Thoughts Clamouring for Attention….

Happy New Year! I did not think I would start the new year with raving and ranting – but I read that ‘avatar’ had become a big box office hit. And I could not help myself.

I saw Avatar during the holidays. It was a brilliant film in terms of technology – the visuals, the animated characters, but I was so disappointed in its story.

The film is about Pandora, a land in another planet. The planet is of interest to the white men from earth because of its rich natural resources that includes a precious mineral. An industrialist wants to harvest it. He descends on Pandora with a scientific team and an army unit. The science team finds a way in which humans can change their physiology to adapt to the atmospheric conditions of Pandora and blend in with the Pandoreans or the Navi as they are called. One of the ‘human turned Navi’ has to convince the people to leave their land, so that mining operations can start. If the people refuse – the army would play its hand. In this process, the science team falls in love with Pandora – because its rich diversity provides an intriguing area of research. And the man assigned to have the dialogue with the Pandorean – falls in love with the daughter of the Navi chief. The time allotted for finding peaceful means gets exhausted. The Pandoreans refuse to leave. Tanks and all kinds of heavy weapons that you can imagine – are all set to start rolling.

At this point of the film I was waiting for the Pandoreans to get their resources together – their ancient spirits, the living trees, the powerful looking birds and animals – and put up a fierce fight and defeat the might of bombs and guns.

But alas, that was too romantic a dream.

It seemed only the ‘human-pandoreans’ had the power to save the people from destruction. The man-in-love was able to tame the most powerful and symbolic animal in Pandora in a matter of seconds. Consequently he becomes their chief and the Navi bow before him in reverence and awe. It is he, and no other, who pleads with the ancient spirits to come to the aid of the people. Well, after that, the end was predictable. Under his leadership the men and the machines were defeated. Albeit after the ancient tree was uprooted by tanks and carpet bombs caused unimaginable destruction. The hero becomes a Pandorean and all live happily after.

The film had so much arrogance about it.

I read that the film was set in the year 2154. But I had such a feeling of ‘déjà vu’ while watching it. Nothing seems to have changed from what it is today. The army unit or the ‘marines’ appeared to be on a holiday after a war on earth. The industrialists with plans of uprooting civilizations for looting their wealth seemed undaunted. And it was still the ‘white man’ who had all the power – the power to destruct and the power to be the savior.

And even after 150 years, still only men are thought fit to rule. Only Jake could assume the title of the Chief. Neither ‘neytiri’ the brave daughter of the Navi chief who taught Jake everything he knew about Pandora nor ‘mo-at’ the strong spiritual guru and mother of Neytiri could assume that role.

Why???

Bangkok is bedecked nowadays. Last Friday we were at Siam square, the downtown area, and from there we took the sky-walk to another major shopping area, a distance of about 1.4 km with different shopping malls located along its stretch. The skywalk was adorned with lights, with Christmas carols playing through the central music system in addition to some live music performed by music groups. Christmas trees standing tall and majestic – inside the malls, outside the buildings. Neon light props everywhere – of sleighs and reindeers, of evergreen trees, a huge board announcing the countdown – 14 days to 2010 …and people striking poses against the glittering background – clicking photographs at every step.

While absorbing my surroundings I remembered the ‘earth hour’ that was held in March this year. Bangkok switched off electric lights for one hour to contribute towards saving energy. I participated in it too – thinking that we were making a difference in the fight against climate change. Yes, we knew, it was a symbolic event held with the purpose of creating awareness about climate change – but going around Bangkok in the evening nowadays, makes you realize – just how superficially symbolic it is.

For something to be ’symbolic’, should not there be some element of sacrifice in it? A feeling of giving up something that gives one pleasure or doing something that causes us some pain – for a higher cause or belief?

If today, Christmas lights in the city were to be turned off, then would not more people ask – why? For what?

Would that not be more meaningful?

And then maybe, the people themselves would come up with more earth friendly ways of celebrations…

But maybe that would not be in the interest of these shopping malls… have you ever fallen into the trap of ‘Christmas and new year’ season discounts?… where you have to spend some money to earn discount coupons – and then you have to spend more to use the discount coupons – a process which earns you more discount coupons and the cycle goes on till you can make the decision – to throw the discount coupons in your hand into the nearest dustbin – and walk out.

I once again missed the rickshaw today.

Rickshaw – the mode of transport that is still popular in most parts of south Asia. In fact Wikipedia says that Dhaka is the ‘rickshaw capital’ of the world. It looks small -but you will be surprised at how much holding capacity it has. It was this rickshaw, which took us children, around ten in number, with our school bags, lunch boxes, water bottles and other paraphernalia to school every day and also brought us safely back home – be it any weather – monsoon, winter or summer. In Dhaka I have seen it accommodating three adults. A woman dressed very prettily flanked by two other adults – all sitting quite comfortably is not an uncommon sight – though I never cease wondering – where is the space?

These rickshaws are so useful to commute between those small distances which are not covered by any other public transport or those distances which are sometimes too long to be covered on foot. It is this utility – that taught us to respect their trade as well. After getting dependent on them, a time comes when you start asking yourself – “if I cannot walk the distance, should I be bargaining so hard with the man who is going to pull my weight?” or maybe we got the early lessons from my grandmother, who after coming back from the market in the hot sun, would ask the rickshaw puller to wait while she instructed us to get him a glass of cool water and a piece of jaggery or gud.

Alas – in Bangkok there are no rickshaws. What you have instead is the motorcycle taxis or the motor-cy as they are commonly called. They are a complete opposite to the slow and steady rickshaw. I believe their motto is to offer a – ‘one stop journey in record time’ and in order to live up to it, they zig zag their way between cars and buses, get around the red lights in most imaginative ways possible and reach you at your destination in a blink of an eye. You can request them to go – cha cha (slow- slow), but I think once the engine starts running, they remember nothing but their motto. And it is because they think they are the king of the roads, I wage a silent war with them every day when I walk between my office and home. The motor-cy think, pedestrians have no business to occupy the side of the road while I am insistent to claim that right of mine.

It is not only their audacity and recklessness that makes me averse to using them. It is also this lack of personal space between the driver and the commuter. But still, there are times when you have no other option. And today was such a day. The motorcycle driver assigned to me had long silky hair tied up in a ponytail. I thought nothing of it till we started. After which I could not decide whether I should hold on to the motorcycle for my life or his ponytail to prevent his hair from whipping against my face!!

How I wish there were rickshaws in Bangkok!

photocredits: wikepdia

This time my visit to Bangladesh had a special mission attached to it. I was to go to Maimansingh to find out if there are any traces or memories left of my paternal ancestors – my great grandfather, Shri Amar Chandra Datta who founded the Bramho Boys School, and who left sometime in the late 1930s. He had three sons and one daughter. One of his sons Shri Porimol Datta, stayed on, teaching in the same school, leaving for India around 1950s. The daughter married the nephew of Shri Chittoranjan Das.

Armed with these facts, we did go to Maimansingh. We were directed to the house of one of the old families – Bramhan Kutir. The family gave us a very warm welcome and over tea and biscuits – we found out that the Bramho Boys School no longer exists. Atleast by the same name. Maybe it had been renamed afterwards. There used to be many Hindus in the Maimansingh region – but most of them left, first during the partition and then during the liberation war in 1970. Now there are very few of the Bramho Samaj left.

They said they would contact us if they could find any relevant information. We left these few facts with others as well. Maybe we will get a lead, maybe we won’t.

If we do not, my parents may be a bit disheartened. But me? I don’t think so. My journey to know my roots – has just begun. Perhaps it is the same for anybody from Punjab or Sindh – but I have realized that when I speak Bengali in Bangladesh, my nationality, even more – the difference in religion which was the reason for the partition, is of no consequence. My friends, Khala Amma, introduce me – as a daughter of Maimansingh, now settled in Delhi. It makes me feel as small as a worm as I know so little about this land and at the same time it fills me up with a sense of belonging…

… and I hope that a day would come when I would be able to speak bangla, without having to hear that it is very difficult to understand me as I speak it with a strange English accent!

Do you know Mumtaj?

Mumtaj?? You mean Taj Mahal?

Nonono – Dharmendra? Hema Malini? Amitab Bachan?

Oooo – you mean the actress Mumtaj! Films!

Yes, – Rajesh Khanna – very handsome

hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

you know sholay? ‘Daughter of Kashmir’? ‘Chang peun Kaew’?

Hmmmmmmmmmmmmm …chang peun kaew? No, I don’t know…

But that is a famous movie in Thailand, about an elephant who is a friend…

Noooo – I don’t see thai movies.

Nooooo – Indian movie – not thai movie – rajesh khanna!

Indian movie? What could it be? I rack and rack my brains – but can’t find an answer…

Kashmiri women – very beautiful

Hmmmmmmmmmmm

Indian films very nice – many songs – you climb and walk through three mountains in one song….

Hmmmmmmmmm

Dance around trees, rivers, fields – ooooo I like it! Do all Indian people sing and dance like that?

This is a conversation I had with my taxi driver yesterday during a drive through unexpected heavy traffic. And I have had similar conversations with taxi drivers before. What is interesting is that they do not know the actors of today. It seems around 20 years back, before dvds and vcds came to Thailand – Indian films used to be screened at the theaters. With hindi soundtrack – and subtitles in Thai. And that is why these stars of yesteryears are recalled fondly even now.

At the end I did figure out though – ‘Chang peun Kaew’ could only be ‘hathi mere sathi’. And daughter of kashmir – perhaps ‘kashmir ki kali’. After all, Sharmila Tagore is very beautiful…

Started my morning with Kopi from Indonesia, and I remembered I have not shared this with anyone yet.

Thanks to some friends, we were able to get accommodation in the heart of the city. Surrounded by greenery. The wide streets were lined with trees, not trees that seem to shrink within themselves to withstand against the pollution of a big city, but trees with branches flowing out, casting a welcoming shade for anybody who seeks it. The trees also seemed to be a screen for the big bungalows on either side of the street.

Placed in a situation like this, I could hardly resist taking early morning walks. And it was during these early morning jaunts, when there was a slight nip in the air, when the flow of traffic for the day had not yet started, when the streets were empty except for morning walkers and workers sweeping the fallen leaves, when the security guards of the bungalows changed shifts – it was then I noticed them.

The mobile kopi shops.

A cycle with a basket on its back carrier. A hot water flask, tins of sugar, milk, coffee and tea placed in the back carrier – and a few packets of cigarettes. Another basket secured on the handle carrying cups and spoons. The arrangement differed from cycle to cycle – but this was the basic infrastructure.

And the cycles moved from street to street – offering the first cup of the coffee for the day, creating a small chat corner wherever it stopped with people joining in for a cup and smoke, exchanging news and then moving on to tackle the day ahead.

I imagine each seller has his own route and clientele, who wait for him every morning – not willing to start the day without that cup of kopi!!!

Today listening to my sister’s plans for giving onjuli, I felt an overwhelming desire to go somewhere with a festive air about it – to be surrounded by people. So here I am, at the Bangkok International Film Festival, reassured enough by my surroundings, to make this blog post. (Yes – I am with my laptop!)

You see, being the person I am – with very ambivalent feelings about god, Durga Pujo for me has been more of a social event bringing the family and the community together, than a religious one. I suppose that is why I remember those days in ‘D Road, Jamshedpur’, for it was then when our Durga Puja had both these elements in perfect harmony. There used to be a pujo in every locality called the ‘pada-r pujo’. That is where we saw how Devi Durga was armed with weapons during shoshti pujo, this is where we saw the sindoor khela on Doshumi and this is where we spent most of our mornings together with friends. We did not need parental supervision to run down the road – and at the pandal everyone knew us anyway. On Oshtumi, we usually kept a fast – eating only after giving onjuli. This was the time we used our savings – 10 paise, 5 paise accumulated from savings on bus fares that baba gave every morning on our school days – to buy things from the small vendors around the pujo pandal. The water balloons that also doubled up as yo-yos, the whistles with balloons and tassels at the end, ice-cream lollies together with churan… Mid – morning parents would come to the pandal and we gathered around them as they chatted with other neigbours. Soon it would be time for bhog – we three would stand in line with the coupons to collect the ‘bhog er handi’. (Do you remember that photograph?). Pujo r bhog had something special about it – khichudi, chachra, payesh. It used to be ‘jhal‘, but bhog without the jhal was not bhog. Evening was the time to visit the other pandals in the area. We walked from one pandal to the other, watching the dhunuchi nach in one, the ’sound and light show’ in another. It was also during the evening when – food stalls would be set up all over the place and one of the few times in the year when parents did not worry about what was under the finger-nails of the man filling our phuchkas with imli pani. But I still remember the taste of egg rolls of Jamshedpur. Sigh! If not doing anything else we would simply sit at one place and watch the people around us dressed in their best clothes. I cannot recollect the saris, but I remember the men during that time used to basically dressed in simple kurtas and pajamas – white crisp ones during the day and perhaps silk during the evening. And the more stylish or the traditional ones – wore dhuti in the old fashioned way.

By Nobumi, preparations for Bijoya Doshumi would have begun at home. We would have decided –what all pakwan would be made for Bijoya. Omrita didi, even then, took on the responsibility of making the house presentable to guests. Before Pujo, we would have done a thorough cleaning of the house, she would have arranged all mantel pieces, changed all covers that needed to be changed, but by Doshumi, the sitting room would be made ‘out of bounds’ for us,– and woe betide a person who made anything untidy! Ma would take out the huge hata-s for making boondi, the designed casts for making sondesh, the narkol kurini which would then be washed and cleaned. Perhaps in the afternoon I would start helping ma grate the coconuts for the narkol nadus. Sometime in between I would also help her roll the dough and cut it into thin diamond shaped slices for the nimki and fat squares for the goja. Ma would have soaked the chick peas for chole and the dal for dahi bade.

And though not really wanting it – we would wait for Doshumi.

Durga Pujo will start in just a few days time. These days I get asked so frequently – am I going home during pujo? And each time my mind does backward flips and reminds me of the pujo that we celebrated not in recent years, but the pujo times of our childhood in Jamshedpur. I think my sisters will agree that those days were simply different!

We grew up in a very small town, Jamshedpur, now in Jharkhand, but those days it was part of Bihar. Surrounded by the chotanagpur hills and located at the point where the Subarnarekha and Kharkai rivers met, it was a beautiful town. The hills were so close that from our home we could see their colors change – different shades of green, blue, brown and orange – as the sun moved from east to west. And in the nights – there were the lights of the ‘bonfires’ in the forests on the hills. It was also a very cosmopolitan town – with Bengalis, Biharis, Marwaris, people from the southern states all merging together. In fact we studied in a school called – Dakshin Bharat Mahila Samaj English Medium School (South India Women Society…)! It was also a small town. We grew up in localities with two storey-ed houses on either side of the road – everybody knowing everybody else living on their street. In our part of the town – I think most people knew us as our father’s daughters! And of course – there were the original inhabitants of the land, the Adivasis. It was in this milieu that we celebrated our festivals. Durga Pujo was part of the continuum (albeit one of major highlights), that started with Gonesh Pujo and ended with Kali Pujo or Deepawali.

Gonesh Pujo used to be held in every nook and cranny of the town – organized by the youth clubs as well as individual households. We got to know about it when the door bells started ringing incessantly after sunset with the neighbourhood boys asking for ‘chanda’ or subscription! So many groups used to come. We gave a few – and pretended that ‘nobody was home’ for the rest. A ‘Gonesh Pujo’ mela (fair) was also held every year. I don’t remember much of the mela – except for the teeming crowds, the food stalls, the balloon sellers and the large wheel which was one of the centers of attraction. Yes, I remember the ‘khaja’ (wheat dough rolled in circular shape and then sweetened in sugar syrup) that Baba bought every year at the mela – I have not tasted ‘khaja’ again after leaving Jamshedpur.

Our family trips to gonesh pujo mela ended the year we all fell down. Baba drove an Enfield Bullet. That was our family vehicle and the Bullet loyally drove our family of five everywhere that we wanted. But one night, when we were returning from the Mela, while turning into one of the side streets from the main road, something happened, Baba lost control and the next moment all of us were sprawled on the street. We soon scrambled to our feet, Baba started his bullet again and in five minutes we were home. I remember Baba saying – that after he made sure that there were no major injuries, he quickly looked around to see whether there were any witnesses and was relieved to find none! I think if Ratan Tata had seen us that day, ‘Nano’ would have been designed a few decades earlier.

NEXT – was Bishokorma pujo. The rikshaw-wallahs, bus drivers, auto drivers, workers at the factory worshipped Lord Bishokorma – for the safe functioning of their machines. I remember this pujo because there used to be a huge celebration at a major bus stop on our way to school. And because my birthday fell on this day J

Once bishokorma pujo passed – one could feel the onset of autumn. There was a nip in the air and the sun radiated a ‘warmth’ that was special. Songs of ’shorot kal’ started playing on the radio and in the afternoons Ma would be busy working on her Usha sewing machines. Yes – she used to stitch our new clothes for pujo. One each for every day of the pujo – fifteen in total! How on earth, did she do it?? But in those years, I don’t remember wearing anything that was not stitched by her. And very pretty frocks they used to be too! There used to be that trip to Bata shop – for new slippers, the khadi store for Baba’s kurta pajama and the endless waiting at the sari shops. That was part of the yearly pujo preparations.

Within no time – there was the day for Mahalaya, the one day in the year that we enthusiastically woke up at 4 in the morning to hear how Debi Durga rose up to destroy Mahishasur.

Tar por – pujo’r chutti shuru…

(to be continued…)

12^th August 09: It is Mother’s Day here today. The Queen’s birthday, an official holiday when people take special care of their mothers. I have received atleast three messages on my mobile informing me about the attractive discounts on offer if I choose to buy a gift for my mother or take her out for dinner or a film. I wondered – what could I gift my mother. Nothing suited right – except this, something that we never usually do – an expression of ‘thanks’ for giving us those early lessons in writing.

During our school days, it was mother, who used to help us with our English and Hindi lessons. The English and Hindi syllabus under the ICSE system had a lot on literature – poetry, drama, short stories and even abbreviated novels – their analysis and paraphrasing and explanations of the different nuances. Mother was our teacher at home and she taught us according to her style. If you had a question, she would never supply an instant answer. She would read herself and then make you read it with her as she explained it. And when mother explained, she never really pegged herself to ‘our standards’ or that which was being taught in school, rather she did it according to her ‘frame of reference’ – which was way above that which was expected of us in that age. It was no use telling her that – ‘but, teacher explained it differently’! For then there was the danger of her clamping up and saying – well, do as your teacher says. Sometimes she used to help her with our homework – or to put it more honestly, do our homework for us. But again – she did it in her own style. I remember, maybe during our 8^th or 9^th standard, we had started studying short stories in English and the teacher wanted us to analyze one. Mother started the analysis by the quotation: ‘Short story is like an illuminated candle……..(I have been trying hard, but I simply can’t remember the rest of it anymore). Our teacher had never used that quotation in class nor had she talked about the ‘genre’ of short stories as such. I still remember the funny expression on her face when she returned my homework back to me.

But that does not really mean, that mother spoon fed us. There were those numerous times in between when she would only explain and then say – go do your homework yourself. Those were the difficult times. Not only did we have to write it ourselves, but we had to write it according to the standards that we had set for ourselves. It actually doubled the pressure on us and took us much more time to finish the work – than we would have normally spent.

I remember we had to explain each paragraph of Michael Madhusudan Dutt’s – Kind Porus, A Legend of Old. That year, we had a good English teacher and she had taken great pleasure in explaining that poem to us. At home, mother had done it in her own way. And I had to do my homework on my own. I had so many drafts before I wrote the final one into my homework copy – some eight to ten pages. When the copy was returned back to me, there were no comments except for a single one at the end. I can still remember the ‘excellent’ in red ink scrawled across the last page. I was the only one in class to have received such a comment!

I guess that is how we learnt to write. It is strange, but all of us express ourselves much better when we write than when we speak. And atleast for me – writing helps me to ease my tensions, it relaxes me. With writing – all those thoughts which keep cluttering in the head demanding attention, kind of flow away…and then one can get back to the normal business of work and life!

So, Thank You Mother!