Lambu: A Blast from the Past

After many years, in fact, after decades, I saw a packet of lamboos in Pintur Dokan, that is, Pintu’s street-corner grocery near our home. It took me down a rather long memory lane.

My academic career being as unspectacular as it was, I do not expect any of my teachers or profs to remember me. I was neither brilliant, nor hard-working, and I didn’t even fail an exam. Recently at a party, I met one of our several marvellous physics professors, who happened to be an exceedingly handsome young man when we were students. He was a minor hero for us boys, and a major heartthrob for girls, much to our irritation at times. (Why are contests in life so bloody unequal?) Anyway, to cut a long story short, when I introduced myself in the gathering, my former teacher looked at me so helplessly that I felt sorry for him. I ought not to have revealed my identity and challenged his memory cells so bluntly.

Although my academic accomplishments – as I have said without false modesty – were seriously unglamorous, my years at our university campus was by far the most gorgeous period of my life, although it was not devoid of minor deprivations, naturally. We lived in spacious rooms practically for free and although our hostel kitchen provided two large meals for an entire month in exchange of 65 to 75 paper-gold rupees, we had to fend for the breakfast and afternoon snacks ourselves. We managed the breakfast somehow, stuffed ourselves during lunch, but would invariably feel famished by four in the afternoon.

If I may share with you a bit about our financial situation, we used to invest a sizable chunk of our meagre allowance on the two local cinemas, cups of tea, and packets of Charminar (possibly the strongest cigarette in the world without the embellishment of a filter, not even the American Camel was nearly as harsh). Consequently, we often found our rather healthy afternoon appetite an insurmountable budget deficit.

On days we were lucky, we would find one of our distant girlfriends in the university cafeteria, and for our generation, it was an immense good fortune that girls didn’t smoke then. So, they always had something to spare, and would often volunteer to keep us alive by offering a samosa or two.

But on days we were not lucky, we had to eat something after classes. After long and painful research, I finally found out the most cost-effective snack, which would be cheaper than twenty-five paise.

It was the LAMBOO!

Now, what is a lamboo? If you have a nodding acquaintance with Hindi or Bangla, you would be aware that a tall lad is often called a Lamboo in these languages. Amitabh Bachchan was the reigning Lamboo in his spectacular film career. In Bengal, no one qualified for the sobriquet as there were no tall heroes in Bangla films. The greatest Bengali matinee idol for the past and future sixty years, Uttam Kumar, was five seven.

Therefore, I will die without solving the mystery how the rotund stuff, the picture of which you see here, came to be known as "lamboo".

Lamboo is neither biscuit nor cake. Genetically, I believe, it is closer to the popular Bihari / Jharkhandi snack litthi, which has a hard central-core and an even harder shell. Woe betide the fool who try to bite a lamboo with less than healthy teeth. But that was only a minor problem for indigent lamboo eaters like us.

More importantly, the lamboo would be baked with the cheapest fat available in the market. Most likely, it would have been animal fat discarded by butchers. Therefore, as you ate it, a fatty layer got smudged to the inside of your mouth. But that too is a minor irritant. Have a lamboo and wash it down with a glass of water, and you won’t have to eat anything in the next four hours. Maa kasam!

The packet of lamboos in Pintu’s grocery brought back all this in a flash. I couldn’t but buy one and taste it. It was like yesterday once more.

Believe me, the lamboo hasn’t changed one bit. The same hardness, same lingering fatty taste, the same earthy granules which wouldn’t be mentioned in the recipe. … It was perfect.

I can safely skip lunch today!

Kolkata
Wednesday, 28 August 2019, 10 AM.

কলকাতা ৪৬

বেশ একটু গর্বের সঙ্গে আপনাদের জানাতে পারি যে এই পুঁথিটির লেখিকা স্বয়ং বেশ কয়েকবার আমাদের হাজরা মোড়ের বাড়িতে এসেছেন।

সে সময় তাঁর বয়েস আট কি নয়। আমাদের বাড়িতে তাঁর চেয়ে দু-চার বছরের ছোট দুটি শিশু ছিল; তাদের নিয়ে তাঁর আহ্লাদের অন্ত ছিলনা। জীবন্ত পুতুল দুটি নিয়ে উর্বীর খেলা আর শেষ হতনা, যদিও শেষ বাসের সময় এগিয়ে এলে ওর মা উদ্বিগ্ন হয়ে পড়তেন, স্বাভাবিক ভাবেই। ওদের বাড়িটাও ছিল একটু খটমট যায়গায়, পার্ক সার্কাসে রেললাইনের ওপারে, সব ঋতুতে দুঃখী মানুষে ভরা চিত্তরঞ্জন হাসপাতালের হতাশার বৃত্ত ছাড়িয়ে। (একটু প্রসঙ্গান্তরে যাই, হাসপাতালের নাম “চিত্তরঞ্জন” কোন বুদ্ধিতে দেয় মানুষ?)

এই সময়, অনেকগুলো ডেডলাইন পার হবার পর, যখন মাকে আরে কিছুতেই দাবীয়ে রাখা যাচ্ছেনা, উর্বী তাঁর ব্রহ্মাস্ত্র প্রয়োগ করতেন, “আমি দুধ খাবো।”

এমন বাঙালি মা-মাসি অদ্যাপি জন্মান নি যাঁরা শেষ বাস ধরতে হবে এই তুচ্ছ কারণে দুগ্ধ পিয়াসী শিশুকন্যাকে বঞ্চিত করবেন। সুতরাং ঝটপট দুধ বেরত, ঈষদুষ্ণ গরম করা হত, এবং সেই এক গ্লাস দুধ উর্বী খেতেন বড় খেয়াল গাওয়ার স্টাইলে, বে-শ খানিকটা সময় নিয়ে।

ঘটনাচক্রে ওদের বাসস্থানের খবর আপনাদের দিয়ে দিয়েছি ওস্তাদ লেখকের মতো, কারণ পার্ক সার্কাস রেল লাইনের পিছনে, মূলত গরীব মুসলমান অধ্যুসিত যায়গা, যে এলাকার claim to fame হচ্ছে একটি মানসিক হাসপাতাল, তিনটি মুসলমান ও একটি হিন্দু কবরখানা, এবং রেললাইনের ওপারে সংশয়-উদ্রেককারী নামের আড্ডিবাগান বস্তি – এই নিয়ে, এবং আরও অনেক কিছু নিয়েই উর্বীর বই, এক নিঃশ্বাসে পড়তে হবে এরকম ২০৭টি অনন্যসুন্দর পৃষ্ঠা।

মূল শহরের সীমারেখার ঠিক বাইরে, ইম্প্রুভমেন্ট ট্রাস্ট, মেট্রপলিটান ডেভলাপমেন্ট অথারিটি ইত্যাদির সদাশয় দৃষ্টি এড়িয়ে, প্রায় আগাছার মতো বেড়ে ওঠা এই এলাকাটিতে আগাছার মতই ভেসে আসা নানা অনাবশ্যক flotsam and jetsam-এর মত মানুষজন, যাঁদের মধ্যে আছেন নেপালি খ্রিস্টান সিকিউরিটি ইন-চারজ ও তাঁর হিন্দু বাঙালি বউ, জনৈক হিন্দু মালায়ালি স্বামী আর তার ভিন রাজ্যের খ্রিস্টান বৌ, যাকে সে পরিচয় দেয় সেক্রেটারি হিসেবে, একজন গরীব পাদ্রি, বিগত দিনের দিকপাল ফুটবল খেলোয়াড় রশিদ, যে এখন বৃদ্ধ ও নির্ভেজাল মাতাল, রক্ষণশীল ব্যবসায়ী পরিবারের মেয়ে, যে অনেক লড়াই করে আর্টিস্ট হয়েই ছাড়ল, অথবা পিতৃহীন দুটি মেয়ে সাফল্য খুঁজে পেতে অন্ধকারের মধ্যে ঢুকে গেল, এরকম আরও অনেক ব্যতিক্রমী চরিত্র এবং অবশ্যই কয়েক হাজার দরিদ্র মুসলমান পরিবার। এদের নিয়েই পোস্ট কোড কলকাতা ৪৬। এদের নিয়েই উরবীর ভারতবর্ষের ছবি। এবং কত যে অসাধারণ গল্প লুকিয়ে ছিল এদের সাধারণ জীবনযাপনে। (আধুনিক বাংলায় নাকি শুধু "যাপনে" লিখলেই চলত?)

উর্বীর বাবা-জ্যাঠারা নেহাতই লিবরাল হিউমানিস্ট ছিলেন, তাই এই পরিবেশে সেই শিশু বয়েস থেকেই মেয়েটির মেলামেশা ছিল সব রকমের মানুষজনের সঙ্গে, গরীব, দুঃখী, বিচিত্র ভারতবর্ষের একটা microcosm-এর সঙ্গে। শিশু এবং কিশরীর চোখ দিয়ে দেখা এই ছবিটা আমি কোন দিন ভুলতে পারব মনে হয়না।

অতঃপর কিশরীটি বড় হয়, আন্তর্জাতিক খ্যাতিসম্পন্ন বিশ্ববিদ্যালয় থেকে পি এইচ ডি করে এসে সে এখন অধ্যাপক। পরিচিত পৃথিবীকে খুঁজে না পাবার বেদনা নিয়ে স্মৃতিচারণ শেষ হয়। শেষ হয় আমাদের সমষ্টি থেকে ব্যক্তিতে যাত্রায়, কেমন করে অনিদ্রা থেকে দুঃস্বপ্নে আমাদের যাত্রায় কাক ডাকে, তাই দিয়ে।

শেষে একটা কথা বলি। মনে হয় কলকাতা ৪৬ নামটার মধ্যে একটা ইঙ্গিত দিয়ে রেখেছেন লেখিকা, ইতিহাস চর্চা দিয়ে যাঁর রুজিরুটি। ৪৬-এর দাঙ্গা ও বিভাজন না হলে কলকাতা পুরোপুরি অন্যরকম একটা শহর হত, আর কলকাতা ৪৬-ও লেখা হতনা।

আজ আমরা একই রকমের একটা বিভাজনের সামনে দাঁড়িয়ে। উর্বীর বইটি সেই কারণেও আপনার পড়া প্রয়োজন।

*

পুনশ্চঃ গোবরার কবরখানা ইত্যাদি ৮০/৯০ বছর আগেও ছিল, এবং সেখানে কোন ইংরাজি-নবীশ টেনিস ও শিকারপ্রিয় anglophile হিন্দু বাঙালির বিশাল বাড়ি হাঁকানোর কথা নয়। এমনকি, সম্পন্ন মুসলমান বাঙ্গালিরও নয়। লেখিকার পিতামহ কেন এই কর্মটি করেছিলেন তা ভাঙবো না। কারণ তা হলে লেখিকার পরিবারের ব্যতিক্রমী মানুষদের প্রথাভাঙ্গা জীবনের অনেক গল্প বলতে হয়। অতটা টাইপ করার আগে আমার ডাক এসে যাবে!

২৩/০৮/২০১৯

126 Years Ago

[Polytheistic (many-Gods) religions are generally more tolerant than monotheistic (one-God) religions. And Hinduism certainly is one of the more accepting faiths. Today, when this ancient religion is being hijacked by a group of bigoted men whose hearts are brimming with intolerance and hate, let us look back at what a young, just thirty-year-old completely unknown Indian monk said in Chicago in 1893. Please read on. It is a surprisingly brief speech.]

Sisters and brothers of America,

It fills my heart with joy unspeakable to rise in response to the warm and cordial welcome which you have given us. I thank you in the name of the most ancient order of monks in the world; I thank you in the name of the mother of religions; and I thank you in the name of the millions and millions of Hindu people of all classes and sects.

My thanks, also, to some of the speakers on this platform who, referring to the delegates from the Orient, have told you that these men from far-off nations may well claim the honor of bearing to different lands the idea of toleration. I am proud to belong to a religion which has taught the world both tolerance and universal acceptance. We believe not only in universal toleration, but we accept all religions as true. I am proud to belong to a nation which has sheltered the persecuted and the refugees of all religions and all nations of the earth. I am proud to tell you that we have gathered in our bosom the purest remnant of the Israelites, who came to the southern India and took refuge with us in the very year in which their holy temple was shattered to pieces by Roman tyranny. I am proud to belong to the religion which has sheltered and is still fostering the remnant of the grand Zoroastrian nation. I will quote to you, brethren, a few lines from a hymn which I remember to have repeated from my earliest boyhood, which is every day repeated by millions of human beings:

‘As the different streams having their sources in different places all mingle their water in the sea, so, 0 Lord, the different paths which men take through different tendencies, various though they appear, crooked or straight, all lead to Thee.’

The present convention, which is one of the most august assemblies ever held, is in itself a vindication, a declaration to the world, of the wonderful doctrine preached in the Gita:

'Whosoever comes to Me, through whatsoever form, I reach him; all men are struggling through paths which in the end lead to Me.'

Sectarianism, bigotry, and its horrible descendant, fanaticism, have long possessed this beautiful earth. They have filled the earth with violence, drenched it often and often with human blood, destroyed civilization, and sent whole nations to despair. Had it not been for these horrible demons, human society would be far more advanced than it is now. But their time has come; and I fervently hope that the bell that tolled this morning in honor of this convention may be the death-knell of all fanaticism, of all persecutions with the sword or with the pen, and of all uncharitable feelings between persons wending their way to the same goal.

Source: GREAT SPEECHES OF MODERN INDIA, edited by Rudrangshu Mukherjee (Random House India, 2007)

(14/08/2019)

Of dreams and nightmares

My young friend Kirit (name changed) is one of the finest humans I have come across. He fits this description given in a Bangla poem by Jeebanananda Dash, a poem that I happened to translate yesterday. Kirit is one of

“Those who still have profound faith in humans,
Those who even now believe
In glorious truths, traditions, arts, and deep pursuits …”

In a moment I will come back to Kirit, but first, let me revisit a day that changed the course of our history: 6/12/1992, when Babri Majid was demolished and a process began to change the secular democratic structure of our country. The process is on, with ever gathering momentum. Yesterday, 4/8/2019 was another dark day in the history of modern India, when Jammu and Kashmir was bifurcated and its two parts were demoted to the status of Union Territories by using the brute force of a majority in the parliament, with complete disregard to the wishes of the people of the state, and after turning the entire Kashmir Valley into a jail for all practical purposes.

Yesterday, I happened to exchange notes with Kirit and he wrote to me, “… take a long view of the short and calm yourself.”

Please allow me to share with you my reply to him.

*

You have hit the nail on the head: “… take a long view of the short.”

I will try to, but before that, as I’ve found in you a sympathetic reader, I’ll let me hair down and share with you why I’ve been feeling so helpless and tormented today, although it’s perhaps an old man’s tale that could be understood by his generation alone.

When we were young, our nation was young too, beginning afresh after 190 years of life-sapping colonial rule. Almost everyone then believed that the future would offer a more just and at least a little more egalitarian world. There was a spring of hope everywhere: from the Prague Spring to the defeat of the US forces against tiny Vietnamese in the most asymmetric war in history, to the campus rebellions around the world …. We knew that the second law of thermodynamics couldn’t be altered, but we did believe that collectively, the human race would work towards a better, more civilized order, at the core of which would be two basic ideas: free thought and respect for every human being.

When I was 18, I never imagined that 50 years later India would have become a nakedly capitalist economy where income disparity would keep growing, with no one protesting. It didn’t even cross my mind that the Indian Hindus, tolerant to a fault and traditionally accommodating to other faiths through centuries, will suddenly become so intensely hateful towards Muslims and Christians and Dalits. We read in papers that in the Balkans, minorities were brutalised and put in concentration camps to die. We read about ethnic oppressions in China, Turkey, Iraq, Pakistan, Bangladesh, and so on. But we thought these could never happen in our country. We were wrong.

Suddenly, in India today, there is a systematic effort to push a third of the population into a corner. The next move by our ruling party will be to win West Bengal and go for NRC everywhere and put undocumented (non)citizens read Muslims in jail.

By denying Muslims, Dalits and Christians the right to live a decent life, by denying the space for unfettered intellectual enquiry at universities, by propagating atrocities in the name of science, by destroying every institution, they are actually destroying the dream of the post-independence generation.

It hurts. 

But in these days of atavistic faith towards aggressive gods, we must stoically remember that in the long run, every dictator is thrown to their disgraceful end. For example, the longest serving dictator of the twentieth century, General Franco, who ruled Spain from 1939 till his death in 1975. Dictatorship was overturned in Spain almost immediately after the dictator’s death. So much for his legacy! Sometime in the 1990s, a senior friend of mine visited Franco’s grave near Madrid. But he couldn’t go close to it because the entire place stank of urine. So, he happily contributed to the liquid offering to the dead dictator.

No dictator today will be dissuaded by the thought of the future peeing on his legacy, but it gives us courage. In his last speech in 1941, Rabindranath said, “I am struck by the changes that have taken place both in my own attitude and in the psychology of my countrymen – a change that carries within it a cause of profound tragedy.”

We did come out of the tragedy which manifested itself in the devastating riots before and after the Partition. And we started building a new India which offered women’s suffrage before Sweden did, which put a premium on education and research, and on agricultural technology that would create a famine-free India sooner than anyone could hope. I am not saying that despite these achievements the system was not highly imperfect. But there were always reasons to hope.

Now, the nation has taken an about turn, but I believe this too will pass. My only dream today is to live long enough to see the end of this nightmare.

06 August 2019

A strange darkness

These immortal lines by Jeebananda Dash have never been more apt in my lifetime than it is today.

A strange darkness has gripped the world these days,

People without vision are the ones who see most clearly today;

The earth cannot go round unless decreed by

Those who’ve never felt the tremor of love, care, compassion in their hearts.

Those who still have profound faith in humans,

Those who even now believe

In glorious truths, traditions, or arts, or deep pursuits,

Their hearts today are being devoured by vultures and wolves.

অদ্ভুত আঁধার এক

জীবনান্দ দাশ

=========

অদ্ভুত আঁধার এক এসেছে এ-পৃথিবীতে আজ,

যারা অন্ধ সবচেয়ে বেশি আজ চোখে দ্যাখে তারা;

যাদের হৃদয়ে কোনো প্রেম নেই - প্রীতি নেই - করুণার আলোড়ন নেই

পৃথিবী অচল আজ তাদের সুপরামর্শ ছাড়া।

যাদের গভীর আস্থা আছে আজো মানুষের প্রতি

এখনো যাদের কাছে স্বাভাবিক ব'লে মনে হয়

মহত্‍‌ সত্য বা রীতি, কিংবা শিল্প অথবা সাধনা

শকুন ও শেয়ালের খাদ্য আজ তাদের হৃদয়।

Translated on 05 August 2019

Big Brother is Watching Your Underwear

Yesterday, my wife went to Big Bazaar, which as you know, is a chain of department stores catering to middleclass Indians. This particular outlet in Hosur is fairly large, spread over four floors; it has separate sections for men’s clothing, women’s attires, household goods, and so on. My wife visited several sections of the store around one in the afternoon. (Please note. The time is relevant to my story.) Just before checking out, she stopped in front of a rack and picked up two vests for me. However, on second thoughts, she decided not to buy them and naturally, forgot all about them by the time she reached home.

Fortunately, these days it is not easy to forget something if someone wants to sell it to you. Around 6 PM, when my other half checked her smartphone, she found a series of adverts by Amazon for men’s vests. Could it be because she had earlier searched for men’s vests on the Net? No. She vows never to have done so.

I am sure Amazon offered those ads with the altruistic motive to make me wear freshly minted undergarments, but was it mere coincidence? Have you experienced anything similar?

People who know how the world is run today tell me this was not a coincidence.

If I have understood them correctly, the targeted ads came because my spending half’s phone was on, and her location was accessible to Google and Amazon, which app she has on her phone. One or both of them knew – and this is scary – the exact steps she had traced, including her tryst with a rack of men’s vests. Either Google sold this information to Amazon or Amazon themselves tracked her.

Then it gets even creepier. Somewhere, at some place on earth, someone is running an AI (artificial intelligence) programme. This information was possibly matched with two more pieces: (A) my wife has a husband, (B) the said husband has never bought underwear from Amazon and so, he must be desperately in need of a few pieces.

And voila! Amazon decides to offer her a set of three vests at a discount. All this within five short hours.

[Statutory Disclaimer: I find it difficult to believe that commercial surveillance has intruded our private life to this extent already. But frankly, I cannot think of a better explanation. If you can, please tell me.]

*

Last year, on the Diwali night, our home near Hosur was burgled when we were not there. The thieves – there were clearly more than one person – broke open a window, got in, and spent at least an hour ransacking the house, looking for valuables. They threw every book on to the floor, removed everything from the cupboards, upturned every mattress, and even emptied dustbins hoping we would be smart enough to hide some jewellery therein. I guess they did all that with the help of the torch(es) on their mobile phone(s).

Later, my son told me, very likely, the burglars used Android phones, possibly several of them, when they converged on our house.

If they did, Google knows who they were, their age, address, their fathers' names, and possibly their zodiac signs too.

Google knows!

*

A significant novel of the twentieth century, George Orwell’s 1984 predicted a dystopian future for humankind where the world would be shared by three monstrously huge super-states and one of which would have a society split into three clear categories: inner party, ordinary party workers, and the rest called proles, who were nonentities. You possibly know the story, but please let me give the background in a few words.

The protagonist of the novel, Winston Smith is an ordinary party worker whose every move is monitored by the state. There is a two-way telescreen in every living room which could never be turned off. So, the state can check what Winston and others are doing 24 X 7. He has no private moment, no private thoughts. Writing a diary is an offence punishable by imprisonment and unimaginable torture. There are huge cut-outs on roads showing just one face; you also see the same chilling visage everywhere else, in offices, in your apartment’s landings, and so on. The country is under the constant gaze of one man referred to as the Big Brother, who may not even be alive. But people live with an inexorable fear: “Big Brother is watching!”

Orwell could not have imagined there would be a time when everyone – from an ordinary woman to a professional burglar – will be under the constant, unblinking scrutiny of a Commercial Big Brother.

My blood freezes!

Friday, 02 August 2019

PS *** 

After reading this story, a young friend who is an expert in the field has to say this. (I am not giving his name in deference to his wishes.)

"All your conjectures might be true. You should be aware that India has poor data protection laws, practically no conflict of interest laws, and legislatures still don't understand things like identity theft, profiling, etc. So Google and Amazon cannot do most of the stuff in US, UK and Germany, which they can do in India. Moreover anything related to tech companies has God [like] status in India. Tech companies cannot be touched or questioned."


It is a new perspective for me and I must share this with you, Dear Reader. ***