from the wedding or his  blank stare at John’s empty chair, register as much. And in the final episode he embraces imprisonment – even exile – to protect a friend. No wonder Mycroft calls Sherlock a “dragon-slayer”. And as a heartless businessman who turns human beings into assets for his empire, Charles Augustus Magnessun is the worst dragon of the twenty-first century.

Both the BBC adaptation and Elementary depart significantly from Doyle’s original stories. Of course they can’t celebrate Queen and Country as unconditionally as Doyle did. In this world of global terrorism, even an MP can hatch a terrorist plot. Figures like Assange and Snowden raise terrifying questions about the legitimacy of governments’ actions. Thus in Moffat and Gatiss’s hands Mycroft Holmes is transformed. The man, who practically runs the British government, is no longer the brilliant but lazy and harmless brother of the detective. In 2014, he is a cold, power-hungry Secret Service officer, who preserves a despicable criminal like CAM because he does not harm the powerful. Mycroft Holmes can threaten to plant sinister materials in the computers of Scotland Yard’s officers if they reveal hearing Magnessun’s name at Sherlock’s residence.

This is not a chivalrous world. And Doherty’s damaged genius is a better fit for it. But in preserving Sherlock’s old-school heroism, Gatiss and Moffat provide a haven from this anarchihc world – a haven, Doyle called Baker Street. So, in the end, my head is intrigued by Doherty’s fallible detective. But my heart still lies with the dragon-slayer.

Qualifications of a "Lootera" (Man of 'Steal') 


• Foliage Man – Must paint leaves – in multiple colours 
• Ice Man – Must order bacteria to freeze while he tends to his lady love – no antibiotics needed after gun shot 
• Medic Man – Must remove bullet. Must inject medication into his lady love while conducting a wrestling match with her 
• Batman – Must climb to the topmost branch of a tottering tree – in a blizzard 
• Tailor Man – Must stitch his own wound and must tie a fluttering, paper-leaf to a branch 
• Granite Man – Must maintain a set expression while breaking his beloved’s heart 

Man of Steel is so yesterday 
Want to steal a real man? Get a “Lootera”

An Unholy Mix of Detection and Relationships - তাহার নামটি রঞ্জনা 

তাহার নামটি রঞ্জনা  - Rituparno Ghosh's last work bears the filmmaker's signature qualities - a story of relationships,exploring feminine psyche in its myriad shades. And this exploration adds a new twist to the detective angle in the tale. রাঙাপিসি, a quintessentially Bengali version of Miss Marple, uncovers an elaborate deception. Much like Agatha Christie, Ghosh turns traditionally disparaged, feminine, pastimes into assets. While Miss Marple combines her vast knowledge of village gossip with her keen powers of observation, রাঙাপিসি's deductive powers turn her knowledge of film gossip into an investigative tool. Christie's unpretentious, old maid outwits supposedly smarter people like a retired, Scotland Yard officer. Similarly,in Ghosh's film, রাঙ্গাপিসি's niece, the young, film-journalist, does not suspect any foul play. But it only takes a few clues for the tabloid-happy রাঙাপিসি to smell a rat. 

However, that's where the similarity between Ghosh and Christie ends. তাহার নামটি রঞ্জনা is not a whodunit. Depicting the two women in a dead movie star's life, this film explores nuances of human relationships and complexities of the female mind. A thinly disguised portrayal of the Uttam Kumar,Gauri Devi and Supriya Devi scandal, তাহার নামটি রঞ্জনা redeems the "other woman", রঞ্জনা. While the legitimate wife and family of মিহির কুমার (the film star) resort to despicable measures for acquiring his dead body, the so-called "other woman" embraces his memories. বাপ্পা (the film star's son) recognizes the shallowness of a wife's right and the depth of a mistresses's love when he tells his aunt that রঞ্জনা could have moved on, but she chose not to. 

Unfortunately, রঞ্জনা ’s scheme at the hospital mars her devotion. Switching turns with her twin sister, রঞ্জনা  allows everyone to believe that she kept a tireless vigil by মিহির কুমার's bed, for three long nights. Ghosh, of course needs this incident, to render the subsequent deception believable. But the incident leaves a nagging doubt that রঞ্জনা  might be the stereotypical, scheming “other woman”.

রঞ্জনা  does not have a profession and we never know how she met মিহির  কুমার . Lacking such vital background information, রঞ্জনা  becomes over-sentimentalized – as though, her sole mission in life is to keep her beau’s memory alive.

The same flaw weakens the story’s suspense angle.  How does রঞ্জনা  survive; albeit in a coma; when the police keep her under house arrest for at least two days after her suicide attempt? রঞ্জনা ’s twin flawlessly forges her signature, the moment she is mistaken for her sister. Ghosh proves his ability to write a good detective story by incorporating clever clues for রাঙাপিসি  to detect.But glaring logical gaps in the plot destroys this potential.

Smooth dialogues, peppered with subtle humour between রাঙাপিসি  and her niece and competent acting by the entire cast; testify Ghosh’s film making skills. However these merits fail to save the film. Mystery gets mired in a relationship tale and তাহার নামটি রঞ্জনা  ultimately loses its way.

Finding Calcutta

Buying fish in a muddy, stinking bazaar with Baba – coming home to Ma’s sumptuous cooking – popping chicken rolls and "shingaras" while navigating the city’s by lanes with friends – browsing through Tasleema Nasreen’s latest novel at Kolkata Book Fair. Rabindrasangeet – Sunil Ganguly’s novels – Satyajit Ray's recent piece in a "puja barshiki" (special "festival" editions of magazines) – arty films at Nandan – “adda”  (chats) with neighbourhood friends – ogling at college girls/boys at "puja pandals" while Nachiketa or Anjan Dutta’s songs blare over loudspeakers . . . 
These vignettes form the staple of many "probashi" Bengali’s (Immigrant Bengali)  reminiscence about Kolkata. They talk about the city’s vibrant spirit. Its magnetic charm draws these immigrants back (just for a few months) every year.

It has been almost five and a half years since I joined the so-called “probashi” clan. During the twenty-six years I spent in the city, I frequented the Kolkata Book Fair exactly four times. Rushed along by a restless mother, I never browsed through novels for hours. And most books that looked interesting usually proved too heavy for my pocket. My most enduring memory of Book Fair comprises of an unassuming student from an Art College who managed to paint my impossibly long name on a single grain of rice. Armed with a thin paint brush and a pot of black ink, he displayed a staggering calligraphic skill. Neatly picking up the grain with tweezers, he glued it to a strip of orange paper, placed it in a tiny bottle and closed  the bottle with a cork. And there I had it – my name "immortalized" on a rice grain – all for ten rupees.

Last summer I visited the Three Rivers Arts Festival in Pittsburgh. Sponsored by corporate giants of the city, the festival housed works of independent artists. Rows of tents were filled with beautiful, stained-glass artwork, paintings, gorgeous jewellery and garments. None of  them, however, were within my means. So I spent the day enjoying a free "tango" performance by a local dance group and lounging on the meadows of Point State Park with my friends. Snatches of "Blue Grass" and "Jazz" wafted through the air. 

My college life did not comprise of visits to the Kolkata Film Festival or Nandan. I haven't spent hours at the college canteen, drinking steaming cups of coffee and debating the artistic merits of the latest "intellectual" film 

(or "antel" movies, as many Bengalis sneeringly call them) . The few times that I went to College Street, I was more overwhelmed by the filth lying around Medical College than by the intellectual fare of roadside bookstalls. Honestly, I do not understand how one can gather "food for thought" while one is stifled by the stench around and is struggling to maintain one's foothold amid a jostling crowd. My college days were spent on long, lonely walks down Park Street; either pitying myself for being friendless or musing over the lectures of my favourite professors. I remember being thrilled at finding a sudden connection between the disillusionment of Hardy's Clym and Osborne's Jimmy Porter, while passing by beggars and crowds outside Music World or Flury's.  

I have not ogled at boys in college or at puja pandals. I was more enchanted by flavours wafting from food stalls outside the pandals than by hunks in their best puja outfits. I had no neighbourhood "adda" circle. All I knew about our neighbours were the ever-quarrelsome landlord and tenant in the opposite house or "বাগান  বাবু"/ "the garden man", (as Ma named him), who diligently tended to rows of potted plants on his terrace. I never holidayed or picnicked with friends. 

In fact, it was in Pittsburgh that I got the first taste of "hanging out" with friends. Since 2007, I have travelled to state parks, to the Niagara Falls,  to Disney Land, to small towns in Pennsylvania, to Lake Erie and to the Outer Banks. I have shared rooms with friends, cooked and laughed with them. And no. They were not all Bengalis. Hailing from different parts of the world, our only common denominator was that we were all students! If there is something called a "college life" then I have lived it in my late twenties, in Pittsburgh. Since the welcoming hugs at Pittsburgh International Airport in August 2007, this city has embraced me with open arms. I have made friends from various cultures, including my own. Some of them, hopefully, for life. And I have never received so much encouragement and warmth from professors.

Yet, when someone asks me if I would settle down in the US, I answer with a polite but firm "No". 
"You must be missing home", they say with an understanding smile.
"I miss the food - and sometimes, my parents"; I quip. 

But what do I really miss about Calcutta? There is no easy answer. 

Every time I discover something about my housemate from her facebook status - I miss Calcutta. 

Every time I have to send out party invitations at least two weeks in advance, because our diaries are too full - I miss Calcutta. 

Every time I look at bare trees and snow-covered sidewalks - I miss Calcutta. 

And every time I cringe at dishing out $30 for a hair cut - I miss Calcutta.

For me, Calcutta is not "Rabindrasangeet" or Sunil Ganguly or Satyajit Ray or "puja barshiki". I rarely ever thumbed through a "puja barshiki". And my knowledge of Bengali literature is embarrassingly minuscule. I have little to qualify myself as the "intellectual" Bengali from Kolkata.  

But . . .

Calcutta is the spirit to lie back and enjoy life instead of hurtling from one deadline to the next.
Calcutta is the spirit to derive as much joy from a roadside snack as from the comforts of a luxury hotel.
Calcutta is a way of life, as shaped over twenty-six long years. 
Calcutta is a worldview that evolves but never loses touch with its origins.

The last five and a half years have enriched me in many ways. But they haven't made me any more of a "probashi" than I was before August 2007. 







      

     

. Human Hearts.Not Bravehearts. Please

On 16^th December 2012 she was a 23 year-old, gang-rape victim from Delhi. On 29^th December 2012 she lost her battle for life in Singapore. On 29^th December she also became “Amanat”and “Damini”. In death “Nirbhaya” lived up to the essence of her name. She became “India’s Braveheart”.

Indians are ashamed and outraged. Demands for hanging or castrating the perpetrators are competing with prayers for Nirbhaya’s soul and a complete overhaul of security system in the national capital.

But while the nation vows not to let Nirbhaya’s death go in vain, another gang-rape victim lies at AIIMS in Delhi. Ironically, amid a nation-wide protest against Nirbhaya’s brutal rape, a 42-year-old woman suffered the same persecution three days ago. Worse still, the police initially refused to lodge her complaint accusing her of imposing false charges on the men.

Labelled “Amanat”, “Damini” and “Braveheart”, Nirbhaya today has morphed into a martyr for the unending crimes against Indian women. But what about the being who lies at AIIMS? Is she still in the hospital? What is her condition now? What about her rapists? 

A google search yields three crisp sentences from a three-day-old report: 

"Of the three accused, one- Dilip Verma- was arrested in Agra while the police are on the lookout for the other two". 

"A case of gang-rape under section 376(G) has been registered against the trio"

"The victim is conscious and undergoing treatment at AIMMS". (Yahoo News)

As the media tracks Amanat's journey by the hour an uncanny silence hovers over the case of the nameless victim at AIIMS. 

The silence is eloquent. It reveals a fundamental malaise in our outlook. The woman is either a victim or an icon. She is a martyr for her undeserved suffering. But she is never HUMAN. Why does "Nirbhaya" need tags like "Braveheart" and "Damini" and "Amanat"? Why does she need to be upheld as a symbol of superhuman strength and courage? Why can't she be an ordinary human being -  a nameless woman, even -  who suffered a heinous crime?

In a morbid turn of events "India's braveheart daughter" has drowned out the story of another tortured being.  Will an arduous battle for life alone give voice to the trauma of this woman? Will death alone transform her from an anonymous 42-year-old gang-rape victim into a national icon whose anguish deserves retribution? 

While every protester lights a candle for "Amanat" and screams for hanging her rapists, can someone please ask for a fuller report into the other woman's rape? Can we please hear voices calling for quick and severe action against her rapists as well? 

The 42-year-old may not have been bashed with an iron rod. She may not have to battle for her life in a hospital. But her case demands as fervent a call for action as that of "India's braveheart". Let not Nirbhaya's immortality drown out the mortal sufferings of another "India's daughter"