Pandemonium-Unplugged - Ramblings of an Overtly Sensitive Observer

The Journey to School - I

noreply@blogger.com (Chanchal Roychoudhury) — Sat, 13 Aug 2011 12:19:00 +0000

Since I joined Bantul Mahakali High School, somewhere in a far-off area in rural West Bengal, I have been inundated with questions. Curious friends want to know how life is at this village school for someone who has studied and worked in the city and knows nothing of what life can be 50kms away from the heart of Calcutta. I have tried to answer these questions to the best of my ability but there is just so much to say that nothing I could write on chat boxes or say on phone conversations could totally encapsulate my experience. A series of blog posts on my life at school was long overdue! With the doors of this co-ed institution shut for three consecutive days and the weather enforcing me to keep my own door firmly bolted, it’s time to keyboard my story.

This was going to be my first journey on a local train! Yes, when I mention this to anyone, they don’t believe me. It surely does not make me feel proud of this dubious distinction but I have never traveled short distances by train. I didn’t need to. I was gearing myself up for the worst when my colleagues laughed at my question, “Where should I punch the monthly ticket?” These two friends are regulars on local trains and had told me to buy a monthly ticket for convenience. I was of the opinion that they could be punched, much like Metro Rail tickets. When my colleague took out his ticket and railway ID card, I had my first look at what I needed to be armed with to take local trains on a daily basis.

I had done a reconnaissance a few days before I was scheduled to join and knew that it would take me a couple of hours to reach the school. I started off this reconnaissance trip with a lot of foreboding. I had no idea how it is going to be. I had a rough sketch of where I needed to go and what I had to take. The rest would unfold when I hit the track. High on a desire to explore and quite low on enthusiasm, I took off. I had to walk for 5 minutes to reach the bus stop. If I had to go to Calcutta, I need not have walked because a bus going that way would have saved the trouble for me. Anyway, not to be weighed down by the loss of this luxury, I took a bus to the train station. The bus was near-empty because office goers were headed the opposite way, towards Calcutta. I was going away from it. The bus stopped on a flyover above the train station. I had to climb down about two levels to reach ground floor.

The way to the school was a series of questions. The first one was, “Where is the ticket counter?” I had no choice but to depend on random strangers to locate a destination where I might spend the rest of my professional career. I was shown a structure which was more like a concrete hut with a tin roof and polished marble floors. The rain in the morning had left patches of water on the floor and years of use have eroded the surface. Walking carefully, I reached the ticket counter. Two counters were on the sides of a room that can pass off as a rectangular hall. Rubbish was heaped on at least two of the corners. An old woman was strategically standing between the counters, expecting passengers to drop their loose balance into her begging bowl. Many were disappointing her.

I bought my ticket and headed for the over-bridge that will take me to another platform. Again, this information was indebted to a stranger. The climb up made me sweat badly and I realized with a tinge of fear that maybe these flights of stairs, the flyover and now this, will be difficult to manage some years down the line, if I continue to skip exercises. I got to the right platform and asked a tea vendor when the train will come. He replied that it was due and anytime it would arrive. True enough, I saw it chugging in lazily. With each passing day, I have learnt to trust the information of train hawkers more than railway time tables or officials. Seats were available on the train. The same reason, like the bus, applied to save me from another physical exhaustion. I was on my way.

An Empty Ode

noreply@blogger.com (Chanchal Roychoudhury) — Mon, 11 Apr 2011 10:03:00 +0000

Sterile thoughts clog my void brain,

I cannot wade through thoughts profane;

The want far exceeds the frugal means

Of sustenance that life did me ordain.

Each day I hope for a pregnant sunrise

Each day the boredom I despise.

The numbness remains my vital shadow

When will life bring me a surprise?

I feel compelled to shield my eyes,

From the naked shrapnels of the past.

What stark, bare force in them lies

That bring them up out of the dust

The need for a physical consolation escalates;

Blocked are the routes of escapades.

This is a poem I wrote way back on a June evening in 2008.

Dear Dad II

noreply@blogger.com (Chanchal Roychoudhury) — Sat, 15 Jan 2011 17:14:00 +0000

It’s been a year since I last wrote to you. It’s not easy making up my mind and begin to write a letter to you, you know! No, it’s not just the emotional upheaval that I’m scared of. It’s also because of the lack of emotional intimacy we shared. I don’t remember talking to you frankly or freely about my problems, neither did you feel easy enough to do the same with me. Somehow we kept our lives separate, lest we betray our vulnerabilities. There’s something that held you back from talking about your needs. You could never say what you wanted. If somebody understood instinctively, it was done for you. You would accept the favor with silent gratefulness. If it was not done, you would have no qualms about it. I inherited this trait from you, though partially. I can keep silent when no one realizes what I want, but somehow I cannot help but be bitter about it. I feel a bad aftertaste in the mouth.

This last year has been oddly quiet. There were no major events except for my laptop breaking down and me having to spend a whole two months to bring things back in control. Yes, I bought a laptop last year in May, with the money I received as Provident Fund from my last office. I tried to sell off my desktop, the one you worked on, but changed my mind. Remember how we used to fight over it? Things used to get so ugly on Sundays! You were so paranoid about checking your email every hour and I would grumble that I cannot have the computer to myself. I would complain to my mother and she would raise a ruckus and bully you into letting me take over. You would calmly get up and watch TV. I would finish my non-existent work in half an hour and join you on the sofa. Invariably I would take the remote and change the channel you were watching. You would immediately adjust your mind and watch what I did. Why did you never assert yourself? The computer and the TV lie silent for days and months. Need I say more?

You want me to talk about mom, don’t you? She’s fine! She’s heavily into singing devotional hymns and has learnt to play my old harmonium! She asked me to teach her initially. But you know how she picks things up! I gave up in two sessions. She went ahead and got herself a tutor. The lady is a very patient and an ideal teacher. Krishna Aunty joins mom for these sessions that happen thrice a week. But mom practices every single day! She’s really taken this up and is happy to keep herself occupied. Her sense of humor remains keen and outrageous to the hilt. Remember how you used to poke her so that she may say those funny, quaint things? You would laugh till tears came flowing. I enjoy her hilarious side a lot. She makes me smile with her excuses for bad cooking. When I’m pensive, she asks me if I am worried. Then without waiting for an answer, she brushes away all such considerations saying that I need not worry as long as she is around. I trust her completely when she says that. She may be comical, but she’s rock-steady. They don’t make them like her anymore. You did well to choose her as my mother.

If you want to know how we are doing on a daily basis, I have nothing much to say because nothing much has changed. There’s no one to bring the fish every day, so we don’t have it regularly. You know mom wouldn’t put anything non-veg in the fridge. As you know, she’s beyond reason when it comes to following null and void customs that are etched on her mind. She gets hysterical when I try to make her see sense. I don’t try hard or she may think that I’m trying to push my opinion on her. I don’t argue with her, unless I feel that she’s open to change her mind. She asks for my advice on little things these days. She feels that she’s getting old and now I must take the decisions. I tell her what I think of the matter and give her options. I don’t know if I’m capable of standing up and being there for her when she needs me. But I’m not giving up. Ever.

I dream about you every other night. Don’t look away, I know you realize what I’m talking about. Just the other day you were holding me in a half-hug when I woke up, like you used to. Don’t deny, you were right there, I could feel your stubble on my cheek. On other nights, you tell me things that I don’t remember when it’s day. I can’t recall a single word now. Naïve are the people who say dreams are nothing but your sub-conscious mind playing visual tricks. You are not my sub-conscious. There are some little things that keep coming back to me: silly jokes you found really funny, India losing cricket matches, our drunk neighbors fighting. As days pass, I feel I’m imitating the way you were. I gulp water like you did, I sometimes speak like you used to, I react like you did. And you know what, I wrote all these tenses of the last line in present tense.

That’s it for now. Don’t be conscious that I referred to your visits in my dreams and stay away from me. I would feel really lucky if I could talk to mom during the day and with you during the night. I never want to choose between you two. I will accept nothing but the both of you.

Be with me always.

Friendship: Then and Now

noreply@blogger.com (Chanchal Roychoudhury) — Sat, 11 Sep 2010 14:02:00 +0000

I am a self-confessed Facebook addict. If I’m not doing anything better, I’m surfing around through Facebook-scape. It’s like my Ethernet access has shrunk down to accommodate only this one particular website, like a house cut down by a cruel bulldozer to just a room. While I pace up and down this rather cluttered room of mine, I bump into many vestigial relationships. I’m talking about my friends who used to mean a lot at certain points of time, but have dissolved somewhere along the way. Many of them unsubscribed from my life when school was over, and there were many that I couldn’t keep track off. I must admit that I made little or no effort to do that, because migrations are necessary for many.

When I look at them today, I find it hard to reconcile their present with the memories of my past. I find it hard to figure out when I spoke to them last, and if I can somehow remember that, I cannot save my life to tell you what we talked about. It’s like we lived in a village that has been ravaged by the keepers of time. And then we settled elsewhere only to meet at a village fair many years later. By then we have transformed into self-sufficient units and can feed ourselves. We no longer need to join hands for a cause; we no longer need to come together again.

Don’t get me wrong here. I’m not saying that I do not like connecting with old friends. But there’s so much that has happened over the years that the person I work with knows more about me than the friend who was in the school Literary Club with me. It seems like a gigantic task to fill them up with updates, force the drab details down unwilling throats. I feel that friendship, like all other relationships, has a shelf life. Once you drag them beyond their span, you feel the burden and the weight crushes the fond memories you have. I’d pick my memories any day over reconciling myself with a stranger who looks like my long lost friend.

Ode to an Office

noreply@blogger.com (Chanchal Roychoudhury) — Mon, 02 Aug 2010 11:43:00 +0000

An incomplete poem I started writing long time back. It's about an office I worked in...

It was not a long time ago,
That I got an opportunity
To add my spirit of usefulness
And contribute toward an exercise in quality.
There exists a Gothic building,
That stands like a figure imposing;
To know more about this den,
Let's start meeting its merry men.
Guarding the door is a sentry gentle,
He neither smokes, nor chews beetle.
But he has got quite a curiosity,
And asks questions with feverish tenacity.
If you want to get through the gate,
Better come early, or you'll surely be late.
After climbing up the stairs few,
You are greeted with a solemn view.
With computers black, people sit in rows,
They work with perpetually quizzed eyebrows.
Work is not the reason for this gloom,
It's just that on the right is the boss' room!
It would not be safe to talk about
Some of these merry men,
Should they come to know of this,
They'll surely knock out my brain!
So let's go only to the harmless men,
They are nice, they are timid, they are sane.

Napping Away

noreply@blogger.com (Chanchal Roychoudhury) — Tue, 27 Apr 2010 13:53:00 +0000

This is another post triggered by the bus rides that take me to work and back. It’s not that I observed it off late, but I never thought of writing about this earlier. Check the snap. I took it on my cell phone when I was comfortably perched at the last seat of the bus. The gentleman (X) was almost resting his head on the shoulder of the man (Y) beside him. Y was sleeping too, but he could keep his head firmly straight, except for a slight droop. Each time X’s head touches his shoulder, Y gives his shoulders a violent shrug. This alerts X and he sits up bolt upright. Before long he gives up his resolve as the cool breeze wafting in from the Hooghly river sooths his alert nerves. His head starts the sideways slump again. This continued repeatedly till X’s journey came to an end and he somehow pushed himself out of the packed bus.

It’s not a wonder for me anymore. Over the years I have seen passengers on the bus take power naps on their way. Many wake up from the bounce on the roads. Many naps are cut short by an elbow of the passenger standing beside him. Some have a lot of peace stenciled on their faces. It seems like this is the only time which they have to themselves. They can sleep peacefully without a wife yelling in the other room or without a teenage child hankering for extra pocket money. They don’t really feel guilty about taking it for granted that even if their heads end up on the adjacent person’s shoulder, there won’t be much harm done! Some don’t even apologize. Some get angry when they find a head on their shoulder. Sometimes quarrels are triggered. I have seen considerate conductors leave the sleeping passengers alone when he goes along collecting fares. The ones standing and swaying to the movement of the bus look at the sleepers jealously. What would they not give to swap places? Some people have all the luck, they seem to grumble. And why not? While they sweat it out in the humid interiors of the bus, with only very short intermittent gusts of wind striking their grimy faces, the better-off mortals are replenishing their energy reserves.

I am guilty of the same offense as well! There were quite a few times when I fell asleep on my way. But I don’t use the person beside me as a pillow; that much I can assure you! However, I allow children to use me as a pillow if they fall asleep! I make jerky movements to ward off adults looking for the same privilege. As for me, actually my mind starts to wander about the moment the bus starts moving. When it gets lost in a maze of incomprehensible garbage, I find my eye-lids getting heavy. Before long they meet secretly. Their hug is torn apart when the bus comes to a sudden halt or when the car beside honks unusually loud. I squint out to check where I have reached. If that’s far off from where I have to get off, I allow myself to indulge a little, with a mental note that I have to keep this short. Sometimes when I wake to see my destination just a couple of minutes away and I feel really sleepy, I have this mad urge to sleep on and come back on another bus! But I fight it off because our time is such a slave to others that even if we want, we cannot get it to do something for our own pleasure.

A Noboborsho Morning Revisited

noreply@blogger.com (Chanchal Roychoudhury) — Fri, 16 Apr 2010 07:43:00 +0000

My earliest memory of the Bengali New Year was waking up at 4am. My parents had a business of their own. According to the custom of businesspersons, they woke up early on this day to pay a visit to the temple. This was the starting of the business year. Hundreds of small and medium scale businesspersons and their spouses would gather on the temple premises very early. They carried a big wickerwork bowl (called jhuri) filled with flowers, a new copy and assorted items needed for the ceremonies. Tucked away comfortably in the jhuri was an idol each of Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth and her elder brother Ganesh, the god of prosperity. The bro-sis duo is the deities the businesspersons worship in this part of the world.

My parents would blend in with the crowd. My mom, in a crisp new saree which sometimes retained the glued brand tag because she was always in a hurry and desperately careless, would spend the time at the queue chatting away happily with the other women around. My dad, irritated at having to wake up so early but never complaining in fear of a spat with mom, shifted uncomfortably on his feet. He couldn’t bring himself to talk to the others around him. He was a complete misfit there. He wouldn’t even get inside the cramped temple. He would wait outside as mom got in with the jhuri. When she came out with sweat trickling down her face, she had this look of triumph: finally she had got it done before many others!

The jhuri now contained lesser flowers. Red vermillion was painted across the forehead of Lakhsmi, the mark of a married woman. A red dot was marked on Ganesh’s forehead too. This was one was a tika, different from the one on Lakshmi. The copy’s first page was smeared with the same red and a red swastika shone through. There were flower petals inside the pages as well. Mom would open the lid of the paper box containing the sweets and thrust one in my mouth. Her palm smelled metallic. Dad would take the sweet very gravely, as if it was made of the most brittle material. He would then lop that in his mouth and chew it even more gravely. Mom would call on a thousand gods in an indecipherable mumble and eat her share. The rest would be distributed among close family members and the workers who helped the business. We would then be on our way home.

Twittering Friends!

noreply@blogger.com (Chanchal Roychoudhury) — Fri, 09 Apr 2010 06:25:00 +0000

We are in the internet age, so I wouldn’t be surprised if you are thinking of Twitter as you read this post. But that’s not what I’m about to talk here. I’m talking about what we traditionally associate with the word twitter: the chirping of birds. If you are on my Facebook page, you may know that my room and the adjacent ante-room are infested with sparrows. I say infested because they can be really pesky. They are quarrelsome, they are noisy and they are restless. They can go on for hours, letting out a shrill yelp-like sound at an interval of 5 seconds. They are more tenacious than crows when it comes to making continued noise and chaos. However, they are as silent as the water in a mug when the sun is tired of warming the earth on this side of the hemisphere.

I used to get mad at them initially. I used to ask my mom to keep the windows of my room sealed up to prevent them from getting home. Mom would do that but the sparrows outwitted her badly. They would think of new ways to get in and my mom would be clueless. My sleep was disturbed at dawn, every passing day. I felt a murderous rage against the sparrows for keeping me up all morning. And then, one morning, I heard the faint sound for the first time. It was the sound of the baby sparrows!

I climbed atop a stool to take a closer look. There were four of them, beaks open in eager hunger. They thought I had come with food. The guardian sparrows were not there. I went down and asked mom what I can feed them. She suggested milk. I climbed back again and this time I was armed with powdered milk stirred in water and a dropper. The dropper was mom’s idea, of course! I did that for a couple of days, and they made more noise as they grew up. But I was not so upset anymore. Neither did I feel the urge to keep the guardian sparrows out. I understood that keeping them out would be to cut off the food supply of the young ones. As for waking up, I was content with the idea that it was better to wake up to twittering birds than honking vehicles.

But, like many of my other relationships, they disappointed me badly. When the babies grew up, they left my room and never came back. My room was silent again, I could sleep peacefully again. But I missed my friends for days. Then I forgot all about them till life turned full circle. Their breeding season is back. The sparrows have started coming in again, with twigs and grass held possessively between their beaks. This time I’m not willing to be cooperative. I just let them be. They build their nest. I guess the eggs are laid as well because I found one of the eggs displaced from the high rack and squashed over my table. The baby sparrows may come any day now. But I won’t be friends with them again. I don’t like seasonal friends, even if they are twittering friends.

Cricket: The Why and The Why Not!

noreply@blogger.com (Chanchal Roychoudhury) — Thu, 08 Apr 2010 08:39:00 +0000

My creative energy is scattered. I have a simmering anger against something that I have to cope with on a daily basis: collective indifference where action is much needed. My muse is holidaying in Puri with her parents. With no one to talk to largely, I took to the IPL like a free-falling person takes to the cold, cruel ground. I always liked watching cricket but after the match-fixing scandals broke out, I stopped altogether. For years I didn’t watch a single match on TV. With my faith betrayed by some money-hungry scumbags, it was not easy to love the sport again with unadulterated enthusiasm. I remember I used to switch off the TV when Sachin took the field with the bat! I couldn’t bear to see him get out. When he played one of his many legendary innings, I watched the highlights. Even now I pray when he’s at the crease. It’s involuntary. It is part of my system, as it is for millions of Indians.

The IPL has blurred the colors of loyalty. Suddenly you have to choose between the city you live and love and your demigod of a cricketing icon. I live in Kolkata and root for Kolkata Knight Riders (KKR) by default. A very interesting situation is when KKR plays against teams that have Sachin, Yuvraj and Dhoni on their team lists. I find myself hoping that these players score tons of runs but the sum total falls just short of the KKR total! I want them to go hammer and tongs and yet I want them to somehow stop short of batting KKR out of the game. I tried to train myself to will the KKR bowlers dismiss one of the names I mentioned, but I failed to do so hopelessly. The same goes for Shane Warne. I want him to win. Always. No matter which team he’s leading against. Except for KKR, of course!

In all this positive hullaballoo, I noted a rather disturbing trend. Sledging has been part of cricket folklore. The cricketing gods were not innocent of sledging. In the good old days, an aggressive bowler would stare and glare at the batsmen, making them cringe. The clever, witty batsman would reply with a snide remark or allow his bat to do the talking. However, in the recent times, I see players openly mouthing the f-word and even vernacular cuss words. The idea of cricket as a gentleman’s sport is slowly crumbly with the young guns making it top-heavy. Kids watching the match would love to catch what their icons are doing on the field. They are more likely to grab the idea that the best way to tide over your opposition was to get into verbal duels with them. That is not conducive to the nature and future of the game. I just desperately hope that we don’t come to times when sports telecasts will contain a P/G rating! Till then, enjoy the IPL!

Dear Dad

noreply@blogger.com (Chanchal Roychoudhury) — Sat, 16 Jan 2010 12:59:00 +0000

I’m sure you remember that it’s mom’s birthday today! I know you do. You have never yelled “Happy Birthday!” on any 16th January, but since childhood I have noted that a gift would invariably be there on your hand when you came home from work on the 15th. For as long as I can remember it would be a cardigan because she loved collecting them, discarding many before winter visited us again. You never questioned their utility, like you never questioned any other aspect which received her stamp of approval. I noticed how you would pass on the TV remote to her even as you were on the edge of your seat, watching an intense cricket match. I didn’t forget how you would eat anything that was put on your table, knowing that she is not a good cook. How you could do it unfailingly over the ages, I don’t know. But I learnt lessons by observing these little gestures which kept petty quarrels at bay.

Quarrels! That’s something that you never picked with anyone. Neighbors, relatives, strangers, all of them either agreed to you or you agreed to them. I have to be honest here that sometimes it got on our nerves. Mom and I used to talk ill about you. We used to laugh at you. We used to mock you for being such a yes-man. But we also held a grudging respect for you because people seemed to love you for being what you are. There were so many mornings when I woke up to find neighbors thronging our house, asking you for help and advice. I was more strongly aware of this when the entire neighborhood was at our door the day you died. I couldn’t look at anyone in the eye. I shrunk away in my cocoon lest they expect I’ll be what you were to them.

You were gone before I could be there. I curse myself every day for being so tired as to oversleep that fateful morning. I don’t presume that you would have said a lot of things before you bid farewell to me. You were never a man of words. My guess is that you would have asked me to take care of mom. So that is my priority now. I’m trying to do what I can to make sure that she doesn’t feel lonely. But I seem to be fighting a losing battle. I don’t know what to do when she smiles to hide her pain only to make me feel that she recognizes my effort. I don’t know what to do when I see her arrange those pens you loved a thousand times, tidy up the room you lived in every other day and move your clothes from one pile to another, not knowing where their final resting place will be- somewhere out of her sight but someplace close to the heart.

Both of us are looking for that balance in our lives after your exit. There are so many things we hide from each other because we don’t want to hurt one another. But we are so dreadfully aware that there is a pall of gloom that won’t be dispelled. We have both failed you somewhere down the line. We have wronged, misunderstood and accused you. We take consolation in the fact that you are not someone who would hold a grudge. And that makes us feel even more concerned that you had to leave this way, away from us, in a desolate, solitary hospital bed, isolated and bereft of what you radiated with effortless ease- love and warmth. You never allowed me to touch your feet, let alone apologize. It was as if you are embarrassed yourself that someone is apologizing to you. So asking for your forgiveness now is not the proper way to express my gratefulness for everything that you have done for me and everything that I could and can do for myself because I had you. I can make that have, can’t I?

I know you love tinkering with the internet! I’m sure you will find a way to read this. I couldn’t bring myself to write this earlier, and now that I have decided to put it down, I can’t bring myself to stop. You see, I had a lot of things to say as well…

Apathy

noreply@blogger.com (Chanchal Roychoudhury) — Sat, 09 Jan 2010 14:08:00 +0000

It’s not without a lot of hesitation that I have decided to write this down. By the end of this post you may find yourself cringe, you may feel guilty; you may also find your sensitive side violated. This is the expression of what I have observed over the years on public transports, bus terminals, government offices, and even in educational institutions like schools and colleges. There is a thick fog of apathy hanging determinedly across all these places, enveloping them in a maze of indifference, the walls of which would not thaw or dissolve.

Let me relate an experience that I go through sometimes on my way to work. There is a girl, about twelve years old, who gets on the same bus as me, with her father. She’s dressed in school uniform, wears spectacles, and has a white gauge of bandage firmly taped over her left eye. It’s obvious that she has sustained some sort of injury. The bus is generally crowded then, being peak office hours. I have noted with horror that no one offers this little girl a seat. She sways to the rash driving of the bus, latching on to the edge of the seat to prevent herself from falling over.

The bus is so packed with people at this time that she or her father can’t move beyond a particular point. I generally sit on the last seats. I tried to call her over and offer my seat, but she couldn’t even begin to reach me. Too much of jostling was something that she couldn’t afford with an eye in bandage. And I could sense the others seated near her, shifting uneasily in their cozy seats. They were feeling unsettled that someone far away from her could offer a seat while they couldn’t bring themselves to do that. Some looked out of the window fixedly, pretending they had no clue what was going on.

But I got my reward. The girl smiled sadly at me, as if to thank me for at least trying to help her.

What is it with us? What stops us from carrying out random acts of kindness? The other day when I was having tea at a tea-stall with a colleague, a beggar came with her child. She wanted to buy a cake which cost Rs. 3.50. She had only Rs. 3. The shopkeeper refused to sell it. I took out the cake and gave it to her. The other people at the shop stared at me as if I gave away my purse or cell phone to her. My colleague commented that they earn more than us! I’ll leave you to draw your own conclusions.

A Bus Service That Changed Things

noreply@blogger.com (Chanchal Roychoudhury) — Fri, 25 Sep 2009 14:55:00 +0000

It was sometime in the beginning of this summer. I was out for work at the usual time, talking to my friend while I walked down to the main road to catch the bus. It’s a ten minutes walk from my house. I was engrossed in conversation when suddenly two guys on a bike pointed to a white bus behind me, coming down the road. They said something about the 2nd bridge. To take this further, I need to acquaint unfamiliar readers with a few facts so they know what I’m talking about.

I live in Howrah, a suburb adjoining Kolkata, across the Hooghly river. The ten minutes walkway I talked about had no buses coming in. We had to walk to the main road and then take a bus. I have to cross the 2nd bridge, officially called the Vidyasagar Setu, to get to Kolkata. Every day is like a battle waiting to be fought. Some days you win and the transport is easy. Some days you reach office, too exhausted to be on your feet, forget working. You can refer to an earlier post I wrote about surviving on these buses.

To get back to the story, I saw this bus which clearly had ‘Ruby Hospital’ stenciled across the windshield on one side, in bold, red letters. This clearly indicated, coupled with what the guys told me, that it was crossing the bridge. I noted that the other side of the windshield was blank and on the side, 'K7' was painted in white with a red halo. According to convention, the other terminus should be written on the other side of the windshield. My doubts were confirmed when I boarded the bus.

This was a new service. They had fixed Ruby Hospital as the terminus on the Kolkata side. They had experimented with other areas on this side of the Ganges, but couldn’t hold fort anywhere for more than a couple of weeks because of resistance from local transport authorities. No body wants a new service cutting into their business. Anyway, so there it was. Passengers on board were an excited lot. They wanted this service to work, come what may. Some of them were eager with their suggestions on how to grab market share when it came to passengers. Some were busy advising the conductor and driver on how to drive in a competitive way and elbow out rival bus services. It was all a happy family.

Then people began to complain. They were not happy with the time this bus took to get them to office. They complained about the fare. They alleged that the bus authorities cooked up the fare charts and the chart on display, framed in wood and nailed to the inner walls of the bus, was not the one approved by the government. They complained they were not being able to avail the bus on their way home. Some of them reportedly waited an hour for the bus to come and then took some other bus, disgruntled and disillusioned. It’s not always easy to accept change, especially when you are cynical.

But you are too powerless to resist change for long. The service picked up after the government took off all buses that were more than fifteen years old. Our greenhorn flexed its muscles and grabbed its place under the sun. People thronged the buses and silently thanked the driver and the conductor for saving their neck at the workplace. Local passengers took to the bus eagerly, braving the daunting task of pushing through their way through a bus packed with Kolkata-bound people. Middle-class housewives, who had to depend on male support to take them across the Ganges, could now get to the city in happy, chirpy groups. They could also avail a concession on the ticket if the conductor was a local guy they knew.

It’s nice to see that people embrace change when it happens, though they sometimes need to overcome their inhibitions initially. As we go deeper into the Pujas, the bus is the one people around here are looking at to pierce its trident through the demon of transport problems and chaotic confusion of traffic. Happy Pujas!

The Jaane Tu... Ya Jaane Na Syndrome

noreply@blogger.com (Chanchal Roychoudhury) — Fri, 27 Feb 2009 05:00:00 +0000

I like the works of Abbas Tyrewala. Some of the scripts he wrote deserve to be tagged with words like 'fabulous' and 'fantastic'. His directorial debut was not disappointing largely. But I have been experiencing some, in fact a lot of, trouble because of the friendship-love oscillations that he depicted in this movie.

For the uninitiated, Jaane Tu... Ya Jaane Na is Abbas Tyrewala's first work with the megaphone. The film revolves around Jay and Aditi, two happy-go-lucky college-goers who are "best friends". To put it plainly, they can't stay away from each other and more often than not, are seen hugging or holding hands, but declare that they do not see each other as lovers. One cannot help but question if they are friends or making an attempt to portray an open relationship. I say that because you cannot miss sexual chemistry between the two. For the naive, hypocritically unsuspecting movie-watcher they may come off as friends, but not to me.

Taking the story on a fast forward, they decide to look for spouses and end up realizing that they love each other! The movie ends but leaves this ridiculous germ in the air that if you are best friends with a member of the opposite sex, you are not friends. You are cover lovers and one day you'll realize that love. There's more: if you don't realize it now you might be late. So even if you have no such feelings for your friend, the collective insistence plunges you into self-doubt: is it so? did I not realize my own feelings? Even then, it's understandable till here.

Now the spiral: what if the person you actually, knowingly, voluntarily and sub-consciously love tell you that you actually love your friend? Phew! That's a sinking feeling. Cry yourself hoarse to convince but you won't find any cookies. And to top it all, you are given the example of Jaane Tu...! It couldn't get worse.

All equations of similar relationships are not the same. Your relationship with all your friends is not the same, even your equation with your ex and your present are different. Even if we suspend our disbelief to a rather unfortunate extent and accept the movie as a dogma about love masquerading as friendship, it just cannot be accepted that because the protagonists in the movie couldn't realize their love for each other, we become doubting Thomases, suspecting every one to have a love, deep down somewhere, lying neglected and untapped, for their best friend, if they happen to be of the opposite sex. We know our personal equations and relationships and we must not take these attempts to make 'different' cinema too seriously. For God's sake, will people decide you are in love or not?!

User’s Guide to PDA (Not Personal Digital Assistant!)

noreply@blogger.com (Chanchal Roychoudhury) — Tue, 17 Feb 2009 10:31:00 +0000

The overbearing number of techies swarming every corner of the city may make you guess PDA means Personal Digital Assistance. Not so to the average Calcuttan. To us, PDA still means Public Display of Affection and I don't see that changing in the next couple of years.

PDA, where, when and what, is the motion in the house today. PDA seems to be like the anti-terrorist policy of a neighboring nation: it changes its subtexts and annotations according to the situation! What is considered taboo in the Metro may be acceptable at the Rabindra Sarovar Lakes. Similarly, the limits of PDA considered a crest at the Citizen's Park, may well be the trough at the adjacent Eliot Park. It all comes down to where you are.

‘When’ is a tough act to follow. They generally chase you out with a lusty sneer at the girl with you when the sun decides to take a break. People will take you as a good-for-nothing animal-on-the-loose if it's too early in the day. So the best time is sometime between 12pm to 6pm. Lunch time is not the ideal time to get cozy, don't you think so? I mean if you keep talking mushy stuff for hours on end, you are bound to feel the boredom yourself after a heavy lunch. But keep it short. If you can't, as my colleague yells out to couples who get really up close (sometimes they can hear her and cringe!), get a room!

What? Yes, that's the most interesting part. Even this one has one word written all over it: LOCATION! Holding hands in the metro is fine, but hugging is not. Hugging is okay at Citizen's Park, kissing is not. Kissing is acceptable at Rabindra Sarovar Lake but feeling up is not. Feeling up is okay at Eliot Park. I have to stop here. For more details, check up the lodges.

Try not to exceed the limits of PDA. You wouldn't like a policeman come up to you and look at your girl. I can bet his imagination will be more wanton than you ever were. If he demands money, pay up. Cash shuts his mouth up, and you will feel the pinch if he wagged the tail in his mouth. And be courteous to him, even if he's belching and wanting to gulp in more money. A 'Syar' here and there can take you places.

Good luck!

Another Translation!!!

noreply@blogger.com (Chanchal Roychoudhury) — Fri, 13 Feb 2009 13:35:00 +0000

A translation that is more literal than poetic and done in haste and a little recklessness. You should listen to the original poem by Gulzar. I can bet you'll be transferred to a room where you have moss-colored window panes and lots of pathos to give you company. This is in a song called 'Piya Tora Kaisa Abhimaan' from Rituparno Ghosh's film Raincoat. Read on...

It was an unknown gust of wind that displaced the photo-frame hanging on this wall,
Last monsoon there was no damp on the wall.
Don't know why there's damp on the walls this time, fissures have come up,
And the moisture flows through them as tears flow on dry cheeks.
It was an unknown gust of wind that displaced the photo-frame hanging on this wall.

This rain used to to hum,
On the parapets and terrace of this very house the rains used to hum...
It used to write messages on the glass windows with its fingers.
Now it writes them behind blocked ventilation vents.

The afternoons seem like empty cases, devoid of life and vitality,
There's no one to place the bets, there's no one make the moves.
Days and nights do not happen anymore...
Don't know what unknown gust of wind it was that displaced the photo-frame hanging on this wall.

Opposites Attract?

noreply@blogger.com (Chanchal Roychoudhury) — Thu, 01 Jan 2009 12:10:00 +0000

Love pundits, if there can be any, are of the opinion that opposites attract. We have heard it repeated many a time and we have come to believe in it in some way. Yes, there are examples of couples who are diametrically opposite to each other in mood and temperament but are in deep love. These examples have taken this theory beyond the scope of questions. We are conditioned to believe it and nod our heads in acceptance. But is it really so? Do opposites really attract?

To explain the exception to a rule, we need to study the rule first. Opposites attract. Yes, they do. When people of different characteristic traits meet, they tend to find, in the other, qualities which are lacking in themselves. As an example, an introvert guy likes an extrovert girl because she makes her see the other side of the coin which he has always wanted to see, but could not. She fits into the jigsaw perfectly as the missing link. With her, he feels that he can get out of his own shell and they arrive at a point where they meet midway. And love blooms.

What if the guy doesn’t want to get out of his shell? What if he wants a partner who’ll fit cozily in his shell and make his world complete? That is when likes attract him, not opposites. That is when you want someone after your own heart and not someone who’ll challenge your boundaries. Stretching the limit is great, but that is again an individual choice.

If your world is full of books, music and movies, you might not like someone to come in and replace your movie DVDs with sports videos. You’d want someone who’ll help you nurture your passion because s/he has a keen interest in the same pursuits. That is when you’ll feel that your life is complete and not the other way round. This is what I feel. Leave me your two cents.

Hello Bro / Sis!

noreply@blogger.com (Chanchal Roychoudhury) — Wed, 31 Dec 2008 05:46:00 +0000

Since my college days, I have come across a peculiar thought process that students have when they are studying and some continue thinking in the same vein even when they are professionals. It is a concept that I could neither understand, nor could I bow to this thought flow. I always questioned it in my mind and this is the first time that I have got down to analyze it in some depth. The point of discussion is: why do peers of the opposite sex prefer to be either lovers or tone it down to a sibling equation instead of being just friends?

I’m sure all of you at some point of time felt how it’s easier to explain to your lover that your best friend of the opposite sex is like a brother or sister to you. That’s convenient and lays a lot of matters to rest, which includes doubts about your ‘actual’ equation with your opposite-sex friend. But this convenience is something that I would like to question. Why can’t you say that you are friends and still put matters to rest? Why does it have to be coated with the garb of an idea of being siblings? Haven’t these people heard of the word ‘incest’?

Children from their adolescent age are taught to be brothers and sisters, rather than friends. The next-door boy, who was your playmate since you can remember, is suddenly referred to as a brother by your parents. They don’t want a ‘friend’ to visit you anymore, and certainly not inside your bedroom. Only a member of the ‘family’ can do that, and you have to comply to it. If you question it, you are only convincing them that you have mischief on your mind!

I think that it is a by-product of the taboo that exists (yes, still) between a girl and a boy being friends. To call your best friend your sibling is including that person in a sort of family construct, thereby settling matters once and for all that you are not lovers and will never be. I observed that it is not only for others, the two people involved also find a lot of security and comfort in this slotting. Then they can open their minds to other fishes in the pond, because they have got the most nagging of all worries, do-you-love-your friend, sorted out.

In office, colleagues like to get in the comfort zone of being siblings to avoid gossip. Before tongues start wagging about your behind-the-cooler chats with that pretty front office girl, slip it to a jealous colleague that you and she are like brother-sister. That effectively pulls you out from the look-at-me scampering. It might also make you popular with the guys who want access to your (well, sounds awful but that is what you have labeled yourself) ‘sister’. Not a very envious position, right?

Are You Rude?

noreply@blogger.com (Chanchal Roychoudhury) — Tue, 30 Dec 2008 11:33:00 +0000

This is a question that I have asked myself a number of times. I can recall various instances in my own life when I had been rude to people and then felt bad about it. There have been times when I had to be rude in an effort to be honest. There were times when an extra straw piled on me caved my restraint in and I flared up at unsuspecting and apparently innocent people. This afternoon all these instances suddenly consumed the space in my scheme of things and I have no choice but to ponder over the question: what it is that makes people rude?

I believe the basic reason why you become rude is when you are upset with yourself. It could be a sense of helplessness about a cause that you strongly feel about, it could be about unsatisfied or thwarted ambition and dreams, it could be the inability to switch points of view, or it could also be a lack of patience on your part. Very rarely, and I strongly believe this, is the person at the receiving end a cause of your rudeness. I second that old saying, “You can’t be offended unless you want to take offense.”

There is also a fine line between rude and brutally honest. Honesty is always a positive aspect, while rudeness is not. If a person is wrong or dumb, telling it to him is not being rude but being honest. But saying it in a mode that is derogatory is not being honest. It’s like satire and criticism: it could be positive and constructive or negative and destructive.

Rudeness can be expressed by non-verbal gestures too. Sometimes elders condition the young ones to be rude. Yelling at a servant in front of the children ‘teaches’ them to do the same. Rudeness has a very consistent habit of coming back to you. It is one of those aspects that people remember for years and wait to give back in a suitable way. So if you have been rude lately, take the excuse of the New Year and set things correct!

Survivor’s Guide on a Packed Bus

noreply@blogger.com (Chanchal Roychoudhury) — Tue, 23 Dec 2008 05:21:00 +0000

At my place, the only way you can commute to a city office from the suburbs is by fighting your way on a packed bus. While traveling to office this way, I have observed a lot of peculiar things, some of which have seeped into me as well. People who do this daily fight know the survival techniques to live through the experience and tell the tale. Let us consider this post as a guide to breathing on a packed bus till you get to your destination.

The first myth: if you are strong physically, you survive. The truth is quite on the contrary. Surviving on a packed bus doesn’t need strength. It needs stamina. It may be that you are hanging from the door, with only one foot on the footboard. The other leg is usually left to the mercy of the pedestrians on the sides of the road. If they even touch your leg by a whisker, you’ll be hurt badly because of the velocity you are in. If you thought you can keep an eye out for obstructions and move your feet accordingly, you are grossly mistaken. There will be several elbows trying to push your eyes back into their sockets. Your hands are of no help either. They are too busy keeping you perched on the bus. And that is not all. The conductor might ask you to pay up in this condition.

Elbows remind me of yet another survivor’s strategy. Your elbows and your palms are your weapons. But this is not open war, so you have to know how to play safe, without making your intentions too obvious. If you do not get to hold the hand-rails at a suitable angle (remember that your legs are immobile), you have to wait. Wait till the person who has grabbed that part of the hand-rail to twitch his ears or tug at his nose. That’s your chance. Grab the thing before he can get back to it. When you do that, you have taught the trick to that man. Now he’s waiting to give it back to you. So, no twitching or tugging for you over the next half an hour. If it’s summer, you can well imagine! There were times when I got down from the bus feeling I’m off a pool.

Meditation gurus will have a hard time trying to keep their cool on a packed bus, but daily commuters don’t seem to mind. In fact, there are a lot of witty comments passed when the conductor tries to push in an extra person, or when you realize someone is groping you in an effort to take out his purse. Getting on a bus is no child’s play either. As soon as you see the bus, you have to take your position. If you try to move in too early, the other passengers get cautious and try to beat you at reaching the bus. Sometimes, in their eagerness to be the first one on the bus, they go too ahead to meet the bus! The bus bypasses them and stops at the stipulated zone. Then there’s a mad scampering. Mind you, this is not for the seats. Whoever got a seat in the office hours! This is to just to get on the bus and stand like a human being.

It’s all a part of the journey and everyone seems to take in that spirit. There’s hardly any quarrel or bad blood. Everyone knows that this is their lot and the sooner they accept it, the better. I have seen some of them peer at cozy cars when the bus stops at the traffic signal. The car maybe at a distance of just a couple of yards, but to traverse that, the middle class man has to live a lifetime. Sometimes, ‘life piled on life’ would not be enough.

Some Known Predictions

noreply@blogger.com (Chanchal Roychoudhury) — Wed, 03 Dec 2008 12:47:00 +0000

Astrology is a subject that brings out an opinion out of almost everyone. The views may range from indifference to fanaticism. People who believe that they have come to benefit from the remedies suggested by an astrologer can spill the blood of the skeptical, while people who have experienced astrology as nothing more than a money-draining process can hack down the nearest believer that they can lay their hands on. Let me take you through some known predictions.

Relationship, education, career, illness- these are the four main pillars on which astrology supports itself and flourishes. There is no representative of the human race who can claim to be above any of the four. So it can be safely concluded that astrology can be offered as a life-line to just about everyone. But the question is: will they take it?

Knowing the future is a knowledge that we have not been gifted with. Astrology claims to give you access to this knowledge by observing some celestial objects in nature. Astrology also claims to follow the rules of nature. It professes that with the help of natural stones and gems, you can keep any trouble at bay. This is where it becomes contradictory. If astrology is about having faith in the natural, how is it that it doesn’t respect the cardinal law of nature that the future cannot be known?

Gone are the days of Nostradamus. Nowadays you get saffron-clad bearded people sitting in the confines of a posh ‘clinic’, spelling out the ‘future’ of so many people who choose to go to them for help. They are also there on TV channels, sitting with computers and even laptops. They are quick in prescribing costly stones that translate as commissions for them. They claim no responsibility for failure but go to lengths to lap up any piece of success that come their way, which might be pure fluke.

I believe in the power of the individual. If my relationship is not working out, I need to sort it out with my partner. If my grades are tanking, I need to switch that TV or computer off and open my books. If I’m going nowhere in my career and have hit an all-time low, I need to get myself a cup of coffee and chalk my way out. If I’m down with a disease, I need a doctor, healthy food and exercise. I can’t sit and rub a stone for the genie to appear and solve my problems for me.

Astrology makes you impotent. It takes away the desire to fight. It does more harm to the psychological balance than failure can ever do. It makes you feel like a piece of dry twig, blowing at the mercy of whimsical celestial bodies and conniving ‘gurus’. Yes, I want to know the future too, but more than that, I want to shape it the way I want. If things don’t go my way, as they generally don’t, I’d rather side with stoicism than astrology.

Therein Falls the Shadow

noreply@blogger.com (Chanchal Roychoudhury) — Tue, 02 Dec 2008 12:08:00 +0000

A friend called up this afternoon to tell me that she has decided to set up a business of her own. She plans to have a boutique, which will showcase and merchandize clothes that will be designed and put together by her. Before you ask me if she’s a fashion designer, let me tell you, she’s not. But she has a dream and she has been nurturing it for some time now. Here’s wishing her the best.

On hindsight, I have not been able to cover up some guffaws that escaped involuntarily when I was talking to her. She took it that I am being sarcastic, but I was not. It was plain cynicism, if I am being honest to myself on this: cynicism at the way dreams have dashed around me since childhood, left, right and center. There were many peers in our neighborhood and in my family who were tipped to be great ‘success stories’. My parents told me to take inspiration from them and put in more effort.

I was always so laid-back and was always a firm believer in the idea that I can always outdo myself, but not be someone else. I didn’t like competition. I quietly smiled at them and did my thing. Wonder where I got that wisdom from, maybe some wise ancestor! But as it were, these prospective ‘success stories’ vanished into oblivion by the time I reached college. And suddenly I had my entire extended family telling my parents what an intelligent fellow I am! I was so sadistically pleased.

I am happy with what I have done so far, except for that one nagging desire to be involved with a newspaper. Maybe I would realize that in the recent future. Ambition, if kept under achievable means, provides impetus. If not checked, it plucks out one emotion after another and leaves you dry. The important part is not to let the chasm between your means and destination be too wide, you might trip over and plunge into the abyss.

It is very difficult for people who are gifted by ability and shunned by luck to find peace within. Talent and bad luck makes an ugly combination and is sure to go haywire. You’d hardly find an average person being haunted by failure or jubilated with success. But if you are someone special in terms of skill and expertise, it is doubly important that you keep things reined in. Try not to let the shadow be too long or too dark. There is no light at the end of that tunnel.

A Suburban Election

noreply@blogger.com (Chanchal Roychoudhury) — Mon, 01 Dec 2008 13:07:00 +0000

Yesterday I had the privilege of putting out my vote. It is a privilege that I should have taken for granted because of being lucky enough to be a part of the world’s largest democracy. But I have not been able to take it for granted. Don’t think it is because of some graver-than-a-grave reason, it is only because each time there is an election, I’m scared that somebody will masquerade as me and cast my vote! Surprised? Welcome to a typical suburban election process in West Bengal, and probably in many other parts of India as well.

The process starts with representatives of the two main political parties in West Bengal, the Communists and the Trinamool Congress, turning up at your door with paper slips that contain your voting details like the booth number, polling center address, etc. You cannot miss the party logo and the candidate’s name printed on the paper even if you were blind. So you end up with two paper slips containing the same details! It’s propaganda, you know, and one has to outdo the other.

On your way to the polling booth, you will come across party booths manned by faithful cadres who can make things ‘easy’ for you if you happen to be without any identity proof. They have ‘inside’ assistance. This ‘inside’ assistance can backfire on you if you are not a regular voter or if you are known to vote for the opposition party. They know everyone and are more or less sure about everyone’s political leanings. How they do this is a secret better kept than the Coca-Cola mixture. So if you don’t owe your allegiance to them, it might be that you may not get to cast your vote at all.

They have sharp eyes, these cadres. They know how many people are walking down to the polling booth at which hour. If they spot a family of four voters being represented by only three of them, they make sure that the absence of one voter is not reflected on the turnout percentage. What are the party cadres for if they do not vote more than once? As for the blue ink that the polling officer puts on the left hand index finger as a giveaway mark of people who have already cast their vote, the ink is so watered down in most cases that it can be taken off with just a well-timed swipe of the handkerchief.

I have heard instances of Bengalis claiming themselves to be South Indians and casting “proxy votes”, as they are proudly referred to. There are occasions when you turn up at the polling booth and find that your vote has already been cast! Don’t be expecting assistance from the polling officers appointed by the government. How could you forget that the government is also formed by a political party? Whoever won a fair and free election in these parts?

Grabbing ‘Gobment’ Service - I

noreply@blogger.com (Chanchal Roychoudhury) — Wed, 26 Nov 2008 12:54:00 +0000

Yes, that is how Bengalis refer to government jobs. Landing up with one is the dream around which middle-class family life revolves. Every teenager in a typical middle-class Bengali family is advised extensively to get a Public Service Commission card and try to obtain as many forms for government exams as possible. Then you have to go through the grind that has multiple layers, only to end up in a beetel-stained, dilapidated office building, writing a yellow-paged logbook with a pen that has a blue and red refill at either ends. It’s so stereotypical.

But there are quite a few slips before you make it to that creaky chair that promises lot of job security but zero job satisfaction. You need to sweat it out at serpentine queues, umbrella in one hand and water-bottle in another, not to forget a bag dangling on your shoulders containing all your marksheets, their Xerox copies, your birth certificate, your ration card, your identity card, and many other cards that can make life so smooth for you. Then with the form in hand, you need to go around hunting out gazetted officers from their privileged holes. When they have blessed you with their stamp of approval (better keep some time in hand, they may not have the rubber stamp with them always, and when they do, there might not be enough ink in the stamp pad) and signature, it’s time to figure how to deposit the money and where. Better ask some veteran in this field, for there are many aspirants who are struggling for years and know more about the details of the exam than the examiners. If you want your money to reach its destination, rely on ‘senior’ advice.

Then you wait. Yes, wait for the postal system to find out your house among millions (don’t argue that you have attested a self-addressed envelope with the form) to get you the admit card. When it gets delivered to you, it’s just on the day before the exam, or in a worse case scenario, after the exam. In the former case, you need a topographical map then. No, you are not going on a trek, it’s just that the exam center is so remotely located that you need archaeological assistance. After you have zeroed in on the exact location and called up everyone you know to find out which God-forsaken transport you need to perch yourself on, go to sleep early for you have to get up real soon the next day for your government exam!

What happens on the exam day? Stay tuned for Grabbing ‘Gobment’ Service - II

Rituparno-Mir Face/Off

noreply@blogger.com (Chanchal Roychoudhury) — Tue, 25 Nov 2008 05:08:00 +0000

Much is being said and written about the way Mir was interviewed, and for many, insulted, by Rituparno Ghosh on his show Ghosh & Company. As it is, brickbats are flying thick and fast towards Rituparno for having messed things up for Mir, the most popular RJ in town. There were many uncomfortable questions being raised and many others getting drowned in the angry reactions that followed.

Frankly, I didn’t find anyone writing on the other side of the coin, so I took it up on myself to throw light on certain points. To begin with, Rituparno kept stating it again and again that he was not speaking for himself, he was speaking for many other people like him who speak in a ‘womanish’ way. He made it abundantly clear that he did not care or feel bothered by the imitation and mimicry that Mir dealt out to delighted audiences.

The fact is that we were disturbed by this conversation not because Mir was being made to answer uncomfortable questions, but because we, who have taken a lot of fun and delight at his mimicry and imitation till date, got ruffled by his questions. We were made to realize that so long we have been taking sadistic pleasures at the cost of a certain section of people. We realized that we were all equally wrong for having eaten out of his hands while he dished out insensitive, irresponsible comments and gestures.

The most blatant part is that we did not realize this aspect before Rituparno pointed it out. Yes, we have been that insensitive. I’m also not willing to buy this talk of Mir being silent because he is a gentleman. He was silent because he was caught on the wrong foot and the only way he could get out of it was to act like a martyr, which he did to deadly effect.

As for a guest being insulted, let me point out that Mir had been doing this thing at events where Rituparno was an invited guest as well, and that too repeatedly. Where were these ‘atithi devobhava’ supporters then? There may also be questions that Mir does it in good humor and when other celebrities don’t have a problem, why does Rituparno take up arms? There are two answers to this: one, there’s no logic in the fact that if someone takes insults lying down, everyone would. Two, imitating Rituparno is not imitating the man; it is imitating many other men like him. That is the cardinal point that everyone seems to be missing conveniently.

As for the allegation that Rituparno did it for TRPs, let me point out that Mir built up his ‘brand’ of humor by relying hugely on imitating Rituparno. We all know that imitating Rituparno is the best weapon in his armory. As Rituparno rightly said, he has been making money out of this for years. And Rituparno, whose films are so eagerly awaited, does not need to pulverize an RJ to grab eye-balls.

While writing all this I never forgot the fact that it is just a show. Yes it is. But there are many who forgot that there exists something that art calls ‘poetic justice’. This is just a humble attempt to remind them.

Applying Education

noreply@blogger.com (Chanchal Roychoudhury) — Mon, 17 Nov 2008 11:03:00 +0000

Being educated and applying that education in day-to-day life is entirely different. I have come across people who have undergone the best rigors of education possible but have not been able to open their eyes to see the world through that privileged veil of education. They continue to be superstitious or even worse, have a bias based on class and gender. That, I feel, is a thorough failure on the part of the person to do justice to his education.

It’s like a doctor leading a rather unhealthy and undisciplined life. Parents who expect their daughters to settle down as home-makers despite their willingness to go out and work, do great injustice not only to their daughter but also to their own efforts to get her educated. I would like to point out here that I’m not looking down on women who choose home-making over a professional career. My mom is a home-maker and I know that it’s tougher than not to be a home-maker. What I’m trying to point out is that the right of choice should lie with the person concerned. That is something that well-educated parents fail to understand in most cases.

Being blind to technological progress is in my opinion another example of how people do not use their education to better their lives. For example, many middle-aged people shy away from mobile phones, trashing them as unnecessary appendages to the family budget. If only they would rise up to the fact that they have to move with the times and update ‘themselves’!

It may seem that I’m out to pan everyone and be the social redresser, but that is not the case. I do not have the means or the temperament to bring about any change at the macro level. But if we make an effort in our own little way and use our education to be more tolerant and responsible, I’m sure things would turn for the better. It takes very little personal effort to act responsibly and sensibly in public life, but it goes on to make a major difference at some level. Public nuisance is another topic that I want to speak out on. Stay tuned…