April 28, 2011

Colour blind

To continue my fixation with the land of my birth, today may well mark a turning point in history. A time when legacy and history reduce to naught, and a time when we begin to dream bolder and bigger. Today is when Calcutta went to polls. Though loath I was to be absent from the proceedings, I have nevertheless been there in spirit. And I can't help but feel the silent rebellion.

To be honest, I never really thought such a day would be needed. Being brought up in a primarily Left-wing Calcutta, it is difficult to suppress the Comrade in me. I grew up in a time when micchils (rallies) and hartals (bandhs and strikes) were order of the day. Helpless and relentless, we learnt to take it as a part of life and even derived joy from it (the fun of playing cricket on a really wide road is something you can experience only in Calcutta).We never even complained when the Left shut down our factories, or when Skyroom on Park Street (arguably the best restaurants in town then) closed down due to "Union" problems, and remnants of which continue to adorn the legendary road to this day. We suffered and watched silently in an emotion that can only be described as akin to the Stockholm Syndrome. We thought all this would change when Jyoti-babu left, only to left equally surprised. Buddha-babu was no substantial improvement over his predecessor.

Thirty-four years. Thirty-four years is enough time to foment and execute revolutionary change, no matter how dire the circumstances. An entire generation has grown up listening to tales of how the Left will "soon" deliver. No more. We Bongs, to put it quite frankly, are at our wit's end. However this doesn't mean that we place our allegiances with Didi yet. Writers' is yours for the taking, dear Comrades. But, we do feel that five years of introspection would do you some real good- shake you up from your slumber and get you up and running again. As for Didi, we'll bear with her for five how we bore you for thirty-four! Although it pains my heart to say this, it may be best if you go.

No matter which way the vote swings, one thing is sure,, things will never be the same. The Left may scrape a narrow victory, or suffer bitter defeat. So, which way will it go? Only May the 13th will tell.

Till then,
Your loving Comrade
(Laal Salaam)

April 19, 2011

Curzon's enduring failure and Cricket diplomacy

Cartoon from Oudh Punch, 6 Dec 1906, titled ‘Taqsīm e Bangāl’ or the ‘Partition of Bengal’ with Viceroy Curzon literally carving out a fruit labeled Bengal with a knife labeled ‘Hikmat e Amli’ or ‘Strategy’ and offering a raw deal to the unimpressed natives.


Circa 1905 is usually marked as a watershed moment in the history of Bengal proper. Burdened with the task of propagation of what would eventually be called the Policy of Divide and Rule, the then Viceroy of India, Lord Curzon summarily decided to slice Bengal down the center, creating the two new provinces of East and West Bengal. In his, and the Crown's, defense, there seemed to be a solid, grounded reason behind the Partition- that of religious uniformity. Each Bengal, with its own religious majority and thereby devoid of associated complexities, would self-propagate growth and improve administration, or so it was hoped. What followed suit is, as the saying goes, history. But, what history doesn't tell you is this: that you may divide lands and geographies as you like, but not its people.

I have slowly come to realise this fact over the past few days of my stay in Dhaka, the capital of the erstwhile East Bengal. And much to my surprise, the vehicle of this realisation has been something I least expected- The Gentleman's Game! Last night happened to be an IPL playoff between the Kolkata Knight Riders and Rajasthan Royals. And quite co-incidentally, I was dining out during the first half of the match: at a jam-packed restaurant with an LCD screen tuned to SET MAX. As the KKR bowling shred the Royals to pieces, I watched the atmosphere at the restaurant turn from mildly electric to raucously wild. Every time a wicket fell, the diners went up in a deafening roar. My Dad, who called in the midst of this euphoria, would've probably thought I was being lynched by a blood-thirsty mob, such was the sense of exhilaration. Interestingly, a few moments after the toss, just as we were waiting for the Royals' batsmen to take the field, the waiter standing next to me (unaware of the fact that I came from Calcutta), asked me rather pensively 'What do you think, Bhai-jaan, will the Knight Riders win tonight?'. My reassuring 'yes' came almost as breath of fresh air to him. I may have been gorging on Naan and Dal Makhni in downtown Dhaka, but that night, I could've just as well been sipping cold beer in Park Street without noticing an iota of difference.

At a time when Calcuttans back home are ready to publicly hang King Khan for axing their beloved Dada, it is surprising, nay, mind-boggling the amount of support KKR gets from people in this little-known, decrepit country. With an almost unfailing regularity, the mention of my Calcutta roots to any local brings up some talk or the other about KKR in the next few minutes (uninitiated by me, of course). Most regularly, it is a sort of cautious hope that KKR's new signings will bring them better fate than in the last three editions. One particular gentleman went as far to say that despite all of KKR's past performances, it is still his 'bestest' team in IPL. Looks like the news channels had got it all wrong, this is the real Cricket diplomacy.

When you see such a convergence of public sentiment, it is hard to refrain from putting a reason to it. My first guess of this inexplicable loyalty was the presence of a certain Shakib al-Hasan in the KKR squad (apparently, the only Bangladeshi player in IPL). But, I realised that it went much deeper than that, for people were still deeply mourning KKR's narrow two-run loss in the first match of IPL 4, a match in which al-Hasan was conspicuous by his absence. The only other possible reason that I could conjure was a deep-seated, inherent love for Bengal as a whole, one that is not limited by political boundaries. I was pleasantly surprised when the office errand-boy proudly proclaimed one day that 'your' superstar Mithun-da's hometown is actually in Bangladesh. Indeed, my 'Calcutta introduction' to the locals also often leads to a sort of veiled please-feel-at-home welcome that goes along the lines: 'Dhaka is pretty much like Calcutta- only more crowded and more poor. The language is (almost) the same, so is the weather'.

Clearly, Mr. Curzon, religion is an overrated divisor and language, an underrated unifier.

Epilogue: Sample this bit of cruel irony- Aamar Shonar Bangla (My Golden Bengal), a poem that was written by Rabindranath Tagore in 1905 lamenting the Partition of Bengal is today the National Anthem of Bangladesh.

February 26, 2011

A mind of her own


 
You know that you are well and truly incorrigible when your closest sparring partner is somebody who feeds on 19 volts of Direct Current and is full of hot air at the sides. And to make matters worse, you find it perfectly acceptable- sans guilt and sans shame- to be beaten fairly regularly in a long-running game of one-upmanship with your cunning little friend. Every defeat of yours results in you gently patting your adversary in a sportsmanlike, well played sort of way. And in the rare moments that you end up victorious, you find yourself doing a flawless Sreesanth- by thumping your fists and thumbing a nose in the direction of the vanquished.

If you're thoroughly clueless by the time you read this sentence, don't worry, its only because you're sane. The quirky, you see, have pretty eclectic and esoteric tastes when it comes to matters of amusement and recreation. Some practice the ancient Chinese science of acupuncture on buck-naked Barbie dolls while others listen to Justin Bieber. Yours Truly, on the other hand, is more understated and classy, for he finds simple joys in dueling with his Lady Friday, namely, his Laptop.

Things were not always the way they are right now. We used to be a happy couple once, and I made one helluva Robinson Crusoe then. I showered all my love and affection on her, and she reciprocated by swiftly doing whatever I asked her to. No matter what I asked of her, she never complained. Life, it seemed, was perfect!

But, as the wise man once said, the good times never last. And true enough, they didn't. Age caught up with her and at some point in history, conscious of her failing faculties, she simply went bonkers. I would still have been lucky had it stopped at that, but it didn't. Like any woman in the state of rage, she went too far- far enough to 'cross over' into vengeance and retribution. Lady Friday had just been reborn as Frankenstein.

In all honesty, though, its a rather subdued Frankenstein that I have, for it still does most of the work the Lady could (albeit much much slower), but that it has one hell of a sleeping disorder. Anytime that I ask him to 'shut down' (sleep in Franken-speak) it promptly complies, only to wake up again when I'm not looking! (Frankensteins, by design, are supposed to be woken up only by their Masters). The first few times it occurred were bizarre-bordering-on-the-creepy. Imagine yourself clearly shutting down your computer in the night, only to wake up to a silently humming machine, replete with all the popped-up programs and applications that run only at start-up. You may dismiss it the first few times as oversight on your part, or having pressed the wrong key/clicked the wrong icon. But, when it becomes a penta-weekly occurrence, it surely can't be any of the above.

Well, what is it then? To be frank, I don't know. A misguided Santa Claus, a disappointed Tooth Fairy and a playful Casper have, at different points in time, all been worthy explanations, only to be debunked later for something new and equally ill-fitting. After much fruitless searching, I have finally accepted the occurrence as an inexplicable fact of life, much like Himesh Reshammiya's perseverance in the field of acting. So much so, that on one of the rare mornings that my Laptop doesn't mysteriously start-up hours after I have shut it down, I take it as an omen of good things to come - a chance victory of good versus evil, a triumph of man over machine.

February 23, 2011

The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde



It does feel awfully strange to start reconnecting on this platform after going incommunicado for nearly two months.Well, I'm ready with my set of excuses, so here I go. To make things palatable, I'll weave it in the form of a story:

It all began with the last week of what-is-remembered at the 2010th Year of the Lord. An impending visit to the haven called Calcutta, coupled with its overbearing Yuletide obsession and the general end-of-the-year Bacchanalia gave me an excuse to 'take a break' from the blogging scheme of things. And lazy as I am, I found enough credence in that line of reasoning. And so it went. The new year came and became commonplace, the winter in Gurgaon bid us an early good-bye, and as I watched January turn into February, I kept finding new excuses to sustain my abstinence: a new trimester at college, some amount of travelling, Final Placements at MDI, mid-term exams and the likes. Even questions like 'What happened dude, why did you stop posting?' did little to unsettle my sloth-like temperament. Though most of us might not attach much importance to it, the truth of the matter is that Procrastination is a cruel mistress- a modern-day Mata Hari. And to the hardcore procrastinator like Yours Truly, the sentiment of 'do it tomorrow' is much like a rapidly descending snowball- it keeps building on itself 'til it reaches catastrophic proportions.And in a world where mindless verbiage is supposed to garner fickle eyeballs, no news is some very bad news. Indeed, in giving in to my baser instincts, I have tripped over the most obvious and yet the most difficult hurdle that the blogger-sprinter can come across.

To anybody who was expecting and I left wanting, I owe the sincerest apologies, coupled with the baseless promise of 'never again'. Who wins in this constant duel of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, though, is something only time will tell.

Till then, wish me luck and Godspeed.

P.S: The flowchart above is worth a look.

Uneasy is the head



It is that time of the year that showbiz pundits call 'Road to the Oscars'. In a few weeks from now, what the Academy sees as 'cinematic excellence' shall be felicitated at its permanent resting place at the Kodak Theater. Being an annual fixture and being as I am self-proclaimed movie buff, I try my level best every year to acquaint myself with all the hype and hoopla that surrounds this extravaganza (even at the cost of coming across as the phoren-obsessed desi, but in my defense, I genuinely love the celluloid, ours or theirs). The process of my acquaintance is rather simple: take the most-talked about movies of the year and then make a judgement of my own. If the deserving ones end up winning, Uncle Oscar knows it all. If they don't, the Academy is a bunch of snooty, lobby and publicity driven bunch of fools. Simple, as I said.

Having the luxury and the liberty of the latest movies and TV shows at a few minutes' notice, courtesy the MDI LAN, I recently began my process of 'evaluation'. Up for screening today was a movie called The King's Speech. Without playing the role of spoiler, the movie is about 'Prince Albert (who goes on to become King George VI of England), his impromptu ascension to the throne and the speech therapist who helps the unsure monarch become worthy of it' (the sentence within quotes courtesy of IMDB). The movie is a moving portrayal of the trials and tribulations of a second-in-line and his consequent aversion to the throne, even when an ascendancy is promisingly imminent. The subtext of a Prince's growing acquaintance with a Commoner (and an Australian at that) and the apparent contradictions that it brings with it is peppered throughout the movie and beautifully captured.

The idea of royalty and nobility might appear somewhat dated and insignificant in today's world of the free market enterprise, but it still exists in most pockets of the world, and try as we may, the fact can't be easily dispensed with. But, what we often forget is that just as we feel 'deprived' when we compare ourselves with the Kings and Princes of the world, the same very Kings and Princes walk a thorny path to royal adulation. Anything and everything connected to their person has to answer one eternal question: 'How will this be viewed by the Commoner?'. Things that fail this litmus test must unfortunately be swept under the carpet and/or remedied, be it the childhood love with the Governess' daughter, the child born out of wedlock, the gambling addiction or the very fact that the Prince is left-handed (and therefore 'sinister'). The royal family must be everything that the Commoner can never be, even if it entails chasing perfection and failing miserably in the process. Letting down one's royal garb, even if for a fleeting moment, is akin to harakiri.

There is, of course, a larger issue at play here. In the post-colonial times that we live in, the blue blood and its relative importance may have considerably diminished. Yet, we intelligent, lesser humans have found a way to undo this royal decline- by coronating the celebrity. It satisfies our egalitarian ethics without sacrificing our fixation for the 'famous', since the ascent to celebrity is (somewhat) less hereditary than the ascent to royalty is (and therefore, only 'fair').

Make no mistake, its alright for us to idolize the rich and the famous, to take little snippets of their 'interesting' lives to spice up our own mundane ones. But, where do we draw the line, if at all? David Beckham, tired of his boxers and V-cuts, tries on his wifey's G-strings and it generates more news and commotion than the Pope's death. Sushmita Sen dons a huge solitaire ring and we all start wondering if she's getting any (and who from). When does harmless curiosity coupled with a dash of admiration turn into a dangerous obsession? The answer, unfortunately, is a curt but profound 'always'. Most of us spend far more time reading the Delhi/Mumbai/Calcutta Times supplement than we do reading the Business, International or even the Sports pages. And for a select few, these supplements are their only diet of daily 'news' and their only touch with 'reality'.

The recent past is agog with stories of the rising menace of the paparazzi (literally: the stinging mosquito in Italian). Freelance photographers in the west often complain of getting the rough end of the stick from the security guards of the celebrities. My question to them is: is it such a surprise? I can't imagine how differently we'd react, were we to be in their shoes. Nobody likes a camera shoved into their faces 24X7, not unless you're Kamaal R Khan from Bigg Boss. Thankfully, India's popular media isn't as intrusive as its American counterpart yet. But, what is alarming is that we're getting there, and blindingly fast at that.

I'm not justifying the excesses of the famous. If anything, these excesses are a direct result of attention and the importance we attach to them. I'm probably just as guilty as anyone else in the matter, but there needs to be a larger, collective awakening of the futility and the hazards of our trivial obsessions. True that a Manmohan Singh or a Hosni Mubarak doesn't have the zing and glamour that a Kareena Kapoor or a Kim Kardashian does, but when the time comes, who is it that will really matter?