Bombs and Gods

Today is Vishwakarma Puja.

The God of industries and machines is worshipped today. All factories, mechanics, engineers, technical hands pray today such that their endeavours in their working fields see positive results with the blessings of the God. This day has always been rather special to me as I come from a Steel City and my present vocation is in Real Estate—both industries worship the Lord with great fervour.

And if Bengal and its people needed the blessings of Lord Vishwakarma, it is now. With a short-sighted Jihad against setting up of an industry being fanned by politicians and the international new age industries reeling in the aftermath of the economic massacre in USA, the future of industrial growth in the state looks to be heading nowhere.

Of course, today in India one needs to have the blessings of God to able to even live. With bombs set by terrorists going off across the nation like crackers on a Diwali night and the Government and its agencies reduced to plastic faced powerless individuals mouthing meaningless statements , one really has to be alive on the strength of ones luck.

With the onset of that period of the year when the Gods make their annual journey to the Earth one by one, I can not but wonder whether this would herald a new dawn of peace and hope. I know I sound strange, impractical and old-fashioned in the new world order. But when you are living in bleak times as these, logic takes leave and one tends to survive on hope, faith and belief – that tomorrow would be a better day.

Political Bankruptcy

I was born and brought up in the steel township of Durgapur.

The city was a brainchild of the most dynamic chief minister of West Bengal, Dr. Bidhan Chandra Roy. At that time it was the most modern steel factory in the entire country embodying the hopes and aspirations of a surging newly independent nation state.I grew up in an industrial environment where the household clocks were set to time depending on the siren heard from the factory. All of us knew a little bit of the steel making process by the time we were in high school.

For a long time I believed that working for a livelihood meant working in a steel plant. All other professions were either dependent subsidiaries/ancillaries or did not exist at all. Above all, I was a first hand witness to the growth and prosperity that the factory and its ancillaries brought on to the peripheral regions of Durgapur. It had the best educational institutions, medical services and entertainment areas of the entire district.

I had also been a first hand witness to the fall of the steel plant from a place of pride at the hands of militant trade unionism. The other premier steel plants grew from strength to strength whereas, Durgapur Steel Plant moved from one strike to another. The union leaders grew so powerful that they held the factory at ransom and the degeneration was definite to the point of being complete.

Dr. Roy’s dream became a problem child. My entire generation was forced to look outside for livelihood and till date we all regret to have left our place of dreams at the behest of some short sighted individuals.

Now, seeing the daily happenings at Singur, I feel frightened. It’s ironical that the political parties have changed sides and the erstwhile tormentors are mouthing platitudes. But what is really spine chilling is the ease with which a handful few are holding the future of the entire next working generation in balance.

I feel so tired to think that the idiosyncrasies of a few would decide whether the average ethnic educated male would be in a position to be able to earn his livelihood whilst staying in his place of birth. My present profession forces me to get in touch with land selling agents and believe me; they come from all corners of the political spectrum irrespective of the public stances taken by their leaders.

Where are we going? Whose gain are we talking about? Who cares for us?

These questions at the moment have no answers as my home state braces itself towards another plunge into darkness—and no, I am not talking of the present power cuts only

Independence Day

One more Independence Day anniversary has come and gone.

There were the usual annual parades and the speeches to the nation, flag hoisting ceremonies in various organisations and institutions, oaths and pledges taken in chorus, fluttering paper flags being sold with gusto at the street corners and the electronic media showing innumerable videos related to ‘Deshbhakti’.

There were also the usual threats from militant groups, bomb blasts in expected places like the North East, routine attempts to cross the LOC by the neighbouring nation and the Valley of Gods erupted in ethnic quasi religious violence which nurtured back a secessionist movement.

In sports, the cricketing glamour boys got whipped again in Sri Lanka, the glamorous tennis stars got whipped in Olympics and India with a population of 100 million once again personified the Olympic motto of Participation being more important than winning. (Kudos to Abhinav Bindra, but he is an aberration and we all know that in our heart of hearts.)

In politics, the usual crooks and corrupt rule the roost. Bundles of currency are shown up in the Parliament and that too on National Television. Strange partnerships have been created and we may have a choice between two most uncouth people as the next leader of the nation.

So, if one sits back to look at the 61 years gone by , what does he/she see? Hopelessness? Or is there something round the corner? What would make this land of 100 million carry on?

The answer is a cliché. The answer lies in the hands of the common man. The battered and taken for granted man on the street. The ability of the mass to survive this outrageous onslaught and continue regardless will be the determining factor of the future.

I know that the above point is open to challenge. But at he end I will leave you with is image:-

It was around 11:30 at night on the 14th of August and I was standing on the footpath outside a marriage house waiting for my car to pick me up. The roads were deserted with only a few vehicles plying. Suddenly, from a side lane emerged a young man (must have been in late teens or early twenties) furiously pedalling on a bicycle with the tricolour hoisted high above his head and mounted on the handle bar. I watched the young man moving away with the national flag fluttering above his head – a head held high with obvious pride of carrying the flag.

My day was made. I felt the same pride swell in me. Jai Hind.

Ahem!

The biggest challenge as a blogger that I have faced till now is that people keep asking you about your next post.

In such cases I either keep a know-all sombre face and shake my head and hope that the person interpretes my answer to my and his liking or say that I am thinking of/cooking up something to be posted very soon.

In either case, it is an euphemism. For at that moment, I have not the simplest of inclination to write-- either due to the dearth of ideas at that time or due to my age old lethargic nature.

So, all those who wanted to know, the cat is now out of the bag and , you all have to make do with this pathetic attempt masquerading as a post.

And no Sniggers please:)))))))

It is raining

As soon as the first monsoon clouds team up to darken the horizon, all sorts of strange memories invade my mind.

Here I am sitting at the verandah of the small quarter in Durgapur looking out at the horizon and marvelling at the downpour washing away the grime of the trees , flowers, roads and even the pebbles of our garden with the sound of rainfall on the various surfaces and tree leaves creating a marvellous symphony of its own.

Then there I am straining away on my small blue bicycle away from the cricket field as I continue my struggle to reach the safety of my home before the fast approaching rain drops catch up with me.

Of course, there is a fun filled moment of a few of us , all teenagers, having a time of our lives playing football in a slushy mud spattered field in a rain soaked day, while the neighbourhood damsels watched us from the convenient safety of their verandahs. Maan, how we showcased our talents that day in the 'Inter para' football championship.

There is a complete collage of picking mangoes, playing ' Jumping in the puddle' , wrestling matches on the wet school ground and intentional rain drenching sessions to be able to get French leave from school.

Add to that, the memories of being huddled inside the room as the first 'Kalboishaki' lashed the city armed with generous doses of thunder and lightning and aided by storms reaching 90 km per hour. The fear and apprehension gave way to the pleasure created by the sudden fall in temperature as one sat back in the evening munching away at 'telebhaja' and 'muri' or huddled under the mango or guava tree to pick up the fruits dislodged by the storm. An occasional 'shilabristi' added to the charm and it was fun to reach out in the rain to get hold of the icicles falling from the sky.

There is also one memorable holiday in Darjeeling where I spent one full hour alone in the Mall sitting in the pouring rain, enjoying two cones of ice cream as I tried to get a feel of the mist covered mountains in the blurred horizon.

Then there were the romantic escapades of the mind pushing me to offer umbrella space to a good looking college mate (met with rejections almost always), offered lifts on a dilapidated scooter such that the dainty selves do not soil their lovely feet in the puddles (generally accepted) and of course, participation in typical college groups walking cheerfully in the pouring rain with the hope of getting close to the most recent infatuation.

Aah, those were the days when youth was me. Those were the days of monsoon magic and romance.

These days , when I see the same clouds, I am more worried about the waterlogging, work disruptions, the maid not turning up, car stalling in the water and water borne stomach ailments.

Is that a sign that I am aging?

Who knows? Maybe.

But this year, at least one day, I am going to deliberately wade in the monsoon puddle and enjoy it. That is a promise!!

Chalo Let's Go

I was never a film buff.

I mean I do not enjoy sitting inside a dark hall sharing some tear jerking melodrama with a group of unknown individuals; or for that matter neither do I appreciate laughing at some antics on the screen. I would rather read a quiet book at home and let my imagination run wild or go to the Eden Gardens and shout my guts out in favour of the Indian Cricket team (and not for a certain Mr. Khan) .

My experiences of a cinema hall were for Feluda films, Goopy Gyne series and of course, some love stories which I had seen with my wife ( which was when we were dating pre-marriage).

I have also sat through a lot of good movies in my living room, reclining on my sofa and with occasional flipping of sports channels in between thrown in for good measure. And I for a good measure diligently read the film reviews and gossip published in the Tabloid section of The Telegraph, Ananda Bazar Patrika and the Times of India -- such that I do not feel left out of the office lunch corner.

With that sort of background I contrive to do this blog on a film - a recent one by Anjan Dutta.

The seeds were sown with us (my wife and I) attending the Music Release of the film ' Chalo Let's Go'. This had to do with my love for the songs of Anjan Dutta and the presence of my 'Orkut Friend' Rudranil as one of the actors in the film. I loved the music and my wife seizing my moment of vulnerability (wives do have a sixth sense in reading the vulnerable moments of their husbands) extracted a promise out of me to see the film.

And so there I was at the movie hall with mixed feelings -- waiting for the movie to set rolling.

Two hours later I emerged out of the hall slightly uncomfortable-- dazed by the simplicity of the story, uplifted by the complexity dealt out in this span. A simple non linear story line dealing with the myriad nature of what we call the human mind embellished by the lush backdrop of North Bengal , nurtured by mind blowing music and held together by superb acting by non-stars made my evening.

I am tempted to discuss the nuances in detail . But I desist as neither do I have the capacity to express such depth, nor do I intend to give out the hidden joys that the film holds for the viewer. I would rather wish that individuals walk in to see the film and appreciate it in their own way. I know that it is not a 'classic'. But If you are a Bengali in the strange world of today, then the film would have held a small bit of recognition of yourself in any or many of the characters portrayed.

So I would recommend to all and sundry to 'Chalo let's go'.

Celebrating an epitaph

This is courtesy someone whose profile I bumped into in Orkut.

Thanks 'Sanjhbatir** Roopkothara***'.

I guess I would be proud if I could write something of a depth and quality remotely close to this:-

Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning hush
I am the swift uplifting rush.
Of quiet birds in circled flight,
I am the soft stars that shine at the night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry
I am not there , I did not die.