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