tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-56531889753439058182024-03-18T09:08:57.310+05:30Reinventing memoriesFragments of an unbroken mirrorSantanu Sinha Chaudhurihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15062744470522359652noreply@blogger.comBlogger376125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5653188975343905818.post-81524244247941737852023-10-09T18:41:00.015+05:302023-10-09T19:02:13.517+05:30 Decoding Brand Modi<p><b>The Secret of Survival for 10 years</b></p><p><b>India Today Conclave, Mumbai 2023</b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfUnOVa-kCN-6Et0oPD9GjiJVZ0atF1i59oQYobWywn92dPW7xXPXMO2a2vHm7v8a_p1LbDdmlU35pcBYLK7inLKA14fFuJ90rvicejrIMWESNj_w8U5dWtbjaa_TPgyfnqi2S0dSbddX1ZIvF7P6DxSvF4M6qTY9j4WlndJsH6D7mCN7E4ORZJIo1TJM/s661/231009.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="661" data-original-width="660" height="356" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfUnOVa-kCN-6Et0oPD9GjiJVZ0atF1i59oQYobWywn92dPW7xXPXMO2a2vHm7v8a_p1LbDdmlU35pcBYLK7inLKA14fFuJ90rvicejrIMWESNj_w8U5dWtbjaa_TPgyfnqi2S0dSbddX1ZIvF7P6DxSvF4M6qTY9j4WlndJsH6D7mCN7E4ORZJIo1TJM/w356-h356/231009.png" width="356" /></a></div><p style="text-align: justify;">Beloved Modi-ji has been the PM for 9 years and 4+ months, but INDIA TODAY would like us to believe he’s been in power for 10 years. It’s a minor trickery, somewhat counter-parallel to Bata selling shoes for Rs.999.95. In a discussion anchored by Rahul Kanwal (a proud Modi bhakt) and another journalist, a group of marketing / advertising big cheeses laboured hard for 33 minutes to prove the invincibility of “Brand Modi”. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">In the normal course, I wouldn’t have watched the video, but I did, because a friend sent the link with an intro that read: Sorry for sharing the video so early in the morning. Indian Today anchors are live examples of what described the media during the Emergency: “When asked to bend, they crawled.” In fact, I think it’s more than crawling now. Let me explain why I think so.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">In one of his memoirs—I don’t recall which one—physicist Richard Feynman describes the difference between a scientist and a salesman: A scientist, even the most unspectacular one, would invariably mention the downsides of the theory proposed by them, and in what conditions the theory doesn’t work. But for a salesman, hiding the negative aspects of their product is de rigueur, a part of the job. The Indian mainstream media today is more salesmanship than journalism. And for the modern-day marketing executives, who often build a false narrative—sometimes a myth—about the product and call it a brand, one cannot but feel a little pity. These smooth-talking, smart, and well-informed men spend their life inventing beautiful lies. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Personally, I hadn’t heard the name of any of the INDIA TODAY panelists except Dilip Cherian, who spoke glowingly about Modi’s event management skills. Watching four of them waxing eloquent about Modiji was a learning experience for me. In the 33 minutes they talked, none of the essential issues concerning Modi and his prime-ministership was touched. If an intelligent being from another planet had watched the video, the poor fellow would imagine India had zero problem with the economy, her social harmony was perfect, her democracy was functioning beautifully with its pillars such as the judiciary, parliament, and media in good health. The conclave sidestepped all the critical issues in the context of which Modi should have been examined. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Instead, the panelists said something that were both bizarre and startling: </p><p style="text-align: justify;">• Modi rules over the hearts of the people. Evidence: Survey by some unnamed US organisation which found Modi is the most popular national leader in the world with 76% approval rating. (Not a word about the methodology of the survey or the size / nature of the sample they used.)</p><p style="text-align: justify;">• BJP doesn’t win elections by creating religious divides, but because of the development they have brought about. Proof: “Religion doesn’t fill stomachs.”</p><p style="text-align: justify;">• The panelists talked eloquently about the comparability of Modi and Xi Jinping. They had no problem about the fact that Modi was a leader in a democracy and XI, of the biggest totalitarian state in history. Actually, by making the comparison, they let the cat out of the bag about their own concept of democracy.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">• When asked about the weaknesses of the “Brand Modi”, the panelists struggled hard to find an answer. Their innocence was touching; perhaps they hadn’t noticed Modi’s proclivity to take decisions without consulting anyone, his disdain for democratic processes, his shameless hatred for Muslims and Christians, his abject failure to manage the economy of the country, ... his lies. In particular, the panelists seemed to have missed the following.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">o The economic distress caused by demonetisation with zero prior study, and ignoring the opinion of RBI.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">o Haphazard implementation of the GST by relying on a single IAS officer from—where else but—Gujarat, which caused more damage.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">o the enormous suffering of the migrant workers when Modi announced a nation-wide lockdown at 4 hours’ notice, once again without any evidence of planning.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">o The delay in introducing vaccines, countless documented instances of people dying because of lack of oxygen, and the bodies floating on the Ganga during the second wave of COVID.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">o Muslims attacked and killed in every BJP ruled state with no legal action against the criminals.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">o Systematic destruction of Muslims homes, again by BJP ruled states in complete and egregious violation of legal provisions.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">During the discussion, Dilip Cherian said that Coca Cola, the most successful brand of the 20th century, contains 30% sugar, but the company doesn’t reveal the fact. (It’s not obliged to?) Similarly, Modi doesn’t have to acknowledge his weaknesses. It’s the brand that matters.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">It does seem we have evolved from the idea of the media bending or crawling. From the idea that a leader must be measured against his/her performance. Modi is a brand around which an aura is to be created. Modi has to be marketed, like Coke, whether it’s poison or not. Just as capitalism is value neutral as long as there’s profit, in today’s India, anything that Modi does is fine, as long as he wins elections!</p><p>You have to decide if deserves to win the elections in 2024.</p><p>08/10/2023</p><p>Photos courtesy commons.wikimedia.org</p><div><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Left: By Prime Minister's Office
(GODL-India), GODL-India</span></p><p class="MsoNormal">Right: By Ralf Roletschek - Own work,
Public Domain</p><br /></div>Santanu Sinha Chaudhurihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15062744470522359652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5653188975343905818.post-13692077294712516482023-09-18T13:25:00.011+05:302023-09-18T15:19:27.719+05:30Hope or despair? The choice is ours<p>Can you recall the
name of the political party Hitler belonged to? Or Mussolini? Or in our time, Recep
Erdogan’s party in Turkey? Probably not. But everybody knows what party Joe
Biden belongs to, or Sheik Hasina. Unlike in democracies, political parties don’t
play a pivotal role in a dictatorial or fascist state. In these regimes, one
man comes to power riding on a party, and over time, he makes the same party
irrelevant as he gradually usurps all the powers of the state. I think we have
come to a stage in India where BJP and even its ideological big brother, the
RSS have become irrelevant. One man calls the shots in India today, Narendra
Modi, MA (Entire Political Science).</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span lang="EN-GB">And this man has
basically done two things during his nine years of (mis)rule. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span lang="EN-GB">He has
systematically weakened the foundations on which the structure of our democracy
stands: the parliament, the judiciary, the election commission, and the
agencies that maintain order, like the CBI and the ED.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span lang="EN-GB">His other major
“contribution” is that his followers and a section of the media systematically spread
hatred against minorities, of whom Muslims are the first target. Hate campaigns
humiliate them relentlessly. Muslim Indians—most of them don’t have a
forefather who ever lived anywhere outside India—are told they have no place in
their country. They should go to Pakistan. They are lynched; they are killed in
manufactured riots; the culprits aren’t punished. Rather, mass murderers and
gang rapists jailed in an earlier regime are released prematurely and feted by
the master’s followers. In the states ruled by Modi’s party, the situation is the
worst. If you go to Ahmedabad, the laboratory of Hindutwa hooliganism, you will
see that all Muslims, from former IAS officers to peons live in a ghetto, where
the civic amenities are terrible. In at least three states, UP, MP, and
Haryana, for every real or perceived offence committed by Muslims, the state
government sends bulldozers to destroy Muslim homes. No notice, victims get no
opportunity to defend themselves in court. Bulldozers arrive and demolish their
homes. The news is carried in some newspapers the next day and that is the end
of it. No legal process, no judge has the courage to call out the grotesque
illegality. </span><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span lang="EN-GB">All these
monstrosities go unchallenged because a large section of the majority Hindu
community has been blinded by hate against Muslims (and Christians). Hatred and
anger are a dangerous mix. It makes decent people blind and unable to think
rationally. (This fact was seen time and again in history and also proved
experimentally by psychologists.) In India today, there are millions who don’t
believe demonetisation lead to massive damage to the economy. Millions think if
bodies floated in the Ganga during COVID, the Modi government had no fault.
Millions believe—without a shred of evidence—that Muslims will somehow become a
majority in the country and decimate Hindus. Hindu khatre mein hai!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span lang="EN-GB">By an accident of
birth, I am a Hindu. And I am ashamed of the poison that many of my friends (or
former friends) carry in their dysfunctional brains. If you haven’t succumbed
to the poison, please open you heart to your Muslim friends, colleagues, and
neighbours. Please tell them you don’t belong to the bigoted, insane lot. It
will not change the system, but it will be your contribution to the sanity of
the nation.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span>There is no sign
that the Modi bhakts’ collective madness will be cured anytime soon. No let up
in the blizzard of poison. Rather, there’s every sign that Indian politics will
become even more poisonous. As things stand today, there seems little chance
that Modi will be defeated in the elections in 2024, although a lot can change
in politics in the next eight months. And it is more or less certain that if did
win next year, he would possibly be able to change the Constitution and convert
India a Hindu Rashtra. We are already following Pakistan in a similar path of
destruction. If Modi wins next year, we will reach a point of no return.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span lang="EN-GB">But however bleak
the immediate future may seem, if we gave up hope, it would be our defeat at
the hands of autocracy. That cannot happen, despair is not an option for us. We
must speak up and speak to anyone who cares to listen. The message must be kept
alive. The revolutionary poet from Telangana, Varavara Rao, who has spent many
years in jail, gives us hope. Let me close this short note with a few lines
written by him.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span lang="EN-GB">“Political
prisoners know the meaning of hope but they do not know the meaning of despair.
Chera called me a frightful optimist for this, and yet I must honestly admit
that although I have known pain, suffering and anxiety along with hope,
happiness and enthusiasm, never have I been plunged into despair and
frustration even in the most trying times. … In personal matters, I felt
sorrowful indifference at moments and said, ‘Let troubles and hardships come if
they must.’ I have felt detachment, but never have yielded to cynicism even for
a moment in my solitary cell.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY9BvzJxouoc9UXEKkdWxIAhighsvDd5tf_ZU7dv6NQ0QPtBUZ-WyTJ1XxLMKb4-hEblWKD7dzv8cp6aEbCtbnzUuF1VW58Yx0vz9iAF8syD7H-LKuPJINaSjeXAg9LMRw6JNxJa45AdeY5cKtmgEdQykAetsInYzAYzJbo2Gg36tx_vXfUkDmYXMFYkI/s616/Varavara%20Rao.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="616" data-original-width="440" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY9BvzJxouoc9UXEKkdWxIAhighsvDd5tf_ZU7dv6NQ0QPtBUZ-WyTJ1XxLMKb4-hEblWKD7dzv8cp6aEbCtbnzUuF1VW58Yx0vz9iAF8syD7H-LKuPJINaSjeXAg9LMRw6JNxJa45AdeY5cKtmgEdQykAetsInYzAYzJbo2Gg36tx_vXfUkDmYXMFYkI/w458-h640/Varavara%20Rao.jpg" width="458" /></a></div><span lang="EN-GB"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></p>Varavara Rao, quoted by Arvind Narrain in
his book <i>India’s Undeclared Emergency</i> p199 (Westland Publications Pvt.
Ltd., 2021). </span>Varavara Rao’s picture courtesy Wikipedia.<p></p>Santanu Sinha Chaudhurihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15062744470522359652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5653188975343905818.post-70409932216310626082023-07-17T22:15:00.001+05:302023-07-17T22:15:14.649+05:30Mexico Diary 1<p>Mexico City, La Ciudad de México in Spanish
(Pronounced LA SIUDAAD DE MEHIKO), is easily one of the most cheerful places I
have been to. After reaching there, what you immediately notice about the city
is her music. Everywhere you go, on streets, in markets, in restaurants or ice
cream parlours, you hear music. Not the slow soulful tunes that remind you of
the other world, but the fast, foot-tapping variety that celebrates the present.
At a street corner near our hotel, there was an old man continuously winding a
music machine that produced the same tune from 11 AM to 11 PM or maybe, later.
I guess he is completely deaf, otherwise, he couldn’t have survived the same
music for so long. I have no idea how much he earns through such hard work, but
he looks seriously malnourished. He was not the only one, another equally thin
and old man I saw was playing the saxophone quite beautifully. Also, little boys and girls sat on the roadside
with a pet cat and played a small accordion. The deal is that you listen to her
music, pet her cat, and pay a few pesos in exchange. After listening to the
music played by the first boy I saw, I understood why he needs a cat to be
petted as an add-on attraction. But I gave him a twenty-peso note all the same.
The divine smile on his face was worth travelling 3,010 kilometres from San
Francisco.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Maybe, to make themselves heard over all
that music, Mexicans talk loudly like us Bongs. Close to our hotel in the
centre of the city, there is a mosaicked road where cars aren’t allowed (even
if allowed, cars would skid on such a surface). So, it was a pedestrian only
street with colourful stores and eateries on both sides. On that stretch, even
at 11 in the night, there are crowds of men and women in small groups talking
noisily and walking aimlessly. For couples, cuddling and kissing on the road is
a done deal! Pubs and restaurants (not much difference between the two) are
teeming with people, with perhaps more women than men. The city seemed safe for
women. It's also possible that young Mexican women are a little tired of men. I
saw lots and lots of them in unisex groups of two to six, making merry. And a
particular custom of women is perhaps universal. In a group, everyone talks
simultaneously. I have thought about it deeply and have come to the conclusion
that it is possible only because women are good at multi-tasking. They can talk
and listen to at the same time. Incidentally, many women I came across in
Mexico don’t spend much on buying the cloth that is made into their dress.
Also, they take their nails seriously; there was hardly a young woman who
didn’t have long, beautifully manicured nails. One of them was the driver of an
Uber cab we took.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">You are possibly thinking that this
seventy-two-year-old is (still) obsessed with women. Let me change the topic. A
wonderful feature of the city is that tequilas, mezcals, and whiskies are sold
everywhere, in roadside kiosks, groceries, and convenience stores. That means,
people can buy their daily needs like bread, butter, and liquor from the same place.
So convenient!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">If I have to compare Mexico City with the
few other metropolises I have been to, I would say it is a cross between Paris
and Kolkata.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like Paris, the capital
city of Mexico too is a fun-loving place, where people enjoy food and drinks at
tables laid on the pavements, which are extensions of restaurants. And the
merrymaking begins by 2 PM. (In Paris, I wondered when people went to
office(!), but I wouldn’t say so about Mexico City because I was there only for
three days and visited mostly the touristy areas.) At 2 PM at a roadside eatery
near the Frida Kahlo Museum, while we had a forgettable lunch, a gaudily
dressed man and woman (the woman, gaudily painted too) entertained us and the
passersby with a few dances. And as it happens with Spanish flamenco and
possibly most Mesoamerican dances, the long train of ruffles of the female
dancer’s skirt did most of the hard work! (“A flamenco dancer’s skirt is
stitched with five yards of cloth,” Mr Google tells me!)</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Unlike in Paris, people, particularly men,
are not immaculately dressed here. And like in Kolkata, there are crowds on the
streets, lots and lots of them. Roadside markets thrive. In a way, large parts
of Mexico City are an extended bazaar. In a park, I was pleasantly surprised to
find painters selling their works. The city takes fine arts seriously, like
both Paris and Kolkata.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3eBB-ns9s33qqw8Ec-UNJpJvRxltO_b4_kfp4QCXm5RaMFKDcibCWMqD9OvXWnWZRHWddiojC7ZO_Na_ceRw3JfFFC1OcIXNxLZ8cbaxhYDtbmB15kMKHusnkBf5LyZJdyPmnogsndqCxA8Sm_JfBkYuSdo2_CD2QIwdqBoJ1f5yNxBkjEQtwcHajuKQ/s847/Mexico%20City%20Meto%20Map.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="847" data-original-width="685" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3eBB-ns9s33qqw8Ec-UNJpJvRxltO_b4_kfp4QCXm5RaMFKDcibCWMqD9OvXWnWZRHWddiojC7ZO_Na_ceRw3JfFFC1OcIXNxLZ8cbaxhYDtbmB15kMKHusnkBf5LyZJdyPmnogsndqCxA8Sm_JfBkYuSdo2_CD2QIwdqBoJ1f5yNxBkjEQtwcHajuKQ/s320/Mexico%20City%20Meto%20Map.jpg" width="259" /></a></div><br />Economically, Mexico is about five times
stronger than India. In 2022—the World Bank website says—the per capita GDP of
Mexico was US $ 11,091, while for India, it was US $ 2,389. The five times
stronger economy is seen in beautiful, much wider roads, an intricate network
of metro lines that seemed as good as the London Metro, cable buses and
spanking trolley buses, well-maintained parks and grand mansions, and stores
brimming with merchandise. The roads and the pavements are particularly
beautiful. But lots of people in Mexico City sleep on the road. (I didn't
photograph them for obvious reasons.) And everywhere, from street musicians to
traders in roadside bazaars to the<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>to
the artists selling pictures in parks, you come across lots of people who are
clearly struggling to make a living.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">So, beneath the gloss of an almost
middle-income economy, an ugly underbelly of deprivation is plainly visible.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Cupertino, California</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">13 July 2023<o:p></o:p></span></p>Santanu Sinha Chaudhurihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15062744470522359652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5653188975343905818.post-60748183211921808732023-07-08T22:10:00.004+05:302023-07-08T22:10:59.263+05:30“Jete pari, kintu keno jabo? / I can, but why should I leave?”<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifetswNz2NfA91_Ro8sYybL4JY-N5ykrLBfWSGgDS4Uqfte2bDQaiF2dA0QpPanZFIEkeAWAstMsA4ZnK6k4q73Bu51NnKJu-RPeGKbOqbxusCSr4j0v71TFYjnjXTXo3T1mqjRa4rorDLqdH9CFfDwZzlfKHCKl-uGxwdkxXbn_iVL-Z26kNKW9CIOfY/s450/Shakti.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="294" data-original-width="450" height="418" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifetswNz2NfA91_Ro8sYybL4JY-N5ykrLBfWSGgDS4Uqfte2bDQaiF2dA0QpPanZFIEkeAWAstMsA4ZnK6k4q73Bu51NnKJu-RPeGKbOqbxusCSr4j0v71TFYjnjXTXo3T1mqjRa4rorDLqdH9CFfDwZzlfKHCKl-uGxwdkxXbn_iVL-Z26kNKW9CIOfY/w640-h418/Shakti.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />Written by the late Shakti Chattopadhyay (and published
in a collection of poems in 1982), this sentence of enormous simplicity has
become a catchphrase in Bangla. Most educated Bengalis would have heard and spoken
the sentence at some time or other. Many a time, I believe, these words would
have changed the course of their thoughts.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN;">Having crossed the decrepit milestone of seventy years
some time ago, I think of leaving more often than before. This morning too, as
I read the poem, it didn’t fail to shake me up, like every other time I read
it. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN;">Here is a feeble attempt to translate the poem. I would
love to hear what you think of the English version. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN;"><o:p> *</o:p></span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN;">I can, but why should I leave? </span></p><p class="MsoNormal">Shakti Chattopadhyay >>></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN;">I think maybe, it would be better to turn back.</span><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN;">I’ve dipped my two hands in so much darkness</span><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN;">For so long!</span><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN;">I’ve never thought of you as the you you are.</span><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN;">Nowadays, when I stand beside an abyss at night,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN;">The moon calls me, ‘Come, come, come!’</span><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN;">These days, when a sleepy I stand on the bank of the
Ganga,</span><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN;">Woods from the pyre call me, ‘Come, come!’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN;">Yes, I can go<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN;">I can go along any path I choose <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN;">But, why should I?</span><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN;">I will hold my child in my arms and kiss her once<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN;">I will go, b</span>ut I won’t go just now</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN;">I will take you all with me<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN;">I won’t go now<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN;">When it’s not the time.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal">Translated in Cupertino, California</p><p class="MsoNormal">On 7 July 2023</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">*<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="BN" style="font-family: "Vrinda",sans-serif; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">যেতে পারি</span><span lang="EN-GB">, </span><span lang="BN" style="font-family: "Vrinda",sans-serif; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">কিন্তু কেন যাবো</span><span lang="EN-GB">?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="BN" style="font-family: "Vrinda",sans-serif; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">শক্তি চট্টোপাধ্যায়</span><span lang="BN"> >>></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="BN" style="font-family: "Vrinda",sans-serif; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">ভাবছি</span><span lang="EN-GB">, </span><span lang="BN" style="font-family: "Vrinda",sans-serif; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">ঘুরে দাঁড়ানোই
ভালো।</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="BN" style="font-family: "Vrinda",sans-serif; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">এতো কালো মেখেছি দু হাতে</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="BN" style="font-family: "Vrinda",sans-serif; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">এতোকাল ধরে!</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="BN" style="font-family: "Vrinda",sans-serif; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">কখনো তোমার ক’রে</span><span lang="EN-GB">, </span><span lang="BN" style="font-family: "Vrinda",sans-serif; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">তোমাকে ভাবিনি।</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="BN" style="font-family: "Vrinda",sans-serif; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">এখন খাদের পাশে রাত্তিরে দাঁড়ালে</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="BN" style="font-family: "Vrinda",sans-serif; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">চাঁদ ডাকে : আয় আয় আয়</span><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="BN" style="font-family: "Vrinda",sans-serif; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">এখন গঙ্গার তীরে ঘুমন্ত দাঁড়ালে</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="BN" style="font-family: "Vrinda",sans-serif; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">চিতাকাঠ ডাকে : আয় আয়</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="BN" style="font-family: "Vrinda",sans-serif; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">যেতে পারি</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="BN" style="font-family: "Vrinda",sans-serif; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">যে-কোন দিকেই আমি চলে যেতে পারি</span><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="BN" style="font-family: "Vrinda",sans-serif; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">কিন্তু</span><span lang="EN-GB">, </span><span lang="BN" style="font-family: "Vrinda",sans-serif; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">কেন যাবো</span><span lang="EN-GB">?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="BN" style="font-family: "Vrinda",sans-serif; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">সন্তানের মুখ ধরে একটি চুমো খাবো</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="BN" style="font-family: "Vrinda",sans-serif; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">যাবো</span><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="BN" style="font-family: "Vrinda",sans-serif; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">কিন্তু</span><span lang="EN-GB">, </span><span lang="BN" style="font-family: "Vrinda",sans-serif; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">এখনি যাবো না</span><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="BN" style="font-family: "Vrinda",sans-serif; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">তোমাদেরও সঙ্গে নিয়ে যাবো</span><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="BN" style="font-family: "Vrinda",sans-serif; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">একাকী যাবো না অসময়ে।।</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Vrinda; mso-bidi-language: BN;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 9.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Photo
courtesy:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span lang="EN-GB"><a href="https://www.observerbd.com/2016/03/24/143159.php"><span style="font-size: 9.0pt; line-height: 107%;">https://www.observerbd.com/2016/03/24/143159.php</span></a></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 9.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Santanu Sinha Chaudhurihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15062744470522359652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5653188975343905818.post-23603946024652589752023-05-24T09:30:00.012+05:302023-06-09T12:30:15.442+05:30Remembering Suhita-di<p><span style="font-size: x-large;">S</span>uhita Sinha Roy, Suhita Saha before marriage, was two years my senior at college. A bright student, she was tall, slim, beautiful, and a basketball player. But more importantly, she had a beautiful mind. I consider myself fortunate to have found a place among the circle of her close friends. I called her Suhita-di.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgQQoGWSntDv1-NfsXeeGYM-H4iOuSd4_EpODOVXUiK9XYfTTCvHa7qzoHTAmakeFhVQ8s6tsu9RoFPUojHARNsIyNnwnSKMHBeExAL0SM9FGqRgZRG_62H92IWLVLAmYE9QFGZVc_JxYZXKX2JALbg7h_0WMY2KuLBv3SLspCLfeYbFcqo0WowSy5s" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="481" data-original-width="361" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgQQoGWSntDv1-NfsXeeGYM-H4iOuSd4_EpODOVXUiK9XYfTTCvHa7qzoHTAmakeFhVQ8s6tsu9RoFPUojHARNsIyNnwnSKMHBeExAL0SM9FGqRgZRG_62H92IWLVLAmYE9QFGZVc_JxYZXKX2JALbg7h_0WMY2KuLBv3SLspCLfeYbFcqo0WowSy5s" width="180" /></a></div><br />Suhita-di did exceedingly well in MA a few weeks after her father passed away after long illness. I think adversity brought out the best in her, just as it does for all strong and capable people. From her MA until her passing, Suhita-di battled multiple incurable diseases. They were so serious that—I believe—lesser mortals would have given up long ago. But Suhita-di kept working at government colleges in different places, managed the family alone when her husband was away on a foreign posting, and managed to do a PhD when she was in her forties / fifties after doing rigorous field work in rural Bengal. Her life came to an end when she was in her early sixties. <p></p><p>A fascinatingly well-written recollection of memories by her daughter Mallarika, which I read just now, did two things. It brought back the poignant memories of Suhita-di, and threw light on an unknown facet of her beautiful life. </p><p>Here is a lightly edited translation of Mallarika’s story followed by the original in Bangla. By the way, Mallarika followed her mom in the academic world. After doing her PhD from Oxford, she taught at a Danish university before coming back to teach at JNU. I have a mild suspicion that she won’t sue me for lifting her story without permission.</p><p>*</p><p>During the three months my mother lived after her retirement, she ran a free elementary school in our parking lot, which is the entire ground floor of our apartment building. The nursery began with story-telling sessions for just one child, the five-year old son of Sandhya, our domestic help then and now. The boy was so hyper-active that Sandhya could neither leave him at home nor take him to the homes she worked in. </p><p>Ma began to engage him by telling stories, so that Sandhya could work in our home in peace. In a few days, our caretaker’s four-year-old daughter Bulti joined, pulled in by the stories. Then ma decided to teach them a few nursery rhymes, which allowed Sandhya and Bulti’s mom Aparna an hour more of freedom. The message spread in the neighbourhood; four more kids of working mothers joined Ma’s nursery soon. </p><p>Post breakfast, Ma would sit down on a chair in the parking space, as the children sat before her. Ma would drink tea; the kids would munch biscuits. The teacher was a Dida to all the kids. The grandpa was then tasked to bring in slates, pencils, and cloth seats for the pupils. Ma used to teach them Bangla vowels, got them to memorise rhymes, and told them stories. At the end, the children would stand up, join their tiny hands in a namashkar, and sing a hymn: “In this promising morning, let’s go to our Father’s home,” or “We are all kings in the kingdom of our king.” As the half a dozen kids sang with all their might, it created quite a racket in the neighbourhood. </p><p>Their mothers too knew it was time to take the toddlers home.</p><p>Ma was an atheist. After her passing, we did not perform any religious ritual. There was a memorial meeting attended by ma’s friends and colleagues, where songs were sung and people recollected their memories of Ma. </p><p>On the following day, Baba, my husband Baidik, and I invited Ma‘s little students and two of my nephews of their age for luchi and sandesh. We pushed the sofas to a side of our drawing room and spread a sheet for the guests to sit down and eat. At one side of the room, there was a framed photo of Ma with a garland made of white flowers. Every one of the pupils joined their hands to pay respect to their dida and sat cross-legged on the bedsheet to eat luchi, tearing them with both hands with much glee. The little angels also sang for their departed dida. I have rarely experienced the happiness that I felt during that miniscule party. </p><p>Two days later, I was to return to my place of work. The nursery had to be closed down. Dad said he didn’t have the expertise to keep little children engaged. The mothers of the children were sad. As I was packing my bags, our caretaker’s daughter Bulti came in with a clean-shaven head. When I asked her mother Aparna why she had had shaved her girl’s head when the summer was months away, she said after some hesitation, ‘You don’t believe these things, but we do. Bulti’s dida was close to us all, wasn’t she? We called a priest and offered a small puja through Bulti, and got her head shaved as instructed by the priest.’</p><p>I kissed Bulti’s clean crown and thought, beyond the world of her mother’s beliefs, her dida would have accepted her offerings happily. And for me, my atheist mother, after having gotten merged with the elements, came in as a gust of breeze in the early spring to sway the red oleander tree in front of our home.</p><p>*</p><p>আমার মা রিটায়ার করার পর যে তিনমাস বেঁচে ছিলেন তার মধ্যে তিনি একটি অবৈতনিক পাঠশালা খুলেছিলেন আমাদের ফ্ল্যাট বাড়ির নীচের গ্যারাজে। পাঠশালা শুরু হয়েছিল একটিমাত্র পড়ুয়াকে গল্পবলা দিয়ে। আমাদের বাড়িতে সন্ধ্যা ঘর-মোছা, কাপড়-কাচার কাজ করত (এখনো করে) এবং সে ছিল আমার মায়ের সব কাজের ডান হাত। তার ছোট ছেলেটির তখন বছর পাঁচেক বয়স। সে এমনি দুরন্ত ছিল যে সন্ধ্যা তাকে না পারত বাড়িতে রেখে আসতে, না পারত সঙ্গে নিয়ে বাড়ি বাড়ি ঘুরে কাজ করতে। মা তখন শুরু করলেন তাকে গল্প বলে বসিয়ে রাখতে, যাতে সন্ধ্যা আমাদের বাড়ির কাজটা নিশ্চিন্তে করতে পারে। মায়ের গল্প বলার এমনি গুণ যে কদিন বাদেই আমাদের কেয়ারটেকার অপর্ণার চার বছরের মেয়ে বুলটিও হাজির গল্প শোনার জন্য! মা তখন ঠিক করলেন ওদের মুখে মুখে দু চারটে ছড়া ইত্যাদি শেখাবেন আরও অন্তত ঘণ্টাখানেক ব্যস্ত রাখবেন যাতে সন্ধ্যা এবং অপর্ণা নিজের নিজের কাজের বাড়িতে কাজ করে আসতে পারে। এই বার্তা ধীরে ধীরে পাড়ায় রটি গেল। আরও জনা চারেক গৃহশ্রমে কর্মরত মায়েদের দুষ্টু ছোট্ট ছানারা মায়ের পাঠশালায় ঢুকে পড়ল। মা সকালের খাবার খেয়ে এক খানা চেয়ার নিয়ে গ্যারাজে বসতে লাগলেন সকলকে সঙ্গে নিয়ে। মা চা খান, তারা বিস্কুট খায়। খেয়ে নিয়ে পাঠশালার কাজ শুরু হয়। মা সবকটি শিশুর 'দিদা'। শিশুদের 'দাদু' কে প্রত্যেকের জন্যে একখানা ছড়ার বই একটি করে স্লেট পেন্সিল এবং একটি কাপড়ের আসন কিনে আনতে হল। মা তাদের স্বরবর্ণ শেখাতেন, ছড়া মুখস্ত করাতেন, গল্প বলতেন আর সবার শেষে সবাই উঠে দাঁড়িয়ে, দু-হাত জোড় করে চেঁচিয়ে গাইত 'আজি শুভদিনে পিতার ভবনে' অথবা 'আমরা সবাই রাজা'। ছয়-সাতটি শিশুর প্রাণপণ গান গাওয়ায় পাড়ায় বেশ শোরগোল পড়ত আর তাদের মায়েরাও তখন পাঠশালা ছুটি হয়েছে বুঝে এসে তাদের নিয়ে যেত। </p><p>মা মারা যাবার পর আমরা কোন ধর্মীয় মতেই কোন পারলৌকিক কাজ করি নি। মা নাস্তিক ছিলেন। একটি স্মরণসভা হয়েছিল। মায়ের বন্ধু এবং সহকর্মীরা এসেছিলেন। গান আর স্মৃতিচারণ হয়েছিল সেদিন। </p><p>তারপর দিন আমরা, অর্থাৎ আমি, বাবা আর বৈদিক মিলে মায়ের পাঠশালার বাচ্চাদের আর তাদের প্রায় সমবয়সী আমার দুই বোনপোকে লুচি সন্দেশ খাইয়েছিলাম। আমাদের বসার ঘরে চেয়ার, সোফা সরিয়ে চাদর পেতে মাটিতে খাবার আয়োজন হয়েছিল। ঘরের এক প্রান্তে মায়ের ছবিতে মালা দিয়ে রাখা ছিল। পাঠশালার পড়ুয়ারা সবাই এসে ছবিতে নম করে মাটিতে বাবু হয়ে বসে দুহাত দিয়ে লুচি ছিঁড়ে ভারি আনন্দ করে খেয়েছিল। সেইসব শিশু ভোলানাথ-লক্ষ্মী-সরস্বতীরা তাদের দিদা র জন্য গানও গেয়েছিল। আমার জ্যাঠতুত আর পিসতুত দিদি লুচি ভেজে দিয়েছিল। তাদের ছেলেরা একসঙ্গে পঙক্তি ভোজনে বসে দিব্যি লুচি-সন্দেশ খেয়েছিল। ঐ ক্ষুদ্র ভোজ-সভাটির মত আনন্দ আমি খুব কম পেয়েছি।</p><p>এইসবের দিন দুয়েক বাদে আমি কাজের জায়গায় ফিরে যাবো। পাঠশালা বন্ধই করে দিতে হল। বাবা বললেন অতটুকু বাচ্চাদের মনোযোগ আকর্ষণ করে রেখে গল্প বলে যাবার পারদর্শিতা তাঁর নেই। পড়ুয়াদের মায়েরা আমার কাছে এসে দুঃখ প্রকাশ করলে। যেদিন ফিরে যাবো বলে বাক্স প্যাঁটরা গোছাচ্ছি সেইদিন দেখি আমাদের নীচতলার বুলটির মাথা নেড়ু মুণ্ডি! কি ব্যপার? তার মাকে বললাম এই ফেব্রুয়ারিতেই মাথা না কামিয়ে গরম পড়লে কামালেই হত। বুলটির মা অপর্ণা একটু কিন্তু কিন্তু করে বললে, 'তোমরা তো এইসব মানো না, কিন্তু আমরা মানি। বুলটির দিদা তো আমাদের সকলেরই আপনজন, তাই পুরুতমশাইকে ডেকে একটা ছোট পূজা দিয়েছি বুলটির হাত দিয়ে আর পুরুত মশাইয়ের কথা মত ওর মাথা কামিয়ে দিয়েছি।' </p><p>বুলটির ন্যাড়া মাথায় চুমো খেয়ে ভাবলাম বুলটির মায়ের বিশ্বাসের যে পরপার সেইখানে বুলটির দিদা প্রসন্ন হাতেই বুলটির পূজা গ্রহণ করেছেন। আর আমার নাস্তিক পঞ্চভূতে মিলিয়ে যাওয়া মা প্রথম বসন্তের এক ঝলক বাতাস হয়ে রক্তকরবীর গাছে দোল দিয়ে গেছেন।</p><p><br /></p><p>Translated on 23 May 2023</p><p>Hosur, Krishnagiri District, TN</p><div><br /></div>Santanu Sinha Chaudhurihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15062744470522359652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5653188975343905818.post-6040057864226916632023-04-09T09:20:00.019+05:302023-04-13T10:10:52.015+05:30Genuine fountain pen, awful cooking oil<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0aXraI2JvwXZmMJXUoPyDb7gr_ZRClD5kY5fiHZ6xbDKWLzZ2X5A8tY33j7HkBEZRmpzz4rx70g_PI1lUhCYx8i6JAeWPV6BIAStWd0Aih6frHghQuma42NcXqP22NO3kI9yTSecJZPBVdeI0wxNovdKU-28WaSmyxZfCCPMuEiijNcJywSLf4OyJ/s1280/Train.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0aXraI2JvwXZmMJXUoPyDb7gr_ZRClD5kY5fiHZ6xbDKWLzZ2X5A8tY33j7HkBEZRmpzz4rx70g_PI1lUhCYx8i6JAeWPV6BIAStWd0Aih6frHghQuma42NcXqP22NO3kI9yTSecJZPBVdeI0wxNovdKU-28WaSmyxZfCCPMuEiijNcJywSLf4OyJ/w640-h360/Train.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">This happened long ago in the last century when Indian Railways had non-airconditioned
first class coaches. The coaches, which were partitioned into eight cubicles
with either four or two berths in each, had a corridor on one side connecting
them. (Is there an English word for them?) I miss those coaches with large
openable windows that let in strong gusts of air while the train moved, besides
offering an unimpeded view of the world outside.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">If you knew me well, you would perhaps know that I am not particularly
fond of self-promotion. But for a change, let me say that I have a world record.
It is as follows: as a passenger, I have always been the first person to reach
a railway station or airport, invariably hours before time. That morning too, when
I boarded Coromandel Express, my fellow passengers hadn’t arrived. I was alone
in a four-berth cubicle. My destination was Madras, mother of Chennai, where I
would change train for Trivandrum, my workplace. At that time, I had lived in
Kerala for many years. I had fallen in love with the place and her people. In
particular, I loved three things of Kerala, the undulating lush green
landscape, the unmatched cleanliness of the people, and their delectable food.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">I opened an India Today, which was an eminently readable magazine those
days; its owner, Aroon Purie hadn’t become the cringeworthy sycophant of the
ruling party he is now. Midway through the first article, I was interrupted by a
thin young man in shabby clothes and uncombed hair, ‘Dada, this is genuine
Chinese,’ he took out a golden fountain pen from his pocket, ‘… Please buy one,
dada. For just 10 rupees, it’s a steal!’ That it was counterfeit was written
all over the product and the vender. It had been manufactured not in China, but
perhaps in Howrah. Even then, I bought a pen without saying a word for two
reasons: first, although his pen was fake, the fellow seemed to be a genuine
struggling young man, and second, I wanted to get rid of him quickly.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Soon, a man, who seemed to be a Malayali, walked in with a small
suitcase. He asked me where I was headed, and when I said ‘Trivandrum,’ his
face lit up with happiness. He volunteered with the information that he had
come to Calcutta on office work and spent a difficult week here. ‘What a horrible
place! Men bathe in the open!’ Was he disappointed because women didn’t?
Anyway, I didn’t feel like pointing out that if men bathing in the open was the
chief criterion for a place to be horrible, then every Indian village too was a
horrible place.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Although I didn’t share his indignation, my companion kept talking in a
friendly manner, ‘I was in my company guest house. These beggars (some Malayalis
pronounce buggers as beggars, at least they did then) eat such awful food. … Do
you know what cooking oil they use?’ After a long pause pregnant with
possibilities, the gentleman announced, ‘Bledy mustard oil! Can you believe
it?’</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">At that point, a portly middle-aged Bengali walked in, followed<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>by a porter carrying two suitcases. After finishing
a brief argument with the porter about what would be a fair compensation, the
man sat down with a sigh and asked, ‘Apni Bangali?’</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">In the meantime, the Malayali gentleman had gone to the loo. My new
acquaintance began talking to me in Bangla. When he heard I was going to
Kerala, he looked sad. In a heavy voice he asked, ‘Have you been in Kerala
before?’</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">‘Never,’ a white lie.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">‘Go there, but I tell you, you won’t be able to eat anything.’</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">‘Why?’</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">‘The fools use coconut oil for cooking. Can you imagine?’</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Meanwhile, the train had started to move. To avoid hearing more
unpleasantries, I took out my diary and began writing. To my surprise, the new
pen wrote beautifully. I felt bad for presuming that the young man was a cheat.
I admonished myself for being judgmental.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">A few minutes later, as train crossed the outer signals, the flow of ink
stopped. It never restarted.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">That it would malfunction was expected. But its maker’s expertise was
astonishing. It worked exactly for the period of time for which it was required
to work. Amazing perfection!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">3 April 2023</span></p><p></p>Santanu Sinha Chaudhurihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15062744470522359652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5653188975343905818.post-48688102346168661192023-04-01T12:17:00.017+05:302023-04-07T08:38:53.233+05:30Santiniketan, a famous author, and two bright kids<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFImpnLiwL66s1p1QgPYgwlGvigigiPPXM8IPAhEjEQIB-OefttdaluSA-IFRxt7NKTx74zqWB7W4atHVKb51aiNKcTvA4SdyxsxCMFPWPOPNtxrWnNNfpPgZguTY9iEh0ZEA_kYS0-z6hMjV9DjCac7BM4Hjd0Sfem61uIjm4v9Ba_qujbP2cJWOc/s800/Santiniketan%20classroom.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="506" data-original-width="800" height="404" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFImpnLiwL66s1p1QgPYgwlGvigigiPPXM8IPAhEjEQIB-OefttdaluSA-IFRxt7NKTx74zqWB7W4atHVKb51aiNKcTvA4SdyxsxCMFPWPOPNtxrWnNNfpPgZguTY9iEh0ZEA_kYS0-z6hMjV9DjCac7BM4Hjd0Sfem61uIjm4v9Ba_qujbP2cJWOc/w640-h404/Santiniketan%20classroom.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 125%; text-align: justify;">Rabindranath Tagore had set up his ashram-school in the turn of the
nineteenth century. Despite perpetual paucity of funds, he managed to recruit a
galaxy of eminent teachers (including some from abroad). Or maybe, it was the
other way round. A galaxy of brilliant people gravitated towards the greatest
thinker and visionary Bengal has ever produced. Rabindranath’s idea was to recreate
the past Indian tradition of educating children in the midst of nature, where
teachers and students lived in close contact. Where facilities were basic, but children
grew up unfettered by regimentation, where they could expand their inner world.
The experiment worked. The eminent Indians who evolved in Santiniketan included
Ramkinkar Baij, KG Subramanian, Mahashwheta Devi, Satyajit Ray, Amartya Sen,
and many more.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 125%; text-align: justify;">The glory days of Visva-Bharati was gone long ago, but if a tradition of
excellence is built up over decades, it takes time to destroy it. Here is an
anecdote written by Palki, who grew up in Santiniketan in the 1980s. It is
about her meeting with Annada Shankar Ray.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 125%; text-align: justify;">Annada Shankar was a curious combination of an ICS officer, an essayist,
and a writer of children’s rhymes. (He left ICS midway to become a fulltime
writer.) His twenty-five-line poem <i>“Teler shishi bhanglo bole khukur pore
rag karo”</i> has been a landmark in Bangla literature.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 125%; text-align: justify;">Moving back to Palki, she was a precocious child of 10 who had read
everything Annada Shankar had written for children and a little of what he
hadn’t written for children. At that time, she was seriously considering a
career in writing and naturally, she had decided to leave an everlasting mark
in Bangla literature, like Annada Shankar, who she had anointed as her literary
idol.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 125%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="background: white; color: #050505; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-language: BN; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Therefore, when she heard that
her idol would visit Santiniketan to receive Deshikottam, the highest award
conferred by the university, she was quick to hatch a plan along with her bosom
buddy Susmita. A day before the award function, when Annada Shankar had arrived
in Santiniketan, the two little girls barged into the university guest house where
important visitors stayed. In Palki’s words, Santiniketan hadn’t become
Securityniketan then, and nobody bothered that two girls—who had no business to
be there—were there. Palki and Susmita covered the long treelined driveway to
the circular guest house with much excitement. When they got off their cycles
in front of a covered balcony and looked up, they saw Annada Shankar in a cane
chair, drinking tea. Palki had no difficulty in recognising him as she had seen
his pictures.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 125%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="background: white; color: #050505; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-language: BN; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The girls had grown up in
freedom, they were not to be cowed down by the proximity of great men. They
breezed up the stairs leading to the balcony and bent down to touch Annada
Shankar’s feet before he knew what was happening. But he would have discerned
the purpose of his little visitors in a moment and got talking with them. When
he asked them their names, they furnished not only names, but also which school
and grade they studied in. By then, Annada Shankar’s wife Lila Ray joined the
party. Incidentally, she was an American who had spent years in Santiniketan. Another
round of feet touching. Asking them to sit down, Lila Ray gave them biscuits.
But the girls were becoming impatient. When they brought out their autograph
books, Lila Ray asked, ‘Why do you want autographs?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 125%; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505;">You might think it would
be a difficult question for ten-year-olds to handle, but no! The children of
Santiniketan explained in detail why they thought getting autographs was a good
idea. Lila Ray then asked them to recite a poem. The girls quickly finished
their biscuits, wiped their faces and stood up. And flailing their arms and
possibly their plaits too, recited</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 125%; margin-left: 36.0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 125%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">For breaking a bottle of
oil, you take the child to task, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 125%; margin-left: 36.0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 125%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">But you grown-up kids
break nations. Why, may I ask?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 125%; text-align: justify;"><span style="background: white; color: #050505; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-language: BN; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">After such a
performance, they naturally got what they came for. Mission accomplished.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 125%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="background: white; color: #050505; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">*</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505;"> </span></p>
<p><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; text-align: justify;">I do not know Susmita, but
Palki’s mother, who left at an early age and her father, both have been senior friends.
Palki hasn’t become a literary sensation (yet). She has just done a PhD from
Oxford and teaches at the finest university of liberal arts in India. She is
young and I do hope she will achieve her childhood dream someday! All the best,
Palki.</span>Picture of the open-air classroom from Mallarika Sinha Roy’s Facebook page</p>Santanu Sinha Chaudhurihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15062744470522359652noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5653188975343905818.post-53575712492531170232023-03-12T20:51:00.003+05:302023-03-12T20:51:20.859+05:30A fine tribute to Vikraman Nair<p><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRjcaH86M2McT7jWnqQ8A3mMIywVcRbtwq63pR1_NSiMjcBKbH9FIH5fBK96WkcGTK5BUY2tOnQ7NzNtly4z1tGd6B9NBEY7RxEvIdKVmBiq2iHCiwvns125wyTgqFOr9wNXwgdKfWMQSwZz1Ll99bmQxqAOfR0L8VcDrfQ3Y7KRrnw7lHi1U5U2e6/s2030/Nair%20Da.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2030" data-original-width="1522" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRjcaH86M2McT7jWnqQ8A3mMIywVcRbtwq63pR1_NSiMjcBKbH9FIH5fBK96WkcGTK5BUY2tOnQ7NzNtly4z1tGd6B9NBEY7RxEvIdKVmBiq2iHCiwvns125wyTgqFOr9wNXwgdKfWMQSwZz1Ll99bmQxqAOfR0L8VcDrfQ3Y7KRrnw7lHi1U5U2e6/s320/Nair%20Da.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>There is little
chance that you met Gopalan Vikraman Nair, a Malayali from Alappuzha who went
to Santiniketan to study English literature in the 1950s, but never returned to
Kerala. However, if—by a rare stroke of fortune—you had seen him from close
quarters, you would possibly remember him as a man of rare brilliance. Vikraman
Nair, Nairda to his countless admirers, was a polyglot who not only knew more
than half-a-dozen Indian and foreign languages, but had also read an enormous
volume of literature in all those languages. He is perhaps the only Malayali
who worked as a Bangla language journalist and wrote (in Bangla) two of the
finest travelogues I have read. If you have had the good fortune to have met
him, you would also remember him as a dazzling story teller, who would
unfailingly captivate small audiences with hilarious anecdotes from his
multicoloured life. You would also recall him as a man who could argue on any
social / political issue and establish his views with precise evidence selected
from his vast store of knowledge and information.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB">In the turbulent
West Bengal of the 1960s and 70s, he joined the Communist Party of India
(Marxist) and then leaned towards the Naxalites. As the Naxalbari movement
degenerated into thoughtless cold-blooded murder of perceived class enemies,
Vikraman Nair left them soon. Unlike most city-based communists, he was not an
armchair revolutionary. He actually worked among peasants for many years.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB">My friend and
Nairda’s close associate, Manas Bhattacharya has written a wonderful memoir on
Nairda in Bangla. I have too much affection for Manas; I won’t try to write a
review of his book. But I can tell you that I have read Manas’s 174-page book
in less than six hours, so gripping his narration is. Congratulations, Manas
for your lovely lucid prose. Let me also do what I can do a little: translate a
few pages of Manas Bhattacharya’s eponymously titled book: NAIRDA—Three Decades
with Vikraman Nair.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB">*</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTCkpO-ycG-sfSmrxbjCdPmHX2NJA1ggMgUPWRFZe67nb3H9BNZveq93w7GWgWcu0-nVdNSrFz_sADAwvAj356MFfCSwOm6FMsYUt1KrSLY-nVqGDJ4jRq2wSPlQmTt0jKJgbB6FQoR6hupa5rH_pePrISXsWy5yZKePPU5JeRB_Osqk9S-shwnZVh/s2048/Manas%20Book%20Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1340" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTCkpO-ycG-sfSmrxbjCdPmHX2NJA1ggMgUPWRFZe67nb3H9BNZveq93w7GWgWcu0-nVdNSrFz_sADAwvAj356MFfCSwOm6FMsYUt1KrSLY-nVqGDJ4jRq2wSPlQmTt0jKJgbB6FQoR6hupa5rH_pePrISXsWy5yZKePPU5JeRB_Osqk9S-shwnZVh/s320/Manas%20Book%20Cover.jpg" width="209" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB">[Nairda could make
friends easily with children, and his little friends were exceedingly fond of
him. Manas tells us that unlike most people, Nairda neither changed his voice
nor his body language when he talked with children. He was his usual self. Here
are a few lines about Nairda and his little friends.]</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB">Let me first talk
about a little girl, Fultusi, who Nairda used to tutor privately. She was in
the seventh grade then.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">One afternoon when Nairda had a day-off, Debashish and me were
chatting in a low voice in a corner of Nairda’s room. Fultusi had come for her
lessons. She sat on Nairda’s cot, while Nairda was in front of her on an
armless chair. Perhaps Fultusi couldn’t answer a question, suddenly, we heard a
suppressed growl, which was immediately followed by a full-blooded smack on
Fultusi’s chin. Debashish and I were stunned. How could anyone hit such a
lovely girl (who was a good student too)? That too, it wasn’t a casual hit, it
was a robust slap. Fultusi’s hung her head; silent tears began flowing down her
chins. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">After punishing his pupil, the teacher continued with his lessons,
but the flow had been impaired. Nairda ended the class after a while. Watching
the crude exhibition of cruelty, Debashish and I were angry with Nairda for
days. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">Fultusi’s home was on the other side of the tramline, barely ten
minutes’ walk from our boarding house. After an hour or so, a domestic help
came from Fultusi’s house and said, ‘Fultusi’s mother has asked me to tell you
that Fultusi won’t continue the tuition.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">Without showing any emotion, Nairda said in his usual gruff voice, ‘Thik
achhe.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">A week passed. Debashish and I felt sorry about the charming little
girl. But there was no change in Nairda’s behaviour. Then one day, Nairda
returned to the boarding house in the evening and declared with a smile,
‘Fultusi will come from tomorrow.’ <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">I said enthusiastically, ‘Good, Fultusi must have got over her
anger. Please stop beating your students.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">Nairda said, ‘You know what happened? Ratna (Fultusi’s mom)
declared, ‘My daughter won’t go back to that barbaric teacher,’ but Fultusi
stopped going to school. Her demand, she would study only with Nair Kaku.
Ultimately, Ratna had to accept defeat. Barun (Nairda’s friend, Fultusi’s dad)
came to my office to tell me.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">A little later, perhaps referring to my view on physical punishment,
Nairda added, ‘Children don’t learn unless you give them a few smacks.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">It isn’t Fultusi alone, all the children from the large circle of
Nairda’s friends, without exception, are ardent fans of Nair Kaku. When Nairda
goes to their house, their faces light up in happiness. Depending on their age,
with some, Nairda would just play; to some, he would be a teacher; to some he
would talk like an equal. During the chats, the topics could be anything from
literature to history to politics to anecdotes from Nairda’s life. For the last
one, one could hear frequent bursts of loud laughter from the room. Soon, the
entire family would gather there.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">…</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB">Nairda has many
little pupils. Every year, he takes them to the zoo once, and to the Kolkata
Book Fair at least twice. They look forward to these days with tremendous
excitement. Once I had the good fortune to accompany them. The joy and
excitement I saw was among them was unbelievable. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">If their parents or uncles wanted to take them, they would refuse.
They would go only with Nair Kaku. Can there be so much fun with anyone else?
When they stood before the chimp’s cage of before the elephants, who would tell
stories about chimps and elephants so beautifully? Even if they had read the
stories before, they would love to hear them again if the raconteur was Nair
Kaku. Soon a crowd of random visitors would stand around Nairda and start listening
to his tales. And needless to say, not all of them are children.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB">Kolkata / 18 Feb.
23<o:p></o:p></span></p>Santanu Sinha Chaudhurihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15062744470522359652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5653188975343905818.post-34636831344277243122023-01-26T06:03:00.019+05:302023-01-26T06:13:38.321+05:30 Kolkata Diary 2 / Nayantara in a Globalised World<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7JgF23bRiXJTtbZLcNnuV-I-J2TeLtV-tqELG5-VuZji_vzrP4tHt9QTl0fgZTfO6UkRoMdDzlzN-1G42WnRrsp6taY8n1WVGN7LaEtMhcVJdFzoAFmMoSiLSSRjQyoKxpv5Gvw-vg1oSzCY0kCWMyzQMLqxZ4b58Bo38HtjXK9cYYAxr2z_km0Cc/s1024/Shatarupa%20Alley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7JgF23bRiXJTtbZLcNnuV-I-J2TeLtV-tqELG5-VuZji_vzrP4tHt9QTl0fgZTfO6UkRoMdDzlzN-1G42WnRrsp6taY8n1WVGN7LaEtMhcVJdFzoAFmMoSiLSSRjQyoKxpv5Gvw-vg1oSzCY0kCWMyzQMLqxZ4b58Bo38HtjXK9cYYAxr2z_km0Cc/w240-h320/Shatarupa%20Alley.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><span style="font-size: 12pt; text-align: justify;">Nayantara, which means the star of
one’s eye in Bangla, was the star of her father’s eye. He died in his sleep two
days ago.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-spacerun: yes; text-align: justify;"> </span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1cm;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Nayantara’s mother Shanti
worked as cook in our home for 10 years. A quiet diminutive woman in her
forties then, she would come for two hours every weekday. And during the long
period, she was absent for a total number of zero days (I mean AWOL). Neither was
she late once. Once, a cyclone-hit Kolkata was under knee-deep water and it was
still pouring. Shops hadn’t opened; buses weren’t plying. But Shanti arrived at
the precise time. Besides her discipline, honesty, and decent culinary skills,
Shanti is an unexceptional person. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1cm;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Her husband Sudhir was an
expert machinist who ran a cottage industry, using his own lathe. He fabricated
small industrial components for the dying engineering units located around the
city. (Shanti, who helped her husband at work, couldn’t describe the product,
and I left it there.) Sadly, given the state of the economy in West Bengal,
Sudhir’s clients’ factories would be closed more often than not, and
consequently, Sudhir was unemployed for most of the year. In fact, that is the
reason Shanti took up a cook’s job. Ours happened to be the first house she
worked in. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1cm;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Last evening, we reached
Shanti’s house after taking several turns in narrow lanes that weren’t Wider
than five feet at any point. But thanks to Kolkata Corporation’s people-friendly
work, the alleys, all cemented, were scrupulously clean; there were gutters
leading to an underground drain every 100 feet or so. Halogen light bulbs
flooded the lanes in bright white. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1cm;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">As four of us sat on the
only armless three-sitter sofa in the room, Shanti stood before us and talked.
We couldn’t ask her to sit down because there was no other place to sit in the
tiny room cluttered with old calendars hanging on unpainted walls. Shanti’s
house has two small rooms and a smaller one for visitors, which I’ve just
mentioned. However, the walled compound is spacious, with several fruit trees.
The mango and jackfruit trees reminded me of the delectable fruits Shanti used
to bring for us every summer. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1cm;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Usually in these
circumstances in our part of the world, the house of bereavement is flooded
with relatives and friends. But when we were there, there was none beside
mother and daughter. Both of them seemed to have taken the sudden, completely
unforeseen shock with remarkable calm. Or maybe, the enormity of the loss was
yet to sink in. Nayantara, wearing pink trousers and a poncho over her shirt,
came and stood beside her mother. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1cm;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">A good student, Nayantara
had graduated with Honours in English. Then she found a job at a call centre on
the other side of the city. It ended her dream of higher studies, but saved the
family. She commuted 30 kilometres by bus every morning, and her company
provided transport at night. She would reach home at 12:30 AM with mother
waiting to serve her food. I knew all that, but as I was away from Kolkata for
three years, I didn’t know she had lost her job during the pandemic. I asked
her what she is doing now. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1cm;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">‘I’ve been working for an
Australian company for the last six months.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1cm;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">‘Great, where is your
office?’ <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1cm;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">‘We don’t have an office
in India yet. We are a small team of just 21 people. But we meet from time to
time at a conference hall. I work from home … from 4 in the morning to 11, with
a recess for an hour.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1cm;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">‘What kind of work do you
do?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1cm;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">‘I work for a telecom
company. In Australia, every telecom company has to provide a combined package
of telephone and internet services. Our company doesn’t have individual
clients, it’s all B-to-B. My job is to call up corporate clients and convince
them to shift to our network.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1cm;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">‘Including cold calls?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1cm;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">‘Yes, some of them.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1cm;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">‘What is the talk-time
for you in a day?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1cm;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">‘At least two hours.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1cm;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Wow! Sitting in a corner
of Kolkata, Nayantara convinces Australian companies to buy her network! Does
she find the Australian accent difficult?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1cm;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">‘No, not really. I worked
for a British firm for five years. So, I was quite okay with the British
accent. Initially, I found the Australian accent difficult. But they trained us
for a month. It’s okay now. A bigger problem was that I knew nothing about the
telecom sector. I had to work hard to understand the industry.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1cm;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">‘What kind of work did
you do in your previous company?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1cm;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">‘I sold nuisance-call
blocking devices to elderly people in the UK.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1cm;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">‘Wow! How do you find
your present company?’ <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1cm;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">‘Very good. There are no
hassles, my salary comes into the bank on the first of every month. The recess
hour is flexible. I can even take off four fifteen-minute chunks any time I
like.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1cm;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">‘You found your earlier
job through campus placement. How did you find this one?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1cm;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">‘Through LinkedIn. I had
to go through three rounds of interviews.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1cm;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; text-align: center;">*</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1cm;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 1cm;">West Bengal is known to the rest of
India for its moribund economy, lazy people, and a government seeped in
corruption. From outside, it looks like a perfect cesspool. As we walked back,
I thought when the Gods are against you, only education can help. I also
thought however much the scoundrels who run our country might try, it’s
difficult to put down young people. They rise above the ruins around them and
chart their own course. Nayantara and her 20 colleagues are an irrefutable
proof of that fact.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1cm;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Live long Nayantara, live
well, live independent. Be a beacon to the hundreds of similarly disadvantaged
young boys and girls around you. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">[Needless to say, I have changed the
names of the protagonists to protect their identity. But the rest of the story
is unadulterated truth.]</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">15 Jan 23 / ©Santanu Sinha Chaudhuri<o:p></o:p></span></p>Santanu Sinha Chaudhurihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15062744470522359652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5653188975343905818.post-24385267426006246202023-01-25T14:33:00.037+05:302023-01-26T06:20:20.112+05:30Kolkata Diary 1 / A mother is born<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI4Jw6lmEGqQte3j1zG6NrPSrRGaRN1jrvmaR9eauNYoTQsRLAgARoD3P8l6ik90B1TaOwH1pJrT_ZEBMQ3gnWS2SnYuE3Fjx3ou4gkp02WKARAiip5TFApIYvZRVmGrs6Uzgv24TChgYlscpMUEmxG3mMqQGI8JRFv6YStuw00-D4TaW_rXKjDaIL/s960/Mother%20is%20Born.jpg" style="clear: left; display: block; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI4Jw6lmEGqQte3j1zG6NrPSrRGaRN1jrvmaR9eauNYoTQsRLAgARoD3P8l6ik90B1TaOwH1pJrT_ZEBMQ3gnWS2SnYuE3Fjx3ou4gkp02WKARAiip5TFApIYvZRVmGrs6Uzgv24TChgYlscpMUEmxG3mMqQGI8JRFv6YStuw00-D4TaW_rXKjDaIL/s400/Mother%20is%20Born.jpg" /></a></div><div><br /></div><span style="font-size: medium;">
If you have a sweater under your jacket, a woollen flat cap to cover your head, and if your feet are in comfortable shoes, a January morning in Kolkata can be enchanting. </span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">After many months, we returned home last night. Although I am not an early riser, this morning I ventured out at six to get milk for our coffee and a Bangla newspaper. The sun was yet to be up, the lake in front of our home and the trees around it were under the blanket of a mysterious fog that never fails to bewitch me. A few die-hard early-morning walkers around the lake looked like health-conscious ghosts in the semidarkness. If there was heaven on earth, it could only be in Kolkata during the winter. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">As I approached the newspaper vendor standing behind his bicycle on which piles of newspapers carrying terrible stories were neatly arranged, a man standing nearby casually threw his empty paper tea cup on the road. Chalta hai! </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">The newspaper man asked me with a smile, ‘When did you come back?’
Face recognition ... a pleasant homecoming. A woman sitting with vegetables on the other side of the road called me, ‘E dike eso baba, tomay diyei bounita kori. Come here son; let me begin my day’s business with you!’ </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">I was happy to be called son. My mother had passed away 40 years before. Besides, no one can say No to such an endearing request.
Her merchandise wasn’t much, some coconuts, bananas, and banana flowers. The last product, which we call mocha, is a delicacy. But removing the sap between the petals of a mocha is a painstaking, time-consuming job. When she held out a mocha for me, I said, ‘You want me to get an earful from my wife so early in the morning? Who would remove the petals?’ </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">She said, ‘Don’t worry son, I came here at five o’ clock so that your wife doesn’t have to bother.' And she proffered neatly packed mocha petals in a plastic bag. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">She had come from Amtala, a place 20 kilometres away, which means she would have started latest by 4 in the morning.
When I asked her if I could take her picture, she quickly covered her head and broke into a beaming smile. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">One doesn’t have to go to Paris to see a smiling woman! </span></div><div><br /></div><div> 9 January 2023 / ©Santanu Sinha Chaudhuri
</div>Santanu Sinha Chaudhurihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15062744470522359652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5653188975343905818.post-57141195497950523032022-12-16T07:59:00.020+05:302022-12-16T08:02:12.656+05:30Amma >>><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvqQ9IcfiRWTkbHm_VNkzO6L3eIPjJ2_D6fnG8Q5EDgajFXlajenR_MD14h_3tUSdoCt3NwiwLcGs0PO4Db9CsvVopWvizmrQFGpxyM3bbLXX3QF6p3JpcRTtSZIsDx-Gk6hHgB0O4grZ-ltGvHHZvHxz_q_AvpAye44ixHjaRPQhO00ysn9Ve0Nk9/s1018/Rani%20and%20Amma.png" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="400" data-original-height="669" data-original-width="1018" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvqQ9IcfiRWTkbHm_VNkzO6L3eIPjJ2_D6fnG8Q5EDgajFXlajenR_MD14h_3tUSdoCt3NwiwLcGs0PO4Db9CsvVopWvizmrQFGpxyM3bbLXX3QF6p3JpcRTtSZIsDx-Gk6hHgB0O4grZ-ltGvHHZvHxz_q_AvpAye44ixHjaRPQhO00ysn9Ve0Nk9/s400/Rani%20and%20Amma.png"/></a></div>
If technology has given us conveniences like mobile phones and folding umbrellas, it has taken away some too. One of them is the joy of travelling by low flying commercial aircraft. In a December morning of bright sunshine, my wife and I changed plane at Chennai and boarded a made-in-India Avro. There were no hatches above seats, all hand luggage was dumped at a corner and secured with a net. The cabin was small, but the windows weren’t.
In Kerala, our plane flew low over a lush green sea, barely metres above the serrated fronds of millions of coconut palms. Through occasional gaps in the foliage, we saw meandering rivulets, red tiled roofs, schools with playgrounds from where children lustily cheered at the aircraft. We also saw steeples-domes-turrets of churches, mosques, and temples with glistening sandy compounds.
Trivandrum—long before the name was formally Indianized to a seven-syllable Thi-ru-va-nan-tha-pu-ram—was a city more beautiful than what I could have imagined. Most of the houses were one-storey bungalows in large compounds full of leafy trees, often guarded by a fierce looking dog. There were hardly any high-rise buildings. The roads were not wide, but were wide enough for the population and the rare personal vehicles, that is, Ambassador cars. There was no trash anywhere. At all times the roads seemed to have been just swept. A beautiful perennial river flowed through the town. It seemed a wizard had turned a picture postcard into a living city!
Back home, when I had landed myself a job in the capital Kerala, I took out an atlas. Putting one prong of a large compass on my hometown Kolkata and the other on Trivandrum, I drew a circle with Kolkata at the centre. The circle included Lahore, the Yangtze River, Nom Pen, and Hanoi, but no part of India except for the tip of Kanyakumari a little of Pakistan occupied Kashmir.
In the distant, beautiful city of Trivandrum, we found a part of a house for rent in Manacaud through an acquaintance. The house owners, Saraswathi Amma and her husband Kunjukrishna Pillai lived in the main building in the same compound with their daughter, son-in-law, and a younger daughter. Saraswathi Amma’s five-year-old grandson Kuttan filled the house with his chirping. His sister Rani was a baby then. Sadly, the family had no dog.
Traditionally, the Nairs of Kerala are a matrilineal community, which explains why Saraswathi Amma’s son-in-law lived with them. Her son Vijayan was with his in-laws, referred to as “wife-house” in a literal translation of a Malayalam compound word. Over time, the practice has been abandoned and Nairs have switched over to the patriarchal structure of kinship and inheritance. This story is about a time when the past overflowed into the present. This story is also about Saraswathi Amma, a materfamilias extraordinary.
For every individual, there are a few strokes of fortune that make their lives worth living. For Arundhati and me, meeting Saraswathi Amma, who we would shortly start calling Amma, was such a blessing. An exceedingly pleasant person, she had a commanding personality beneath her soft exterior. She was the fulcrum around which her family revolved.
Her husband, Kunjukrishna Pillai was a happy-go-lucky ex-army man. His face, criss-crossed with innumerable lines, was always radiant with a cheerful smile. He had seen action in many theatres of war. And as it often happens, varied and trying experience invested him with a calmness and self-assurance that nothing could upset. He soon became a friend and guide to me. I remember when he took me to a Kathakali performance which continued till early morning.
The four walls of our living room were decorated with 43 framed photographs of Saraswathi Amma’s forebears and members of her extended family. I found it rather strange. But as I lived in the house and thought about the pictures, I realized that as someone from a family that had been displaced during the Partition of India and splintered into many tiny units, I didn’t know what he word “family” meant to Indians in general. Perhaps, in a desolate village in what is now another country which I had never seen—I imagined—there was a house with a similar array of snapshots of people with some of whom I bear a striking resemblance.
Although it was not part of the deal, a cup of coffee soon started coming to us every morning. And on Sundays, the breakfast. Soon, we would join Amma’s family for the Sunday breakfast. Other days in the afternoons, Amma would often call Arundhati and they would have their meals together. Human relationships develop in imperceptible silence, like dewdrops falling on a meadow. I thought maybe, one evening on returning from office, I would find the forty-fourth framed photograph on the wall: yours truly and his wife flanked by a beaming Kunjukrishna and a stiff Amma.
It is amazing how I got to have a strong and special personal bond Amma although we had no common language. She was an epitome of affection, which can be expressed without language. Amma expressed it through a gentle glitter in her calm eyes, and in the countless ways she showed how much she cared for us. Rabindranath Tagore wrote,
So many homes you’ve put me in,
Made me know the unknown,
You’ve brought the distant close, my Friend,
And made strangers my own.
On rare occasions in your life, if you are blessed, a stranger may even become a mother.
*
The picture of Amma with her granddaughter is courtesy Rani. When we visited Thiruvananthapuram in 2018, our friends KTR and Bhawani drove us to Amma’s home. The house hadn’t changed at all, but it was a sad homecoming for us; Amma and Kunjikrishna had left. But sadness is a coin the other side of which is happiness. We were delighted to meet a young Saraswathi Amma in her granddaughter Rani. The little Rani had grown up into a happy wife of a handsome young man and a mother of two lovely girls.
Blessed be Rani and her family!
Thank you Rani, for this priceless photograph.
Bengaluru / 03 Dec. 22
Santanu Sinha Chaudhurihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15062744470522359652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5653188975343905818.post-74938403983721273682022-11-01T22:26:00.057+05:302022-11-03T14:10:46.020+05:30My Second Day at the Bharat Jodo Yatra<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOX4kJhoK1Kf3bNkGTG-m_UB33jVYZraL8fcS46rqrxCr3YrX8Kqctf44Fo9T-nJQBQ8vemSHTTJ_AaxFTEHcz65NpxdXjhDOzhxSgTzEkpQppvrYa_TflwSdVjnv7jpaPieegk3OeOruRxVKeSfPp1ViXozk1nKrcOviIga7gq1Dw_d6q-9w2Fbpv/s1024/Swaraj%20marching.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOX4kJhoK1Kf3bNkGTG-m_UB33jVYZraL8fcS46rqrxCr3YrX8Kqctf44Fo9T-nJQBQ8vemSHTTJ_AaxFTEHcz65NpxdXjhDOzhxSgTzEkpQppvrYa_TflwSdVjnv7jpaPieegk3OeOruRxVKeSfPp1ViXozk1nKrcOviIga7gq1Dw_d6q-9w2Fbpv/w640-h480/Swaraj%20marching.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br />There was a damp breeze under an overcast sky when our march began from outside Ballari at 6:30. Our destination was the village of Moka, near the Karnataka-Andhra Pradesh border. The distance between Ballari and Moka is 19 kilometres. From Santiniketan, where I did college, the district town Suri is 19 kilometres away. I never dreamed of walking the distance. What was unthinkable at the age of 17 is doable at 71. That is the magic of social uprisings. <p></p><p>As I walked, I heard Hindi, Malayalam, Telugu, Kannada, Punjabi, Haryanvi, and an Indian language I could not identify. Among the diverse men and women were qualified professionals, working people, peasants, teachers, and students. That is, people from both urban and rural India, and of all ages. There were lots of young men. In our group of Swaraj India volunteers, two men in their twenties, Suheil and Arunoday were the principal coordinators. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWJPYSMMzgh9UUM_wssJPXKf9y7TygKGIhPfn9okqFduBjHC4t-2UJcRo76zEGlz5IO38dqgFIjBdyYSaESj34DWB7YZpy3uSe7kaE8PX1zyp68CXJSJW2scpSHCFpV3JH_zOL-G1ubzikZY9FNiuJ3WsD9JajdJqJIo3QUOC4XtBTRp0IxD9D8aLX/s2048/Vinayek%20Rao%20and%20Ganesh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1254" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWJPYSMMzgh9UUM_wssJPXKf9y7TygKGIhPfn9okqFduBjHC4t-2UJcRo76zEGlz5IO38dqgFIjBdyYSaESj34DWB7YZpy3uSe7kaE8PX1zyp68CXJSJW2scpSHCFpV3JH_zOL-G1ubzikZY9FNiuJ3WsD9JajdJqJIo3QUOC4XtBTRp0IxD9D8aLX/w196-h320/Vinayek%20Rao%20and%20Ganesh.jpg" width="196" /></a></div><br />This picture shows Vinayak Rao Patil and Ganesh. Eighty-one-year-old Vinayak Rao from Maharashtra (Latur) would be one of the oldest civil society activists still walking the path of inqilab in India. He was with the Congress, and later, with Anna Hazare movement, and AAP in its initial phase. Many a time his dreams have been shattered, but he keeps on, undaunted. Ganesh, 21, is a student from Mangalore who supports Congress. He has taken a train to join the yatra at his own initiative. The yatra has brought together Vinayak and Ganesh.<p></p><p>Virendra Bagodia is a political worker who was jailed multiple times for his firebrand activism. He is a landless peasant from Haryana whose son is an engineer, and daughter, and MA. Bagodia ji carries the tallest national flag in the yatra, a flag post is so tall that he has to be careful not to touch an overhead electric wire. Mahendra Yadav, who is with me on a selfie, is from Gazipur, UP. Mahendra ji has literally “do bigha jamin”. Both Bagodia and Mahendra, who are in their sixties, are walking 3,500 kilometres from Kanyakumari to Kashmir. They have been with Swaraj India, the political party led by Yogendra Yadav for many years. Neither has much formal education, but when we talked politics, I was amazed to see how well-informed they are and the clarity of their views. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUnKKISLRe_nl9cbY-uc-TQHoiJ5aG5W2rsT2uDM_doXFYIRmx1HCKDPllQSlqJrXaJqmpEEPT6t753T_vkMLZqZQyiuwIS1sgc1HmKFC6SLywtD-SNXnVa0gT9GVK34eQhAzmK5-IDq8D18laPm5f24t4m0z1zxV0N8-apcrTRQm1oOanwABjcvIa/s2048/3%20Comrades.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1552" data-original-width="2048" height="486" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUnKKISLRe_nl9cbY-uc-TQHoiJ5aG5W2rsT2uDM_doXFYIRmx1HCKDPllQSlqJrXaJqmpEEPT6t753T_vkMLZqZQyiuwIS1sgc1HmKFC6SLywtD-SNXnVa0gT9GVK34eQhAzmK5-IDq8D18laPm5f24t4m0z1zxV0N8-apcrTRQm1oOanwABjcvIa/w640-h486/3%20Comrades.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Virendra from Haryana, Naushin from Kolkata, and Mahendra from Gazipur U.P.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbErg0Oq1FYWQV1qh-V3GyXQSqK24Wbi8rAavllaBKWw8IVvNhPghygKv-zZM64IG2KyW8TzDwwKmSHlgKWVRMRMGFRekXdfm3ckSGg60kdy2iGdqDjH1tyYYbtjuTzCbMRthhFlI9aDXhmfUkGnDoJI776HX4sAIUbcxUig4OqET14Xsb2Bv2toGP/s2048/Me%20with%20Mahendra%20Yadav.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbErg0Oq1FYWQV1qh-V3GyXQSqK24Wbi8rAavllaBKWw8IVvNhPghygKv-zZM64IG2KyW8TzDwwKmSHlgKWVRMRMGFRekXdfm3ckSGg60kdy2iGdqDjH1tyYYbtjuTzCbMRthhFlI9aDXhmfUkGnDoJI776HX4sAIUbcxUig4OqET14Xsb2Bv2toGP/s320/Me%20with%20Mahendra%20Yadav.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mahendra Yadav and me</td></tr></tbody></table>The 118 “National Yatris” are walking from Kashmir to Kanyakumari. Besides, there are state yatris, and others like me. People in the yatra stay together in a community living area, share rudimentary amenities without complaint. Treat strangers as friends. At our camp in Moka this afternoon, I sat between Mahendra Yadav and a handsome young man. When I asked the young man what he did, he simply said, ‘I’m a Congress worker.’ An erudite man, he was a pleasant conversationalist. After the meal, Mahendra ji told me he is the son of a former chief minister. If Congress returned to power in his state, my companion at the lunch table would be a candidate to become the chief minister. </p><p>On both days, I saw local people coming out of their homes to greet the yatris. Waiting for hours to meet Rahul Gandhi. Their goodwill for the yatra and its leader was palpable. They waved at us, smiled at us. It was a new experience to observe such goodwill from people I had never met, nor I ever will. </p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZvyC7kIEdKlbXX2x-CcSTFBX0Oxc0VkcU7NNDNuhZnYAep0F5sTE5Mk1C5Sg_CXCj83y6qWIc9YsXul5nabsffP-6VG9cxwvRRpIYE_Sry_6sO1asHxUWBBXnnZFJ5bPSHarDwHRWckGCCobtzj4MrwvcJMBRhDFPEpPJb6OjxvCHVU4B1wa_N6ru/s2048/Waiting%20for%20Rahul%20Gandhi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZvyC7kIEdKlbXX2x-CcSTFBX0Oxc0VkcU7NNDNuhZnYAep0F5sTE5Mk1C5Sg_CXCj83y6qWIc9YsXul5nabsffP-6VG9cxwvRRpIYE_Sry_6sO1asHxUWBBXnnZFJ5bPSHarDwHRWckGCCobtzj4MrwvcJMBRhDFPEpPJb6OjxvCHVU4B1wa_N6ru/s320/Waiting%20for%20Rahul%20Gandhi.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Waiting to see Rahul Gandhi</td></tr></tbody></table>I have written that the distance between Ballari and Moka is 19 kilometres. However, we began outside the town, and we would have walked only about 14 kilometres this morning. The yatra is not a well-knit procession. As people walk at different varying speeds, they get split into small groups. At the head of the yatra is the leader, that is Rahul Gandhi, who walks admirably fast, and the people who can keep up with him, plus the police cordon around them. Behind them are scatterings of yatris for two to three kilometres. Another procession of high-end SUVs was a pain in the wrong place for the staggered walkers. They belonged to the out-of-shape Congressmen who could hardly walk, but were obliged to show their face to Mr Rahul Gandhi.</p><p>As I gradually fell behind, a local person stopped his motor bike and offer me lift. We didn’t have the bond of a common language, but the bond of Indianness was enough. I didn’t have the heart to say No to him, but I didn’t wish to cheat either. So, I got off after about 500 metres. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3cVA0UTjhDSGzHNQfGzKTqR7fmPXqEdPOOHkqczTCyJw14izqOygHLnuYLyAVdGIZIZFXWcCm7zVEhsXnZBU_IW2t4ynh4YnLurMDfWjQX6_469wxOzWihYAGxYjwtn9OM62xn0cUDTrIIJNHP4B67r6_PidFUItCProqRiDsr8jFPW3KvBYs4G9j/s2048/Support%20syestem.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1532" data-original-width="2048" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3cVA0UTjhDSGzHNQfGzKTqR7fmPXqEdPOOHkqczTCyJw14izqOygHLnuYLyAVdGIZIZFXWcCm7zVEhsXnZBU_IW2t4ynh4YnLurMDfWjQX6_469wxOzWihYAGxYjwtn9OM62xn0cUDTrIIJNHP4B67r6_PidFUItCProqRiDsr8jFPW3KvBYs4G9j/w640-h478/Support%20syestem.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />On the way, I came across a temporary shed from where villagers were distributing apples, water bottles, tender coconuts etc. to the yatris. I stopped and checked with two men in the kiosk separately. Who organized all this? Congress? The answer was an emphatic “No!” from both. They said villagers had joined together to give some relief to the yatris. When I pointed out at the Congress banner behind, one of them said it was a gift from the local Congress unit. I am inclined to believe them because if a Congress leader had organised it, there would have been large flex banners with the man's portrait announcing his generosity. <p></p><p>Does the spontaneous expression of love say something? </p><p><br /></p><p><b>Why Bharat Jodo?</b></p><p>Why did I, a person with no political affiliation except for a strong desire to reclaim a liberal democracy join the yatra? In the following lines, I will try to answer myself</p><p>Over the last eight years, a poison has taken hold of a lot of Indian Hindus. They believe that Muslims, who are 14% of the population, will somehow destroy the Hindus who are 80%. This is their core belief: Hindu khatre mein hai. Therefore, for their safety, they must pin down the Muslims now. This silly fiction—which has no evidentiary support—has divided India down the middle. It has also divided families and friends.</p><p>On one side of the divide are the people who believe they are in danger (the 37.36% of the electorate who voted for BJP in 2019, they are often upper caste Hindus). The group has been created and led by an efficient RSS-BJP machinery. </p><p>On the other side of the line are Hindus who do not buy the “Hindus-are-in-danger” rubbish, along with Muslims, Christians, Sikhs, Parsis, plus everyone else. The latter have no formal organization / leadership. After every government misadventure like demonetization, or CAA-NRC, or the Farm Bills, the second group protests. They also hope that as their agitations gain momentum, the opposition parties, who have not seriously challenged BJP-RSS, will defeat BJP through the ballot box. </p><p>It will not happen.</p><p>Because of the poison I mentioned. The people who support the present regime see the economy tanking, they have seen dead bodies floating in the Ganga during the COVID pandemic, their nephew or niece may be unemployed for years, yet their faith in BJP is unflinching because they think only that party can “save” them from Muslims. Psychologists like Daniel Goleman say when your mind is in the grip of hatred and anger against someone, you cannot think straight. Your baser caveman instincts take hold of you. This, roughly, is the state of mind of the people who abuse Muslims day in and day out. In that state of mind, it is possible for women to garland a gang of criminals who serially raped a pregnant woman, smashed the body of her three-year-old daughter, and murdered her 14 family members for no reason other than hatred against Muslims. </p><p>If we wish to regain our secular India, we must detoxify those people. But we can achieve little by arguing with them. What we need today is affirmative action to bring people together, to spread love.</p><p>Democracy is not self-executing. We must make it work, particularly at a time when the forces of hatred, divisiveness, and violence have taken root in our country. Bharat Jodo Yatra is an attempt to precisely do that. <span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><></span></p><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">16 October 2022</div></div>Santanu Sinha Chaudhurihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15062744470522359652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5653188975343905818.post-18787926328176547422022-10-21T09:52:00.006+05:302022-10-21T09:52:37.193+05:30Bharat Jodo Yatra (BJY)—My first day<p>Last evening in about eight hours, we covered the distance of 311 kilometres from Bangaluru to Ballari, a mining town in western Karnataka that was earlier spelt as Bellary. The motley crowd of six yatris consisted of an exceedingly soft-spoken activist politician, an environmental activist and author, a tailor who's doing MA, an engineer, a young college prof, and me. Regarding the age profile, we were between in early twenties and early seventies. The six of us, who speak four different languages at home, have come to join the Bharat Jodo Yatra. As you might have guessed, a tiny bit of jodoing has already happened!</p><p>It was 10:30 PM when we reached the KRS Function Hall at one end of the town, our camp for the night Throughout South India, we have marriage / function halls which usually have three main sections: a big hall with a stage on one end, an equally big dining hall plus kitchen, and some bedrooms for people who would stay overnight. The main hall often seats 1000 or more people.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwgPZiOjegDUDb3gJgWj774ciP6FCJErwEnspgqZXZMUMred_zUJLjjgin0HYuuPkXhDVF1cUHQUP-fwcWEWFHVN745cwpz57LE0JznK8Ot6-vSGMD_LQ3u6hgkQuLULA9TOFGYJ-r7T_tGgAwMCTA5-IKOfOZN72NSItQzTqmHpvPMgHd503MqvtD/s2048/KRS%20Ballari%201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwgPZiOjegDUDb3gJgWj774ciP6FCJErwEnspgqZXZMUMred_zUJLjjgin0HYuuPkXhDVF1cUHQUP-fwcWEWFHVN745cwpz57LE0JznK8Ot6-vSGMD_LQ3u6hgkQuLULA9TOFGYJ-r7T_tGgAwMCTA5-IKOfOZN72NSItQzTqmHpvPMgHd503MqvtD/s320/KRS%20Ballari%201.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>As we walked in, we found an empty ornate sofa on the stage at the far end of the main hall. More than 200 basic beds had been spread on the stage and the floor: cotton mattresses covered with garish bedsheets with designs in all the colours the human eye can see. Columns of plastic chairs were piled in a corner. At one end—somewhat unexpectedly—a large man in a dark T-shirt sat hunched before an equally large 24-inch computer screen, engrossed in work. Enormous fans fitted outside at the ground level blew in air through a grille. Although it was past 10:30, the lights were on. Few had slept. They were the yatris of the Bharat Jodo Yatra, the political Kumbh of our time. The men and women would have walked at least 30 kilometres during the day.<p></p><p>The adjacent dining hall had been divided into two parts. Half of it contained a similar array of beds, and the other half, two long rows of narrow dining tables covered with aluminium sheets. We quickly joined the few men and women who were eating. The simple vegetarian meal was piping hot and excellent.</p><p>As the halls had been full, we got a small room on the fourth floor. There were five of us in the two-bed airconditioned room with three beds on the floor. Enormously comfortable. </p><p>The breakfast that I had next morning at 5:10 consisted of steaming upma, chatni, and kesar bath. A tall gentleman, who was possibly from the management of the function hall, was supervising the operations; he made us feel we were his personal guests. I silently saluted the famous Kannadiga hospitality and also, the Congress Party, which is organising the yatra. </p><p>*</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhloiJb8f-_RDMCZasPO4KzoHH8wiPQ2wPwozQoligTse15VJSs8zu_QY1Bmfhg_EiETdJlB7j4HUrCITKbiUl0433vNpj3qnAdvlmVKDQHH7G_ScqvqGJA1cYs_ukKHL4wzx05zd2rn51mLW9v6FJ9cDoMu4Qry3aFIs-xLKOuDv1keb17YkRrtUb5/s2048/BJY%20Tableu%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhloiJb8f-_RDMCZasPO4KzoHH8wiPQ2wPwozQoligTse15VJSs8zu_QY1Bmfhg_EiETdJlB7j4HUrCITKbiUl0433vNpj3qnAdvlmVKDQHH7G_ScqvqGJA1cYs_ukKHL4wzx05zd2rn51mLW9v6FJ9cDoMu4Qry3aFIs-xLKOuDv1keb17YkRrtUb5/s320/BJY%20Tableu%202.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>Inqilabs, that is, revolutions, are “the locomotives of history,” said Karl Marx. According to his most well-known follower Lenin, “Revolutions are the festivals of the oppressed and the exploited.” Nobody knows if the Bharat Jodo Yatra will turn into the locomotive that will ferry us from the present-day dystopia back to a civilised India, but when we were ferried in a van to the starting point of today’s yatra in the tenebrous light before sunrise, I did think I was witnessing a festival of the masses. <p></p><p>The absolute exhilaration among people was to be seen to be believed. At the beginning of the long procession, local artistes in ceremonial attires—many of them wearing huge masks—presented a pageantry with the accompaniment of drums. They were followed by Congress Seva Dal Volunteers in white. Then came groups of yatris raising slogans. The slogans were surprisingly creative and nonviolent, like, Jodisi jodisi, Bharata jodisi in Kannada (Join, join, join India), or in Hindi: Hum Bhagat Singh ke diwane hai, hum nahi rukhne walle hai (We love Bhagat Singh, we aren't going to give up!) There were NO murdabads, hai hais, or down-downs. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2zNH5E-6qnevt6znnCYsUH_kJFZwR6FS_xHI_ibqhRE3GxGHnHYUVA_4zCJv1dcslGS2w9vdqrMlny3M1JxBlJMqRBs0WlkkkATPzZic5eqeP17SjcxZImYr1pWsep3_xSrNm8NxsXlTxMoVMmHIN47JIrrfOlZnr_0pgQI5gnaritQ6mKWC-oKi3/s2048/BJY%20Tableu%204.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2zNH5E-6qnevt6znnCYsUH_kJFZwR6FS_xHI_ibqhRE3GxGHnHYUVA_4zCJv1dcslGS2w9vdqrMlny3M1JxBlJMqRBs0WlkkkATPzZic5eqeP17SjcxZImYr1pWsep3_xSrNm8NxsXlTxMoVMmHIN47JIrrfOlZnr_0pgQI5gnaritQ6mKWC-oKi3/s320/BJY%20Tableu%204.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Except for the Seva Dal volunteers and the performing artistes, the rest of the participants didn’t form two neat columns, as if to highlight that their participation was spontaneous, voluntary, and free from regimentation. A festival, in short. <p></p><p><br /></p><p>My friends Kamlendra Pratap and Jeevan had warned me that when Rahul Gandhi arrived, he would be accompanied by a flood that would throw away anything in their path. The flood arrived soon. </p><p>Rahul Gandhi, who walks really fast, sets the pace and the rest of the people walk / run with him. He has his security men in black safari suits around him and then an outer ring of close associates and registered yatris. Around all of them, state policemen in khaki made a moving cordon with a thick yellow rope and walked along. The mobile yellow ring was the nucleus of the yatra. Beside, in front of, and behind it, there were thousands more walking cheerfully, shouting slogans. </p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdlijcNP4rUnlUmxhZMMYBR5NjIKqUcFGW0oQLN46dEzezOxGBF9WSS6AdO7c8tqbrjxbL7SxY5AdITdZQrHsMtDHjKO3keyZHy-1q34MgrdGtylsEvg9yJ8-9lYdMZJw6uQuQFQK4b9q3k8O77rbaEP60bqKTRQiiBtIir84Apibps9Pw4B_56wB0/s2048/BJY%205.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdlijcNP4rUnlUmxhZMMYBR5NjIKqUcFGW0oQLN46dEzezOxGBF9WSS6AdO7c8tqbrjxbL7SxY5AdITdZQrHsMtDHjKO3keyZHy-1q34MgrdGtylsEvg9yJ8-9lYdMZJw6uQuQFQK4b9q3k8O77rbaEP60bqKTRQiiBtIir84Apibps9Pw4B_56wB0/w640-h480/BJY%205.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Can you see Rahul Gandhi? If you can, you'll know how much risk he is taking.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Many of them were local people and curious onlookers. They were keen to get a good glimpse and maybe, a picture of Rahul Gandhi. Some went into the ring and close to Rahul Gandhi after getting a nod from the people in charge of security. Rahul smiled, shook hands, and spoke with each one of them, as people took selfies. But most of his fans were not so fortunate. They would walk as close to the yellow cordon as possible, and try go ahead of Rahul Gandhi to get a good look. </p><p>As soon as the cordon approached where I was, a deluge of people threw me away from the road. And once the deluge went past, Jeevan and I fell back and followed the yatra at a relaxed pace, lending our voices to whoever was leading the slogan near us. </p><p>I got a strong feeling that the yatris aren't going to give up even after the yatra ends. <></p><p>15 October 2022</p>Santanu Sinha Chaudhurihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15062744470522359652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5653188975343905818.post-12786977894527449872022-10-19T11:11:00.005+05:302022-10-19T11:11:47.906+05:30Bharat Jodo Yatra (BJY)—Day Zero<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOOU7wb3PfLh4xa6G8WXRfODw9-unKZhrC1Nq6beyJ28Cp2y2bFTYaB61ZL8496DBT6HDWS4If6hq5y_D0_WuSwEgc_7D5LDQRe1ORWlvsrBNJ0hIhxnPTb0XED499R6NnC2DXo4xpOZwB17AxNIfLXmIc6xDXwwmD1L1mxKndA4tQc2pXVH1t118W/s4032/IMG_9505.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOOU7wb3PfLh4xa6G8WXRfODw9-unKZhrC1Nq6beyJ28Cp2y2bFTYaB61ZL8496DBT6HDWS4If6hq5y_D0_WuSwEgc_7D5LDQRe1ORWlvsrBNJ0hIhxnPTb0XED499R6NnC2DXo4xpOZwB17AxNIfLXmIc6xDXwwmD1L1mxKndA4tQc2pXVH1t118W/w640-h480/IMG_9505.HEIC" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p>On the way to
Bellary with a group of wonderful people. To walk in the Bharat Jodo Yatra.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 1.0cm;"><span style="text-indent: 1cm;">My
participation will mean little to the Yatra, but the yatra should make a world
of difference to me. The picture below has been sent by a
friend. It is a picture of the Yatra today somewhere in the remote Chitradurga
District of Karnataka.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 1.0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span><span style="text-indent: 1cm;">Let
the mainstream media ignore, let the ruling dispensation and their cohorts try
to mass-produce hatred, Bharat is joining herself … and erasing ugly lines that have been dividing her children in the recent past.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 1.0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span><span style="text-indent: 1cm;">Love
spreads, quietly, but unquestionably, just as the sapling grows in front of
your eyes but without you noticing it. Away from TV studios and troll
factories.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 1.0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span><span style="text-indent: 1cm;">Watch
this space for updates.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 1.0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja9-tiXlgKuMW3BWQ5nHdC4t2kxI1rjopgNpJKJRlAhE6Zvf_LsdiVUgC5IWaVW6KUV5LicMLJ5343I-lSAHL98Yff1XDHSob_IQzHhrEUelsdMu6xKXgnkim9l373f0-Gs9Irdjmp4PKOIXwuZu7TyjljvPonHz1kcjCUHan6Gqa3nD8N_CINgGGh/s1012/IMG_9510.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center; text-indent: 1cm;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1012" data-original-width="828" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja9-tiXlgKuMW3BWQ5nHdC4t2kxI1rjopgNpJKJRlAhE6Zvf_LsdiVUgC5IWaVW6KUV5LicMLJ5343I-lSAHL98Yff1XDHSob_IQzHhrEUelsdMu6xKXgnkim9l373f0-Gs9Irdjmp4PKOIXwuZu7TyjljvPonHz1kcjCUHan6Gqa3nD8N_CINgGGh/w524-h640/IMG_9510.PNG" width="524" /></a><br /><br /></span></p>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-language: BN; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">14 October 2022</span>Santanu Sinha Chaudhurihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15062744470522359652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5653188975343905818.post-47381678380105714312022-09-15T20:01:00.009+05:302022-09-15T20:37:59.439+05:30Little boy with a young mother in burqa<p> </p><p>Little boy with a
young mother in burqa,</p><p>Please look at me, I
want to talk to you.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">You see, I’d be older
than your grandpa—<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Long ago, my eyes too had
wonder <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Just like yours, but<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">That’s not what I
wanted to tell you.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Old men often lose
their way, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">You’ll soon find out. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">I wanted to tell you that
when I saw you, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">A vague, overpowering
fear gripped me<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">As I tried to see you ten
years into the future.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Will you be in a school
that teaches you<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">To love every human <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">And hate nothing, except<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Selfishness, violence,
and blind faith? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Will you be in a school
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">That teaches you to
question <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">What everyone believes
is true?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">A school where you’ll
learn<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">That humans, whales,
and butterflies<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Are all made of atoms,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">In fact, particles
even tinier<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">That might have been
parts<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Of stars and galaxies
once?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">That you and I are no
different from<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Moondust or the fiery
sun? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">That is a brief
summary of human knowledge,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">But please don’t take
my words for it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Read, think, and find
out. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Fifteen years into the
future,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Will you be in a
college<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Where fools won’t try
to teach you <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">About borders, barbed
wires, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">And why you must build
walls? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Fifteen years down the
road, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Will you have lots of
friends, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">And maybe, a
girlfriend too,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Whose religions or
kinships won’t matter<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">In the relationships
you make?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Will you grow up to
live <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">In a middleclass
mohalla where<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Narayanans, Kalams,
Mukherjees, and Murmus<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Live side by side? And
no college <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Bars entry to your
sister<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Because of what she
chooses to wear <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">On her head? Or maybe,
she will<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Choose not to cover
her head?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Little boy with a
young mother in hijab,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">A vague, overpowering
fear gripped me<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">When I looked into the
future <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">And tried to find you.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">In your journey through
the years<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Will you rediscover the
land<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Where your grandpa and
I lived <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Long, long ago? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">It was <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">A highly flawed place
even then, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">But those days, hatred
wasn’t state policy,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">And nobody had to wear
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">An invisible yellow
badge on their chest. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Krishnagiri, Tamil Nadu<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">15 September 2022<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Santanu Sinha Chaudhurihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15062744470522359652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5653188975343905818.post-28127378606288990712022-09-06T11:14:00.000+05:302022-09-06T11:14:09.625+05:30 Swapan Sarkar >>><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC7ppzTtsCMw280POkO3m3ROZppc0GswUCbEP8hkPQFGHgBnb-wjgmIJbxdGEKGl3iwNRPUDkdWexcw7iOGJ0COfz3CUStlF7-HcTw2vmoTEHdH96-isYRzycIFJR7DjpSEB_9VrJxMnse7DIBsOyVuiTK_R0Loet6Iv-imYBQ29u3SfBQKipAZo3Y/s665/Swapanda%20FB.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="665" data-original-width="561" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC7ppzTtsCMw280POkO3m3ROZppc0GswUCbEP8hkPQFGHgBnb-wjgmIJbxdGEKGl3iwNRPUDkdWexcw7iOGJ0COfz3CUStlF7-HcTw2vmoTEHdH96-isYRzycIFJR7DjpSEB_9VrJxMnse7DIBsOyVuiTK_R0Loet6Iv-imYBQ29u3SfBQKipAZo3Y/w338-h400/Swapanda%20FB.jpg" width="338" /></a></div><br />Goodbye Swapan-da, my friend for over fifty years. <p></p><p>I haven’t met anyone who was more handsome than you. If I had been a woman (or gay), I could have easily fallen in love with you. </p><p>Neither have I met many people who have such intense passion for life. </p><p>We hadn’t met over the last five years. I missed you then. I miss you now. I will keep missing you. </p><p>*</p><p>Swapan Sarkar, who lived in Bolpur and Kolkata, set up a small-scale industry, Fresseynet Prefabs*, on (I think) a two-acre plot of barren land at a distant corner of West Bengal in 1974-75. The factory manufactures prestressed concrete poles and concrete pipes. </p><p>He was a charming young man of our generation from a small town with ordinary college education, a few thousand rupees in his pocket, and NO godfather anywhere. Yet, he dreamed of setting up an industry in the moribund economy of West Bengal. He would go on to fulfil his dream. </p><p>Although he came from one of the most illustrious families of the district, I have just come to know from an obituary written by Bharatjyoti Roychowdhury that his father Narayandas Sarkar had been a communist who used to sell Marxist literature on trains. So, it would be reasonable to say that Swapan-da didn't get any worldly wealth from his old man. His mother had passed long ago. Swapan Sarkar was a self-made man who had to make do without father’s support or mother’s love and nurturing. (Although he and I spent hundreds of hours together and talked about everything under the sky, he never mentioned his parents to me even once.) Incidentally, like his father, he too was a communist in his youth which showed—if Bernard Shaw is to be believed—he had a heart. After leaving the Communist Party of India (Marxist), he joined a group of communist revolutionaries. And that brought us together. </p><p>I saw him from close quarters when, in 1973-74, he was trying to find his way in the killing mazes of government offices and banks to secure the necessary permits and funds to set up Fresseynet Prefabs. His grit and self-confidence were to be seen to be believed. (*If you are stumped by the name of his firm, Eugène Freyssinet was a French engineer who invented the technology of prestressed concrete, a process that uses much smaller quantity of steel to give equal or more strength compared to conventional concrete.) </p><p>His passion for new technology wouldn’t ebb. Much later, he would set up a factory that manufacture bricks from fly ash, something that thermal power plants produce in thousands of tonnes and is a perennial environmental problem around thermal plants. It was possibly the first such unit in Bengal. </p><p>Swapan-da went to China several times before importing the brick-manufacturing plant. Generally, he was fond of travelling and went to lots of places including to Siberia on the trans-Siberian train. One of his trips was to Venice when the (only) film produced by him (PAAR, directed by Gautam Ghose with Shabana Azmi and Nasiruddin Shah) was shown at the Venice Film Festival. Incidentally, Swapan-da’s finances bottomed out by making the film.</p><p>Just as time couldn’t wither Cleopatra’s beauty, it could do little to Swapan Sarkar’s handsomeness. Neither could wealth change his persona. He remained the same person, his warmth and wit undiminished. Always ready to share a drink till late into the night as a quiet music filled the background. (He was someone who frequently changed his caller tune with beautiful clips of Rabindrasangeet or Bengali folk songs.) The only difference that I saw in him over the years was that his circle of friends expanded manifold. He could make friends easily. Till the very end, he was filled with what the French call joie de vivre. </p><p>On 29 August, some of us old friends were to meet Swapan-da and his second wife Nasreen at a common friend’s place. As I hadn’t met Nasreen, I was looking forward to the meeting for two good reasons. But they couldn’t come as Swapan-da’s condition turned for the worse.</p><p>Swapan Sarkar passed away in his sleep two days later, in the early morning of 1 September 2022. </p><p>Bengaluru 05 </p><p>September 2022</p>Santanu Sinha Chaudhurihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15062744470522359652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5653188975343905818.post-10208435305887335632022-08-23T09:24:00.007+05:302022-08-23T09:25:33.009+05:30History however, is ruthless<p> <i style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">West
Bengal is at the cusp of a change. Ms Mamata Banerjee and her party have failed
the people who pinned their hope on her as opposed to the brutal rule of the
aging Left on the one side and the hatemongering BJP on the other. If the news
and social media show us the writings on the wall, in 2026, a new government
will come to power in Bengal. At least should!</span></i></p><p><i style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">We must try to understand what has been happening in
Bengal. Here is an article by a leading public intellectual who has held his
head high through the murky currents of Bengal politics, Kaushik Sen. The
original was published in Ananda Bazar Patrika on 3 August 2022.</span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><i><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Translated
into English by Kaushik Chatterjee</span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">*<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt;">A convention was held on the 2</span><sup style="font-family: Cambria, serif;">nd</sup><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt;">
floor of Calcutta Information Centre in 1990. It was organised by the Left
Front Government. All the intellectuals of the times had converged there. The
then Information Minister, Shri Buddhadev Bhattacharya, was also present. It
was necessary to convene such a meeting at a time, when, thanks to a few serial
events that rocked West Bengal, the credibility of the Left Front Govt had been
considerably shaken in the perception of the people at large.</span><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt;">It is now on records, that, quite
surprisingly, all the intellectuals present on that day, barring a few exceptions,
strongly and concertedly denied any sense of frustration or misgivings majorly
troubling the society; rather, they felt, it was after all, the product of an orchestrated
anti-left propaganda, of the vanquished crying hoarse or even that of a
bourgeois mentality gone paranoid. We come to know that, among others, even Utpal
Dutta, with a clear voice and firm conviction, held on to the ground of the
majority.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">The poet Sankha Ghose
was also present in that meeting. He read out from a small chit of paper.
Everyone must have listened to him carefully but didn’t quite feel the urge to
dwell upon the deeper anxieties voiced by the poet seriously enough.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">The enthusiastic
readers can easily retrieve the exact contents of the page from where the poet
had read aloud in that intellectual-studded convention, organised by the Left
Front Government on 11<sup>th</sup> September, 1990. All I can say is that all
those grim forewarnings which the poet had prophesied in his pithy but insightful
write, were the subject of intense discourse and deliberation, following the
electoral eclipse of the Left Front Government in 2011—disconnect with the masses,
induction within the party of persons of dubious credentials, corruption,
criminalisation, etc. The seeds of decay were all there for the people to take
note of. But a large majority of them couldn’t or didn’t quite like to.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">I am pretty sure if
one goes through its contents today, there wouldn’t be any line of distinction
between the parties that have been in governance in Bengal. You could easily
swap the label of ‘Left Front Government’ with that of ‘TMC Government’ in that
piece of paper. The issues of ‘dangerous laxity or irresponsiveness’, which the
poet highlighted then, to have led to a series of ignominious incidents thereafter,
were no accidents or conspiracies. They were not then and are not now either.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">It would be
impossible for the reigning TMC government of West Bengal to write off the
instance of naked corruption and embezzlement of funds which has recently come
to light, as a non-event or even treat it as conspiratorial. It is not possible
for one Partha Chatterjee to commit such a ghastly crime single-handedly. The
tentacles of the evil are enmeshed within the nooks and corners of the
organisation itself.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">The month of July of
2022 will either be remembered or consigned to one of the most inglorious
episodes of the socio-political-economic history of West Bengal. The relentless
agitation of those aspiring for the teaching posts of Classes IX to XII <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>for more than 500 odd days now, shall too be
etched in the pages of history. A whole new set of questions and agitational
dynamics would be scripted on the tales of dogged defiance they showed amidst sufferance
of so much deprivation and misery. It is time we understood how this heinous
crime had affected us all, beyond those who have been directly harmed by it.
While complementing the perfectly professional and thoroughbred role performed
by the Officers of Enforcement Directorate (ED) in unearthing crores of rupees from
the different flats of the accused, it may be a sobering reminder at this
stage, that barring, of course, the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), none of the
mainstream political parties of India are currently breathing free, thanks to
the extraordinary clout and sweeping powers commanded by ED. The recent Supreme
Court rulings may also add on the anxieties of the principal opposition parties
in this regard, for everyone<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>knows how
BJP can effectively weaponise the ED in bringing the entire Opposition to an
uneasy standstill. And it is in this context, that the TMC, through this murky
Partha Chatterjee episode, had significantly blunted the anti-BJP,
ultra-Hindutwa campaign being taken up at the national stage. The recent events
have only helped the party in power to get a firmer political foothold in the
map of India; the same party, which operating through the smokescreen of
whataboutery and subterfuge, has no qualms in defying the constitutional norms,
openly threatening to decimate the minority community with bulldozing of their
home and property, through a process of selective<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>targeting.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">‘No Vote to BJP’ was the
key slogan rallying which most of us openly mobilised ourselves in the last
Assembly Elections. Without casting any disrespect on the TMC leadership or
their foot soldiers who made a robust electoral show in the last Assembly
elections, it may be averred that this inglorious event in the Bengal political
chapter is a frontal betrayal of whatever bit of resistance that the apolitical
segment of the societal space was trying to organise, in its own way, against
the destructive and totalitarian regime of the BJP.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">It is to be noted
that TMC had cast their chessboard very astutely and expediently, both within
the realm of the Parliamentary politics and outside of it, after a thorough
calculation of their political payoffs. They had welcomed with open arms all of
those discredited and defeated BJP leaders who had spewed communal venom. It is
true that the issue of admittance or otherwise of any persons within a political
formation is well within the prerogative of concerned political entity; and yet
the 2021 Assembly elections in Bengal assumed a different dimension altogether.
Most of us didn’t quite perceive it as a mere allocation of seats among
different political dispensations. A large section of the citizenry, casting
off the colours of political partisanship, had come out in the open and had in
their own way, scripted verses, play-acted, composed songs, made intense
parleys in both urban and rural locales, unitedly against a dominant political
ideology which loved spewing communal hatred. The corruption that has come to
the fore is a frontal assault on the generous faith that inspired such a great
endeavour. Mere expulsion of Partha<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Chatterjee cannot absolve the party of its moral responsibility. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">People in this
country now flaunt their masculinity in openly valorising Nathuram Godse. In
the current year, in the ‘International Press Freedom index’, India is placed
among the trailing 30 countries among the 180 contesting nations. The Modi Government
had appropriated every means possible to curtail media and press freedom. Even
more than its political contenders, the Bharatiya Janata Party seems to be
deeply wary of the enlightened citizenry. Most of the alternate political
dispensations are in a pitiable shape at this stage... some are suffering from
organisational weaknesses, others are rudderless in absence of a decisive
leadership, some have turned maniacal in the rush for political power and the rest
of them, which raised a semblance of hope in the initial days, are so deeply
mired in corruption, that unless some ground-breaking, far-reaching changes are
made, it would indeed be difficult to believe that that they would be able to sustain
a formidable and credible challenge against the communal forces.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">In the realms of
parliamentary democracy, it is the underlying urge of every political order
worth its name to cling to power as long as possible. The TMC had scripted
massive triumphs in the last three Assembly elections. And yet, in the last few
elections, be they the assembly/parliamentary by-elections, Panchayat or the
municipal, its relentless efforts to keep its political adversaries in check
through an open display of muscle power, had raised serious misgivings and sent
shivers down the line. And we have the well entrenched memories of how, thanks
to the courageous and formidable resistance shown by the current Chief
Minister, the entire political architecture of the Left Front and the CPI(M)
came crashing from the height of its political brazenness to a nadir of
nothingness. No political dispensation has been able to sustain itself in the
long run merely scoring on its numerical strength. If the people lose faith, no
material or muscular power can ever redeem a political party. TMC too is no
exception. History always has a tough call to take. <></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">*</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">You can
read the original Bangla article here: <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">https://mepaper.anandabazar.com/imageview_64859_5412792_4_71_03-08-2022_4_i_1_sf.html<o:p></o:p></span></p>Santanu Sinha Chaudhurihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15062744470522359652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5653188975343905818.post-25913227346620428482022-08-11T11:18:00.022+05:302022-08-11T11:55:42.124+05:30A memorable journey <p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEij4qFg-ATrCyHgfjgOQN0F96QYK4kjdSejCf8678qOKl5YBsRxbPjpqfHMA-kW0WuX617VPNykv3JhAF0aZenZUrwYQiMyMV2dc0Tf2S101sVysNUVlVVbVY7lv-wdkbWucfd-f7hBtC0bGXeKG-r_QiihTlPtz0Q3FcOcdwqt6f4OsL_mDcdwjg01" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="262" data-original-width="263" height="399" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEij4qFg-ATrCyHgfjgOQN0F96QYK4kjdSejCf8678qOKl5YBsRxbPjpqfHMA-kW0WuX617VPNykv3JhAF0aZenZUrwYQiMyMV2dc0Tf2S101sVysNUVlVVbVY7lv-wdkbWucfd-f7hBtC0bGXeKG-r_QiihTlPtz0Q3FcOcdwqt6f4OsL_mDcdwjg01=w400-h399" width="400" /></a></p><p>[I am sure that in school, you wrote an essay on this topic. I did, more than once. Here is the last piece that I will ever write under the heading]</p><p>One of my most memorable journeys has happened just today. No, I didn’t go to see the sun rising on the Kanchenjunga, nor did I see any canyon, nor the Taj. I didn’t even drive through a quiet countryside in the mysterious twilight. I just took a flight from Kolkata and came to our second home in Bengaluru. </p><br />Let me begin at the beginning. If you you’ve caught a flight at the Kolkata airport recently, you would know that their trolleys are physically challenged. So the first stroke of good luck was that I got one that had all the four wheels. <p></p><p>As I was at the tail of a long queue for checking in, a young girl who was womanning the farthest of the Jet Airways counters—who no one seemed to have noticed—came out from behind her desk and asked me and a few others behind me to move to her counter. She didn’t have to. I felt she was not just doing a job in the service sector, she was actually serving people. If all the employees like her in airlines to banks to post-offices believed that they were in the business of service, life would be so much better! It is a shame that I didn’t read her name tag. </p><p>There was no queue for security check, and unlike a few other times, I didn’t forget to collect my laptop on the other side. I bought a handful of magazines and newspapers and settled down in a comfortable chair near my departure gate. As I was debating with myself whether I should buy a coffee for a hundred bucks, I was stunned!</p><p>Deepika Padukone walked in casually pulling a leather trolley-bag and went past me. She was in a striped top, black jeans, with a light blue jacket casually thrown around her shoulders. She exuded charm and confidence, in fact, an aura of beauty, just as we have seen her on screen. She was being looked at from 360 degree around! As I watched her carefully and tried my best to look disinterested while my 65-year-old heart trembled, I felt something must have been wrong. Dipika Padukone wasn’t expected to take an all-economy flight with ordinary mortals like yours truly.</p><p>Slowly, the penny dropped. She was actually not the diva. But she could have been Deepika’s twin sister lost in a fairground. Rarely do you come across two people so uncannily identical. </p><p>After boarding the airplane, I took an aisle seat and forgot Dipika as I watched the Bengali mom seating next to me combing her twelve-year old son’s hair with the undivided attention of a neurosurgeon during brain surgery. As she was going through the procedure, she loudly complained that the boy hadn’t even learned to comb his hair. (How on earth would he, with such a loving mother? No wonder lots of Bong boys never grow up. They move from under their mother’s wings to their wife’s and thereafter, the two women fight over their possession till the cows come home.) And then Deepika Padukone boarded the aircraft! </p><p>She walked straight towards me and smiled, ‘Sir, I think you are in my seat.’ I had noticed that my seat number was 16 D, but somehow, it had become 14 D in my pickled brain. I always mix up numbers and dates and names and faces—my students have some entertainment on the side as I often call Bipasha Vishakha and Jagtaar, Jagdeep. Anyway, for a change, I thanked my dysfunctional memory as I got to get a ten-million-dollar smile thanks to it. The flight took off before time.</p><p>The food was good. Jet Airways goes out of its way to cater to food preferences of their finicky customers. Besides the usual veg and non-veg fare, they had low-fat, gluten-free, and Jain meals. And the two stewards, Subhashish and Saif who served us were exceedingly polite and helpful, like their colleague at the check-in counter. </p><p>It is common knowledge that the quality of service is inversely proportional to the size of an organisation. Of all the airlines I have flown, British Airways perhaps has the snootiest air-hostesses. At home, Indigo was super when they started. But as the airline grew bigger, the smile on the faces of their employees became shorter and shorter, until it vanished completely. Anyway, coming back to today, during the flight, Saif and Subhashish continuously moved up and down the aisle, bringing a paper to someone, a coke to another and so on, with a professional but genuine smile pasted on their faces all the time. And the pleasant experience didn’t end there. </p><p>My bag was the first to come out on the conveyor belt. And as is usual at the Bengaluru Airport, I got a taxi without immediately. But the icing on the cake was the unjammed roads – I covered the distance of forty kilometres in an hour, something that you usually do in your dreams in Bengaluru.</p><p>My stars chose to shine brightly on me today. I ought to have bought a lottery ticket after reaching home.</p><p>Bengaluru / Tuesday, 08 August 2016</p><div><br /></div>Santanu Sinha Chaudhurihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15062744470522359652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5653188975343905818.post-72821040635676625412022-07-22T18:47:00.014+05:302022-08-11T07:59:46.928+05:30A carnival of music<p><span style="text-align: justify;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYUYNGu13Y5P1uN2RltfVRPWfKNehVlRpOlkeR2Ogdk8OGfElB7oLhezBeY9As3wm_FAIPhU7gKzsJE7xvbZi9PXlDbPTTEYSWZOdEcSZocTnQW0NEHkychB9RIgEPLI5dD820YuQQyhHNBFcAGVqSvzjUtlJYnlOSORVzkOSeaaNm5jVTNb1YV-bW/s795/Baul.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="795" data-original-width="597" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYUYNGu13Y5P1uN2RltfVRPWfKNehVlRpOlkeR2Ogdk8OGfElB7oLhezBeY9As3wm_FAIPhU7gKzsJE7xvbZi9PXlDbPTTEYSWZOdEcSZocTnQW0NEHkychB9RIgEPLI5dD820YuQQyhHNBFcAGVqSvzjUtlJYnlOSORVzkOSeaaNm5jVTNb1YV-bW/w300-h400/Baul.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div><div>Dhriti, who enrolled in a master’s degree programme at our university, had been an air-hostess in her previous birth. And she did look like an ex-air-hostess—tall, slim, and gorgeous. As far as dress sense went, Dhriti was roughly two generations ahead of her time. She was often seen in economical shorts and spaghetti tops, not to mention faded jeans and see-through white shirts. </div><div><br /></div><div>Soon, she formed an apparently deep friendship with her classmate Keshav, who we called Keshav Da because he was a married man in his late-thirties. The liaison disappointed many, needless to say. Keshav, was short, dark, and fat, but had an intelligent face with piercing eyes and bushy beards. The last object, along with his circular metal-rimmed glasses made him look like a nineteenth century Bengali intellectual who had just materialised form a Rabindranath Tagore novel. He wore parachute pyjamas and white kurtas. When Keshav and Dhriti were together, aesthetically and sartorially, they were a study in contrasts. The odd pair was always seen together, on the campus and outside. Actually, they were a threesome, they had a sidekick too, a thin guy of vague features. But lackeys are not remembered by history, not even as footnotes. I’ve forgotten his name. </div><div><br /></div><div>Keshav was a touch snooty; normally, he wouldn’t deign to talk to lesser mortals like yours truly. The first time when I had the good fortune was an evening when both of us happened to be customers at Raju’s hooch shop in Goalpara. In winter, Raju sold excellent tadi made of date palm sap at his dimly lit open-air tavern. When we both were sufficiently tipsy, Keshav spoke to me at length. He was an erudite man, I discovered. The light friendship we developed that evening when we were drunk continued in times when we were both sober, unlike what had happened in Chaplin’s City Lights. </div><div><br /></div><div>I don’t recall who I went there with, but I clearly remember that Ganesh, a familiar Bihari rikshaw puller, was a fellow drinker that evening. I remember Ganesh’s presence because suddenly, he burst out singing a familiar Tagore song, Badal baul bajay re ektaara. Bauls are a sect of wandering minstrels in Bengal; the song is about a baul cloud playing the ektara, a one-stringed instrument, as the matted hair of the sky darkened the world at the onset of a storm. The song was a tad incongruous under a cloudless winter sky lit up by a trillion stars above and a hurricane lantern below, but Ganesh sang it beautifully. His diction was a little rustic, but the tune was perfect. It was one of those unforgettable snippets of time that remains with you for ever. </div><div><br /></div><div>A few weeks after the Goalpara rendezvous, my friend Dibyen and I were on a bus on our way to Jaydev Kenduli on the bank of Ajay. The local people believe—without evidence—the village Jaydev Kenduli is the birthplace of the thirteenth-century poet Jaydev, who composed Geet Govinda, a landmark on the Bengal literary landscape, in Sanskrit in the 13th century. Jaydev Kenduli is also a religious centre with old temples and several ashrams where thousands of bauls congregate in the Bengali month of Poush (December-January), at the end of which a fair is organised over three days. The fair is actually a carnival of bauls, and it was also believed the best of Indian hemp was found there in happy abundance. </div><div><br /></div><div>Dibyen, my partner in minor crimes, was thrilling company. A charming fellow, he had interest in almost everything in life. (He is very much alive today. The past tense just indicates I’ve lost touch with him!) He and I wanted to get a taste of baul songs at their authentic best. We also looked forward to smoking grass. </div><div><br /></div><div>As it was the last day of the fair, we just about managed to find seats on the last row of a bus, which filled quickly. Soon, before us was stood a solid mass of human bodies, mostly male, some of whom were smoking. Because of the freezing draft, the windows had been shut. The cocktail of smoke and human smell created an interesting ambience in the bus. </div><div><br /></div><div>About half an hour into the journey, I had nodded off when there was a sudden commotion. It seemed everyone was jumping towards the front and left of the bus. Fortunately, any force applied within a moving bus doesn’t have an impact on the bus as a whole, thanks to what Sir Isaac Newton called his Third Law of Motion. Otherwise, the bus would have overturned. What was the matter, had a pickpocket been caught? When I asked someone, the excited man said in the local dialect, ‘Bitichheleto bidi keche go!’ (Oh Dear! That female is smoking!)</div><div><br /></div><div>Dibyen and me wanted to get to the bottom of the matter, and what did we see? The troika mentioned at the beginning of this story had seated themselves comfortably on the corner seat beside the driver. And Dhriti, in faded jeans and a white shirt, was calmly smoking a bidi, the indigenous cigarette made of unprocessed tobacco and leaves. she was gracefully unaware about the commotion her simple act had created. … Incidentally, that was the last time I saw Dhriti. For some reason, she would leave Santiniketan a few days later, never to return. </div><div><br /></div><div>*</div><div> </div><div>Darkness descended soon after we walked from the bus stop to the river bank. Ajoy is a mighty river during the rains, but in the winter, water was nowhere more than waist-deep. The wide expanse of sand with a few slender streams were waiting for the holy dip to be taken by a few thousand faithful a few hours later. In the tenebrous twilight on the fairground dotted with trees, shacks, and small eateries, there were thousands of people. All of them except a few like us were children of Rural Bengal. And there was something else. </div><div><br /></div><div>As I grew up in post-Partition West Bengal through years of refugees, floods, draughts, and near-famines, I thought I had seen poverty, but that evening I realised that I hadn’t. Everywhere in the fairground there were shallow holes of say six by two feet, crudely dug and covered with hay, twigs, and leaves. I had seen nothing of its kind before, and at first, I couldn’t understand what purpose they might serve. The penny dropped after a while. They were temporary homes, not of the bauls who stayed at the ashrams, but of the beggars, who had gathered there in hundreds hoping to cash on the pilgrimage-induced generosity in the minds of the people taking the holy dip. In the biting cold of the Birbhum riverbank in mid-January, they had made themselves the most wretched homes one could imagine. But those wretched of the earth were a side-story in the carnival of music. </div><div><br /></div><div>The soul of the fair was in the many circles formed by bauls in colourful clothes, who were singing with the accompaniment of an instrument with just one or two strings, and sometimes, keeping the beat by holding ghungroos in hand. Except for the singer, others were smoking grass from earthen pipes, which were passed on to the next person after a l-o-o-o-ng, unhurried puff. The pipe went around; the air was heavy with the captivating aroma of hemp. </div><div><br /></div><div>After walking aimlessly for a few hours, when Dibyen and I were tired, we sat down in one of the circles and received the smoky prasad when our turn came, no questions asked. We listened to songs by rustic voices that recreated the smell of the Bengal earth and sky. In the dark new moon night, anything outside that circle of holy bliss meant nothing. Gradually, the world beyond receded from our consciousness. What bliss!</div><div><br /></div><div>The singers were poor men rich in happiness. The exact opposite of the money-rich-time-poor young business officials of our time. The night grew older, but no one noticed. <></div></div><div><span style="text-align: justify;"> </span></div>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Bengaluru / </span>22 July 2022</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Santanu Sinha Chaudhurihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15062744470522359652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5653188975343905818.post-82219959270172168072022-06-17T17:17:00.004+05:302022-06-17T17:17:38.747+05:30From ONE RANK, ONE PENSION to NO RANK, NO PENSION<p> A friend of mine who I respect a lot has
written on Facebook: “I think the Agneepath recruitment scheme is excellent.
One retires young with about 12 lakhs in his/her bank account. At 25 the
retired Agniveer remains eligible for a wide range of jobs.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">For those unfamiliar with the beautifully named
scheme, Agnipath is a plan is to recruit men between 17 ½ and 21 years in the armed
forces. The recruits, called Agniveers, will be a distinct rank, different from
all other existing military ranks. So far so good, but the catch is they will
serve for 4 years and no more, although 25% of them will get the opportunity to
join the regular forces. After drawing a fixed salary for 4 years, they will go
home with Rupees 11.71 lakhs. No gratuity, no pension.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Moving back to my friend’s post, I do not know
if he has lost his mind or is being deliberately provocative. His opinion is
grossly untenable for the following reasons:</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">(1) The 25-year-old will be ready for jobs, as my
friend says, but jobs won’t be ready for him, particularly in the current economic
scenario.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">(2) Hand over 11-12 lakhs in cash to 10 twenty-five-year-olds,
9 of them will either blow it away in months or invest in assets like a house,
which unfortunately cannot be eaten. People with much better experience with managing
funds find it tough to manage a corpus to yield enough for their monthly
expenses, particularly when interest rates are falling steadily. Ask any
retired person except the blessed government pensioners, you know how the
cookie crumbles. Do you seriously expect a moderately educated 25-year–old with
natural cravings for the good things in life—fast bikes and fancy clothes, not
to mention wine and women—learn to invest astutely or begin a successful
business in a decaying economy? You must be kidding!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">(3) The Agnipath scheme is also called “Tour of
Duty.” Does it allow us a Freudian peep into the minds of the Gujju idiots who
consider the army a “tour”? Last night, I was hearing a retired Colonel’s
opinion that the Indian Army needs 5 to 6 years to make a jawan battle-ready. Therefore,
this bizarre four-year “tour” will not only make the armed forces weaker, it
will also destroy the ironclad discipline and efficiency of the Indian army, which
is one of the finest in the world. The traditions and discipline built over
centuries of blood and sweat will be destroyed in a stroke of a failing
government which doesn’t have money to pay pension. But has money for projects
like the Bullet Train, the tallest statue in the world, PM’s fancy residence,
and a subway for him to drive to office, and so on.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">(4) When they are out of the army, how will
these unemployed young men with incomplete military training (and discipline)
be used by a religious fascist government? Will the Brown / Black Shirts from
Europe in the 1930s come back? I don’t see any other way to deploy them given
the shrinking economy, ever decreasing job opportunities, and our relentless
journey on the fascist path.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">(5) According to Yogendra Yadav, a rare
politician who talks sense, the vacancies in the army at the jawan’s level was
16,500 eight years ago, but now it has ballooned up to 97,000. So, the
government that blabbers ceaselessly on national security has neglected what
matters most.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">(6) Yogendra Yadav also said Punjab, Haryana,
Rajasthan, Bihar and a few other states with a martial tradition contribute a
large percentage to our armed forces. Personally, I have seen, many from Kerala
and Tamil Nadu join the army. However, unlike them, the North Indian states have
little job opportunities outside the army. Therefore, from the teenage, boys
there work hard, exercise, run miles and miles to prepare for the military. The
new scheme has also made recruitment uniform all over India. Therefore, if a
Haryanvi youth could look at say, 1000 vacancies in the past, now will find
much fewer, perhaps 250. We can understand why young people have burst in anger
in North India. And why young men are committing suicide.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">I do hope there won’t be another suicide and the
protests will be peaceful. Neither will another train be burned or any other
property destroyed. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly;">Finally, this is the latest of a number of
disastrous steps taken by the current government which began with
demonetization. Hopefully, this will be the last and one hopes the government will
have the wisdom to shelve the bizarre plan immediately.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">PS: I have copied the caption of the story from
Facebook. I will acknowledge the author as soon as I see the post again.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">17 June 2022<o:p></o:p></span></p>Santanu Sinha Chaudhurihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15062744470522359652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5653188975343905818.post-58373568398331867212022-05-06T18:29:00.201+05:302022-05-06T20:14:00.889+05:30California Diary 1: From Pacifica to Morro Bay<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDXXeVHvKSk2VLIuH0oZ1u7z_Gvh41vm_ZQoR61HCM7o7uXKCeWudvQ4Arz0IYWB-0eArj6i-oDvRiUu_ffxSIBVjbxtZFJqdM8p2aBbnwxwct2OppGAk-r_RFAlhR5ml1r8OLvAn-9YThqbgR2zx1OrReNY3c0vN-OfbmIOYuocVI14X4HmX61InU/s3147/IMG_8493.HEIC" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2449" data-original-width="3147" height="498" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDXXeVHvKSk2VLIuH0oZ1u7z_Gvh41vm_ZQoR61HCM7o7uXKCeWudvQ4Arz0IYWB-0eArj6i-oDvRiUu_ffxSIBVjbxtZFJqdM8p2aBbnwxwct2OppGAk-r_RFAlhR5ml1r8OLvAn-9YThqbgR2zx1OrReNY3c0vN-OfbmIOYuocVI14X4HmX61InU/w640-h498/IMG_8493.HEIC" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>Last month, when Arundhati and I spent a few weeks in California, our son
Ritwik hired an eight-seater Toyota Sienna and took us on a drive along the
California coastline. I have been fortunate to travel to many beautiful places
and I’d say that the 450-kilometre drive was one of the loveliest I have ever experienced.
We drove along California State Route 1 which connects San Francisco with Los
Angeles and runs almost entirely along the coast. As we were driving south, on
our right was the deep blue Pacific, colossal, awe-inspiring, and unvarying. On
our left was the coastal mountains of California, which for some reason, has no
given name unlike her cousins with well-known names, Sierra Nevada and the
Rockies. She’s just called the <i>Coastal Mountain Range.</i>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">As we drove, landforms on our left kept changing every 20 miles or so:
from rugged mountains to dark forests, to open land with millions of flowers
blooming in the spring, to huge tracts of agricultural land on the slopes of
hills on which cows were grazing. If you have found the previous sentence
little heavy and difficult to follow, then I have been able to convey what I
had felt during the journey. <i>It was a bit too much of captivating sights!</i>
I have had similar feeling in large art museums. After a few hours, the brain
refuses to absorb anymore.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">We began at a place called Pacifica, a picture of which you see above, and ended at Morro Bay. The unvaried
sea and the widely varying landscape were punctuated with quaint little towns
that were straight from Western movies. Let me digress for a moment here. My
Oxford dictionary defines the word “city” as “a large town”. Americans however
apparently call every human settlement a city. For example, Carmel-by-the-Sea or
simply Carmel, is a city with an area of 2.75 kilometre and a population of
3,220! I will come back to this place in the course of this travelogue. The cities
on the way that were somewhat bigger were Salinas (population 163,000) and Monterey
(30,000). Incidentally, the American author John Steinbeck was born in Salinas
and Monterey has a named after one of his novels, The Cannery Row.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">I guess the introduction has been long enough! Let’s see some pictures.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP0LCBaJVCreY1W0XETuR6SL1Y01pEjx0BTWpiZ_C2xm8p4nj17CgAk7cDWIP0u0mglyKKKu6E7F7UHwoLS6FC_fBzy0Co9u5r9j-zwvAxCEIxhgvyI7g1mskN168APV40dONx-yFUHKI8x-LjDYKdEk8GSTNVc73KiHAE26MGS5LtbICSOjWEqxSx/s1093/4%20Flowers%20on%20the%20way%201.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="819" data-original-width="1093" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP0LCBaJVCreY1W0XETuR6SL1Y01pEjx0BTWpiZ_C2xm8p4nj17CgAk7cDWIP0u0mglyKKKu6E7F7UHwoLS6FC_fBzy0Co9u5r9j-zwvAxCEIxhgvyI7g1mskN168APV40dONx-yFUHKI8x-LjDYKdEk8GSTNVc73KiHAE26MGS5LtbICSOjWEqxSx/w640-h480/4%20Flowers%20on%20the%20way%201.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wild flowers on the way</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3xuNc9d6vOTvnHPHYwEHnl7T59y_qwqqBtra6DYiBgFGm8j8fJS_vOKJ56q0glrEhGm_rzA5HIB3AJz4byEkh-viSW1LrZ8YgHzStzfXI-TvCfu26Mb7GpXYZOV87IpB1a_aItkj1TD62gFwrB5exbqHFKf0RM0bU3CEPxDbIB7pfnjNZmn8yhxXP/s4032/6%20Sea%20from%20Lighthouse.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3xuNc9d6vOTvnHPHYwEHnl7T59y_qwqqBtra6DYiBgFGm8j8fJS_vOKJ56q0glrEhGm_rzA5HIB3AJz4byEkh-viSW1LrZ8YgHzStzfXI-TvCfu26Mb7GpXYZOV87IpB1a_aItkj1TD62gFwrB5exbqHFKf0RM0bU3CEPxDbIB7pfnjNZmn8yhxXP/w640-h480/6%20Sea%20from%20Lighthouse.HEIC" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLfIKgmPo0hIBsH0gDWfv6Xo2olW72wEvWOsGnNOHKYeiwNT7f6WC8daKOVkOAqa0996Al_z3LxlVAvtldgMbA1c_Ohqi6Tn2thFeOCbyt8soKf3kpLjAWPMS7ZTfQrv5BjNbqVsU2zUbrQcMpI-CmIILDEpOoCYgM_S7zhrdwGUavimxrTPrDZwVr/s3301/8%20Pigeon%20Point%20Lighthouse.HEIC" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3301" data-original-width="2286" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLfIKgmPo0hIBsH0gDWfv6Xo2olW72wEvWOsGnNOHKYeiwNT7f6WC8daKOVkOAqa0996Al_z3LxlVAvtldgMbA1c_Ohqi6Tn2thFeOCbyt8soKf3kpLjAWPMS7ZTfQrv5BjNbqVsU2zUbrQcMpI-CmIILDEpOoCYgM_S7zhrdwGUavimxrTPrDZwVr/w278-h400/8%20Pigeon%20Point%20Lighthouse.HEIC" width="278" /></a></div>The Pacific Ocean seen from the Pigeon Point Lighthouse. The lighthouse, built in 1871, is one of the two tallest lighthouses on the west coast of North America and is still functional. <div><br /></div><div>"Research published 2022 by the San Mateo County Office of Sustainability found that the lighthouse was vulnerable to erosion caused by sea level rise." [Wikipedia].<div><br /></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">What
you see below are not dead fish. They are female and young elephant seals.
</span><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Ninety miles south of Monterey,</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> we
came across the stretch where 25,000 elephant seals come and relax during
different times of the year. The place is called </span><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Piedras Blancas Rookery,
rookery being the term for the breeding ground for sea mammals. </span><span style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></p></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbFK48tK6xBgNH6eDxB5r-pqMJ9-J5nLzj37ji1lOMku325X71dt0ghM3rYRbxGC6ahaW1YJcPQURWQtFl5iioUuRbFpLw2dAEA-YwnLjK47uGfNudmMxM5VJnTVFPX75DLyvd2NpIKiEnZqfMLX80cjeI7v9QdDxUF7HIHR1C18_zYP2Xseo1ejM6/s820/9%20Seals%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="820" data-original-width="614" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbFK48tK6xBgNH6eDxB5r-pqMJ9-J5nLzj37ji1lOMku325X71dt0ghM3rYRbxGC6ahaW1YJcPQURWQtFl5iioUuRbFpLw2dAEA-YwnLjK47uGfNudmMxM5VJnTVFPX75DLyvd2NpIKiEnZqfMLX80cjeI7v9QdDxUF7HIHR1C18_zYP2Xseo1ejM6/s16000/9%20Seals%201.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkp6YxbQiUMpQkc00OzI_uPtWnwrSY-NNp_MPAfISoPJ-W-NfpuiWBkE2acDxvaeueL5rdK0GwWH4TPeJeS1X_FDG_TcSV7h_S3A0yHOPo27nKRGO-7ORykhEROLxebKjP8cgbRV8CdT79pRFDiRoGnnc2xzelyuTI-bR_V3yXX8knn27yQmyaKNCh/s1248/10%20Seals%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="819" data-original-width="1248" height="421" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkp6YxbQiUMpQkc00OzI_uPtWnwrSY-NNp_MPAfISoPJ-W-NfpuiWBkE2acDxvaeueL5rdK0GwWH4TPeJeS1X_FDG_TcSV7h_S3A0yHOPo27nKRGO-7ORykhEROLxebKjP8cgbRV8CdT79pRFDiRoGnnc2xzelyuTI-bR_V3yXX8knn27yQmyaKNCh/w640-h421/10%20Seals%202.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>April-May is the moulting season, when female elephant seals shed their skin. They eat nothing for months during their sojourn on the beach. However, it was not the season when males come ashore in search of mates. Adult male elephant seals, which can be as long as 4-5 m and weigh up to 2,300 kg, would be something to watch. The females in comparison are much smaller at 2.5-4 m long and weigh 400-800 kg. </div><div><br /></div><div>We passed by Carmel-by-the-Sea, or Carmel. It is a tiny but wealthy city in Monterey County which has beautiful
plush homes right on the beach front. Many of them apparently are owned by
actors and artists who obviously have deep pockets. Movie star Clint Eastwood
was elected the mayor of the city in 1986.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPCPkGGTIvXIiNbmKqoDky3el1jGzKI2E2-L7yqFhKMAhqmAIFgFQ9wtzgpteMgKvHrL6D8Epo6tIAqjhCO7w96Caq1SogqXUMovZ09oypw3i_7JX0mFqOCfMWBrc8QgAIuk1Ne8WfLAm9WOhJ9yFdzutdQXDKwwgNYk3YRkm-8gclo0GY9wT0WfAs/s3804/11%20Our%20Hotel%20in%20Carmel.HEIC" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3804" data-original-width="2635" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPCPkGGTIvXIiNbmKqoDky3el1jGzKI2E2-L7yqFhKMAhqmAIFgFQ9wtzgpteMgKvHrL6D8Epo6tIAqjhCO7w96Caq1SogqXUMovZ09oypw3i_7JX0mFqOCfMWBrc8QgAIuk1Ne8WfLAm9WOhJ9yFdzutdQXDKwwgNYk3YRkm-8gclo0GY9wT0WfAs/w444-h640/11%20Our%20Hotel%20in%20Carmel.HEIC" width="444" /></a></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.4px; text-align: left;">Our hotel was away from the beach. It was a quiet place in the lap of nature. Nishaant is carrying a crutch as he broke his leg while playing a few weeks ago.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.4px; text-align: left;">The Riverside Inn is beside a river which was narrower than the sign you see in the picture below.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRk8M5mqSrC79WtLg8EgRosZ5Bs8Si7CzPIHk1djsDE0ZqOi9crc9d860TuiZpPMiluTn-CG_miZKgO7sPMl8GdXgaXJOUiJ-Vx6L-IqwAgK1XhMt5EmXCKlCmDxdZAeeljpPITTGqDqQZLTvLH2CA4ZGKeLLanQiODsIWzj5OIVqHX8GSTV-DI2OF/s3024/12_8540.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRk8M5mqSrC79WtLg8EgRosZ5Bs8Si7CzPIHk1djsDE0ZqOi9crc9d860TuiZpPMiluTn-CG_miZKgO7sPMl8GdXgaXJOUiJ-Vx6L-IqwAgK1XhMt5EmXCKlCmDxdZAeeljpPITTGqDqQZLTvLH2CA4ZGKeLLanQiODsIWzj5OIVqHX8GSTV-DI2OF/w640-h640/12_8540.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9EV-OFtdYcQMKH2RR2rWnwhkxpZEMQoSdSWC-LknlvDYPycdWAGHEK3IM4qx3TdHH-feGmyHDcq4ZDDNOO8xLS0XE27e1i00ooBZHFOp2kj9cTStYVHx5k0gQ3jjamqcgyRx-8MY77oNjmWjYh7jVFMgCPVUH4rt6ZKyW7_JgKy0-0K4Gy3r521cW/s3171/14%20the%20sun%20sets%20on%20Day%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2378" data-original-width="3171" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9EV-OFtdYcQMKH2RR2rWnwhkxpZEMQoSdSWC-LknlvDYPycdWAGHEK3IM4qx3TdHH-feGmyHDcq4ZDDNOO8xLS0XE27e1i00ooBZHFOp2kj9cTStYVHx5k0gQ3jjamqcgyRx-8MY77oNjmWjYh7jVFMgCPVUH4rt6ZKyW7_JgKy0-0K4Gy3r521cW/w640-h480/14%20the%20sun%20sets%20on%20Day%201.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">The sun sets in Carmel-by-the-Sea, but a little away from the sea</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoEWxJchBowzcYTWCdjBywxrgwpl0jfTHwcx95YfZgpAaQ9bGTXNsbNAOuyxHSchOuKgfXoR6gXFLLnf_OTsCAYNhD__gT0xX4stM-9qWNVvd8yYh9RF3vDiS4_rwaErwnklS8NFuBFbITzh5S9iQPwZmBfzQTSDv_et2E3sf8MFpFlxXQFl8g-dZB/s4032/16%20The%20Hotel%20next%20morning.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoEWxJchBowzcYTWCdjBywxrgwpl0jfTHwcx95YfZgpAaQ9bGTXNsbNAOuyxHSchOuKgfXoR6gXFLLnf_OTsCAYNhD__gT0xX4stM-9qWNVvd8yYh9RF3vDiS4_rwaErwnklS8NFuBFbITzh5S9iQPwZmBfzQTSDv_et2E3sf8MFpFlxXQFl8g-dZB/w640-h480/16%20The%20Hotel%20next%20morning.HEIC" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL4N3ici8MOejyRB04AFh-mhaP6F_gSvhL-4XVHwX7M_-OV3tMToxgsyGQB_ZzbKOXhb2Sxxc7ZmtB-Jwv-z1Ghdxv_4JF4CNviX7JtLBu-5Sdb4uHIeyXIa45goLua8FgNifyvWVYvyt30mHTzAloyFYw3DJ9rG8XFQMJEsP3Ubyh_Ls2U3E-ZOIg/s3948/18%20At%20the%20Basilica.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3948" data-original-width="2961" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL4N3ici8MOejyRB04AFh-mhaP6F_gSvhL-4XVHwX7M_-OV3tMToxgsyGQB_ZzbKOXhb2Sxxc7ZmtB-Jwv-z1Ghdxv_4JF4CNviX7JtLBu-5Sdb4uHIeyXIa45goLua8FgNifyvWVYvyt30mHTzAloyFYw3DJ9rG8XFQMJEsP3Ubyh_Ls2U3E-ZOIg/w300-h400/18%20At%20the%20Basilica.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>This is how the place looked next morning. </div><div><br /></div><div>Spanish colonialists from Mexico invaded and captured California in the 18th century and called the province <i>Alta California. </i>(Alta means upper and baja means lower in Spanish, <i>Baja California</i> is a state in Mexico just south of the US California.) As everywhere else, missionaries were the soft power used by Spanish imperialists too, who set up their first mission in San Diego in southern tip of present-day California in 1769, and followed it up with a slew of missions along the coast up to San Francisco. In these missions, padres made every effort to bring native Americans to civilization, using temptations and brute force. But it was not smooth sailing for theme, the San Diego mission was burnt down by rebellious locals in 1775. </div><div><br /></div><div>In the background of this picture is Carmel Mission Basilica, founded in 1771 by Saint Junipero Serra.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsJfW7bolAgFOLqSN6IxQsv0eXvZAOw-YIVqT2RukN_0XQH5FjX0Gr7LmBwtwTQr8t5A_PHXD3guNKhitduwfEVy-t-iPn1HBOXyX2j7Hbrp5Hp7Vn-zpibQ9aqyB0Ct19DjHPDYdM_C7GFVMx0aQjrA-XRbTaX84B5EQRepEh-O9kFL4ZfgA7pTKD/s4032/20%20Bridge.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsJfW7bolAgFOLqSN6IxQsv0eXvZAOw-YIVqT2RukN_0XQH5FjX0Gr7LmBwtwTQr8t5A_PHXD3guNKhitduwfEVy-t-iPn1HBOXyX2j7Hbrp5Hp7Vn-zpibQ9aqyB0Ct19DjHPDYdM_C7GFVMx0aQjrA-XRbTaX84B5EQRepEh-O9kFL4ZfgA7pTKD/w480-h640/20%20Bridge.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">I wish I could tell you the name of the river on which the bridge is. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">The pictures below however, do not need labels. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTX6LEJmsFwvfO0tsAO9sWs_d3Y5GTiJfDtIrxdKrWoM52Bg9LWi2I0xtUC2KQlsgIdsJRA4d8dW4OLx7Fhryo4GMBCK9lil5pANwNUtxIzh6JifmKBbPub4WvakXH1WbQqbJYqvikJruCIsr02wEB9kRtxue9AOaF_LHQZ0vTUInFLp4CoFEpmgHL/s3519/22%20More%20flowers.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2495" data-original-width="3519" height="454" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTX6LEJmsFwvfO0tsAO9sWs_d3Y5GTiJfDtIrxdKrWoM52Bg9LWi2I0xtUC2KQlsgIdsJRA4d8dW4OLx7Fhryo4GMBCK9lil5pANwNUtxIzh6JifmKBbPub4WvakXH1WbQqbJYqvikJruCIsr02wEB9kRtxue9AOaF_LHQZ0vTUInFLp4CoFEpmgHL/w640-h454/22%20More%20flowers.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwBLxdYTNRg049PwqeiVhTH8gpUY89Za3KOQ13vNywBqYeQsanM-q522I1xqWXadgL7mMpgpZaa6unDYR2WVWqe7YwxJVTwbohKh3Pfa4TnzYKKs6kcZgFSMdCZ9lNSVFQQj4Kcfb2hVkqKDqYBgLSYnSuUZx_AuLTdua8g2JrGmHiws-hMzdf9B0V/s4032/24%20Still%20More%20flowers.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwBLxdYTNRg049PwqeiVhTH8gpUY89Za3KOQ13vNywBqYeQsanM-q522I1xqWXadgL7mMpgpZaa6unDYR2WVWqe7YwxJVTwbohKh3Pfa4TnzYKKs6kcZgFSMdCZ9lNSVFQQj4Kcfb2hVkqKDqYBgLSYnSuUZx_AuLTdua8g2JrGmHiws-hMzdf9B0V/w640-h480/24%20Still%20More%20flowers.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRIHUZFB1QfRQHybIdNdm49EkPuZeippdzzVb8v4Ti8bt3N8OgDEPNnbtK0TQTYzJjYiZn9jT3VL8gjVlq8wRt4EydLpvDxWgrLez13if9M344bSfIRN1Rl0mg8NbKjCprPjn8L9wxCoBfPY8jFfOktSsLVEN2CkXZSSDw_ksi3ou1yNyUpUibkoV9/s1094/26%20Morro%20Bay%20Afternoon.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="820" data-original-width="1094" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRIHUZFB1QfRQHybIdNdm49EkPuZeippdzzVb8v4Ti8bt3N8OgDEPNnbtK0TQTYzJjYiZn9jT3VL8gjVlq8wRt4EydLpvDxWgrLez13if9M344bSfIRN1Rl0mg8NbKjCprPjn8L9wxCoBfPY8jFfOktSsLVEN2CkXZSSDw_ksi3ou1yNyUpUibkoV9/w640-h480/26%20Morro%20Bay%20Afternoon.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Our journey ended at Morro Bay, the main feature of the place being volcanic mound Morro Rock. Morro Bay, a city of 10,000 people looked desolate after sundown. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP8fs6ipkxb1x9gIEWO_7FsCUL24xjkEJp6OVWnf2w1GKRwHguvmh_zPSm3o2U7O6jMMwrgWyrG2CXhgxeu9IQj6PxOiQh1U3w7RpCDO4D0ps665ZFnpEEAQthppMYdUXfo1p-DmxYFp23NjhtGDK8HC698-4UUzzg0OAz_QvDBkU6s6cN6eznNgBG/s4032/28%20Morro%20Bay%20by%20Night.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP8fs6ipkxb1x9gIEWO_7FsCUL24xjkEJp6OVWnf2w1GKRwHguvmh_zPSm3o2U7O6jMMwrgWyrG2CXhgxeu9IQj6PxOiQh1U3w7RpCDO4D0ps665ZFnpEEAQthppMYdUXfo1p-DmxYFp23NjhtGDK8HC698-4UUzzg0OAz_QvDBkU6s6cN6eznNgBG/w640-h480/28%20Morro%20Bay%20by%20Night.HEIC" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBkOQUdj7Xo9JmPLvNlkUPm42CHahmzzblQ4BU9NEeauEYt5f0SLsFG-AGLeLWU-yrW14-EDwRLkDrZy51rjos9NDoe5Vp_KcGYuguhnOTh9pLnT8fPPZzOisoqgnJLFzBAKCbsiwZfLu3HKRGKS7nwJzdNlRsemG6buZapdy_XHjPGdMqOp6D5UA5/s820/30%20Morro%20Bay%20Morning.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="820" data-original-width="615" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBkOQUdj7Xo9JmPLvNlkUPm42CHahmzzblQ4BU9NEeauEYt5f0SLsFG-AGLeLWU-yrW14-EDwRLkDrZy51rjos9NDoe5Vp_KcGYuguhnOTh9pLnT8fPPZzOisoqgnJLFzBAKCbsiwZfLu3HKRGKS7nwJzdNlRsemG6buZapdy_XHjPGdMqOp6D5UA5/w480-h640/30%20Morro%20Bay%20Morning.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">In the morning that followed</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3EzlO9tFvoqaOxmMQLxi3FzWSyo6u68l8RJyE6qV_Ixdv6Yt1FbcGF6XveI7uK8GR14wxwwkiwJ2N30jsZ1tBxefEmSVC4S6bOu26Z9a4W310on-t5VXrTvjy-Z1458WURAKhtN1BRZRzXppDoldQL0q7CcR5jJWkDgC7HqlhWnPuL2J2fHoSAPWW/s4032/31%20The%20City%20in%20Daylight.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3EzlO9tFvoqaOxmMQLxi3FzWSyo6u68l8RJyE6qV_Ixdv6Yt1FbcGF6XveI7uK8GR14wxwwkiwJ2N30jsZ1tBxefEmSVC4S6bOu26Z9a4W310on-t5VXrTvjy-Z1458WURAKhtN1BRZRzXppDoldQL0q7CcR5jJWkDgC7HqlhWnPuL2J2fHoSAPWW/w480-h640/31%20The%20City%20in%20Daylight.HEIC" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK11LOVDFC8UOtkbxzmhGEQcxRPqAe_0AVqO__qFCCb5HCn_Tl5c1k0Vy3LAhaVQjuIDw08nEu9ExTT9SkcldOrG6eGmgEx8K7-1DC-KQsZ_BEtwkzTi61twNvpFAzDWQ6ZKG0a77wrTt6vYTInfqPYX2SpcAs5P89kS9KTqDigajqfta-5oDDz_DD/s3288/32%20The%20Marina.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3288" data-original-width="2236" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK11LOVDFC8UOtkbxzmhGEQcxRPqAe_0AVqO__qFCCb5HCn_Tl5c1k0Vy3LAhaVQjuIDw08nEu9ExTT9SkcldOrG6eGmgEx8K7-1DC-KQsZ_BEtwkzTi61twNvpFAzDWQ6ZKG0a77wrTt6vYTInfqPYX2SpcAs5P89kS9KTqDigajqfta-5oDDz_DD/w436-h640/32%20The%20Marina.HEIC" width="436" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">The marina. In the whale country, this is how the weather cock looks.</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDAZinUgrCLbruAHH4W7blz5vDGkhAfZQ-L0GM-FLbTXvxidEm7YZcOkoqT5VBCjGB-zxcEH7o40bsTDvewaM6UIrILgPLcTV3kcfu6TdlYfX28Co5xMaLr2UWz1XqvkXy85Th7g0SKLS89KjbynPNwAbo06q52YKDh9xBkBS6JiJyTrvmigv1otjJ/s4032/34%20The%20fish%20country.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDAZinUgrCLbruAHH4W7blz5vDGkhAfZQ-L0GM-FLbTXvxidEm7YZcOkoqT5VBCjGB-zxcEH7o40bsTDvewaM6UIrILgPLcTV3kcfu6TdlYfX28Co5xMaLr2UWz1XqvkXy85Th7g0SKLS89KjbynPNwAbo06q52YKDh9xBkBS6JiJyTrvmigv1otjJ/w480-h640/34%20The%20fish%20country.HEIC" width="480" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Finally, the route, courtesy Mr. Google</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJRuE25Su51r5pPShiGJywaeHDhihIdNigiGtTEsrhsrNjNEZoXfcel7Z60q25Mlv0Qd-S_jkSSmFS2eIwBwURXtrRDoVMQ2C1tIGkUGxjckZyLRb1qIR6fhxBgy52NO62wH2HnQdN3oLea9yyGAv8RfM1zbmw0KVPTV7igNsVSKDrBXP3AGs3efM8/s1225/0%20California%20Coast.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="803" data-original-width="1225" height="420" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJRuE25Su51r5pPShiGJywaeHDhihIdNigiGtTEsrhsrNjNEZoXfcel7Z60q25Mlv0Qd-S_jkSSmFS2eIwBwURXtrRDoVMQ2C1tIGkUGxjckZyLRb1qIR6fhxBgy52NO62wH2HnQdN3oLea9yyGAv8RfM1zbmw0KVPTV7igNsVSKDrBXP3AGs3efM8/w640-h420/0%20California%20Coast.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></p></div></div>Santanu Sinha Chaudhurihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15062744470522359652noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5653188975343905818.post-41295084978404929332022-04-30T23:49:00.061+05:302022-05-01T10:23:30.943+05:30Three questions in the time of cholera<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #050505; text-align: left;">I was born in a middleclass
Bengali family in the early 1950s. “Middleclass” those days meant the glass was
always half full. But the more important aspect of my family was the modifier
“Bengali”. We spoke Bangla at home and everywhere. Listened to Bangla songs and
watched Bangla films. We read Bangla alone, with the exception of an English
newspaper, </span><i style="color: #050505; text-align: left;">The Statesman</i><span style="color: #050505; text-align: left;">. Being Indian was important, but it was in the
background; the everyday reality of our life revolved around Bengaliness.</span></div>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #050505; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Historic"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: BN-BD; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-IN;">Gentle reader, you would
have noticed that I have described the time of my childhood without a religious
marker, without telling you what religion we belonged to. Such was the time. My
parents didn’t care much for religion either. My father never participated in
the somewhat perfunctory pujas offered by mother—without the aid of a priest—to
the goddess of learning Saraswati and to her older sister Laxmi, the deity of
wealth, once a year. Besides, every Thursday, Ma would read a hymn before the
framed picture of Laxmi. (The picture was a bit worn out, like the financial
state of our family.) But I believe these acts were less about religion and
more about culture, like the community Durga pujas, or making pithe with
powdered rice, jaggery, and cocoanut, a practice that continues to this day as
a trace of the harvesting festival in the distant past when most people
depended directly on farming.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #050505; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Historic"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: BN-BD; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-IN;">The Hindu religion played
little role in our life. Religion was never discussed at home. However, my
parents were not irreligious. In fact, both of them deeply believed in,
ignoring every evidence to the contrary, a supreme power somewhere above that
worked relentlessly for the good of humanity. <i>Anyway, the bottom line was
that our religious identity didn’t matter.</i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #050505; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Historic"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: BN-BD; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-IN;">Also, although my parents
had lived through the violent Hindu-Muslim riots of 1946, never ever did I hear
them say a word against Muslims. They knew neither community was holier than
the other, and more importantly, an-eye-for-an-eye could only lead us to a
kingdom of the blind.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #050505; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Historic"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: BN-BD; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-IN;">Seventy years later, I am
not only being constantly reminded that I am a Hindu, I am also told that “my”
religion is in danger: “Hindu khatre me hai.” Hindus of India, 80% of the
population, are destined to be overwhelmed by the other 20%, in particular, by
Muslims who are under 15% of the population.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #050505; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Historic"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: BN-BD; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-IN;">Looking around, I don’t see
any truth in the bizarre yarn. No Muslim has attacked another community in
recent memory, barring isolated incidents like the Mumbai train bombings in
2006 in which 209 innocent people were killed in a most brutal manner. (What
happened in the same city on 26/11/08 was a barefaced undercover operation by the
Pakistani state; it had nothing to do with Indian Muslims.) Secondly, there is
absolutely no evidence that the Muslim population has been increasing as
percentage of the population of India. Finally, in every significant profession
under the sky, from the judiciary to the academia, from the armed forces to the
medical profession, clearly there are very few Muslims. Far fewer than the
percentage of the community in India.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #050505; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Historic"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: BN-BD; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-IN;">How on earth are the 15%
threatening the 80%? I would request you to stop and ponder over the question. And
there are other questions too.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #050505; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Historic"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: BN-BD; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-IN;">Since the BJP government
came to power in 2014, there have been relentless attacks on Muslims, both
physically and otherwise. The Wikipedia lists 22 incidents across North India between
2015 and June 2017 in which 28 Muslims were lynched by cow vigilante mobs. The
situation continued to worsen. On 2 September 2021, the BBC summed up a report*
with these words: “Unprovoked attacks on Muslims by Hindu mobs have become
routine in India, but they seem to evoke little condemnation from the
government.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #050505; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Historic"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: BN-BD; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-IN;">Since then, the process has
taken a more insidious turn as the entire Muslim community is targeted through
a range of laws and communal messaging that spread like wildfire in the time of
a cholera called the social media. For example, it is bizarre to contemplate
that Indian Muslims have collectively decided to somehow make Hindu girls fall
in love with Muslim boys, but our ruling dispensation would like us to believe
so through the “Love Jihad Laws” passed by several BJP state governments. The
powers that be do not want Muslim vendors to come anywhere near Hindu festivals
or temples. As the discourse in TV channels revolve around hijab and halal,
communal riots are planned meticulously, intensifying the relentless effort to
corner and marginalise the Muslim community both socially and economically.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #050505; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Historic"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: BN-BD; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-IN;">In April 2022, there have
been multiple communal clashes in mostly BJP ruled states like Delhi, Gujarat, and
Madhya Pradesh. These riots followed an exact template. On the festival of Ram
Navami, processions led by Hindutwawadis would pass by mosques and through
Muslim areas. There would be aggressive slogans and abuses against Muslims
until there was protest or retaliation from the other side. Then the Muslims
would be beaten up and their homes and businesses would be burned.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #050505; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Historic"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: BN-BD; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-IN;">The central government and
BJP-ruled states used to be silent spectators to similar violence in the past,
but now, the state has become a major actor in the hate project. Destroying
Muslim lives and livelihood is no longer left only to the indoctrinated thugs. Following
the violence, the state sends bulldozers as in Jahangirpuri in Delhi to
Khargaon in Madhya Pradesh, to demolish homes and businesses in Muslim areas giving
no notice, claiming those were “unauthorised structures”. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #050505; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Historic"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: BN-BD; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-IN;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4nigSck5s6bNgPAECvppi7p4A1UM_1pckt3vs9K96iL-g0D7NHcV91EMy-SDTKs6C2zFXdsIke88YXe7Hl8dzKiLMVzvyARiTBFnrG5UEUczxNWaYx4zNixEkvCTtW90KzIdwjIfnoHK2pzSlePWpgEI5jL2sMViAG-h-S2__jgYd70O5FgAMk3Un/s1200/Jahangirpuri.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="1200" height="336" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4nigSck5s6bNgPAECvppi7p4A1UM_1pckt3vs9K96iL-g0D7NHcV91EMy-SDTKs6C2zFXdsIke88YXe7Hl8dzKiLMVzvyARiTBFnrG5UEUczxNWaYx4zNixEkvCTtW90KzIdwjIfnoHK2pzSlePWpgEI5jL2sMViAG-h-S2__jgYd70O5FgAMk3Un/w640-h336/Jahangirpuri.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></span></p>
<div style="font-size: small; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">A bulldozer during a demolition drive in Delhi's Jahangirpuri area on Wednesday (20 April 2022) </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">| Shahbaz Khan / PTI </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">| </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">from the Scroll</span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #050505; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Historic"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: BN-BD; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-IN;">While this goes on
unchecked, there is carpet bombing of anti-Muslim propaganda. BJP leaders,
including ministers, publicly call to shoot Muslims. The most widely articulated
political sentence since 2020 is possibly “Deshki gaddaro ko, goli maaro
saloko.” A bunch of saints—rather, thugs in saffron—believe India is an Islamic
state and call for “genocide against Muslims and other minorities in the name
of name of protecting Hinduism.” [Wikipedia, accessed on 30 April 2022] The
government cares not, the courts turn their head away, and the media spreads
the lies peddled the government and ruling party.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #050505; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Historic"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: BN-BD; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-IN;">All this is bound to have
an impact. Many Hindus, who were impeccably balanced and open minded all these
years are nowadays heard to say, “I agree, but about Muslims, …”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #050505; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Historic"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: BN-BD; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-IN;">That brings us to the second
question. What does India gain through this insane project to marginalise and
torment a section of our own citizens?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #050505; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Historic"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: BN-BD; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-IN;">The third and final
question that comes to my mind is: Can you name a country that has progressed
by attacking and marginalising its own citizens? If you need any clue, please
think of Pakistan in 1971 and Sri Lanka between 1983 and 2009.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></p>
<div style="border-top: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border: none; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 1pt 0cm 0cm;">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 115%; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-padding-alt: 1.0pt 0cm 0cm 0cm; padding: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">* https://www.bbc.com/news/world-asia-india-58406194<o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div><br /><p></p>Santanu Sinha Chaudhurihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15062744470522359652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5653188975343905818.post-23635497975299047552022-03-21T08:36:00.001+05:302022-03-21T08:36:43.799+05:30Sexual dimorphism<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg0bbaf-dBGafNCvOv0DaVI4oLoFSP8kzgf27WPJQneGQxLFrt7xWGzooes5X5EDgtdpZd71MSn7CEkQv8BTkiELdTKBAbDgHncAEdi1oOzK-Cu282yxsuuQhNci5xLvSBsV1W3_Bh0xbTJSOJRiHWkvUEw9JGK4PIyijDxxMDjjV1FGZknpoFZscTP=s1346" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="811" data-original-width="1346" height="386" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg0bbaf-dBGafNCvOv0DaVI4oLoFSP8kzgf27WPJQneGQxLFrt7xWGzooes5X5EDgtdpZd71MSn7CEkQv8BTkiELdTKBAbDgHncAEdi1oOzK-Cu282yxsuuQhNci5xLvSBsV1W3_Bh0xbTJSOJRiHWkvUEw9JGK4PIyijDxxMDjjV1FGZknpoFZscTP=w640-h386" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p>The header above is a
phrase I have come across recently. This little note is surely an attempt to show
off my newly-acquired knowledge, but I guess you will enjoy if you read on,
particularly if you are interested in evolution of life forms.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">The adjective <i>“dimorphic”
</i>means <i>“representing two distinct forms”</i>. Sexual dimorphism means the
differences in size, strength, and behaviour patterns between the two sexes of the
same species. For example, among wild mammals, males are often bigger and more
aggressive than females. Females, on the other hand, take care of their
infants. Among birds, males not only have attractive plumes and colours, usually,
they are the ones that sing! The male deer has antlers, a cumbersome attachment,
but it adds to his visual appeal, besides being useful during fights with other
males.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Males and females are
different because the struggle for reproductive success takes each of them along
different evolutionary trajectories. Male birds / mammals have to win sexual
contests with other males. To put it simply, they must impress females, a
situation you come across in college campuses and elsewhere.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Interestingly, sexual
dimorphism is much less pronounced among domesticated animals because they
don’t have the same evolutionary pressures as wild animals! Their survival (and
usually, suffering) is ensured by their human masters. Among humans, in the
so-called civilized societies, physical strength has taken a back seat in
personal contacts. Even if a man has a contest with another to win the favours
of a woman, they don’t try to beat each other to pulp. <i>Usually!</i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Sexual dimorphism is therefore
less pronounced among humans. According to an estimate, in the US, 10% of men
have less weight than the average weight of a woman. Men don’t need a bigger
body or stronger muscles to impress women these days. Instead, they try to
enrol in IITs.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">However, certain forms
of dimorphism, like bright colours for birds and antlers for deer should be a
disadvantage for their survival. These make them more visible and easier
targets for predators. But the paradox is resolved if you consider that the
reproductive success of an animal is often more important than his/her life
span. For example, a wild male pheasant lives half as long as a female. (Nature
is perhaps not as partial to males as it might seem at the first glance!) A
male pheasant’s reproductive success depends not on how long he lives, but on
how many females he can mate with. Bright plumage improves his chances. On the
other hand, among insects, females are often bigger than males as they need volume
to produce a large number of eggs.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">I got interested in
the topic while reading some books. Of these, one I read at a stretch over the
last two days: a beautiful Bangla novel around the evolutionary success of
migratory birds in particular and birds in general. The book has been written
by a relatively unknown author, Debashis Moitra, who besides writing, teaches
civil engineering. Humans are no less intriguing than birds, it seems.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">More about the book
later. Please watch this space!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">20 March 2022</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">Picture of male and
female orioles from Marin Independent Journal, e-edition<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Santanu Sinha Chaudhurihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15062744470522359652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5653188975343905818.post-71981664790426745292022-01-08T11:55:00.038+05:302022-01-08T12:47:08.563+05:30A postcard from the countryside: Homecoming<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">The tecoma, which had hardly any flowers when we left last month, is
flowering, although the yellow bloom is yet to reach the fullness of spring.
The same thing can be said about the pink bougainvillea. (Alas! I needed three
attempts to get the spelling right!) The hibiscuses, which flower in all times,
didn’t disappoint us either. The tiny beds of spinach and fenugreek too are
doing well. And a few aubergines are ready to be plucked. On the whole, it was
a happy homecoming: the spring is in the air.</span></p>
<span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">The following day was perhaps the International Caterpillars' Day. In the
morning, I saw more caterpillars together than what I had seen in the rest of
my life. There were hundreds of them on the courtyard and on the roads near our
house. Seemingly homeless, they were moving aimlessly in every direction. Was
there a political strife in their habitation? Were they migrating?</span> <div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Our domestic help Gomathi Amma is exceedingly smart. Although we don’t
have a common language, she understands everything we tell her and shapes out
her ideas effectively in her limited Hindi and English vocabulary. She came as
soon as she knew we had come.</span> </div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Gomathi Amma (who is some other Amma actually) is one of the countless
women of our country who are treated harshly by life. Mother of a grown-up son
and a daughter, she is a widow. But the passing of the abusive husband hasn’t given
her freedom. Her father calls the shots in her life. Gomathi Amma supplements
her income as a domestic help by tending her father’s 50 goats. She is
naturally free-spirited. She is never absent, but comes to work anytime between
10 AM and 4 PM when she wishes. Her employer (my far better half) has accepted the
arrangement because Gomathi Amma is great at work.</span> </div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Her son works in a factory and the daughter is married in Bengaluru to a
man almost twice her age. The son doesn’t give Gomathi Amma any trouble, but
the son-in-law does. The daughter is illtreated and beaten up. She wants to
return home but cannot. Her mother is reconciled, but her grandfather won’t
allow it. The old man, a factory worker and goat farmer, thinks it would be
dishonourable for the family. (Indeed, there’s no dishonour in getting beaten
by one’s own husband!)</span> </div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">For Gomathi Amma, the new year didn’t begin on a happy note. Her son had
an accident early in the morning of January 1. Karthik was going to a temple
near Hosur with a friend. They were on a motorbike, with Karthik riding pillion.
At four o’ clock when it was pitch dark, they crashed head-on with a bike from
the other side at a sharp bend on the road. The biker on the other vehicle died
on the spot. Karthik’s friend, who had a helmet but hadn’t strapped it up, was
badly injured in the head. His helmet had flown some distance away upon the
impact. Karthik, who had never had a helmet in life, had stitches on his face
and a broken jaw. Gomathi Amma said Karthik had had “plastic surgery” and
“clamps” have been fitted to fix his lower jaw. The words I have put within
inverted commas, she said in English. For the jaw, she demonstrated it with her
own. He cannot eat anything solid; it will take some time before he can.</span> </div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Gomathi Amma has already spent a lakh and thirty thousand on Kathik’s
treatment. She borrowed most of it on interest, at 4% per month. (I have seen
this everywhere, if the rate of interest is usurious, it is always given in
months. The poor doesn’t think it is 48%.) But before leaving, she said, ‘I am
not worried about my son. He will recover anyway. But I do not know what will
happen to my daughter.’</span> </div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I felt angry about Gomathi Amma’s son-in-law and son. Perhaps more about
her son. How can he be so irresponsible that he doesn’t have a helmet although
he has a bike?</span>
<span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">But later, on more tranquil reflection, the thought came to my mind: is Karthik
really to blame? </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Or should we blame the complete lack of education that the
country offers to her underprivileged, even in Tamil Nadu, the best managed
state in India? Or, should we blame the state of the economy which has made motorbikes
affordable but basic awareness impossible to achieve? What are our priorities,
why are schools closed when shopping malls are open during the third wave of
the pandemic?</span>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">08 January 2022</span></p></div>Santanu Sinha Chaudhurihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15062744470522359652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5653188975343905818.post-29850794308275108302021-12-14T19:00:00.001+05:302021-12-14T19:00:08.242+05:30The Naked Emperor<p>Nirendranath Chakraborti’s Naked Emperor is a significant Bangla poem of our time. It’s also the name of a collection of poems by Nirendranath. Here is my humble attempt to translate it.</p><p><br /></p><p><b><span style="font-size: medium;">The Naked Emperor</span></b> </p><p><br /></p><p>Everyone sees that the emperor is naked, </p><p>But they’re all clapping</p><p>And shouting, ‘Super! Super!’</p><p><br /></p><p>Some of them are scared;</p><p>For some, it’s a force of habit;</p><p>Some have given their brain away as security;</p><p>Some perhaps live on charity, </p><p>Some are beggars for benefits, </p><p>Applicants for favours, or charlatans.</p><p>Some have been reasoning, the cloth a monarch wears</p><p>Has to be exceedingly fine.</p><p>Although it can’t be seen, it must be there, </p><p>At least, it can be.</p><p><br /></p><p>Everyone knows the story.</p><p>But the story doesn’t talk about</p><p>Just a bunch of people who are stupid, </p><p>Or are cowards from head to toe, </p><p>Or are scheming glad-handers. </p><p>There was also a child in the story.</p><p>A truthful, brave, ordinary child.</p><p><br /></p><p>The emperor has come off the page of a fairy tale</p><p>On to the open street of reality</p><p>Once again, people are clapping nonstop</p><p>The crowd of panegyrists grows.</p><p>But I don’t see the child </p><p>Anywhere among them.</p><p><br /></p><p>Where is she? Has anyone spirited her away</p><p>To a far-off mountain cavern?</p><p>Or has she drifted into sleep </p><p>While playing with pebbles-soil-grass</p><p>Beside a stream or in the </p><p>Shade of a lonely tree on a grassland?</p><p><br /></p><p>Go! Fetch her, however difficult it might be.</p><p>Let her come here and stand without fear</p><p>In front of this naked emperor once. </p><p>Let her raise her voice above the din, </p><p>And ask, ‘Emperor! Where are your clothes?’</p><p><br /></p><p>Translated on 12 December, 2021</p><p><br /></p><p>*</p><p><br /></p><p><b>উলঙ্গ রাজা</b></p><p><br /></p><p>নীরেন্দ্রনাথ চক্রবর্তী</p><p><br /></p><p>সবাই দেখছে যে, রাজা উলঙ্গ, তবুও</p><p>সবাই হাততালি দিচ্ছে।</p><p>সবাই চেঁচিয়ে বলছে; শাবাশ, শাবাশ!</p><p>কারও মনে সংস্কার, কারও ভয়;</p><p>কেউ-বা নিজের বুদ্ধি অন্য মানুষের কাছে বন্ধক দিয়েছে;</p><p>কেউ-বা পরান্নভোজী, কেউ</p><p>কৃপাপ্রার্থী, উমেদার, প্রবঞ্চক;</p><p>কেউ ভাবছে, রাজবস্ত্র সত্যিই অতীব সূক্ষ্ম , চোখে</p><p>পড়ছে না যদিও, তবু আছে,</p><p>অন্তত থাকাটা কিছু অসম্ভব নয়।</p><p><br /></p><p>গল্পটা সবাই জানে।</p><p>কিন্তু সেই গল্পের ভিতরে</p><p>শুধুই প্রশস্তিবাক্য-উচ্চারক কিছু</p><p>আপাদমস্তক ভিতু, ফন্দিবাজ অথবা নির্বোধ</p><p>স্তাবক ছিল না।</p><p>একটি শিশুও ছিল।</p><p>সত্যবাদী, সরল, সাহসী একটি শিশু।</p><p><br /></p><p>নেমেছে গল্পের রাজা বাস্তবের প্রকাশ্য রাস্তায়।</p><p>আবার হাততালি উঠছে মুহুর্মুহু;</p><p>জমে উঠছে</p><p>স্তাবকবৃন্দের ভিড়।</p><p>কিন্তু সেই শিশুটিকে আমি</p><p>ভিড়ের ভিতরে আজ কোথাও দেখছি না।</p><p>শিশুটি কোথায় গেল? কেউ কি কোথাও তাকে কোনো</p><p>পাহাড়ের গোপন গুহায়</p><p>লুকিয়ে রেখেছে?</p><p>নাকি সে পাথর-ঘাস-মাটি নিয়ে খেলতে খেলতে</p><p>ঘুমিয়ে পড়েছে</p><p>কোনো দূর</p><p>নির্জন নদীর ধারে, কিংবা কোনো প্রান্তরের গাছের ছায়ায়?</p><p>যাও, তাকে যেমন করেই হোক</p><p>খুঁজে আনো।</p><p>সে এসে একবার এই উলঙ্গ রাজার সামনে</p><p>নির্ভয়ে দাঁড়াক।</p><p>সে এসে একবার এই হাততালির ঊর্ধ্বে গলা তুলে</p><p>জিজ্ঞাসা করুক:</p><p>রাজা, তোর কাপড় কোথায়?</p><p> </p>Santanu Sinha Chaudhurihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15062744470522359652noreply@blogger.com0