Of THE Pujo...

(Written in October 2010, finished just now, with some edits and some additions...) Its been a while since I put pen to paper-or rather my finger to the keyboard- for who, other than the most old fashioned (euphemism for loser) would put pen to paper nowadays-to write. yes I've churned numbers, answered mails, written messages, processed payments and the usual drill-but I haven't written for months. No sir.

Why do I write now- because a memory is fresh in my mind and I want to write before all its impressions have been overwritten by the more mundane (and, sadly, more important) things in my life.

I am just back from the Kolkata of Durga Puja- and no, unlike most Bengalis I am not connected to Kolkata by an umbilical cord , the raw reality of Kolkata's dirty roads and wet weather, its much ado about nothing and unashamed acceptance of an organized chaos doesn't move me to tears-it always puts me to mind of an exposed jugular waiting for the end.

And yet this oldest of Indian cities, this most stubborn edifice of the roundabout way, almost has a catharsis every autumn, when all that matters to the Kolkatan rises as one to defend the Kolkata way of life- its time for a little more rush, a little more crowd, a little more confusion,a little more poetry, some more music,loads more food,and hours more of aimless conversation- "adda"-did I mention. its Puja time- time for good old Kolkata to arrive-all over again.

As I stepped on to the familiar roads and the even more familiar traffic and noise, I noticed how everything in the city spelled Puja time-hoardings of every size and shape, selling everything from toothpaste to newspaper, to real estate and education, recreated images of the Goddess in various forms- after a few dekkos I scouted for one hoarding that didn't have the Goddess on it- and found none! even advertising in Kolkata seems to be futile unless it gets a Puja makeover.

The Goddess, I thought, probably waits to be invoked every year-family and all. She waits to do her part in adding yet another Pujo to the city's memory, in the process, quadrupling the profits of its businessmen and boosting its otherwise soporific economy.

For at least a month prior to the Puja (and at least a week after it) one cannot be in Bengal and elude the Puja spirit. It is omnipresent- as I realised when, sitting in my quiet abode on the outskirts of Kolkata I was nevertheless treated to the creativity of Pandal artisans and idol sculptors, the dhak and arati competitions and the ceaseless hordes-people waiting to have a glimpse of the Goddess in this or that form, people emerging from a pandal created with this or that concept, using this or that substance. To all this I was privy, without having any intentions likewise, because every media (and one cannot escape media) was at its "Pujo covering" best.
Pujas are also the time when the larger than life culture assumes colossal proportions...it is everywhere and there is no escape.Before you ask, let me clarify that culture in Bengal is Bengali- and at a time when "cosmopolitan" is the favorite word of the cosmos, I am surely not stating the obvious. The Bengali expects every person in Bengal to be an adda-enthusiastic, food-loving, rabindrasangeet-singing, political cause-espousing, quirky, querulous "intellectual". He is not fanatic, not even clannish- he just cannot conceive of a non-Bengali way of life, cannot help pitying the non believers and subconsciously attributing to them a sense of regret at not having lived or bred on the hallowed soils of "sonar Bangla".
That the outsider is, in fact oblivious of what he is missing is anything but obvious to the Bengali...how can you not revel in the food, which in its piscine abundance cannot be compared to any other cuisine in the world...how can you prefer vegetarian over fish (o, the hallowed ilish and bhetki, no less),cricket over football (especially sans a certain past his prime Bong captain), how can you like doi that is not mishti…and how can you go through the day without debating on the current topic scorching political circles…pray, where do you belong? Certainly not in Bangla.
As an outsider just beginning to consider a long run relationship with Bengal, these oddities ( in a very benign and non offensive sense)amuse, entertain and even irritate me. After all, so much passion can and does often become too much of a good thing. Then I just remind myself that, at the end of the day,this is the one spirit that Bengal always holds on to;that of celebrating ones roots, forgetting the mundane, abandoning the maudlin, and believing that in the end, good always wins over evil... Time to leave...or as they say in Bengali...be right back...

Vignettes-II

Earlier you had to look at your neighbors to feel the green monster surging up your chest…now a quick peek at your social networking site does the trick; one click and you suddenly realize yours has to be the most God forsaken, trite, mundane, non happening life on earth…and here you were quite satisfied with your own sweet existence until the fatal click happened…pouf!!! all your self esteem is out of the window-your pudgy,dowdy schoolmate of yester-years has suddenly metamorphosed into a total Goddess, the happy go lucky loafer in your locality is now something of a jet-setter, the most inane colleague at work is suddenly hobnobbing with the who’s who of the whatever world you associate with…even your ex boyfriend/girlfriend/ crush/ spouse who you thought was stuck in some primeval evolutionary quagmire is posting mushy status updates with idiotic smileys and utterly soppy pictures with the new found love of their lives…and here you are-back where you started. All that you had built up carefully over the years-job, relationship, lifestyle-crumbling under the collective weight of albums, status updates, tweets and scraps which seem more real to you than your own life.You do a double take on the site...all of you that wanted to remember and be remembered is now desperate to forget...at least until you can pay back,with the greenest monstrosity ever-and then it is time for someone else to call it quits. A simple idea that is rewarding beyond measure to millions can leave you feeling emptier than ever.Ironically though, all this was meant to bring people together…the worry is, in creating too small a world, we might soon be treading into each others private spaces-when everyone is everywhere, no one is quite all there, methinks...

(Written after a conversation with a Facebook phobic)

Vignettes-I

You are at a departmental store...the one stop for your multiple needs...even the humble lauki, aloo, baingan have received a makeover...they now stand stacked in clean shelves...milk in tetrapack, pulses, cereals, varieties galore...all well packed and stored...wow, when you have the opportunity to make even vegetable shopping a sublime retail- therapeutic experience , can you be blamed for giving the humble sabzi mandi a miss?
So here you are on your fridge-stocking expedition, almost nearing the end of your list...when you are suddenly attracted by a brand new product...fruit juice with zero percent sugar, breakfast cereal that can help you overcome weight woes, anti-ageing cream that promises to bring your absconding/ fleeing/philandering or just plain absent minded husband back in your arms, hand and feet lotion, contraceptive/ abortion pills, body wash with some exotic ingredient from the savannas or the arctic or God-knows-where, cheese (slices, spread, low fat, mozzarella, cheddar),milk-(both bovine and soy varieties, with/ without flavour, toned, double toned, skimmed, condensed)..what have you. And you suddenly have an epiphany- this is the one thing without which your hitherto nearly perfect life is incomplete. So you add it to your shopping cart,pay your bill, and smile...another days work done...Success is about having the money in your wallet to pay for something you don't know you need...

On ...nothing in particular

Love is what keeps me awake

As you lie asleep beside me

Choosing dreams from a concrete sky;

Like a breath struggling to escape from a constricted chest

And struggling to remain,

Knowing that the moment of cowardice

Is the end

Less in showers, in storms and drizzles,

More in the musty, dank smells of afterward

When your arms are no longer around me

I face the woman and the stranger alone.

Love is a game we both play

For our own prizes, our triumphs

Yours is the business of life

Mine a wait for life to start.

But meanwhile, I have you

The spaces between us

The togetherness of cramped bodies

The conversations, the quiet

The need, the apathy

Me and you

Partners in a cosmic crime

Ending as it began

With love…

PS: Something that pretends to be poetry...haven't tried to write one in ages...this one just came up...

On why the HBP movie is a complete waste of time...

Yes, I am a fan of the HP books...one of the few things I would readily pledge my allegiance to. Perhaps that is the reason why HBP the movie failed me...miserably.
To turn a riveting, ingeniously plotted, magical saga with deep emotional and philosophical undertones into an equally fascinating movie is no mean task...but HP 6 on celluloid doesn't even try. Instead one is treated to awe inspiring visuals, replete with state of the art effects and dark picturesque landscapes which come together to tell a story that contains less than one half of the original plot and misses out on its deeper meanings altogether. It could have been Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince or Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley or Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy or even Death Eaters, Horcruxes, Teenage Romance and Slughorn....big difference.

For starters, the screenplay writers, for reasons best known to themselves decided to play havoc with the story. Certain key portions entirely omitted and absolutely inane bits of originality supplanted make this a travesty of a plot. Indeed, I pitied those of the audience who hadn't read the book- even the most discerning among them would fail to realize what was going on and why. For that matter those who had read the book were as likely to forget what the original story was like, thanks to the exasperating alterations that hit you even before you can say Merlin's Beard!!!
For those of us who know Rowling's version of the story, HBP is as much about Voldermort as about Harry. The most intriguing parts of the book are those that involve tracing Tom Riddle's journey to becoming the most menacing dark wizard of all time. In the movie however, much of these trips through the Pensieve are dispensed with- the result is a disconnected narrative where one is supposed to take most of what happens for granted.
Also, the book is about growing up in more senses than one- it traces the coming of age of Harry as well as Draco, and the inevitable choices that one must make once and for all. But while Draco's anguish, his desperation and weakness is fairly depicted in the better bits of the movie, the narrow, almost puerile depiction of Harry's sojourn to adulthood disappoints the avid fan. Giggly, blushing, tearful adolescence is all very well in a small measure...but here we have dollops of it in the most unlikely places, diluting the essentially dark portents of the book besides giving the impression that Harry is the average teenager periodically embarking, superhero like, on a save-the-world-from-Voldemort mission. It is the heroic in Harry and the reasons that go into making him so that endear fans to the HP series...somehow those reasons are never clear in the movie.

So lost were the makers in their own version of HBP that they forgot to include the battle at Hogwarts. Without this crucial climax, the build up provided by Draco's clandestine activities, several accidents befalling Hogwarts' students and the gradually growing unrest about death eaters and dementors on the loose, seems redundant. The end is almost tame...very unlike the book where the supreme tragedy of Dumbledore's death, Snape's flight amidst the raging battle bring in their aftermath an indication that things will never be the same for Harry again.

The only watchable bits are those involving Draco, because they manage to grip the audience with his sense of urgency, hopelessness and desperation which were so evident in the book. Also, the makers get the dark atmosphere of the book right...at least in the visuals. Montages are creative, technical elements (at least as far as I understand) brilliant, tempo, sound and pace good, actors competent...I only wish it was more of a story and less of a superhero-romcom gimmick.

So if you ask me, give this one a miss- go waste three hours on some more satisfying pursuit. Better still, spend it going back to or even discovering for the first time HBP the book...worth it.

Of the great Indian Sport...and the Greater Victory

For the past few weeks the brand new fast food avatar of Indian cricket and the grand old juggernaut that is the Indian democracy, though colonies apart, have managed to keep us hooked, despite rising temperatures, shrinking pockets and other circumstances that make you feel like the biggest loser if you are still alive. When cricket and politics vie for your attention in what may in the agonizing Dickensian parlance be termed as the best and worst of times, it becomes interesting to draw parallels between both.
For starters there is enough drama in both to give the now ubiquitous daily soap a run for its money, or to teach the most emotionally challenged person the meaning of hysteria. Obvious cracks in a hitherto perfect team or alliance, followed by days of speculation, accusations and denials, and then a moment of revelation-could we ask more from even the longest running, most adrenalin pumping, tear jerking joint family saga?
Both have leaders who, by example, lead their team to reign or ruin, and wannabe leaders who wonder how the rest of the world could have missed the halo around their heads; leaders past their prime looking for the final encore and those in their quixotic salad days, taking risks that would put the most adventurous gambler to shame.
Both have upstarts that suddenly capture popular imagination with their skills on the field or their campaign capers, pulling rabbits out of an innocent looking hat; and old war horses that live down titles of 'has been' or 'might have been', but aren't ready for their last bow just as yet.
However well begun, it is the slog overs -the "death overs"- that matter in both. It is then that the proverbial slip between the cup and the lip or the kursi and the …never mind… is as likely to occur as not. It is then that the underdog suddenly reveals that he is after all, Superman behind those horn rimmed glasses and can, with a grand sweep of his bat or a subtle political sleight of hand or play of words quite turn the game on its head, leaving the formidable adversary to wonder just what went wrong.
Both in the end are about winning- and hence about losing; about realizing that tons of publicity and propaganda, of thumping your chest and patting your back, aren’t enough to move you from where you started-at the bottom. That you might as well, while you are at it, mint the moolah as long as it comes-and guts and glory be damned.
Not to forget that both while they last give the average Indian the feeling that he is about to witness the "Hand of God" at work. That while he may pray for his team and vote for his leader, he might as well leave it at that, as the ancient scriptures remind him not to worry about the fruits of his action. That he might as well enjoy a good game while it lasts, cheering for his favourite, and keeping the faith through it all. That when the winner finally surfaces, the spectators, the electorate applaud not because their choice has been vindicated but because, all said and done, it was a fight to the finish.

Till next time…

Indians By Chance

We are today's people...people who could have been born in any country...it would make no difference whatsoever...we would still be the same...we are men, women, children, rich, not-so-rich, beautiful, ugly as hell, stupid, smart, everything...but hello, Indians? Yup, that too, by chance.
What else would explain why we do so little about things we feel so much? Why Mumbai and Mangalore, inflation and intolerance, crime and corruption that are so much a part of our with-it generation speak suddenly take a hiatus when we go voting? O sorry, that should have read "...when we are supposed to go voting" , because, hello, when was the last time you, or I, voted?
I am in my late twenties...and I haven't, as yet, "seen the inside of a voting booth"*, nor the queue that leads to it...no. And neither have most of you, my friends, because you like me, are everything but Indians...except by chance.
But then, what am I talking about...aren't we too busy with our careers, our love lives, our children or parents, our clubs, holidays, pets, cars and gizmos to be worried about voting? Isn't it enough that we stand for every (at least public) screening or playing of the national anthem, that we buy tiny flags to decorate our dashboards or workstations from those dirty little children on the street every republic or independence day, that we forward patriotic messages (okay, cheesy sometimes) to each other on those days, that we wear tricolour clothes to theme parties thrown on those occasions? Haven't we at least heard of Bhagat Singh and watched at least one Manoj Kumar movie with tears in our eyes? And most importantly, aren't we paying taxes?
We are citizens, but non-committal, opinionated but ineffective, intelligent but indifferent...is it any wonder that our leaders are the same?

* Quoted from The White Tiger , and correctly as far as I remember