Decoding Brand Modi

The Secret of Survival for 10 years

India Today Conclave, Mumbai 2023

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”. 

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.

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. 

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. 

Instead, the panelists said something that were both bizarre and startling: 

• 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.)

• BJP doesn’t win elections by creating religious divides, but because of the development they have brought about. Proof: “Religion doesn’t fill stomachs.”

• 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.

• 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.

o The economic distress caused by demonetisation with zero prior study, and ignoring the opinion of RBI.

o Haphazard implementation of the GST by relying on a single IAS officer from—where else but—Gujarat, which caused more damage.

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.

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.

o Muslims attacked and killed in every BJP ruled state with no legal action against the criminals.

o Systematic destruction of Muslims homes, again by BJP ruled states in complete and egregious violation of legal provisions.

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.

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!

You have to decide if deserves to win the elections in 2024.

08/10/2023

Photos courtesy commons.wikimedia.org

Left: By Prime Minister's Office (GODL-India), GODL-India

Right: By Ralf Roletschek - Own work, Public Domain

Hope or despair? The choice is ours

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).

And this man has basically done two things during his nine years of (mis)rule. 

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.

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. 

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!

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.

 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.

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.

“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.”

Varavara Rao, quoted by Arvind Narrain in his book India’s Undeclared Emergency p199 (Westland Publications Pvt. Ltd., 2021). Varavara Rao’s picture courtesy Wikipedia.

Mexico Diary 1

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.

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.

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!

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.  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!)

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.

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  to the artists selling pictures in parks, you come across lots of people who are clearly struggling to make a living.

So, beneath the gloss of an almost middle-income economy, an ugly underbelly of deprivation is plainly visible.

Cupertino, California

13 July 2023

“Jete pari, kintu keno jabo? / I can, but why should I leave?”

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.

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. 

Here is a feeble attempt to translate the poem. I would love to hear what you think of the English version.

 * 

I can, but why should I leave? 

Shakti Chattopadhyay >>>

I think maybe, it would be better to turn back.

I’ve dipped my two hands in so much darkness

For so long!

I’ve never thought of you as the you you are.

Nowadays, when I stand beside an abyss at night,

The moon calls me, ‘Come, come, come!’

These days, when a sleepy I stand on the bank of the Ganga,

Woods from the pyre call me, ‘Come, come!’

Yes, I can go

I can go along any path I choose

But, why should I?

I will hold my child in my arms and kiss her once

I will go, but I won’t go just now

I will take you all with me

I won’t go now

When it’s not the time.

 

Translated in Cupertino, California

On 7 July 2023

 

*

 

যেতে পারি, কিন্তু কেন যাবো?

শক্তি চট্টোপাধ্যায় >>>

 

ভাবছি, ঘুরে দাঁড়ানোই ভালো।

এতো কালো মেখেছি দু হাতে

এতোকাল ধরে!

কখনো তোমার ক’রে, তোমাকে ভাবিনি।

এখন খাদের পাশে রাত্তিরে দাঁড়ালে

চাঁদ ডাকে : আয় আয় আয়

এখন গঙ্গার তীরে ঘুমন্ত দাঁড়ালে

চিতাকাঠ ডাকে : আয় আয়

যেতে পারি

যে-কোন দিকেই আমি চলে যেতে পারি

কিন্তু, কেন যাবো?

সন্তানের মুখ ধরে একটি চুমো খাবো

যাবো

কিন্তু, এখনি যাবো না

তোমাদেরও সঙ্গে নিয়ে যাবো

একাকী যাবো না অসময়ে।।

 

Photo courtesy:  https://www.observerbd.com/2016/03/24/143159.php

Remembering Suhita-di

Suhita 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.

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. 

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. 

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.

*

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. 

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. 

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. 

Their mothers too knew it was time to take the toddlers home.

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. 

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.  

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.’

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.

*

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। 

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। 

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।

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।' 

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।

Translated on 23 May 2023

Hosur, Krishnagiri District, TN

Genuine fountain pen, awful cooking oil

 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?’

At that point, a portly middle-aged Bengali walked in, followed  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?’

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?’

‘Never,’ a white lie.

‘Go there, but I tell you, you won’t be able to eat anything.’

‘Why?’

‘The fools use coconut oil for cooking. Can you imagine?’

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.

A few minutes later, as train crossed the outer signals, the flow of ink stopped. It never restarted.

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!

3 April 2023

Santiniketan, a famous author, and two bright kids

 

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.

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.

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 “Teler shishi bhanglo bole khukur pore rag karo” has been a landmark in Bangla literature.

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.

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.

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?’

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

For breaking a bottle of oil, you take the child to task,

But you grown-up kids break nations. Why, may I ask?

After such a performance, they naturally got what they came for. Mission accomplished.

* 

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.Picture of the open-air classroom from Mallarika Sinha Roy’s Facebook page

A fine tribute to Vikraman Nair

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. 

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.

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.

*

[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.]

Let me first talk about a little girl, Fultusi, who Nairda used to tutor privately. She was in the seventh grade then.

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.

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.

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.’

Without showing any emotion, Nairda said in his usual gruff voice, ‘Thik achhe.’

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.’

I said enthusiastically, ‘Good, Fultusi must have got over her anger. Please stop beating your students.’

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.’

A little later, perhaps referring to my view on physical punishment, Nairda added, ‘Children don’t learn unless you give them a few smacks.’

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.

…

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.

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.

 

Kolkata / 18 Feb. 23

Kolkata Diary 2 / Nayantara in a Globalised World

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. 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

‘I’ve been working for an Australian company for the last six months.’

‘Great, where is your office?’

‘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.’

‘What kind of work do you do?’

‘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.’

‘Including cold calls?’

‘Yes, some of them.’

‘What is the talk-time for you in a day?’

‘At least two hours.’

Wow! Sitting in a corner of Kolkata, Nayantara convinces Australian companies to buy her network! Does she find the Australian accent difficult?

‘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.’

‘What kind of work did you do in your previous company?’

‘I sold nuisance-call blocking devices to elderly people in the UK.’

‘Wow! How do you find your present company?’

‘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.’

‘You found your earlier job through campus placement. How did you find this one?’

‘Through LinkedIn. I had to go through three rounds of interviews.’

 *

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.

Live long Nayantara, live well, live independent. Be a beacon to the hundreds of similarly disadvantaged young boys and girls around you.

 [Needless to say, I have changed the names of the protagonists to protect their identity. But the rest of the story is unadulterated truth.]

 

15 Jan 23 / ©Santanu Sinha Chaudhuri

Kolkata Diary 1 / A mother is born

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. 

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. 

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! 

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!’ 

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?’ 

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. 

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. 

One doesn’t have to go to Paris to see a smiling woman! 

 9 January 2023 / ©Santanu Sinha Chaudhuri