If you have a problem, fix it. But train yourself not to worry, worry fixes nothing. - Ernest Hemingway

Thursday, 15 September 2022

Little boy with a young mother in burqa

 

Little boy with a young mother in burqa,

Please look at me, I want to talk to you.

You see, I’d be older than your grandpa—

Long ago, my eyes too had wonder

Just like yours, but

That’s not what I wanted to tell you.

Old men often lose their way,

You’ll soon find out.

 

I wanted to tell you that when I saw you,

A vague, overpowering fear gripped me

As I tried to see you ten years into the future.

Will you be in a school that teaches you

To love every human

And hate nothing, except

Selfishness, violence, and blind faith?

 

Will you be in a school

That teaches you to question

What everyone believes is true?

A school where you’ll learn

That humans, whales, and butterflies

Are all made of atoms,

In fact, particles even tinier

That might have been parts

Of stars and galaxies once?

That you and I are no different from

Moondust or the fiery sun?

That is a brief summary of human knowledge,

But please don’t take my words for it.

Read, think, and find out.

 

Fifteen years into the future,

Will you be in a college

Where fools won’t try to teach you

About borders, barbed wires,

And why you must build walls?

 

Fifteen years down the road,

Will you have lots of friends,

And maybe, a girlfriend too,

Whose religions or kinships won’t matter

In the relationships you make?

 

Will you grow up to live

In a middleclass mohalla where

Narayanans, Kalams, Mukherjees, and Murmus

Live side by side? And no college

Bars entry to your sister

Because of what she chooses to wear

On her head? Or maybe, she will

Choose not to cover her head?

 

Little boy with a young mother in hijab,

A vague, overpowering fear gripped me

When I looked into the future

And tried to find you.

In your journey through the years

Will you rediscover the land

Where your grandpa and I lived

Long, long ago?

It was

A highly flawed place even then,

But those days, hatred wasn’t state policy,

And nobody had to wear

An invisible yellow badge on their chest.

 

Krishnagiri, Tamil Nadu

15 September 2022

 

 

 

 

 

Tuesday, 6 September 2022

Swapan Sarkar >>>


Goodbye Swapan-da, my friend for over fifty years. 

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. 

Neither have I met many people who have such intense passion for life. 

We hadn’t met over the last five years. I missed you then. I miss you now. I will keep missing you. 

*

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. 

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. 

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. 

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.) 

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. 

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.

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. 

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.

Swapan Sarkar passed away in his sleep two days later, in the early morning of 1 September 2022. 

Bengaluru 05 

September 2022

Tuesday, 23 August 2022

History however, is ruthless

 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!

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.

Translated into English by Kaushik Chatterjee

*

A convention was held on the 2nd 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.  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.

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.

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 11th 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.

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.

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.

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  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   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  targeting.

‘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.

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  Chatterjee cannot absolve the party of its moral responsibility.

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.

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. <>

*

You can read the original Bangla article here:

https://mepaper.anandabazar.com/imageview_64859_5412792_4_71_03-08-2022_4_i_1_sf.html

Thursday, 11 August 2022

A memorable journey

[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]

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. 


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. 

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. 

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!

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.

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. 

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! 

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.

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. 

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. 

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.

My stars chose to shine brightly on me today. I ought to have bought a lottery ticket after reaching home.

Bengaluru / Tuesday, 08 August 2016