Life, and living it

Ajji is standing beside me, peering into my laptop. I ask her if she wants to try her hand at the computer. She doesn't say anything, but comes closer, grinning. I type out her name in very big font. She reads out each alphabet, puts them together mentally, and says with a wide smile, “LAKSHMI.” She stumps me with her life spirit each time I see her. She always has been, all these years. Then, she asks if I can take pictures from the laptop. I say there's no camera attached.

“Oh, I wanted you to take pictures of me,” she says. Am a little surprised, but I just tell her that I can take pics from my mobile. “Oh good, then you must take pictures of me. You'll need it ... later ... give a copy to your mom here..., you too take a copy and go. Aamele bekaagtade (you'll need it later),” she says.

I understand, but only a moment later. My stupid grin disappears. I feel empty in the stomach. My mom is raising her voice over the din of the music am playing, and explaining some recipe to me. My eyes cloud over. I look at ajji, she's still smiling, standing beside me. I tell her I'll take her to a studio. She likes the idea.

My phone rings .... work calling.

Life's incredibly beautiful, isnt it, thanks to death?

Soul jargon

Of late, am very conscious of the passage of time. Of how we get up, and cook and eat, and fight and run, and work and sleep and make love or lust. Of our struggles and passions; dreams - the ones we've seen and the ones we havent.

Ten years ago, 'What must I do?' was a question that had very definite answers, or at least that's what I was conditioned to believe. No such illusions today. In fact, 'What's the point of it all?' is a question that am quite fed up of, frankly. I have thought about it ever since I remember beginning to think.

It really doesn't matter what you do: time passes. You could have children, or maybe you could trade on the stock market. You could write books, or you could renounce the world, if there's anything called the world and if you could indeed renounce it.

I feel old today. No, it's not pessimism. (You cant be pessimistic or optimistic about life.
Well, life's life and there's not much you can do about it.) It's just a slow weariness. An intense desire for nothing. It's like wanting to sit on the sea shore. Am open to all that the sea brings me. But I will not move. The sea must come to me, and bring what it will. I have no desire to go to the sea, nor do I want to go away from it. I want to 'not be'. They call it 'zeroising' in bank jargon.

Another night is coming on. And all I want to ask you is, 'Can I hold you tonight?'

Keep the candles going

1. After Singur and Nandigram, the staunchest of CPI-M supporters have had either nothing to say or have fallen silent. But some people are their usual cocksure selves. For instance, the Times of India. Day before yesterday, it led with a story that screamed, “Battle for Nandigram won.” My questions: (a) Who won the battle? The people of Nandigram or the CPI-M cadres? (b) For whom was the battle won? The people of Nandigram or the CPI-M cadres? (c) Is that something to celebrate? Quite a few of us have not forgotten that Laxman Seth, local CPI-M biggie, declared early this year that 20,000 odd acres would be acquired. It was then that Nandigram erupted, and the affected people formed the BUPC. So, if the BUPC was 'ousted' by the CPI-M, does it call for a celebration? TOI editors think so. This is the newspaper which got the 'Lead India' nautanki on the road recently.

2. If you can, get a copy of tomorrow's Dainik Statesman. The lead story presents the number of people killed during the last 30 years of Left rule: 55,000. And this is according to police records.

3. I think we must institute some sort of an award for fearless reporting and give it to Tara News for being the bravest news channel of India and all its Medinipur and Nandigram correspondents for being as intrepid as they have proved themselves to be. Truly, hats off to them. They smuggle cameras to conflict areas and send footages god knows how.

4. Gopalakrishna Gandhi. Yes, you are the last hope we have. Please take the one step you have been mulling about since the last couple of days. It's time you made the anarchy of this state official.

5. Oh, do remember to keep those apolitical candle light vigils going. As long as you light a candle and strike a pose, it doesnt matter what you do on election day. The movie buff bhadralok at Nandan was miffed because the film fest was disrupted by the Trinamul party. The bhadralok said on TV that though he was very sorry about what was happening in Nandigram, the film fest shouldnt have been disrupted, because the two things were 'different' and 'not connected'. The CPI-M owes a lot to people like him. I wonder what the bhadralok has to say about Mahasweta Devi's vocal presence in any protest relating to Singur and Nandigram. What could a novelist have anything to do with politics, he might wonder.

6. Bengal's fate in the recent past (that is, since the beginning of coalition politics) has been closely linked to the politics at the Centre. Tomorrow the Left and Manmohan Singh meet, ostentatiously for the nuclear deal. And Bengal's politics can go to hell, once again.

Music

When I sing, I feel something releasing in me. I deeply miss my music classes with Mrs Sampath. I learnt a bit of Carnatic music from her in Hubli, of all the places. As far as I know, she was the only Carnatic vocal instructor in Hubli-Dharwad, the cradle of Hindustani music in Karnataka. Pure stroke of luck that I found her.

When I first joined the classes, I was about 12; my voice was good, but raw... unused to modulations, to 'bhaava'. Mrs Sampath told us to practise at home at least once a week. Prashanti, the little brat and my music classmate, and I would 'practise' all the way from my house to Mrs Sampath's, a distance of about 15 mins. But the good thing about us was when we began to sing in class, we poured our heart out. And Mrs Sampath would be impressed, and would say, "So, you have practised."

But Mrs Sampath was no fool: soon, she told us that our voices were good and we sang well, but we had no bhaava. Now, what is bhaava, I remember thinking. And then she sang the same kruti that we had just sung, and I began to listen. I heard many sounds in her voice, many ups and downs, many twists and turns, many a thing that made me close my eyes and rock my head. (That's among the many similarities music has with the process of an orgasm: you cant stand or for that matter lay still when you are experiencing either.) And I knew I didnt produce these sounds; at least not then.

So, I began to practise. Not much, maybe an hour or two a day. I also began to listen to more music. One day at class, after I finished singing a pancharatna kriti, Mrs Sampath looked hard at me, as if trying to search for something, and then gave an approving nod of her head. The beginnings of musical insight - that's what she was looking for in me, and she said she found them.

Mrs Sampath was a perfectionist. Weeks used to go by with me stuck on a line. There was no going ahead unless she heard what she wanted to hear. It was excruciating for me because I could see where she was tweaking it a little, but to do that myself made me sweat. There was only one way to sing it the way she did: shut my eyes tight, map out her voice exactly in my mind, and imitate it. And, bingo! If you hear it right, you've got it. This was how I picked up Bengali, too. Works with language and music.

Must find a teacher here. Must practise, must sing, must breathe!

Dashami morning, etc

(Image and video of the Bagbazar Puja by Lincoln. Thank yee)

Everyone's been about the whole town last night like there's not gonna be another puja. Even the people who sleep on the street are still tucked in in their makeshift beds at ten thirty in the morning. No one wants to wake up. Maybe if you kept on sleeping, the day wouldnt begin and night wouldnt come, and Ma didnt have to be sent away so soon. Well, we do try.

Maybe it's just my imagination, but I find Kolkata quite sad on Dashami mornings. People look wistfully at the pandals, sigh, and resign themselves to another year's wait.

Puja's a good time to introspect. Because, three days of holidays can get a little too much for just going out, sleeping, hogging, etc. So, by Navami or dashami day when I did start to think (yeah, have learnt to stop thinking nowadays. No, not meditate, just stop all thought processes until further notice), I thought of my three pujas in Kolkata, and what has happened in between.

I looked around with wide-eyed wonder the first time round. I was working with a newspaper but had already given notice. Kolkata was still not home then. I was out on all the puja nights and days. Was fascinated most by the dhaak and surprised that the kaamini/chaatim (not sure about the right name. Have got two names for this flower from two different sources.) flower bloomed just in time for the puja. It's like Ma made sure her brand of city freshener was in place before her visit.

A couple of months after the pujas, I took, what many would term, a big career leap. From gigantic mainstream to little-known but purposeful small-time. I've been doin the same thing for about two years now, with a brief gap. (It's been good, but more about my salaried work in another post.)

But the most important thing that's happened/happening personally is developing the guts to take risk. Financial ones, that is. Sometime this year I realised that if I must work my ass off, I'd be better off doin it for myself, ahem, I mean working for myself. Actually, am not really on my own, but working with Linc in his business.

It was one of the most mulled-over decisions in my life, considering that most life-defining ones have been taken in a matter of a few seconds. But I am beginning to think it's perhaps the best decision work satisfaction-wise.

Of course, this has meant a huge cut in salary plus uncertainties that tag along with any business. It has also meant a lot of belief in my self, patience, number-crunching, and daring to dream, oh, what dreams. Also, I love it.

By next Puja, I should have lots more to report. And hopefully, Ma Durga willing, lots of blogging will happen.

Maybe it'll be a happy Durga Puja after all

Small victory, perhaps, but anything is welcome in such dismal times.

Silence, not calm

A couple of days ago, the Times of India carried a story on Page 1 on the riots over the public distribution system in West Bengal. It was more an edit than a story. It said something like the calm of 30 years' Left rule in the state is being finally stirred, etc.

I wondered whether it was calm or Silence, the Deafening type.

Just before I joined journalism college five years ago, the Left had won the state elections. And Frontline magazine had attributed the victory to, what else, land reforms. It struck me as weird.

However great or dismal an achievement or event may be, how could it continue to be the trump card 30 years later? Had nothing changed in 30 years in Bengal? What about people who were born 10 years after the land reforms? They would be around 20 now... was there no difference between their and their parents' aspirations? How could Bengal be so different from what was happening everywhere else in the country?

Last year, the Left won again. There was jubilation in my office. I couldnt understand that. Didnt the very fact that one party continued to rule for 30 years in a democratic set-up strike you as somewhat odd? To this question too, I got the same answer: land reforms. And someone also told me: probity in public life.

Let's not talk about the Left and its land reforms. There is only so much their frayed nerves can take. Probity in public life: well, it's all over the papers now. Dont know if national television has picked it up yet (I have stopped watching news on TV; bollywood is better.).

Rizwan-ur Rehman's death is the latest squeak from behind the wall of Silence. No, it's not limited to religion, money and status. It's got everything to do with the state of things in Bengal. The suspect cops have not even been suspended, let alone their being ever punished. Right from Buddha babu to the cops, everyone knows that if they sit mum and sit tight through, say, a month more, it will be business as usual.

They also know that the people who staged a candle light protest against Rehman's death will not see the connection between things.

The more things change, the more they stay the same, eh?

Was delighted to find this

Ram's home

sada enna hrudayadalli vaasa maado shri hari

How can days begun with him go wrong?

Appa told me that. Thank you, Appa.

Caught out

I got on the tram, reached into my pocket for the fare and looked for the conductor. I extended my hand to give him the fare. He was shocked. He studied me for half a minute or so, and said, "Aapni nischoy Kolkata e thanken na. (You dont live in Kolkata for sure)"

I almost fell of my seat. Was this guy a facereader or something? A tantrik, perhaps? I could only muster a "huh?"

"Ke u tram e uthe shonge shonge taka bar kore na ki! (Does anyone get on a tram and immediately pay the fare!)"

In my three years of living in Kolkata, I fooled each person I met into believing am a Bong, thanks to the Bangla I picked up. But, then, the tramwala had insight. And I hadnt, thank God, absorbed the many push-shove-grab ways of the Kolkatan.

Kolkatans avoid paying the fare till the last moment. Best would be to pay it just before getting off. It's as if they are unwilling to let go of the warmth of the coins for that extra moment.

The queues are not linear here; they are semi-circular. When a person reaches the head of a queue, the 3-4 people behind him will quickly cluster around and lean on him.

People cross the street after making sure the signal is green. After all, they have that hand raised up, you see, that will ward off all evil, even a ten-ton truck.

Yesterday, I'd been to Shyambazar to buy new clothes for the thakur. My ferocious bargaining had to come to an end, thanks to a six-year-old. I just watched with my mouth open and meekly made way as he pushed and shoved and led his mother to the stall.

The tramwala would be proud of him.