The Guest House
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice.
meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.
Be grateful for whatever comes.
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
-- Jelaluddin Rumi,
translation by Coleman Barks
Monday, May 30, 2011
Sunday, April 10, 2011
New Bottle, Old Wine
Today, I got called a ‘nationalist pig’ for supporting India in the India – Pakistan match and for saying that the state of belonging to one country means supporting that country in a sport, is morally correct.
I still remember the day on which Bal Thackeray came on a popular talkshow on tv and said ‘Muslims are traitors because they support Pakistan and they should be sent there’ to general adulation and applause. That day was the saddest day of my 10 year old life. I had no idea why someone whom I didn’t even know, wanted to send me, an Indian Muslim, to an alien country where I didn’t want to go. And now after years of thinking about and criticizing Bal Thackeray’s politics of radical fascism, I get labelled as a similar ‘nationalist pig’ because I happened to support my country in a cricket match.
Why is it so unacceptable if I support India? For me, a sense of belonging to India, more than any other nation, is what propels my support. Why do I have to force myself to support another nation pitted against India, just because they are a ‘better team’ or because it is in ‘the interest of peace’ or because it is a more ‘liberal’ thing to do? What do these terms mean anyway and who decides their meaning? If Sehwag gets out on a brilliant ball by Wahab Riaz, I mourn his loss, but does that mean that I don’t appreciate Reza’s talent? In fact, I appreciate both Sehwag’s brilliance, and Reza’s talent in getting him out. So why is mourning Sehwag’s dismissal, an indication of my ‘nationalistic pig’ behaviour?
I have no issues with appreciating good cricket. We all love a good batsman or a good bowler. There is nothing wrong with liking Imran Khan or Wasim Akram, and anyone who actually follows the game will appreciate their talent.
I have no issues with the Pakistan cricket team, and I would support them if say, they were meeting Australia or England in a match.
I would however, and do, support India if India and Pakistan/any other country, play. Does that qualify me to be labelled a ‘nationalist pig’?
If in spite of all the problems plaguing India right now, whether 2g scams or communal riots, I feel a sense of belonging to it, is that a crime?
Also, one of the common reasons given for supporting Pakistan instead of India is that people in some parts of India share a 1000-yr old history and culture with parts of Pakistan rather than India, and this is natural reason for their support. If we trace this further back though, most of north India are of the Aryan race which came from west Asia or Iran. Does this ethnic background mean that north Indians should support Iran in all future sporting events? And even given the possibility that it does mean this, will this come honestly and naturally to a north Indian in today’s time and space?
Lastly, it’s very easy to be ‘liberal’ when you lead a privileged life of leisure. How ‘liberal’ are we when it comes to day-to-day life? How many of us will stand up and protest if a Pakistani is wronged in front of us? How many of us will have the courage to protest if someone from a minority group/religion of our own country, for that matter, is abused by a mob? Does our ‘liberalism’ tend to change with time and space therefore and is that any better than being plainly jingoistically nationalistic? Or is it simply that it is politically correct nowadays to be seen as politically incorrect?
Also, if someone supports Pakistan over India because they play ‘better cricket’, is that okay? Or, if say someone watches cricket but not because she is interested in the game but only because she finds cricketers to be unusually handsome, is it okay to support Pakistan because say, they have better-looking players? Similarly, is it okay for an Indian muslim to support Pakistan because say, the Pakistani cricketers are Muslim and going by their celebratory prostrations on the field itself, good religious Muslims? Does this mean that it’s okay to support a team because of a specific reason that you find appealing? How is this related to cricket at all?
Also, how can we say which is a ‘better team’ which plays ‘better cricket’?
Supporting Pakistan over India because they play ‘better cricket’ is a context-bound issue. It is only in retrospect that we can say who played better. Supporting per se, on the other hand is a pre-facto phenomenon. How do we judge which is a ‘better team’ then? One might say that the Pakistani team played better in the last match, than the Indian team, and therefore they play ‘better cricket’ but who is to say that they are in that exact last performance level. Should we look at their past matches with India or with other teams? They might have or have not played India then, so their comparative qualitative grading is difficult to ascertain now. Also, the team members then may not be the same, pitch and weather conditions will be different from the present. In short, because both teams are generally good, it is very difficult to say which is a better team at the start of a match, based on previous matches. We can judge which is a ‘better team’ only after the present match has been played, and since supporting a team means supporting it from the start, it is difficult to say that we support Pakistan because it is a better team when a match begins.
One might support a particular country but I think, as it happens, it’s usually a subjective decision rather than a fully objective rational one (based on better cricketing ability) as some people suggest. Even if I were to agree that it should be an objective and rational decision, who is to decide what is rational and objective and how it is to be reached? As I’ve mentioned earlier, it is very difficult and nearly impossible to decide which is ‘better’, and to understand qualitative grading based on objective analysis.
Everything said and done, I think true liberalism consists in tolerating each other, even if we have contesting opinions. If I’m inclined to support my country, I should be given the space to do so without being abused. If I’m not inclined to support my country, then too I should be given the space to do so without being abused. I would think that the latter position is, in a personal scheme of things, a sad one, but there have been and will be instances of them in history, and the most we can do as reasonable humans is to look into the why and how of it, and address it if we find problems. Labelling each other as nationalist or anti-nationalist pigs is the worst way, however, to go about it.
I still remember the day on which Bal Thackeray came on a popular talkshow on tv and said ‘Muslims are traitors because they support Pakistan and they should be sent there’ to general adulation and applause. That day was the saddest day of my 10 year old life. I had no idea why someone whom I didn’t even know, wanted to send me, an Indian Muslim, to an alien country where I didn’t want to go. And now after years of thinking about and criticizing Bal Thackeray’s politics of radical fascism, I get labelled as a similar ‘nationalist pig’ because I happened to support my country in a cricket match.
Why is it so unacceptable if I support India? For me, a sense of belonging to India, more than any other nation, is what propels my support. Why do I have to force myself to support another nation pitted against India, just because they are a ‘better team’ or because it is in ‘the interest of peace’ or because it is a more ‘liberal’ thing to do? What do these terms mean anyway and who decides their meaning? If Sehwag gets out on a brilliant ball by Wahab Riaz, I mourn his loss, but does that mean that I don’t appreciate Reza’s talent? In fact, I appreciate both Sehwag’s brilliance, and Reza’s talent in getting him out. So why is mourning Sehwag’s dismissal, an indication of my ‘nationalistic pig’ behaviour?
I have no issues with appreciating good cricket. We all love a good batsman or a good bowler. There is nothing wrong with liking Imran Khan or Wasim Akram, and anyone who actually follows the game will appreciate their talent.
I have no issues with the Pakistan cricket team, and I would support them if say, they were meeting Australia or England in a match.
I would however, and do, support India if India and Pakistan/any other country, play. Does that qualify me to be labelled a ‘nationalist pig’?
If in spite of all the problems plaguing India right now, whether 2g scams or communal riots, I feel a sense of belonging to it, is that a crime?
Also, one of the common reasons given for supporting Pakistan instead of India is that people in some parts of India share a 1000-yr old history and culture with parts of Pakistan rather than India, and this is natural reason for their support. If we trace this further back though, most of north India are of the Aryan race which came from west Asia or Iran. Does this ethnic background mean that north Indians should support Iran in all future sporting events? And even given the possibility that it does mean this, will this come honestly and naturally to a north Indian in today’s time and space?
Lastly, it’s very easy to be ‘liberal’ when you lead a privileged life of leisure. How ‘liberal’ are we when it comes to day-to-day life? How many of us will stand up and protest if a Pakistani is wronged in front of us? How many of us will have the courage to protest if someone from a minority group/religion of our own country, for that matter, is abused by a mob? Does our ‘liberalism’ tend to change with time and space therefore and is that any better than being plainly jingoistically nationalistic? Or is it simply that it is politically correct nowadays to be seen as politically incorrect?
Also, if someone supports Pakistan over India because they play ‘better cricket’, is that okay? Or, if say someone watches cricket but not because she is interested in the game but only because she finds cricketers to be unusually handsome, is it okay to support Pakistan because say, they have better-looking players? Similarly, is it okay for an Indian muslim to support Pakistan because say, the Pakistani cricketers are Muslim and going by their celebratory prostrations on the field itself, good religious Muslims? Does this mean that it’s okay to support a team because of a specific reason that you find appealing? How is this related to cricket at all?
Also, how can we say which is a ‘better team’ which plays ‘better cricket’?
Supporting Pakistan over India because they play ‘better cricket’ is a context-bound issue. It is only in retrospect that we can say who played better. Supporting per se, on the other hand is a pre-facto phenomenon. How do we judge which is a ‘better team’ then? One might say that the Pakistani team played better in the last match, than the Indian team, and therefore they play ‘better cricket’ but who is to say that they are in that exact last performance level. Should we look at their past matches with India or with other teams? They might have or have not played India then, so their comparative qualitative grading is difficult to ascertain now. Also, the team members then may not be the same, pitch and weather conditions will be different from the present. In short, because both teams are generally good, it is very difficult to say which is a better team at the start of a match, based on previous matches. We can judge which is a ‘better team’ only after the present match has been played, and since supporting a team means supporting it from the start, it is difficult to say that we support Pakistan because it is a better team when a match begins.
One might support a particular country but I think, as it happens, it’s usually a subjective decision rather than a fully objective rational one (based on better cricketing ability) as some people suggest. Even if I were to agree that it should be an objective and rational decision, who is to decide what is rational and objective and how it is to be reached? As I’ve mentioned earlier, it is very difficult and nearly impossible to decide which is ‘better’, and to understand qualitative grading based on objective analysis.
Everything said and done, I think true liberalism consists in tolerating each other, even if we have contesting opinions. If I’m inclined to support my country, I should be given the space to do so without being abused. If I’m not inclined to support my country, then too I should be given the space to do so without being abused. I would think that the latter position is, in a personal scheme of things, a sad one, but there have been and will be instances of them in history, and the most we can do as reasonable humans is to look into the why and how of it, and address it if we find problems. Labelling each other as nationalist or anti-nationalist pigs is the worst way, however, to go about it.
Friday, February 8, 2008
I have been living in a different world for the past two weeks. Days have rushed by with a blur; writers, poets, graphic artists, independent publishers and book designers seem to be spilling onto the Jude campus, the one site where book-creators and –lovers congregate, in the absence of an official annual book fair, courtesy the state government’s indecision in appointing a permanent fair ground. So the campus has ‘literally’ been teeming with academics like John Kerrigan and Jaqueline Rose, writers like Maggie Ferguson and Kunal Basu, independent publishers from Argentina etc, book designers aka Trinankur Banerjee and Pinaki De, and film makers like Anurag Kashyap (Remember No Smoking?). Last week, Robin Robertson swooped down on us, and dazzled all in a poetry-reading session where he read a few of his poems from his latest collection called Swithering which has bagged prestigious literary awards He has worked in publishing for more than twenty years and the books which he helps produce , usually make it to the top ten bestsellers list in the UK. It was such an experience to just sit and listen to someone who has been on both sides of the fence; the side which creates the book in a fundamental sense, and the side which shapes it, moulds it and packages it as a saleable commodity to the public. I had till then, only been a part of the former; I read books, and sometimes buy them, but never had the chance to look into the book-making process as such. Most of us in fact are oblivious to the publishing process , and have little or no idea about the various considerations which go into converting a manuscript into a proper book. Things like book design, the importance of typography, the layout, the cover, chapter divisions, copyright issues, matter so much to a publisher, and affect the ultimate look of the book in numerous ways. But the buyer doesn’t think twice about them, before buying a book, even though he/she might have been attracted to it precisely because of such features, in the first place. I often think that since a publisher does his best to make the book look good, and treats it as a commodity , selling a book is really no better than selling a cake of soap. The only difference is that while there you can print Kareena Kapoor’s face on the wrapper indiscriminately without thinking about which brand it is, here you try and coordinate the subject matter and the form, because even though all soaps are essentially the same, all books are not. So if you’d have to design a cover for a book, you’d first have to know what the book is about. In that sense, book-making is a far more involved process than soap-making. The saddest part is , however, that there are more people on Earth who buy soaps than books.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Post!
I wrote about ten posts in the last ten days. Did you read them? (‘You’ here implies the three and a half people approximately, who read my blog.) I don’t think you did, the primary reason being of course that they are still in my head. All ready, to be posted, with the t’s crossed and the i’s dotted. And ready to go to the press, so to speak. Except for the fact, that I have the inexplicable habit of delaying transference from head to PC, and well, in this case, not transferring at all.
The saddest part is that now I cant remember what they were on. There was one on a sleepover get together with friends. That should have been fun reading, if I would have written about it at all. Suffice it to say, that I did think of including juicy tidbits, like who bitched about whom, how we all sat up till four in the morning talking, and how we planned to make voodoo dolls for unnamable persons, and stick as many pins and needles into them as possible. Being the extra-virtuous souls that we are, we of course didn’t carry out the voodoo plan, but it’s in the background. Just need to buy the pins.
Another blog post was on my version of award ceremonies. Film of the year- Taare Zameen Par, Actor of the Year- Darsheel Safary, and Businessman of the Year- Shah Rukh Khan, for single-handedly maneuvering Om Shanti Om into being the block-buster of the year. Come to think of it, srk has turned out to be my cheese omelette, and for people, who don’t have any clue what I’m talking about, please ignore. Its one of my enigmatic lines; I make sure to put a couple in each post.
One of the reasons why I have not been able to post in spite of hoarding up such post-able material in the head, is that I have been having 12- hour workdays at the end of which I’m only capable of shoveling food in and sleeping. If I feel too energetic, I stare at ‘sarabhai vs. sarabhai’ on star one, and then go to bed.
Such is life.
A balancing act.
A flurry of movement.
A tango in stilettos.
And I don’t want to slow down.
The saddest part is that now I cant remember what they were on. There was one on a sleepover get together with friends. That should have been fun reading, if I would have written about it at all. Suffice it to say, that I did think of including juicy tidbits, like who bitched about whom, how we all sat up till four in the morning talking, and how we planned to make voodoo dolls for unnamable persons, and stick as many pins and needles into them as possible. Being the extra-virtuous souls that we are, we of course didn’t carry out the voodoo plan, but it’s in the background. Just need to buy the pins.
Another blog post was on my version of award ceremonies. Film of the year- Taare Zameen Par, Actor of the Year- Darsheel Safary, and Businessman of the Year- Shah Rukh Khan, for single-handedly maneuvering Om Shanti Om into being the block-buster of the year. Come to think of it, srk has turned out to be my cheese omelette, and for people, who don’t have any clue what I’m talking about, please ignore. Its one of my enigmatic lines; I make sure to put a couple in each post.
One of the reasons why I have not been able to post in spite of hoarding up such post-able material in the head, is that I have been having 12- hour workdays at the end of which I’m only capable of shoveling food in and sleeping. If I feel too energetic, I stare at ‘sarabhai vs. sarabhai’ on star one, and then go to bed.
Such is life.
A balancing act.
A flurry of movement.
A tango in stilettos.
And I don’t want to slow down.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Me and Me!
There is something magical and ethereal about the river. As far back as I can remember, I have always loved going to the riverside. Especially the ganges, in kolkata. Other rivers which flow past alien cities do not hold the same charm and the same nonchalance which the ganges does. It is frothy and exuberant, cheekily lapping against the banks, with gay abandon, answering their stolidity with quicksilver charm. And yet possessing unfathomable depth and a serene stillness, a grace and a certain reserve, a quiet shyness in the way it calmly flows on in tandem with time. Standing on the bank, staring, we are mere spectators. Sailing on a boat, with a canopy of twinkling diamonds overhead, we can feel the blueness of the water slip through our fingers, but not hold it for long. The fisherman on the nauka can only gauge its exuberant surface, and the fish which lie on its bottom, only its depth. It is , for me, a hazy dream. Elusive in its entirety, the river, is dreamt by both the fisherman and the fish, but realized only by the sea, its ultimate destination. I went to the riverside with my friends the other day as someone, I think it was Anarkali, had wanted to go to Scoop, the icecream parlour, which stands on the banks. We saw and walked past couples, children, old people, hawkers, balloon-sellers, and boatmen, for hours, talking , till the moon peeped out from a tuft of clouds, and R-fish, a friend of mine, said that it reminded her of a song (I forget which) from a Bengali classic. The river, and the moon seen through the veil of a tree’s dark branches, she said. I said it reminded me of Vikram Seth. And someone else suddenly started talking about Milind Soman, I don’t really know why. The river has different effects on different people, I guess; bringing up impressions and memories of times past . We soon left for home after that.
Talking of home, I have painted my room in shades of yellow and I think my brother is going to have a fit when he sees it. Somehow he’s got the idea that yellow equals fluorescent. Considering that my cousin, D, had suggested writing graphiti on one whole wall, and my friend R-fish suggested painting it ‘like a picture of , say, the African serengeti’ , I think that I took the wise path. Yellow looks good. I like yellow.
In other news, I have also turned out to be a surprisingly good cook and revised the phrase ‘necessity is the mother of invention’ to ‘necessity is the key to cultivating culinary skills.’ I should actually thank my mother’s genes for this, because she is the best-est cook in the whole wide world. Relatives and friends from near and far ring her up to beg her into revealing her secret recipes. Which ranges from succulent roast chicken in a smooth spicy gravy to milky-white creamy firni, which melts in your mouth. My father, on the other hand, will not be able to boil an egg, even if you put a gun to his head. He is most likely to say ‘Ofcourse I can do it!’ and then shout twice; once for someone to go get him an egg, and the next time to find someone who can drop it in a pot of water. He is the original Uncle Podger. His Uncle Podgeriness has however not stopped him from becoming a very strict judge when it comes to food and he ranges from ‘I don’t think I’ll have lunch today’ (which is zero) to ‘not bad’ (which is ten) on a scale of 0-10. I have been consistently getting a nonchalant ‘it’s ok’ which is like 9 out of 10 , everyday for the past two months. Enough to establish my credentials as the true janasheen, of the culinary department of the Azim khandaan. So, till another river trip or till I cook up something more interesting than this, ciao.
Talking of home, I have painted my room in shades of yellow and I think my brother is going to have a fit when he sees it. Somehow he’s got the idea that yellow equals fluorescent. Considering that my cousin, D, had suggested writing graphiti on one whole wall, and my friend R-fish suggested painting it ‘like a picture of , say, the African serengeti’ , I think that I took the wise path. Yellow looks good. I like yellow.
In other news, I have also turned out to be a surprisingly good cook and revised the phrase ‘necessity is the mother of invention’ to ‘necessity is the key to cultivating culinary skills.’ I should actually thank my mother’s genes for this, because she is the best-est cook in the whole wide world. Relatives and friends from near and far ring her up to beg her into revealing her secret recipes. Which ranges from succulent roast chicken in a smooth spicy gravy to milky-white creamy firni, which melts in your mouth. My father, on the other hand, will not be able to boil an egg, even if you put a gun to his head. He is most likely to say ‘Ofcourse I can do it!’ and then shout twice; once for someone to go get him an egg, and the next time to find someone who can drop it in a pot of water. He is the original Uncle Podger. His Uncle Podgeriness has however not stopped him from becoming a very strict judge when it comes to food and he ranges from ‘I don’t think I’ll have lunch today’ (which is zero) to ‘not bad’ (which is ten) on a scale of 0-10. I have been consistently getting a nonchalant ‘it’s ok’ which is like 9 out of 10 , everyday for the past two months. Enough to establish my credentials as the true janasheen, of the culinary department of the Azim khandaan. So, till another river trip or till I cook up something more interesting than this, ciao.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Quotable Quotes from the Land of Jude
Sometimes they teach, but most of the times, this is what they do. My profs rock!!
* “For a long time I have been taking classes with two people. Sometimes three. This is so disconcerting.”
- Prof PB, on being faced with a class of 40-odd.
* Amlanda in a Milton class: " There's no help for it, really... no help at all... you know, they say this when a man is going to get killed... well, as I see it... we shall have to read the whole of Paradise Lost."
* Dibyajyoti: “He goes to Hell…”
Prof SukChau: “Yes. But he doesn’t stay there, poor man..”
-on wanting to know the story of The Divine Comedy.
* “Bertrand Russell’s third wife – he had many wives and girlfriends – he really really did believe in free love.”
-Prof PC, on Bertrand Russell.
* On having been sent by Amlanda to tell Prof SKC ( the Don) that there’s a phonecall for him at the office
Me: Sir, there’s a phone call for you..
Prof. SKC: Is the person on the other end attractive?
Me: Umm, that’s impossible to know, Sir..
Prof. SKC: Ask, ask..you must always ask.
Me: Well, Amlanda (another prof) is doing all the asking
Prof SKC: Then it must be my wife!
After going and receiving the call, he continues, ‘That was a singularly unattractive gentleman professor from Burdwan who wants to get his daughter into the department. I am not receiving any calls you bring me news of ever again!’
* “In the first scene of the movie Henslowe is being tortured for failing to pay back money. Henslowe had enough money to buy all the torturers of England at one go. But who wants reality when you can watch Gweneth Paltrow? --Prof SKC on the film, Shakespeare in Love.
Toocool. :)
* “For a long time I have been taking classes with two people. Sometimes three. This is so disconcerting.”
- Prof PB, on being faced with a class of 40-odd.
* Amlanda in a Milton class: " There's no help for it, really... no help at all... you know, they say this when a man is going to get killed... well, as I see it... we shall have to read the whole of Paradise Lost."
* Dibyajyoti: “He goes to Hell…”
Prof SukChau: “Yes. But he doesn’t stay there, poor man..”
-on wanting to know the story of The Divine Comedy.
* “Bertrand Russell’s third wife – he had many wives and girlfriends – he really really did believe in free love.”
-Prof PC, on Bertrand Russell.
* On having been sent by Amlanda to tell Prof SKC ( the Don) that there’s a phonecall for him at the office
Me: Sir, there’s a phone call for you..
Prof. SKC: Is the person on the other end attractive?
Me: Umm, that’s impossible to know, Sir..
Prof. SKC: Ask, ask..you must always ask.
Me: Well, Amlanda (another prof) is doing all the asking
Prof SKC: Then it must be my wife!
After going and receiving the call, he continues, ‘That was a singularly unattractive gentleman professor from Burdwan who wants to get his daughter into the department. I am not receiving any calls you bring me news of ever again!’
* “In the first scene of the movie Henslowe is being tortured for failing to pay back money. Henslowe had enough money to buy all the torturers of England at one go. But who wants reality when you can watch Gweneth Paltrow? --Prof SKC on the film, Shakespeare in Love.
Toocool. :)
Saturday, November 3, 2007
Bovine Intervention
Governmental agency, is undisputedly, the rock-star when it comes to planting superfluous and baffling objects in public places, and giving everyone a sore-eyeful. No, I’m not talking about Prasun Mukherjee here, in case you thought so. What I am talking about, is the cow, or rather, the clay model of what can only in the most benevolent of moods be termed a ‘cow’ , in the heart of a newly opened jogger’s park in kolkata, called Elliott park.
I happened to go there yesterday, with M and a friend of hers, N. Having heard about its beautiful rolling lawns, and abundance of multi-colored flora, and having a bit of time to spare, on route to our final destination, the three of us enthusiastically threw away good ol’ hard earned money (they actually charge you for entrance to the blighted place!) anticipating much pleasure, and respite. I was feeling quite proud of myself by then, to have actually entered a jogger’s park. It was something I had been planning to do, for approximately the last three and a half years ( “walking..it’s the best thing..the air does wonders for your skin, too, you know..and anyway, you’ll get into the habit of getting up early..getting up early..it’s the best thing ..”) , but hey, its never to late to start, is it?..
Half an hour later, I knew how right I’d been all along to avoid all such avowedly health-enhancing practices. I had seen the ‘cow’. And whoever has seen it, will know how dangerous such sightings can be to the general health, mental stability and aesthetic sense of any unsuspecting soul. It was a bit of a camel and a cow, with a tiger’s paws, and a dog’s tail. Also, not to forget the lolling bit of red tongue. And this intruiging entity, mysteriously stuck in the center of a bed of rongons and jabas. The tenth cow, Khushwant Singh would have said, but unholy and of suspicious pedigree.
I would really like to meet the sort of people who get these brilliant ideas, and get away with it. Without due recognition and acknowledgement. But that , my friend, is precisely the case with them . You never see who planned with malicious glee, with a rub of the palms and a glint in the eye, who did the offensive act, who put it there. It seems to just spring up from the ground, drop from thin air. It has no origin and no end. It remains unchallenged and unsullied. It’s the govt.’s way of making life beautiful, we all know, but hey, Buddhadeb Bhattarjee didn’t come in the dead of night and stick it there, did he?
It’s a mystery worthy of Holmes and his elementary sidekick. And till its solved and the criminals duly punished, I hope and pray that we are spared from further aestheticising enterprises. Take away the cow, take away the hideous sculptures from the Nandan complex, take away the mysterious hoardings which show a couple of grinning men, and the line ‘friendship between brothers’ or words to that (sniggering) effect written below them. The city of Kolkata does not deserve them. It is an artist’s city; but if this is art, we could do very well without it.
I happened to go there yesterday, with M and a friend of hers, N. Having heard about its beautiful rolling lawns, and abundance of multi-colored flora, and having a bit of time to spare, on route to our final destination, the three of us enthusiastically threw away good ol’ hard earned money (they actually charge you for entrance to the blighted place!) anticipating much pleasure, and respite. I was feeling quite proud of myself by then, to have actually entered a jogger’s park. It was something I had been planning to do, for approximately the last three and a half years ( “walking..it’s the best thing..the air does wonders for your skin, too, you know..and anyway, you’ll get into the habit of getting up early..getting up early..it’s the best thing ..”) , but hey, its never to late to start, is it?..
Half an hour later, I knew how right I’d been all along to avoid all such avowedly health-enhancing practices. I had seen the ‘cow’. And whoever has seen it, will know how dangerous such sightings can be to the general health, mental stability and aesthetic sense of any unsuspecting soul. It was a bit of a camel and a cow, with a tiger’s paws, and a dog’s tail. Also, not to forget the lolling bit of red tongue. And this intruiging entity, mysteriously stuck in the center of a bed of rongons and jabas. The tenth cow, Khushwant Singh would have said, but unholy and of suspicious pedigree.
I would really like to meet the sort of people who get these brilliant ideas, and get away with it. Without due recognition and acknowledgement. But that , my friend, is precisely the case with them . You never see who planned with malicious glee, with a rub of the palms and a glint in the eye, who did the offensive act, who put it there. It seems to just spring up from the ground, drop from thin air. It has no origin and no end. It remains unchallenged and unsullied. It’s the govt.’s way of making life beautiful, we all know, but hey, Buddhadeb Bhattarjee didn’t come in the dead of night and stick it there, did he?
It’s a mystery worthy of Holmes and his elementary sidekick. And till its solved and the criminals duly punished, I hope and pray that we are spared from further aestheticising enterprises. Take away the cow, take away the hideous sculptures from the Nandan complex, take away the mysterious hoardings which show a couple of grinning men, and the line ‘friendship between brothers’ or words to that (sniggering) effect written below them. The city of Kolkata does not deserve them. It is an artist’s city; but if this is art, we could do very well without it.
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