I guess you love poems?

A Girly Love Story

She was my heartthrob. We were in same class. I was fifteen. Mitul was few months older than me. We were students in a girl’s school and there were forty more girls or fifty in the class. But Mitul was special. None else had such a pair of eyes like hers.

Mitul looked like Radha in Rajasthan miniatures - with her large pair of eyes and body that can be found only in the miniatures or on the temple-walls – the intriguing curves and pliability of whom make the viewer awe-struck.  Mitul fascinated me. I used to sit beside her for hours – used to spend hours looking at her, busy with the canvas standing before the easel.  Once in a while she turned to me and asked if she liked her strokes on the canvas. To me, the sky she painted used to look more mesmerizing than the real one.

Mitul taught me the difference between miniature and mural – basics of watching an object d’art. She was a student of Academy of Fine Arts at that time - preparing for entrance test of government Art College.  I was from an orthodox family – was not allowed to go anywhere but school, and Mitul’s place. We liked each other’s company for sure – there couldn’t be any other reason of her frequently inviting me home. Mitul’s room – a ten by twelve space having one single bed, cartons of papers of different colours and sizes and quality, boxes full of pencils and brushes, and a stack of canvas made heaven for them. I used to stretch myself on the bed sometimes with a book – but mostly watching her work as she went on caressing her paper or canvas with gentle strokes of her pencil, sometimes with brush. And in the end of the long summer afternoon, tired she used to lie beside me. We used to start chatting.

“You know Moly, I am planning to move to Paris someday,”

I answered, “Hmmm – and you will paint French sky instead of Indian then.”

“You are silly – an artist should always move to France.” And she continued talking about Picasso and Braque – she did not like men at all, but one painter cannot really avoid talking about male painters.

One day I was standing at her window. No, there was no beautiful garden outside. The window was open towards a five feet wide lane, on the other side of which stood the high wall of another tall building. There apartment was a cheap ground floor one in a posh south Calcutta locality. I loved to stand by the window, watch the high wall of the adjacent building and the narrow strip of sky visible above that. I turned back as she entered the room.  She screamed, “Nooo, don’t move, I want to see you beside the window. I had to freeze for almost half an hour till she completed a rough sketch of mine. I found the face of the portrait different. “You can’t draw my face, Mitul!” – I taunted. She sounded indifferent, “No you don’t have a face. You only have a body and a posture that I need. I need your curves beside the window.” “What a caring painter!” – I replied and jumped into the bed, not extending the discussion further – freezing at same posture for so long was no easy task for me!

I remember another day with her. I was scrutinizing her notebook. She was busy cleaning her paintbrushes. She told, “Before I move to France, I will do a nude of yours.” I was puzzled – my body never resembled to any beautiful lady painted by any of our acclaimed painters! Scared, I somehow expressed my concern, “You mean! Well! But one needs a perfect body to be painted right?” She burst into laughter, “Do you know what kind of models we poor students have to work with? Who would come to expose themselves before one hundred students from different social classes for two hundred rupees per hour?  And we are not providing them any safety. You know– we have only old and poor. Now you imagine – I helped you with information.” She winked. I understood her trouble. I was waiting for her next sentence. She finished, “You have a proportionate body – I like that.” 

- “hahaha – you are mad! Dad told I am ugliest woman he had ever found.” - My voice chocked as I remembered dad’s derogatory words about me that morning as he had explained his reason of not buying me a white frock I wanted.

“Dad’s are dumb. All men are – even my dad is no different. He shouts even louder than your’s. A spoiled brat!”

True her dad used to yell a lot. I didn’t want a yelling dad either! I gave a nod supporting her. Her mom was nice – like mine. They cook yummy lunch for us. Both of us agreed to the point that men are simply unnecessary creation of God, probably created only to irritate us.

“But you are not ugly – only a little short - another two inches would make you perfect, but doesn’t matter. You have a nice body and I want an image of that with me.” – She winked again.

I remained silent. She touched my lips – I was enjoying the budding painter’s soft fingers moving on my lips.

Examination approached – we couldn’t manage time to meet after that. Both our moms maintained that they would prepare a grand lunch again for us after exam. Anyway no aspiring artist could move to France before passing tenth standard exam, as per our knowledge. We still had time.

…………………………………………………………….

Few years passed. Within days after my exam, my dad was transferred to another district. Our shifting far from Calcutta blocked the chance of meeting her. We used to write letters to each other but the communication faded soon. I went on studying as I found a literary treasure trove in language studies while she was unsuccessfully trying to enter Art College. The daughter of the government clerk couldn’t move to France. She had to opt for a university famous not for its excellence in producing artists but for its student politics. We were not connected any longer. 

…………………………………………………………….

Completing my post-graduation few months back, I’ve started teaching in one of the reputed language institutes run by one of my father’s friends. Who doesn’t enjoy explaining nuances of a foreign language before groups of techies who have to pick up a little foreign language skill after office in order to meet their professional demand? I come home late these days making my orthodox mom little annoyed; anyway none is going to stop me as long as I am enjoying my job.

Yesterday – it was late evening; I bumped Mitul on my way home. We cried loud seeing each other, ran towards each other and hugged making all other pedestrians aware of a happy reunion.  Within moments, I started showering her with queries, “How are you? What are you doing these days? Hope you are still painting skies? Hope you didn’t forget about painting French sky someday?” But did my overflowing curiosity made her uneasy? She looked at me - her glance made me shiver this time. It was not appreciating, but devouring me now. She sounded chewing her words, looking straight at my face, “I am fine – giving lessons on painting these days. How are you? Your boss wants you to work till late night? Let’s go for a coffee.” I didn’t get her properly, but was feeling uneasy. Her eyes were burning. Under the street light, she was looking like a witch straight from a fairy tale. I was scared, even though trying to scold myself for being too much in the world of fairy tales and fiction. I should stop reading fictions from now onwards, I thought. Still, I knew I can’t seat with this lady even for five minutes for a coffee! So I denied, “Some other day, Mitul. You know mom – she will get angry.” Mitul smiled with corner of her lips. She looked completely unknown. We exchanged phone numbers before I boarded the bus.

Today, as soon as I entered office in the morning – Manida called. Manida was my dad’s friend, my boss at office. As I entered his cabin, he roared –“You are grown up lady! Stop talking to everyone you meet on the road.” I was trying to understand what exactly he was talking about. But he didn’t give me any chance, “Tomorrow onwards, you will leave office with me if you have to leave late; or tale Pappu to arrange cab for you. Don’t go by bus.”  I nodded as he finished. I knew I didn’t have chance to ask anything else as he already turned to his files.

Minutes back, I returned my desk – I have to prepare the days lessons those I need to present in the afternoon.  Concentrating was bit difficult as I was pondering Manida’s words – what could be reason he wants to snatch my right to walk on Calcutta road. He knows I love walking!

I didn’t need to wait long – Pappu, the office boy arrived with tea, as usual with a big grin hanging on his face. “Madam – I was watching you yesterday when you were going home.” Pappu took up duty of keeping an eye on me from our second floor office till I board bus, I know that. Offices need to take care of women employee’s safety after all. There’s nothing new. But what he tells next terrifies me. “I saw you talking to a lady yesterday – she is a local leader of Jansevak party. Be careful madam!”

I am feeling a chill in my spine again. Jansevak party’s connection to some notorious extortion racket and their mode of operation is widely known. Moreover I know they are trying to extort money from our institute too. Some of the party goons came to office to threat Manida few days back. Now I guess the meaning of the words she told last evening. Today I am more than happy that I avoided going for coffee with my once good friend. 

Only for a poem…

The moon appears in the dusty city sky;

For a poem needs to be written.

The scorching summer brings soothing breeze;

For a poems needs to be written.

The courtesan falls in love with the connoisseur;

For a poem needs to be written.

Dear flowing time, please wait here for a moment

Right now - a poem needs to be written.

From:

https://www.amazon.in/dp/B01NCSMHK9/ref=cm_sw_r_tw_dp_x_J4DBybQDC14X1

Bengali Literary Studies – Future is Built on Past

As it usually happens, articles of contemporary authors give me a scope to ‘think’ – my favourite pastime! This time it was an article on enhancing interest in regional languages in India, written by a contemporary non-resident Bengali author.

Photo credit - commons.wikimedia.org

The author addresses the issues in general applicable to all regional languages in India, but being a Bengali speaking reader, I find the story is worse in case of Bengali – as a language practiced in West Bengal.

True – technology boom in last ten years made localization turn into a lucrative business even in West Bengal, thanks to mobile service providers, FMCG and electronic goods makers; but on the other hand, there is a visible decay in literary language practice. How many of regular readers read Bengali these days?  I remember my parents reading Bengali newspapers 30 years back. These days, not even my mother, once a proud student of Bengali literature, wants to read Bengali newspaper. Her simple explanation is that the quality of news and language shows that we are not target readers. Who are the target readers then? One can realize only by comparing vernacular newspapers of 1970s and post 2000. Those are published for readers of less literate class, containing very little information from the world outside West Bengal. National or international news is given importance only when an incident has considerable impact on West Bengal. One can hardly expect detailed report on global politics, science and technology, economic or industrial issues in these.

Once upon a time, middle class Bengali homes used to wait for Magazines published on the eve of Durgapuja – in which literary creation of all contemporary authors used to be published first – books used to be published after a couple of months. What are names of Bengali contemporary authors in 21st century? Did anyone author a significant Bengali fictional novel in last five years? I don’t know – none of my Bengali friends knows. I still remember Travelogue like Nirad Mazumdar’s ‘Punashcha Pari’ or art history like “Palyuger Chitrakala” by Sarasi Kumar Saraswati read in a weekly Bengali Magazine. Where is that literary magazine now? It is still being published – but worthless to collect – even though this sounds rude.

I tasted European literature first in Bengali. I somehow managed to preserve a couple of Pragati Prakashan translations of Russian literature too till date. Starting from Iliad – Odyssey’s children’s version to Grimm’s fables, everything used to be available in Bengali, which actually created interest about others cultures among children even though there was no conscious effort to fulfill a ‘target’ of creating ‘global citizens’. I discovered German war literature – also Hemingway and Maupassant and Chekhov when I was in fifth or sixth standard – in Bengali! Originals were not easily available in towns and villages thirty-five years back– but translations by Mohanlal Gangopadhyay or Nani Bhowmik were too good to introduce the world outside India to potential readers staying far from Calcutta. Had I not read those, perhaps I wouldn’t be interested to learn European languages later. I found translations of Marquez etc. even when I was in college. But stories started changing drastically by mid nineties.

Or was the change really so ‘drastic’? I studied in vernacular medium - credit goes to my liberal socialist (autocrat?) father. Except a handful of liberal socialists, none of Bengali middle class was ready to send their children to vernacular medium school even forty years back unless forced to - due to lack of ‘Elite’ schools in locality or monetary issues. As a result, scope to learn literary Bengali was already reducing for children from educated Bengali families. Though liberal socialists went on dominating Bengali cultural life till nineteen eighties, their number started reducing by nineteen seventies itself. Well, Globalisation brought a radical change in this dominance pattern.

How to change the scenario? The author suggests “inward translation” that is, translating more global literature into Bengali than translating Bengali to English would be able to bring a change. We cannot deny that improving the quality of vernacular newspapers or making contemporary world literature available in Bengali may convince senior citizens to read in Bengali. But what about younger generation from educated families who rarely read anything in Bengali since childhood? Or the neo-middle class which takes up reading as a way to earn certificates that in turn helps in earning a particular standard of living? Is there any way to attract future generations to read in Bengali?

Educated Bengali started moving out of Bengal one fifty year’s back, as British colonialists established themselves well in this country. Bengalis were among the first Indians to get along with European education system and hence, became trusted employees for British to work in different parts of the country with them. Anyway, there were still enough Bengalis staying in own region while eastern zone of the country provided enough jobs being an industrially developed part of the country. Independence brought partition of Bengal which forced a good number of Bengali speaking people move to other parts of the country – West Bengal alone could not provide space for approximately two millions of migrants. People who had to move out, could not avoid forced detachment from Bengali reading-writing practices.  But the aversion to Bengali reading and writing actually developed during post seventies socialist regime. Socialist governance lead to downfall in industry sectors in West Bengal in the one hand, and on the other, blanket ban on English as a subject in vernacular medium school in mid-eighties pushed children of job-oriented Bengali speaking middle–class out of these schools – who wants to educate own children in a way that that they would never be able to communicate with outer world – eventually loss the scope of being recruited for any professional service? Hence, Bengali came down to the status of second language in late eighties. Obviously, children of these days, do not need to read global literature in Bengali - they read it in English, their first language.

In post globalization scenario, moving out of the state even for a civil engineer’s job became unavoidable to every Bengali. Why to learn Bengali with importance then? Isn’t it enough to speak a little Bengali and attend Durgapuja celebrations to prove Bengali identity?

Neo-middle class is usually not interested in literary studies or cultural studies anywhere in the world, but also to traditionally-educated Bengali families, Bengali as a language lost its significance. Migration became a must for all – neither children of our Bengali authors nor the children of neo-middle class are able to stay in the state due to professional reason. When we do communicate in another language fourteen hours a day, one hour of forced reading in vernacular does not help much in growing literary skill.  On a personal note, even though I was taught in vernacular medium, after staying outside West Bengal for nine years, I, a middle aged of Bengali-literature enthusiast, am more comfortable communicating in English rather than Bengali.

The inclusion of contemporary literature in school curriculum is an excellent idea, but most of the Bengali reader class does not read in vernacular medium any longer. Vernacular medium schools in rural areas these days are meant for providing basic education to children of backward class who mostly come to school for a free meal, not to study literature.  

Bengali literary studies in West Bengal have limited future. And I do not see any scope of change in the scenario unless Government and academic bodies have a plan to radically change it. Well, the language and literature written in Bengali will always retain its glorious place in researcher’s dissertation and thesis papers, of course!

Annada Devi – the Lady of Courage

Too many footnotes!!! Unfortunately I could not find any other option to explain certain elements particular to the regional culture, though I feel uncomfortable with footnotes while reading stories myself.

This is a story of an era more than hundred years back.

Rangpur was a village near Chanak. Baikunthanath Chattopadhyay was a renowned Zamindar here. One of the his close relative's wedding ceremony was being held in a village far from his place and his entire family decided to attend the grand celebration. They had no reason to worry. The huge mansion of the Zamindar was protected by high brick built walls and moreover, there were enough number of security guards to take care of the house. Only some distant women relatives and his distant cousin’s wife, Annada devi, stayed back at home. Annada devi was about forty at that time.

This was the first new moon night of the rainy season*.  The intense darkness in the middle of the night made the world almost invisible. Entire village was sleeping. The only noise one could here was of dogs barking and jackals howling time to time. The sky was cloudy and a heavy rain was expected soon. The narrow canal with its many curves and twists in one side of the village was flowing towards the small stream at a distance as always. Both its banks were covered by bamboo forests, mango grooves and other trees and plants. Only slightly unusual thing in the picturesque canvas was the sight of three canoes, with ten to twelve people on each of those, speeding through the canal towards the village. All of them were carrying weapons – sticks, swords, spears and shields. Everyone’s face was painted strangely in red and black. The silent sailors anchored their canoes behind Baikunthanath’s palace – at the darkest stretch under the mango groves and bamboo forest. Gadadhar das, the Bagdi, was leading the gang. Not only he was an unusually strong person, but all his team-members were strong and daring.  The notoriety of Gadadhar's gang created terror among landlords and business people in the region – while none could anticipate whose home was going to be attacked and when.

Gadadhar and his team entered the mansion crossing the high wall. Another group attacked the guards at the same time, snatched their arms and tied them up – and made their way free of resistance. After entering the courtyard, they lighted their torches and started breaking the doors and windows. Their violent uproar terrified the villagers staying nearby while they started looting.

Annada devi, the strong built lady, was sleeping in the inner part of the palace. The wild noise awoke her as well. But she was a lady of courage. She ordered the other ladies in the home to move to rooftop and throw bricks towards the dacoits from there.*

Womenfolk and maid servants assembled on the rooftop and started showering bricks at the looters downstairs; the torches lit by dacoits actually helped them to precisely hit their targets. The sudden attack puzzled one group of dacoits looting one side of the home. On the other hand, Annada devi made a different plan sitting inside.

She untied her long hair that fell down to her knees, painted her face and body dark with burnt ash* and placed a big dot with vermilion powder* on the forehead. She also tightened the saree* at the knee length, held the Khanda* in one hand and stood motionless with her tongue out, posing the Goddess Kali at one corner of her room.

The group of looters lead by Gadadhar continued looting the rooms one after another till they reached the room where Annada was standing. All on a sudden, the fearsome sight of the great Goddess Kali was terrifying enough for them to stop at once. Gadadhar could not move anymore; did throw his sword on the floor and started reciting a chant for Kali
- “Hail the Goddess Kali\ Let’s everyone chant for her\Hail mother kali…” his voice was being chocked as he kept on repeating the chant. His body was engulfed by an eerie feeling. He felt the Goddess was angry with him for the crime he had committed; all the lady companions* of Kali was rushing to him with their wide open mouths. He stood trembling with fear, called his companions and told them to stop, “Mother Kali is angry with us today, we should not loot here; we should leave everything we have looted here. It was only Dakinis and Joginis throwing stones at us. Let’s bow down before the mother; let’s pray to for our protection.”

The entire gang sat on their knees and bowed their heads down addressing the Goddess. They brought everything what was looted before her before rushing back to their canoes.

Annada’s body became heavy as she stood motionless for a long time in the same posture. She fell senseless due to exhaustion after the dacoits left.

Baikunthanath came back next morning as he received the news of the event from villagers. He was surprised to find every piece of valuable left intact by the dacoits. He realised that nothing but the power of the goddess could make that kind of miracle happen  - it was the goddess's power that had possessed the body of his younger cousin’s wife to express herself. He thanked her with all his devotion.

This was an incident in the Bengali year 1294*. We find the report in newspapers published at that time. The lady became an instance of courage and presence of mind of fearless Bengali women. Even the British Govt rewarded her.

(original in Bengali by Jogendranath Gupta, the forgotten author)

*first new moon night was considered to be auspicious to burgle houses by dacoits in old Bengal

*throwing bricks and stones to hit attackers from rooftop was regular way of self protection for women staying in brick built houses in Bengal. They tried to protect their property from dacoits and themselves from foreign invaders and communal rioters using the same method. Owners of large houses used to build an arsenal with stones and bricks on the rooftop!

*wood and charcoal were cooking fuel in rural Bengal which used to produce good amount of ash, mostly thrown inside a small pit outside kitchen. This ash, mixed with oil made a dark paint which was sometimes used for the purpose of mud wall painting as well.

* vermillion powder – a red  powder. Traditionally considered to be sacred, this was used by Bengali married women on their forehead and also by the priests performing KaliPuja. Kali, being the most prominent folk Goddess in Bengal has a special association with vermillion powder.

*saree- a 10 yard cloth, colored or white was the dress of Bengali women.

*Khanda\Kora\Kharga - type of sword used to practice animal a sacrifices. This also has a sacred association with Bengal  Goddesses, especially Kali. Some families in Old Bengal used to hang it on the wall as a sacred symbol to ward off dangers.

*kali – was the most prominent Goddess of Bengal. Bengali mainstream population worshiped her seeking protection from the evil. But the dacoits and robbers, irrespective of their religion and caste, considered her to be Goddess of their clan. There are of course, different forms of Kali worshiped by different castes and clans, but above all, Kali was the Goddess obeyed by all Shakti-worshipers there.