The Last Muse of Tagore

The way in which the Bengali woman today wears her saree is supposed to have originated in Thakurbari – the revered name for the Tagore Household in Jorasanko. And as the Bengali men grew up and went and studied economics at Presidency, he slowly saw the women move from the saree to the Salwar to Jeans – It was almost like the cultural domination of Bengal all over again. It reminded him of the times when the Sen and the Pal dynasties slowly died out and the invaders from the North came in and established the rule of the Nawab in Bengal only to be replaced by the British in Plassey.

But when he wrote poetry in his spare time, he often dreamt of his muse in a saree, just as he would see her perhaps on the day of Asthami, while giving Anjali. The times were changing however. The first to fall prey to the sweeping changes across the society were the schools in Calcutta. The Saree was no longer mandatory, then went the colleges and slowly as everyone realized the convenience of the salwar, the saree became a special occasion thing.

He missed the days when the only woman he had fallen in love with ever, who did not wear a Saree regularly, was Reena Brown. Please note that before Leander Paes, Bengalis had their tennis ace in Dr. Krishnendu Mukherjee who had won the tennis championship five times in a row after acting in Macbeth, before losing the 6^th final to Reena Brown. The first time he saw her in a Saree, I have passionately maintained was the moment when he finally fell for her. And what a fall it was!!! For all non bongs, don’t even try to decipher old world bong virtues of romanticism; rather ask me for the DVD. And for Bongs, if you don’t get it, then I sigh and retreat to my laptop lamenting the loss of good old days.

Anyway, coming back to Sarees, mothers and aunts while shopping for the next marriage in the family would sigh and pick up twenty sarees and send back five of them as the daughter or the daughter in law would never wear them. But how could you not buy a baluchori? I have seen an aunt reduced to tears, “my daughter will never appreciate the intricacies of a zamdani.”

The debate I have always had with my friends is that as the dress of a muse, the saree beats anything else hands down. There is no other dress in the world which can at once bring the feeling of deep reverence and purity and unadulterated sensuality. But then we would sit on the steps of Temple Lawns in Pilani on Diwali and sigh when every single woman in the saree looked as if she was undergoing a surprise quiz in Mechsol. For the uninitiated a Surprise Quiz in Mechsol is like facing Brett Lee without a helmet. The point is, like everything else, unless carried off gracefully, the saree looks extremely cumbersome. And the only woman who looked natural in a Bong Saree was Madhuri Dixit in the multiple screenings of Devdas in computer screens in our second year. The men during those days cheated by wearing their dhotis with a belt. Anyway, who cares about the fashion sense of the men?

Now that I have written at length about the saree, let me come back to the point. If you look at the Bengali TV serials today, almost every family has got 2 murderers, 3 plotting aunts, 4 oppressed women and 1 who will bring justice to all while everyone else is having extramarital affairs – the sad part is that each of these serials start with good intentions and story lines. But then public demand hain boss – karna parta hain.

So one day suddenly, one serial started creating waves amongst the Bengali Intelligentsia – or as they are lovingly called, “The Aantels”. Some call it derogatory, I find it cute :) This was a serial which spoke of a family trying to keep Tagore’s music alive and authentic while a new wave of artists, aided by copyright removal from Tagore’s works, were eager to give Tagore a fresh lease of life. This was the ultimate aantel grouse. How can Rabindrasangeet be sung any other way than as originally intended by the Great Man? So they loved the serial. My entire family went “aha aha”, the Aantel crowd cried in their secret rooms.

Now the protagonist looks very Bong and all bong mothers started secretly wishing that the next generation will take a leaf out of the book. So even when the actress was very different in her real life, the mothers across Bengal said as expected, “she is not just someone, she is an idea”.

And then it happened, one day on the show, she desired to dress in something other than a saree and the last muse of Tagore left us forever.

They say the sighs were heard across the world :)

(PS: While I was doing the background research for this article, I realized that the concept of a Tagorian muse as I described is what Bengali middle class morality, and thus I, would like to believe. I know the poet is beyond such narrow limitations. One day I would write about Krishnokoli and the lady he saw in the beautiful morning of autumn)

Giving Up

I hate giving up. Somehow battles are never lost till the last breath. I believe that you should fight – for the final victory, not over your opponent but over you own self. I still remember Class 7. I guess one of those last years when physical education had some grades associated with it. It was one of the Sports Day Practices and I suddenly realized that you needed to lie down on your back and get your toes to touch behind your head.

Now I have solved many challenges in life. I have sat in a movie theatre and watched Main Aur Mrs. Khanna. I have coolly gone to a debating podium and asked a completely stranger, “So what are we discussing today?” I have believed my Con B groupies, the great IITians from Powai and Guwahati respectively, that there is no way in hell that Rambo will call us to present the case and have stood facing a class eagerly waiting to see us being ripped apart. And then at the end of the presentation I have heard the professor clear his throat and say, “Very spirited presentation Mr. Banerjee. The analysis could have been equally spirited.”

The point is I never give up.

And so I walked up to the games room and demanded a retrial. Mr. James was a sweetheart. He knew that even if it were Judgement Day, I would not be able to do that. But he asked me to go ahead. He might as well have told a bull to not charge at a matador.

And of course, miracles don’t happen. Till today the toes don’t touch the ground. But I am happy in the fact that till the last moment I fought.

But somewhere in the beginning of this year I gave up on us. I realized we were both bearing the burden of the past. And my life was turning into a black and white classic where the theme songs were either Dangling Conversations or Cecilia. You get the drift. I was living a life where there were constant heartbreaks, self inflicted pain and a desire that one day you will be mine. Not in the sense that I would own you, but just that I will be able to call you my own. It was as if I was valuing you in the silver coins I had in my wallet.

You never bothered to ask what I wanted. Our friendship meant, I was the one who was constantly giving and while I do not want to be seen as the one who measures friendship, you know very well that at times you could have reciprocated.

So in 2011, I wait for you to call me and I wait till that happens for no longer I have the energy to walk the extra mile.

So my dear Razorback of a cycle, you better start reminding me that you exist. And hopefully take away some of the adipose tissues. I am no longer going to honey-coddle you :)

G, Me, Red Bull – Yeh Saali Zindagi

While I was travelling as usual in a New Year rush to meet new consumers and understand and evaluate new ideas, I stopped over at G’s. Me and G sipping Red Bulls always brings out the worst in us and add to that the cosy winter end weather of Delhi and you have potential for life changing ideas. Interestingly, that night, we both were tired of what life was doing with us – in a sense; we were growing old, physically mostly but to some extent mentally as well.

So we did what we always do best – go and watch a movie. My fascination with Chitrangada Singh continues to this day. If not fit for legends, then definitely some of my last poems were inspired as I was about to embrace capitalism in IIMB while Hazaaron Khwaishein Aisi spoke of dreams unfulfilled. In fact, I think I had fallen in love with Geeta, her character in the movie. Cutting a long story short, Yeh Saali Zindagi it was. I can’t deny a part of me wanted to watch Yamla Pagla Deewana as well – it had Sunny paaji and a bucketful of whiskey. Now how bad can that be?

And Sudhir Mishra blew us away. The storytelling, the direction, the jump cuts, the twists in every five minutes, the entire narrative style was one of the most refreshing I have come across in recent times. But Irfaan Khan – he stole the show. His character came straight out of a Keatsian tragedy and I was sure that was my story being played out. “Love and bullet are very similar. Both pierce your heart and go away.” It was two love stories, one man trying hard to become good for his family while the other in a strange sense of selfless love continues to get into trouble for the woman he knows has no love for him. Eeriely familiar, is it not? Now G and I could not agree whose story of life it resembled more, given that our theoretical relationships have always been one without an ending :)

In our story, of course there were mushroom kebabs post the movie, critical analysis of the differences between Delhi and Mumbai women, caramel popcorn during the interval and lachha parathas, not necessarily in the same order.

Does the guy get the girl in the end? Watch for yourself and you won’t be disappointed. Unless of course you loved Geeta. Priti is just not up to the mark. That’s the beauty of first loves. They create such an impact, everything else falls short in comparison.

After all, yeh saali zindagi badi haarami hain, par haamesha haseen khwab dikhake jaati hain.

That, by the way, was copyright Banjo. You can quote me if you like :)

Poetry in Celluloid

Some stories touch you not because of the plot but because you wonder at the way the story is told. Yesterday night as I walked back after watching Dhobi Ghat I realized why I could not dismiss the movie. It’s not a masterpiece; it has its flaws, the biggest amongst them being its inability to connect the four different storylines flawlessly.

While watching the movie, I was reminded of two other movies – Ekdin Achanak and American Beauty. Both movies are stories which I personally do not appreciate. But the treatment of the stories by Mrinal Sen and Sam Mendes had left me spellbound. I still remember the shots on the handheld video in American Beauty. The leaves whirling around in their own free will will always be etched in my mind.

Kiran Rao has the same eye for detail for the minutest of things around her. Mumbai comes alive through the lenses and we begin to wonder, if this is a movie or actually a video diary of someone just like us. It’s not a movie you go to the theatres to watch perhaps, rather you take a cup of hot chocolate, curl up on your bed on a Sunday afternoon and see the story unfold.

Else you will come out disappointed for it’s no Band Baaja Baraat where life celebrates itself in all its glory. Our fights, laughs, friendships are more earthy, are more real if not realistic. In Dhobi Ghat, it’s surreal but true – the unspoken love, the drab existence, the looking at the world without putting your tinted glasses on, the clear chasms of society. In Dhobi Ghat, the stable boy can never marry the princess. But of all the characters he perhaps remains the most human. It leaves you with a lump in your throat and you wonder should you have watched Yamla Pagla Deewana instead!

And that’s why I will always return to a Band Baaja Baarat where everything turns out fine at the end. For I believe that’s what we all want in our lives – to be fine.

Not all poetry makes us feel nice about our lives.

Making Up

M was furious. He felt cheated. In fact, they had cheated. They knew he hated running between the wickets and loved the big shots. And they had deliberately got the non striker to run. There was a mix up and he was panting as he took stance for the next ball. And immediately, they gave him a leg before. He was furious.

Not at them, but as S. After all S was his best friend. How could he stand and be a party to this gross treachery? M was devastated. S just continued playing with them. I mean, where was the Bro Code?

Whole day, he didn’t speak to S. Next day was no better. In fact, he decided that he would distance himself from S as much as possible. And then one day, they just sat opposite each other and shared their tiffin. Till date they remain the best of friends.

This is a story I have seen being played out in my own life. And every time I feel sad I remember it. Every single moment of that day remains painted in my memory. It’s just that life was so simple back then. No sorrys no thank yous :) Karan Johar knew his stuff.

Today I think as we have grown up, we just have lost the simple art of making up. Ego has taken over. We stick to our guns and refuse to budge from our stand points. And so it is always important for the other person to call up.

If only if we weren’t so egoistic, world perhaps might be a better place to live in. It doesn’t always work for the chasm might be too great. But then, it’s worth making the effort. If it does not work, maybe it was just not meant to be.

“See, you're the only star

In the film I never made

Would you rewind it all the time

Rewind it all the time

Do we make it to the sequel

Second chance for our survival

Oh we all need a hallmark ending

And a change of heart”

It’s still January, so why don’t you just pick up the phone and make that call that you have been too headstrong to make in 2010?

The Beginning

“The life of every man is a diary in which he means to write one story, and writes another.” - James Matthew Barrie

Our lives are stories. Every one is unique and would make a movie worth watching and yet we have no idea about the way the story shapes up – unexpected twists and turns are all too common, as you grow older you realize the butterfly effect of your past.

“No matter how much you change you still have to pay the price for the things you have done” – The Town

The past has a strange way of catching up with us. In your deepest moments of despair you remember Macbeth and wonder if all that you do is worth it.

“Out, out, brief candle!

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage

And then is heard no more:”

And it doesn’t help if you give yourself a New Year’s Gift in the form of a Dilbert! But then, whether you get depressed reading it and realising how much of it is true, or you laugh it away is completely up to you.

End of a year suddenly might make you wonder and question a lot of issues. But then you are to decide if you would want to get into a loop of self pity or you would rather laugh your day away.

A strange sense of calm resides at the beginning after the churn. Peace resides within us. The point is that there’s a secret garden for each of us to find and when we find it the world around seems more beautiful.

Jo karna hain boss, isi life mein karna hain.

Jis Lahore Nahin Dekhya Woh Jamiya Nahin

The final frontier for the nomadic bong was always his neighbouring nation, not because he lived near the Antarctic Circle but because neighbours at times are not the best of friends. But then, he believed in Qayanaat and it conspired to convince people across borders that a well nourished bong was not a threat to the peace process amongst their countries.

And so he went, to the twin city of Mumbai across the Arabian Sea, the city of Quaid, the bride of cities. And his long held beliefs were proven right. Economy and the common men were the two key ingredients of easing international tensions.

Krokola, one of the ancient ports in Sindh today is the busy city of Karachi. As I moved around its streets, it felt as if I had not left Mumbai. It was just like any other city of the sub continent, alive and kicking, passionate to make up for the lost time, hesitant to hope for a better future, believing in God, believing “Inshallah, sab thik ho jayega.” And that’s the difference between perhaps a Colombo and a Karachi. Colombo today is confident that tomorrow is a better day, Karchi today hopes that tomorrow is a better day. Karachi is also so close to India perhaps because it has the highest percentage of population born out of immigrant parents and I see the same longing in their eyes as I have seen in an old lady’s eyes in Delhi when she speaks about her house she left back in Peshawar.

On the flight back in an article, I read a poem by Rais Amrohvi – O! Hind Jane Wale Mera Salaam Le Ja.

‘Jab se bichhad gaye hain us khuld-e-rangabu se

Mehroom ho gaye hain, dil shauk-o-aarzu se

Baaz aayenge musafir kya zauk-e-justaju se

Ab tak wahi hai rishte, Dilli se Lucknow se

Ajdaad ke watan tak itna payam le ja

O! Hind jane wale mera salaam le ja.’

It’s a city however where as a SNDU employee you feel nice. The ghosla company is not stronger; we play on an equal footing. But then, those are boring talks. But if I were not in SNDU, perhaps I would never have visited the city.

The landscape of Karachi is defined by Teen Talwar, and perhaps this symbolizes the dreams of a nation that was born a day before us. Unity, faith and discipline – the 3 principles on which the Nation once hoped to build itself. Having been to the city at its most brilliant weather conditions, I found the sea faces pretty clean and the main roads broad enough but public transport is near zero making life troublesome for the common man.

Of course there were two differences from Mumbai. The air was cooler and the food, it was mind numbing. The Kebabs, the pranthas, the naans, the raan, it was a feast beyond imagination. In all the restaurants I went, finding a vegetarian item was a task that would leave Sherlock Holmes panting. And their rolls – if ever Calcutta can face competition, it will be from Karachi.

The issues between 2 countries ensured that my cell was not working and it felt so liberating. And I decided to go shopping. That was disappointing though. There’s nothing I could see which seemed unique. Of course, if you are looking for good quality and reasonable textiles and leather goods, then Karachi offers some good deals. Also the carpets and their intricacies have the capability to blow your mind away.

As for me, I can afford only some nice original Audio CDs from every country I visit.

It was an important trip of my life, one that made me feel complete in my job. One that told me I now truly knew the sub continent I call home and there is hope one day of peace uniting us all.

But Jis Lahore Nahin Dekhya… reminds me that I have to come back.